Here it is, my last work for @witcherwheeloftheyear
Homewards
Ciri and Ihuarraquax take rest beneath the stars.
I used this as an opportunity to write something for my favourite scenes and characters from the books. It was really fun to play around with the prompts, trying to fit them and what I wanted to tell into drabbles as a challenge.
I am happy about what I learned and what stories I managed to tell.
Thanks to @witcherwheeloftheyear and thanks to everyone who participated in any form!!!
"You want some help with that?"
Eskel's deep voice right by his ear makes Lambert jump and tear the notice just as he is taking it off the board.
Time to share a contract, and some other things.
Count Your Blessings
Fandom: The Witcher (Video Games)
Rating: G
Pairing: Eskel/Lambert
Words: 2507
written for Witcher Wheel of the Year's Mabon event
This is my fic for @witcherwheeloftheyear as today is Beltane! It's a little late (the fic just kept getting longer and longer) but, hey, it's very much still May 1st here.
I wrote this with the game version of Geralt in mind!
Prompt: Aphrodisiac.
Warnings and tags: 18+ only, explicit sexual content, sex pollen/aphrodisiac, no use of Y/N, oral sex (female receiving), outdoor sex (sort of), multiple orgasms, and mentions of blood and corpses.
Word Count: 5.6k
Even from the very beginning, you know the contract is strange.
You must look half-crazed. It’s the middle of the night and you’re soaked, shivering in the rain as you viciously nail the paper onto the inn’s noticeboard. The board is sheltered enough from the weather that the words won’t fade - or, at least, that’s what you tell yourself.
Deeper in your chest, there’s something else. Realism, perhaps.
No one is ever going to answer this ridiculous thing, and you know it. There aren’t many witchers left these days, and even fewer who’ll do something like an escort service. Monsters are easy - predictable. Humans are much less so. Taking a chance like that could risk their lives.
But you have no choice. You have to try. Nailing this thing on is something to keep your hands busy, something to keep you sane a little longer. It’s the barest hint of hope that one day you’ll get out of this place, kept sacred like the jar of coins near your bedside that you’ve been slowly adding to for years now.
You need to get out of this town, and to do that, you need a witcher. No regular man will survive those monsters in the woods, much less keep you alive through it. No, you need a witcher, impossible as that is.
And, like a miracle personified, not one week later - there one is.
Out of any who could have come around this little town, it seems remarkably funny to you that it’s the most famous of them all who arrives. The White Wolf. You know the ballads by heart.
You first see him in the inn.
Just as you’ve begun nursing a pint and mourning your current circumstances, Geralt of Rivia walks in and makes you almost drop your drink. At the sight of him, everyone in the room goes completely still, and you with them. It’s as if an icy wind has blown in and frozen you all to the bone. No one dares even to take a breath.
He’s just like they say. White-haired, covered in dirt and blood, stinking of corpses. He’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.
He takes a cautious step in, and everyone slowly seems to come back to life. Some ignore him as he passes by, pretending they hadn’t seen him at all. Some whisper furiously - hissing under their breath.
“This is a respectable town,” one man says, rather loudly. Stefan, the farmer’s son. You’d recognize that reedy, whining voice anywhere. “No room for freaks like that,” he continues. “Bloody mutants. Emotionless, that lot.”
You simply watch Geralt, entranced. The pint in your hand goes forgotten, and your heart starts thundering in your chest with a bruising pace. Don’t expect anything, you remind yourself, rather sensibly. Surely there are other contracts that are better than mine.
Still, your gaze lingers on him with pressing curiosity. There are deep slashes in his armor that concern you, but he doesn’t look pained, and he’s not favoring anything when he walks. Is that his blood on the front, or someone - something - else’s?
You study him in silence until he’s left again, presumably to go off to his room and bathe. Only then do you remember your drink, swallowing the rest of it down in one long swig. You’re buzzing with an electrifying sort of energy, and it stays as you journey home. It keeps you up all night and won’t you rest.
There it is again; that hope. It sits in your chest, and your coin jar, and the paper that, with any luck, is still on the notice board. The longer you lay staring up at the pitch-black of your room, the more that hope seems to bleed out of you into the floors. Hours pass, and hope spills through the room until you’re drowning in it.
You should be sensible. Guard yourself from the very real, very painful possibility of disappointment. But, if you’re honest, that doesn’t even feel like an option anymore. Until he flat out rejects you, that hope will remain.
