SUMMARY: a storm drives you both into an abandoned chapel. you light your lantern and sit near the altar, drying herbs by its glow. he sits in the dark until you offer him half your cloak without a word. when thunder rattles the ceiling, he mutters, “you’re not afraid.” you answer, “you only scare the ones who don’t see you.”
WARNINGS: injured roach if you squint
NOTES: first of my geralt pieces, starting with how he met the reader - hope it’s okay!
[ masterlist ] requests are open
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The storm came crawling over the horizon long before it broke.
You could smell it first — that copper tang of lightning still caged in the clouds. The forest had gone quiet, the kind of quiet that meant even the birds had found cover. Only the wind moved, tugging at the hood of your cloak as you followed the road that sloped toward an abandoned chapel you remembered from a past journey. The villagers said it was cursed. You called it shelter.
You were just rounding the bend when you saw him.
A lone rider, black horse slick with rain, silver hair already darkened by the downpour that hadn’t yet reached you. He dismounted slowly, as if the weight of the world — or of the blades on his back — required him to think about balance.
You recognized him by reputation, if not by name. A Witcher.
You might have kept walking, another traveler passing with a polite nod, but he was staring down at his horse’s leg — something wrong, a limp maybe. Instinct tugged at you the way it always did. You approached.
“She’s favoring the right foreleg,” you said, voice low enough not to startle the animal.
He turned at the sound, those yellow eyes catching the faintest bit of dying daylight. “You see that from here?”
“I see most things limping,” you replied, offering a ghost of a smile. “I’m a healer.”
He said nothing, but didn’t move away when you came closer. You knelt, fingers brushing the mud-caked fetlock, careful not to crowd the mare. The wound wasn’t deep — a stone bruise, perhaps. You pulled a small pouch from your satchel, the scent of crushed comfrey rising with the damp.
He watched as you worked, the kind of silence that felt like studying rather than suspicion. When you straightened, rain began to fall in fat, heavy drops that stung against your skin.
“There’s a chapel ahead,” you said, nodding up the path. “Stone roof, mostly intact. You’ll want cover before that turns to a storm.”
His eyes flicked toward the black line of trees, then back to you. “You’ll want the same.”
You didn’t wait for agreement — only turned and started walking. The rhythm of hooves followed a few steps behind.
By the time you reached the chapel, the sky had split open. The door resisted your shove, wood swollen with years of rain. He stepped past you without a word, shoulder braced against the frame, and it gave way with a low groan.
Inside, it smelled of dust and ash, old prayers clinging to the stones. You lifted your lantern, striking it to life, and warm light spilled across the empty pews.
The Witcher paused in the doorway, rain running down his armor in rivulets of silver. You gestured toward the shadows.
“Come in,” you said simply. “No use letting the storm have us both.”
He hesitated — then followed you in.
The Witcher turned, closing the door against the storm. The sound of the rain softened once there was wood between you and the world — distant now, a steady heartbeat against the chapel walls.
You lifted your lantern higher and took in the ruin. The roof sagged in places, but the altar still stood, stone veined with moss and candle stubs melted down to ghosts of wax. You’d slept in worse.
He stood by the doorway a moment longer, water dripping from the ends of his hair, cloak heavy with it. The faint scent of iron and wet leather carried through the chill.
“You can come closer,” you said, kneeling to set your satchel down. “No sense guarding the door. Whatever hunts out there will wait until dawn.”
He gave a sound halfway between a hum and a sigh, then stepped forward, boots echoing softly on the stone. The horse outside huffed once before settling, and for the first time since the road, the silence didn’t feel dangerous.
You struck a few bits of tinder together until the lantern’s flame grew, brightening to a steady gold. Its glow kissed the walls and touched the edges of his armor. Without the storm’s blur, he was sharper — all scars and steadiness and the quiet gravity of someone built to endure.
You began unpacking the essentials of your trade: rolls of linen, glass vials bound in twine, a pouch of herbs that smelled faintly of mint and earth. You spread them out on your cloak, letting the warmth of the lantern draw the damp away.
He watched, wordless, as you worked — not intruding, not offering help, simply existing in the shared hush. When you finally glanced up, his eyes caught the lantern light like molten gold through smoke.
“You travel light,” he said at last.
“I have to. I go where I’m needed.”
“And people pay you for it?”
“Not always,” you said, voice soft. “Sometimes they just feed me, or let me sleep in their barns. The Path takes care of its own.”
That earned you a faint lift of his brow. “You sound like a Witcher.”
You smiled at that — small, honest, fleeting. “I patch what you kill. I suppose that makes us opposite sides of the same coin.”
He looked at you for a long time, then glanced toward the door again. The thunder cracked closer this time, shaking dust from the rafters. You moved toward the altar, pulling your cloak tighter.
“Sit,” you said, gesturing toward the broken pew opposite yours. “Storm’s only getting worse.”
He hesitated — a creature of instinct, of distance — then finally obeyed.
The lantern burned between you, throwing both your shadows against the walls.
Outside, the storm began to howl. Inside, there was only breath, and warmth, and waiting.
The storm worked its way inside the chapel’s bones. Wind rattled the shutters, and rain pressed against the walls as if trying to remind you that the world outside still wanted in.
You’d grown used to weather like this — storms that drove people into each other’s paths. He seemed less comfortable with it. Every thunderclap drew the faintest flicker of tension through his jaw, a readiness to fight something that wasn’t there.
You reached for your satchel again, half for distraction, half out of habit. “You should get out of that armor. It’ll take a day to dry if you don’t.”
He gave a low sound — not refusal, exactly, but resistance. “Not the first time I’ve ridden through rain.”
“No,” you said, smiling faintly as you sorted a few damp herbs onto a cloth near the lantern. “But maybe the first time you’ve done it with company who knows how to treat pneumonia.”
That earned you the smallest curve of his mouth. He unbuckled one pauldron, the metal clinking softly as it met the floor. The lantern’s light caught his profile — sharper now, but softer, too.
You worked in silence until he spoke again. “Geralt.”
You looked up. “What?”
“My name,” he said simply. “Geralt of Rivia.”
You nodded once, meeting his gaze. “Then I suppose I should tell you mine.”
He tilted his head slightly, waiting.
You gave it — quietly, as if the name might echo too loudly in a place like this. His eyes flicked toward the lantern, thoughtful.
“Not a bad one,” he said after a moment. “Has a steadiness to it.”
A small smile placed itself upon your lips.
A crack of thunder rolled through the rafters, deep enough to make the air tremble. You didn’t flinch, but the lantern swayed, sending your shadows dancing across the walls. He noticed — or maybe he was waiting for you to startle and didn’t know what to do when you didn’t.
“You’re not afraid,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
You met his gaze through the shifting light. “You only scare the ones who don’t see you.”
The words hung there — simple, but heavier than they sounded. Something eased in his shoulders, like tension unwinding from years of habit. The thunder outside rolled away into distance, leaving only the steady rhythm of rain against stone.
He looked at you for a long moment, the sort of look that doesn’t demand understanding but quietly asks for it anyway. You didn’t shy from it.
The lantern’s flame wavered and steadied again, a fragile, stubborn thing — much like the moment between you.
You turned slightly, pulling your cloak closer and holding out one side toward him. “It’s warmer if you sit nearer the light,” you said, not quite an invitation, not quite a command.
Geralt hesitated, then crossed the few feet of empty chapel floor. He sat beside you, the bench creaking under the shared weight. The cloak bridged between you, half yours, half his.
For a while, neither of you spoke. His breath slowed, deep and even, and yours followed suit. The scent of rain and metal gave way to herbs drying by the lantern’s heat — chamomile, mint, smoke.
It wasn’t comfort, exactly. It was something quieter: the absence of fear.
When another rumble of thunder murmured across the hills, he said, “Most people would’ve run the other way.”
You smiled faintly, eyes on the lantern. “Most people aren’t used to what comes after monsters.”
He made a low sound — not laughter, but close enough to count.
Outside, the storm began to pass, its fury traded for drizzle. Inside, time seemed to loosen its grip.
You leaned back against the wall, eyelids heavy, letting the quiet take root. Beside you, Geralt rested one hand over the hilt at his hip — habit more than need — and the other lay open on the bench between you, empty, patient.
Description: In the sacred law of the secondary genders, an Alpha and an Omega are bound by the soul itself. When Geralt of Rivia meets Y/N, the connection is instantaneous, defying the rumors that a mutant Witcher cannot fully claim a mate. They bind themselves during Y/N’s first heat, their marks a permanent vow. But when a magnetic Beta sorceress named Yennefer enters their lives, a sudden, unnatural obsession clouds Geralt’s mind, severing his awareness of his own mate. Caught between the agony of a failing bond and a devastating betrayal, Y/N must decide if a shattered vow can ever truly be
The Pull of the White Wolf
The air inside the Temerian tavern was thick enough to choke a horse. It was a suffocating soup of stale ale, roasted lard, unwashed peasant skin, and the sharp, sour tang of terrified Beta townsfolk. They huddled over their wooden mugs, whispering about the monsters in the marshes and casting frequent, anxious glances toward the darkest corner of the room.
Geralt of Rivia sat there, entirely unmoving. His golden eyes gleamed from beneath his white hair, tracking the nervous movements of the barkeep out of sheer, practiced habit. The local alderman had contracted him for a drowner infestation down by the riverbank, but the coin offered was an insult, and the suffocating atmosphere of the room was wearing on his patience. His medallion rested flat against his leather chest, completely still.
Then, the heavy oak door swung open against the howling wind.
A sudden blast of damp night air swept across the floorboards, carrying with it a scent that sliced clean through the tavern’s rancid filth.
It started as a faint, tantalizing whisper on the breeze, but within seconds, it bloomed into an overwhelming wave of rich, sweet wild honey and rain-soaked earth. An Omega. But to Geralt’s heightened Witcher senses, it wasn't just a pleasant aroma—it was a physical strike directly to his sternum. His lungs expanded, drawing the scent deep into his core, and the ancient, primal Alpha buried beneath his chemical mutations and rigorous training woke up with a deafening roar. The wolf behind his ribs didn't just pace; it scratched at his chest, demanding he look.
