Jul 16
i wrote this oneshot almost 4 years ago and it's my most successful fic :) i love it so much and i kinda miss my witcher obsession :,)
you can read it here!
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i wrote this oneshot almost 4 years ago and it's my most successful fic :) i love it so much and i kinda miss my witcher obsession :,)
you can read it here!
The Crown That Walks the Path pt.1
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This is a Witcher universe fanfic.
#WitcherxReader #WitcherxOC #GeraltxReader #EskelxReader #LambertxReader #GeraltxOC #EskelxOC #LambertxOC
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The ballroom glittered and flickered with enough enchanted crystal to blind a dragon. Every chandelier sparkled and burned without flame, suspended by invisible spells that painted the marble floor in shifting gold and violet light. Fine silk dresses whispered across polished stone. Jewels caught the glow like captive stars. Somewhere beyond the zercanian dancers, a quartet played a melody that was almost too perfect to be performed by mortal hands and likely if he had to guess, weren’t. Geralt of Rivia wanted nothing more than to be anywhere else.
He couldn’t help but scowl, his eyes flickering over familiar and unknown faces within the ballroom "It still pinches."
The violet eyed socresses watched as Triss, a complicated but mutual friend bated away the attention of a fellow mage. "It also cost more than most villages earn in a year. Most would kill to wear what you’re wearing and be where you are now"
Geralt couldn’t help but grumble almost indignantly "I'd rather have the coin."
"I know." She smiled anyway, her eyes once again fluttering around the room. For a fleeting moment, the politics, the glitter, and the endless sea of painted smiles faded into something familiar. Then another member of the Lodge intercepted Yennefer with polite greetings that sounded suspiciously like veiled threats. "I'll only be a moment," she murmured, laying two fingers against his arm. "Try not to insult anyone important."
He leaned back against the column behind him, arms crossed, looking every bit the picture of trouble and unapproachable."No promises."
"I know." She disappeared into the gathering of sorceresses as effortlessly as smoke. Geralt exhaled. At least monsters usually announced themselves. The ballroom smelled of perfume, wax, expensive wine... ...and fear. Not panic. Not immediate danger. The quiet kind, and yet it wasn’t quite just fear almost… unease. The scent drifted through the crowd in faint currents, hidden beneath roses and amber oils. Geralt frowned. Someone here was afraid, and very good at pretending otherwise. His gaze wandered over embroidered masks, jeweled gowns, polished armor worn only for ceremony. Nothing. Then the scent shifted again. He followed it almost unconsciously. Near one of the towering windows overlooking moonlit gardens stood a woman who seemed oddly untouched by the celebration around her. Her gown was elegant, though it did barely anything to cover her, enough to satisfy the court, fine gems of crushed emerald sewn in seemed to reflect off the lightening. Deep green silk fell in clean tight line, two slits flowered up either side of her legs, ending just above her hip bones, practical despite its craftsmanship. Finely crafted gold embroidery traced vines along the sleeves, a neck lined that plunged to nearly her naval with dazzling jewelry adoring her. Truly, if Geralt hadn’t had known better he’d have sworn the divine being before him was a goddess. She wasn't watching the dancers. She was watching the exits. Her eyes shifted, a slight pout upon her plump lips. One hand rested lightly against the stem of an untouched wine glass. The other bore faint calluses that no noblewoman acquired from embroidery. Sword calluses. Interesting. As if sensing the weight of his stare, she turned. Their eyes met across the ballroom. No coy smile. No fluttering lashes. Only a brief, measured assessment, the sort shared between strangers accustomed to judging whether the other might become a threat. Geralt was intoxicated, dark ringlet curls rolled down her back in waves and eyes that sparkled of emerald green. Then someone stepped between them. Geralt blinked sluggishly. When he looked again, she was gone. "...Of course." A witcher could track a ghoul through a rainstorm, yet one mysterious woman vanished inside a ballroom. Typical. From somewhere behind him came the soft clink of a goblet. "I leave you alone for less than five minutes." Geralt didn't have to turn, his golden eyes flickering about looking for traces of where she’d possibly gone. "What did I do?" Yennefer appeared beside him, accepting a fresh glass of wine from a passing servant without so much as looking. "You tell me." "I've been standing here." "So I noticed." Her violet stormy eyes drifted, not to him, but toward the place where the woman had stood only moments before. Then back to Geralt. The smallest hint of a smile touched her lips.
"Curious." Yennefer's single word lingered between them, tense and unsettling.
Geralt raised an eyebrow. "About what?"
"The fact that you've spent the better part of the evening trying to avoid everyone." She took a measured sip of wine, pausing and frowning slightly. "Then, for the first time since arriving, you looked genuinely interested."
"I was looking."
"You were staring."
"I don't stare."
"No," Yennefer said, amusement dancing in her eyes and something else, something just below the stormy surface.. jealously perhaps. "Witchers conduct investigations."
Geralt grunted, attention turning back towards the ball room full of glittering guests.
"Who is she?"
At this he frown led slightly, confusion settling in "I was hoping you'd tell me."
That gave Yennefer pause.
She turned, scanning the ballroom with practiced ease. Every noble, mage, and ambassador occupied a place in the intricate web she carried in her mind. Faces became allegiances. Smiles became negotiations. She knew everyone, her life did depend on it most days.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then, quietly, "Interesting."
"You know her?" Geralt asked, glancing briefly at Yennefer, eyes searching her expression.
"I know of her."
Geralt looked at her questioningly, there weren’t many who Yennefer didn’t know in attendance tonight and the answer had briefly caught him off guard.
"That isn't the same thing."
"No." Yennefer's gaze remained fixed on the crowd. "Very few people can honestly claim they know the famed Aeloria Thalindria Vanyara Shiadel."
The name carried an old rhythm, its syllables flowing like an ancient song.
"Elf?" He hummed, perhaps that was what had peeked his interest.
"Not merely an elf."
Yennefer lowered her voice.
"Very old, very powerful royal blood. Blood from before even Lara Dorren"
That explained the bearing.
Not arrogance. Not pride.
Certainty.
Geralt had seen kings who tried to command a room through sheer force of personality. Aeloria hadn't needed to. The space around her had simply... shifted to accommodate her presence.
"She keeps no court," Yennefer continued. "Accepts no throne. Though it’s said she has the right to many, but travels instead."
"The Path?"
A small nod.
"Village to village. Kingdom to kingdom. Healing plague victims. Mediating disputes before they become wars. Teaching hedge mages who have nowhere else to learn, those who cannot afford Aretuza. She has even treated humans wounded by Scoia'tael raids... and elves injured by human soldiers."
"Sounds inconvenient." Geralt huffed, his interest piqued further.
"For everyone." Yennefer's smile was fleeting. "She refuses to choose a side."
That was hard to believe, Geralt had come to this painful conclusion before. "People usually choose one for you."
"They've tried." Yennifer said, swirling the rest of her wine.
"And?"
"They're still trying." She stated, “It’s why they’ve asked her here tonight”
Geralt noticed the way several members of the Lodge glanced toward the council room doors where he suspected the mystery woman had vanished to.
Waiting.
The doors opened.
Conversation slowed.
A hush spread and spanned through the ballroom, not commanded by magic, but by recognition.
She entered without fanfare.
Dark brown curls rested against emerald silk, each loose ringlet catching the chandelier's light. Her skin was pale as polished ivory, untouched by cosmetics. Green eyes surveyed the hall with quiet attentiveness, neither searching for admiration nor attempting to avoid it. Whatever fear and unease she’d held earlier had evaporated into annoyance.
A gold circlet rested lightly against her brow.
Simple.
Old.
The sort of craftsmanship that belonged to another age.
She carried no visible staff.
No jeweled purely decorative wand, that had been the rage amongst mages as of the late.
No ostentatious display of magical power.
Yet every mage in the room felt it.
Magic gathered around Aeloria the way mist gathered around a forest lake at dawn; calm, ancient, and impossibly deep. It did not press against the senses as many sorceresses' power did, that those who dabbled in chaos felt. It settled over the room with effortless restraint, pulsating and always there.
Geralt noticed several younger mages unconsciously straighten their posture.
One elderly sorcerer actually bowed his head.
She acknowledged neither reaction.
Instead, she thanked the servant who handed her a glass of something bubbly, likely alcoholic, perhaps champagne.
The servant blinked in surprise.
Most nobles and even less mages never noticed servants. To them they were as meaningless as the furniture, there to serve a purpose.
Aeloria, however, did.
Her gloved hand brushed the old servant man's wrist for only a heartbeat.
His expression softened.
The ache in his shoulder, one he'd carried for years since boyhood, simply... vanished.
No words.
No spell spoken aloud.
No dramatic flourish of chaos magic.
She smiled, and he whispered a stunned thank you before realizing what had happened.
Geralt frowned, the interact was so simple and clean. Something one would miss had everyone’s attention not been trained on her from the start."I didn't see her cast."
"You weren't meant to," Yennefer replied, annoyance catching in her tone.
"A trick?" His brows furrowed
"No."
There was something approaching respect in her voice, though the annoyance was still there.
"Control."
Aeloria moved through the ballroom at an unhurried pace. Lords inclined their heads. Sorceresses offered practiced smiles. Ambassadors watched her with careful interest, each wondering whether she might be persuaded to support one cause or another. Each debating on whether they should test their luck now that she had emerged from the Lodge meeting room..
She accepted none of their invitations beyond polite greetings.
Her attention drifted elsewhere.
To the musicians. To the dancers.
To the enchanted ceiling.
To a frightened page balancing a tray far too heavy for his trembling arms.
The tray tipped.
Crystal goblets slid.
Before anyone could react, Aeloria caught the edge of the silver platter with one hand.
The motion was impossibly smooth.
Not magic.
Training.
Years, decades, or even lifetimes of it.
She steadied the young servant before the boy lost his footing.
"Easy," she said gently, her voice caressing the air like silk "You've done nothing that cannot be recovered."
The page's face burned scarlet, as he stammered. "My apologies, Your Highness."
"No apologies are needed."
She helped him gather the fallen goblets herself.
Several nobles stared in open disbelief, fellow mages that had caught sight appeared to sneer slightly at the altercation.
Geralt watched the movement of her shoulders, the balance in her stance, the instinctive placement of her feet.
Not just a traveler.
A swordswoman.
A capable one, he’d been correct in his earlier assessment.
As she rose, her gaze lifted.
Once again, it found him.
This time, she did not look away.
Instead, she inclined her head in the slightest gesture of greeting.
Not to the famous White Wolf.
Not to Yennefer's companion, as soon many had done already this evening.
