he's pounding into you the same way he usually does, rubbing your clit the same direction, whispering the same praises as usual... but something is different.
in all honesty, no—not everything is the same. tonight, you both decided to try and push past your limit to see how far you could go during sex with clark.
your mind was foggy with pleasure and your eyes were rolled back into oblivion, the sensation of the veins running down his cock grinding against your slick walls had rendered you stupid. your speech wasn't even coherent anymore—every other word was slurred and your sentences bled through eachother.
he wasn't much better either—his cheeks were an interesting shade of pink and his curls were frizzy, canines biting down into his lips to stop himself from cumming too quick. his mind was a bit clearer than yours, and he could still form somewhat correct sentences like, "j-just like tha– oh my- fuck, it's so warm and— shit..." which only contributed to making you go even dumber.
but this, all of this, was the norm during sexual encounters like these. so why couldn't he shake off the feeling that something was different?
a suddenly clear sentence from you interrupted his thoughts, "holy shit– clark, I'm g'nna cum! gonna cum so fucking hard, i– shit, it feels—" and he knows to double down, intensifying every movement of his.
then, he heard things. truly unusual things.
he heard you heart beat at a pace he's never heard from you before, he heard your blood rushing around your veins faster than it ever did, and he heard... liquid?
though his hearing was disturbed by a loud cry from you, a sweet and desperate "m'cumming, m'cumming!" that had him moaning almost as loud as you did.
what took him by surprise, however, is that right when he was expecting the usual increase in wetness and contractions, he got something entirely new.
liquid. streams of your cum coming out in short squirts, seemingly following the rhythm of at which he was rubbing your clit. it was so messy and warm and sticky, and then he looked at your face, and saw an expression of utmost pleasure right before his body contracted and almost crumbled before you as he felt your pussy squeezing down on him like never before.
clark kent was surrounded by lust, by pleasure—blinding, intoxicating, and so fucking good.
so he succumbed.
he gave in.
he suddenly grabbed you and pulled you up from the bed, wrapping his arms around your head and holding you flush against him as his hips involuntarily kept bucking into you, his cock uncontrollably twitching inside your wet cunt before he spilled into you, moaning your name so loud you both were positive the entire neighborhood got a piece of the situation, filling you to the brim with his seed.
your ograsms lasted longer than normal, sending you into an ecstatic haze that had the both of you shaking and twitching.
when it ended, you both finally collapsed on the bed, sticking to eachother thanks to the liquid evidence of your pleasure.
"s-shit... I didn't.. I didn't know this would happen I'm sorry about the– about the sheets.." you apologized between pants, gulping down the saliva that had pooled inside your mouth.
he chuckles, caressing your shoulders lightly, "its okay... I didn't know you could.. squirt." and he looks at you with his kryptonian eyes, like a predator about to bounce on his prey.
"I know what you're thinking but you're gonna have to wait atleast two weeks for me to even think about attempting that again."
STOP PUTTING OC STORIES WITH "X READER" TAGS BRO WITH ALL DUE RESPECT YOUR STORY DOES NOT BELONG THERE....listen... im sure the story is great... BUT im literally gonna combust if i keep seeing ts. Im trying to feed my delusions and yall arnt helping. Sighhhhhhh
Hello!!! Kindly requesting smut headcanons for Clark Kent + short/small male reader. Soft dom Clark please! Maybe heavy on the praise kink and size kink. I don't mind whether reader tops or bottoms as long as Clark is more dominant hehehe. Thank you! ^^
| Clark Klent with short male!reader
smut & fluff / bottom!reader / soft!dom Clark / praise / size kink / oral (both receiving) / marking, hickeys / use of super-powers /
Notes : thanks for the request ;) as a short person i pictured a little too much myself in this 🎀 + it's been such a long time since i write for a male character/reader, sorry if i'm a bit rusty 🦸♂️(did with a corenswet-superman in mind, but can be read as other versions !)
wc : 0.7k
english isn't my first language, sorry for the mistakes ♡
Females DNI
Well..being shorter than Superman wasn't unusual, since he is Superman.
But ! He has to admit that when he laid eyes on you, his height suddenly jumped out at him.
People don't go past his shoulder, and he's used to it–he can't help it anyway. But normally, people don't go below his collarbone either.
When he saw you from afar, the difference didn't shock him at first. Until you came up to him and offered a friendly handshake.
You were way more smaller than him.
Your eyes landed right between his two pecs, and you couldn't help but blush when you noticed it.
"Damn, he's tall" you thought.
"Shit..he's so small" he thought.
Suffice to say, your kisses aren't as simple as the others, but heh, that's what having a superhero boyfriend is for! He makes you both hover in place, supporting your body in his large hands so that your faces are at equal height.
the wall is another great option.
Clark pins you against it, one knee almost innocently placed between your thighs.
He loves to mark your neck, your torso, and – in fact – your whole body. There's something so special about seeing your skin so easily marked by his lips. It's like he could break your entire body with a single kiss—and he surely would be able to.
You immediately noticed his attraction to your size difference. How could you not see his eyes tinged with a glint every time he looked at your smaller figure? His breath caught when you made a move first, as if despite his imposing build, he melted beneath your fingers at your request.
You had to admit that it turned you on more than you expected.
You've never been with someone this tall, muscular, powerful.
Clark loves to pin you against a wall, swinging both of your legs over his shoulders at lightning speed as he gets down on his knees. His face so close to you, he can already smell the intoxicating scent of your cock.
He loves sucking you off. The contradiction between his body and yours drives him crazy.
His face moving up and down at a speed that was intentionally far too slow, he moaned softly around you as he saw that his head could almost be the size of your thigh.
Absolutely loves missionary. The way he can have a perfect view of you, lay below him, trying to hold desperately onto his broad shoulders with your hands
"Look at you Darling, how sweet you are for me"
He never comes faster than when you go down on him. You have to elevate yourself if you want to properly take him in your mouth without hurting yourself. Just seeing you put a pillow under your knees makes his dick throb.
"Fuck..babe don't look at me like that— fuck you're gonna make me cum angel—"
Being bigger than you also means that he has a bigger cock- maybe the biggest you ever saw to be honest – thanks God he knows that and he knows how to use it without hurting you.
A lot of foreplay is required, even more than usual. But Clark loves it, it allows him to make you come several times before finally being inside of you.
"Yes that's it, I know baby it's big, but you're doing so well my boy"
Definitely has matching t-shirts : "Lost my mouse, did you see him ?" "I'm the mouse".
Clark likes to give you flattering nicknames, he thinks they're adorable.
"Strong boy !" "What are you doing Handsome ?" "Yeah that's my good boy"
When you ride him, he has to contain himself to not grab your waist too hard or make you bounce too fast.
That is the main point of your relationship : he’s tall and he is Superman, where you’re small and you are a human. Means that he is so sweet with you, so gentle, careful with every single part of your body.
When he comes he might hold you a little tighter, and you may see some nuanced bruises. Clark'll kiss them, still breathless and dizzy from his orgasm.
"Sorry love, didn't mean to hurt, forgive me please baby"
He adores the sight of your body rubbing defenseless against the mattress, and he's not even pounding that hard into you darling.
pictures : Pinterest
dividers : @/cafekitsune , @/saradika-graphics and @uzmacchiato
Y’all ever read such a good fic with a nice plot just with so many spelling errors?!? Like TF you mean he was “grinong” in her ear or “taiek” her by the waist??
Summary: Your friendly neighbor Clark Kent comes to your door one evening, allowing for the two of you to finally grow your relationship.
Warnings: This is not proofread what so ever, gentle/sort of shy Clark, unprotected sex, oral fem receiving, p in v sex.
a/n: Idk rn but I genuinely can't wait for David Corenswet to be Superman (Henry Cavill is so hot tho...). I’m already imagining how perfect he's gonna be as Clark Kent. As always, send me any requests you have and I hope you enjoy!
For months now, you had been quietly pining for the man who lived across the hall from me in our unassuming apartment building. His name was Clark Kent, and there was something about him that was utterly endearing. It wasn't just his chiseled jawline or the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, but the kindness he exuded, the way he always had a helping hand ready for anyone in need.
You had become something like friends, sharing the occasional awkward small talk as we passed by with our shopping bags or recyclables. You had seen him in various stages of undress, coming back from his midnight runs, his superhero-like physique hidden under loose-fitting t-shirts and sweatpants.
Something that had fueled your evening pleasure sessions, everytime your eyes fell closed you could remember the image of his hardened abs, his huge and muscular arms.
On a warm summer evening, there was a knock at your door. It was Clark, the guy from across the hall. He stood there sheepishly, his hand running through his black hair.
He wore a white shirt that was unbuttoned and messy. He held a bottle of wine in one hand. "Hey", he said. "I hope I'm not disturbing you. I was wondering if I could get a favor?"
“Sure what’s up?” you give him a small smile, your eyes fall on his exposed chest before quickly flicking back to his face. His heart rate increased as he realized that you could see through the thin fabric of his shirt the toned muscles of his chest covered in a light layer of hair.
He cleared his throat, composing himself, holding up the bottle of wine. "I, umm, I was wondering if I could borrow your corkscrew. I lost mine."
