Warning: noncon, criminal activity, abuse, murder for hire.
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: Geralt of Rivia
Summary: You seek out a dangerous man for a job but his fee is more than you expected .
Note: this is a sister story to Criminal Intent, Curtis and Geralt are a few of many associates. Let me know if you want more of either or a few more guys in the fold.
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
"You should come." Steffi says. "It will be fun."
You wipe the counter and shake your head. "Can't. I'm saving my money."
"It's not that much." She argues.
"Maybe some other time." You shrug.
She sighs and leans on the counter behind you. Above it, the wall is hung with all sorts of bike frames, tires, and parts; prices hand-written on tags tied to them. Your father's dusty old shop is as stubborn as him. It refuses to go under.
"What're you even saving for? I never see ya for nothing new." Steffi looks up from behind her phone. "Don't tell me you're one of those k-pop girlies."
You shake your head. "I wanna get out on my own. Someday. Soon." You sniff and ball up the wipe, tossing it in the bin under the counter.
"Yeah, well this place don't exactly pay getting out money, does it?" She scoffs.
"Not really. That's why I'm saving."
"You know, I ask Joella if she could get me work down at the restaurant. The tips are crazy there and the geezers are much nicer." She laughs dryly.
"Oh yeah? Well... You should go for it." You stare at the door, keeping your expression vacant. "Dad needs me here."
"Huh, yeah. Guess you don't got much of a choice."
You tap your fingers on the counter. "Guess not."
The rest of your shift goes as usual. Customers come in and try to barter brand new prices for rusted old parts. Other don't want to pay what's on offer. You don't have a problem letting them go. They'll pay double at the pawn shop and more at the hardware store.
Steffi leaves and you close up. You pull down the metal bars over the windows and lock the front door. You hang the keys in the backroom and stop as the creaky old hinges whine.
Your dad enters from upstairs. You close the keybox and roll the dial to hide the code and lock it. He stops you from getting to the safe and grabs the cash drawer from you.
"Better not be shorting me again. I'll have to dock your check." He sits heavily at the cluttered desk.
"I wouldn't--"
"Stand at the counter all day don't nothing and expect me to pay ya. Pfft." He grumbles.
"Slow day," you say and head for the door.
"Didn't say you were dismissed." He shuffles through the few bills in the drawer. You stop and look at him. "Fucking waste of space. I could run this place just fine without ya, ya know? I'm nice enough to give ya work. No one else'd have ya. Just like your ma."
You don't react. Youve heard it all before and his words don't hurt as bad as the belt. Or the bike spoke he keeps behind his bed frame.
"I know. Thank you, dad."
He grumbles and stands with the cash stacked in one hand. "Don't forget. Rent's due this week. Don't want a be spending all my charity on nonsense." He opens the safe and shoves the money inside. "Stayed long enough under my roof for free"
He slams the door and it reverberates in your head. Years of slammed doors, and swung fists flash behind your eyes. You nod. A few more months and you should have enough.
💵
Everyone knows him. Not because he's sociable by any measure, no, only because his white hair and his reputation. His eyes are just as startling and his stature is enough to keep the curious from his path. All but you, but you wouldn't call it curiosity.
Geralt, the formidable figure known as white wolf, sits as he often does. The newspaper is folded back to the daily crossword, he has a black tea beside it, and a worn down pencil in his hand. The thickness of his fingers dwarf the yellow stick off wood and graphite.
You enter and glance at the menu. You're not in the market for a dark roast. You don't even pretend to browse the glass display case as you pass.
You stop behind the empty chair and watch the man as he scratches letters into the boxes. He flicks the end of the pencil and drags his hand down to the next clue. He rumbles like a bear.
"Most people try not to be so obvious when they stare." He growls without looking up.
"If you'd rather I don't look at you, I'll turn the chair around." You say.
He snorts and taps the pencil on the newsprint.
"Seven letters. A lobster of footwear." He reads out the clue.
You squint and think. You remember an old picture book you had as a child. The things you remember after all those years.
"Slipper." You answer.
He fits blocky capitals into the boxes. "Sit."
You take the chair across from him. He crinkles the paper as he smoothes it then grabs his cup. He sips.
"I recommend the Ceylon. Not the Assam." He sets the cup down.
"Appreciated but I'm not here for tea."
"I know." He says coolly. "Who is it?"
"I have the money--"
"In due time. Who?" He asks without looking up.
You take a breath. You're at his table. There's no going back. "Fabian..." You give you father's name.
He nods and taps the pencil tip in a square.
"The money--"
"Not here." He slides his hand down and scribbles on the corner of the newsprint. He tears off a scrap and hands it over. "There. Payment, then service."
You take the paper and nod. You stand.
"Show up or don't come back." He says and takes his tea again.
"Thanks."
You turn away and walk out with your hand around the newsprint. As you get outside, you read the set of coordinates and the time beneath. This is it. You have to choose. It's you or him.
💵
You have the money, tucked right inside your sweater. Most people might take it and run. Things aren’t so simple for you. This isn’t a problem you can leave; it needs to be exterminated.
You’re out of breath as you arrive at the rendezvous. You knew better than to use GPS to look up the coordinates but looking up the place on a library atlas was no easy feat. The photocopy you made on the public printer is hard enough to decipher but you made it.
You let the bike roll to a stop on its own and plant your feet. Your nerves dance as you lift your leg over the frame and examine the outpost. A place like this is forgotten. Once the mines were stripped and shut down, these wooden old shacks were nothing more than hibernation for possum or other critters.
You hover your foot above the kickstand. You don’t see a car or anything around. You must be early.
“Don’t leave that outside,” the voice warns before you can put the stand down.
You scan the shack and the barren landscape. No tire tracks, not even foot prints. The window pane slides open and a hand beckons you inside.
It’s like one of those old movies. A noir? Everything is mysterious and cryptic. The shady dealings can only be done in black and white.
You wheel your bike around to the door as it opens from the inside. You roll it in with you. A single oil lamp lights the space. It’s not as filthy as you expect. There’s a flannel blanket on a wooden framed chair, a small table beside it, a shelf in the corner with a kettle over an oil burner, and a tin cup. It’s no home, just a way station.
Geralt shuts the door and brushes by you. He clasps the middle of the handle bars and drags the bike away from you. He puts it against the wall then shuts the window.
You linger by the door. You feel the lump inside your sweater. You cough.
“I think I have enough–” You begin.
He turns and sits in the chair. His knees are wide as he keeps a rigid posture despite the low back. He watches you calmly.
“You think…”
“I do.” You unzip your fleece and pull out the envelope. You cleared out the safe for good measure. It won’t matter when all is done. “The money’s all here.”
You cross the creaky floor and offer the envelope. He stares. He sits back slightly, his arms light on the low arms. He fingers the silver wolf ring on his middle fingers.
“I never asked for your money.” He says.
You huff, frustration mounting. “No, but I’m paying you to… I gave you his name.”
“Gave me the name. Said you had the fee ready. I never said money.” He insists.
You drop your hand and grip the envelope until it creases. “I don’t understand.”
“You can put that down.” He points.
You follow the gesture. You go to the crate with the splintered frame and put the envelope on top. He’s toying with you. He has to. He has to make sure this is legit.
“You can leave your clothes over there too.” He says.
You flinch and glance at him over your shoulder. “You think I’m wearing a wire.”
“I know you’re not. You came ready to pay. We’re making a deal.” He drawls, his pale eyes flickering with the flame on the table beside him.
You turn your back to him again and shudder. Oh.
“Payment upfront.” He intones.
You unzip your fleece all the way. You lay it over the envelope. You bend to untie your dusty old runners and put them to the side. You tuck your socks into them.
You strip away the layers slow but deliberate. You don’t doubt for a single moment. You didn’t come here to walk away without a deal. You knew when you sat down at that cafe table that you would give anything to get rid of your father.
You pause as all that’s left are your underwear. Black and grey plaid cotton. You push them down with the last of your dignity and face him. He remains as he was, calm, expectant.
You cross the shack and stop in front of him. He watches you placidly.
“You’ll find me ready.” He says.
You bite down and bend to trace your fingers across his belt. You undo the thick buckle as his stomach clenches noticeably under his shirt. You flip away the ends of the leather and pick the button undone. You tug down his zipper and expose the salt and pepper hair beneath.
He lifts himself just an inch and you pull down his jeans and briefs. You leave them at the middle of his thick thighs, woven with the same thick hair as his pelvis and the peek of his lower stomach.
You brace his shoulder as you step between his legs. You climb up onto his lap, legs bent under you as you straddle him. His thick fingertips climb up your stomach and he scoops up your tits. He lifts them and rolls his thumbs around your nipples.
He hums. You reach under you and grip his dick. He’s thicker and longer than the only other man you were ever with. A bad mistake on graduation night. Well, at least degradation is nothing new.
You push his tip against you, angling him along your entrance. He trails a hand up your neck and frames your jaw with his large hand. He squeezes.
“Slow.” He warns.
You hold your breath. You use your fingers to urge his tip past your tight entrance. You groan at the strain. You have no choice but to keep your descent cautious. You stop, with just his head inside, and roll your shoulders. You exhale softly.
His other hand drops your hip. He urges you on. Just a little. You grunt and grip the front of his shirt.
“Breathe. Slow.” He lets go of your jaw and wets his fingers with his tongue. He snakes down to play with your clit. “Keep on.”
You lower yourself further. His breath unfurls as his chest deflates. He flicks his fingers and your thighs knots. You sink further and he growls.
“Tight,” he rolls his fingers faster. “Responsive.”
You turn your head and stare at the wall. He doesn’t need to narrate.
His hand scoops behind you and he gropes your ass. You slip down until you whimper. Your hand slips and you clutch onto the large medallion bouncing on his chest. You arch your back and hiss.
“Little more.” He coaxes and pushes you down.
You bottom out and hang your head forward. You puff through your nose as your heart races. You didn’t expect to come here and fuck this stranger. You’ll forget just as fast as it happened. Once he’s done his part.
He taps the top of your ass. You tilt your hips. You slip up his length then ease back down. His fingers stay on your clit. Each ascent is a relief while your descent has your insides screaming.
His hand crawls up your back and he sits forward. He leans you back, steadying you with his large hand. His fingers dance on your bud as he drags his nose between your tits. His breath glazes your skin damply and he catches a nipple between his lips. He plucks at you with fingertips and tongues in time.
Your hips move on their own. Urgency builds from more than a need to be done. No, you feel a bloom inside you, fiery and fuming. You close your eyes and let your head fall back. He brings his hand up to cradle your skull as he nips and sucks at your chest. His grizzly growls trickle down your flesh.
You dig your nails into the fabric of his shirt as you brace his thick torso. You choke out a long whine as your muscles unravel. The sounds of your bodies meeting fills the desolate shack.
He grunts and tilts up into you. He leans back against the chair and brings you with him. His arm locks around your back and he crushes you to him. He ruts up from below, his flesh cracking against yours.
He pumps into you until he’s breathless. He pushes his chin down against your head and snarls. His tempo turns jagged and he gives a final sharp thrust before he collapses beneath you. He keeps you trapped beneath his thick arm as you pant against his chest.
Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)
TW: 18+, dubcon, drugging (sex pollen esq), heavy drinking, kinda exhibitionist, aggressive and controlling partner, daddy kink, if I’m missing any let me know
A/N: at this point I’m just gonna stop apologizing for not posting bc I say it everytime lmao. I promise I won’t be abandoning this series I have so much more planned. I’ve written a lot for pre-dark Geralt but I’m planning on doing more dark Geralt updates.
Written, edited, and posted from my phone so if it sucks idk what to tell you bestie
You are responsible for your own media consumption. By continuing reading you confirm you are 18+, I do not give permission to have any of my work reposted or translated in any other platform even if you give credit.
The after-party music was blasting in your ear, the bass of the speakers vibrating your feet as you looked over the sea of people all with their own reason of importance.
You didn’t know what fucking city or country you were in, what the day was, where your phone or wallet or even passport was, you just knew that you’d drank every glass handed to you because it was better than dealing with Geralt sober. You were still faintly hungover from the night before but Geralt convinced you to drink the hair of the dog that bit you. You didn't fucking care anymore.
A European leg of the tour felt like it had gone on for ages but it had only been two weeks of nonstop shows. Usually between every couple of shows, there were days off planned to recuperate in whatever city you had landed in but you were in a stretch without it. You didn’t speak the language, you didn’t even know where Geralt was. You just drank whatever was in the flavorful pink glass you were handed. You stopped questioning Geralt’s commands a while ago.
For a brief moment, you considered finding someone, anyone, who could speak English and try to find a way to get to the embassy and get home but there was no point. Geralt would just find you again and again and again and again. He was smarter than most gave him credit for, he kept your passport and ID and all of your money with him claiming you didn’t need it and he’d pay for everything but really he was keeping you from escaping. He said you’d earn more freedoms back over time as if you were a grounded child. It’d only been two months since he forced you from your normal life and drowned you in his.
“There’s my girl.”
At this point, you were convinced he could read your mind and knew you were thinking about running away.
You only replied with a grunt before taking another drink. “What do you want?”
His hand latched to your wrist tightly, enough to remind you of your place but not too noticeable to a wandering eye. “Behave.”
“Whatever you say.” You rolled your eyes pulling your arm away. “What’re you gonna do about it? Punish me in front of all these people? Do it, be my fucking guest.” Your words barely came out the alcohol already making you tongue-tied but you just left his gaze and drank more.
In your peripheral, you saw him rub his palm angrily over his mouth before taking the now-empty glass from you. “Fuck off-“
He was quick to grab you by your hair and pull you in his aggressive embrace to kiss you. He may be a piece of shit but god no one could make you weak like him. His tongue swirled with yours as you felt something slide against to roof of your mouth before he pulled away. “What the-“
You ran your tongue over whatever he shoved in your mouth before you realized what it was and quickly tried to pull the dissolving pill out. “What did you just give me?” You tried to wipe out your mouth but the drugs had disintegrated too quickly for you to entirely spit out.
“Just helping you loosen up.” He chuckled as if it was a harmless prank before forcing you flushed against him. “I’d never give you anything dangerous, I took it too.”
You slapped him but his head barely moved as if you hadn’t just put all your strength into it. “You fucking drugged me!” You broke free of him.
“Where do you think you’re going?” He grunted trying to corral you back to him.
“I’m going to go try to puke this up, get off me or I’ll do it all over you instead!” He finally let you go as you stumbled drunkenly away from him and toward the neon red sign on the wall adjacent to the bar that spelled something you couldn’t understand but thankfully the universal toilet sign next to it was all you needed.
This club, although packed full, was small. The bathrooms were only one per person and thankfully the night was still young for most of the people here who hadn’t gotten started as early as the rockstars do so there wasn’t a line.
The walls were covered in colorful logo stickers and autographs from the low-grade celebrities who’d visited.
Falling to your knees you began to force yourself to puke but as you felt your body become numb you knew there was no point and that it had dissolved quickly.
Gripping to the side of the wall you brought yourself back to your wobbling feet, your heels too tall for you to be this drunk, and stumbled to the sink running cold water over your hands.
Your eyes fluttered at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, your sweaty palms gripping the edge of the porcelain sink, trying to figure out how to breathe normally. Your makeup was dark and heavy and your skin shone in a cold sweat.
You’re not sure how long you were in that bathroom staring at your own reflection but long enough that there was loud banging on the door accompanied with yelling in a language you didn’t understand. Forcing yourself from your trance you opened the door with your slick palms. The pair of women who looked angry and impatient when you first opened the door quickly turned concerned and asked you questions you couldn’t decipher.
Language barrier or not you could assume what they were asking. Do you need help? Are you okay?
Shrugging them off you hoped they’d just assume you were drunk off your ass but they wouldn’t be wrong.
As furious as you were, you knew you needed to find Geralt, it’s not safe to be alone like this, he knows that you know this. The heavy beating of the music bounced off your skin as if it was a ripple in water as you stumbled to VIP.
You held onto the metal railing as you tried to climb up the stairs as carefully as you could in the dramatic heels he dressed you in and the room started to spin. It felt like your skin was burning you alive while simultaneously tingling as if from the cold as you made your way to the second-floor balcony with the empty VIP entrance guarded by a man who let you pass without a word.
Geralt sat with knees spread with a glass of expensive brown alcohol swirling in his hand. “There you are,” he grinned, enjoying watching you struggle.
“Geralt, please.” You begged stumbling to him, grateful the lounge was empty as everyone partied downstairs.
“Careful, pretty girl.” With barely a blink of an eye, you were somehow in Geralt’s hold, leaning your body weight onto his chest. It felt like he magically appeared from the couch but you knew it was likely just the drugs affecting your perception of time. “You’re feeling good, yet?”
You shook your head, your bottom lip beginning to quiver as you started to cry, too overwhelmed and overstimulated. You didn’t like being out of control of your own body. It was easy to sober up when drinking, but this was intoxication you weren’t familiar with. “Hate it’. Hate you.” You whimpered. “Everything is spinning, Gee. Make it stop.”
Geralt cooed condescendingly, his large hand brushing over your head as if he were dealing with a confused child. “Gotta find an anchor, gotta find something to keep you grounded so you can enjoy the high.”
“I don’t know anything about boats.”
He laughed once more at your plea and you didn’t understand what you said that was so funny.
You were in a foreign country where you didn’t speak the language and you felt like you were tripping. You were furious with him right now but you were too terrified not to come to him for comfort. He yanked you by your arm, guiding you towards the rails, bright lights flashing throughout the club. You laid your head on his chest trying to ground yourself to anything despite being ready to kill him. “Want it to stop.” Your mouth cotton dry.
It was a new level of desire and arousal laced with confusion that you had never felt before.
His sporadic heartbeat felt like the only thing you could focus on and how he smelled of body heat and liquor that would normally make you nauseous. “You gonna be my good girl?” His large hand placed on your hip, his heavy boots kicking between your legs spreading them from each other before teasingly tracing up your thighs.
Nodding briefly you separated your legs farther apart, your hips searching for the fingers that hurt you so many times over and now beyond grateful that the VIP was secluded. The small balcony section looked over the neon bright downstairs, countless intoxicated bodies pressed together like ants.
Geralt’s masculine hand caressed your jawline, moving his lips grazing over yours just barely enough to get you to chase your head to his. A cheeky grin grew on his face as he swiftly forced a hand at your lower back indicating for you to bend at the hip against the rails. You could only focus on how badly you wanted to kiss him, how badly you needed to feel him. The drugs made your body burn addictingly. You were so out of it you felt out of body as Geralt maneuvered you to his liking.
Geralt slid your dress up, yanking your lace panties to the side, and pressed himself against your back. His hands guided yours to grip onto the railing that sectioned off the VIP and that looked over the downstairs crowd securing you in place.
It felt like you were standing on a unraveling tightrope over a skyscraper, you held on tightly to the black metal bar with clammy palms. You tried to fight against Geralt’s repositioning but it didn’t take much for him to correct you even when you weren’t drugged. “Keep your eyes on them, pretty girl.” He commanded, forcing you to turn your head back. “You don’t want them to know what you’re doing up here, now do you?”
Realistically you know there’s no way they could see the two of you from down there, at least not well enough to know what you were doing. The strobing colorful lights in the dark disguised your position as if the loud music and dancing wasn’t distracting enough. “All in their own world but you’re up here only belonging to me.”
You tried to catch your breath but you felt paralyzed in fear as if you were looking off the side of a cliff but it quickly left your lungs when Geralt had thrusted himself inside you. Your terror kept you too distracted to have even realized he had taken his hard cock out. A cry left your lips and your knees trembled.
“Look at all of those people down there.” He retorted as he began to fuck into you. Geralt always felt good, but your heightened sensitivity made you feel inhuman amounts of pleasure just seeping from your skin. “You gonna be good? Gonna make me proud of my girl?”
“Geralt,” you groaned, your head tilting back to rest on his shoulder thankful he was practically holding you upright by your bent waist as your legs turned to jello. “Feels so…”
“Feel so good squeezing my cock.” He grunted. “I’m so glad I thought about drugging you, doesn’t it feel so good?”
His offhand comment reminding you of him forcing drugs into your system made you want to revolt and pull from him in anger but it quickly faded away when he thrust into you just right. “God, you’re so wet for me it’s pathetic. Such a slut for me, isn’t that right?”
Normally if your body wasn’t melting from his you’d have snide remarks and comebacks but right now the only thing you were capable of thinking about was how close you already were and how you knew neither of you were gonna stop at just one.
“I said, isn’t that right?” Geralt repeated harsher, his large bicep wrapped over your shoulder, forcing you to keep your head on his chest, his heavy breathing fanning over your ear.
“Yes, daddy.” You whimpered desperately as his hand sped up its pace under your panties and expertly stroked your clit the way he had his guitar for thousands of people only a few hours ago. “Gonna…cum…don’t stop.”
“Atta girl,” the sharp stubble of his beard pricked at your neck as he kissed along your weak spot. “Normally I'd make you beg but I know that’s too hard for your little brain to handle. My dumb little girl, cock drunk for me, can’t even fucking speak.”
Geralts tainting tease barely registered with you as you came forcefully with the stroke of his hand. You thanked god that the music was too loud for someone else to hear your cries and that he was keeping you standing with his other hand leaving your chest and holding you by the waist with his knees slightly bent for you to collapse against.
“Gonna fuck my cum in you.” He growled in your ear with his thrusts growing tougher. “You need dick so badly you were acting like a bitch in heat for me. You need your big daddy’s cock, need to be filled, it’s your only fucking purpose.”
Your body still burned for him even though you came harder than you ever had in your life you still needed him desperately as your life depended on it. “Want you to cum in me,” you nuzzled against him with the intoxicating scent of his sweat filling your nose. “I know how much you love it, please cum in me, I need it to stop hurting. Need to be filled.”
A grunting cry flowed over your ear with the jerking abrupt of his thrusts accompanied by the feeling of his cum dripping on your thighs.
