"His blood was draining away quickly. There was no time. The witcher cursed and bit her hard on the neck, just below the ear. He dug his teeth in and clenched them until her inhuman howling became a thin, despairing scream and then a choking sob—the cry of a hurt fourteen-year-old girl."
Summary: When Geralt of Rivia returns from a brutal hunt in a foul temper, you, his devoted lover, knows exactly how to strip away the White Wolf’s iron control and give him the release only you can provide.
word count: 8000+
Paring: Geralt x Reader
warnings: NSFW, SMUT
A/N : Hello Friends! I wrote another smut Witcher fic! Wanted to do something a bit different and write Geralt as a sub, I hope you like it!
Masterlist
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The village of Elderglen clung to the edge of the Great Swamp like a stubborn weed refusing to be drowned. Three days of relentless rain had turned the roads into sucking mires, the kind that could swallow a horse and its rider whole if you weren’t careful. Ancient willows draped with moss leaned over black water, and at night the air hummed with the drone of insects and the distant howls of things that had no right to exist. This was the Continent—wild, unforgiving, a place where kings warred over scraps of land while older, hungrier things waited in the dark. Monsters born of the Conjunction of the Spheres still roamed here: fiends with branching antlers and eyes like burning coals, drowners that rose from the muck with claws dripping rot, and worse. The villagers paid coin for steel and signs, but they never quite met a witcher’s eyes. Mutants, they called them. Freaks. Useful only when the night grew teeth.
You had learned long ago not to flinch at those stares. You weren’t from Elderglen. You weren’t from anywhere, really—just another soul who had followed the Path beside Geralt of Rivia for nearly two years now. What began as a chance meeting in a smoky tavern in Vizima had become something deeper, something the bards would never sing about because it didn’t fit their tidy tales of heroic monster-slayers. You knew the real Geralt: the man who muttered curses at his own reflection in still water, who woke from nightmares of the Trial of the Grasses screaming in a language no one else understood, whose body bore the scars of mutations that had stolen his humanity but gifted him speed, strength, and senses sharp enough to hear your heartbeat from across a room.
You loved him for all of it.
The Rusty Cauldron was the only inn in Elderglen worth the name—two stories of sagging timber and thatch, its common room thick with the smell of sour ale, roasted turnips, and wet wool. You had taken the largest room upstairs three days ago, paying with the last of the coin Geralt had left you before he rode out. The villagers had whispered when you arrived alone: “The witcher’s whore,” they’d muttered behind their tankards. You had smiled sweetly and ordered another round for the loudest of them. By the second night they’d stopped talking. By the third they’d started leaving small gifts—fresh bread, a wedge of hard cheese—on the doorstep. Fear and respect walked hand in hand on the Continent.
You had spent the afternoon preparing the room exactly the way you knew he would need it. The heavy wooden chair dragged from the corner to the center of the floorboards. The length of soft rope you’d bought from the tanner in the next town, supple and strong. The strip of black silk torn from an old chemise. The fire built high so the room would stay warm even when clothes came off. You knew Geralt. You knew the storm that built behind those cat-like amber eyes after a hunt went bad. Three days tracking a fiend through waist-deep swamp, three days of rotten eggs and sulfur and the constant drip of foul water down his neck. He would come back caked in filth, muscles locked tight, words sharp as his silver blade. And you knew exactly how to break the storm open.
The door to the inn slammed open downstairs just after dusk. You heard the heavy tread of boots on the stairs—deliberate, weary, and angry. Then the door to your room crashed inward.
Geralt filled the frame like a thundercloud given flesh. White hair hung in damp, muddy ropes around his shoulders. His black leather armor was streaked with green slime and darker blood that wasn’t his. The medallion at his throat—the wolf’s head—vibrated faintly, still reacting to whatever residual magic clung to him. His jaw was clenched so hard the scar on his cheek stood out white. Those golden eyes swept the room once, found you standing by the window, and narrowed.