Geralt is here and real, and he might take your contract. You might finally get out of this horrid place. He’ll already know the state of the woods - he’d come through them to get here, after all. You can pay decently for what you’re asking, and you’ll even provide food for the journey.
By the time dawn comes around, bringing rosy orange skies, you haven’t gotten an ounce of sleep. Your thoughts have been far too animated for that. Still, despite your lingering exhaustion, you get yourself up and dress quickly as anxious energy starts to flow through you. It works itself out through precise motions, the mundane routine of life. Busy hands make for a calm brain, that’s what you’ve always told yourself.
It still tugs at your chest, though. It won’t be fully pushed away.
Not long after you’ve made breakfast, there’s a knock at your door. Your heart instantly leaps to your throat at the sound. Could it be him? But then you remember that Elise told you she’d be over for some of your spare flour, and your heart sinks back down to its home between your ribs.
With more than a little disappointment, you swallow hard, trying briefly to brush the wrinkles from your clothes, then open the door.
But it isn’t Elise. It’s Geralt.
He looks a little different than he had last night. For one - he’s been scrubbed clean from the blood and dirt, handsome and rugged as he stands in front of you. His armor is also different from yesterday’s, and he doesn’t smell at all like corpses anymore.
What does he smell like? You can’t quite pinpoint it.
At the sight of you, Geralt politely bows his head. “Greetings,” he says. “Read your contract. Mind if I come in?”
Warmth, you finally realize. That’s what he smells like. Heat.
“No,” you say breathlessly. “No, I don’t mind at all - come in, please.”
You step back to let him in, and he follows in after you, briefly glancing around at the surroundings.
He should be intimidating. He had been, just last night, even though you hadn’t been scared away in the least. But he’s not at all scary now. Instead, he has an uncertainty about him that’s almost awkward. It’s as if he somehow has the lesser ground in this conversation, and that - combined with the soft hesitance of his voice - makes it impossible for you to be afraid of him.
“Are you hungry?” you ask impulsively. “I’ve just made breakfast.”
He looks genuinely surprised at your offer. His brows rise, and he shifts from one foot to the other. “Already ate,” he says. “Appreciate the offer, though.”
“Then I’m guessing you’d like to discuss the contract.”
He nods. “Yeah. Don’t usually do escorts. Was hoping I could learn a little more before I agree to anything.”
“Of course,” you reply quickly, nervously brushing down your clothes again. “I’ll be honest, I know it’s not typical for witchers to do things like this, but…” Your words trail off and sit thickly in the air. You’re not sure what to say. You desperately want to convince him.
Geralt raises a brow. “Don’t feel like traipsing around the forest alone?” he asks.
Mirroring his facetious tone, you shrug and tilt your head. “I’m afraid I don’t have a death wish.”
He smiles a little at that, his eyes crinkling just the slightest at the edges. Your gaze lingers on them, golden and warm and beautiful. With the slitted pupils, they really do look like a cat’s.
“Smart of you to ask for an escort,” he says. “Just came through those woods. Crawling with monsters. Bandits, too.”
You frown, suddenly remembering the shredded armor you’d seen last night. “I’ve heard as much. It’s the only reason I’m still here.”
He studies you for a moment, gaze piercing. Then he speaks. “I’d need half the pay first. Other half comes when we arrive.”
“Done,” you say.
This really seems to take him aback. Do people often argue with him? It only makes sense for him to get half the pay now.
“Huh,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Alright. Gotta be honest, you seem smart enough to know this already, but there are some rules I’d need you to follow. I go out there with you, it’s both our lives on the line. Need you to do anything I say, when I say it. Don’t want any risks.”
“Of course,” you breathe, relief flooding you. “Like I said, I don’t have a death wish. I completely trust your opinions on how to get us through safely.”
He seems to relax a little at that. His expression softens, and he nods. “Got a few things to take care of today, so it’ll have to wait. Guessing tomorrow works for you?”
The wall of hesitance you’ve been holding in shatters. “Tomorrow?” you exclaim, perhaps a bit too loud. You have to physically stop yourself from throwing yourself in his arms. “I mean - yes! Yes, tomorrow is perfect, thank you.”
There’s a beautiful flash of a smile again before he bows his head once more and takes his leave, and you start trembling with some euphoric type of adrenaline.
You’ve had this planned out for months now - years, even. You’d had to wait until you could afford it, and you’ve always told yourself to be practical about it, to wait until you had the best chance of leaving this place and staying away.