Geralt spun you back around to face him after he pulled himself from you. “Fuck, I’m still hard for you.” His lips hungrily consumed yours, one arm forcing you against him, the other groping your chest with heavy petting along your neck. You knew he was restraining from wrapping his hand around your throat. You were still in public and if someone caught sight of a celebrity with his hand wrapped around their girlfriend's throat it wouldn’t end well.
“I wanna go back to the hotel,” your chest rose and sank repeatedly as you tried to catch your breath. “Need you to fuck me sober so I can be angry at you.”
“Anything you want, pretty girl.”
///
A/N: I hate my writing teehee
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Your father promises Geralt anything he wants for slaying the monsters plaguing your kingdom...unfortunately, the witcher takes that promise quite literally.
CW: Non-Con, loss of virginity, outdoor sex, kidnapping, belligerent tension
Words: ~5k
A/N: I’m really appreciative of all feedback and reblogs.
⚔
The day they came was the day yet another plague struck your kingdom. They swarmed the fields and fed on the dead, even lashing out at the living who came too close.
Men in the surrounding villages couldn’t defeat them. The King’s army couldn’t defeat them. Nothing could get rid of the hungry beasts who run faster than horses and scream louder than banshees.
Even gathering the nerve to approach them is a feat within itself.
Their charred, putrid flesh emits a horrid stench that clogs the nostrils and empties the stomach. Their humongous teeth are as sharp as swords and can tear a human apart just as easily.
They are monsters, nightmarish creatures straight out of the tales you were told as a little girl…only, they are very real.
So real that, at present, one is screeching right in your face. Your ears almost bleed from the loudness of its scream.
Foolish. Stupid. Reckless. Many words could be used to describe your thoughtless actions. You saw much bigger men than you falling prey to the monsters…still, you wished to try. Try to take down just one of the fearsome beasts, prove yourself.
The plan you concocted should have been flawless.
You lured it away from the group with a bird carcass, cornered it, stalked behind it. You were ready to strike, to show your worth. You so desperately want to be…more. Just more.
And now, your sword’s a few feet away, lost in your attempt to flee from the creature. As its rancid, scorching breath fans over your face, your eyes shut.
Begrudging acceptance settles in your chest.
And so it comes, death’s cold embrace. At last, you may join your fallen brother.
You wait and wait as your lip quakes, terror cooling your veins. Surprise sweeps you when instead of the creature’s sharp teeth, your skin is met by a wet, sticky rain.
For a moment, your heart pounds a chaotic symphony as you don’t dare steal a glimpse of what occurs before you.
You should be dead, yet you are not. The understanding that you’re intact, still breathing and still whole, struggles to wade its way through your mind.
Slowly, you open your eyes. A sharp exhale erupts from your mouth as the creature’s guts spill at your feet, a tall, silver-haired stranger emerging behind the slayed remains. Covered in grime and blood, he glares down at your prone, trembling frame. Eerie, golden eyes cut into you harshly.
"Where’s your king?" the man asks, his deep, gristly voice more akin to a bear growl than anything human.
"I…"
The words slump along your throat as you process the broad stranger’s presence. Your savior. He pays you little mind however, grunting in annoyance when you fail to respond. Mud splashes over your tunic as his heavy boots stamp the floor.
Not glancing back at you once, the man takes long strides towards your father’s castle.
⚔
The stench of the creature’s innards still clings to you as you race through the stone hallways of the castle. No matter how much your chambermaid assisted you in scrubbing yourself raw, the gut-twisting scent persisted. Heat nestles in your cheeks as pointed looks land on you, lips curving upward in poorly restrained smiles.
You are the princess, yet your smell is potent enough that even servants and courtiers can barely hold in a laugh as you hurry past them.
Annoyance sears your insides when you finally reach your destination.
Your eyes travel to the middle of the throne room.
The air is drained from your lungs at the sight of the silver-haired, grumpy giant from before. The black plates of his armor are still stained with blood and entrails. His white locks spill over his shoulders, caked with dirt and grease.
He smells even worse than you do.
His saffron gaze trails your steps as you shakily advance. When you scowl at him and almost lose your balance, a crooked smirk unfurls on his lips.
It angers you. Before, he ignored you and now his acknowledgement comes with contempt and mockery.
You regain your composure by lifting your dress and turning away from him. Still, his eye on you is heavy and it makes your stomach clench in discomfort.
You know his reputation all too well. He may have saved you but he’s a brute, a murderer. A butcher.
Your father acknowledges you with a lingering, judgemental stare you try your best to ignore. For one reason or another, his disapproval always ends up finding you. His ire is never quite far behind.
Whatever you do, no matter how hard you strive to make him proud, the king always finds fault in your actions.
Today’s another one of those calamitous days where your behavior draws a frown upon your father’s weathered brow.
It’s no matter. You’re almost certain you slighted him beyond measure the day you were born by simply missing a cock. Your brother’s demise on the battlefield made matters even worse. It reminded him that instead of a suitable male heir, a second son, he only has you.
Your very existence is your father’s greatest disappointment.
All he looks forward to is marrying you off to whomever lord will strengthen his rule most. Then, maybe, you will be useful to him.
"Apology for my daughter’s tardiness, Ser Geralt," your father notes dryly. Daggers pierce your skin when he glares at you, raising his voice, "And much gratitude for saving her from her own foolishness. Even now it astounds me that mine own daughter does not know what a woman’s place is." You plop into the seat next to his, twitching as humiliation scorches your insides. The wood beneath you is hard and uncomfortable, bereft of the nice pillows scattered on your father’s throne.
It’s not the first time you’re scolded for your coarse behavior, unbefitting of your station. Your actions are a perpetual source of strife between you and your father.
If one were to ask the king, even the way you draw breath is lacking.
Your father continues discussing terms with the man. Despite the prickle you feel on your skin, you carefully avoid crossing the stranger’s gaze.
Lost in your churning thoughts, you catch the tail end of your father’s sentence.
"...So we are in agreement, whatever you wish to have once the scourge of hell beasts is dealt with, you can have," your father states. He snorts, a clever glint lighting his orbs. "Within reason, of course, you cannot ask for my crown or all that sits in the treasury. Other than that, you may ask for anything you want, witcher."
The mysterious man hums low in his chest. Silence fills the hall and you lift your head in curiosity. Immediately, his honey orbs lock with yours.
A cold shiver shoots through your spine.
"Anything?" Geralt echoes with a small smile.
"Within reason," your father emphasizes.
You scratch the back of your hands nervously, lowering your eyes again. The expression on the witcher’s face unnerves you, making your chest seize.
He grumbles in acknowledgement. Then, after a few moments, he says, "I’m gonna need a bath."
⚔
When the sky darkens above the castle and all is quiet, you sneak out of bed, as is your habit. Grabbing your cloak and the sword below your bed, you tiptoe outside your apartments. Nihma, your chambermaid, nods at you as you brush past her. No word is exchanged as she slips inside the room while you step into the chilly hallway.
She will get underneath your blanket and snore loudly enough to fool any guard doing a casual patrol. You will give her ten ducats for her troubles, almost two weeks’ worth of wages in a single night, a more than fair trade for the simple task of impersonating you.
You need those ephemeral getaways.
Life within those castle walls isn’t just tedious…it’s stifling. Your father’s expectations and all the duties you’re expected to perform suffocate you.
You dream of freedom and adventure, of sleeping under the stars and living off what the land bestows.
Instead, you are fated to wither away in a cold castle, forced to push out some stodgy lord’s spawn for the remainder of your days.
You shift the heavy sword beneath your cloak, hiding quickly inside an alcove as a guard strolls by.
A sigh of relief departs from your lips when the stomping of his boots dwindles.
You leave your hiding spot and head towards the weapons’ room. It’s always empty at night. When you were younger, it’s where your brother taught you so your father wouldn’t find out. It took so much begging but, in the end, he couldn’t resist you.
Twice a week, you would wake him up and drag him through the dim hallways to practice your swordsmanship.
Your shoulders slump as you let your fingers caress the pommel of your brother’s sword.
The thought of him, slain on the battlefield the year prior, elicits a painful twinge in your chest.
You enter the room and nudge the door closed in practiced silence.
The cloak is tossed over a nearby wooden chair.
You waste no time, beginning as soon as you lift the heavy sword.
You run through each drill, slashing at air on staggering feet. Sweat beads on your forehead as you wave your sword at an invisible opponent. The weight of the steel alone fatigues your limbs. Halting your motions, you wipe your forehead with the back of your hand.
"Your form is shit," a deep and unfortunately familiar voice utters at your side. A sharp gasp escapes your throat as you whirl in his direction. He walks alongside the stone wall, his honey gaze sizing you up and down.
His attention causes your stomach to wrench uncomfortably. Your eyes linger on the loose-fitting, white blouse he wears and the curling dark hairs covering his broad chest where it opens.
As your gaze drifts down to the black leather pants, latching onto the unmistakable bulge in his crotch, flames bloom in your cheeks.
You lift your eyes to meet his smirking face. A frown wrinkles your forehead as you point your sword at him.
"Did you follow me here, witcher?"
Geralt’s brow arches as he inches closer. He doesn’t seem threatened by you, just amused, mirth twinkling in his saffron orbs.
"You’re hiding…which means your father wouldn’t approve." He appraises you while tilting his head. "That sword is far too heavy for you…" Pearly white teeth shimmer in the darkness when he grins. "and you’re holding it wrong."
Anger overflows, spilling over to your shaky grip. With purpose, you lunge at him. He dodges all your thrusts, gliding over the stones and sidestepping you with ease.
"I do not need help from a murderer," you hiss, angling the blade towards his middle. Again, he avoids your attack. As you lose your balance, the floor fastly approaches in your vision.
You await the inevitable collapse but it never arrives.
Geralt catches you. While one of the witcher’s thick arms snakes around your waist, curtailing your fall, the other wraps around your wrist holding the sword.
You audibly exhale as your back presses against Geralt’s chest, warmth leaking from his frame to yours. You squirm but he is stronger, his solid grip keeping you against him.
His lips skim over your earshell.
"Would you prefer the monsters roam free and eat your people?" he taunts.
You take a pause, breathing through your nose. His musky scent fills your nostrils, turning your head a little.
Your voice bursts out a quivering hush.
"I’m talking about Blaviken. The people you slaughtered."
Who hasn’t heard of the infamous Geralt of Rivia and his senseless acts of butchery? Before you can go on, more insults burning your tongue, his fingers tighten around your wrist.
A grimace of pain distorts your features as you almost let go of the sword, but Geralt doesn’t let you.
His raspy baritone rolls along your skin as he lowers his mouth to your neck.
"You’re slow, princess. Perhaps you’re more suited for needlework than fighting."
"My brother taught me. He was a great warrior," you retort, your pride wounded by his scathing observation.
He scoffs, "So your brother was either a shitty warrior, or you’re a shitty student. Which is it?" A puppet in his embrace, you quake when his warm breath raises the hairs on your neck. "You’re holding it too low. See? This…" He directs your hand, raising the sword while your arm trembles. "Would be better. You want to aim for the neck."