“Yeah, of course. Come on in.” you move to the side, allowing him to come in. Your mind clouding with desire as he towers over you, his cologne filling your senses.
He steps into your apartment, the tight space meaning his body brushes against yours slightly as he passes. The contact between you both is brief, but it's enough to send a shiver down his spine as he enters.
Your cheeks flush slightly as you realize your own appearance, wearing just a button down top that is unbuttoned enough for him to see your cleavage and your underwear. You awkwardly lead him to the kitchen, arm subconsciously moving to cover your breasts as you turn around, handing him the corkscrew.
"Uh, thanks." He says as he takes the corkscrew from you. Even with your arm draped over yourself, he can't help but notice the glimpse of exposed skin, his eyes lingering before he catches himself and averts his gaze, forcing himself to stay focused on the task at hand.
He starts to open up the bottle, the action allowing him to look away from your figure for a moment and compose himself, his hands shaking slightly as he tries to concentrate.
Your hand reaches out, fingers brushing over his. “Oh yeah this thing is weird, you kinda have to do it a particular way.” you murmur, taking the bottle from him as you fumble with the screw.
He bites his lip as your fingers brush over his, his stomach swirling at the touch of your hand. He watches as you take the bottle from him, his eyes fixated on your every movement as you try to open the bottle.
"Thanks," he mutters, his voice low and a bit shaky. His eyes wander down, his gaze drawn to the way your top fits, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of your cleavage.
“Mhm,” you reply as you pull the cork out, a small splash of wine staining your collar. You bite down on your lip while setting the bottle down, fingers rubbing the fabric. His eyes widen slightly as he watches the droplet of wine slide down your collar, the stains on the fabric making it even more translucent.
Clark swallows hard, his mind wandering to inappropriate and ungentlemanly thoughts. He clears his throat, trying to look away, but he can't help but notice the way your fingers are now rubbing at the fabric, the motion only drawing his attention further to your chest.
You glance over him, hand falling from your shirt as you give him a soft grin, noticing the way his gaze lingers.
His gaze flicks up to meet yours, his cheeks flushed. He realizes he's been caught staring, his eyes having been fixated on the way your hand moves over the fabric of your shirt, the motion stirring something deep within him.
"I, umm..." he stutters, his words failing him as he feels his throat dry up. He swallows slowly, forcing himself to focus on something else. "Thanks, for helping me open the bottle," he manages to say. He shifts on his feet, trying to discreetly adjust himself as he feels his jeans becoming a bit tighter.
“Of course, do you want to share the bottle? Or do you have someone waiting for you?” you move slightly closer to him.
His heart quickens as you come closer, his mouth going dry as your proximity makes it all that much more difficult to concentrate. He glances down at the bottle sitting on the counter, his mind racing with desire and indecision.
"No," he says, his voice low and a bit huskier than usual. "There's no one waiting for me." He looks back up at you, his eyes locking with yours, his gaze intense and filled with a mixture of nervousness and something more forbidden. "I'd like to share the bottle with you."
“Perfect.” You smile, stepping closer as you reach for the cabinet behind him, your chest pressing into his ever so slightly. You open the door, reaching for two glasses his breath hitches as he feels your body press against him, the sensation sending a jolt of heat through him.
Your chest rubs against his, and he can feel the weight and softness of you against his body. The proximity is driving him mad, his mind clouded by primal desires he's trying to keep in check.
He bites his lip, his knuckles turning white as he grips the edge of the counter, trying to maintain his composure. His eyes flutter shut for a moment before he opens them again, his gaze fixed on your every move.
You step back, with the glasses in hand. “We could watch a movie?” you prompt as you pour some wine into the cups, silently enjoying the way he reacted to your touch.
He nods, his mind still racing as he tries to calm his racing thoughts and the growing hardness in his pants. "Yeah, a movie sounds good," he mutters, his voice coming out a bit more hoarse than he'd liked.
As you pour the wine, his eyes follow your every move, the way your fingers grip the bottle, the way the liquid flows into the glasses. It's all too tantalizing for him. "What do you feel like watching?" He asks, trying to keep his voice level and casual.
“How about you choose?” you hand him a glass, taking yours in hand along with the bottle as you walk into the living room. Taking a seat down on the couch you sip on the wine, your eyes follow his every move, drinking in his muscular form.
He tries to stay composed, forcing himself to look away and focus on the task at hand. Clark walks over to the DVD collection and scans the titles, his mind unfocused and his thoughts still lingering on you. After a moment of browsing, he picks a movie at random, inserting it into the player.
"All set." He says, returning to the couch and taking a seat beside you. You pull at the hem of your shirt, trying to prevent it from riding up too much while taking another sip of your drink.
“Great.” you smile, sucking your lip between your teeth as you admire his side profile. He can't help but notice the way you fidget with your shirt, the action drawing his mind to places he shouldn't be going at the moment.
He struggles to keep his eyes focused on the screen, his gaze keeping wandering over to you, admiring your features and the way the fabric clings to your body. Clark takes a long sip from his glass, the alcohol doing little to calm his racing thoughts and desires. He shifts in his seat, trying to discreetly adjust himself as his jeans grow even tighter.
“Is everything alright?” you notice his movements and set your cup on the coffee table, scooting slightly closer to him. His eyes widen slightly as you move closer, the proximity sending a fresh wave of desire through him. He swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry.
"Yeah," he responds, his voice a little hoarse. "Everything's fine, just...adjusting." He glances over at you, his gaze lingering on your figure, his eyes tracing over the curves where your shirt clings to you, the way your position inadvertently exposes more skin.
“Clark?” your knee brushes against his thigh as you scoot closer. He stiffens as your knee brushes against him, the casual touch sending a jolt through him. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, his hands gripping the edge of the couch as he tries to maintain his composure.
When he hears his name, the way you say it, so soft and gentle, almost a whisper, it sends a shiver down his spine. He looks over at you, his eyes locking with yours, his gaze intense and filled with desire. "Yeah?" He manages to respond, his voice a bit shaky.
“Are you.. seeing anyone?” you chew on your cheek as you search his eyes. At your question, a mixture of surprise and uncertainty crosses his face. He holds your gaze, his eyes searching yours for any hint of insincerity.
"No," he says finally, his voice steady and sincere. "I'm not seeing anyone." He swallows, his nerves getting the better of him as he wonders where this conversation is going. He can't help but feel a flicker of hope and anxiety at the same time.
Your eyes light up as you press a hand to his thigh, “Then… well I hope i’m not misreading the situation,” you murmur, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. It's unexpected, but oh so welcome.
His eyes widen for a brief moment, before closing as he melts into the kiss. Every cell in his body seems to come alive, the taste of your lips on his sending him into a dizzying spiral of emotions.
His hand comes up to cup your jaw, his touch gentle as he leans into the kiss, deepening it as he loses himself in the moment. His tongue brushes over your bottom lip as he presses his chest against yours, pushing your back into the plush fabric of your couch.
Your bodies meld together, your back sinking into the cushion as he bears down on you. His tongue teases your lip, requesting entry which you give him without hesitation.
His heart races as he feels the soft give of your body against his chest, the heat and pressure of your bodies mingling together.
His hand runs over your side, his touch gentle but firm as it moves over the curves of your body, his hand sneaking under the fabric of your shirt, needing to feel your skin against his. You lean back, gasping for air as his fingers explore your body.
He takes your gasp as an opportunity to trail his lips along your jaw, his breath hot against your skin as he nips and kisses his way down your neck.
His hand moves under your shirt, slowly, his fingertips dancing across your bare skin, mapping out each contour and dip of your body. He groans softly against your throat as he feels your warm, supple flesh under his fingers. You feel so good against him, it's almost overwhelming.
“Clark..” you gasp his name as he unbuttons your shirt swiftly. He loves the way you say his name, the sound of it coming from your lips making his own name sound like a prayer.
He unfastens the buttons of your shirt, revealing more and more of your body to his hungry eyes. He peels back the fabric, his hands roaming over your now-exposed skin, his fingers tracing over your stomach and up to your chest.
He presses his mouth to your collarbone, his teeth grazing over the sensitive skin, tasting your scent, committing it to memory. “Clark..” you moan his name again, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he kisses down your chest, hands landing on your breasts.
His name slips from your lips again, the sound like a sweet melody in his ears. He can feel the pressure of your fingers on his shoulders, the touch driving his desire even higher.
His mouth travels down your chest, his kisses feather light and seductive as he moves over your breasts. His hands follow his mouth, palms cupping your breasts as he starts to massage the soft flesh.
He moans against your skin, his touch almost reverent. His body thrums with an aching need, the desire to be closer to you nearly overwhelming as he captures your lips in another hungry kiss. He cups your breasts in his hands, his fingers kneading the supple flesh as they press into your skin. His touch is soft but firm, his hands large enough to cover them completely
Clark pulls back slightly, breaking the kiss but keeping his eyes locked with yours. His breath is ragged, his chest heaving with anticipation. He can feel your heart racing beneath his palms as he gently caresses your breasts. "Are you sure about this?" He whispers, his voice thick with desire. "I don't want to rush you." His eyes search yours for any sign of hesitation or doubt.