Y/N pulled back a wet, dripping hood, stepping across the threshold. Water droplets clung to their eyelashes as their eyes frantically scanned the crowded, rowdy room, looking for an empty table or a dark corner to hide from the storm. But their gaze ground to a sudden halt the moment it locked onto the massive, white-haired figure across the room.
The tavern’s background noise—the clinking of pewter, the raucous laughter, the crackle of the hearth—instantly fell into deafening silence.
Geralt was on his feet before his conscious mind could even process the command. The heavy legs of his chair scraped violently against the floor, drawing a few startled gasps from the nearby Betas, but his eyes never wavered. He crossed the room with heavy, deliberate thuds of his master-crafted boots, his broad shoulders throwing a massive shadow across the floorboards.
Y/N didn't run. Their breath hitched in their throat, their chest heaving as their pupils fully dilated, swallowing the color of their eyes. As Geralt stopped a mere two inches away, his towering frame completely blocked out the rest of the tavern. The sheer mass of his muscle and leather was intimidating, but the scent radiating off him—crisp winter frost, ozone, and old leather—acted like a heavy, warm blanket dropping onto Y/N’s shivering shoulders.
"You," Geralt rumbled. The sound was a low, gravelly vibration that rattled deep in his chest, vibrating straight through the soles of Y/N’s boots and directly into their core.
"You're a Witcher," Y/N whispered, their voice trembling with a frantic, intoxicating heat that had nothing to do with fear. Their hands gripped the edges of their wet cloak just to stay grounded. "The elders in my village... they always said Witchers don't have secondary genders. They told me the trials strip away the beast. They say you can't feel the pull."
"They lie," Geralt interrupted. His voice dropped an octave, rougher now, completely stripped of its usual stoic detachment. Slowly, hesitating for a fraction of a second, his massive, calloused hand rose. He cupped Y/N’s cheek, his rough palm brushing against their skin.
The moment their flesh met, a visible jolt of golden heat snapped through both of their nervous systems. Geralt’s fingers twitched, his thumb automatically sweeping over Y/N’s cheekbone, marveling at how perfectly they fit against him.
"You're my mate," he growled softly, his golden eyes flaring with a dark, territorial light. "I’ve looked for you across three kingdoms. I didn't know I was looking, but I know now."
Y/N leaned heavily into the intense warmth of his palm, their eyes fluttering shut as a soft, helpless sigh escaped their lips. "Yes," they breathed, the ancestral pull of the Omega locking tightly onto his essence. "I am. I'm yours."
The First Heat and the Sacred Mark
Three months later, the theoretical bond became an undeniable, roaring reality. They had fled the crowded towns, seeking the absolute isolation of an abandoned herbalist's cabin hidden deep within the ancient, untamed woods of Aedirn. The air inside the small wooden structure was thick, suffocatingly hot, and dripping with a heavy, syrupy sweetness that pooled in the corners of the room. Y/N’s first true heat had arrived, and it was a vengeance unlike anything they had ever prepared for.
Y/N lay in the center of a massive bed of thick bear furs, flushed, shivering, and panting heavily. Sweat slicked their skin, making their collarbones glisten under the dim moonlight filtering through the window. Every single instinct inside their Omega biology was screaming, clawing at their insides, demanding the heavy, grounding weight of their Alpha.
"Geralt..." Y/N whimpered, their fingers knotting tightly into the dark fur of the blankets, their hips rolling in a restless, agonizing search for friction. "Please. It burns. It hurts so much inside. I need you. Come here, please."
Geralt stood at the edge of the bed, his armor already discarded on the floorboards. Under normal circumstances, his harsh Witcher mutations kept his emotions under a tight, iron lock. But as he looked down at Y/N, his golden eyes were entirely gone, replaced by terrifyingly wide, pitch-black pupils that swallowed the light. The scent of his mate’s heat-fluid had driven his Alpha brain straight to the brink of absolute madness.
"I'm here," he growled, the sound less like a man and more like a predator marking its territory. He climbed onto the creaking bed, his massive, heavily scarred body instantly pinning Y/N beneath him. His skin was burning hot to the touch, sending shocks of electricity wherever his chest pressed against theirs.
The common folk across the Continent always gossiped that Witchers were nothing more than sterile, mutated monsters—incapable of the deep biological functions of an Alpha, completely unable to form the knot that sealed a permanent mating. But as Geralt guided Y/N’s thighs open, draping them over his thick hips, his instincts tore violently through the chemical dams of his mutations.
"Look at me, Y/N," Geralt commanded, his voice raw, his breath hot against their lips. "Open your eyes. Look at who is holding you."
Y/N forced their heavy eyelids open, staring into the dark abyss of his pupils. "Geralt... take me. Make me yours. Completely."
He didn't hesitate. Grabbing Y/N’s hips with enough force to leave faint red marks, Geralt aligned his rigid, leaking length against their dripping opening. With a heavy, unyielding thrust, he buried himself to the absolute hilt.
Y/N let out a loud, high-pitched gasp, their back arching completely off the furs as the sheer, massive width of him stretched them to the absolute limit. It wasn't just a physical entry; it felt as though his very soul had slammed into theirs.
"Ah! Geralt, you're so big," Y/N sobbed, their hands flying up to grip his broad shoulders, their nails digging deep into the thick muscle of his back.
"You're so tight around me," Geralt groaned, his jaw clenching tightly as the incredibly hot, wet friction of Y/N’s heat-walls clamped down around his shaft. He began to move, his strokes long, heavy, and punishingly deep. Every single time his pelvis slammed against theirs, his thick length clipped their deeply hidden Omega spot, sending waves of pure, blinding ecstasy straight to Y/N’s brain.
The cabin filled with the wet, unedited sounds of their joined bodies—the frantic squelch of his cock driving into their excess slick, the heavy, ragged slaps of their skin colliding, and the continuous, low purr vibrating out of Geralt’s throat. Y/N was weeping from the sheer sensory overload, their head thrashing against the furs as climax after climax tore through their body.
"Geralt, I'm falling apart, I'm—"
"Hold onto me," he hoarsely ordered, his pace accelerating into a frantic, bruising speed. "Don't let go."
As the heat reached its absolute, boiling crescendo, the definitive miracle of their bond occurred. Geralt’s hips locked violently forward, his movements freezing as a sudden, massive swelling began at the very base of his shaft. The flesh expanded rapidly, ballooning into a thick, solid sphere of muscle that stretched Y/N’s entrance to an unbelievable degree. The knot. The rumors were completely, utterly wrong.
Y/N shrieked as the intense, internal pressure filled them completely, anchoring them tightly together so that not a single drop of fluid could escape. They were locked, fused together at the pelvis.
"Geralt! The knot—it's so huge, it hurts, but it feels so good!" Y/N cried out, tears pouring down their cheeks as their internal muscles locked up in a massive, prolonged heat-climax.
While locked helplessly together by the knot, the final, sacred step of the bond had to be taken. Geralt leaned down, his white hair falling like a curtain around Y/N’s face. His lips pulled back, baring his sharp canines as he pressed his mouth firmly against the sensitive, throbbing scent gland at the crook of Y/N’s neck.
With a decisive, heavy snap of his jaws, he pierced the skin, biting down deep into the gland.
Y/N screamed, a sharp spike of agony piercing through the pleasure, but within a fraction of a second, the pain dissolved into a rush of pure, golden euphoria as their souls permanently fused across the bridge. The Alpha mark was set.
"Now," Geralt gasped, his blood-stained lips hovering inches from theirs, his body twitching as his own release began to build against the knot. "Mark me back. Claim your Alpha."
Driven by pure, unadulterated instinct, Y/N reached up, wrapping their arms around his neck. They bared their own teeth, pressing their mouth directly to the corresponding gland on the side of Geralt’s neck, and bit down with everything they had.
Geralt let out a loud, guttural roar that shook the rafters of the cabin. The double mark solidified. As his soul locked with theirs, his cock pulsed violently inside Y/N’s womb, unleashing thick, burning ropes of Alpha seed that filled them to the absolute brim, cementing the bond in a flood of heat and white-hot completion.
Enter the Lark
A full year of peaceful, beautiful traveling passed before a vibrant, remarkably loud addition forced his way onto their path. Jaskier, the self-proclaimed greatest bard from the text of the coast to the edges of Nilfgaard, practically thrust himself into their company after a disastrous romantic mishap involving a local count's mistress.
Initially, Jaskier spent every waking hour terrified of Geralt’s brooding silence and massive swords. But as a Beta, he possessed an observational sharp eye, and it didn't take him long to realize that the terrifying, legendary White Wolf was completely malleable whenever his Omega mate was in the room.
"I must say," Jaskier remarked one chilly evening, strumming a series of soft, melancholy chords on his lute while the campfire crackled before them. Y/N was sitting on a log, their head resting comfortably on Geralt’s thick thigh, while Geralt’s large hand methodically, gently combed through their hair. "The high-born ballads completely misrepresent the political landscape of secondary genders. They write about Alphas as mindless, destructive brutes who tear down kingdoms, but look at you, Geralt. You're practically an oversized, silver-haired lapdog."
Geralt didn't even look up from his task, though a low, rumbling warning growl vibrated in his chest. "Shut up, Jaskier. Or I’ll feed your lute to the fire."
"Oh, come now, don't be grumpy!" Jaskier laughed, leaning back against a mossy rock. "I'm merely complementing your domestic bliss. It's quite poetic."
"No, no, he actually has a point, love," Y/N chuckled softly, reaching up to gently swat at Geralt’s chin. "You do soften up quite a bit when it's just us. You're like a giant forest bear."