Simply to another traveler who understood what it meant to spend more nights beneath the stars than beneath a roof.
Geralt returned the nod before he had time to question why.
Across the ballroom, Aeloria smiled, a small, genuine smile that reached her green eyes.
Then the music swelled and the musicians changed to a slower measure, the ballroom settling into a rhythm of measured conversation and carefully choreographed diplomacy. Servants flowed between clusters of nobles carrying crystal flutes and silver trays while the Lodge's members drifted from one delicate negotiation to the next.
Aeloria had scarcely taken three steps before another delegation intercepted her.
A Redanian lord.
A Nilfgaardian envoy.
Two elder mages.
Each greeted her with polished smiles that failed to reach their eyes.
Each received the same patient courtesy.
Each left with remarkably little but a dazed gaze as she moved on.
Geralt still watched from across the room.
"Still investigating?" Yennefer asked, slightly irked now.
"They're circling her." He grumbled
"They've been circling her for decades." Yennefer stated flatly, brushing a hand through her hair.
He observed how delicately she let down each diplomat "And she lets them."
"She lets them think they have a chance."
As if on cue, another noble attempted to monopolize Aeloria's attention.
She excused herself with such effortless grace that the man smiled, thanked her, and only seemed to realize several moments later that she'd declined whatever proposal he'd been making.
Geralt almost smirked.
"Impressive."
Yennefer caught the expression, a nagging fleeting feeling of jealous blooming. "I've seen that look before."
"What look?"
"The one you wear when you've found something that doesn't behave as expected."
"I was admiring the technique, Yen" He sighed, eyes glancing briefly back.
"Mhm."
Before Geralt could answer, Aeloria's path carried her toward them.
Not deliberately.
Simply because the flow of the evening demanded it.
She stopped a respectful distance away and inclined her head. "Lady Yennefer"
"Lady Aeloria."
There was mutual respect in the greeting, though neither woman surrendered an inch of ground. Aeloria gaze flittered over Geralt,
"And you must be Geralt of Rivia"
Her voice was softer than he expected, carrying the quiet confidence of someone accustomed to being heard without needing to raise it. "I've heard the stories of the White Wolf, though I never expected to encounter him here of all places" She smiled softly, almost teasingly.
"They're exaggerated." Geralt gruffed, leaning to push off the wall and stand straight, it felt almost disrespectful to slouch in her presence.
"I assumed most stories are."
For the first time that evening, Geralt allowed himself the ghost of a smile.
"I've heard a few about you." He could recall few and had put together this was likely who the stories of the Lady of Fortune, Lady of the Path had likely been about.
"I hope you’re not disappointed then." Aeloria’s eyes flashed mischievously
"Not at all, if anything they don’t do you justice."
A flicker of amusement warmed her green eyes. She swirled the bubbly liquor in her glass, not often did she drink but when she did it was never champagnes.
Silence settled comfortably between them.
Not awkward.
Measured.
The kind shared by travelers who understood that conversation did not always require filling every pause.
Yennefer observed the exchange over the rim of her own glass.
"So," she said lightly, "have you decided whether you'll accept the Lodge's invitation?"
Aeloria's expression remained serene, her eyes shifting to the sorceress. "I have."
"And?"
"I thanked them for their hospitality."
Yennefer waited, the paused almost electric.
"I also declined."
Several nearby sorceresses pretended not to listen in. Their ears turned towards them their faces of disbelief betrayed them. Yet she had no reason to keep this a secret the prying ears where of little concern, after all she’d turned them down many times before. Though the Lodge’s recent tactic of using mass casualty reports as a way to lure her here was new. Simply asking her to come wasn’t enough, telling her mass amount of lives where hanging of by a thread that apparently was.
"The Continent has enough councils and people rife with want for power," Aeloria continued. "It has rather fewer people willing to walk its roads."
Geralt found himself answering before thinking.
"The roads aren't particularly pleasant."
"They rarely are." She smirked, her face held a look he was unable to distinguish "But they tell the truth, they are honest."
Her gaze met his again piercing him deeply, for reasons he couldn't quite explain, he believed she meant that.
A herald announced the next dance.
Several nobles approached Aeloria at once.
She offered Geralt the smallest nod,
"It was a pleasure meeting you, White Wolf. May the Path be kind to you”
"And you."
She disappeared once more into the crowd.
Geralt watched her go.
Only when she had vanished among silk gowns and candlelight did he notice Yennefer watching him instead. "You like her."
He frowned. "I don't know her."
"You find her interesting." Yennefer bit, the champagne leaving a bitter taste on her tongue.
"I do." Geralt said honestly
Yennefer looked toward the ballroom whether Aeloria had vanished once more.
"So do I."
Her words were calm.
Her expression was not, and Geralt couldn’t help but think briefly he’d made a mistake in admitting that.
Morning arrived beneath a blanket of pale mist. The Lodge's estate, so dazzling beneath enchanted chandeliers the night before, now stood quiet beneath a grey sky morning. Dew clung to the gardens, and only a handful of servants had begun their day's work. None of the guests from the night before had seemed to stir.
Geralt tightened Roach's saddle one final time.
Yennefer had already gone by the time he’d awoken.
No note.
No farewell.
Only an empty room carrying the fading scent of lilac and gooseberries.
It wasn't the first time.
It probably wouldn't be the last.
Roach snorted impatiently.
"I'm coming."
He led her toward the stable yard.
Another horse shifted nearby.
A mare.
Coal black from ears to tail, her coat shining even beneath the clouded morning.
Her tack was practical.
Well cared for.
Travel-worn.
Beside her stood Aeloria, fastening the final buckle of a weathered saddlebag. Gone were the jewels and emerald silk.
She now wore sturdy riding leathers, beneath a forest-green cloak, a longsword resting comfortably across her back beside a plain travel staff.
She looked less like royalty.
More like someone entirely at home beneath an open sky. Yet entirely enchanting, Geralt halted watching her move,her riding leathers fitted firmly around her silhouette, blouse beneath the cloak unbuttoned to expose whispers of cleavage.
She glanced up as Geralt approached.
“Leaving already?" He asked, she’d caught him looking, staring even
She looked at him knowingly almost teasingly, perhaps her elven heritage was what attracted his gaze towards her. Elevens had been known in the past for enchantress beauty "The Lodge will survive without me”
"Barely I’m sure." Geralt quipped back.
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, yet she said nothing.
He cleared his throat, "I was afraid they might keep you another week."
"They tried." She stated simply, adjusting the rein bit in her mare’s mouth. "And you?"
"I've never been very good at staying where people expect me to."
Geralt nodded toward the road beyond the gates, the Path calling him forward now that he’d been once again abandoned by the sorceress Yennefer. "Heading north?"
"Eventually." She answered, placing a foot into the stirrup hauling herself onto her mount.
"Eventually?"
"There are reports of drowners appearing unusually far inland." She tightened one last strap across her mare's packs. "Griffins abandoning traditional nesting grounds. Forest creatures moving before the seasons change."
She bent forward, cleavage spilling forward slightly, and rested a hand against the mare's neck, petting it. "I've spent years healing the aftermath."A thoughtful pause.
"I've decided it's time I better understand the cause."
Geralt frowned slightly. "Monster migrations." He’d never heard of a mage, much less an elf interested in the migrations of monsters. Then again he’d never heard of one also living on the Path.
She nodded."Patterns tell stories."
"They also get people killed."
"Which is precisely why I'd like to understand them."
He considered that.
It sounded sensible.
Dangerously so.
He swung into Roach's saddle.
"Safe travels."
"You as well."
He nudged Roach toward the gate.
Behind him came the steady sound of hoofbeats.
Then her voice, soft
"Geralt."
He looked back.
Aeloria guided her mare alongside him, morning mist curling around both horses.
"I have a question."
He waited.
"Would you object to another traveler sharing the road for a while?"
His brow lifted. He’d not expected this."I tend to attract trouble."
She chuckled, "I've noticed."
"It isn't usually the interesting sort." Roach almost seemed to snort in laughter at him, as he said this
"I suspect our definitions differ."
She smiled not persuasive, not flirtatious, simply open. "And, you know where monsters are found."
"And you?" The path before them was beginning to diverge into multiple routes as they approached the cross roads.
"I know where the wounded are."
For a moment, only the birds disturbed the silence.
Then Aeloria added quietly,
"It seems to me those paths have crossed for a very long time."
Geralt looked down the road stretching into the waking Continent.
Then at the traveler waiting beside him.
For reasons he couldn't yet name, the prospect no longer sounded like solitude.
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Bounty
Warnings: this fic contains suggestions of noncon. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is the next June fic! (It’s late. Sorry)
Geralt of Rivia + “You're so soft... so weak.” (Medieval AU)
I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3
Princess Mercaline closes her eyes and lets the breath flare from her long nose. She is immaculate in every way. Tall, lithe, her blonde hair tinged with ginger, her lips a perfect shade of rose petal. She tips her head back as the sunlight limns her fair complexion. She is young and stubborn.
“Your highness,” you nearly whisper at the clatter below. The holler of men adds to the tension.
“He’s won. Again.” She sneers. “All he had to do was leave me be.” Her eyes glisten as she peers off into the sky. “I am as much our father’s child as he ever was.”
“Your highness,” you repeat again.
She keeps her shoulders straight as she watches the courtyard. They will be upon her soon. The city’s siege has fallen and her brother’s general is on his way to claim victory for his liege. Though you wonder, will the new king declare his sister traitor or merely force her hand on the contract she refused from behind these walls?
“I do not fear it.” She assures you stiffly. “My brother is impertinent and one day, that will be his undoing. Be it marriage or the dungeon, he might even send me to the axe, his fate will be worse. He will not be spared the same cruelty he wields.”
She brings her hands up to cradle the silver cross at the end of her rosary. You dip your head reverently. She sighs.
“Matron, how I envy you. You have not known the plight of a man’s will. Not as many must.” She drones. “No husbands, no sons.”
You stand with her, your own insides torn by the anxiety of what heads your way. You mightn’t be more than an old maid sworn to her service, but it never exempted you the obstinacy of the male race. It was a man who put you there with the princess when she was but a girl and kept you there. And it will not spare you the pillage of this failed battle.
“I will meet him in my coronet and cape. I am still princess, as I will be until my death. Whenever that shall be.” Mercaline declares and spins on her slippered heel.
You follow, as loyal as ever. You saw the princess through the seasons of her life. Through toddling in castle halls, prancing through the gardens, swishing in newly sewn gowns as she grew taller and curvier, and in her womanhood, stoic and willful as ever. You will follow her to this as well.