You smile up at him, placing a soft hand on his cheek. "I've never been more sure about anything in my life," you reply, your voice barely above a murmur. The sincerity in your tone sends a thrill through him, confirming that this is what you both want.
He nods, his expression serious as he leans back down to kiss you again. This time, the kiss is slower, more deliberate. He savors the taste of you, the feel of your body pressed against his. His hand slides up to the back of your neck, cradling it as he deepens the kiss, exploring every inch of your mouth with his tongue.
As the kiss lingers, he slowly starts to unbutton the rest of your shirt, taking his time to reveal each new inch of your skin. His eyes never leave yours, watching for any signs of discomfort or hesitation. You melt into him, your own hands sliding up to tangle in his hair as the fabric of your shirt falls away.
The moment your skin is fully exposed, the air in the room seems to crackle with tension. He leans down to press a line of soft, wet kisses along your collarbone, feeling your body shiver beneath his touch. He takes a moment to just look at you, his eyes filled with a mix of awe and desire. "You're so beautiful," he murmurs, his voice low and rough.
Your cheeks flush with pleasure as he says the words, his eyes devouring your exposed flesh. He takes his time, kissing and caressing every inch of your body, his hands moving in a slow, tantalizing dance that leaves you trembling with need. Each touch is a promise of what's to come, each kiss a declaration of his desire for you.
The room is filled with the sound of your mingled breaths and the soft whispers of your names on each other's lips. The anticipation is almost unbearable, but you both know that the slow burn of this moment is only making the fire between you grow hotter.
Clark finally takes one of your nipples into his mouth, suckling gently as he rolls the other between his thumb and forefinger. You arch your back, gasping at the sensation, your hands tightening in his hair. He teases and worships each peak, his tongue swirling and flicking, drawing out your moans of pleasure.
As you lay there, the warmth of his mouth on your skin, the softness of the couch beneath you, and the gentle pressure of his body above, you can't help but feel that this is exactly where you're meant to be. With each tender kiss and caress, he's claiming you, and you're willingly giving yourself to him.
The movie on the TV becomes background noise as the only thing that matters is the connection growing stronger between you both. His kisses trail down your stomach, his hands skimming over your hips to the waistband of your underwear.
He kisses the skin just above the waistband, the heat of his breath making you squirm. "I want to make this perfect for you," he murmurs, his eyes looking up at you for approval. You nod, unable to form words as your breath catches in your throat.
He takes his time, pulling down your underwear in one smooth motion, exposing your most intimate parts to his gaze. His eyes darken with desire as he looks at you, but he keeps his touches feather-light, his mouth hovering just above your skin without making contact.
Clark takes a deep breath, savoring the moment as he gazes down at your exposed body. He gently kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs, moving closer to the apex of your legs. His eyes are filled with a fiery hunger that makes your heart race even faster. He presses a soft kiss to your mound, feeling you tense up at the contact.
Then, with a gentle caress, he parts your legs wider, his gaze never leaving yours. You can see the desire in his eyes, and it only fuels the fire burning within you. With a soft sigh, he lowers his mouth to you, his tongue tracing the seam of your folds with the lightest touch. You moan, your body trembling as he starts to explore you, taking his time to learn every curve and sensitive spot.
Each touch is a declaration of his intention to worship you, to take things slow and savor every second of this shared intimacy. His fingers join his mouth, gently teasing and exploring, bringing you closer to the edge with every stroke. The room is filled with the sounds of your mingled breaths and soft whimpers, the only soundtrack to this passionate symphony of desire.
Clark continues his gentle exploration, his tongue circling your clit with a patience that borders on agonizing. He's not in a hurry; he wants to savor every moment of this, to make sure you feel loved and desired. His fingers slide into your wetness, curling gently as he begins to stroke you internally, matching the rhythm of his tongue.
You can't help but whimper, your eyes squeezed shut as the sensations build within you. He's so attentive, so in tune with your body's responses that you feel like you're floating on a cloud of pure pleasure. Each kiss, each caress is a testament to the connection growing between you, and you know that this is just the beginning of a night that will change everything.
Clark's eyes never leave yours as he shifts his position, aligning his body with yours. His hand moves to guide himself, and with a gentle nod from you, he begins to press into you. His movements are slow and deliberate, his expression one of intense concentration as he tries to read your every reaction. You can feel the tip of him pushing against your entrance, the anticipation of what's to come making you squirm.
As he enters you, he whispers sweet nothings into your ear, his voice a soothing balm to the building passion. He's so big, so thick, but he's so gentle that it's almost a surprise when he's fully sheathed inside you. You gasp, your eyes flying open, and he stills, giving you a moment to adjust to the sensation of being filled by him.
He waits, his eyes searching yours for any sign of pain or discomfort. When he sees none, he starts to move, his hips rocking in a slow, steady rhythm that makes your toes curl. Each thrust is met with a soft moan from your lips, his name slipping from your mouth like a prayer as he fills you completely.
The feeling of him inside you is unlike anything you've ever experienced. It's as if your bodies are made for this, as if every inch of him is meant to be connected to every inch of you. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, your hands sliding down to grip his firm ass as he moves within you.
The room seems to spin around you, the only constant is the feeling of him, the sound of your hearts beating in sync. He kisses you again, his movements becoming more urgent as the passion takes over. You can feel him thickening, growing even more inside you, and you know that he's getting closer to the edge.
You whisper for him to go faster, to give you more, and he responds eagerly, his strokes deepening and quickening. Your body responds in kind, your hips rising to meet his, the friction between you building until it's almost unbearable. You're both so close, the tension coiled tight in your stomachs, ready to snap.
And then, with one final, deep thrust, it does. You cry out, your body arching off the couch as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. He follows shortly after, his own release shaking his body as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.
For a moment, you just lay there, your bodies entwined, your hearts racing. Then, with a soft sigh, he pulls back, his eyes searching yours for any signs of regret. But all he sees is pure satisfaction, a mirror to what's reflected in his own gaze. He leans down to kiss you gently, a soft promise of more to come.
Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Female!Witcher!Reader (Y/N)
Tropes/Themes: Sex Pollen, Only Female Witcher, Established Relationship, Accidentally/Miraculously Pregnant, Mutual Feral Behavior, Kaer Morhen Comfort, Protective Geralt.
Summary: As the only woman to ever survive the Trial of the Grasses, Y/N has spent years riding the Path alongside Geralt. They knew the score: Witchers are sterile. But a strange, misdirected contract, a patch of glowing, explosive flora, and a night of wild, unrestrained passion change everything. Months later at Kaer Morhen, morning sickness brings a shocking truth to light—leaving Vesemir scrambling through ancient texts and Geralt facing a future he never thought possible.
Warnings: 18+ for explicit sexual content, feral/mating-like behaviors induced by magical plants, descriptions of pregnancy symptoms (nausea/vomiting).
The Path was a lonely, brutal existence, but for the last three years, it hadn’t been lonely for Geralt.
When Y/N had walked out of the laboratory at Kaer Morhen as a girl—pale, bleeding from the eyes, but breathing—she had defied every law of nature and magic. She was the first and only female to ever survive the Trial of the Grasses. Her mutations were identical to his: the cat-like yellow eyes, the heightened senses, the accelerated healing. But while the other witchers looked at her like a walking miracle or a tragic anomaly, Geralt had simply looked at her and seen a partner.
Their transition from brothers-in-arms to lovers had been as slow and inevitable as the changing of seasons. It started with shared blankets during a harsh winter in Aedirn, drifted into lingering glances over campfires, and finally culminated in a breathless, desperate confession in a cheap tavern room in Novigrad. Since then, Roach and Y/N’s mare, Kelpie, trotted side-by-side, their riders sharing a life built on mutual understanding, sharp wit, and a quiet, profound love.
Until a misleading contract in the marshlands of Sodden changed the trajectory of their lives forever.
The Contract at the Sunken Hollow
The notice on the board had been simple enough: “Monster in the willow grove. Livestock drained. Children missing. 200 crowns.”
"Sounds like a foglet or a particularly nasty grave hag," Y/N muttered, leaning against Geralt’s shoulder as he tore the parchment from the board.
"Hmm," Geralt rumbled, his arm automatically settling around her waist. "Pays well enough for a week's rations and a warm bed. Let’s go."
They tracked the scent of decay down into a dense, fog-laden ravine where the willow trees grew thick and twisted. Roach and Kelpie were tied securely a half-mile back, both witchers moving with silent, synchronized grace, silver swords drawn.
But as they pushed through a thicket of weeping willows, the oppressive stench of rotting flesh vanished, replaced by an overwhelmingly sweet, heavy scent that smelled of honey, musk, and ozone.
"Geralt, wait," Y/N whispered, her cat-eyes narrowing.
In the center of the clearing, where the monster was supposed to nest, there was nothing but a massive, unnaturally vibrant patch of midnight-blue flowers. Their petals pulsed with a faint, bioluminescent gold light. They looked meticulously arranged, almost as if they had been planted with dark purpose.
"This isn't a monster den," Geralt grunted, stepping forward. "It's a trap."
Before they could turn back, Y/N’s boot caught on a hidden root. She stumbled, crashing directly into the cluster of glowing flora.