“You’re still here,” he growled, voice like gravel under a boot. He kicked the door shut behind him. “Thought maybe you’d have the sense to leave after three days in this shithole.”
You crossed your arms, keeping your tone light. “And miss the charming welcome? Never.”
He dropped his saddlebags with a wet thud and stalked to the washbasin, splashing water over his face. It did little to cut through the grime. “The fiend was supposed to be a simple contract. One night. Instead the bastard led me in circles through every sinkhole in the swamp. Three drowners on the second day. A pack of ghouls on the third. And the villagers?” He laughed, bitter. “They tried to haggle the pay down when I dragged the head back. Said it ‘wasn’t as big as they expected.’ I should have left the corpse in their well.”
You stepped closer, reaching for the buckle of his sword belt. “Let me help—”
He jerked away, eyes flashing. “I don’t need help. I need a drink and silence.”
Your fingers paused, but you didn’t retreat. This was the ritual. The snapping. The walls. You had seen it before—after the striga in Vizima, after the leshen in the Redanian woods. The White Wolf was used to being the strongest thing in any room. Control was his armor. Tonight you were going to peel it off layer by layer until the man beneath could breathe again.
“Fine,” you said calmly. “Then sit and clean your sword. You’ll rust the silver if you leave it like that.”
He grunted something that might have been agreement and dropped onto the low stool by the hearth. The silver blade—already gleaming despite the muck—came out with a soft rasp. He began the methodical wipe with an oiled rag, movements sharp, angry. Every muscle in his broad back stood out beneath the wet leather. You could see the tension coiled in his shoulders, the way his jaw worked as if he were chewing on words he refused to spit out.
You watched him from the doorway for a long moment, a silent predator in your own right. The air in the room was thick with dust, sweat, and the smoky residue of the day’s hunt. Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, sat slumped on a stool, methodically cleaning the silver blade of his sword. The firelight caught the hard planes of his face, the deep-set weariness in his eyes. He’d tracked a fiend through the swamps for three days, and the victory had been messy, brutal, and left him caked in grime and something darker. He was a coiled spring of tension, every muscle in his broad back corded tight, his movements sharp with a frustration that had nothing to do with monsters.
You knew that look. It was the look of a man whose world had been reduced to violence and grit, a man who needed to be reminded he was more than a weapon. A man who needed to break.
“Sit,” your voice cut through the quiet, not a request.
His head lifted slightly, those cat-like eyes finding yours. A flicker of something—relief, anticipation, surrender—passed through the amber before he grunted, pushing the sword aside.
You pointed to the heavy wooden chair you’d placed in the center of the room. He looked at it, then back at you, a question in his silence.
“Now, Geralt.”
He stood, a tower of scarred muscle and leather, and moved to the chair. He sat without further protest, the old wood groaning under his weight. His hands rested on his thighs, palms up in a gesture of weary compliance.
You moved behind him, your fingers trailing over the thick column of his neck, feeling the knots of stress bunched there. He let out a low, rumbling sound that wasn’t quite a growl, more a vibration of pure need. You took the length of soft, supple rope from the table. Looping it around his left wrist, you pulled it tight against the chair’s arm, securing it with a knot that was firm but not cruel. His breath, already heavy, deepened. You did the same to his right, his arms now bound at his sides, his powerful biceps flexing instinctively against the restraint.
“What is this?” His voice was gravel, worn smooth by fatigue.
“This,” you murmured, your lips close to his ear, “is what you need. But you don’t get to see it coming.”
You took the strip of black silk from your pocket. He didn’t flinch as you brought it over his eyes, tying it securely at the back of his head, plunging him into a world of touch and sound alone. His world narrowed to your voice, your hands, the scent of your skin.
“You had a long day,” you whispered, your hands sliding down his chest, over the hard leather of his armor. You began to unbuckle it, piece by piece, the sound of straps and clasps loud in the quiet room. Each inch of revealed skin was a conquest. His chest, a map of old scars and new muscle, heaved. His stomach, ridged and tight, twitched under your fingertips. You worked him free of his trousers next, pulling them down his legs until he sat bare from the waist down, the cool air of the room hitting his heated skin.