You help her secure the coronet with pink amethyst and diamonds. You smooth her long sleeves then help her shoulder the velvet lined cape with her sigil of doves and lilies. She does not falter as she stands and waits, undaunted by the clop of horse hooves through the courtyard gates or the blowing of victory horns.
You step back, hiding your shaky hands behind you, fingers toying with the strings of your apron. Your shades of grey linen and wool pale in the pinks and lilacs of the royal sister; as your age and plainness are shadowed in the light of her youthful beauty. She is brave where you are nervous, and regal where you are common.
“You will make certain the general is received with proper care,” she bids. “Send for wine from the cellar and permit only the general into the receiving chamber.”
Her courage lends you enough to obey. You go to bid for the bottle and prepare the receiving chamber. You hide all evidence of the siege’s toll.
Jeb returns with what he can find. You dust off the bottle and ready it next to goblets. You hear the advance through the corridors, echoing closer and closer. Men order others to put down their arms or perish. Those with titles will stand trial, others will be sentenced to die regardless of surrenders, as others will be sent to work until they meet the same end.
Commander du Haute-Bellegarde appears in his ebon armour. His silver hair stands out against the dark iron, his helm firmly cradled under his thick arm. You know him by sight. He was the old king’s best soldier, and certainly, this triumph will make him that of the new king.
“The princess,” he demands.
“She will receive you, my lord. Only you.” You approach, gulping as you steady your hands. His eyes flicker as you hide your trembling fingers behind you once more. “That is her order.”
“Her order? She is conquered and she presumes to bid me as a dog, still?”
“You are not dog, Sir Geralt,” Princess Mercaline states. “You are a wolf. I would permit you but not your pack within my chambers. I remain the king’s sister.”
Sir Geralt considers her. He raises his gauntleted hand and wiggles it. The men behind him retreat. There is no escape for the princess, she needn’t a battalion.
“Your highness,” you clasp your hands in front of you, “would you have me go too?”
“Stay, pour her some wine. She will need it.” Sir Geralt insists. He steps inside and closes the door behind him. “Princess.”
“General.” She strides over, her skirts moving as if she floats on air. “Have you put up your flag? What shall it be? Does my brother have the guts to come himself or does he bid you to do all in his name?” She snipes. “Pray tell, when he married, did he have you consummate as well–”
“Princess, you are not tawdry as so. I know you.” He says. He pauses and glances at you. “Matron, pour the wine.”
You step forward and do as he says. You fill both cups. He approaches and sets down his helm. He pulls off his gauntlets and lays them down as well. His mail brushes against your apron. He takes a goblet and turns to the princess. He goes to her and holds it out.
“A dispensation has been granted to absolve the betrothal. The marquess is shamed by you. He would not have you now.” The general explains. “Your city has fallen but your purpose is met.” He scoffs.
“Be plain about it, sir. I assume I haven’t much time left for your boasting.” She takes the goblet but does not drink.
“I have advised against execution. I know war and I know what stirs it.” He proclaims. “I do not long for battles anon in your name.” He stares her down. “You will be sent to Perily.”
She does not flinch. “I hear the tower is cold.”
“You will know soon enough.”
She grins. “I rather like the cold.” He is quiet. She looks down at the wine and swishes it around the goblet. “And would you bring a message back to my brother since he hasn’t the gall to hear it from me himself? Be a good little hound.”
“Princess?”
She looks up and tosses the wine in his face. He doesn’t move. He runs his hands over his face and pushes back his wet strands.
“Shall I throw wine or piss? Which would be accurate?” The General grits.
She trills with laughter. You admire her boldness though you know it will do her no good. If only you could be as her. If only you weren’t terrified and old.
“Shit, if you have it,” she says flippantly as she throws the goblet and turns away. “Matron, we will need to pack my trunks–”
“Matron,” the General raises his hand. “Matron will come with me.”
For the first, the princess winces. She turns and looks at you. All humour is gone from her.
“Why? She is a maid. Certainly, I would have one in the tower–”
“You would. You have many in this place. I will fetch another and she will go with you to Perily.”
“You cannot–”
“It is the king’s orders.” He says evenly. “You will not retain your conspirators.”
Your heart seizes. You will be as the rest. Punished for loyalty. For doing as you have sworn to do. To serve. Your lip trembles.
The princess scowls. “Good puppy,” she taunts. “Go, be gone from me and wag your tail at the king.”
“Your highness,” you eke. “I… I bid you safe travel. And I bid that you are well kept in the tower and–”
“I bid you silent.” The General snarls as he snaps his fingers. He gathers up his helm and gauntlet. “Princess, you will be kept in solitary. A maid will come to change your pot and bring your bread until your tumbril is ready for transport.”
He tucks his gauntlets into his belt, keeping his helm under his arm. He seizes you with his free hand, squeezing your arm until you wine.
“I will see to this traitor’s punishment–”
“Traitor!” Mercaline sweeps forward, reaching for you. “No, she is not. She has been loyal! You will not harm her–”
“I will do as the law deems,” he shields you with his burly body and elbows away the princess. “Mind, your brother granted me leave to do as I must to detain you. Whatever is needed to keep you prisoner. Do not make me test the extent of his order.”
“Sir, please, she is the princess–” You beg.
“Quiet, Matron, or I will break her in front of you before I do the same of you.” He jerks you towards the door. “Princess, you will not attempt further folly or this matron will feel the consequence.”
He drags you as your soles scuff. You hear Mercaline whimper and her slippers slap on the stone. It’s too late. The door slams behind the General as he shoves you out into the corridor.
Several of his men linger. He orders them to keep watch. He proceeds along the corridor with you in tow. His grip is painful.
“General, we’ve readied a chamber.” A soldier approaches. “At the end of this stretch.”
“Good man. Go, see to your supper.” The general responds tersely.
He ushers you on to the noted doors. He pushes you through the left one. You peer over your shoulder as he swings it shut on the hinges. You’re confused. You expect a dungeon, maybe even a gibbet.
“Do you know the trouble your princess has roused?” He tuts as he paces around the room. “Surely you do. And what have you done but stood and emboldened her, matron.”
He drops his helm on the round wooden table and rips his gauntlets free of his belt. He slaps them down. You stay by the door, uncertain, eyeing the blade sheathed at his waist. He unstraps the sword from his back and puts it flat across the table.
“You serve her so diligently. You will do thus for me.” He faces you and beckons you with two thick fingers. “Come here. I long to be free of this armour.”
You hesitate, then approach. You examine his chest plate. You never dealt with such before. The heavy iron covers his torso, chain mail around his arms, and he wears more armour on his legs. He removes his belt and puts it with the rest.
He lifts his arms and gestures. You find the strap and unbuckle it. There are several. He patiently stands in place as you loosen each.
He lifts the plate over his head and hands it to you. It’s heavy. He laughs as you struggle to carry it to the bench and lay it down.
“You're so soft... so weak.” He taunts. “But you are not stupid. I could have you killed at this very moment.”
You look at him and quickly bow your head.
“You know it so you obey. You will obey. Whatever I bid you.” He snickers. “You are not done. My mail, my greaves, anon.”
You go to him again. He watches you as you avoid returning his gaze. You feel along his thighs as you search for the fasteners. He lets out a long breath as you graze his leggings in your efforts.
You free him of his cuisses and his greaves, and the pieces over his boots. You stand straight and he tugs his mail over his head and dips his head. You help him lift it off. You set it all aside with his chest plate.
He stands in padding, tunic, legging and boots. You remove the padding next. As you near him again, his fingers stroke along the belt of your apron. He pushes until you stop. He frames your thick waist and turns you around. He tugs on the strings until they loose.
He lets go and lifts the apron over your head, letting it fall to your feet. You shudder and step away. He catches you by the back of your neck. He spins you around. He looms over you.
“You served your princess so loyally. You will do the same for me.” He growls in your face. “Or I will be certain you are only ever on your knees for the executioner.”
You whine as your eyes flick up to his golden ones. “Yes, General–”
“Do you know what battle does to a man? Hm? Days, nights, weeks, out there, sleeping in the dirt.” He moves you backward as he pinches your nape, pressing his forehead to yours. “A man is deprived. A man is cold. A man is… tired.”
He walks you across the chamber as you squirm and wince. He stops you as you feel the breeze through the window against your back.
“A man longs for warmth out there.” His other hand paws at your stomach and slips around your hip. “A man longs for softness. Then he finds it waiting for him.”
You quiver as your veins burn with fire. “Sir, I am–”
“You are the bounty I would claim in this war, matron.” He pushes you against the thick frame of the tapered window. “And when I fuck you,” He spins you around and shoves you against the open window. He grabs your neck again and forces you to bend over the frame and stare down at the perilous depth. “You will scream out your new master’s name so that all know who you belong to.”
June 8: Witch's Eye
For the June Jukebox Scribbles event
Warning: stalking, obsesssion.
Prompt: June 8th - Living La Vida Loca - Ricky Martin / “I feel a premonition.”
Character: Geralt of Rivia
I know it’s short but please let me know your thoughts and reblog. Also, would love to discuss any ideas these little snippets inspire!
Love you! 💞
"I feel a premonition."
Geralt sighs and shakes his head. He kicks the dirt as he drags the whetstone up the blade. You stare off into the sky.
"It's probably those berries I told you not to eat." He growls.
"You should listen to me…"
"I'm not in the habit of listening to sorceresses." He sneers as he tilts his sword to reflect the moonlight.
You set your eyes on him. "I've told you, I am no witch. If I were, I'd not be sitting here with ropes on my wrists."
"Your charms do not work on witchers." He grits.
You roll your eyes. "I was only passing…"
"A black rot follows you. Look." He bows his head and you follow his gaze.
You look over at the green foliage as it darkens and curls in on itself. A moth falls from the air and the fire between you fizzles to smoke. You frown.
"It's not me." You plead. "I swear it--"
"Yet it goes wherever you go." He challenges.
"Or maybe wherever you go."
He squints at you and snarls. You stare back, hooking your bound hands around your legs. You shiver.
"It's cold."
"I'm not the one put the fire out."
"It wasn't me!"
He huffs and sets the sword side. He stands and bends over the charred sticks. He focuses on the task, blowing and fanning the embers.
He circles around, not far from you. You lean forward and slowly tug up the loose leg of his trousers. You hook a finger under as he grunts and you touch his skin. He roars and falls into the freshly lit fire.