Geralt’s golden eyes softened instantly as he looked down at Y/N, the sharp edges of his Witcher face melting away. "Only for you," he muttered, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss directly onto the faded, raised scar of the mating mark on Y/N’s neck. "Only ever for you."
Jaskier smiled gently, watching the quiet interaction. As a Beta, he couldn't perceive the thick, heavy waves of pheromones or the invisible, golden telepathic thread linking the two, but the pure, unyielding devotion between them was undeniable. He quickly transformed into a fierce, loyal protector of their dynamic, inserting himself as a dedicated friend to both, ensuring Y/N always had the softest blanket on the rough trails while Geralt was away in the dark woods hunting monsters.
The Lilac and Gooseberries
The ultimate turning point arrived like a sudden winter frost in the bustling, chaotic city of Rinde. Geralt had been frantically searching for a way to cure Jaskier of a horrific, magical throat affliction caused by a rogue djinn, a quest that led them straight to the doorstep of a powerful, deeply enigmatic Beta sorceress: Yennefer of Vengerberg.
The precise moment Yennefer stepped into the dim room, an unnatural, suffocating scent accompanied her—a heavy, overwhelming wave of sharp lilac and tart gooseberries.
She was undeniably beautiful, sharp-tongued, and carried herself with an aura of absolute, terrifying authority. Because she was a Beta, she possessed absolutely no natural instinctual scent markers that should have ever interfered with a sacred Alpha-Omega bond. Yet, the moment Geralt’s golden eyes locked onto her deep violet ones, something deep within his brain snapped. A strange, heavy, freezing fog rolled over his consciousness.
Y/N, standing right at Geralt’s flank, felt a sudden, icy chill tear straight through the center of their bond. Geralt’s large hand, which had been resting possessively on Y/N’s waist out of pure muscle memory, suddenly dropped to his side. His gaze became entirely glassy, locked onto the sorceress as if she were the only beacon of light in a dark world.
"I can help your pathetic little bard," Yennefer said, her voice dripping with calculated, magnetic charm as her violet eyes scanned Geralt’s massive frame with clear appreciation. She glanced briefly at Y/N, but seeing no traditional gold wedding bands, and being a Beta who completely ignored the subtle language of scent dynamics, she assumed Y/N was merely a traveling maid or a servant.
Geralt did absolutely nothing to correct her. He didn't even speak Y/N’s name.
As the days dragged on in Rinde, the unnatural fog clouding Geralt’s mind deepened into an outright, terrifying obsession. He began to leave their tavern room for hours on end, drawn to Yennefer’s lavish quarters like a moth helplessly flying into a raging fire. The sacred mating bond, which usually kept an Alpha entirely, fiercely devoted to their chosen mate, felt suddenly muted—choked out by an artificial, overwhelming compulsion that defied all laws of nature.
He slept with her. The first time occurred in the chaotic aftermath of the djinn's rampage, their bodies coming together amid broken furniture and magical sparks. But the betrayal didn't stop there. Driven by the unnatural fixation, he returned to her sheets a second time. Then a third. A fourth. A fifth.
Each time, Yennefer, completely oblivious to the fact that the Witcher before her was a claimed, marked Alpha, welcomed him into her bed, fully believing him to be an unattached, lonely mutant. Geralt, his mind completely shrouded by the magical fog, never once uttered a word about his Omega.
The Agony of Betrayal
Back in the dim, cold room of the tavern, Y/N was physically, spiritually deteriorating.
Because the Alpha-Omega bond was an intricate, somatic connection tied directly to the soul, a betrayal of this magnitude carried severe, physical consequences. On the very night of Geralt’s first indiscretion, Y/N had awoken with a breathless shriek, clutching their lower abdomen as a sharp, burning cramp twisted their insides like a hot knife.
"Y/N? What is it? What's wrong?" Jaskier had asked, immediately scrambling out of his cot across the room, finding his friend gasping for air on the cold floorboards.
"I... I don't know," Y/N had wheezed, cold sweat soaking through their tunic. "It hurts. Deep inside. Like something is tearing away from my spine."
By the sixth time that phantom, agonizing pain ripped through Y/N’s stomach, they knew it wasn't a physical illness. It happened with horrific, clockwork precision, always in the dead of night when Geralt’s side of the bed was empty and cold. The bond was bleeding out.
Driven by a desperate, agonizing need to stop the tearing sensation, Y/N forced themselves to stand, clutching their trembling stomach. "Jaskier. Get your coat. Come with me."
"Where are we going? Y/N, it's pouring rain, it's past midnight," Jaskier pleaded, but the moment he saw the sheer, unadulterated heartbreak and raw agony etched into Y/N’s pale face, his voice caught in his throat. He grabbed his coat and followed without another word.
They tracked Geralt’s faint, lingering scent through the upper corridors of the grand estate Yennefer was currently occupying. As they ascended the stairs, the air grew heavy, the sweet scent of lilac and gooseberries mixing with the unmistakable, heavy, musky pheromones of an Alpha in the absolute throes of sexual passion.
Y/N’s heart shattered into a thousand pieces before they even reached the door.
The heavy oak door to Yennefer’s master bedchamber was left slightly ajar, a warm sliver of candlelight cutting across the dark hallway floor. Y/N pushed it open just an inch, their trembling hand resting against the wood, while Jaskier peered anxiously over their shoulder.
Inside, the room was bathed in a golden, flickering glow. On the massive bed, Geralt was pinned beneath Yennefer, his massive, scarred hands gripping her hips with bruising force, his white head buried deep in the crook of her neck. He was letting out those exact same deep, low, rumbling growls that Y/N had thought belonged entirely to them. He was completely, utterly consumed, his thrusts heavy, frantic, and relentless, entirely blind and deaf to the world outside the silk sheets. Neither he nor Yennefer noticed the door moving.
Y/N staggered backward into the shadows of the hallway, the physical pain in their lower stomach spiking so violently they nearly fell to their knees. Jaskier caught them by the elbows, his own face turning deathly pale with a mixture of absolute horror and white-hot fury as he looked from the bed back to Y/N.
"Oh, gods," Jaskier whispered, his voice shaking. "Geralt... how could he? The absolute monster..."
Y/N gripped Jaskier’s arm, dragging him away from the door, running down the corridor and out into the freezing night air. The tears were streaming silently down their cheeks, their natural scent of wild honey turning completely sour, bitter, and rancid with grief.
"He broke it," Y/N said, their voice dead, hollow, and devoid of life as they frantically packed their few belongings into a leather saddlebag back at the tavern. "The sacred vow of mates. He gave to a Beta what belongs only to his Omega. He threw our souls into the dirt."
"Y/N, wait, please! We have to confront him! We have to make him look at what he's done!" Jaskier pleaded, trying to take the bags from their hands.
"Explain what, Jaskier? That he prefers her? That he forgot I exist?" Y/N looked up, their eyes hardening with a desperate, tragic resolve. "I am leaving Rinde tonight. I am going to find a mage, a druid, an elven sage—anyone who knows how to sever a mating bond. I refuse to stay bound to an Alpha who cannot stay faithful. I will rip his mark off my neck if it kills me."
"I'm coming with you," Jaskier stated firmly, reaching for his own pack.
"No," Y/N replied, placing a firm hand on the bard's chest. "Stay here. Wait for him to come back. And when he does, you look him in the eye and you tell him exactly what he did. Let him know the cost of his obsession."
The Awakening
An hour later, the heavy oak door to Yennefer’s bedchamber swung open. Geralt stepped out into the corridor, methodically adjusting his leather jerkin and buckling his sword belt. Yennefer followed closely behind, wrapping a loose silk robe around her pale shoulders, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. The post-coital haze was still heavily visible in Geralt’s dull golden eyes, but as his boots hit the stairs leading down to the tavern’s common area, a sudden, eerie silence struck him.
The sweet honey scent that had anchored his soul for over a year was entirely gone. In its place was nothing but the bitter, sharp, burning smell of Jaskier’s unadulterated anger.
Jaskier was sitting alone at a central table, an unopened bottle of wine sitting before him. He was staring directly at the base of the staircase, his eyes filled with a terrifying look of pure hatred.
"Where are they?" Geralt asked. His brow furrowed as a sudden, sharp prickle of unease pierced through the heavy fog in his mind. He looked toward the door of their shared room. "Y/N should be resting."
"They're gone, Geralt," Jaskier said, his voice dangerously low, vibrating with a rage that shook the table. "And they are never coming back to you."
"What are you talking about?" Geralt took a heavy step forward, his Alpha instincts suddenly flashing green, sensing an immediate, catastrophic danger to his pack dynamic. "Did something happen while I was out?"
"Did something happen? Oh, hear the great Witcher ask a question!" Jaskier spat, slamming his fist against the wood as he stood up, towering over the table. "Six times, Geralt! Six separate times Y/N collapsed onto the floorboards of this tavern, screaming in absolute agony because their lower stomach felt like it was being ripped apart by wild dogs! They didn't know why their body was failing them. So tonight, when the pain came back, we went looking for the source. And we found it. In that room upstairs. With her."
Geralt froze mid-step, his skin turning a deathly, chalky pale color. The thick, magical fog that had blanketed his mind for weeks suddenly shattered like glass under a hammer, violently tearing away to reveal the raw, bleeding reality of his actions. His breath caught in his throat. His medallion began to vibrate frantically against his chest.
"They... they saw?" Geralt choked out.
"They saw everything," Jaskier hissed, stepping around the table until he was inches from the Witcher’s face. "Y/N told me to tell you that you broke the sacred vow. They have left Rinde to find a sorcerer or a druid who knows how to sever a mating bond entirely. Because they refuse to stay bound to an Alpha like you."
Behind Geralt, Yennefer gasped, her violet eyes widening in absolute, genuine shock. She stepped around his massive frame, staring at him. "Mate?" she echoed, her voice laced with sudden horror. "What does your bard mean by mate, Geralt? You told me absolutely nothing about a mate!"