You gasp when he moves the blade horizontally in a perfect line. The decisive, powerful strike could have brought down an actual enemy.
Slight awe radiates through you as you lament, your brows crumpling, "I can’t…I can’t hold it higher."
"Of course you can’t," he whispers. His timbre then lowers, too soft and intimate for your liking. "Like I’ve said…this isn’t right for you."
Bells clamor within you when something stirs against your back, something thick and hot beneath the leather of Geralt’s pants.
You know little of men but enough to sense this isn’t right.
You tear from him abruptly. His arms open, that conceited smirk still engraved on his lips. Meanwhile, your brother’s sword clatters at your feet, slipping from your grasp, or rather Geralt’s you suppose.
Avoiding his disarming stare, you scurry to grab your cloak and rush to the exit.
"It’s late. I should return to my chambers," you quaver, too afraid to glance back at him or wait for his response.
⚔
The following days, you exert tremendous effort to avoid the witcher, mostly confining yourself to your apartments. Returning to the weapons room after what transpired is out of the question.
Your heart still races and your face heats whenever you recall the warmth of Geralt’s body as it wrapped around yours.
So you attend to your daily routine, your tedious duties.
Prayers in the morning, then breakfast with your ladies-in-waiting as they prattle on about some gossip or upcoming tournament that fails to catch your interest.
At noon, you must pray again. Then in the evening, you practice embroidery and meet with potential suitors.
None of them please you, each one of them dull pretenders, leeches who do not see you as a person, but a tool to wrest more power and influence for themselves and their houses.
Father will be upset you refused yet another string of matches. One day, he will tire of simply asking you to do your duty. He will impose, and you will have to oblige, for he is not just your father, he is also the king. His word is law. His suggestions are commands.
By the time night comes, you’ve swallowed the burning urge to run away more times than you can count.
Yet you don’t. You fall asleep, dreams plagued by golden eyes and silver hair. So you wake up angry, frustrated.
It peeves you.
Your dislike for him burns bright, searing your insides. The thought of him is a sour one. Geralt of Rivia makes you sick. Yet he’s at the edge of every one of your thoughts. The ghost of his smug smile haunts your days.
It’s the sight that flickers in your mind as you prick your finger today.
"Princess?" Nihma calls, plucking the needle and wooden hoop away from your fingers. She kneels before your chair and dabs a handkerchief on the blood trickling down your fingertip.
You blink, the daze clearing out. You peer down at your chambermaid’s concerned expression.
"The king awaits your presence, your highness," she informs.
Your brows knit.
"Me? Whatever for?"
⚔
A week and a day. It’s how long it took the witcher to slay the hell beasts, having found their queen’s nest and chopped off her head.
Head that bounces at your father’s feet when the witcher tosses it. He looks a fright, bathed in mud and blood, his silver mane black with the monsters’ remains.
You squeeze your fingers in your lap, quelling the shudder the gruesome spectacle inspires. The crimson eyes are open wide and the beast’s jaw parts in a scream that never will be. Your insides lurch.
"Well, witcher, the realm thanks you for-"
The witcher interrupts your father’s speech, impatience brimming from his tone.
"The deed is done. Now I may request what I wish."
"You may. Within reason."
Your father smiles, as usual thinking himself the most clever man in the room. The breath stills in your lungs, unease prickling your skin. You do not know why but trepidation clogs your throat.
Your hands are tightly clasped in front of you when Geralt speaks again, his deep voice echoing decisively in the throne room.
"I want her."
Your jaw slackens as your eyes bulge. Geralt’s sizzling gaze lands right on you, unwavering and clear in his request.
Of all he could ask for, Geralt of Rivia asked for you.
Your heart bounces when he smirks at you roguishly.
There’s tension amongst the guards surrounding your father. They’re at the ready, hands at their sides, ready to draw their swords.
A laugh of disbelief bursts out of the king. His fingers drum anxiously on the armrests of his throne. A warning is laced in the stiff smile he addresses the witcher.
"You can’t possibly…we can offer you horses, gold, maybe a new sword. Our royal smith is renowned-"
"I want the princess. Nothing else."
The determination in his words staggers you.
"Why?" your father roars. Your chest clenches. Geralt has offended your father. Blood will be spilled today.
A lopsided, cocky smirk twists the witcher’s lips.
"What does a man want with a woman?"
Your eyes widen. Your father’s jaw ticks, a scowl distorting his features. Suddenly, he bolts up from his throne, barking orders at the men around him.
"Guards, arrest him!"
Only one word is uttered by the witcher, annoyance oozing from it.
"...Fuck."
Chaos unleashes in the throne room.
The guards lunge at Geralt and you watch in horror as he uses his uncanny magic and extraordinary battle skill to cut each of them down.
They topple to the floor with gargled sounds, falling like flies.
It’s a haunting, macabre dance, the way the witcher moves, his leather boots gliding across the stones, each of his strikes unwaveringly brutal and precise.
Your father gapes at the display with an expression mirroring yours.
You sidle against a wall, your chest heaving, turning away from the carnage before you. You creep along the stones and almost reach the exit, hoping to sneak away through one of the castle’s many secret passages.
But your attempt at a getaway is ruined when, all of sudden, you’re swept up from the floor. The loss of equilibrium makes your head spin. You realize you are staring at a broad, muscular back, one that is dreadfully familiar.
The witcher sighs, adjusting you across his shoulders as you hit and scratch any part of him within reach. He barely flinches as he marches out of the castle while carrying you.
Two more guards try to stop him but Geralt stuns them with that witcher trick again, and slices their throats in a matter of seconds.
You grow dizzy from your upside down position and the bile rising up your throat.
"Unhand me, you brute," you shout.
Geralt ignores you, finally letting you down once he reaches his horse. Before you can try to flee, he ties a rope around your wrists and lifts you up on his horse.
"You’re heavier than you look," he notes flatly. He climbs on the horse and grips the reins. The animals neighs as Geralt’s boot claps against his side. He briefly turns to flash you an impish smile. "Do try not to fall, princess. I would hate for my pretty prize to break her neck."
It’s the only warning you’re afforded as he takes off on the horse with you at his back.
⚔
You writhe against the sturdy ropes confining you to the oak tree.
Your eyes scour the clearing as your heart clamors in your chest. You swallow and your hoarse throat aches with the motion. No matter how much you screamed, no one came to your rescue.
A few feet away, your captor's hunched over a river. You look away, cheeks heating as he undresses and washes the blood and grime off his body.
Thoughts screech inside your head, panic singing in your blood. You’re at the witcher’s mercy. And his words from before echo sickly in your mind.
You shudder at the prospect of him touching you again, in ways that cannot be erased, in ways that would brand you forever.
You must escape.
Clarity pierces through the veil of fear as you devise a hasty plan.
The sizzling weight of the dagger against your thigh emboldens you. After your nightly encounter with Geralt, the pressing need for protection bloomed inside you. You have carried the blade beneath your dress since, secured by a leather strap around your thigh.
Maybe if you wait for the right moment, seize opportunity when it arises…
"I’m going to untie you. Will you be good, princess?"
You gasp, your head turning toward Geralt’s. He crouches before you with one knee bent. You note he’s dressed down in black leather pants and a loose blouse, having shed his armor. Hints of his hairy chest peeks from the shirt. Droplets of water still drip from his long, silver mane, the damp locks clinging to the sides of his face.
You nod, your heart slamming wildly. Geralt begins to pull the heavy rope loose. Tension courses through your taut limbs. You keep a careful eye on him.
When the rope falls in a heap around you, you rise on tremulous feet.
You stagger before him, struggling to regain your balance. You rub your throbbing wrists.
You examine him. He bears no weapon at his side. It’s now or never. The only chance you might get.
You swallow nervously, taking a deep breath.
Then, abruptly, you shove Geralt with all your strength.
He stumbles backward but doesn’t fall, not like you hoped.
Your feet leap as you dash across the clearing, running without glancing back.
You hear him grumpily mutter "Fuck" under his breath.
You don’t hear him move but you’re caught and thrown into the grassy dirt before you can get too far. A trembling hand gathers the dagger below your skirt.
You wave it in the air blindly.
Geralt crawls over you, scoffing as he grabs your wrist.
He smirks.
"Go on. Aim for the throat."
Your hand quakes in his steely grip as you keep trying to stab him. Desperately.
One of your aimless slashes finally meets flesh, grazing the witcher’s face. It leaves a bright red welt that drips crimson trails over his cheek.
He huffs and pins your wrists above your head. The dagger slips from your grasp.
Helplessness blazes within you as you flick terrified eyes toward the witcher.
He caresses the side of your face, a slanted smile dancing on his lips. His honey gaze drags up and down your shuddering frame, lingering on every part of you.
A deep sigh rumbles through his chest.
"You’re exhausting the well of my patience, pretty princess."
You squirm and scream beneath Geralt as his wide hand latches around your throat. He pins you to the ground, trapping you between his knees and beneath his broad, heavy body. You gasp at the taut, throbbing bulge between his legs. He presses himself against your stomach, his shameless desire blatant.
"Don’t you dare…" you hiss.
He chuckles.
"Such a feisty thing, even now."
Your chest seizes, fright pulsing through your blood, as he shuffles out of his pants above you. He hikes up your skirt, his large, callused hand plucking at your warm center.
Your cheeks blaze. You’ve never been touched there.
He swipes his fingers across your folds, tarrying on a tiny, particular spot that has desperate whines unfurling from your throat. You squirm, tears pricking your eyes, as thick fingers explore you roughly. Your toes quiver as he glides over your soft, tender spots.
He does that for a while, collecting a slickness that starts dripping from your core and spreading it over your folds. You keen at the invasion, water and salt hazing your vision.
It worsens when the pain and discomfort begin to blur into something…more horrifyingly pleasant, warm tingles bouncing through your flesh. Your hips undulate and your lids flutter.
Geralt teases that delicate spot, coarse fingertips caressing your folds. Your thoughts scatter amidst the lustful fog.
"What is…what is going on…" you mumble, scorching breaths rattling through your chest.
Geralt hums, his sharp teeth grazing your shoulder.
"I suppose you truly are a maiden in every way."
Although the blanket of the night has yet to wrap around the sky, stars twinkle in your vision. A sharp wail ripples out of your throat as you clench around Geralt's thick fingers. You wonder if you’re dying, falling and soaring all at once, fiery sparks traveling across your entire being.
His warm breath ghosts over your neck.
"I shall have all your firsts, princess."
Geralt rubs his veiny length up and down your slick entrance, groaning against your shoulder. You cry out as the tip of him pushes inside you. He’s already so large, stretching you painfully. You wonder how the rest of him could possibly fit.
"Fuck, you’re tight," he grunts, straining to bury more of himself inside you. Your core protests the sudden intrusion.
"Geralt, Geralt, please…"
He swallows your tearful pleas with hungry kisses.
"Yes, princess, utter my name just like that, until there’s nothing in your head and on your tongue…but me."
You whimper when he sheathes himself inside you to the brim. Fire consumes your walls. Tears flood your vision as Geralt snaps his taut hips into you bluntly.