"Charms don't work, huh?" You grin and hold your wrists to the flame until the rope breaks. "Though my plague be even more potent"
A Visit at Midnight (One-Shot)
Summary: As a fellow mage sharing years of perilous roads with Geralt and Yennefer, a late-night visit in the royal palace to discuss your upcoming expedition to the cursed elven ruins of Caed Myrkvid ignites long-buried desires that none of you can deny any longer.
word count: 8000+
Paring: Geralt x Yennefer x Reader
warnings: NSFW, SMUT
A/N : Hello Friends! I decided to write another Geralt x Yennefer x Reader fic, I hope you like it!
Masterlist
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.
The Continent never slept. Even in the heart of Kaedwen’s royal palace in Ard Carraigh, where marble halls echoed with the footsteps of kings and the whispers of courtiers, the world outside pressed close. The river Yaruga murmured endlessly below the sheer cliffs, carrying tales of Nilfgaard’s advancing legions, of drowned dead rising in the swamps, of ancient elven magic stirring in forgotten places. You had felt that stirring for months now—first as a faint tremor in your spells, then as a persistent ache behind your eyes whenever you opened a portal. The king had summoned the three of you precisely because of it.
You had traveled the breadth of the North with Geralt and Yennefer: the bogs of Velen, the courts of Toussaint, the frozen passes of the Blue Mountains. You had watched Geralt’s golden eyes soften when he thought no one noticed, seen Yennefer’s violet gaze linger on you with something far deeper than professional respect. They were legends— the White Wolf and the Lady of the Lake—and yet they treated you as equal, as partner, as something precious. The closeness had grown into an ache you could no longer name. Tonight, in the opulent guest wing of the palace, that ache was about to be answered.
The day had been exhausting. The king’s council had dragged on for hours, maps unrolled across a table of polished oak, generals arguing while you demonstrated the magical resonance of the Caed Myrkvid ruins with floating illusions. The expedition was set for dawn in three days: a small, elite party— you, Geralt, Yennefer, a handful of the king’s best knights, and a dwarven engineer who knew the old elven mechanisms. The goal was clear and terrifying: descend into the buried city, retrieve the lost artifact known as the Heart of the Elder—a crystal that could stabilize or shatter portals across the Continent—and seal the rift that was leaking wild magic into the world. Nilfgaard wanted it. The Wild Hunt might already be hunting it. Failure meant rifts tearing open everywhere, monsters spilling through, kingdoms falling.
By evening you were drained, magic humming under your skin like a live wire. The palace had granted each of you private chambers in the eastern wing—high ceilings, velvet drapes, fireplaces large enough to roast a boar. Yours overlooked the river, the constant murmur of water a lullaby and a reminder of how small even mages were against time and tide. You had bathed in the copper tub, let the servants bring supper—roast pheasant, spiced wine, honey cakes—but sleep refused to come. Your mind kept circling the ruins, the expedition… and them. Always them.
A soft knock on your door—two quick, quiet raps—woke you from a shallow sleep. The palace was quiet, the only sound the distant murmur of the river below. You sat up, your heart a sudden, sharp drum in your chest. Before you could call out, the door swung open on silent hinges.
Geralt filled the frame, his white hair catching the sliver of moonlight from the window. Behind him, the scent of lilac and gooseberries announced Yennefer’s presence before you saw her violet eyes glinting in the dark.
“We saw your light,” Yennefer said, her voice a low, velvet murmur. She stepped past Geralt, her black dress whispering against the floorboards. “Couldn’t sleep?”
You shook your head, pulling the thin blanket higher. “I… no. Not really.”
Geralt closed the door. The click of the latch was final. He didn’t move to the room’s single chair. Instead, he leaned against the wall by the door, watching you. Yennefer perched on the edge of your narrow bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. Her gaze was a physical touch, tracing the line of your throat, the rapid flutter of your pulse there.
For a moment none of you spoke. The air felt thick, charged the way it did before a storm or a portal tear. You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. “I was thinking about the expedition. The Heart of the Elder… the texts in Ban Ard say it reacts to living magic. If the rift has grown since the last report—”
“We’ll handle it,” Geralt rumbled, cutting you off gently. His golden eyes never left yours. “The three of us have faced worse. That monolith in Velen, the Wild Hunt incursion near Kaer Morhen… we came through.”
Yennefer’s fingers brushed a loose thread on the blanket near your knee, a casual touch that sent warmth racing up your leg. “The king’s knights are fodder. Useful for carrying supplies, perhaps dying dramatically. But you and I will do the real work—portals, wards, containment. And Geralt…” She smiled, sharp and fond. “Will keep the monsters off our backs. As always.”
You managed a small laugh, but it sounded shaky even to your own ears. “I know. I trust you both with my life. I have for years.” The words hung there, heavier than you intended. You had trusted them with more than your life—your secrets, your fears, the quiet longing you thought you hid so well.
Yennefer tilted her head, obsidian hair sliding over one shoulder like liquid night. “And yet you’re still wound tighter than a crossbow string. Talk to us, darling. We didn’t come here only for maps and strategy.”
Geralt pushed off the wall, moving with that silent, predatory grace that always made your breath catch. He stopped at the foot of the bed, arms crossed over the dark tunic that hugged his broad chest. “You’ve been quiet since the council. Distant. Like something’s eating at you beyond the ruins.”
You opened your mouth, closed it. The truth pressed against your ribs, dangerous and undeniable. They had been orbiting each other for decades—passionate, volatile, unbreakable. You had slotted yourself into their world so seamlessly you sometimes forgot you weren’t part of their legendary bond. But lately the glances had multiplied. Geralt’s hand lingering on your lower back when he helped you mount your horse. Yennefer’s fingertips tracing your wrist when she adjusted your amulet. The way they both watched you across campfires, eyes dark with something that felt like hunger.
The silence stretched. Then Yennefer spoke again, softer.
“You’ve been watching us,” Yennefer stated, no accusation, just a fact. “In the common room. At supper. Your eyes… they follow.”
Your mouth went dry. You had. How could you not? The Witcher, all coiled power and quiet intensity. The sorceress, elegance and contained wildfire. A pair that seemed to orbit each other, pulling everything around them into their gravity.
“It’s alright,” Geralt rumbled from the shadows. His voice was like stone grinding against stone, but softer. “We noticed.”
Yennefer’s hand came up, her fingers—cool and smooth—brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “You look… tense. Lonely, perhaps.” Her thumb stroked your jawline. “Such a pretty thing, all wound up with nowhere to go.”
“I’m not…” you started, but the protest died. Her touch was unraveling you.
“You are,” Geralt said, pushing off the wall. He moved with a predator’s grace, coming to stand beside the bed. He looked down at you, his golden eyes catching the candlelight. “Your scent changes when you look at us. It’s sharp. Hungry. And afraid.”
Yennefer’s other hand joined the first, cradling your face. “Let us help you. Let us show you what that feeling is for.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a proposition, wrapped in silk and steel. Your breath caught, not in a hitched gasp, but in a slow, shallow pull that didn’t seem to reach your lungs. This was madness. Dangerous. They were legends, and you were… you.
“I’ve never…” you whispered, the confession torn from you.
Yennefer’s smile was a curve of profound understanding. “We know.” Her gaze flicked to Geralt. “We can taste it on you. The untouched skin. The unopened nerves.” She leaned closer, her lips a hair’s breadth from yours. “That’s why we’re here. To be your first. Both of us.”
The manipulation was there, subtle and potent as one of her potions. They were using your own obvious attraction, your vulnerability, your isolation in this riverside palace. They were guiding you with a gentle, inexorable pressure, and a part of you—a large, aching part—wanted nothing more than to surrender to the current.
Geralt’s large hand settled on your shoulder, over the blanket. The heat of him seeped through the wool. “Say yes,” he said, the words vibrating through his palm and into your bones.
You looked from his fierce, solemn face to Yennefer’s captivating, knowing one. The word was a sigh, a release. “Yes.”
It was all the permission they needed.
Yennefer’s mouth captured yours. Her kiss wasn’t tentative. It was a claiming, deep and searching, her tongue sliding against yours with a practiced, devastating skill. The taste of her was wine and magic and something darkly sweet. Your hands came up, clutching at the sleeves of her dress as the world tilted.
You felt, more than saw, Geralt move. The blanket was pulled from your grasp, the cool night air hitting your thin shift. His hands, calloused and infinitely careful, slid the linen straps of your shift down your arms. The fabric pooled at your waist. You broke the kiss with a soft sound, your arms instinctively crossing over your bare breasts.
“None of that,” Yennefer chided gently, her own hands replacing yours. She pushed your arms down to your sides. “Let us see you.”
In the flickering candlelight, your skin looked pale, smooth. Your breasts were full, the tips tight and rosy-pink, puckering under their combined gaze. Geralt made a low sound in his throat, a rumble of pure appreciation. Yennefer’s thumbs circled your nipples, and a jolt of sensation, white-hot and startling, shot straight down to your core.
“Beautiful,” Yennefer breathed before kissing you again, swallowing your moan.
Geralt’s hands went to your hips, his thumbs stroking the crests. He tugged the shift lower, down over your thighs, until you were bare to them both. You felt exposed, laid open, but the heat in their eyes wasn’t mocking. It was hungry, appreciative.
Yennefer guided you to lie back on the pillows. She straddled your thighs, her black dress a stark contrast to your nakedness. “Look at her, Geralt. Absolutely flawless.”
Geralt knelt on the bed beside you. His eyes traveled the length of your body with a hunter’s focus. He leaned down, and instead of taking your mouth, he pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the center of your chest, just above your sternum. His lips moved lower, tracing a path of fire to the swell of one breast. His tongue, rough and wet, laved over your nipple.
You cried out, your back arching off the bed. The sensation was unbelievable, a direct line of pleasure that made your cunt clench around empty, desperate air.
“So responsive,” Yennefer purred. She was watching Geralt work on you, her own eyes half-lidded. One of her hands palmed your other breast, squeezing, rolling the nipple between her fingers. The dual assault was overwhelming. Your hips shifted restlessly on the mattress.
“Please,” you whimpered, not knowing what you were asking for.
“We know,” Geralt murmured against your skin, his breath hot. He moved lower, his lips and tongue painting a wet, shivering trail down your quivering stomach. He paused at the dip of your navel, his nose nudging the soft hair below.
Yennefer shifted, leaning over you, her own breasts pressing against your arm. She kissed you deeply, her tongue fucking your mouth in a slow, dirty rhythm that mimicked what you ached for elsewhere. “He’s going to taste you now,” she whispered against your lips. “Your pretty, untouched cunt. Let him. Feel it.”
Geralt’s big hands hooked under your knees, spreading you wide. The cool air kissed your most intimate flesh, making you flinch. You felt utterly displayed. You felt a surge of wetness.