Crack.
The pods on the plants didn't just open; they exploded. A massive, dense cloud of glittering, golden-blue pollen blasted into the air, instantly engulfing them both.
Y/N coughed, inhaling a lungful of the sweet, heavy dust. "Geralt—"
"Hold your breath!" he shouted, but it was already too late. He had inhaled it, too.
The Feral Night
The reaction was instantaneous. The world tilted, the colors of the forest sharpening into a blinding, vivid kaleidoscope. Y/N dropped her silver sword, her hands clutching at her chest as a wave of liquid fire erupted in her veins. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She looked at Geralt, and the breath caught in her throat.
His pupils were completely dilated, swallowing the gold of his irises until his eyes looked like black pools. His chest rose and fell in ragged heaves. The scent of him—usually a comforting mix of leather, iron, and cedar—suddenly hit her senses with the force of a tidal wave. It was a purely predatory, intoxicating pheromone that screamed one thing: Mate.
A low, guttural growl ripped from Geralt’s throat. All the control, the centuries of disciplined Witcher training, vanished in a heartbeat. He lunged.
He tackled her into the soft moss, his heavy body pinning her down. There was no gentleness, no slow build-up; they were entirely consumed by a primal, feral madness. Y/N screeched, not in fear, but in absolute, agonizing want, her nails digging through his leather armor, ripping at the straps to get to his bare skin.
"Y/N," Geralt snarled against her neck, his teeth biting down hard enough on her mating mark to draw blood, his tongue instantly lapping it up. "Mine. Mine."
"Geralt, now—please, now!" she gasped, her legs locking around his hips.
The pollen didn't just alter their minds; it altered their very biology. Deep within their mutated bodies, dormant, scarred reproductive systems unlocked under the influence of the magical toxin, shifting and adapting to become hyper-fertile for a single night.
Geralt tore his trousers away, his erection rigid and leaking. He didn't use oil; he didn't need to. Y/N was already soaking wet, her body weeping juices in response to his scent. He drove into her with a brutal, unrelenting thrust that made her scream to the canopy, her vision flashing white.
They lost themselves to the dark, ancient magic of the pollen. It was a frantic, sweaty, animalistic rutting that lasted for hours. Geralt took her from behind, his hands gripping her hips so tightly he left bruises that would take days to heal, his hips slamming against her ass with a rhythm that shook the breath from her lungs. Every time he came inside her—flooding her womb with a thick, mutated seed that suddenly found a receptive harbor—the pollen urged him to do it again. They rolled through the dirt and the crushed blue petals, biting, clawing, and howling into the night until the sun finally breached the horizon.
The Morning After and the Second Night
When the sun hit Y/N’s face, the fever broke.
She woke up aching, covered in dried sweat, dirt, and sticky fluids. Geralt was collapsed beside her, his face buried in her neck, his arm clamped around her waist like a vice. The glowing plants were dead, withered into black ash.
They got up in total, tense silence. The feral fog had cleared, leaving them with the jarring, vivid memories of what they had done. They dressed, retrieved their swords, and walked out of the hollow.
In the nearby village, the alderman looked terrified when they returned, admitting he had lied about the monster to get someone to clear out a witch's cursed garden. Geralt snatched the heavy pouch of crowns without saying a single word, his face a mask of stone.
That night, they set up camp a dozen miles away. The silence between them was suffocating until Geralt finally snapped a twig and threw it into the fire.
"We need to talk about it," he said, his voice rough.
Y/N sat on her bedroll, pulling her knees to her chest. "I’ve never felt anything like that. It wasn't just lust, Geralt. It felt... biological. Like a command."
Geralt got up, walking over to her side of the fire, and knelt in front of her. He took her hands, his eyes searching hers. "Did I hurt you?"
"No," she whispered, looking down. "I wanted it. I wanted you to rip me apart. I still..." She swallowed hard, her eyes drifting to his lips. "The pollen is gone, Geralt. But looking at you right now... I still want it."
Geralt’s jaw clenched. The primal urge wasn't entirely gone; the memory of it had awakened something deeply possessive in him. "Good. Because I haven't been able to think about anything else all day."
He leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that was slow, deep, and dripping with a raw, conscious hunger. There was no pollen forcing their hands this time—only choice. Geralt pulled her tunic over her head, his hands much gentler now but no less urgent, laying her back onto the furs. That night, beneath the stars, they made love with a fierce, deliberate passion, washing away the dirt of the hollow and replacing it with the profound warmth of their actual devotion.
Kaer Morhen and the Diagnosis
Three months later, the first snows began to fall, driving them back up the steep, perilous mountain trail to Kaer Morhen.
The old keep was cold, but it felt like home. Lambert and Eskel were already there, trading insults by the hearth, while Vesemir oversaw the stocking of the larders.
But a week after their arrival, something went wrong.
Y/N woke up and immediately rolled out of bed, staggering to the chamber pot and retching violently. Geralt was out hunting with Lambert, trying to secure enough venison for the deep winter, leaving her alone.
By midday, she couldn't even walk into the great hall. The smell of roasted mutton and ale made her stomach violently turn, and she spent an hour dry-heaving in the courtyard.
Eskel noticed first, his scarred face tightening with concern. He immediately went to Vesemir. Within minutes, the old witcher entered Y/N's quarters, carrying a tray of foul-smelling but medicinal herbs and a silver dagger.
"You look like death, girl," Vesemir said gently, sitting on the edge of her cot. "Eskel says you haven't kept food down in three days."
"Just a stomach bug," Y/N groaned, pressing a cold rag to her forehead. "Or bad meat."
"Witchers don't get stomach bugs. And your metabolism handles rotten meat just fine," Vesemir countered, his eyes sharp. "Give me your hand."
He pricked her finger with the silver dagger, letting a few drops of her dark, mutated blood fall into a shallow stone bowl containing a mixture of crushed mandrake root and water from the keep's ancient well.
Vesemir began to stir the mixture, chanting a low, diagnostic incantation in the Elder Speech. Y/N watched indifferently, expecting him to find a lingering parasite or a rare venom.
Suddenly, the mixture turned a vibrant, shocking shade of deep crimson, and a sweet, faint scent of honey wafted into the air.
Vesemir froze. He dropped the stirring rod. He stared at the bowl, then looked up at Y/N, his eyes wider than she had ever seen them in her entire life.
"Vesemir?" she asked, sitting up. "What is it? Am I dying?"
"No," Vesemir breathed, his voice trembling with a mixture of awe and absolute disbelief. "You're pregnant."
Y/N laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "That’s impossible. The Trials. I'm sterile, Vesemir. Geralt is sterile. We're monsters."
"The magic in this bowl doesn't lie, Y/N. There is a heartbeat inside you. A mutated, growing heartbeat," Vesemir insisted, leaning closer. "How did this happen? Tell me everything you and Geralt did this season. Every contract, every monster, every strange thing you encountered."
Stunned into submission, Y/N told him. She detailed the false contract in Sodden, the midnight-blue flowers that pulsed with light, the explosive golden pollen, and the feral, uncontrollable rutting that had lasted the entire night.
Vesemir listened in rapt silence, his jaw tightening. "Don't tell Geralt yet. He’s out on the mountain, and if he hears a whisper of this, he’ll lose his mind and run his horse off a cliff. Let me dig through the archives. I need to know what those flowers were."
The Revelation
For two days, Vesemir locked himself in the dusty, crumbling library of Kaer Morhen, surrounded by ancient elven texts and pre-conjunction herbalism journals.
When he finally emerged, Geralt had just returned from the hunt, hauling a massive elk carcass into the courtyard. Y/N was sitting by the fire in the great hall, sipping warm water, feeling exhausted but anxious.
"Geralt, Y/N. Into the laboratory. Now," Vesemir commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Geralt wiped the blood from his hands onto a rag, his yellow eyes tracking Vesemir’s grim expression. "What’s wrong? Is there a threat?"
"Just follow me," Vesemir growled.
Once the heavy oak doors of the laboratory slammed shut, Vesemir slammed a massive, leather-bound book onto the stone table. It was open to a detailed charcoal drawing of the exact midnight-blue flower they had seen in Sodden.
"You found it," Y/N whispered, stepping forward. Geralt immediately moved to her side, his hand brushing against hers, sensing the high tension in the room.
"It is called The Seed of the Sun-Drop," Vesemir began, pointing a calloused finger at the text. "It is an incredibly rare, magically engineered elven plant, thought to be extinct for three centuries. The elves created it during the early days of the humans' arrival, trying to find a way to counter the magical curses of sterility that human mages cast on them."
Geralt frowned. "What does it have to do with us?"
"The pollen of this plant acts as a violent, localized biological catalyst," Vesemir explained, looking directly into Geralt’s eyes. "When inhaled by humanoid species—even mutated ones like us—it temporarily overrides all genetic locks, scars, and chemical suppression. It forces the body into a state of hyper-fertility and triggers a feral, hormonal mating response to ensure successful conception."
Geralt froze, his entire body going rigid. "Vesemir. What are you saying?"
"I’m saying, Geralt, that the contract was a setup by someone who knew what those plants could do. And it worked." Vesemir looked at Y/N, his voice softening. "Y/N is pregnant. With your child."