Geralt couldn't look her in the eye. He stared blankly at the floorboards, the heavy, suffocating weight of his betrayal crushing the air straight out of his lungs. "I... I am mated. To Y/N. I never hid it... the marks are right here."
Yennefer stepped closer, her breath hitching as she violently pulled back the collar of his leather jerkin. For the very first time, stripped of the distraction of her own spells, she saw it: the faint, distinct, deeply embedded scar of an Omega’s claim biting into his neck gland. She reeled back as if she had touched white-hot iron, her face twisting into disgust.
"I am a Beta, Geralt! I do not read pheromones or scents like your primitive kind do!" Yennefer shouted, her voice echoing off the rafters. "You never spoke a single word of them to me! You let me believe you were an unattached, lonely traveler! You brought me into your bed while your mate was down the hall, dying from the pain of your touch!"
"I... I don't know what happened," Geralt whispered, his voice cracking, a raw, broken sound that Jaskier had never heard from the legendary White Wolf. He gripped his head with his hands. "Every time I looked at you, the lilac... the gooseberries... I forgot. The bond went completely quiet. I couldn't feel their heartbeat anymore. It was like they didn't exist."
"Don't you dare blame my perfume or magic for your own disgusting weakness!" Yennefer screamed, her hands sparking with dangerous violet electricity. "I cannot believe you could do something so utterly repulsive. Y/N has every single right to rip that bond away from you and leave you an empty shell! If you were truly, deeply in love with your mate, no force on this Continent should have ever made you forget their face! If you care about that bond at all, you better start running. Find them before they find a way to sever it, or you will have to live the rest of your miserable, immortal life knowing you murdered your own soul."
The Hunt for the Lost Mate
The search dragged on for four agonizing months. Geralt, Yennefer, and Jaskier formed a tense, highly volatile alliance. Yennefer, deeply shaken by her involuntary role in the destruction of a sacred bond, used every ounce of her magical energy, opening continuous portals and casting complex tracking arrays across the Northern Kingdoms. Jaskier refused to leave Geralt’s side, not out of kindness, but to continuously berate the Witcher and ensure he didn't give up out of despair.
They followed a trail of broken rumors through the muddy roads of Redania, the cold hills of Ellander, and the dense forests of Cidaris. Through the telepathic bridge, Geralt could feel absolutely nothing but a dull, echoing, hollow ache—a terrifying sign that Y/N was actively, forcefully suppressing the connection, starving the bond of any emotional energy.
Geralt was deteriorating rapidly. His white hair was unkempt and matted, his eyes were perpetually bloodshot, and he had completely stopped eating or sleeping. The sheer guilt was eating through his muscular frame like acid.
The breakthrough finally occurred in a dense, lawless forest stretching along the southern border of Temeria. Yennefer suddenly reined in her horse, her hand glowing with a bright purple tracking aura. "Stop. I feel a massive spike of chaotic energy ahead. And... a physical distress signal."
Geralt didn't even wait for her to finish. The wind shifted, and a sudden scent hit his nostrils. It wasn't the pure, sweet honey and fresh rain he worshiped; it was a scent laced with terror, metallic blood, and a sudden, violent, stress-induced spike of pure, slick heat-fluid.
Y/N was in heat. And they were being hunted.
Geralt roared, spurring Roach into a frantic, deadly gallop, tearing through the thick briars and brush without any regard for his own safety. Jaskier and Yennefer struggled to keep up as the Witcher disappeared into the trees.
In a small, rocky clearing ahead, three rogue Alpha bandits had cornered Y/N against a steep cliff face. Y/N’s traveling clothes were violently torn, a deep, ragged gash bleeding heavily along their right thigh. Their face was heavily bruised, but they had clearly fought like a cornered animal—one Alpha lay groaning on the dirt with a completely shattered jaw. But the sheer, overwhelming physical pressure of a sudden, trauma-induced heat was paralyzing Y/N’s muscles, leaving them shivering and helpless.
"Look at this gorgeous little thing," the lead bandit sneered, stepping closer, his foul, unwashed Alpha scent choking the air. "An unprotected, marked Omega in heat, out in the wild. Just begging for a real Alpha to show them how a real mate tastes."
"Get... get away from me," Y/N gasped, clutching a broken tree branch with trembling hands, their eyes completely hazy with heat-fever.
Before the bandit could even raise a hand, a monstrous, earth-shaking roar echoed through the forest.
Geralt launched himself entirely off Roach’s back before the mare had even come to a halt. He hit the ground running, his silver sword already unsheathed and gleaming in the filtered light. His eyes were completely, entirely pitch black, his pupils having swallowed his golden irises whole as the absolute apex of feral Alpha rage took total control of his mutant body. His inner wolf had broken its chains, and it wanted blood.
The bandits barely had time to register the white hair before Geralt closed the distance. He moved like a whirlwind of lethal steel. With one brutal horizontal slash, the lead bandit’s weapon hand was severed at the wrist.
The second bandit lunged, but Geralt ducked beneath the strike, driving his armored elbow directly into the man’s throat with a sickening crunch, before spinning and delivering a massive, bone-shattering kick to the third man’s chest, sending him flying into the rocks.
The surviving bandits scrammed, bleeding, weeping, and screaming in terror as they disappeared into the deep woods.
Geralt let his silver sword clatter carelessly into the dirt. He turned slowly toward Y/N, his massive chest heaving violently as his heavy Alpha scent—now thick, terrifyingly possessive, and thick with an ancient dominance—flooded the entire clearing.
The Mating Heat (Explicit)
Y/N looked up through the haze of their fever, their vision swimming as they leaned heavily against the cold stone of the cliff. "Geralt...?"
The sight of Y/N’s bleeding wounds temporarily overrode the feral urge to immediately claim. Geralt dropped heavily to his knees in front of them, his massive hands trembling violently as he reached into his leather pouch, pulling out a small vial of healing salve and clean linen bandages.
"I'm here. I'm right here, my love. I'm so sorry. Let me fix you," he whispered frantically, his gravelly voice cracking with emotion. His large, scarred fingers were uncharacteristically gentle as he slit open the fabric of Y/N’s trousers to expose the jagged gash on their thigh.
Y/N hissed in sharp pain as he applied the cool, stinging ointment, but as Geralt’s large palms pressed against their skin to wrap the linen tightly around the wound, the intense, familiar warmth of his Alpha touch acted like oil thrown onto a raging fire. The heat in Y/N’s blood erupted into a boiling frenzy.
By the time the bandage was secure, Y/N’s proper, unsuppressed heat had taken complete control of their senses. A massive, intoxicating wave of hyper-sweet pheromones rolled off their body, so thick and potent that Jaskier and Yennefer, who had just managed to reach the edge of the clearing, stopped dead in their tracks.
Geralt’s head snapped up toward the trees. His pitch-black eyes locked onto his traveling companions. A low, vibrating, terrifyingly territorial growl rumbled from the absolute depths of his throat—a clear, animalistic warning that if either of them took a single step closer into his mate’s scent radius, he would slaughter them without hesitation.
"Stay back," Yennefer warned, her hand flying out to grab Jaskier’s collar, pulling the bewildered bard back into the thick brush. "His Alpha has completely taken over his cognitive mind. If we step into that clearing now, he will tear us to pieces. Give them the space."
Geralt turned back to Y/N, scooping them up into his massive arms effortlessly. He carried them away from the clearing and deep into a nearby, dark, sheltered stone cave. He laid them gently down on a thick bedding of his own heavy winter cloaks, the dark fabric immediately absorbing the sweet, clear heat-fluid that was pouring down Y/N’s inner thighs.
"Geralt, wait... I'm still angry at you, I still—" Y/N tried to protest, but the words died in their throat, dissolving into a high-pitched, needy whine as Geralt stripped away his leather jerkin and shirt, exposing his broad, heavily scarred chest. His cock was already completely free, fully erect and pulsing with a dark vein, its massive head leaking thick, clear pre-cum that dripped onto the stone floor.
"I can't wait, Y/N. I’ve been dying for four months," Geralt growled, his voice entirely primal. He grabbed Y/N’s ankles, dragging them down the cloaks before hoisting their legs high over his broad shoulders, exposing their dripping, swollen entrance to the cool cave air.
He lowered his massive weight down between their knees, the broad head of his shaft pressing directly against Y/N’s soaked, trembling opening. Without a single second of hesitation, he delivered one massive, unyielding thrust, burying his entire length to the absolute root inside them.
Y/N screamed out, a loud, echoing sound that bounced off the stone walls as their back arched completely off the cloaks. The sheer, colossal width of his mutant shaft stretched their tight walls to the absolute breaking point, completely filling the cold, empty void that had tortured them for months.
"Ah! Geralt! It's too deep!" Y/N sobbed, their hands scrambling frantically across his shoulders, their fingernails digging deep into his skin, drawing thin lines of blood.
Geralt didn't answer with words. He grabbed Y/N’s waist with both hands, locking them in place before he began to slam into them with a relentless, heavy, and punishingly deep rhythm. The cave filled with the raw, wet, explicit sounds of their coupling—the loud, frantic squelch of his thick shaft pulling completely out before driving back into their excess slick, and the heavy, rhythmic slaps of his lower stomach pounding against their bottom.
Every single heavy stroke hit Y/N’s deeply buried Omega spot with precision, sending massive waves of blinding pleasure straight to their brain. Y/N’s head thrashed against the cloaks, their mouth hanging open as they whimpered and whined under the weight of his pace.
"Please, Geralt... faster, give it to me," Y/N begged, their independent thought entirely incinerated by the heat.
Geralt let out a low, dark growl, his pace accelerating into a blurring, bruising speed. He pushed deeper and deeper, his heavy balls slamming against Y/N’s heat-slicked cheeks, until his pelvis came to a grinding, definitive halt against theirs.
Then, the biological lock began.
At the absolute base of his shaft, the flesh began to rapidly expand. The mutant knot swelled to twice its normal size, a solid, throbbing sphere of muscle stretching Y/N’s opening to its absolute biological limit, locking them completely together in a airtight seal.