And there it was. Geralt’s cock, thick and already half-hard, lay heavy against his thigh. It was a formidable thing, long and thick with a prominent vein running along the underside, the head a dark, flushed pink. It twitched as you looked at it, as if it knew your gaze was upon it. The scent of him—musk, leather, the wild—filled your senses.
You knelt between his spread legs, your own breath catching at the sight. You didn’t touch it yet. You simply watched, letting the anticipation build, letting him feel the weight of your stare through the blindfold.
“You’re already so hard for me,” you said, your voice a low purr. “All that killing, all that rage… and this is where it lives now. Right here.”
A low growl started in his chest, but it died as you finally, finally, wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock. His whole body jerked. The skin was hot silk over steel. You gave him one slow, torturous stroke, from root to tip, your thumb smearing the bead of moisture that had gathered at the slit.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word torn from him.
You leaned in, your breath ghosting over the sensitive head. “You will,” you promised. “But not yet.”
You took him into your mouth.
The first touch of your lips, the wet heat of your tongue lapping at the underside of his crown, drew a ragged, broken sound from his throat. His hips bucked against the restraints. You took him deeper, your mouth stretching to accommodate his girth, your tongue pressing flat against that throbbing vein. You worked him with a slow, deliberate rhythm, one hand pumping the base in time with your bobbing head. The sounds were obscene, wet and slick, punctuated by his increasingly desperate breaths.
You pulled off with a pop, leaving him glistening and trembling. “You taste like the road,” you said, licking your lips. “And like you need to come so fucking badly.”
“Let me,” he growled, the command in his voice fraying at the edges. “Untie me. Let me fuck your mouth.”
“No.” The word was absolute. You went back down on him, this time with more fervor, sucking hard, hollowing your cheeks. You traced the rim of his head with the very tip of your tongue, then dipped it into the slit, tasting the salty pre-cum. His curses were a continuous, filthy stream now, his head thrown back, cords standing out in his neck.
Just as you felt his muscles begin to tighten, that telltale clench in his thighs and abdomen, you pulled away completely. You sat back on your heels, watching his cock jump, angry and neglected.
“No,” you repeated, your voice firm. “You don’t get to come. Not until I say.”
“You cruel, beautiful bitch,” he snarled, but there was no heat in it, only a desperate, aching need.
You smiled, though he couldn’t see it. “You love it.”
You moved then, shifting your position. You trailed your hands down his inner thighs, feeling the coarse hair, the muscle quivering with tension. You pushed his legs wider apart, exposing him completely. The sight of his balls, drawn tight and heavy, and the dark, furrowed pucker of his asshole made your own core clench with wet heat.
You leaned forward, your face inches from that secret part of him. You blew a soft, cool stream of air across it.
Geralt froze. “What are you—“
You didn’t answer with words. You answered with your tongue.
You pressed the flat of your tongue against his hole, licking a broad, wet stripe from his perineum up to the base of his spine. He made a sound you’d never heard before—a choked, guttural gasp that was all shock and raw sensation. His body went rigid, then shuddered violently.
“Oh, gods,” he moaned, the fight leaving him in a rush.
You did it again, slower this time, circling the tight ring of muscle before pressing the tip of your tongue against it, breaching him just a little. He was clean, tasting of soap and skin, and the intimacy of the act, the sheer vulnerability of it, had him unraveling. You rimmed him in earnest then, fucking him with your tongue, soft and probing, then firm and insistent. His moans were no longer growls but high, broken things, his hips pushing back against your face, seeking more.
“Please… fuck, please…” he begged, the word foreign and beautiful on his lips.
“Please what?” you asked, pulling away just enough to speak, your lips wet from him.
“I don’t know… anything. More.”