The laboratory went deathly quiet.
Geralt slowly turned his head to look at Y/N. The legendary White Wolf, the slayer of dragons and kings, looked entirely paralyzed. His chest heaved as he processed the words. A child. His child. With the woman he loved.
"Pregnant?" Geralt choked out, his voice cracking. He stepped closer, his trembling hands reaching out to hover over her stomach, not quite daring to touch her. "Is it... is it safe? Will it kill her?"
"That is what I spent the last forty-eight hours researching," Vesemir said, placing a reassuring hand on Geralt's shoulder. "Because she is a Witcher, her body is stronger than any human woman's. The child is carrying both of your mutations, meaning your bodies are perfectly matched. The pregnancy will be fast—roughly six months instead of nine—and she will require double the rations and a steady intake of mild healing elixirs to support the magical development. But she will survive it, Geralt. You both will."
Y/N took Geralt’s shaking hands and pressed them firmly against her abdomen. "Geralt. Look at me."
He looked up, his yellow eyes swimming with a rare, beautiful sheen of tears.
"We’re going to be parents," she whispered, a tear slipping down her own cheek.
A choked sob escaped Geralt’s throat as he buried his face in her neck, wrapping his massive arms around her, holding her so tightly it felt as though he would never let go. "I will protect you," he swore fiercely, his voice a gravelly, protective rumble against her skin. "I will protect both of you. Always."
From the doorway, Vesemir offered a rare, genuine smile, closing the ancient book. The Path had always been cruel, but for the first time in history, Kaer Morhen was going to hear the cry of a newborn child—born not of silver and trial, but of magic and love.
The Blood of the Wolf
The winter at Kaer Morhen, usually defined by the bitter cold, the howling winds, and the monotonous scraping of whetstones against swords, took on an entirely new rhythm. The secret didn't stay a secret for long. Lambert had walked into the laboratory to steal some alchemy alcohol, only to find Geralt holding Y/N like she was made of blown glass while Vesemir muttered over a stack of elven text.
Once Lambert knew, Eskel knew. And once Eskel knew, the atmosphere of the ancient keep shifted dramatically.
"Step aside, little mother," Lambert grunted one morning, practically shoving Y/N away from the heavy oak table in the great hall. He slammed down a massive bowl of thick stew, loaded with venison, potatoes, and enough animal fat to sustain a bear through hibernation. "Eat. You're looking thin, and if you drop dead, Geralt will find a way to blame me."
Y/N rolled her eyes, though a soft smile tugged at her lips. "I am perfectly capable of carrying my own bowl, Lambert. My legs aren't broken."
"Eat the stew, Y/N," Eskel said quietly from the hearth, not looking up from the boot he was oiling. "Vesemir said your metabolism is burning through energy twice as fast. Don't fight us on this."
It was true. By the fourth month, Y/N’s belly had rounded into a distinct, firm curve that no amount of loose tunics could hide. Her witcher senses, already sharper than any human's, had gone completely haywire. She could hear the mice moving beneath the floorboards three levels down. She could smell the exact moment Lambert forgot to wash his undergarments from across the courtyard. But the most overwhelming scent was always Geralt.
Geralt had become functional but intensely, quietly possessive. He barely left her side. When he had to go to the lower levels to fetch firewood or check the structural integrity of the walls against the heavy snows, his eyes would linger on her, heavy with an instinctual anxiety he couldn't quite shake.
The Mid-Winter Fever
It happened during a fierce blizzard in late January. The wind screamed through the broken battlements of the keep, driving the temperature down to a lethal freeze.
Y/N woke in the middle of the night, her skin slick with sweat, gasping for air. Her chest felt tight, and a strange, hot ache radiated from her lower back down to her thighs. The mutations and the pregnancy were warring inside her, her accelerated healing trying to adapt to the rapidly growing life within her.
She shifted, trying to sit up, but a heavy, scarred arm immediately tightened around her waist, pulling her back against a broad, warm chest.
"Y/N," Geralt rumbled, his voice thick with sleep but instantly alert. He pressed his forehead against the back of her neck, his eyes snapping open in the dark. "You're burning up. Your heart is racing."
"I'm fine," she wheezed, clutching his forearm. "It's just... the baby is kicking. Or rearranging my ribs. I can't tell."
Geralt shifted, rising onto his knees. In the dim glow of the dying embers, his yellow eyes glowed faintly. He laid a large, calloused hand over her swollen belly. Almost instantly, a sharp nudge pushed back against his palm. A fiercely tender look softened his rugged features, but it was quickly replaced by a dark, simmering heat.
The lingering trace of the sun-drop pollen had long left their systems, but the biological bond it had forged remained. Geralt’s inner wolf, the apex predator, looked at her expanding body and felt a primal urge to claim, to comfort, and to soothe the ache in his mate.
"Let me help," he whispered, his voice dropping into that gravelly register that always made her core tighten.
He didn't wait for an answer. Geralt gripped the hem of her oversized linen shirt and pulled it gently over her head. Y/N flushed under his intense gaze. Her body had changed; her breasts were fuller, her veins a pale blue against her skin, her waist completely gone. But to Geralt, she looked like a goddess.
He leaned down, pressing soft, reverent kisses over her throat, down the slope of her breast, before settling his mouth over her stomach. He murmured low words in the Elder Speech against her skin—blessings of safety, promises of blood and iron to protect them.
Y/N groaned, her fingers tangling in his long, white hair. "Geralt... please. I'm aching."
He shifted up, pinning her gently beneath him, careful to keep the majority of his massive weight braced on his forearms. He looked down at her, his expression a mix of fierce devotion and raw, unbridled lust.
"Slowly," he murmured. "Tell me if it hurts."
When he pushed inside her, it wasn't the feral, violent rutting of the Sodden hollow. It was deep, agonizingly slow, and filled with a heavy, deliberate rhythm. Y/N arched her back, her hands gripping his muscular shoulders as he filled her completely. The warmth of him, the familiar, intoxicating scent of cedar and ozone, washed over her, completely driving away the fever and the chill of the blizzard outside.
Geralt moved with a steady, possessive friction, his lips catching her sighs, his thumb tracing the sharp line of her jaw. Every stroke was a vow. He loved her on the Path, he loved her in the mud, and he loved her now, bearing the impossible fruit of their union. When he finally came, it was with a low, primal growl, his forehead resting against hers as they rode out the waves of pleasure together in the dark.
The Birth of a New Path
Two months later, as the first signs of the spring thaw began to crack the ice on the mountain, the great hall of Kaer Morhen echoed with a sound it had never heard in its entire blood-soaked history.
It wasn't the sound of steel, or the screaming of children being subjected to the agonizing Trial of the Grasses.
It was the sharp, healthy cry of a newborn baby.
Vesemir sat back, his hands covered in blood, a look of profound, weary peace on his old face as he wrapped the infant in a soft, clean wolf-pelt. Eskel and Lambert stood by the door, completely silent, their usual cynical armor utterly shattered by the sight.
Geralt was on his knees by the bed, holding Y/N’s hand. She was exhausted, her pale hair damp with sweat, but her yellow eyes were bright with a fierce, maternal light.
Vesemir gently handed the bundle to Y/N.
It was a girl. She was perfectly formed, with a tuft of dark hair and, when her tiny eyelids fluttered open, a pair of clear, unmutated blue eyes that promised to turn a brilliant, golden yellow in the years to come. She carried the resilience of the Witcher bloodline without the torture of the laboratory.
Geralt leaned in, his large finger gently brushing against the baby's tiny, fragile hand. The infant’s fingers instinctively curled around his thumb, gripping with a surprising, supernatural strength.
A quiet, breathless laugh escaped Geralt’s chest, a tear finally slipping down his scarred cheek.
"She’s strong," Y/N whispered, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Like her father."
"Like her mother," Geralt corrected softly, kissing Y/N’s temple before looking down at his daughter.
The Path would always be dangerous. The world outside would always fear what they didn't understand, and monsters would always lurk in the dark. But as the sun broke through the frosted windows of Kaer Morhen, illuminating the new life held between them, Geralt knew one thing for certain.
The lineage of the Wolf was no longer a curse of death and sterility. It was a promise of life. And they would defend it to the absolute end of the earth.
The First Steps
The spring thaw brought more than just blooming wolfsbane and running rivers to the Blue Mountains; it brought an entirely new existence to the witchers of Kaer Morhen. The ancient, drafty fortress, built to train killers and withstand sieges, had been hastily retrofitted for a baby.
Spikes on the training dummies in the lower courtyard were wrapped in thick burlap. The flagstones in the great hall were swept twice a day to clear away stray splinters from Lambert’s wood-carving or the dirt from Eskel’s boots.
"She’s staring at me again," Lambert muttered one evening, sitting by the roaring hearth.
A six-month-old girl sat in a small, reinforced wooden playpen that Eskel had spent three weeks sanding down so there wasn't a single rough edge. Her name was Miren. Her eyes had finally begun to change, the initial human blue giving way to a striking, molten amber that mirrored her parents'.