His first touch wasn’t with his tongue. It was with his fingers, parting the soft, plump lips of your pussy. They were slick with your own arousal. In the candlelight, he examined you, and you saw his eyes darken, the pupils swallowing the gold. Your cunt was a flushed, glistening pink, the inner lips delicate and swollen, the opening a tiny, clenched star of nervous tension.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the curse a prayer.
Then he lowered his mouth.
The first contact was a soft, broad stroke of his tongue from your opening all the way up to the sensitive nub of your clit. You shouted into Yennefer’s mouth, your body bowing off the bed. It was like being struck by lightning—a shocking, all-consuming bolt of pure, undiluted pleasure.
Geralt didn’t let up. He ate you like a man starved, his tongue laying flat and wide, then pointed and precise, circling your clit with a focused, relentless pressure. His nose nudged against your entrance, his stubble a delicious, rough scratch on your tender inner thighs. The sounds were obscene—wet, sucking, slurping noises that filled the quiet room, mixed with your own ragged, broken cries.
Yennefer held you through it, kissing your neck, your shoulders, whispering filth in your ear. “That’s it. Let him fuck you with his tongue. He’s so good at that, isn’t he? Making a mess of a sweet cunt. You’re dripping for him. I can smell you. Gods, you smell good.”
The coil in your belly wound tighter, a spring of pure tension. Your fingers tangled in Geralt’s white hair, not to push him away, but to hold him there, to grind your cunt harder against his mouth. You were climbing, fast and dizzying, towards something you’d only ever dreamed of.
“Geralt,” Yennefer said, her voice a command. “Enough. She’s ready to fly apart, and I want her to come on your cock.”
Geralt gave one last, long, sucking pull on your clit that made you see stars, then pulled back. His chin was glistening with your juices. He looked utterly debauched, his lips swollen, his eyes burning. He licked his lips clean, never breaking eye contact with you.
Yennefer moved off you. “Sit up, little one,” she instructed, her voice gentle but firm.
Shaking, you did. She settled behind you, her back against the headboard, and pulled you to rest against her, your back to her front. Her legs bracketed yours. Her hands came around to cup your breasts, weighing them, squeezing them together. Her lips found the shell of your ear.
“Now you watch,” she whispered. “Watch him get ready to fuck you.”
Geralt was stripping, his movements efficient. His shirt gone, revealing a torso mapped with scars and corded muscle. His trousers and smalls shoved down. And then… his cock sprang free.
Your mouth went dry again, but for a different reason.
It was huge. Thick and long, rising from a nest of coarse white hair. The shaft was a ruddy, veined pillar, the head a broad, flushed purple, already beading with moisture at the tip. It looked heavy. Impossible. A weapon, not a source of pleasure.
“It’s not going to fit,” you blurted, panic slicing through the haze of desire.
“Yes, it will,” Yennefer said, her voice utterly certain. Her fingers pinched your nipples, sending another sharp thrill through you. “You’re so wet for him. You’re open for him. Look at you.”
Geralt kneeled on the bed between your spread legs, which were splayed over Yennefer’s. He grasped his cock at the base, giving it a slow, firm stroke. A fresh pearl of precum welled and dripped. He leaned forward, the blunt, hot head of him nudging against your soaked opening.
The pressure was immense. Stretching. A deep, burning fullness that was just on the wrong side of pain.
“Breathe,” Geralt commanded, his voice strained. His eyes were locked on where his cock was pressing into you, a millimeter at a time. “Just breathe. Push out. Let me in.”
You tried. You gasped, your body trembling violently against Yennefer. You felt her lips on your neck, her teeth grazing your skin. “Take him,” she urged. “Take that big, beautiful cock. It’s yours. Fuck, look at you stretching for him.”
With a final, surrendering sob, you relaxed. And he slid in.
The sensation was world-ending. A tearing, stretching, filling that stole the air from your lungs. He was so deep, so impossibly thick, carving out a space inside you that had never existed. You were stuffed, impaled, split open on him. A low, continuous moan tore from your throat.
“That’s it,” Geralt growled, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. He was sheathed to the hilt, his balls pressed tight against your ass. He was motionless, letting you adjust, but you could feel the tremble in his thighs, the sheer effort of his control. “Fuck. You’re so… snug. Like a hot, wet fist.”
Yennefer’s hands were everywhere, soothing and stimulating. She kissed your shoulder, licked the sweat from your skin. “Feel him? All that cock inside your virgin pussy. You’re taking it so well. My brave girl.”
Then Geralt moved.
He withdrew, an agonizingly slow drag that made every nerve in your cunt scream in protest, then pushed back in, a solid, deep stroke that punched the breath from you.
“Oh gods!” you cried.
He set a rhythm—slow, deep, relentless. Each thrust was a deliberate conquest, a claiming. The slide of his thick cock in and out of your drenched, clinging channel was a filthy, wet sound that underscored your moans and his ragged breaths. Yennefer held you, her hands kneading your breasts, her hips pushing up from behind to meet Geralt’s forward drives, grinding your clit against the base of his shaft with every inward plunge.
The initial burn was melting, transforming into a deep, radiating pleasure that built with every stroke. Your cunt was learning his shape, clenching and fluttering around him, trying to pull him deeper. The room was filled with the scent of sex, of your arousal and his musk.
“You feel that?” Geralt grunted, his pace increasing incrementally. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise. “Your cunt is milking me. Sucking me in. Fuck. Never felt anything so tight.”
“Make her come, Geralt,” Yennefer demanded, her own voice breathy. She shifted one hand down from your breast, her fingers finding your clit. The moment she touched that swollen nub, circling it in time with his thrusts, the world shattered.
Pleasure detonated, a supernova in your veins. Your cunt clenched around Geralt’s cock in a series of violent, rhythmic spasms. A raw, broken scream was torn from you as you came, your vision whiting out, your body convulsing between them.
Geralt swore, a guttural, raw sound. Your tight, fluttering channel was too much. With three more brutal, driving thrusts, he buried himself to the root and stilled. You felt the hot, pulsing rush deep inside you as he came, his cock jerking, pumping his cum into your gripping depths. It felt endless, a flood of heat that filled you up, a claiming more profound than any words.
He collapsed forward, catching his weight on his arms, his forehead against yours. His breath was hot and ragged on your face. You could feel his heart hammering against your chest.
Yennefer was kissing your neck, your cheek, murmuring praises. “So good. You both were so fucking good. Look at you, full of him.”
Geralt softened inside you, but he didn’t pull out. He shifted, rolling onto his back, and you went with him, still impaled, now sprawled on top of his sweat-slicked chest. Yennefer moved with a fluid grace, straddling Geralt’s face, her soaked cunt hovering just above his mouth. She looked down at you, her violet eyes blazing with lust and something like affection.
“I want you to ride him,” she said, her voice a dark promise. “Get him hard again inside you. I want to watch his cock disappear into your messy, used pussy while he eats me.”
The command, the sheer depravity of it, made a fresh thrill shoot through your spent body. You pushed yourself up, feeling Geralt’s semi-soft cock slip from you with a gush of his cum and your own fluids. The sight of it, of the mess on your thighs and on him, was wildly erotic.
You watched as Geralt’s hands came up to grip Yennefer’s ass, pulling her down onto his mouth. He didn’t hesitate. His tongue delved into her, and her head fell back, a sharp, beautiful cry escaping her. The sounds he made, the hungry, wet lapping, were unmistakable.
His cock, resting on his stomach, began to stir, thickening, rising again with shocking speed, glistening with the mixed evidence of your union.
Yennefer looked down at you, her face a mask of ecstasy. “Now,” she panted. “Ride him. Fuck him back into that sweet cunt.”
You moved, your body aching and sensitive. You straddled his hips, your knees on either side of his narrow waist. You reached down, grasping his hard, renewed cock, guiding the slick, broad head back to your swollen, tender entrance. You sank down, a slow, exquisite torture, taking every thick, glorious inch until you were seated fully, his pelvis grinding against your clit.
“Fuck, yes,” Geralt groaned against Yennefer’s cunt, the vibration making her moan.
You began to move. Up, then down, sliding along his length. The angle was different, deeper, hitting spots inside you that made sparks fly behind your eyes. Your hands braced on his chest, your fingers digging into the hard muscle.
Yennefer leaned forward, her balance precarious, her hands coming to frame your face. She kissed you, deeply, passionately, her tongue fucking your mouth just as Geralt’s cock was fucking your pussy. You could taste yourself on her lips, and something else, the unique, musky flavor of her own arousal. It was dizzying, a feedback loop of sensation—the hard thickness stretching you open, the soft wetness of her mouth, the sounds of Geralt feasting on her just below.
Your rhythm faltered, became frantic. You were riding him hard, your ass slapping against his thighs, the wet, squelching sounds of your joined bodies filling the air. Yennefer broke the kiss, panting, her forehead against yours. “That’s it. Fuck him. Use that cock. Make yourself come on it. I’m going to come on his tongue, and I want you to feel it.”
You looked down. Geralt’s eyes were open, watching you ride him, his gaze fierce and approving. His hands were kneading Yennefer’s ass, his mouth working her furiously. You felt the tension coiling in him too, the way his hips began to jerk up to meet your downward plunges.
Yennefer’s body went rigid. A sharp, keening wail ripped from her throat as she came, her cunt pulsing against Geralt’s mouth. The sight of it, the sound, the knowledge, pushed you over the edge.
Your own climax crashed over you, a wave that was less sharp than the first but deeper, more consuming, radiating out from your core to your fingertips. Your cunt clamped down on Geralt’s cock in a series of desperate, rhythmic clenches, milking him.
With a roar that was muffled by Yennefer’s flesh, Geralt came. You felt the hot, urgent jets flooding your depths again, a second, staggering claim. His hips bucked wildly beneath you, fucking his seed as deep as it would go.
You collapsed forward, catching yourself on Yennefer, who was still shuddering through the last of her own release. The three of you were a tangled, sweating, spent heap of limbs on the ruined bed. The air was thick with the smell of sex and satisfaction.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing. Geralt’s softening cock finally slipped from you, another trickle of warm cum following it out onto his stomach.
Yennefer was the first to move. She slid off Geralt’s face, curling against his side, one hand splayed on his chest. Her other arm reached out, pulling you into the circle, so you were nestled between them, your back to Geralt’s front, facing Yennefer. His arm, heavy and possessive, draped over your waist.
“Well,” Yennefer murmured, her voice hoarse. She traced your lower lip with a fingertip. “How do you feel?”