You gave him more. You slicked your index finger with your own saliva, then pressed it against his loosened entrance alongside your tongue. You pushed inside, just the first knuckle. He cried out, a raw, ragged sound, his whole body seizing. The heat inside him was incredible, a tight, clenching vice around your finger. You worked it in deeper, crooking it, searching.
Your other hand returned to his cock, which was leaking profusely now, a steady stream of pre-cum dripping down the shaft. You fisted him, your strokes rough and fast, perfectly timed with the thrust of your finger inside his ass.
“This is what you needed, isn’t it?” you hissed, your own arousal a throbbing ache between your legs. “To be taken apart. To have no control. To just feel.”
“Yes! Fuck, yes!” he shouted, his back arching off the chair, the ropes biting into his wrists.
You found that sweet spot inside him, the firm nub of his prostate, and rubbed it firmly with your fingertip. At the same time, you tightened your grip on his cock, twisting your wrist on the upstroke. His reaction was electric. He screamed, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure, his cock pulsing violently in your hand. You could feel his orgasm gathering, a tidal wave about to crash.
And you stopped.
You pulled your finger out and released his cock in the same instant.
The sob that wrenched from his chest was a thing of pure agony. “No! Don’t stop! I was so close, please, I can’t—“
“You can,” you said, standing up. Your own clothes felt like a prison. You stripped quickly, letting your garments pool on the floor. The firelight danced over your skin. You climbed onto his lap, straddling him, your wet cunt hovering just over the weeping head of his cock. You could feel the heat of him radiating against your folds.
He sensed your nearness, smelled your arousal. “Ride me,” he begged, his voice shattered. “Please, just fuck me. Use me. Let me feel you.”
“Beg prettier.”
“Please.” He turned his blindfolded face toward you, his expression one of utter torment. “My love. My heart. I need you. I need to be inside you. I’m begging you. Let me feel your cunt.”
It was enough. You lowered yourself onto him, taking that huge, thick cock inside you in one slow, inexorable slide. The stretch was immense, breathtaking, a perfect, burning fullness that made you see stars. You threw your head back, a moan tearing from your throat as you sheathed him completely, your ass meeting his thighs.
“Fuck,” he gasped, the air punched from his lungs. “So good… so tight and wet… you’re fucking perfect.”
You began to move, rolling your hips in slow, grinding circles, milking his cock with the walls of your cunt. You set a punishing pace, rising and falling, each descent a shock of pure pleasure. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a lewd counterpoint to his broken moans and your own sharp cries. You rode him hard, using him for your own pleasure, your tits bouncing, your nails digging into his shoulders.
“Kiss me,” he pleaded suddenly, straining against his bonds, trying to lift his head. “Please, I need to kiss you.”
You leaned down, capturing his lips with yours. The kiss was messy, desperate, all tongue and teeth and shared breath. It was a claim, a connection deeper than the physical joining of your bodies. He poured all his frustration, his need, his adoration into it.
“I love you,” he mumbled against your mouth. “I love you so much.”
“I know,” you breathed, riding him faster. “Now fuck me back.”
He couldn’t move his arms, but he could move his hips. He drove up into you, meeting your every downward stroke with a powerful upward thrust, pistoning into your sopping cunt with a ferocity that stole your breath. The coil in your own belly wound tighter and tighter, a shimmering wire of pure need.
“I’m gonna come,” you warned, your rhythm faltering.
“Do it,” he urged, his voice a dark rumble. “Come all over my cock. Soak me. Let me feel it.”
The sheer vulgarity of his words, pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you, a violent, convulsing wave that clenched your cunt around his invading length in rapid, fluttering pulses. You cried out, your body bowing backward as pleasure, white-hot and blinding, radiated out from your core. You ground down on him, milking your climax, feeling his cock throb inside you as you drenched him.
But you didn’t stop moving. Even as the aftershocks trembled through you, you kept riding him, your cunt still fluttering around him.
“Now you,” you panted, leaning close to his ear. “You want to come, Geralt? You want to fill me up?”