"Geralt! You're knotting! Oh gods, it's so massive, it's tearing me apart!" Y/N shrieked, their internal walls clamping down around the massive sphere in a series of violent, rhythmic, and incredibly intense heat-climax spasms.
Geralt let out a loud, triumphant, animalistic roar that echoed out of the cave. He held Y/N completely pinned beneath him, his hips twitching violently as his knot fully flared, releasing thick, hot, endless ropes of Alpha seed deep into Y/N’s pulsing womb. The volume was immense, filling them completely and overflowing past the seal of the knot.
As he came, Geralt leaned down, his teeth pulling back as he buried his fangs directly into the old, faded mating scar on Y/N’s neck. He bit down hard, drawing a fresh drop of copper blood, pouring his renewed scent, his absolute submission, and his soul back into the connection. They remained locked together for hours in the dark, the heat forcing them to mate again and again over the course of two unbroken weeks.
The Conversation After
When the two weeks finally drew to a close, the frantic heat-fever broke, leaving behind the cool, quiet reality of the stone cave and the heavy conversational air.
Geralt sat quietly against the stone wall, Y/N resting entirely against his broad chest, securely wrapped in his dry cloak. The physical bond was fully restored, humming with a vibrant, golden energy through their veins, but the emotional bridge between them remained fragile and fractured.
"I need you to listen to me, Y/N," Geralt said, his voice raw, hoarse, and heavy with unshed tears. His massive arms wrapped tightly around Y/N’s waist, pulling them closer against his heartbeat. "When I met Yennefer in Rinde... it was as if a heavy, freezing fog had descended directly onto my brain. I don't know if it was the residual magic of the djinn, or some twisted compulsion she possessed, but whenever she was within my sight, all thoughts of you were forcefully wiped away. It was as if an iron wall had been built inside my head, hiding our bond from my own consciousness."
He pressed his face deep into Y/N’s hair, his broad shoulders shaking silently. "But the very second Jaskier told me you had seen us and left... that wall shattered completely. And I felt everything. I felt the six times you collapsed on the floorboards. I felt the physical agony of the betrayal rip through my own stomach. I have never felt such absolute self-loathing in my entire life. I am so sorry, Y/N. I will carry the shame of it until the day I die."
Y/N remained completely quiet for a long time, their fingers lightly tracing the scars on Geralt’s forearm, listening to the heavy, steady thumping of his heart.
"I believe you about the fog, Geralt," Y/N said softly, their voice trembling slightly. "I felt the precise moment it broke from across the Continent. But understanding why it happened doesn't magically erase the memory of walking up to that door and seeing you with her. It doesn't stop the pain I felt. It is going to take a very long time before I can ever fully trust your Alpha again."
They finally emerged from the mouth of the cave together, hand in hand. Jaskier and Yennefer were waiting patiently by a small campfire a few hundred yards away.
Yennefer stepped forward, her usual sharp, sarcastic demeanor completely replaced by an expression of deep, genuine remorse. She looked directly into Y/N’s eyes. "I want to apologize to you. Properly. I am a Beta, and I was entirely blind to the language of scents. Geralt should have told me the truth, but I should have seen the signs on his neck. I can see your bond clearly now—it is incredibly loud, almost deafening. But I also know that a body heals far faster than a mind. There will need to be an immense amount of work done before things are ever back to how they used to be."
"Thank you, Yennefer," Y/N said softly, accepting her nod.
The Pups and the Keep of the Wolves
True to his sacred vow, Geralt became an absolutely immaculate mate over the next several months of their journey. He anticipated Y/N’s every single need before they could even voice it, hunting their favorite wild game, gathering fresh berries, and never letting them out of his sight unless explicitly permitted. He carried all the heavy supply bags, built the campfires, and gently, thoroughly scented Y/N’s neck every single morning to reassure their inner Omega that their Alpha was present and protective. Slowly, meticulously, the trust was being rebuilt brick by brick.
Three months into their long journey back toward the northern lands, Y/N woke up at dawn feeling an entirely new, profound sensation. It wasn't the agonizing, hot tear of a failing bond, but a warm, heavy, swirling pool of pure golden energy settled deep within their lower stomach. Their natural scent changed overnight, shifting from pure wild honey to a rich, thick, milky sweetness that filled the campsite.
Geralt froze from across the camp, his head snapping toward Y/N as he dropped the firewood he had just gathered. His golden eyes widened to the size of saucers.
"Geralt?" Y/N asked, looking down at their hands resting over their stomach. "What is it?"
"You're... you're carrying," Geralt choked out, his voice thick with a sudden, overwhelming emotion. He scrambled across the dirt on his knees, his massive, calloused hand pressing flat and trembling against Y/N’s stomach. Through the fabric of their tunic, his heightened Witcher senses could distinctly detect two tiny, additional heartbeats fluttering with rapid, perfect precision. Pups. Twins. And the scent already settling into Y/N's womb carried the unmistakable, sharp genetic marker of his own bloodline.
"Oh, by the gods!" Jaskier gasped from his bedroll, clapping his hands together with a massive grin. "Witcher pups! The ballads I write about this will be absolutely legendary across the Continent!"
"We need to move north immediately," Geralt stated, his tone shifting into an intensely fierce, protective growl as he looked at the horizon. "The winter storms are coming early, and traveling on the open road is no longer safe for you in this condition. We must make the journey straight to Kaer Morhen. Vesemir and the other Witchers... they know the ancient elven texts. They will know how to assist in the birth of mutant pups. You will be completely safe behind the stone walls."
The long journey up the treacherous, ice-covered paths of the Blue Mountains was incredibly difficult, but Geralt treated Y/N as if they were made of the rarest, most fragile glass. He carried them in his arms up the steepest, slipperiest rock slopes, wrapped them in three separate layers of heavy bear furs, and kept a continuous, low, vibrating Alpha purr rumbling in his throat for hours on end to keep the pups completely calm inside the womb.
When they finally breached the massive, ancient iron gates of the old fortress of Kaer Morhen, Vesemir, Eskel, and Lambert were already waiting in the snowy courtyard, having smelled their approach from miles away.
"Well, look what the white wolf dragged home," Lambert smirked, crossing his arms. But his sarcastic jaw dropped completely open the moment the thick, undeniable scent of a heavily pregnant Omega flooded the mountain air.
Vesemir stepped forward, a rare, incredibly warm smile softening his heavily scarred, weathered face as he looked from Geralt down to Y/N. He placed a heavy, welcoming hand on Geralt’s shoulder. "Welcome home, children. Come inside, out of the freezing wind. Let’s get the grand hearth fire started."
Months later, inside the warm, safe stone walls of the ancient keep, surrounded by a makeshift pack of fiercely protective Witchers, a loyal bard playing soft melodies, and a supportive sorceress, Y/N gave birth. True to the unyielding law of the Witcher bloodline, they welcomed two healthy, strong, silver-haired twin boys—both born as true, powerful Alphas.
As Geralt sat in the center of the massive nesting bed, his powerful arms holding his mate and his two Alpha sons tightly against his chest, the final, lingering shadows of the old pain entirely dissolved into the dark stone, replaced by a deep, unbreakable, and eternal future.
A Pack Formed in Snow
The high stone walls of Kaer Morhen, which had stood cold and desolate for decades, were entirely transformed by the thick, sweet scent of a healthy Omega and the sharp, milky pheromones of two newborn Alpha pups. The great hearth fire in the center of the main hall crackled day and night, roaring with massive pine logs that Lambert and Eskel aggressively hauled inside, competing over who could provide the best wood to keep the nesting room warm.
Geralt had not left the massive wooden bed in the corner of the keep's master quarters for a week. His massive, scarred frame was positioned like an iron shield around Y/N, his large arms wrapped completely around their waist, holding them securely against his chest. Tucked safely between their bodies were the twins—two robust, silver-haired baby boys whose tiny scent glands were already pumping out faint, distinct notes of winter frost and cedar wood. True Alphas, even in the cradle.
"They have your jaw, Geralt," Y/N whispered one evening, their fingers gently brushing over the soft, silver fuzz on the firstborn’s head. "Both of them. Absolute terrors in the making."
Geralt let out a low, deeply rumbling purr from his chest—a vibration that physically rippled against Y/N’s back, instantly soothing the lingering phantom aches in their stomach. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the fresh, dark bite mark on Y/N’s neck, inhaling the sweet, pure honey scent that was finally free of any sour grief.
"They’ll be stronger than me," Geralt rumbled, his gravelly voice thick with an emotion he had never known before. "They have their mother’s heart. I’ll make sure they never learn my mistakes."
A soft, hesitant knock disrupted the quiet room, and the heavy oak door creaked open. Jaskier slipped inside, uncharacteristically quiet, carrying a steaming bowl of venison stew that Vesemir had spent hours brewing with mountain herbs to help Y/N recover their strength.
"I brought sustenance for the beautiful parent," Jaskier murmured, setting the bowl down on the bedside table before looking down at the twins with wide, emotional eyes. "By the gods, Geralt... they really are miniature copies of you. I’ve already written three stanzas of their birth ballad. I’m thinking of referencing the silver moons of Kaer Morhen."
"Keep it quiet, Jaskier," Geralt grunted, though there was no real heat in his voice. His Alpha was no longer threatened by the bard; Jaskier’s loyal Beta scent had become a permanent staple of their pack’s safety. "They just fell asleep."
"Oh, please, my voice is a soothing balm to these young ears," Jaskier scoffed lightly, though he lowered his voice to a theatrical whisper as he pulled up a stool. "Vesemir is practically vibrating down in the armory. He’s already digging out old wooden training swords from three centuries ago. I think he’s forgotten they can’t even hold their own heads up yet."
Y/N chuckled softly, leaning back against Geralt’s chest as the Witcher took a spoonful of the warm stew and gently fed it to them. "Let him. It’s nice to see this place have some life in it."