The wolf pendant dangling from his neck sways above you.
He gives you no time to accommodate him, snarling as his large body ripples above yours, his damp, silver locks sagging over your chest.
After a long while, you quit begging. It yields no results. In fact, he thrusts into you more ferociously, his honey orbs darkening with lust whenever you demand he stops.
He remains inside you for hours. The crisp forest air grows chilly and the pale moon crests in the sky above your writhing forms.
Yet the witcher’s hunger never abates.
He robs pleasure from you until you’re on the brink of collapse, time melting amidst the befuddling surge of sensations.
And when you do collapse, it’s with Geralt’s cock inside you, still pouding your core, his animalistic growls vibrating along your flesh and his heat mingling with yours.
⚔
The smoky scent of meat tickles your nose as the light of dawn pierces through your shut lids. You stir awake with a frown, an aching soreness etched in your limbs. Your chest twinges as you peer down at your torn dress and the mess of dried blood and cum still staining your thighs.
As your gaze darts about, it lands on Geralt’s broad back. He’s tending to the fire, already clad in his black armor.
Alarm engulfs you.
You suck in a sob and strangle the flood of tears. Agony escalates as you crawl over the dewy grass, inching towards the edge of the clearing.
"You can either warm my cock or be supper for the wolves. Your choice, princess."
You freeze at his nonchalant warning. You whirl toward him, bolting upward with an enraged scowl. You vacillate, your abused core aching whenever you move.
"My father will hunt you down…"
Geralt finally turns. He rises to his full height. Your stomach sinks. A slanted smile decorates his lips as he leers at you.
"The same father who sought to sell you off like a donkey?" he mocks. Your face ignites with shame as you shoot daggers at him with your gaze. "You meant little to him as a maiden, and now that you're sullied… I'm guessing an actual donkey would be of more use to him." Geralt approaches you as you stumble backwards. Your mouth squeezes in disdain when he tilts up your chin. The rough leather of his glove scratches against your delicate skin. "The way I see it I did you a favor, pretty princess. He’d have married you off to the next lord of bad breath for more soldiers and gold."
Your forehead creases.
"Where will you be going now?"
His eyebrow arches.
"Where are we going?"
Shock parts your lips as your eyes bulge.
"You mean to keep me? I thought-"
"What did you think, princess? That now that I had what I desire, I would leave you be…" Glimmers of mirth sparkle above a sea of gold. "What makes you think one would ever tire of such a sweet royal cunt?" The sinful dip of his baritone unleashes goosebumps across your skin.
He frees your face and goes back towards the makeshift camp, collecting his scabbard and other meager belongings. Feet rooted to the grass by stupor, you stare as Geralt saddles his horse.
"Little town a day's away on horseback. Bruxa problem. Hefty reward." The corners of his mouth lift slightly. "Nice brothel with cozy rooms."
"So I'm to be your whore now?"
Geralt snorts.
"Better a whore than a donkey."
"I could slice your throat in your sleep, witcher."
Geralt walks towards you again. Once he’s in front of you, he surprises you by wrapping a warm cloak around your shivering frame.
His knuckles drag along your cheek.
"Then I look forward to those peaceful nights, princess," he replies dryly.
Your pulse thrums. There’s not an ounce of fear in the words he just spoke. In fact, there might even be a hint of thrill.
⚔
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The man soaked in blood grinned. His eyes were black, his skin was snowy, and the veins in his face and exposed hands pulsed with dark power; but he was no witcher. He couldn’t be. His grip on the silver-bladed sword was awkward, unused to the weight. He did not have the build of a monster-killer. If not for the magic, and the blood, he would look weak.
“I want my witcher, of course,” he rasped.
The lord scoffed and sipped his wine. “You cannot have him, and you will die if you continue this foolish quest,” he said flatly. “You may have cut your way through my men to reach here, but you are human. Humans cannot contain witcher magic. Do you want to die?”
The man laughed. It was a hideous sound, loud and rough and mad. The lord frowned, and squinted, looking closer. It was hard to tell, when the man was so far away, but…
The cup slipped from his suddenly cold hand.
“Yes,” the man soaked in blood said, his grin that of a madman who died a long, long time ago. “But it will be by his hand, and no one else’s. No one said I was human.”
“Jules,” the lord gasped.
“No. My name is Jaskier. Now give me my witcher, Father.”
~
Geralt pressed his fingers to his eyes again, gritting his teeth. He still wasn’t used to the hazy shadows where his vision used to be. Luckily the torturer was inexperienced; Geralt wasn’t fully blind. Yet.
His fingertips brushed gingerly against the raw, puffy scar at the corner of his right eye. He knew it was only a matter of time before they gouged the organs out of his head. He would fight, of course. He would kill. But his eyes were less important than--
The stench of blood. Metal and sweat. Rage. Witcher potions.
Linseed oil. Buttercups.
The sea.
Geralt attempted to stand, but his feet were still healing. His heart was beating too fast. He turned his head, towards the dim square of light that was the window of his cell. Surely not…
“Jaskier?” he whispered.
The lock clicked. The door opened. Geralt took a deep breath, and tasted the flat, salty-sweet tang of blood and offal. Under it was Jaskier, though—unmistakably his bard.
“Jask,” he repeated, and lurched to his feet. The form in the light gasped, then rushed forward to embrace him. Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier and held him too tightly, trembling with relief. Alive. Safe. Maybe the gods existed. Maybe Destiny had taken pity on him.
But… why did Jaskier smell like witcher?
Pulling away, Jaskier pressed a vial and a sword hilt into Geralt’s hands. Geralt sniffed the bottle as his fingers curled into the familiar indentations of the leather grip. Swallow. Potent. Too potent. It would make him sick to drink it.
“I need you to kill a monster,” Jaskier said.
Geralt felt a feral grin spread across his face. “Give me a scent,” he replied, “And their head will be yours.”
Jaskier held a piece of fabric up to his face. Geralt breathed in deeply, and growled in hate and anticipation. He knew that scent. It was carved into his memory as deeply as the voices of his brothers.
“He’s wounded,” Jaskier told him. “Not enough to slow him down, but enough to cause upset. Can you smell him, Wolf?”
“I smell him,” Geralt hissed, popping the cork from the bottle of Swallow.
“He’s all yours, my dear. I’ll clean up the trash behind you.”
Geralt growled again, drank the potion, and darted around Jaskier. A monster to slay, for his bard. There was no task better suited to him.
~~\0/~~
Ten Years Previously
It was a fine thing, to be free and untethered. Truly he was meant to exist this way.
But Jaskier had tasted the stability of love, and now he could not be satisfied with the adrenaline of lust. So he waited at the inn for Geralt to finish his latest contract, instead of leaving for the nearest court or brothel—one and the same, truly. Full of rich men paying for the use of others’ bodies. And Jaskier was tired of it all.
Nilfgaard had fallen. Cintra had been restored. That didn’t mean there weren’t still monsters to clean up—both beast and man. Whilst Geralt specialized in the former, Jaskier concentrated on the latter. Like now, as he wrote a letter to a contact in Redania containing coded and magicked information. The old men who called this backwater village home were good at hiding, but their soldiers were not. Jaskier had seen them, and their weapons, and their fine steeds. And their sorceress.
She was good, but Yennefer was better. And with the entire force of her Lodge behind her, she could easily sway the woman to give up her lord and his sons. Jaskier allowed himself a small smile as he signed the letter with a tiny bird. Yennefer still wasn’t his favorite person, but only because she wasn’t Geralt. Other than that small detail, there was no one he trusted more.
With the three of them on the trail, Ciri wouldn’t have an enemy on the entire continent within a decade.
Not that she knew the extent of her parents’ goals. The last time Jaskier had seen Ciri, she had laughed that they were all too protective of her. She was a woman grown, with a wife and a place as a weapons-teacher. It didn’t matter how grown she was, though. Not to them.
Jaskier frowned. It was wrong of him to be so protective of her, when he wasn’t even her father. But he would still burn the world to the ground in her name. Was this how her grandmother had maintained her station? This blind loyalty that ensnared the hearts of the powerful until they couldn’t imagine a world without her?
Did it matter? They would root out every speck of conspiracy, to keep her safe. They would kill everyone they had to.
Jaskier pushed himself to his feet abruptly and paced the room. These thoughts, though frequent, and often quite logical, frightened him. He had asked Yennefer to poke about in his head to find any seed of madness in him, but she had said there was nothing other than what all men had. Jaskier had not been violent when he was younger.
When he was ignorant.
He sighed, and sat again. Nothing for it. He’d have to hope Geralt came back without wounds, so they could spar, or fuck, or both.
“I do so wish I understood what’s happened to me,” he murmured, leaning his chin in his hand. “There’s so much beauty and delight in this world, and yet the one thing that doesn’t move me is death. Hmm.”
“Is that so, little one?”
Jaskier shot to his feet and whipped around, his hand going to his dagger. In the corner was a shadow, undulating, covered in eyes of green fire. The lights of the candles and setting sun seemed to leech away into the inky dark of the shadow. The scent of ancient blood on cold stone filled the room.
Jaskier scowled and took his hand from the dagger’s hilt. “Mother,” he said dryly, and bowed. “Stop sneaking around like that.”
A wet chuckle, like a drowned person choking, and the shadow resolved into a tall, broad woman clothed in rags. She smiled, baring her fangs endlessly stained in blood. “But it is so fun, my dear boy,” she cooed, cupping Jaskier’s face in her sea-cold hands. “You are just as easy to frighten as your father. What funny creatures, men.”
“What do you need, Mother?” Jaskier asked. “We’re quite a ways away from the sea. A goddess of sirens should be with her people, in the waters.”
Her smile grew soft, her enormous wings mantling around them both as she pulled Jaskier into a gentle embrace. He hugged her back immediately, breathing her salty scent deeply. He’d missed her. Only a year, and he’d missed his mother, the daughter of Storms and Death.
“I need you to promise not to hate me,” she murmured.
“I could never hate you, Mother,” Jaskier replied.
“Not even if I granted your wish to know?”
“No. Your blood is in my veins. You know I want more than is good for me, always.”
She laughed again. “The sea takes, and takes, and takes, and gives but rarely. It is time I tell you.” She pulled back enough to tilt his face up to look into her eyes of storm-fire. Her expression and voice were gentle as she said, “My blood is in your veins. It is awakening. I am fading, and soon you will take my place, the lord of death at sea.”
Jaskier went cold. “Mother…”
“Hush. I am losing power. It is a cycle, like the tides. I Saw your coming fifty years ago, and that is why I seduced your father, married him in the way of humans, and bore you. Now you are coming into your own. You will take my place and feast on those who trespass in our beloved ocean. Do not be sad, my pearl. I am not dying. I will simply go where the ones before me went.”
“Mother.” Jaskier licked his lips, gathering his courage. “Mother, I can’t leave Geralt.”
His mother smiled indulgently. “You needn’t leave him. You can keep him in the depths, like my father kept my mother. You can even let your little sorceress friend visit once a moon. But you must come home when I fade. You must take up the chalice. There are too many humans who seek to tame the sea. They must remember why they worship us.”