“Yes! Gods, yes, let me come!” He was thrashing now, the chair legs scraping against the floor, his entire body slick with sweat, every muscle straining.
You increased your pace again, a brutal, frantic rhythm. “Then come for me. Come inside me. Give me everything.”
With a roar that shook the rafters, he obeyed. You felt his cock swell even further, then pulse, a hot, liquid jet of his release flooding your depths. He came and came, his hips slamming up into you in short, savage jerks, each spurt wrenched from him with a guttural cry. You collapsed against his chest, feeling the frantic hammer of his heart, the tremors that wracked his massive frame as he emptied himself into you.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing and the crackle of the fire.
Slowly, you reached behind his head and untied the blindfold. It fell away. His eyes, when they met yours, were hazy with spent pleasure, the amber soft and vulnerable. You leaned forward and untied his wrists. The moment his hands were free, they flew to you. His big, calloused palms cupped your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks as he looked at you with a reverence that made your heart ache.
“I needed that,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I needed you.”
“I know.”
In one fluid, powerful motion, he stood, your legs still wrapped around his waist, his cock, still semi-hard and slick with both of your releases, slipping from your body with a wet sound. He carried you the few steps to the bed and laid you down on the furs, coming down over you, his weight a delicious anchor.
“My turn,” he growled, and the submissive wolf was gone, replaced by the predator you’d unleashed.
He didn’t wait. He hooked his hands under your knees, pushing your legs back toward your shoulders, spreading you wide open. The position exposed everything—your swollen, used cunt, glistening with his cum, your asshole, the sensitive inner lips of your pussy. He looked his fill, his eyes dark with a fresh, hungry intensity.
“Look at you,” he murmured, dipping a finger into your soaked entrance and bringing it to his mouth. “Taste you. Taste us.”
Then he was on you. He drove his cock back into your well-fucked cunt in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The force of it knocked a scream from your throat. He set a pace that was pure, unadulterated animalism. No finesse, no gentle lovemaking. This was fucking, raw and desperate. The bedframe slammed against the stone wall with every powerful drive of his hips. His hands gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise, holding you open for his relentless pounding.
“Take it,” he grunted, his face a mask of fierce concentration. “Take all of me. I’ve been dreaming of this… of fucking you just like this… all fucking day.”
You could only moan, your words lost in the onslaught of sensation. He was hitting a spot deep inside you with every stroke, a spot that made your vision blur. You wrapped your legs around his waist, meeting his thrusts, your bodies slapping together in a slick, sweaty rhythm.
“I love you,” he chanted between gritted teeth, a mantra against the driving need. “I love you, I love you, I need you, I needed this, it feels so fucking good…”
You were both covered in a sheen of sweat, the air thick with the musky scent of sex. He leaned down, capturing a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard, biting gently, the dual sensation making you arch and cry out. He switched to the other, lavishing it with the same rough attention.
You felt another orgasm building, coiling from the base of your spine, fed by the sheer force of his fucking, the vulgar words spilling from his lips, the possessive way his hands roamed your body.
“Geralt… I’m going to… again…”
“Come with me,” he demanded, his pace becoming frantic, erratic. “Come on my cock. Now.”
His command was all it took. Your second climax shattered you, a deeper, more body-consuming wave than the first. Your cunt clamped down on him in a series of violent spasms, milking his cock. The sensation tipped him over the edge. With a final, ground-out roar, he slammed into you, hilting himself, and you felt the hot rush of his second release flooding your already filled channel. This orgasm seemed even more intense than the first; his cock jerked and pulsed inside you, jet after jet of his cum painting your inner walls.
He didn’t pull out. He stayed buried deep, his hips making tiny, involuntary thrusts as he rode out the last pulses of his climax. His weight settled on you, warm and heavy and perfect. He nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his breathing gradually slowing from ragged gasps to deep, even draws.
But the night was far from over.