The Mark of Healing (Explicit)
By the third week, the pups were robust, sleeping peacefully in a beautifully carved wooden cradle placed right beside the roaring hearth, guarded watchfully by Eskel. For the first time since the birth, Y/N’s body felt entirely recovered, the heavy milk-sweetness of their scent shifting into a slick, heavy invitation that made Geralt’s golden eyes darken the moment he stepped into the bedchamber.
The trust between them had been a long, grueling climb, but watching Geralt worship the ground they walked on for months, seeing him handle their sons with trembling, reverent hands, had finally melted the last icy barrier around Y/N’s heart.
Geralt shut the heavy door behind him, locking it with a heavy iron latch. He didn't say a word as he crossed the room, his eyes entirely pitch-black, his massive frame radiating a thick, possessive Alpha musk that made Y/N’s core instantly drench with heat-slick.
"Geralt," Y/N breathed, standing up from the edge of the bed.
He closed the distance in a single stride, his large hands slamming against the stone wall on either side of Y/N's head as he pinned them in place. His chest heaved against theirs, his hot breath fanning across their lips. "I want you. I need to feel the bond completely open again. No more shadows. No more past."
"Take me," Y/N whispered, their hands flying to the laces of his leather trousers. "Show me I'm yours."
Geralt growled, a dark, primal sound that echoed off the stone. He stripped Y/N’s linen robe off their shoulders in one rough, impatient tug, exposing their flushed skin to the warm firelight. He dropped to his knees, his face burying directly into the crook of Y/N’s thighs. He inhaled deeply, groaning as the thick, sweet scent of their slick drove his Alpha brain into absolute frenzy.
He didn't hesitate. His long, rough tongue stroked heavily over Y/N’s drenched slit, drinking them in, forcing a loud, echoing sob from Y/N’s throat as their knees buckled. Geralt caught their hips with his massive hands, digging his fingers into their flesh to hold them upright while he devoured them, his tongue driving deep inside their tight channel over and over until Y/N was shaking, crying out as a sharp, intense climax tore through their core, dripping heavily down his jaw.
Geralt stood up, his white hair wildly disheveled. His cock was entirely free—huge, dark purple, and throbbing violently as a thick bead of pre-cum leaked from the head. He grabbed Y/N’s waist, spinning them around so they were face-first against the stone wall, bending them over at a sharp angle.
He aligned his massive, rigid length against their dripping opening. With one heavy, brutal thrust of his hips, he buried himself to the absolute root.
"Ah! Geralt!" Y/N shrieked, their palms pressing flat against the cold stone to stay upright as the massive width of his shaft stretched them completely wide, hitting their Omega spot with a bruising force.
Geralt let out a guttural roar, his hands locking onto Y/N’s hips like iron vices as he began to pump into them with a relentless, punishing speed. The room filled with the wet, explicit slaps of his lower stomach pounding against their bottom, the heavy squelch of his thick shaft tearing through their excess slick, and the loud, ragged gasps of their breathing. He didn't hold back; he drove into them deeper than he ever had before, every single strike re-aligning the spiritual threads of their broken bond, cementing his scent into their very bones.
"Geralt, I'm yours! Only yours!" Y/N wailed, their head tilting back as another shattering orgasm rolled over them, their tight walls clamping down around his cock like a vice.
The intense, violent friction was the final trigger his Alpha biology needed. Grinding his pelvis hard against their backside, the base of his shaft began to violently expand. The massive knot ballooned rapidly, stretching Y/N’s opening to an absolute, unbelievable limit, locking them completely together against the stone wall.
Geralt let out a loud, triumphant roar that shook the very foundation of the keep. He held them completely pinned, his entire body twitching as his knot fully flared inside them, unleashing wave after wave of thick, hot, endless Alpha seed deep into Y/N’s womb. The sheer volume overflowed, dripping down their legs as his release pumped continuously for minutes.
While locked helplessly by the knot, Geralt leaned down, his lips baring his sharp teeth as he bit down directly onto the mating mark on their neck, drawing a fresh drop of copper blood, pouring his entire soul, his apologies, and his eternal fidelity into the connection. They remained fused together against the wall for hours, the bond hummed with a flawless, golden light, entirely healed.
The White Wolf’s Pack
The next morning, the grand hall of Kaer Morhen was filled with a rare, peaceful warmth. A massive breakfast of roasted wild boar, fresh bread, and winter ale sat on the long wooden tables. Yennefer sat by the window, a cup of herbal tea in her hands, a soft, rare smile touching her lips as she watched Jaskier attempt to teach Lambert how to properly hold a lute without smashing it.
Geralt walked down the grand stone staircase, his arm wrapped tightly and possessively around Y/N’s waist. For the first time in over a year, his golden eyes were entirely clear, devoid of any guilt or sorrow. Y/N walked beside him, their skin glowing with the thick, healthy radiance of a fully satisfied, fully claimed Omega, their neck heavily scented with the crisp winter frost of their Alpha.
Vesemir sat at the head of the table, holding one of the silver-haired Alpha pups in his massive, scarred arms, rocking the boy gently while Eskel held the other.
"They have the look of true wolves," Vesemir said, his gravelly voice filled with immense pride as he looked up at Geralt and Y/N. "They will be fine warriors, Geralt. True Alphas of the School of the Wolf."
Yennefer stood up, walking over to Y/N. She reached out, her fingers gently touching Y/N’s shoulder, her violet eyes tracking the brilliant, golden telepathic thread that now pulsed flawlessly between the mates. "The work is done," the sorceress said softly. "The bond is stronger than it ever was before. I can see it. It’s beautiful."
"Thank you, Yennefer," Y/N said, offering her a genuine, warm smile.
Geralt pulled Y/N closer against his side, his large hand resting flat over their stomach, his inner wolf letting out a continuous, contented purr that filled the room. The road behind them had been broken by betrayal, stained with agony, and clouded by dark obsessions—but they had fought through the dark, tracked the scent of their souls across kingdoms, and built a new, unbreakable pack in the mountains.
They had their happy ending, wrapped in the safety of the snow, the wolves, and an eternal, faithful love.
The Winter Gathering
As the first true blizzard of the season slammed into the peaks of the Blue Mountains, rattling the ancient iron shutters of Kaer Morhen, the interior of the keep became a fortress of absolute warmth. The thick stone walls, which had historically only echoed with the grunts of brutal training and the silence of lonely mutants, were now entirely alive.
In the center of the grand hall, Vesemir had cleared away the heavy iron weapon racks to make room for a massive, circular rug woven from thick sheepskins—a nesting ground for the pups. Geralt’s two Alpha boys, barely two months old but already showing the heavy, dense bone structure of their Witcher lineage, rolled around in thick linen wraps. Their silver hair caught the orange firelight every time they twitched in their sleep.
Lambert sat on a low three-legged stool nearby, a whetstone scraping methodically against the edge of his silver blade. Despite his usual abrasive, mocking demeanor, his heavy Alpha scent was consciously dialed back, replaced by a strangely protective, mellow note that helped keep the nursery space calm.
"I’m just saying, Geralt," Lambert grunted, squinting down the edge of his sword, "if the firstborn keeps pulling on my leather laces with that kind of grip, we’re going to have to skip the wooden swords entirely. Boy’s got a fist like a rock already. A true Alpha."
Geralt sat at the long oak table, a large wooden mug of dark winter ale between his massive palms. His golden eyes never wandered far from Y/N, who was resting on a cushioned bench right beside the hearth, a soft wool blanket draped over their legs.
"They’ll learn control first," Geralt rumbled, his gravelly voice dropping into that low, soothing register that kept his mate’s instincts grounded. "Vesemir’s old texts emphasize baseline discipline before muscle memory. I won't have them breaking things around the keep before they can even walk."
"Oh, let them break a few things!" Jaskier chimed in, stepping out from the kitchen corridor while wiping his hands on a stained white apron. The bard had taken it upon himself to manage the keep's winter provisions, ensuring Y/N’s meals were heavy with fats and specific mountain herbs to maintain their stamina. "A keep without a few shattered vases or scratched floorboards is simply a tomb, Geralt. Look at this place! It actually smells like a home now. Honey, pine, cedar... it’s completely revolutionized my poetic output. I’ve written an entire second movement to the birth ballad."
"If you sing it while I’m trying to sleep, bard, I’ll throw you off the battlements," Eskel warned softly from the corner, though a rare, amused smirk played on his heavily scarred face as he carefully adjusted the blanket over the secondborn twin.
Y/N leaned back against the stone hearth, a peaceful sigh escaping their lips. The sheer sensory input of the room—the scent of their Alpha’s crisp winter frost mixing with the loyal Beta warmth of Jaskier and the protective, territorial presence of the other Wolf Witchers—created a perfect, impenetrable cocoon of safety. The trauma of Rinde, the agonizing months of running, and the sour taste of betrayal felt like a lifetime ago. The bond hummed between Y/N and Geralt, flawless and heavy with absolute, unyielding devotion.
Claims in the Hearthfire (Explicit)
Later that night, after the great hall had cleared and the twins were safely tucked into their heavy wooden cradle under Vesemir’s watchful eye downstairs, Geralt guided Y/N back up to their private quarters. The room was fiercely hot, the smaller fireplace having been stoked to a roaring blaze that cast long, dancing shadows across the massive four-poster bed.
The moment the heavy iron latch slid into place, the quiet, domestic Alpha vanished. Geralt turned, his pupils instantly blowing wide until his eyes were two pools of midnight black. The thick, musky scent of his arousal flooded the small room, instantly triggering a heavy, breathless shudder from Y/N’s core.
"Geralt," Y/N whispered, their back pressing against the closed oak door as their own sweet honey pheromones flared in response, their thighs instantly growing slick with a heavy, transparent heat-fluid.
"You're glowing tonight," Geralt growled, his voice deep, gravelly, and entirely feral. He crossed the floor in three heavy strides, his massive hands reaching out to grab the hem of Y/N’s linen tunic. With one rough, upward jerk, he pulled the fabric completely over their head and cast it aside, leaving them entirely bare in the firelight.