“I’m not god material.”
“Neither was I. It comes to you. Don’t you feel it, my pearl? That jealous love. That lust for the blood of those who hurt those closest to you. That is the sea within you. Answer the call of the sea.”
Dark! Syverson x Black Reader x Dark! Geralt
Also this is post is pic heavy. I modeled the cabin in this story of off Sky Notch. I hope it’s not to much lol and that you enjoy it. Thanks for reading and reblogging!
She had offered an exchange.
The writhing twisted thing on the ground, whipped its long slimy arm along the bog’s black moistened soil. It bared its sharp teeth before bellowing a sorrowful moan.
Geralt stared down at what used to be a beautiful woman. With her once melodic voice she had promised youth, riches beyond measure, and power - if he would let her live.
Allow her to continue her own reign of terror over the small but humble village. She had brought strife, she carried sickness into their homes, disturbed their spirits.
Geralt wasn’t a fool. Of course he had considered her offer, but knew it was nothing more than conjured filaments of promises. It would have only been real as long as she lived.
What are a handful of crowns in exchange to leaving innocent people to harm?
Though he was no saint. It took sleeping with the village’s leader’s prettiest daughter and taking half her dowry to gain his contract. One cannot ask if one is not willing to give.
And he delighted in the taking.
As in this moment, the black eyes matched his as he stared into the abysmal void that was quickly spreading down its body.
Geralt bared his own bright white teeth and plunged the sword further into the monster's rib cage, piercing its heart and impaling the dirt below. Green ooze bubbled out of the wound. The moan gurgled into a desperate scream, echoing throughout the forest, shattering the peace surrounding it.
The moment Geralt withdrew his sword the ground beneath him shook. Around him, wind began to whip and the wispy clouds around him whirled above him. Thinking, calculating, Geralt wondered what new spell this was. Eyes now back to their golden color he stared at the swirling beginning to descend about him.
He tried to take a step, strained again to pull back from the gravity sucking him upward.
Geralt reached for the beast at the same time his feet left the ground. Out of time the rotten skin slipped through his fingers, the whirlwind carried him up and up.
The forest chattered once more. The creature laid there dead as Geralt had planned. But there was no Geralt here, or sword.
The moon hung behind a clear pane of glass, in the room you shared with Sy. Near the bed, where you laid, within her own wooden bassinet, the soft breathing of an infant soothed some of your worries. Pregnancy had looked great on you. Actually, you had never felt better and almost disturbingly so. It was September now, a month passed giving after a near painless birth to Astrid.
The little darling, Sy’s heir and your delight, and your reason for sleepless nights. Not because she required taking care of, that came easy enough, but your system had changed. You had little sickness throughout the pregnancy, energy boundless in a way you longed for the days where you could sleep a full night.
This was one of those nights. Sleepless wasn’t the word for it. You flipped on your side and stared out of the window. The advent of fall had begun revealing a clear cool night sky with stars dotting above the tops of the pecan tree basking in the white light of the moon. You heavily sighed and rolled on to your back. It was ill advised by the old matrons that new mothers were allowed to roam the woods like their other halves. So you were laying on the large, billowy bed, muscles twitching to wander, heart waiting for the moment your bare feet could hit the ground.
You stared at the wood grain above the bed and listened to the dark, imprinted the sound of Astrid’s breathing to your memory, and beyond the window pane howls - distant, calling to the night, did little to lull you to sleep. Your secret weapon to combat restlessness was to wiggle your foot. Quick short bursts of movement rocked you gently. Your eyes slowly blinked followed by a deep yawn and you shut them completely. The things to do in the morning began to drift less in your thoughts and it became more important to cave into the sinking sensation of sleep. You attempted to blink again, though did not.
Your foot stopped moving.
The dream began with feet, steadily walking through overgrown grass, stopping at first and then started again. Night rounded around the image, the skin was coated in black smudges, blood, the hem of a dark dress dragged and smeared it around the calves. You could smell the iron in the air along with rot, not animal death, but that of felled trees with fungus aiding in its decay. A woman, she began to run as the vision pulled back and revealed that within her arms a bundled lay there. No bigger than Astrid, could have been Astrid the love you felt was as strong as that for Astrid.
But it wasn’t, this woman was afraid of losing this bundle. Though not to death, but to forces beyond her control, so she ran.
The dream shifted to fog, no footsteps to be heard. Made of air and a moist breeze they walked out from the trees and surrounded the woman. The bundle lifted from her arms despite her attempts to hold on, what was soft fabric became translucent just as the beings. Her scream scratched the inside of your ears, the wail turned yelling, her mouth was moving but the voices from it did not match. Your body began to shake, the scene rattled too.
“Wake up, Miss! - Oh, old God! Please wake up!” the voice said.
Your eyes peeled open to Peach’s deeply wrinkled face. Worried thin lips were drawn into a straight line. “Miss!”
Your back snapped up straight, head turning towards the bassinet your eyes looked over Astrid. Peach held your shoulders, “She’s okay. But you have to come down--”
You pulled her worn hands from your body and held them within your own. “What’s wrong?”
And then you felt it, a worry, deep in the pit of your stomach.
“Is it Sloan?”
Peach suddenly blubbered, you had never seen her in such a state. The aged woman was tough, and her tears had you climbing out of bed faster than what she could answer.
You stood above Astrid’s bed, touching her belly you turned back toward Peach’s hunched over figure as she wiped at her lined skin.
“I knew it would happen again..god damn--I told Alpha it could happen again.” she mumbled.
Dottie, with her curly hair pulled up tight in a high bun and tugging on old boots, rushed in. “I got Astrid.” she said hurriedly.
Dottie’s face was lowered, her eyes staring down at Astrid. She sighed, that was the moment you noticed a subtle lemon light and then she looked back at you. Behind her, beyond the window the sky whirled with clouds. Some deep yellow, others blue, circled and churned. You moved closer to the bassinet, still staring at the sky when Dottie too turned around, Peach gasped behind you. In the hustle you had not looked at the window, had it been doing this the whole time?
Clattering from down below, near the stone den, loud voices shouted, some hollered for help. Your stomach dropped more. Dottie shot out and grabbed your wrist. “Go.” she said quietly.
You walked past Peach, to the end of the bed, who was still staring at the window with her hands covering her mouth. Grabbing the thick navy robe you turned around back toward Astrid’s bassinet, Dottie was there, her face toward your sleeping baby. You threw it on as she waved for you to go.
It must have been later than you realized, the second floor was devoid of the usual lit sconces, instead the fiery light from below coxed up and gave you warm light to guide you down the stairs. The row of balcony doors came in to few as you quickly descended, the yelling had died down in its place hushed tones followed murmuring.
Eyes wide you hit the bottom of the wooden stairs and turned toward the large space with the stone monument. Women were coming in from across the other rooms with clothes in their arms. You recognized the usual pack, Tator, shorter than Sy preferred tattered jeans dragged across the floor as he paced. Macon, naked, was squatted down near a figure laying flat near the stone of the large statue. Jimbo, he was shirtless as he stretched the waist of the sweats around his waist stood up erect, his normally jovial face was straight and concerned.
You rushed forward, their eyes turned to you and you ignored their bareness as you searched for Sy. They parted for you until his naked back could be seen, “Sy?”
An older woman handed him a shirt, he turned toward you and grabbed your face. “‘You okay?” he asked.
Before you could answer, you moved to this side, your eyes dropped to the figure laying on the floor.
“Ya’ll back up,” Sy called out in a hushed voice. He looked to you again waiting for you to answer his previous question.
But you couldn’t take your eyes off the man on the floor. Sy nudged your cheek with the back of his hand, moist with sweat it was enough to draw your eyes back to him. “I’m fine, so is Astrid.” you whispered, and then pointed down at the man. “Who is that?”
“He looks-” said Jimbo, but stopped.
Peach had wiggled through the men across from you and Sy. Her blue eyes stayed on the man.
“We shifted on the other side of the property, so we were running,” began Sy, as any mumbling died away. “I scraped my leg near the old pyre. I ain’t ever seen anything like it.” His voice strained as he tried to stay calm while speaking. “What I was lookin’ at split and blurred. There was flashing lights in the sky, these clouds circled us and this asshole popped out and landed right on top of me. And then other things, monsters, fell right along with him and disappeared in the woods.”
Both you and Peach met near the side of this man. His shirt was near new, though unique and more like a tunic than a cotton tee. And his boots were good, strange though. “There was a high pitched noise, it sounded like a bomb went off in my head.” continued Sy.
You knelt down at his side, staring at the strands of dirty silver hair. “It reminded me of war.”
Flicking down further down this man’s neck, his pulse thudded quickly underneath pale skin, around the bottom half on his chest and shirt, a medallion on a silver chain. You reached out for it, slowly at first unsure at why you were doing so, but you did it anyway. You held it, still warm from his body and swiped a thumb over the raised décor. “It’s a wolf..” you said softly.
More than that, it matched the same motif and style of that within the crest of the Syverson heirlooms you had seen so many times.
“Looks like what is on the wall in the dining room.”
“I never thought I would see the day…” said Peach.
Sy moved closer, though still standing, at your side. “What’s going on, who is this?”
Your eyes flew back up to the man’s face. Even in his sleep, silver brows seemed to glower in his rest. A familiar profile stuck out to you, it was the same as Sy’s face, same shape of lips, the clef in his chin.
“He looks like you Sloan.” you said, still holding the medallion.
And it happened fast. Peach gasped first before you realized the man’s eyes opened, yellow and pointed in your direction. He snatched your hand within his and sat up, staring down at you. Crushing your fingers around the metal, the man growled before suddenly blinking slowly. Through his nose, he breathed in deep. “You smell…like flowers...dizzy..” his lips barely moved, your eyes met his as he leaned in closer. He continued to do so, his eyes slowly shut, his hand around yours dropped as Sy stepped in time to push him off you.
The man crumbled down to his side while Sy helped you stand. “Who is his?” he was looking down at the man, brows drawn together before he stared at Peach.
Teary eyes were still on the silver haired man. Peach, sighed, mumbled something under her breath before she sighed heavily.
“He’s..” she turned her eyes up to you and then to Sy. “I didn’t think we would ever see him again. Alpha, this man..” she looked back down at him, her hands seeming wanting to reach out to stroke his hair but did not. “This boy is your brother.” she finally said. “Your twin.”
Members of the pack lifted the man and placed him into a bed on the second floor of the cabin. The women had undressed him, mended his scrapes and scratches as he remained unconscious. It was now late morning, daybreak had cast light into the room catching his white hair. You stood at the doorway, observing Peach check his pulse.
“He’s still breathing, seems to be sleeping.” she said to Sy.
Your eyes fell to the man. Something solid settled in your chest when you gazed at him. Akin to how you felt for Sy, but different because while you had no idea who he was, you yearned.
“How is that man your brother?”
The sound of your voice breaking the silence had Sy turning toward you. The disappointment in his express was palpable. His eyes rolled to Peach. “‘Feel like I’ve been lied to my whole life.”