After a few minutes he lifted his head, eyes gleaming with that familiar predatory hunger. “Still not done with you,” he rasped. He pulled out slowly, and a thick gush of his cum leaked from your well-used cunt onto the furs. The sight made him growl low in his chest.
He gathered the mess with two thick fingers and brought them to your lips. You sucked them clean without hesitation, tasting salt and musk and the unmistakable flavor of both of you. His gaze darkened further.
“Turn over.”
You obeyed, rolling onto your stomach. He gripped your hips and pulled you up onto your knees, ass raised high. His hands spread your cheeks, and you felt the blunt head of his cock—still hard, still leaking—press against your other hole.
“Relax for me,” he murmured, voice gentler now but no less commanding. He had already slicked himself with the cum dripping from your pussy. The first push was slow, careful, the stretch burning in the most exquisite way. You moaned into the furs as he sank inch by inch into your ass, filling you completely. His mutations gave him stamina no ordinary man could match; you had learned that long ago. Tonight he intended to use every second of it.
He started slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged against every sensitive nerve inside you. Then faster. Harder. The slap of his hips against your ass filled the room again, punctuated by your cries and his low, filthy praise.
“Fuck, so tight… taking me so well… my perfect girl…”
You came again just from the fullness, clenching around him until he snarled and spilled deep inside your ass with a shout that rattled the shutters.
He didn’t stop.
He flipped you onto your back once more, hooked your legs over his shoulders, and drove into your cunt again. Then he had you against the wall, your back to his chest, one arm banded around your waist while the other rubbed your clit in tight circles. Then on the floor in front of the dying fire, slow and deep while he whispered every endearment he rarely allowed himself to voice. Each round blurred into the next—hours of sweat-slick skin, broken moans, and the wet sounds of bodies joining again and again. His witcher endurance was legendary, and tonight he proved every rumor true. You lost count of how many times he made you come, how many times he filled you until cum ran down your thighs in steady streams.
The candles had burned low and the village outside had gone silent when he finally carried you back to the bed for the last time. He collapsed beside you, pulling you into the cradle of his body. His chest was still heaving, but the tension that had lived in his shoulders for days was gone. His big hand stroked down your spine in long, soothing passes. The ropes and blindfold lay discarded on the floor like shed armor.
For a long while neither of you spoke. The fire had died to embers, casting the room in soft orange glow. Outside, a nightbird called once and fell quiet. Inside, there was only the steady beat of his heart against your ear and the warmth of his skin.
“Thank you,” he said at last, voice rough but soft in a way the world never got to hear. “That… that’s what I needed. You always know. Always.” His lips brushed your temple. “I come back half monster, and you remind me I’m still a man. Your man. I love you. More than the Path. More than anything.”
You turned in his arms, pressing a kiss to the scar on his jaw. “I love you too. Every version of you. Even the grumpy one who snaps at me when he’s covered in swamp muck.”
A low chuckle rumbled through his chest—the sound you had been waiting for all night. He tightened his hold, tucking your head beneath his chin. “Stay with me. Always.”
“Always,” you promised.
Outside the window the swamps of Elderglen whispered on, full of monsters and danger and the endless road. But inside the little room at the Rusty Cauldron, Geralt slept peacefully for the first time in days, wrapped around the woman who had once again taken his strength, his control, and his stoicism—and turned them all into surrender.
And in the morning, when the sun rose over the misty hills, he would wake with clear eyes and a quiet smile just for you. The Path would call again soon enough. But tonight, and every night you chose to claim him, the wolf was yours—body, heart, and soul.
SUMMARY: a storm drives you both into an abandoned chapel. you light your lantern and sit near the altar, drying herbs by its glow. he sits in the dark until you offer him half your cloak without a word. when thunder rattles the ceiling, he mutters, “you’re not afraid.” you answer, “you only scare the ones who don’t see you.”
WARNINGS: injured roach if you squint
NOTES: first of my geralt pieces, starting with how he met the reader - hope it’s okay!