"She likes your ugly face, Lambert," Y/N said, walking into the hall with a stack of freshly washed linens. Her body had healed with the terrifying efficiency of her mutations, her waist returning, though her hips remained slightly wider, a permanent testament to the life she had carried.
"She’s plotting," Lambert grumbled, though he secretly reached a calloused finger over the wooden slat. Miren instantly grabbed it, pulling his massive hand forward with a sharp tug that made the hardened killer chuckle under his breath. "See? Supernatural grip. She’s going to be a menace."
"She’s a Wolf," a deep, gravelly voice echoed from the stairwell.
Geralt stepped into the light of the fire, carrying a fresh crate of supplies from the lower cellars. His yellow eyes immediately sought out Y/N, a soft, almost imperceptible softening relaxing his rugged features. He walked over, dropping the crate, and smoothly wrapped an arm around Y/N's waist, pulling her flush against his side. He pressed a firm, lingering kiss to the crown of her head, his scent—now permanently laced with a deep, content pheromone—wrapping around her like a heavy blanket.
"Vesemir wants us in the lab," Geralt murmured against her hair. "He finished translating the rest of the elven texts from the Sodden hollow."
"Is something wrong?" Y/N asked, her maternal instincts instantly flaring as she looked over at Miren, who was currently trying to chew on Lambert’s silver medallion.
"No," Geralt said, his hand sliding down to rest protectively on the small of her back. "But he found out who left the plants there."
The Legacy of the Sun-Drop
In the laboratory, Vesemir stood over a massive map spread across the stone table, several heavy, leather-bound journals stacked beside it. The old witcher looked tired, but the sharp, intellectual gleam in his eyes hadn't faded.
"It wasn't a rogue mage, and it wasn't a curse," Vesemir said without preamble as Geralt and Y/N entered, closing the heavy oak doors behind them.
"Then who planted the Seed of the Sun-Drop?" Y/N asked, leaning against the table.
Vesemir tapped a specific point on the map—the exact coordinates of the Sodden ravine where their lives had altered. "An ancient elven enclave used to reside in those mountains before the first human landing. A sect of Aen Saevherne—Knowing Ones—who specialized in genetic preservation. They knew the humans would bring wars, plagues, and curses of sterility to wipe them out. So, they created a fail-safe."
He opened a journal, revealing a beautifully preserved elven script. "The pollen wasn't meant to be a weapon. It was an environmental trigger. If a male and female of any humanoid species with compatible, magically altered bloodlines entered the grove, the plants would detonate. It was designed to force a mating cycle to ensure that powerful, magical bloodlines could never be truly extinguished from the continent."
Geralt’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing at the text. "They manipulated us. Even centuries dead, their magic forced our hands."
"Does it matter, Geralt?" Y/N countered softly, placing a hand over his rigid forearm. "Look at what came from it. Look at Miren."
Geralt’s gaze softened as he looked down at her, the tension draining from his broad shoulders. He took a deep breath, his fingers intertwining with hers. "No. It doesn't matter. But what does the text say about the future? Will the fertility last?"
Vesemir shook his head, a faint, reassuring smile crossing his weathered face. "The text is explicit. The Sun-Drop pollen permanently repairs the cellular damage caused by the Trial of the Grasses, but only for a specific window. For you two, the hyper-fertility has faded back into a standard, natural baseline. You are no longer sterile, Y/N. Nor are you, Geralt. You are, for all intents and purposes, biologically capable of a normal reproductive cycle."
The revelation hung heavy in the damp air of the laboratory. They weren't just a one-time miracle. The curse of the Witcher trials—the ultimate tragedy that stripped every boy and girl of their humanity and their future—had been permanently broken for them.
"A normal baseline," Geralt repeated, his voice barely a whisper. He looked at Y/N, an entirely new, scorching heat flaring in his amber eyes.
"Yes," Vesemir grunted, turning back to his books with a dismissive wave. "Now get out of my lab. Go back to your daughter, and let an old man get some peace."
The Wolf's Demand
That night, after Miren had finally fallen asleep in her cradle by the hearth, Eskel and Lambert volunteered to watch her so Geralt and Y/N could have a rare moment of privacy in their quarters.
The door to their bedchamber had barely clicked shut before Geralt pinned Y/N against it.
His heavy body pressed into hers, his breath hot and ragged against her ear. The news from Vesemir had lit a wildfire in his veins. For centuries, he had accepted that he would leave nothing behind but blood and a silver sword. Now, the realization that he was fully, unconditionally a man capable of creating life with the woman he worshipped was too intoxicating to bear.
"Geralt," Y/N gasped, her hands immediately flying to his chest, gripping the leather of his jerkin.
"Did you hear what he said?" Geralt growled, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of her throat, making her arch into his touch. "No more curses. No more poisons. Just us."
"I heard," she whispered, her legs instinctively winding around his waist as he lifted her effortlessly off the floor.
He carried her to the massive bed, throwing her down onto the thick wolf furs. He didn't waste time with armor, ripping the buckles loose and throwing the heavy leather across the stone floor. When he stripped her of her clothes, his hands were trembling—not with fear, but with a desperate, heavy reverence.
He leaned down, mapping every inch of her body with his lips. He kissed the faded silvery scars from her hunts, the soft curve of her belly that had housed his child, and the inner thighs that had once clamped around him in a feral frenzy.
"You are mine," Geralt snarled quietly, his eyes dark, the pupils completely dilated as he hovered over her. "Pollen or no pollen. Cursed or whole. You are everything to me, Y/N."
"Show me," she demanded, her fingers digging into the muscles of his back, pulling him down. "Show me, Geralt."
He drove into her with a deep, deliberate stroke that knocked the air from her lungs. It wasn't the frantic, mindless rutting of the Sodden hollow, nor was it the fragile, careful lovemaking of her pregnancy. This was raw, possessive, and triumphant. Geralt set a punishing, heavy rhythm, his hips slamming against hers with a relentless friction that filled the room with the sweet, musky scent of their shared passion.
Y/N threw her head back, her nails drawing bright red lines down his scarred shoulders as he took her again and again. Every touch was an affirmation of their life. He held her hands down against the furs, locking his fingers with hers, staring directly into her eyes as he drove her over the edge, watching her face contort in beautiful, agonizing pleasure.
When he finally unraveled, he buried his face in her hair, a guttural, roaring climax shaking his massive frame as he poured himself inside her—not because a magical plant commanded it, but because his soul demanded it.
The Dawn of the Path
The next morning, the sun broke brilliantly over the snow-capped peaks of Kaer Morhen, flooding their bedchamber with golden light.
Y/N woke up tangled in the furs, her head resting on Geralt’s bare, warm chest. The steady, rhythmic thumping of his mutated heart was the most comforting sound in the world. He was already awake, his long white hair spilling over the pillows, his large hand gently stroking the curve of her hip.
"We’ll have to leave the keep eventually," Y/N said quietly, breaking the peaceful silence. "When spring fully arrives. The Path will call."
Geralt shifted, pulling her closer until her lips were inches from his. "We’ll ride together. Like we always have. Only this time, we’ll need a bigger tent."
Y/N laughed, the sound bright and clear. "Lambert will demand to be the godfather."
"Over my dead body," Geralt grunted, though a genuine smile broke through his rugged exterior. He leaned down, capturing her lips in a soft, lazy morning kiss that spoke of a lifetime of quiet mornings just like this one.
The Trial of the Grasses had tried to turn them into monsters, stripping away their humanity and condemning them to a sterile, violent existence. But nature, magic, and a stroke of ancient elven design had given them the ultimate victory.
They were witchers, yes. They were killers of the dark. But as the distant sound of Miren’s babbling echoed from the great hall, followed by Lambert’s loud, swearing complaints, Geralt knew they were something far greater.
They were a family. And the Path had never looked brighter.
The Gathering of the Wolves
When the snows finally retreated down the valleys, leaving the mountain passes clear, the heavy iron gates of Kaer Morhen ground open for the first time in months. The horses were saddled. Roach and Kelpie stood side by side in the courtyard, their packs modified with sturdier frames and extra canvas to shelter a small, precious addition to their traveling party.
Lambert stood leaning against the stable door, a rare, solemn expression on his face as he watched Y/N secure the leather harness across her chest, safely nestling Miren against her heart.
"Don't let any drowzers get a look at her," Lambert said, his tone deliberately gruff to hide the crack in his voice. "And if she starts teething, give her a piece of salted beef, not your fingers. She’s already got the jaw of a fiend."
"I'll remember, Lambert," Y/N smiled, stepping forward to press a brief, affectionate hug against his armored shoulder. He stiffened, but his large hand patted her back clumsily before he stepped away.
Eskel approached next, holding out a small, beautifully carved wooden medallion. It wasn't a wolf, but a precisely detailed swallow, smoothed by hours of careful sanding. He tied it securely to the edge of Miren’s harness. "A ward for safe travel. Vesemir blessed it."
"Thank you, Eskel," Geralt said, stepping up beside Y/N. The two brothers exchanged a firm, lingering forearm grip. There were no long goodbyes needed between them; the bond of the Wolf ran deeper than words.
At the edge of the courtyard, Vesemir stood with his hands tucked into his heavy leather belt. His ancient, amber eyes looked over the three of them—the white-haired wolf, the miraculous mother, and the child born against all odds of magic and science.