You were sore. Sticky. Overflowing with him. Your mind was a blissful, shattered blank. “I…” You had no words.
Geralt’s nose nuzzled the back of your neck. “Good,” he supplied, his voice a satisfied rumble against your spine.
Yennefer’s smile was slow, wicked, and utterly replete. “Just ‘good’?” She leaned in, her lips brushing yours in a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of salt and shared pleasure. “I think we can do better than that. This is only the beginning, my dear. Only the very beginning.”
The night was far from over.
Yennefer’s fingers trailed down your side, mapping the curve of your waist, the swell of your hip, as if memorizing every inch now that she finally had permission to touch freely. Geralt’s hand mirrored the motion from behind, calloused palm sliding over your thigh, gently parting your legs again. You were still leaking his cum, warm and slick between your folds, and the sensation of his fingers gathering it, spreading it over your swollen clit, drew a broken whimper from your throat.
“Sensitive?” Yennefer asked, voice husky with fresh hunger. She shifted lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, then lower still, until her tongue flicked over one nipple. “Good. I want you to feel every second of this.”
Geralt’s cock, already half-hard again against the small of your back, thickened fully as he rocked against you. “Turn over,” he murmured, the command gentle but absolute. You obeyed, rolling onto your stomach between them. Yennefer slid beneath you, pulling your mouth to hers in a slow, drugging kiss while Geralt knelt behind you, large hands spreading your thighs. He entered you again in one smooth, deep thrust—easier this time, your body already open and dripping for him. The new angle had you gasping into Yennefer’s mouth, the thick head of his cock dragging over that perfect spot inside with every roll of his hips.
Yennefer’s hands tangled in your hair, holding you to her as she kissed you senseless. “That’s it,” she whispered between kisses. “Take him. Let him fuck you while I taste you both.” She slid one hand down, fingers finding where you and Geralt were joined, circling your clit and occasionally brushing the base of his cock where it disappeared inside you. The dual sensation—Geralt’s relentless, powerful thrusts and Yennefer’s clever fingers—built another climax fast and merciless. You came with a muffled cry against her lips, your walls fluttering and squeezing around him until he followed you over with a low, guttural groan, flooding you once more.
They didn’t stop there. Yennefer coaxed you onto your back again, straddling your face this time while Geralt settled between your thighs. You tasted her—sweet, heady, magical—while he fucked you slow and deep, his mouth occasionally leaving your cunt to lick along Yennefer’s folds where they met your tongue. The three of you moved in perfect, filthy harmony, a tangle of mouths and hands and bodies until another round of shattering orgasms left you all trembling and breathless.
Only then did exhaustion finally claim its due.
Yennefer was the one who summoned a soft orb of violet light to bathe the room in gentle warmth—no more flickering candles, just clean, steady magic. Geralt fetched a basin of warm water from the side table (the servants had left it earlier) and a stack of soft cloths. They cleaned you with reverent care—Geralt’s large hands gentle as he wiped between your legs, Yennefer’s magic warming the cloth and soothing the faint ache left by their size and enthusiasm. No words were needed; their touches said everything.
When you were clean and dry, they drew the heavy fur blanket over the three of you. You lay on your back in the center, exactly where you belonged. Yennefer curled into your right side, her head pillowed on your shoulder, one leg draped possessively over yours. Her fingers traced idle patterns on your stomach, magic humming faintly under her skin like a lullaby. Geralt took your left side, his massive frame curling protectively around you, one arm slung heavily across your waist so his hand could rest on Yennefer’s hip, connecting all three of you in an unbroken circle. His white hair tickled your neck as he pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss just below your ear.
The river continued its eternal murmur far below the palace walls. Somewhere out there the ruins of Caed Myrkvid waited, dark and dangerous, but they felt distant now—another contract, another battle the three of you would face together, stronger than before.
Yennefer’s lips brushed your temple. “Sleep, my heart,” she whispered, voice thick with sated affection. “We’ve got you.”
Geralt’s arm tightened, a silent vow. “Always.”
You closed your eyes, safe and cherished between the white wolf and the sorceress, their heartbeats steady against yours. The ache that had lived in your chest for years was gone, replaced by warmth deeper than any fire. Tomorrow the expedition would begin. Tonight—tonight you were exactly where you were meant to be.
Wrapped in both their arms, you drifted into the deepest, most peaceful sleep you had ever known.
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.
Embers of Three (One-Shot)
Summary: After a brutal day on the monster-haunted roads of the Continent, you and your lovers—Geralt of Rivia and Yennefer of Vengerberg—claim a private room at the Broken Crown inn, where exhaustion melts into tender care and the kind of passion that reminds you exactly who you belong to.
word count: 8000+
Paring: Geralt x Yennefer x Reader
warnings: NSFW, SMUT
A/N : Hello there! I had this idea in my head for a while, I wanted to write about a poly relationship with the reader, Geralt and Yennefer. I have written some MFM poly fics before like Bucky x Steve x reader but this is my first time writing MFF fic. I hope you like it!
Masterlist
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.
The Continent was never kind. It stretched like an old scar across the world—dense black forests where leshens twisted the trees into weapons, swamps that birthed drowners by the dozen, mountain passes patrolled by griffins that could tear a horse in half before the rider even drew steel. Kingdoms bled into one another in endless wars: Nilfgaard’s black banners creeping north like spilled ink, the Northern Realms bickering over borders while their peasants starved. Magic crackled in the air for those who could feel it—sorceresses trained in the marble halls of Aretuza, their bodies reshaped by elixirs and their ambitions sharper than any blade. And then there were witchers. Mutated, silver-haired killers who survived the Trial of the Grasses so ordinary men wouldn’t have to. Men like Geralt of Rivia, whose golden cat-eyes saw in the dark and whose medallion hummed against his chest whenever something unnatural drew near.
You had never been ordinary either. Not anymore. Not since the day your path crossed theirs in a rain-lashed village near the Pontar, when a bruxa had nearly torn your throat out and Yennefer’s violet lightning had saved you. Geralt had carried you to safety, grumbling the whole way, while Yennefer had pressed cool fingers to your wound and whispered, “You’re not dying today, little one. Not when we’ve only just found you.” That had been two years ago. Two years of shared bedrolls under the stars, of Yennefer’s lilac-and-gooseberry perfume clinging to your cloak, of Geralt’s rough hands steadying you in the saddle when the road grew too long. Two years of learning that love didn’t have to choose—couldn’t choose—between the white wolf and the raven sorceress. They were yours. You were theirs. And tonight, after the longest day any of you could remember, that truth was going to be written into your skin all over again.
The contract in Elderglen had been ugly. A pack of ghouls—six of the rotting bastards—had been digging up fresh graves and dragging villagers into the crypts. Geralt had taken the silver sword, moving like liquid death, severing limbs and crushing skulls with the calm precision of a man who had done this for a century. Yennefer had woven portals and hurled balls of purple flame that turned undead flesh to ash. You had done what you always did: loaded the crossbow with dimeritium bolts, set alchemical traps that flared with acrid smoke, and patched the shallow gashes on Geralt’s forearm when the last ghoul finally stopped twitching. The village elder had paid in coin and a cask of decent red wine. Enough for one night of luxury. Enough for the three of you to pretend the Path could wait until morning.
By the time the spires of the Broken Crown came into view through the trees, the sun had already bled out behind the hills. The inn sat at the crossroads like it had grown there—timber and stone, two stories of sagging roof and warm yellow light spilling from narrow windows. The painted sign creaked in the evening breeze: a golden crown cracked neatly down the middle. Smoke curled from the chimney, carrying the smell of roasting venison and fresh bread. Horses nickered in the stable yard. Roach flicked an ear and snorted, clearly unimpressed.
Geralt swung down first, boots hitting the mud with a wet thud. His white hair was loose and streaked with dust, the two swords across his back catching the last of the light. “Bath, bed, wine,” he rumbled, voice like distant thunder. “In that order.”
Yennefer dismounted with her usual effortless grace, black riding leathers hugging every curve, obsidian hair tumbling over one shoulder. She wrinkled her nose at the inn but the corner of her mouth twitched. “How positively rustic. I can already feel the fleas composing sonnets to my ankles.” She flicked a finger; a tiny spark of magic danced across her nails and the faint scent of ozone chased away the stable smell. Her violet eyes found yours as you slid from your own saddle, sore and aching in places you didn’t want to name. “Come here, my sweet. You look like you’ve been dragged behind the horses instead of riding them.”
You let her pull you into her side, her arm sliding around your waist with possessive ease. Geralt’s gloved hand found the small of your back, warm even through your cloak. The three of you moved as one toward the door, the locals inside falling quiet the moment the witcher’s medallion glinted and the sorceress’s reputation preceded her like perfume. Whispers rippled—“White Wolf… Yennefer of Vengerberg…”—but no one was stupid enough to say it loud.
The innkeeper, a barrel-chested man with a walrus mustache, nearly dropped his tankard. “M-milord Witcher, milady sorceress… and, er, companion. We’ve got rooms—”
“Private room,” Yennefer cut in, voice silk over steel. “Largest one. With a hearth and a tub big enough for three. And send up hot water. Lots of it. Now.”
Coin from the ghoul contract changed hands. The innkeeper’s eyes widened at the weight of it. “Top floor, end of the hall. Best we’ve got. Dinner’ll be up shortly—venison stew, fresh bread, that red from the cellar.”
Geralt grunted approval. You managed a tired smile. “Thank you.”
Up narrow stairs that creaked under Geralt’s weight, down a dim corridor that smelled of beeswax and old wood. The room was larger than you’d expected—stone walls softened by tapestries, a massive curtained bed piled with furs and clean linens, a wide hearth already crackling with fresh logs. A copper tub big enough for three sat near the fire, steam already rising as two serving girls hurried in with buckets. They curtsied, stole wide-eyed glances at Geralt’s scars and Yennefer’s perfect face, and fled.
The moment the door clicked shut, the tension of the day slid off your shoulders like a cloak. Geralt unbuckled his swords and leaned them against the wall. Yennefer shrugged out of her leather jacket, revealing the black silk shirt beneath that clung to her breasts. You stood in the middle, suddenly aware of every bruise and ache.
Yennefer’s fingers were at the laces of your tunic before you could speak. “Off,” she commanded softly, but there was fondness beneath the order. “All of it. You’re filthy, darling, and I refuse to sleep next to road dust and ghoul ichor.”
Geralt’s hands joined hers—larger, rougher, but no less gentle. Between the two of them they stripped you with the efficiency of people who had done this a hundred times in camp and inns and forest clearings. Your boots, your trousers, the linen shirt stained with sweat and a smear of blood that wasn’t yours. Naked, you shivered once in the cool air before Geralt’s broad chest pressed to your back, warming you instantly.