[ masterlist ] requests are open
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The storm came crawling over the horizon long before it broke.
You could smell it first — that copper tang of lightning still caged in the clouds. The forest had gone quiet, the kind of quiet that meant even the birds had found cover. Only the wind moved, tugging at the hood of your cloak as you followed the road that sloped toward an abandoned chapel you remembered from a past journey. The villagers said it was cursed. You called it shelter.
You were just rounding the bend when you saw him.
A lone rider, black horse slick with rain, silver hair already darkened by the downpour that hadn’t yet reached you. He dismounted slowly, as if the weight of the world — or of the blades on his back — required him to think about balance.
You recognized him by reputation, if not by name. A Witcher.
You might have kept walking, another traveler passing with a polite nod, but he was staring down at his horse’s leg — something wrong, a limp maybe. Instinct tugged at you the way it always did. You approached.
“She’s favoring the right foreleg,” you said, voice low enough not to startle the animal.
He turned at the sound, those yellow eyes catching the faintest bit of dying daylight. “You see that from here?”
“I see most things limping,” you replied, offering a ghost of a smile. “I’m a healer.”
He said nothing, but didn’t move away when you came closer. You knelt, fingers brushing the mud-caked fetlock, careful not to crowd the mare. The wound wasn’t deep — a stone bruise, perhaps. You pulled a small pouch from your satchel, the scent of crushed comfrey rising with the damp.
He watched as you worked, the kind of silence that felt like studying rather than suspicion. When you straightened, rain began to fall in fat, heavy drops that stung against your skin.
“There’s a chapel ahead,” you said, nodding up the path. “Stone roof, mostly intact. You’ll want cover before that turns to a storm.”
His eyes flicked toward the black line of trees, then back to you. “You’ll want the same.”
You didn’t wait for agreement — only turned and started walking. The rhythm of hooves followed a few steps behind.
By the time you reached the chapel, the sky had split open. The door resisted your shove, wood swollen with years of rain. He stepped past you without a word, shoulder braced against the frame, and it gave way with a low groan.
Inside, it smelled of dust and ash, old prayers clinging to the stones. You lifted your lantern, striking it to life, and warm light spilled across the empty pews.
The Witcher paused in the doorway, rain running down his armor in rivulets of silver. You gestured toward the shadows.
“Come in,” you said simply. “No use letting the storm have us both.”
He hesitated — then followed you in.
The Witcher turned, closing the door against the storm. The sound of the rain softened once there was wood between you and the world — distant now, a steady heartbeat against the chapel walls.
You lifted your lantern higher and took in the ruin. The roof sagged in places, but the altar still stood, stone veined with moss and candle stubs melted down to ghosts of wax. You’d slept in worse.
He stood by the doorway a moment longer, water dripping from the ends of his hair, cloak heavy with it. The faint scent of iron and wet leather carried through the chill.
“You can come closer,” you said, kneeling to set your satchel down. “No sense guarding the door. Whatever hunts out there will wait until dawn.”
He gave a sound halfway between a hum and a sigh, then stepped forward, boots echoing softly on the stone. The horse outside huffed once before settling, and for the first time since the road, the silence didn’t feel dangerous.
You struck a few bits of tinder together until the lantern’s flame grew, brightening to a steady gold. Its glow kissed the walls and touched the edges of his armor. Without the storm’s blur, he was sharper — all scars and steadiness and the quiet gravity of someone built to endure.
You began unpacking the essentials of your trade: rolls of linen, glass vials bound in twine, a pouch of herbs that smelled faintly of mint and earth. You spread them out on your cloak, letting the warmth of the lantern draw the damp away.
He watched, wordless, as you worked — not intruding, not offering help, simply existing in the shared hush. When you finally glanced up, his eyes caught the lantern light like molten gold through smoke.
“You travel light,” he said at last.
“I have to. I go where I’m needed.”
“And people pay you for it?”
“Not always,” you said, voice soft. “Sometimes they just feed me, or let me sleep in their barns. The Path takes care of its own.”