“He wasn’t ‘pose to come back! No lie can be undone if there’s no proof Alpha!”
Sy stepped toward the man, pointed, “He’s right there woman! A whole lie laying in my house!”
“Sloan.”
Olive came in, a large book cradled in her arms, “This was from the old times, before there was a here and our people came to live here.” Sy made to move toward her but stopped when she spoke again, “Your mama made me promise. Omega’s trust is binding.”
She handed the book to you. “In there is about you too.” she said, looking from the thick embossed leather to you.
“What about me Olive?”
“A woman unknown. A stranger no more. Alone in the world, shiftless but finds their grounding.”
You squinted at her. “That could be anybody.”
“--catches the eye of the Alphas.” Olive continued.
Sy interrupts with what you did not catch. “Alphas?”
“First Omega with two mates.”
You blinked, and then squeezed the bridge of your nose while struggling to understand.
“You were destined to be here. The world, gods, -- you were supposed to always be here.” said Olive. “I just..never considered that this prophecy would happen in my time.”
“Maybe if you hadn’t of lied-” Sy growled.
“I had no choice. I was bound by your mother’s word. And her actions were bonded by blood. No way around that, believe me I tried. Your father was missing. And, damnit, your mother knew not to ask the fog for help. She had no idea they would take her son in exchange...” said Olive.
Peach grumbled under her breath. She shuffled toward the end of the bed all the while staring sorrowfully at Sy. “Alpha, this man is your brother.”
“I don’t even know his name.”
“Geralt Syverson. In that book there-” Peach stuck a knobby knuckled finger toward the thick tome. “Says right in there, that man’s name is Geralt.”
Olive sniffed the air for a moment and glanced back at you.
“The rut is tonight.” she said, still staring at you. “Whatever it is you need to think about Alpha, you best do it quickly.” She turned her eyes back to him. “Because this is happening. Destiny is willing it.”
“I don’t give a damn about destiny-”
“I think you will find it is hardly worth out running.” the man mumbled from the bed. “Believe me I’ve tried.”
“Where am I?” he said while glancing out the window. Geralt sat up, moaned deeply and held his head before shifting his eyes up to the man who mirrored his likeness. “And I need a bath.”
You stood tense outside the kitchen door. Back so tight, it was fit to snap but you pivoted from ball to heel, rested the back of your head against the grain. This man’s voice settles in the knot between your shoulder blades. It struck you even deeper in your gut, your soul, whatever that warm feeling that sat in the middle of your chest.
You know more than not, that the reason is something more than soulmates, and connections. You can smell it from here, him, just as you suspected he could sniff you out too. It was raw in your nose, primal, and instinctual.
And you were grateful that the occasional passerby did not stop. Like you, they too avoided the kitchen while this visitor ate.
“Is she yours?” asked Geralt.
Without a pause, “Yes.”
“So she follows you everywhere you go?” he asked. “Why is she standing out there?”
Sy called your name, slowly you rolled on your arm toward the entry. The moment his yellow eyes landed on yours longing unfolded within you.
“I find myself, once again, in a strange land.” he said lightly. Geralt chewed off a bite of toast and gestured toward Sy. “And this man says he is my brother. However, I believe I am much better looking. What do you say?” he said as he swallowed the mouthful.
Sy sat in the chair sideways, with his large legs splayed, he hunched over with his fist flat at the knuckles and pressed into his thigh. He turned his head to you, utterly gentle, soft even to Geralt’s gaze he gave you a half grin.
“Why are you here?” You asked.
Walking over to Sy, you kept watching Geralt the same as his eyes stayed on you. His chewing paused when you grew close, his eyes fell to the arm Sy wrapped around behind your hips before looking you in the eyes.
“I have no idea.” said Geralt, and turned back to his plate.
Slowly his gaze moved from the pile of eggs to the book between him and Sy. He picked up the bottle of beer, chugged it while still staring at the words on the pages. Such an odd man, you observed, since waking he even walked around with a sword strapped to his back. Like now, his top half curved over his plate, those strange eyes shifting -- taking in his surroundings without looking too long.
“But I overheard something about a rut?” He said to Sy. “What are you some sort of animal? A pack of mutant dogs?” he chuckled.
Sy didn’t join in his amusement.
“Werewolves.”
Sy jerked his chin, cut his eyes down to the medallion around Geralt’s neck. And casually, glanced back at that symbol on the ancient page.
“That’s the mark of my family. Our inheritance.”
Geralt put down his beer and leaned back in the wooden chair stiffly.
He rolled his jaw, flicked his tongue between his back teeth and looked to you first. “I’m over a hundred years old.” he said, and then stared at Sy. “Either this is some sort of time dream, or I’m your ancestor. This place doesn’t look like the Continent. Lacks greater magic, but this medallion - it’s been gently vibrating since I’ve arrived.”
“It warns me of magic and danger,” he said. “It’s no family heirloom. It was given to me once I completed my trails.”
It was absurd to think of movies or the vast stories of time travel, but it was all you had.
“So what if you were taken there as an infant.” You looked to Sy. “Like Olive said.”
“And time moves differently in this place you grew up in.” Geralt stared up at you, listening.
“Wouldn’t that account for something? You’re talking about all this magic like it’s true. That’s not how it is here. And only recently have I even considered anything like it.”
You continued to stare back at his unwavering glare. “Don’t you feel different?”
A long silence followed. Sy caught you staring, the heaviness of his grip on your hip pulled you to stare back at your mate. He was still considering Geralt, the man continued to look at you until he spoke.
“He does. And by the end of the night I’m sure you’ll understand why...brother.”
The title brought Geralt’s focus back to Sy. “Odder things have happened in my long life. What’s one more?”
They, the pack, took this new/old comer in stride. Stranger than his sudden appearance was how they welcomed him back into the fold of their lives. Twelve hours since he arrived and Peach was here in front of you talking about him like he had always been.
Her eyes burst with delight as she spoke about him as a baby. How good he was, that he cried very little, and always needed cuddling.
Peach was covered in dark soil. From the creases around her knuckles to the edge of her temple. The old woman cut herbs down to the root as she spoke.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
You blinked a few times, coming back to the moment. You nodded.
Peach threw the last bunch of tarragon in her basket and stood up slowly. “I think your baked chicken will go good with that.”
Peach huffed, shook her head and looked to you exasperated. “That’s not what I was talking about. Don’t be coy. The rut.”
“You think Sy is really going to allow a stranger-”
“It’s not about what he will allow. It’s a bond with the land that was paid in blood before you even knew we existed. It is what it is.”
You laid Astrid down back in the bassinet. Ready for tonight's pack dinner you walked from the room you shared with Sy. You peaked back through the door at the young woman you had left your child in care of.
She sat in the chair near, cracked open her book and smiled back at you.
You buried the anxiety with a tight nod back. Already the house buzzed with high spirits, for the arrival, and for the eve of their time of bonding. The closer you came to the dining hall the louder it was and thicker the fragrance.
The two of them, different but the same, had the effect within you.
Entering the voices quieted. Some familiar faces looked at you, smiled, nodded as you passed down the center of the long tables toward the one sitting long ways. Your space was empty, a vast void between Sy and Geralt.
They stared at you. But your eyes fell to Sy only.
And so you sat between the two big men. Something about them, their demeanor toward one another -- something had changed. And it poured over during dinner. They no longer seemed like two strangers.
Geralt leaned back on his right hand, just behind you and whispered in your ear. “I hear we have some catching up to do.”
Sy glanced at you from the side of his eye before answering a member of his pack from across the tables.
And you said nothing in return, and you did not look at him either. You picked at the potato salad on the plate before you and forced yourself to listen to Sy’s words.
“I’ll be gentle.” Geralt whispered again, this time close enough to feel his breath brush against your ear. “Maybe...” he chuckled softly. “..if you’re good.”
You stared at Geralt from your place at the front of the pack on the balcony. He stood there observing the pack members, shoulders straight, chin level, and those yellow eyes stopping and studying ever so often. The weather fell, cold wind swept through the crowd of people staring at their Alpha. If not for the occasional blinks, and subtle tilt to his head, you would have thought Geralt was made of stone as Sy spoke.
“These are peculiar times,” said Sy, shifting his head and eyes from you to Geralt on his left. “But we aren’t strangers to oddities as such. As you all have heard, this man here is my brother.”
Indistinct mumbles descended through the fifteen or twenty men and a few women standing in front of you, Sy, and Geralt.
Sy held up his for silence. “Geralt Syverson was a child of bond made in blood. Our mother’s sorrow over the loss of our father was paid by Geralt’s exchange. It carried him off beyond the world we see now.”
Sy looked over at Geralt, who cut his eyes to him. “Carried him to distant lands where he was taken in by a woman. From what I gather his life has been hard.”
Your mate turned his focus back to the pack. “He was..changed by the people of the land.”
“Why is he back?” called a voice. “Why now?” said another.
Sy turned his head to the right and looked at you for a moment and then addressed the crowd. “The dark soul about a year back did it. The last one killed before that, was the night payment was due and my brother was taken.”
“Is he one of us?” asked a tall man, his black eyes swept from Geralt’s boots to silver hair before looking at Sy.
“‘Can’t be a Prime. There’s never been two.” he added.
Sy stared after the pack member, you could see it in his brows as he carefully considered his next words.
“There is now.”
The crowd mumbled some more, whispers, disgruntled and blameful rolled over them once again.
“There’s more on this land than we know.” Sy said loudly over them. “Shit we never seen is going on in the woods and my brother knows about it.”
Sy glanced over at Geralt who was already staring at him. “He will help. This is home now.”
Geralt nodded. “I kill monsters.”
His eyes drifted from Sy to you. “And as far as this being my home, it remains to be seen.”
“You will.” Sy clapped his big hand over Geralt’s leather clad shoulder and squeezed. “The air is changin’, you feel it?”
And as if speaking it into existence the wind shifted around them. The Alpha’s restless stances moved with one another feeling the resonance of their Alpha Prime’s words.
Geralt said nothing at first, his eyes traced back to the men. In the light of the balcony his skin shone slick with sweat. Sy grinned.
“Alright, ya’ll - meet up in a few hours.”
Sy dropped his hand, the other messaged your back and wrapped around you to pull you forward through the crowd along with Geralt.
“First order down this path is claiming.” said Sy quietly while walking through the row of doors back into the house. “They have it easier, like during the change-- like me because we have mates.”
Your stomach dropped.
Still sweating and rather perturbed Geralt grunted out unamused, “I glanced through the book Syverson.”
“Sy?” you rounded on him taking a few steps up the stairs. “This is ridiculous. I’m not-”
Sy suddenly took to the stairs, growling in his throat forcing whatever retort back down in your throat. He grabbed your arm and began to walk you up the stairs.
“Come with me brother,” called Sy over his shoulder. And when you glanced back at the silver haired man. He was staring at you, his breaths heavy and you recognized he could smell you just as you could scent him out.
You pulled against Sy, but it didn’t matter. He dragged you into their room. Gone was the bassinet, the child you shared with Sy and the room was lit by candle light and the night sky filtering through the large windows.