"You've changed the world, you two," the old witcher said softly, his voice thick with the weight of centuries. "For the first time since the Conjunction, we aren't just looking at the end of our kind. We’re looking at a beginning. Keep her safe. Keep each other safe."
"Always," Geralt promised, bowing his head in deep respect to the man who had been a father to him when the rest of the world had abandoned him to the mutations.
A New Path
They rode out of Kaer Morhen under a brilliant, clear spring sky. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine, wet stone, and the distant, sweet promise of wild flowers.
As they descended the steep, winding trails of the Killer, the imposing stone walls of the old keep slowly shrank into the distance. The Path stretched out before them—unforgiving, dangerous, and uncertain. The world hadn't changed; there would still be kings trading in blood, peasants driven by fear, and monsters lurking in the shadows of the woods.
But as the horses trotted in a rhythmic, easy tandem, Geralt reached across the small gap between them, his gloved hand catching Y/N's.
She turned her head, her golden eyes reflecting the bright morning sun, a brilliant, fearless smile lighting up her face. Between them, Miren let out a soft, contented coo, her tiny fingers clutching the carved wooden swallow, her amber eyes wide with wonder at the vast world opening up before her.
Geralt squeezed Y/N's hand, his heart full, the heavy silence of his old life permanently broken by the soft breathing of his family. The elven pollen had been a trap, a forced twist of fate in a dark hollow, but they had taken that stolen spark and turned it into a roaring, unquenchable fire.
They were Witchers, bound by silver and steel, but they were no longer relics of a dying age. They were the dawn of something entirely new. And together, they rode into the light.
The Hearth of the World
Two years later, the Path brought them back to the Pontar valley.
The world had not grown any kinder, but they had grown stronger. Miren was no longer a quiet infant bundled against Y/N’s chest; she was a toddler with a thick mop of white-blonde hair, boundless energy, and her father’s stubborn jaw. She rode in a custom, reinforced basket secured to the front of Geralt’s saddle, loudly pointing at every bird, deer, and dwymer she caught sight of with her terrifyingly sharp amber eyes.
They had established a new rule for their travels: no cheap taverns, no damp cellars, and no contracts that smelled of ancient elven trickery. They took honest work, made good coin, and bought their own privacy.
Tonight, they had rented a small, isolated cabin from a retired miller who asked no questions about their golden eyes or the silver swords strapped to their backs. A fire crackled in the hearth, throwing a warm, amber glow across the wooden floors.
"Geralt, she’s doing it again," Y/N called out from the small kitchen area, where she was chopping vegetables for a stew.
Geralt looked up from the table, where he had been meticulously cleaning his silver blade. Miren was sitting on a thick sheepskin rug by the hearth, holding a heavy iron poker that should have been far too heavy for a two-year-old. She wasn't just holding it; she was balancing it perfectly on one tiny finger, her brow furrowed in intense concentration.
"Miren," Geralt said, his voice dropping into that low, authoritative rumble that instantly commanded attention. "Put it down."
Miren looked at her father, her molten-gold eyes flashing with a touch of defiance that she had entirely inherited from Y/N. Slowly, deliberately, she lowered the iron poker to the floor without making a sound—a display of stealth and physical control that made Geralt’s chest swell with an absurd amount of pride.
"She’s getting faster," Geralt murmured, walking over to the rug and lifting the little girl effortlessly into his arms. Miren immediately wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his white hair, smelling of woodsmoke and milk. "Her reflexes... they're adapting ahead of her growth."
"She’s a Witcher's daughter," Y/N said, stepping out of the kitchen and wiping her hands on a cloth. She walked over, leaning her head against Geralt’s shoulder, her eyes softening as she watched their daughter yawn. "But she gets to choose her own Path, remember? We promised."
"I remember," Geralt whispered, kissing Y/N’s temple before placing Miren down in the small makeshift crib near the bed. Within minutes, the little girl was fast asleep, breathing softly beneath a pile of heavy furs.
A Different Kind of Hunger
With the child asleep, the atmosphere in the quiet cabin shifted. The domestic warmth faded, replaced by the familiar, heavy pull that had existed between Geralt and Y/N since that fateful night in the Sodden hollow.
Geralt turned around, his eyes locking onto Y/N. The yellow of his irises seemed to darken, his pupils dilating slightly as his senses took her in. Even after two years, the scent of her—now completely intertwined with the deep, grounding scent of motherhood and their shared life—acted on him like an intoxicant.
"You're staring," Y/N said, a teasing, dangerous smile playing on her lips as she stepped backward toward the heavy wooden bed.
"You're beautiful," Geralt grunted, his voice dropping an octave as he followed her, his steps slow and predatory.
He didn't wait for her to reach the bed. He caught her by the waist, his large, calloused hands gripping her hips with a possessive strength that instantly made her breath catch. He pinned her against the sturdy wooden post of the bedframe, his heavy body crowding into hers until there wasn't an inch of air between them.
"Geralt," she gasped, her hands flying to the laces of his shirt, tearing them open to get to the heat of his skin. "The stew—"
"Let it burn," he growled against her lips, before capturing her mouth in a kiss that was deep, bruising, and heavy with a raw, conscious hunger.
There was no magical pollen forcing their hands now, no ancient elven curse dictating their actions. This was entirely their choice—a celebration of the fact that they were fully alive, fully functional, and completely consumed by one another. Geralt stripped her clothes away with a practiced, urgent reverence, his hands mapping the familiar curves of her body, lingering on the soft stretch marks on her hips that he considered more beautiful than any royal treasure.
He lifted her, her legs locking tightly around his waist as he drove into her with a deep, uncompromising thrust. Y/N buried her face in his neck, biting down on his shoulder to muffle the cry of pure, agonizing pleasure that ripped from her throat.
Geralt set a slow, punishingly deep rhythm, his muscles straining as he held her aloft, his chest heaving against hers. The heat in the cabin grew oppressive, filled with the musky, intoxicating scent of their desire. He loved her with a fierce, deliberate territoriality, his amber eyes locked onto hers in the dark, watching her expression unwrap into total surrender as he pushed her over the edge again and again.
When he finally let himself go, he poured himself inside her with a low, guttural roar, his body trembling as he collapsed with her onto the thick furs of the bed, holding her so tightly it felt as though they were a single entity.
The Promise of Tomorrow
The next morning, the sun broke through the grimy glass windows of the cabin, painting the room in strokes of brilliant gold.
Y/N woke up with her head resting securely on Geralt’s chest, his fingers lazily tracing circles on her bare shoulder. From the corner of the room, the soft, rhythmic sounds of Miren waking up—rustling through her blankets and talking to her wooden swallow medallion—filled the quiet space.
"Geralt," Y/N whispered, her eyes shining with a sudden, quiet realization as she looked down at her own stomach, then up at him. "The baseline Vesemir talked about."
Geralt stopped his tracing, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at her. His witcher senses, tuned specifically to her biology, picked up the subtle, microscopic shift in her hormones—the familiar, faint scent of honey and ozone beginning to bloom in her blood once more.
A slow, breathless smile broke through his rugged beard, his eyes crinkling at the corners with an emotion so profound it made his throat tighten.
"A bigger tent," he murmured, his voice thick with a fiercely protective warmth as he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a deep, lingering morning kiss. "We’re definitely going to need a bigger tent."
The Path ahead of them would always be long, winding, and fraught with danger. But as Miren scrambled out of her crib and toddled over to tumble onto the bed between them, laughing as Geralt caught her in his massive arms, Y/N knew they had already won. They were the Wolves of Kaer Morhen, and their pack was only growing.
Epilogue: The Legacy of Silver and Gold
Ten Years Later
The courtyard of Kaer Morhen had not seen this much life since before the great massacre that had nearly wiped out the school. The ancient stones, once stained with the tragic blood of children who had failed the Trials, were now worn smooth by the frantic, racing footsteps of two young girls.
"Miren! Look out behind you!"
A sharp, warning shout cut through the crisp mountain air. A ten-year-old girl with wild, white-blonde hair spun on her heel. In her hand, a training sword made of heavy ash wood whipped through the air in a perfect, instinctive deflection, parrying a lunging blow from her younger sister.
Seven-year-old Lyra—possessing her mother’s dark hair but her father’s piercing gold eyes—stumbled back onto the gravel, huffing as she wiped sweat from her forehead.
"You cheated," Lyra pouted, lowering her wooden blade. "You used your ears. I didn't even make a sound!"
"Witchers don't just rely on their eyes, little sister," Miren said, a familiar, arrogant smirk crossing her face—a look she had entirely stolen from Uncle Lambert. She offered a hand, hoisting Lyra back to her feet with a strength that belied her young age. "You have to listen to the shift in the gravel before the step is even taken."
From the wooden balcony overlooking the courtyard, Geralt stood with his arms crossed over his chest. His long white hair was tied back, a few more lines etched into his rugged face, but his eyes were filled with a profound, unshakeable contentment.
A pair of soft, familiar arms wrapped around his waist from behind, a warm cheek pressing against his shoulder blade. Y/N leaned into his back, her scent—always that intoxicating blend of sweet honey, cedar, and the sharp scent of the mountain wind—instantly washing over him.