You don’t have much to pack. The woods require you to travel light, so you only grab the necessities. Everything else is left behind. You don’t have many belongings anyhow.
Your employer doesn’t seem to believe you when you tell him you’re leaving, but he accepts your resignation nonetheless. He probably thinks you’ll end up back here like the rest of them. Deep in your bones, you know that won’t happen. Not if you can help it.
Keeping your hands busy, you cook up some food for the journey - things that will last, store well on your back. Then you purchase a few much-needed supplies, and sew up a tear that’s needed mending. When the sky finally starts to get dark again, you start trying to wear yourself out.
The overwhelming elation you feel in every inch of your body is keeping you wide awake, and you’ll need your sleep if you’re going through the forest. More sleep means you’re more alert, and you can’t risk putting Geralt in any further danger.
Eventually, your pacing around in the chilled night air begins to work - your body becomes soft and sleepy, and you crawl into bed knowing that everything is ready.
Finally.
Over the next week, you learn a great number of things about the woods.
For instance, you learn what nekkers look like, and how to breathe when you’re hiding. It becomes natural - slow, shallow breaths so nothing will hear you. Soon, you learn how to make your footsteps almost silent, and how to identify when Geralt is hearing something dangerous in the distance. The days become a fluid rhythm of understanding. Three days in, and you don’t even need him to tell you to hide. You just know.
From what you can tell, the two of you are lucky. A few monsters and some wolves really aren’t the worst things you could be dealing with. Most of the time, the two of you are undisturbed - but that might just be his heightened sense of hearing steering the two of you away from danger.
You also come to learn that Geralt isn’t much of a talker. His answers to your questions are often brief, but not at all rude. Laconic, rather. It’s as if he’s itching to get the conversation off of him. Which leaves the burden on you.
He doesn’t seem to mind your near-constant chatter in the least. Sometimes you’ll get a smile out of him, and rarely you’ll even earn a laugh. Other times he’s silent, lost in thought.
What’s the most frustrating of all is that the less he speaks, the more you want to know. Your head is full of things you want to ask, but you refuse to press him. Not when he’s been nothing but polite, keeping the two of you safe.
A week stretches on in scant conversation, but you feel safe and utterly relieved to be leaving that town, so you can’t exactly complain. Geralt starts your fires in the cold nights and always takes the first watch. You take the second, and wake him at any signs of danger.
And the two of you continue on.
When the two of you are forced to lumber over a log to push on, he puts his hands on your waist and hoists you up like you weigh absolutely nothing. His hands are warm and his grip is gentle but firm, and you spend the rest of the evening dizzily thinking about his touch.
His presence feels like a slowly-growing pressure in your chest, a dam about to burst. It swells with every touch, every conversation. If the two of you don’t arrive soon, one of these days your sense might crumble. For now, it holds.
When there are only a few days left in your journey, Geralt finally initiates the conversation. He asks why you’re leaving - why you’d wanted to get away from that place so badly.
You readily tell him.
You tell him about long days spent in the sun, work that never paid as much as it should, hands worn down to the bone and skin constantly cracking. You had skills to share with the world, but they were no good in the middle of nowhere.
Then you tell him of the bitter chill of winter, the sweltering heat of the summer, the seasons that never had any kind of balance.
You hadn’t fit in with the townsfolk, who were nothing but shallow, cruel, and unfeeling. You laugh to yourself a little when you remember Stefan’s words - calling Geralt emotionless. In truth, it’s clear that Geralt feels more than he ever could.
As you speak, Geralt drinks in your words - as if they’re a heady wine he can’t get enough of. His eyes stay on your face the entire time you talk, and he smiles at your jokes. You can’t remember anyone else ever looking at you like that, not even the men you’ve bedded.
When you go off to bed, he offers a hand to help you up, and wishes you good night.
Your sleep that night is feverish.
You dream of him, nothing but him - callused hands trailing over your skin, his thumb tracing along your jaw, warm lips coaxing yours open.
When you wake with a start, you find great relief in the fact that Geralt hasn’t seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary, and that you hadn’t talked in your sleep.
In fact, Geralt isn’t even looking your way - his eyes are focused on something you can’t see, studying a dark shadow in the distance.
You sit next to him, pretending that you hadn’t just dreamed of… what you’d dreamed. “More wolves?” you ask.
He shakes his head. “Endregas.”