He didn't wait. Geralt dropped heavily to his knees, his massive shoulders pinning Y/N’s hips against the wood of the door. He buried his face directly into the junction of their thighs, inhaling deeply with a raw, shuddering groan that vibrated against Y/N’s sensitive skin. His long, rough tongue stroked upward, licking away the thick, sweet slick that ran down their inner thighs, lapping it up with a frantic, desperate hunger.
"Ah! Geralt, please," Y/N cried out, their fingers tangling wildly into his long, white hair, pulling him closer as their hips involuntarily rolled against his mouth. The rough friction of his tongue driving deep into their tight, sensitive opening sent a sharp, electric jolt straight to their brain. He ate them out with a relentless, heavy rhythm, his thumbs digging into the flesh of their hips to hold them still while his mouth completely devoured them, driving Y/N over the edge into a breathless, shaking climax that left them weeping against the door.
Geralt stood up, his own breath hitching as he stripped away his leather trousers. His cock bounced free—colossal, rigid, and throbbing violently, the dark purple vein pulsing under the skin as thick ropes of pre-cum leaked from the heavy head. He grabbed Y/N by the waist, lifting them effortlessly before throwing them onto the center of the massive feather mattress.
He crawled between their knees, his massive, heavily scarred chest pinning Y/N down into the furs. He aligned the scorching head of his shaft against their completely drenched, twitching entrance. With one massive, unyielding lunge of his hips, he buried himself to the absolute root inside them.
"Geralt! Oh gods!" Y/N shrieked, their eyes flying wide as their back arched completely off the bed. The sheer, stretching width of his mutant cock filled them to an unbelievable degree, hitting their internal Omega spot with an intense, bruising force that shattered what was left of their sanity.
Geralt let out a low, victorious growl, his fingers locking into Y/N’s hands, pinning their arms securely above their head as he began to move. He drove into them with a brutal, relentless pace, his hips slamming against theirs with a heavy, wet, rhythmic slap that echoed through the quiet room. Every single thrust was deep, unedited, and punishingly thorough, the hot friction of Y/N’s tight, pulsing walls clamping down around his length with every single stroke.
"Look at me," Geralt commanded hoarsely, his black eyes boring down into theirs as his white hair fell around their faces like a curtain. "Tell me who owns you. Tell me whose scent is in your skin."
"Yours... always yours, Geralt! Ah!" Y/N cried out, their legs wrapping tightly around his thick waist, pulling him even deeper into their core as another massive, toe-curling orgasm slammed through their body.
The intense, rhythmic squeezing of Y/N’s walls triggered the final, primal lock of his Alpha biology. Grinding his pelvis hard against theirs, the base of his shaft began to swell violently. The knot ballooned rapidly, expanding to twice its width, stretching Y/N’s opening to its absolute structural limit and locking them completely together in a airtight, biological seal.
Geralt let out a loud, deafening roar that rumbled through the stones of the keep. His entire body locked up, muscles straining as his knot fully flared inside them, unleashing massive, hot, endless waves of his Alpha seed deep into Y/N’s pulsing womb. The volume was immense, filling them completely and overflowing past the lock, soaking the dark furs beneath them.
While locked helplessly together by the knot, Geralt leaned down, his lips pulling back as he buried his sharp canines directly into the raised mating scar on Y/N’s neck. He bit down hard, drawing a fresh drop of copper blood, pouring his renewed scent and his absolute, immortal submission back into their soul. They remained fused together in the quiet room for hours, the bond vibrating with a flawless, golden light that nothing on the Continent could ever break again.
The Legacy of the Wolf
By the time the spring thaw finally arrived, cracking the heavy glaciers on the peaks of the mountains and sending fresh, clear water rushing down into the valley, the twins were already crawling across the flagstones of the grand hall.
Yennefer stood by the open courtyard gates, her heavy fur cloak draped over her arm as she prepared her horse for the journey back to Vengerberg. She looked back over her shoulder, her violet eyes settling on Y/N, who was laughing as Jaskier tried to retrieve his favorite silk hat from the clutches of the firstborn twin.
Geralt stepped up behind Y/N, his large, scarred hand resting possessively over their hip, his heavy Alpha scent wrapping around them like an invisible shield.
"The path ahead is clear," Yennefer said softly, a genuine, warm respect in her tone as she nodded to Y/N. "You’ve built something rare here. A true pack. Keep them safe."
"We will," Y/N replied, leaning back into the solid, warm chest of their Alpha.
As Yennefer rode out through the iron gates, her portal flashing purple before disappearing into the crisp mountain air, Geralt turned Y/N in his arms. He looked down at them, his golden eyes bright, clear, and overflowing with a fierce, quiet adoration.
"They’ll be ready for training in a few years," Geralt murmured, his thumb gently tracing the fresh, dark bite mark on Y/N’s neck. "But until then... they’re just our boys."
Y/N smiled, reaching up to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. "Our Alpha boys, Geralt. The future of the Wolf."
With the pack fully gathered, the betrayal fully healed, and the sacred bond anchored deep within the ancient stones of Kaer Morhen, the White Wolf and his mate had finally found their eternal, unyielding peace.
The Covenant of the Pack
The sun dipped low beneath the jagged teeth of the Blue Mountains, painting the sky in deep bruises of violet and burnt gold. It was the first evening of late spring when the mountain air didn't bite with ice, but instead carried the crisp, clean scent of melting snow, pine resin, and damp earth.
Down in the courtyard, the shadows lengthened over the ancient stones. Jaskier sat on the edge of the well, his fingers moving lazy and unhurried over the strings of his lute, letting a soft, winding melody drift up into the rafters of the keep. Beside him, Lambert was grumbling over a leather stirrup, but his posture was entirely relaxed, his heavy Alpha musk completely quieted, blending seamlessly with the baseline scent of the keep.
Up on the high stone battlements, away from the chatter below, Geralt stood like a statue carved from the mountain itself. His broad back was braced against the weathered granite parapet, his long white hair caught in the gentle evening breeze. But he wasn't looking at the horizon. His golden eyes, bright and completely unclouded, were locked entirely onto Y/N.
Y/N stood beside him, cradling both twins against their chest. The boys were growing rapidly, their small bodies solid and heavy with the dense, unnatural muscle of true mutant Alphas. They had fallen asleep under the heavy warmth of the fading sun, their tiny, silver-tufted heads tucked beneath Y/N’s chin, their scents—frost and cedar—soft and clean against Y/N’s skin.
Geralt slid his massive, calloused hand over Y/N’s hip, his long fingers splaying over the small of their back, pulling them tightly against his side. The physical touch was automatic now, a constant, instinctual reassurance that his inner wolf demanded every hour of every day. Through the restored telepathic bridge, Y/N could feel the steady, rhythmic pulse of his devotion—a deep, booming frequency of absolute love, entirely stripped of the old, agonizing fog.
"Vesemir wants to mark their heights on the main hall doorframe tomorrow," Y/N whispered, leaning their head against Geralt’s thick shoulder. "He swears they’ve grown an inch since the thaw."
Geralt let out a low, vibrating purr deep within his chest, the sound rumbling directly against Y/N’s temple, instantly washing over the twins and causing the firstborn to let out a tiny, contented sigh in his sleep. "He’s probably right. They’re eating through the winter larder faster than Lambert ever did."
He shifted, turning his body fully toward Y/N, his large hand moving up to gently cup the back of their neck. His thumb swept back and forth over the dark, deeply embedded mating scar—the permanent vow they had forged in blood, broken in agony, and rebuilt through the raw fire of the cave.
"I look at them," Geralt murmured, his gravelly voice dropping into a rough, emotional whisper that belonged only to Y/N, "and I look at you. And I remember the dark. I remember the cold in Rinde when I couldn't feel you."
Y/N shifted the sleeping boys slightly, looking up into the dark gold of his eyes. There were no more tears, no more sour tang of grief in their pheromones—only the rich, syrupy sweetness of wild honey, heavy and entirely satisfied. "The cold is gone, Geralt. You brought us home. You spent every single day proving you would stay."
"I will spend every day of the rest of my life proving it," Geralt whispered fiercely, his black pupils flaring slightly as his Alpha instincts flared with a protective, quiet pride. He leaned down, his lips brushing softly against the mark on Y/N’s neck, inhaling their scent down to the absolute bottom of his lungs. "You are my mate. My only mate. Nothing on this earth will ever cloud my eyes again."
"I know," Y/N breathed, tilting their head to give him deeper access, their soul humming in flawless, golden synchronization with his. "We are the pack now."
Below them, Jaskier’s lute hit a long, sweet, concluding chord that echoed off the mountain face, settling quietly into the valley. The ancient iron gates of Kaer Morhen stood shut against the lawless, chaotic world outside, keeping the darkness of the Continent completely at bay. Inside the walls, surrounded by the wolves, the snow, and a love that had survived the ultimate betrayal, the White Wolf and his Omega were finally, unyieldingly whole.
Epilogue: The Marks Left in Stone
Five years passed over the Blue Mountains like a single, long winter’s night.
The ancient training grounds of Kaer Morhen, once silent save for the whistling wind and the ghost of old tragedies, were now filled with the sharp, explosive laughter of youth. The spring sun beat down on the dirt courtyard, melting the last stubborn patches of ice into the gravel.
In the center of the ring, two young boys—scarcely five years old but already possessing the broad chests and dense, heavy bone structure of their Witcher lineage—circled each other. Their hair was a brilliant, striking silver, tied back loosely with leather cords just like their father’s. They held small, weighted wooden training swords, their bright gold eyes entirely focused.
"Keep your footing, Varek," the firstborn, Garrick, grunted, his scent already carrying the sharp, heavy wood-smoke undertone of a developing Alpha.
"Watch your own flank, brother," Varek shot back, a fiercely competitive grin splitting his face as he shifted into a flawless School of the Wolf defensive stance.