Geralt followed and closed the door behind him.
“Try it,” said Sy. And he repeated the growl in this throat. “Think of subduing without touching.” he added, and twisted you around to face Geralt.
“Don’t-” you said. “I never agreed to this. I-”
Geralt stepped forward, the rumble in his throat began low and hit you harder than Sy. A deep jolt in your pelvis and wetness seeped from between your folds. The sound of his call was raw, unwavering and only grew the longer he stared into your eyes.
“A curious creature,” his hand caressed your cheek, smearing the tear into your skin. “So lovely.”
Sy released you and stepped to the side. “She was made for us. In every way possible, brother.”
Geralt hummed, blinked slowly as your compliance melted into his psyche. He had been to the edges of the Continent, seen worlds broad and miniscule. But this, the sensation to ravish and take had never been stronger than in this moment. The urge to...plant, sow his legacy felt primal and ancient.
Sy breathed in deep, smelling the fragrance of your heat fill the room. “She’ll fight. But it only makes it sweeter.”
You fought against the rush. “You--don’t know what you're talking about Sy..please..” you strained to look away from Geralt.
“You know what the rut does to me baby..” whispered Sy. “You belong to us now.”
Sy walked from the room, leaving you to Geralt. And with him any hope that the man you loved, wouldn’t do this. But the moment the thick wooden door clicked shut Geralt tore at your t-shirt, grabbed the back of your hair and pulled you against his chest.
His lips hovered over yours. Humming the Alpha chant he kept you there staring into your eyes.
“I have so much power over you.” his deep voice mollified your senses. “It was confusing at first, this world, how it worked. But I feel the desperate pull to be inside you, entirely. And I fear.”
Throat dry, you struggled to speak against the cloudy haze of hormones. “--fear?”
“That I wouldn’t be able to stop myself..” Geralt pressed his lips on top of yours. He split them with his tongue, plunging and licking your teeth and tongue.
You pushed against him, you tried to unglue yourself from the nature blossoming inside. It wasn’t nearly enough.
“The more you resist,” he groaned and kissed around your mouth slowly making his way back to your mouth. “The worse it is..”
Geralt fumbled with his armor, shedding it fast when he released you to sway where you stood. And before you knew it, his naked form stood in front of you, the muscles with dark swirls of hair coating his chest and down a wide trail over his abdomen toward his chubby, thick cock.
You lunged to the left, but you were too overcome by the nature of your place in this culture. Geralt grabbed you about the chest and waist and walked you toward the bed. Shaking your head, crying was met with his Alpha hum.
He tossed you on the bed back first, stripped your pants away and pulled off what was left of the tattered shirt. Head half empty, the other overpowered by lust, beckoned him to fulfil his duty.
And as he pounced on top, before you could stop yourself, your fingers traced over the mounds of his pecks, around his shoulders and pulled him toward you.
Geralt’s tight grin, his yellow eyes delighted in your sudden offering. But he grabbed your wrists anyway, held you down below him. And without much care, squeezed his way past your slippery folds.
His mass pounded your body into the bed. His slick, porcelain skin slides against the tops of your nipples, you swear the briny dripping from him is your ultimate undoing. He takes from you, but his thrust gives in its own ritualic way. There was no escaping the act of completion, and as the swollen feeling in your clit cascaded into bone aching bliss you fell into his command. Your Alpha Prime, the second man in your life.
He flipped you over, ass up and fell back into line with his rhythmic thrusting. It didn’t matter that he spread you further, had a handful of your face in his hand pressed against his jaw. He powered away inside of you, dropped his lips along your neck. And with his other hand, he held your head down, licked the stretch of moist skin there slowly.
“I claim you,” Geralt whispered and buried his cock deep. His teeth nipped the skin of your neck, your ass arched more, craving the pain of his depth. And his bite pierced at the same time he spilled inside of you. Your whimpering, the small, surrendering mewl flared his nostrils as he bit down harder.
The door slammed open smacking the wall, your eyes rolled in your skull before falling on the shape of Sy. He walked in and shoved it back shut.
“I can’t wait any longer,” he groaned and began to peel off his clothes. “I can smell her down to the kitchen…”
Geralt tried to move inside of you. Another round of simpering whines called from your mouth. Sy rushed to the side of the bed where your head rested.
“Don’t,” Sy warned. “You’ll hurt her.” he said softly while stroking your hair.
“Lay there with her, hold her. She’ll bond with you until you can pull out again.” he instructed.
Sy sat on the floor, he laid his head not too far away from your own as Geralt wrapped his arms around your back to your chest. You stared back at him as he gazed at you achieving peace.
“Good girl.” he whispered.
Geralt turned his head back into your neck, humming low, and sniffing your hairline slowly it stimulated the vibration of love deep inside of you. The rush spread.
“Now you have two of us.” said Geralt.
“It’ll be my turn next,” added Sy. “We’ll take care of you, baby.”
The Next Morning
The brothers ran together last night. Their howls carried through the room and even invaded your sleep. Dreams of a black wolf, a white wolf, fog, wilderness kept you stuck to the bed most of the early morning.
The night sitter brought Astrid to the room as the sun rose. And you spent time with your daughter despite the ache in your body. When the voices in the cabin began to grow louder you knew they were home again.
You wondered if it was easier for Geralt, the change that night. Not that you saw it in person. But you couldn’t help but feel that your new mate somehow deserved a painless shift.
And when the sitter came bounding back in off the energy surging through the home. She scooped up Astrid.
“The Alpha Prime’s are asking about.” her bubbly voice softly rang.
Even if you did feel for Geralt, the night before was remembered. “I don’t care.” you said and got up from the bed.
“I’ll have some coffee up here.” you added and headed toward the bathroom.
You ignored the smell of food wafting into the bedroom after the shower. Your eyes landed on a tray on the end of the bed. A platter of toast, fruit and thermos of coffee waited for you.
And so did two tall, disgruntled men.
“Why didn’t you come down?” asked Sy, pushing away from the closed door.
Geralt slowly walked toward the bed, but turned his back to you and Sy by looking out the window.
You glared at Sy. “You--neither of you gets to decide -”
“Ah but we do.” Geralt butted in, hands clasped behind him he turned from the window. “The moment you felt me enter your slippery cunt you belonged to the both of us.”
You look to Sy for support but he just stared back.
“From what I’ve learned you have no choice but to submit.” Geralt glanced across the room for affirmation, Sy simply nodded. “Therefore, you will learn to love it.”
You started to snap back, yell, spit anything but a low growl began from Geralt that stopped you in your tracks. “I don’t want to hurt my...mate.”
Geralt and Sy walked toward you, the silver haired at the left, the bushy faced man at the right. Sy put his hands on his hips and grinned kindly back at you.
“We want you happy, dove.” Geralt carcasses your face, he dipped in and began to sniff your cheek, down your neck. “God, do you smell that?” he asked Sy.
Sy stepped over, you turned your watery eyes to him. He was softer with his eyes, gazing at you with love. Geralt held the back of your head allowing Sy to lean in toward the pulse point on your neck and ran his nose across your skin.
“It’s sweet. Like honey, or some wild flower but deeper, yes?” he asked Sy.
He knew that smell alright, the deep resonant fragrance coated the back of this throat. It flipped a switch in the back of his mind as he breathed in deep. He wouldn’t have to mate to procreate, not for a few months.
“She’s pregnant. That’s the smell..and it smells like she has both of us in there.”
Pairings: (dark!)Geralt of Rivia x Reader
Summary: Reader teases the wrong man
Warnings: dubcon- oral sex (male receiving), misuse of the Wolf pendant
Word Count: under 700
a/n: Happy Birthday @sapphirescrolls❣️🧡 you and your words make this place more enjoyable!
It started with a coquettish action. Your eyes chased his over goblet rims, smiles hidden behind engraved filigree. Maybe it was the wine, the music, the crowded celebration that gave you the courage to play this game with him. Or perhaps it was the drunken ignorance to believe you could throw blood in an ocean and not expect an attack.
The broadness of his shoulders, the scarred veins descending his forearms to impossibly thick wrists, the shrewdness in his eyes, and the growl from his chest as you danced away again were all ignored warnings to stop toying with this witcher.
But the full awareness of how different Geralt was from others was further lost on you after downing another goblet. Naivety swam in your bloodstream with the idea you could enchant him for a few festive hours and ideally walk away like you did to other men.
Stolen castle corners, secret doorways to hidden alcoves; a flirtatious game of evasion that you found amusing was one he found annoying. The embroidered hem of your blue gown brushed away all sense and wisdom while you raced down the corridors. Your laughter floated past your shoulders gifting him a trail to follow.
By the end of the night, the tip of his cock was on the tip of your tongue. You choked on the repercussions of your teasing.
His rough palms were a vice around your cheeks, thick fingers anchoring the back of your neck.
Fragile, he thought, forcing himself further down your throat. Breakable.
“Look up,” Geralt commanded.
But you concentrated on his medallion instead, unprepared to face the consequences of your actions. Your fists crumpled the expensive material of your birthday gown as your misplaced confidence slipped and mixed down your throat with his precum.
A grunt with every thrust, the wolf medallion swung against his chest. He praised a husky, solemn 'fuck' when your tears dropped, wetting the backs of his palms.
Your knees, sore with embarrassment, ached from the stone floor as he speared himself deeper down your throat. His pubic bone smashed your nose- soap, salt- your eyes widened when his cock twitched above your tongue.
His balls tightened and rubbed your chin before he pushed your mouth away. Cementing his hand around your wrist, he pulled your arm up to cup his sac. Knocking you with his thigh, he signaled for you to squeeze.
Freeing the wolf medallion from his neck, he gestured for your other hand and pressed it in your open palm. Stroking himself above the silver disc, he jerked faster as you fondled him.
His thighs flexed and shook at his release. Deep groans filled the room, causing you to drop your head. Streams of warmth covered your skin- the wolf medallion coated in white.
With a sag of your shoulders, your arms dropped while you convinced yourself this would be over soon. White stains on rich fabric, the silver chain pooled in your lap.
The witcher watched the tension slowly leave your body, and a smug lesson clawed to the front of his mind. A pretty doe still too naive before the tip of a hunter’s sword.
“Listen, then do,” Geralt bowed down to your ear, taking back his medallion. “It might be your birthday but it’s my celebration.”
Your body stilled at his tone, deeper and more devious than before.
“Open your mouth,” he instructed loudly, the heavy chain hitting your chin. "Wider."
Trembling lips parted, allowing him to place the warm, salted metal in your mouth. Dirty actions doubled the weight on your tongue.
Silently pleased, Geralt ran his fingers over the corners of your mouth, painfully tracing the thin connection of your lips before slipping his thumb harshly inside. Humming at the promise of seeing you stretch elsewhere, he felt you struggle back a cough when forcing the stained medallion onto your tongue.
"Don't move."
More pressure. Another gag.
He pictured your taste buds holding the impression of his wolf on your tongue and relished how the chain dangled from your strained mouth.
The large bail rested on your bottom lip before he tapped the chain into motion, “Like a dirty, pretty pendulum.”