"They're getting too good," Y/N murmured, watching their daughters down below. "Lambert tried to show Miren a dirty tavern trick with a dagger yesterday, and she almost took his eyebrow off."
Geralt let out a low, rumbling chuckle, his large hand coming down to cover hers where they rested against his ribs. "Serves him right. He shouldn't be teaching her tavern brawling anyway."
He turned in her embrace, pulling her around to face him. He looked down at her, his yellow eyes tracking the faint silver scars on her face, the brilliant, molten gold of her irises, and the radiant, ageless beauty she still possessed. The mutations that had once been a curse of death had become a shield of longevity, allowing them to age slowly, gracefully, and completely together.
The Grandmaster's Peace
The heavy oak doors of the great hall creaked open, and Vesemir stepped out into the sunlight. The old witcher walked with a slight limp now, the weight of centuries finally catching up to his joints, but his spirit was lighter than it had ever been. He carried a heavy leather book under one arm and a basket of freshly harvested mountain herbs in the other.
"Miren! Lyra! Inside," Vesemir called out, his gravelly voice echoing off the stone walls. "Time for your herbalism and history lessons. If you can't identify the difference between aconite and wolfsbane by dinner, Lambert is cooking."
Both girls shuddered in unison at the threat of Lambert’s culinary skills, instantly shearing their wooden swords into their belts and sprinting across the courtyard toward the old man.
"Can we learn about the elves today, Grandfather?" Lyra asked, jumping up to grab the sleeve of his coat. "The ones who made the pretty blue flowers?"
Vesemir smiled, a deeply tender expression that he reserved only for the girls, running a calloused hand over her dark hair. "Perhaps. If you finish your Latin translations first."
Geralt and Y/N watched as the three of them disappeared into the warmth of the great hall, the heavy doors closing behind them.
The Eternal Path
"Vesemir looks younger every year," Y/N whispered, leaning her back against the balcony railing, looking up at Geralt.
"He has a reason to live now," Geralt said softly. He stepped closer, crowding into her space just as he had done in a hundred different campfires, cheap taverns, and isolated cabins across the continent. He reached out, his thumb gently tracing the sharp line of her jaw. "We all do."
The Path was still out there. In a few weeks, when summer fully bloomed, Geralt and Y/N would take their horses and ride down the mountain trails again. There would always be monsters to slay, contracts to fulfill, and coin to be made. But they were no longer desperate killers drifting aimlessly through a hostile world.
They were protectors of a legacy. A new school of the Wolf, built not on the torture of innocent children in a laboratory, but on the foundation of love, choice, and a miracle born from an ancient elven grove.
Geralt leaned down, his lips catching hers in a deep, slow, and profoundly reverent kiss. It carried the memory of the feral night in Sodden, the quiet comfort of the winter blizzards, and the absolute certainty of their future.
"I love you," he murmured against her lips, his hands settling firmly on her hips, pulling her flush against his chest.
"I know," Y/N smiled, her golden eyes flashing with a playful, dangerous heat as she wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him tight against the bright spring sky. "Now come inside before Lambert actually tries to make dinner."
As they walked back into the keep together, hand in hand, the shadows of Kaer Morhen’s dark past were completely driven away by the bright, echoing laughter of the next generation. The curse was broken. The path was theirs. And the Wolves would never walk alone again.
Divorced Dad!Captain Syverson who experiences a real time brain short-circuit when he sees how well you get along with his kids during your first meeting with them…
Warning(s): Breeding kink, size kink, old man!Sy, age gap, manhandling, groping, fluff, boob play, unprotected p-in-v, I added plot to it TT. MDNI.
. . .
After the messy divorce that followed his turbulent marriage, Sy was not looking forward to any relations with the opposite sex, if possible. With his former profession a constant hurdle to his life as part of a unionized pair and marital bliss, what had started as a promising relationship had turned out to be one of those unfortunate marriages where children were sought as a last resort to perhaps save the remnants of the already rotten love between man and wife. Though being someone from a background that held family in the highest esteem and always having been fond of the idea of his own lot, Sy loved his children more than life itself and there was not a thing in the world he would trade for them. And that was the reason why he had preferred to opt for an early retirement so custody would not be an issue between him and his ex-wife who was more than eager to shed off everything affiliated with the name Syverson like an illness.
You, on the other hand, though not much experienced with the opposite sex were not too warm to the idea of children. Being a student in her last year of higher education and only so old as you were, your attitude hardly deserved to be subjected to scrutiny. That, and the fact that you hadn't really had many young ones around you while growing up as an only child, calling you a foreigner to the scene would not qualify as an exaggeration and hence it can be said that it is more indifference than contempt on your part.
So naturally, when it happened, it was strictly unplanned. And very fateful. With a rather traumatized Sy in a sort of an emotional limbo who had more than enough reason to keep to himself, and a stressed with soon approaching future endeavors as well as disillusioned with the opposite sex you, the night you had bumped into each other outside the bar restrooms where Sy had been dragged to cheer up by his friends and you to loosen up by yours, the rather fast yet steady rate at which the two of you had woven into each other had been unexpected to say the least.
But now, as Sy fires up the grill in his backyard to begin the little BBQ he has planned for today when you meet his children for the first time, the prided and much experienced grill expert nearly burns his hand because he is so busy inwardly fawning over how quickly his rugrats have warmed up to you. And you, Sy will swear on anything that you are just the most perfect woman— person alive. Everything is just right with you. Even on days when the world seems to press down on him, your mere presence is there to help his spirits back up and elate as well as support him in every sense.
Though he had been honest about his condition since the beginning, after his initial reluctance to get with you as you were so much younger and inexperienced compared to him, children weren't peculiarly a topic that came up between the two of you except occasions where Sy wanted to share a little victory or rant with you. So as you keep his toddler on one hip with a protective arm around her, your perfect body -Sy's words- clad in a bonny bright coloured sundress, and hold the hand of his 5 year old who excitedly shows you around the mini patio of the modern farmhouse, memories of his own mother scarce if any, your making conversation with the boy and giggling along to his lisp droning flutters Sy's heart in a way that he thought he had outgrown.
It also excites him with a kind of boyish heat that the former military Captain had thought he had shed off with his adolescent youth.
And so he just has to have you by yielding to a similar impatience and desperation, the musical sound of your giggles faintly fluttering its melodies upon his flush and thumping ears as he gets to it.
“God, Sy!” The huff in your words fires him up even more and he cannot hold back any longer. “You’re such a brute!” His coarse and scarred paws heavily pull at your dress with a crazed desperation to help you find the restroom, as he had told one of the farm hands that he had left the children under. “Oof!” The whine you let out before instinctively craning your head to try and ease the way his thick beard tickles the tender skin of the curve of your neck makes him growl into your carotid pulse that he worships with his hot lips, the pressure of your pressing your face into his as well as the soft pants you let out, your chest bumping into his with each heave of your lungs, only lithifies his bulging erection even more.
“Gon' fatten up your pretty lil’ pussy with my cum, baby” Sy's breaths scorch your clammy skin with their burning weight. His hands grope and expose you everywhere they can reach, and they can do so everywhere because of how much smaller hence ragdoll-like you are compared to him. “Wouldja like that, angel?” Your eyes roll to the back of your head when he boosts your thighs up his tall legs and around his waist, the fat and leaking tip of his cock grazing against your holes from how he is kissing you everywhere he can reach. “Me stuffing that cute tummy full of siblings for Tim and Bethy, huh?” You know he would never actually do something as serious so callously without a prior discussion so you breathlessly nod, pushing your oral muscles to gulp down the thick bile in your throat and tip your head against the wall to prepare yourself to withstand his intrusion of your pussy that thanks to his girth always feels like not only your first time with him but your very deflowering in general.
“Yes” your mouth falls open as he reaches below the hold with which he has your whole body propped up. “Yes, please~” his balmy tip finds its destination in the tiny, drenched and quivering closed up band that leads to your reproductive cavern. “Please fimme with your babies, Sy~” when the stretch makes your tiny hole burn around his girth, your mouth lets loose all the obscene words of vulgar desire.
“Yeah, baby?” Sy's fingers flex over your ass and caress their way up your side before coming down and repeating the action, his thumb stealing strokes of your nipples as he does. “Wanna make me a Daddy, yeah?” A hiss leaves your mouth and your back arches at the feeling of your walls sheathing him deep within themselves. His breathtaking urgency nearly puts a dent in your innards. “Want me to make you all round and heavy here?” Your pussy clenches around the hilt of his cock when he suddenly gropes your naval into a greedy handful.
“Yes, please, Sy!” Your whole form bounces up in the air when the man gives you a thrust so powerful that has you mewling and digging your nails in his shoulders. “Wanna make you a Daddy so bad, Sy!” His dick has always had a hypnotic effect on you, for the minute it's in the vicinity of any of your holes, you become a brain dead parrot for him.
“Atta girl~” he cooes, tossing your body further up with a strong stab of his hips so he can clamp his teeth down on one of your boobs.
MASTERLIST
. . .
I am MAD for this man. Like I am not even hot on kids. WHAT—