Up on the wooden balcony overlooking the courtyard, Y/N stood with their arms leaning over the railing, a soft smile playing on their lips. Their skin carried the vibrant, radiant glow of a completely fulfilled Omega, their scent—thick wild honey and fresh pine—completely saturating the mountain air.
A massive, heavy warmth materialized behind them. Geralt wrapped his powerful arms around Y/N’s waist from behind, pulling their back flush against his broad chest. He buried his face into the crook of Y/N's neck, inhaling deeply, his rough tongue tracing the dark, heavy mating mark that sat prominently on their skin. A continuous, deeply rumbling Alpha purr vibrated from his chest straight into Y/N’s bones.
"They're moving too fast," Geralt rumbled, his gravelly voice filled with an immense, quiet pride as he watched his sons. "Vesemir already has Garrick and Varek reading the bestiaries. They can identify a drowner's weak points before they can even write their own names."
"They have your blood, Geralt," Y/N murmured, leaning back into his absolute warmth, their fingers looping through his large, calloused hands. "They were always going to be wolves."
Down below, the heavy iron doors of the keep creaked open. Jaskier stepped out into the sunlight, wearing a ridiculous, bright crimson coat, carrying a fresh parchment scroll and a quill.
"Alright, my miniature monstrous dynamic duo!" Jaskier called out, clapping his hands. "Vesemir says training is paused for midday meal. I’ve also added three new verses to the Saga of the Silver Twins, and I require you both to strike a heroic pose for visual inspiration."
"No poses, bard!" Lambert bellowed, walking out behind him with a massive platter of roasted mountain goat and fresh bread. "They're training to kill monsters, not look pretty in your cheap taverns."
Eskel followed, a rare, relaxed smile on his scarred face as he walked over to the twins, effortlessly catching both of their wooden swords as they playfully lunged at him. "Inside, Garrick, Varek. Your grandfather brewed the stew himself."
The twins let out a synchronized, boisterous cheer, dropping their guard and racing each other toward the grand hall, their high-energy Alpha pheromones filling the courtyard with life, joy, and the undeniable promise of a future.
Geralt watched them go, his grip tightening just a fraction around Y/N’s waist. The telepathic bond between them, once a frayed and agonizing wire, was now a massive, golden river of pure, unadulterated devotion. Every single day of the last five years had been a quiet testament to his vow. He had cherished them, protected them, and worshipped the very ground they walked on, entirely erasing the shadows of Rinde from their hearts.
He turned Y/N in his arms, looking down into their eyes, the dark gold of his irises overflowing with an immortal, unyielding love.
"I have everything," Geralt whispered, his lips pressing firmly, reverently against theirs. "My mate. My pack. My home."
Y/N smiled into the kiss, wrapping their arms around the White Wolf’s neck as the mountain wind carried the sounds of laughter from the grand hall. The scars of the past remained, but they were nothing more than lines in the stone—proof that they had survived the winter, conquered the dark, and built an eternal kingdom in the snow.
EDIT: Thanks so much for all of your interest in my fic; I've found a couple people to work with.
I have finally finished the third draft of my Ciri/Cahir fic I Dreamt of You, which means it is now ready for a beta read! I’m looking for someone who can check for spelling and grammar mistakes, but also check for sentence variation and word choice. And also that there isn’t anything that doesn’t follow the story logic. Familiarity with The Witcher books would also be a plus, because I unfortunately haven’t read them in a few years.
If that sounds like something you would be interested in, please send me a message. Thanks in advance!
While wandering Kaer Morhen, Jaskier finds something that he was gonna use as a lute replacement to practice on. But it's a magical item and Geralt sees him holding it and tryies to get it away from Jaskier. In the process Geralt gets cursed/magicked to stick to Jaskier at all times and be affectionate (cause being lowered inhibition i think?). Yennefer says it'll wear off but it's hurt/comfort because Jaskier is in love with Geralt and feels bad about geralt being forced to do this. By the time it's supposed to wear off jaskier is preparing himself for it. But turns out geralt didn't tell Jaskier when the magic wears off and geralt actually used this excuse to cling to him because Geralt didn't know how to talk about his feelings and they do eventually and end up together.
If someone knows which fic this is please let me know I've been looking for ages
Warnings: panty sniffing, vaginal sniffing, oral, geralt is a munch, pwp, mdni, lmk if I missed anything
Notes: hope you enjoy!
Christmas Advent || 2024
The scent of you never fails to make Geralt sweat and his knees go weak.
As he breathes you in, he can feel his cock expanding in his loose trousers. Geralt’s arms wrap securely around your frame, bringing your sleeping body closer to his. It’s a little awkward, your bed a tad too small for both of you, but he manages.
Lips find your bare shoulder, and his tongue licks the salty stretch of skin. He groans against you, hips grinding into your backside.
“Are you awake?”
You sleepily mumble, a little yawn filling the air.
“Is everything okay?” You whisper, twisting your head to look at him with sleepy eyes.
“I need you, love,” he gruffly says, voice strained with carnal lust.
Your eyes open more, a haze of want swirling within.
“Then have me,” you answer.
Geralt needs no further prompting before he’s crawling on top of you, making sure the weight of him doesn’t crush you. He’s so much bigger than you as a Witcher, and you love it.
His lips find yours in a messy kiss, tangling tongues and clinking teeth. Geralt tears your nightgown in two, showcasing your willing body to him. Your nipples pebble into hard peaks under his gaze, and you moan when he leans down to capture one in his hot mouth.
Geralt’s lips are ravenous on your scotching skin, nipping and licking everywhere he can. You’re a moaning mess by the time he gets to your cunt, and you freeze.
“Shit — Geralt, stop.”
He does so immediately, a furrow in his brow.
“What’s wrong?”
You inhale sharply, eyes looking anywhere but at him.
“I… forgot to run a bath yesterday, and I might be… more muskier than usual… down there,” you mumble, cheeks so hot you think they’ll burn.
“My love, I’ve been able to smell your scent the minute you came to bed. You smell intoxicating. Please,” Geralt says.
You find yourself nodding, and Geralt breathes a sigh of relief before he’s kissing your clothed pubic bone. Sliding your smallclothes down your legs, Geralt inhales deeply, bringing the wet fabric to his nose. His eyes fall shut, hips grinding into the bed.
“Fuck…,” he groans, voice strained.
Geralt takes another whiff of your smallclothes before he’s tossing them over his shoulder and diving into the true treasure of the night — your dripping cunt.
His tongue ghosts over your clitoris that’s hidden in a forest of hair. Your hips buck involuntarily, and Geralt holds you down with one hand placed on your hip.
“Geralt!” You whine, slick leaking out of your opening. Geralt presses his nose in your pubic mound, inhaling your musky scent. His tongue prods your opening, thrusting inside and out while his fingers rub your slippery clit.
Your hips cant wildly, cheeks heated in your lustful stupor. Geralt’s tongue always feels so nice against your most intimate regions, and soon you feel that familiar sensation within building.
“Close, my love?” Geralt mumbles, subtly inhaling your scent again before his tongue roves through your folds.
“Yes, yes, yes!” You whimper, bottom lip finding its way between your teeth.
With a sick of his lips around your clit, before his tongue bullies its way back inside your opening, you’re coming undone all over his tongue. Your arousal mingles with your musky taste, creating a heady cocktail that hypnotizes Geralt.
He swallows every ounce of your slick with loud slurps, and when you can finally feel your toes again, you sigh.
Jaskier: So your brother Eskel takes the route through the Blue Mountains and your brother Lambert blows things up around Novigrad, but what does your dear father do?
Geralt: Vesemir? Nothing. He stays at the keep. Fixes walls.
Jaskier: Geralt, my dear, be serious. There's no way any relation of yours can stay out of mischief for long. You're telling me a Witcher stays cooped up in that castle, sweeping floors, cooking meals, and dusting like a sweet little housewife?
Geralt: *grunts angrily*
Jaskier, laughing: Geralt, I guarantee your dear father is growing weed and getting fucked whenever you children aren't home.
Geralt: *scarred silence* That's not true.
Vesemir, at that exact moment in Kaer Morhen: Fucking come on, Guxart. Put your back into it!
Slightly based on my headcanons I posted a few weeks ago. Very very NSFW, so be warned.
Jaskier had been singing all night. Not an unusual turn of events for him, really - he’d been singing for his supper for years now. Usually he could scrape together enough for a bed and board, a decent meal and a drink or two. All in all, he would consider himself a decent performer.
However, even he would admit that he couldn’t compare to the sounds that the beauty beneath him was making.
It had all happened so quickly. A few flirtatious winks had turned into smiles, had turned into a hushed conversation over drinks, had turned into this; the son of a lord wrapped around him in a small, dark room lit only by a single oil lamp.
The table that the young lord was balanced on knocked rhythmically against the wall with each thrust of Jaskier’s hips. The air was filled with breathless panting, stifled moans, soft curses. And gods - he felt like luxury against Jaskier’s body. Soft pampered skin, warm lips that mouthed insistently at his throat, so- fuck, so tight…
Jaskier rocked forwards harder than he’d meant to, and the man below him let out a loud, beautiful keen. Jaskier quickly clamped his hand over his mouth, albeit with a tinge of regret.
“Shh,” he leaned down whispered, laughter dancing around the edge of his breathless voice, “as gorgeous as you sound, I don’t fancy getting caught and chased out of the province.”
The young lord’s eyes glimmered at him over the edge of his fingers before he jerked his head to the side, loosening the bard’s grip.
“I’d rather you silence me with your lips,” he replied indignantly, though his hoarseness ruined the effect of his glare; “Your hand smells of lute strings.”
“Oh, forgive me, my lord,” Jaskier drawled as he dug his fingers into his hips and tugged him forwards, drawing out a soft gasp; “I’m so terribly sorry that my profession causes you offence! I never-!”
“Shut up and fuck me,” the young lord growled, pawing at the laces of his shirt.