That earned you a faint lift of his brow. “You sound like a Witcher.”
You smiled at that — small, honest, fleeting. “I patch what you kill. I suppose that makes us opposite sides of the same coin.”
He looked at you for a long time, then glanced toward the door again. The thunder cracked closer this time, shaking dust from the rafters. You moved toward the altar, pulling your cloak tighter.
“Sit,” you said, gesturing toward the broken pew opposite yours. “Storm’s only getting worse.”
He hesitated — a creature of instinct, of distance — then finally obeyed.
The lantern burned between you, throwing both your shadows against the walls.
Outside, the storm began to howl. Inside, there was only breath, and warmth, and waiting.
The storm worked its way inside the chapel’s bones. Wind rattled the shutters, and rain pressed against the walls as if trying to remind you that the world outside still wanted in.
You’d grown used to weather like this — storms that drove people into each other’s paths. He seemed less comfortable with it. Every thunderclap drew the faintest flicker of tension through his jaw, a readiness to fight something that wasn’t there.
You reached for your satchel again, half for distraction, half out of habit. “You should get out of that armor. It’ll take a day to dry if you don’t.”
He gave a low sound — not refusal, exactly, but resistance. “Not the first time I’ve ridden through rain.”
“No,” you said, smiling faintly as you sorted a few damp herbs onto a cloth near the lantern. “But maybe the first time you’ve done it with company who knows how to treat pneumonia.”
That earned you the smallest curve of his mouth. He unbuckled one pauldron, the metal clinking softly as it met the floor. The lantern’s light caught his profile — sharper now, but softer, too.
You worked in silence until he spoke again. “Geralt.”
You looked up. “What?”
“My name,” he said simply. “Geralt of Rivia.”
You nodded once, meeting his gaze. “Then I suppose I should tell you mine.”
He tilted his head slightly, waiting.
You gave it — quietly, as if the name might echo too loudly in a place like this. His eyes flicked toward the lantern, thoughtful.
“Not a bad one,” he said after a moment. “Has a steadiness to it.”
A small smile placed itself upon your lips.
A crack of thunder rolled through the rafters, deep enough to make the air tremble. You didn’t flinch, but the lantern swayed, sending your shadows dancing across the walls. He noticed — or maybe he was waiting for you to startle and didn’t know what to do when you didn’t.
“You’re not afraid,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
You met his gaze through the shifting light. “You only scare the ones who don’t see you.”
The words hung there — simple, but heavier than they sounded. Something eased in his shoulders, like tension unwinding from years of habit. The thunder outside rolled away into distance, leaving only the steady rhythm of rain against stone.
He looked at you for a long moment, the sort of look that doesn’t demand understanding but quietly asks for it anyway. You didn’t shy from it.
The lantern’s flame wavered and steadied again, a fragile, stubborn thing — much like the moment between you.
You turned slightly, pulling your cloak closer and holding out one side toward him. “It’s warmer if you sit nearer the light,” you said, not quite an invitation, not quite a command.
Geralt hesitated, then crossed the few feet of empty chapel floor. He sat beside you, the bench creaking under the shared weight. The cloak bridged between you, half yours, half his.
For a while, neither of you spoke. His breath slowed, deep and even, and yours followed suit. The scent of rain and metal gave way to herbs drying by the lantern’s heat — chamomile, mint, smoke.
It wasn’t comfort, exactly. It was something quieter: the absence of fear.
When another rumble of thunder murmured across the hills, he said, “Most people would’ve run the other way.”
You smiled faintly, eyes on the lantern. “Most people aren’t used to what comes after monsters.”
He made a low sound — not laughter, but close enough to count.
Outside, the storm began to pass, its fury traded for drizzle. Inside, time seemed to loosen its grip.
You leaned back against the wall, eyelids heavy, letting the quiet take root. Beside you, Geralt rested one hand over the hilt at his hip — habit more than need — and the other lay open on the bench between you, empty, patient.