“Tub,” he murmured against your hair. “Before the water cools.”
Yennefer was already shedding her own clothes, each movement a study in elegance—corset unlaced, silk sliding down pale thighs, black hair cascading like midnight water. She stepped into the tub first, sighing as the heat enveloped her. “Geralt, stop looming and get in. You smell like a battlefield.”
He chuckled, low and rare, the sound vibrating through you as he lifted you effortlessly and lowered you into the water between them. The heat was heaven. You groaned, head falling back against Geralt’s shoulder while Yennefer’s legs tangled with yours under the surface. Soap—lavender and something herbal—appeared in her hands. She lathered it slowly, working it into your hair, massaging your scalp until your eyes fluttered shut. Geralt’s calloused palms scrubbed your back, thumbs pressing into knots along your spine with practiced care.
“You fought well today,” he said quietly, voice close to your ear. “Those traps you set—dimeritium flares caught two ghouls mid-leap. Saved me a few stitches.”
Yennefer’s fingers traced your collarbone, soaping the hollow of your throat. “My clever girl. And you let me portal you out of that crypt before the ceiling collapsed. I’d call that teamwork.” She leaned in, lips brushing your temple. “We’re keeping you, you know. Permanently. No arguments.”
You laughed, the sound watery and tired. “As if I’d ever leave the two most terrifying people on the Continent.”
Geralt’s arms tightened around you. “Good.”
They washed you thoroughly—every inch, every scrape, every place the road had marked you. Yennefer’s magic warmed the water whenever it threatened to cool. Geralt’s hands never hurried, even when his fingers brushed the sensitive skin between your thighs; tonight was for care first. When they finally let you rinse and step out, you felt reborn. Clean linen towels, soft as anything the inn could offer, dried you. Yennefer slipped into her black silk robe, the one that always smelled faintly of her signature lilac and gooseberries. You pulled on the thin shift the serving girls had left. Geralt tugged on loose linen trousers and nothing else, the firelight carving every scar and ridge of muscle into something almost holy.
Dinner arrived—thick venison stew, crusty bread, the promised red wine. You ate cross-legged on the fur rug in front of the hearth, trading stories. Yennefer mocked the village elder’s trembling hands when he’d handed over the coin. Geralt recounted the exact moment one ghoul had tried to bite Roach and regretted it instantly. You told them how your heart had stopped when Geralt disappeared under a pile of undead for three terrifying seconds. They listened like they always did—like your words mattered more than any royal decree.
Plates cleared, wine glasses refilled, the fire burned lower. Embers glowed like tiny suns. The bed called. You crawled in first, the massive mattress dipping under your weight. Geralt followed, solid and warm at your back. Yennefer settled against your front, her silk robe whispering against your shift. The three of you fit together the way you always had—perfectly, inevitably.
The fire in the hearth of the private room at the Broken Crown was down to embers, casting a deep, honeyed glow that licked across the stone walls and the massive, curtained bed. The air smelled of woodsmoke, expensive wine, and the faint, ozone-tinged scent of Yennefer’s magic. You were nestled between them on the plush, fur-covered mattress, the weight of the day’s travel melting from your bones under the combined warmth of their bodies. Yennefer’s fingers traced idle patterns on your thigh, her black silk robe slipping open to reveal the pale, perfect swell of her breast. Geralt’s arm was a solid, heavy band across your waist, his calloused thumb stroking the soft skin of your stomach through your thin shift.
It was Yennefer who shifted the atmosphere, a subtle, intentional thing. Her tracing fingers stilled, then slid higher, up the inside of your thigh. Her violet eyes, dark as the night outside, locked onto yours. No words were needed. The corner of her mouth, painted a deep, wine-stain red, quirked up. A challenge. An invitation.
“Our little one looks tired, Geralt,” she murmured, her voice a low, velvet purr that vibrated through your side where you pressed against her. “And yet… so restless.”
Geralt’s hum was a deep rumble against your back. “Mhm.”
“I think we should help with that.” Yennefer’s gaze didn’t waver from yours. Her hand reached your hip, fingers curling possessively. Then she leaned in.
Her kiss wasn’t gentle. It was claiming. Her lips were soft but demanding, her tongue sweeping into your mouth with a practiced, devastating confidence that made your thoughts dissolve into static. The taste of her—blackberries and something potent, magical—flooded your senses. Your hands came up, tangling in the obsidian fall of her hair, the strands like cool silk between your fingers. She moaned into your mouth, a sound of pure, dark satisfaction, and her other hand came up to cup your breast through the linen of your shift. Her thumb brushed over your nipple, already pebbled tight, and a sharp, electric jolt shot straight to your cunt.
You were lost in her, in the scent of lilac and gooseberries, in the skilled, hungry exploration of her mouth. You barely registered the shift in the bed behind you until Geralt’s weight was gone. You felt his absence like a chill, but only for a second. You heard the soft rustle of leather and linen being discarded, the heavy thud of his boots hitting the floor. Then the mattress dipped again, near your feet.
Yennefer broke the kiss, your lips clinging to hers for a desperate moment before parting. She was breathing a little faster, her pupils wide and dark. She looked past you, over your shoulder, and her smile turned wicked. “Watch, my love. Watch him want you.”
You turned your head, your cheek resting against Yennefer’s shoulder. Geralt was kneeling at the foot of the bed, between your spread legs. He’d stripped to the waist, the firelight carving the formidable landscape of his chest and abdomen into sharp relief—old scars silvered paths through corded muscle. His white hair was loose, falling around a face that was all stark, focused intensity. His eyes, molten gold in the dim light, were fixed on the junction of your thighs, where your shift was rucked up.
“Lift your hips for him, darling,” Yen commanded softly, her hand helping you arch up.
Geralt’s large, warm hands settled on your inner thighs, pushing them wider apart. His touch was firm, grounding. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your smallclothes and drew them down your legs in one slow, deliberate pull. The cool air of the room kissed your exposed skin, making you shiver. But his gaze was hotter than any fire.
This was your first time with him like this, so openly, with Yennefer present and participating. You felt a flush of vulnerability, of raw exposure, that was somehow more intoxicating than any privacy. Your cunt was fully bared to him, to the room. The outer lips were a slightly darker shade than the skin of your thighs, plump and glistening already with your arousal. The inner folds were a delicate, flushed pink, parted slightly, the slick evidence of your desire for Yen—and for him—glistening in the firelight. You were clean-shaven, a preference Yennefer had teased you about adopting, and the smooth skin made every sensation, every glance, feel magnified.
Geralt didn’t speak. He just looked, his nostrils flaring as he took in your scent—musky, sweet, unmistakably yours. A low, animal sound growled in his chest. Then he bent his head.
The first touch wasn’t his tongue. It was the scorching heat of his breath, washing over your soaked folds. You jerked, a gasp tearing from your throat. Yennefer’s arms tightened around you, her lips finding your neck, sucking a mark into the sensitive skin just below your ear. “That’s it,” she whispered, her own breath hot. “Let him taste you.”
And then he did.
Geralt’s tongue was broad, hot, and rough. He didn’t start with gentle flicks. He laid a long, flat, devastating stroke from the very bottom of your slit, over your pulsing entrance, all the way up to your clit. The texture of his tongue, like fine sandpaper, against the hypersensitive velvet of your cunt was a shock of pure, undiluted pleasure. It was too much and not enough all at once. You cried out, your back bowing off the bed.
Yennefer held you down, her hand slipping from your breast to your stomach, pinning you gently. “Shhh, let him work. He’s so good at this.”
Geralt settled in with a single-minded focus that was utterly feral. He ate your pussy like a man starved, his big hands holding your thighs apart with immovable strength. His mouth was a brand of heat and wetness. He fucked you with his tongue, plunging it deep inside you, curling it to stroke that secret, blissful spot within. Then he’d pull back and fasten his lips around your clit, sucking it hard into the heat of his mouth, his tongue swirling over the tiny, frantic bud with a rhythm that had your vision spotting.
Every muscle in your body was taut, straining. You were babbling, a stream of “Geralt, please, fuck, yes, right there, don’t stop, don’t stop,” mingled with helpless whimpers. Yennefer was kissing along your jaw, whispering filthy encouragements. “You taste divine on his tongue, my sweet. I can smell your cunt from here. It’s dripping for him. Fuck, look at you come apart.”
The coil in your belly wound tighter and tighter, a spring of pure sensation compressed to its breaking point. Geralt added a new element—the blunt, rough pad of a finger, circling your tight, untouched asshole. The dual assault, the filthy promise of that touch against the relentless, perfect stimulation of his mouth on your cunt, was the final key.
Your climax detonated. It wasn’t a wave; it was a localized earthquake, a violent, screaming convulsion that started deep in your womb and radiated outwards in cracking, white-hot shards. Your cunt clenched around nothing, around his tongue, gushing wetness over his chin. A raw, broken scream was torn from your throat as you shook, completely helpless in their combined grasp.
Geralt didn’t let up. He drank you down, his tongue lapping at your spasming entrance, gentling to soft, persistent licks as the tremors began to subside, drawing out every last aftershock until you were a limp, sobbing mess against Yennefer.
He finally pulled back, his chin and lower lip glistening with your release. He looked up at you, his golden eyes burning with a fierce, possessive light. He looked… pleased. Feral and pleased.
Yennefer made a soft, greedy sound. “My turn.” She didn’t ask. She leaned over you, one hand gripping Geralt’s hair, and pulled his face to hers.
You watched, dazed and panting, as your girlfriend kissed your boyfriend, her tongue delving into his mouth to taste you on him. It was obscene. It was breathtaking. A fresh, hot throb echoed in your still-quivering cunt. Geralt’s hand came up to cradle Yennefer’s head, the kiss deepening, turning messy and wet.
Then Yen broke away, her lips swollen and slick. She turned those devouring violet eyes back to you. “You should taste, too, my heart.” She shifted, her body moving with predatory grace, and kissed you.
Her mouth was a complex symphony of flavors—her signature lilac, the red wine she’d been drinking, and beneath it, the unmistakable, musky-sweet tang of your own arousal, transferred from Geralt’s mouth. The taste of yourself, filtered through them, was shockingly erotic. You moaned into the kiss, your hands coming up to clutch at her back.
When she pulled back, she was smiling like a cat with cream. “Delicious. But I’m not finished with you.” Her gaze slid down your body, then up to Geralt. “I want her mouth. And I want to watch her come again while she uses it.”
Geralt moved with that unnerving Witcher speed. In a fluid motion, he rose up on the bed, kneeling beside you. His cock sprang free, and your mouth went dry.
You’d felt it before, of course. Taken it inside you. But seeing it like this, in the firelight, fully erect and presented to your lips, was a different kind of awe. It was huge. Thick, and long, the head a broad, flushed plum crown emerging from a taught foreskin, veins standing in stark relief along the formidable shaft. A single, glistening bead of pre-cum welled from the slit. The musky, masculine scent of him, clean sweat and leather and something uniquely Geralt, filled your senses.
“Open up, darling,” Yennefer crooned, her hands guiding your head into her lap, your cheek resting on the soft, warm skin of her thigh. From this angle, you were looking up the length of Geralt’s body to his fierce, hungry face. Yennefer’s fingers threaded through your hair, not painfully, but with absolute authority. “Be a good girl and suck his beautiful cock. I’m going to eat that sweet, fucked-out cunt of yours while you do.”
The promise, the sheer, nasty logistics of it, sent a fresh flood of wetness between your legs. Yennefer felt it; she chuckled, a dark, velvety sound, and shifted lower, her breath already ghosting over your sensitive folds.
Geralt’s hand came to your cheek, his thumb stroking your lower lip. “Look at you,” he growled, his voice gravel-rough. “Taking care of both of us. Our good girl.” He guided the broad head of his cock to your mouth.
You opened, letting the heavy, silky-smooth crown press past your lips. The taste of him, salt and skin and a hint of precum, bloomed on your tongue. You relaxed your jaw, letting him slide deeper, the thick stretch a familiar, welcome burn. You swirled your tongue around the underside of the head, and Geralt’s low groan was your reward.
As you began to move, taking him deeper into your throat in wet, sucking pulls, Yennefer’s mouth descended on your cunt.
Her technique was entirely different from Geralt’s. Where he was relentless and rough, she was precision and artistry. Her tongue was a pointed, wicked thing, tracing every fold, dipping shallowly into your entrance, then zeroing in on your clit with laser focus. She didn’t just suck; she fluttered the very tip of her tongue against the swollen bud in a rapid, maddening vibration that had your hips bucking off the bed instantly.
You moaned around Geralt’s cock, the vibration making him curse softly, his fingers tightening in your hair. The dual sensations were overwhelming, a feedback loop of pleasure. The stretch and fullness in your mouth, the salty-slick slide of his shaft over your tongue, the hard, hot weight tapping the back of your throat. And below, the exquisite, torturously perfect flicking and sucking of Yennefer’s mouth on your clit, her fingers now slipping inside your cunt, crooking to find that spot that made you see stars.
You were hurtling toward another peak, fast and terrifying. Your noises were garbled, choked around the thick cock fucking your mouth. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the intensity. Yennefer’s free hand came up to your stomach, pressing down, holding you still for her devouring mouth. “That’s it, come for me,” she mumbled against your slick flesh, her words a hot vibration. “Come all over my face while you choke on his cock. Fuck, do it.”
Geralt was breathing in ragged gusts above you. “Gonna come,” he warned, his voice strained. “Gonna fill that pretty mouth. Take it. Take it all for me.”
The command, the filthy permission, was the final trigger. Your second orgasm ripped through you, a silent, seizing scream trapped behind the cock in your mouth. Your cunt convulsed violently around Yennefer’s fingers, a fresh gush of wetness coating her chin. At the exact same moment, Geralt’s hips stuttered, and he shoved himself deep, to the root, his cock pulsing heavily against your tongue.
Hot, bitter spurts flooded your mouth, one after another, a seemingly endless stream. You swallowed instinctively, the act of taking his cum while in the throes of your own climax a depraved, perfect synergy. Yennefer was lapping at you through it all, drinking down your release, her moans of pleasure vibrating through your entire lower body.
Geralt slowly pulled his softening cock from your lips, a last, thick strand of cum connecting his tip to your mouth before it broke. You gasped for air, your body a limp, boneless thing, trembling with aftershocks. Yennefer finally lifted her head, her face glistening with your combined wetness, a look of sublime, sated wickedness in her eyes.
“Look at you both,” she breathed, crawling up your body. She didn’t wipe her face. Instead, she kissed you again, deep and slow, letting you taste yourself and Geralt on her lips and tongue. It was a claiming, a communion. Geralt sank down beside you, his big body curling around your back, his spent cock pressed against your thigh, his mouth finding your shoulder, biting down gently.
You lay there for a few moments, a tangle of limbs and shared breath, the air thick with sex and sweat. But the night wasn’t over. The energy between the three of you, sated but far from spent, was still humming, a low, electric current.
Yennefer shifted, rolling onto her back and pulling you with her until you were lying atop her, your head nestled between her breasts, your legs tangled with hers. Her skin was fever-warm and soft as rose petals. She looked over your head at Geralt. “I want to feel her,” she said, her voice husky. “Properly.”
You understood a moment before Geralt moved. He positioned himself behind you, his hands spreading your ass cheeks. Yennefer hooked her legs around yours, opening herself beneath you, guiding your hips down until your cunt was pressed flush against hers. The sensation was electric—hot, wet silk on silk. Your swollen clits ground together with the slightest shift.
“Scissor me, my love,” Yen whispered, her hands gripping your ass, pulling you even tighter against her. “Let me feel you come on me.”
And then Geralt was there, his body covering yours, his weight pressing you down into Yennefer. You were sandwiched between them, Yennefer’s softness beneath, Geralt’s hard muscle above. His cock, already hard again and slick with your combined juices, nudged at your soaked entrance.
He didn’t ask. He just pushed in.
The stretch was magnificent, a deep, filling burn after the focused oral attention. You were so wet, so open, he slid in to the hilt in one smooth, powerful thrust that punched the air from your lungs and pushed your clit harder against Yennefer’s. You cried out, a sound swallowed by Yennefer’s skin.
“Fuck,” Geralt snarled against your ear, his hips drawing back and plunging in again, setting a hard, driving pace from the first moment.
Every thrust pushed you down onto Yennefer, grinding your cunts together in a slippery, frantic rhythm. Yennefer was moaning beneath you, her back arching, her fingers digging into your hips. “Yes, like that, fuck her, Geralt, make us both feel it!”
The angle was incredible. Geralt’s cock hit a spot deep inside you that made colors burst behind your eyelids. And the constant, grinding friction against Yennefer’s own wet heat was building a third climax, a dizzying crescendo born from the union of all three of you. You could feel Yennefer’s body beginning to tremble beneath you, her inner muscles fluttering against your mound.
Geralt’s pace turned brutal, fucking into you with a force that shook the bed frame, his balls slapping against your ass with every drive. His breath was hot and ragged in your ear. “Gonna come inside you,” he grunted. “Fill this perfect, tight cunt. You feel that, Yen? You feel me fucking her?”
“I feel it!” Yennefer gasped, her head thrashing side to side. “I’m… fuck, I’m coming!”
Her cunt spasmed against yours, a hot, wet pulsing you felt through every nerve. The feel of her climax, the sounds she made, the way her body clenched and released beneath you, sent you over the edge for a third, shattering time. Your scream was muffled against her breast as your own orgasm tore through you, a raw, continuous convulsion that made you clamp down viscously on Geralt’s pounding cock.
That was all it took for him. With a roar that was more beast than man, he buried himself to the root and erupted. You felt the hot, urgent pulses of his cum flooding your cunt, jet after jet, filling you up, marking you from the inside. He fucked you through it, his hips jerking erratically, milking every last drop into your clutching depths.
He collapsed atop you, his great weight pressing you further into Yennefer’s shuddering body. The three of you lay there, a heap of sweat-slicked skin and labored breathing, joined in the most intimate way possible.
Slowly, carefully, Geralt pulled out. A hot trickle of his release seeped from your well-used cunt onto Yennefer’s thigh. He didn’t go far. He shifted to the side, but stayed pressed against you, his hand possessively splayed over your stomach.
Yennefer was the first to move, her hands coming up to cradle your face. She kissed you, slow and deep and sweet, a shocking contrast to the ferocity of moments before. “Beautiful,” she whispered against your lips. “You were so fucking beautiful.”
Then she turned her head, capturing Geralt’s mouth in a kiss that was just as tender, just as lingering. You watched, your heart swelling, as your two lovers shared a quiet, post-coital moment. When they parted, Geralt’s golden eyes found yours. He leaned in, his lips brushing yours, the taste of Yennefer and sex on them. “Our girl,” he murmured, the words a vow.
Yennefer’s arm wrapped around you, pulling you tighter into their combined embrace. “Ours,” she agreed, her voice sleepy and sated. Her other hand reached for Geralt, drawing him in.
The three of you shifted in the huge bed, finding a comfortable tangle of limbs. You lay on your back, Yennefer curled into your side, her head on your shoulder, one leg thrown over yours. Geralt was on your other side, on his side facing you, his arm draped heavily over your waist, his hand resting on Yennefer’s hip, connecting you all.
In the quiet, broken only by the crackle of dying embers, Yennefer tilted her head up. Her lips found yours in a soft, exploring kiss. A moment later, you felt Geralt’s mouth on your neck, open-mouthed kisses along your pulse point. You turned your head slightly, meeting his lips with yours. The kiss deepened, hungry again despite the exhaustion.
Yennefer’s hand came up, her fingers threading into Geralt’s white hair, pulling his face toward hers. For a long, dizzying moment, it was a three-way kiss, a messy, perfect union of lips and tongue and shared breath. You could taste Yennefer on Geralt, taste yourself on both of them, taste the unique flavor of them together. It was intoxicating. It was home.
You broke apart, breathing each other’s air, foreheads touching. Yennefer’s violet eyes were half-lidded, a smug, contented smile on her swollen lips. Geralt’s gaze held a warmth that melted the usual ice in his features. His thumb stroked your hip.
“Let us take care of you,” Yennefer murmured, her lips brushing yours again.
“We will always take care of you,” Geralt rumbled, his voice a vibration against your skin.
Outside, the wind howled through the trees of the Continent, carrying distant howls of monsters and the faint clash of steel from some far-off war. Inside the Broken Crown, none of it could touch you. Not tonight. Not while you lay safe between the white wolf and the sorceress, their heartbeats steady against yours, their hands intertwined over your body like a promise.
Tomorrow the Path would call again—more contracts, more blood, more miles under strange skies. But tonight the fire had burned to embers, the wine was gone, and the three of you were exactly where you belonged.
Together.
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.
The White Wolf's Surrender (One-Shot)
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
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.
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.
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.