The word isn’t familiar to you. “Monsters?”
He huffs. “Yeah. Big. Shoot poison quills.”
You shudder a little at the thought, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Have you fought them before?”
“Yeah,” he replies, eyes still trained on the distant endregas. “Lots. Usually don’t have someone else to worry about, though. Prefer not to fight them if I don’t have to.”
“In that case, I can take watch,” you offer. “I’ll wake you if they get any closer.”
But he shakes his head. “Don’t want to risk it. I’ll sleep later.”
You want to argue. The circles under his eyes are dark and he looks exhausted. But you don’t, because you know that he won’t budge.
While you wait, you have to fight to keep your eyes on the forest. You want to study him, want to know what he’s thinking and feeling and where he’s just come from, why he was in town. Instead, you keep your eyes trained on the forest, thinking about things you can never have.
The endregas move on in an hour or two, and the two of you set off when they’re gone. The air is sweet and cool amid the morning dew, but it quickly gives way to the burning sun.
Geralt seems more alert than usual - there must be something he’s hearing, but it isn’t enough for him to want you to hide, not yet. You ready yourself for the possibility, but as the day stretches on you relax more and more.
Then, when the sun is orange and low in the sky, Geralt stops.
You tense, getting ready to hide, but he doesn’t give you the usual signals. His brows pinch and his jaw clenches, but he doesn’t turn to look at you.
“Endregas?” you ask.
He shakes his head. “Boars, I think.”
“Boars?” You hadn’t even known they were in the area. “Are they dangerous?”
Geralt’s expression goes grim. “Think I’d prefer the endregas,” he says. He listens for a moment longer. “Shit. Gotta move.”
You fight the urge to laugh at the mental image of him battling a pack of wild boars, then follow closely behind him.
Out of nowhere, it begins to pour.
It’s the painful kind of rain, thick, heavy droplets that soak you in an instant. You’re not sure who starts running first, but the two of you end up sprinting to a nearby cave, and you’re laughing and praying that the boars aren’t following you.
With the weather, the cave is so dark that you can’t see. You rush in and come to a halt, gasping for breath - Geralt is effortlessly fast and extremely difficult to keep up with, and you’re sure he hadn’t even been running at full speed.
Then the smell hits you.
It’s earthy and peppery - stinging your nose as you inhale. The feeling travels down your airway, and your limbs start to feel… well, you don’t know what they’re feeling. It’s uncomfortable, though.
You know something is wrong even before Geralt lights a torch, but the look on his face just confirms it. That’s not all, either. The two of you are both covered in the substance you’ve been breathing in, and… and it looks like spores.
You’re standing right over the source - a mossy sort of plant under your feet, and the glimmering orange flecks in the air are all over you, but Geralt is coated with them, too.
You start brushing them off as fast as you can. Geralt stays frozen, looking extremely pained.
“Well?” you ask. “I’m guessing you know what this is.”
Your words seem to wake him from his trance. He blinks hard and gazes at you before finally speaking. “I… Yeah. Got some bad news.”
Great, you think to yourself. It’s poison. That must be why Geralt is looking at you so mournfully. It’s poison and you’re going to die, and his witcher mutations are going to save him from the toxins.
But he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say anything, in fact. He gently grips your arm and leads you to a nearby pond that you hadn’t seen in the torch’s dim light. Then sets down the torch, wets a loose cloth and starts wiping the substance off your skin. It feels nice - even though you’re already drenched, this cave is feeling incredibly hot.
You swallow hard, trying to process what’s happening. If he’s doing this, maybe you won’t die. Maybe it’s just… painful.
The flecks are still on him - you reach up to dust some of them out of his hair, and he inhales heavily.
“How bad is it?” you finally ask.
He takes a moment before he answers. “Depends, I guess. You aren’t dying.”
Pain, then.
His hands are shaking as he continues to wipe you off, and something about that scares you. Your body feels hot, so hot, and it feels so nice when he touches you, but at the same time you’re so afraid that you can barely breathe.
“Geralt!”
He sighs, finally relenting. “Really rare plant,” he starts off. “Never actually seen it before, only read about it. Pretty easy to recognize, though.”
“And it’s painful.” You’ve had enough of him dancing around the subject.
His brows pinch. “It’s an aphrodisiac,” he says gently. “Pretty powerful one.”
Aphrodisiac. It takes you a moment to place the word. Then you do.
The realization must show on your face, because Geralt stops wiping you down and leans back on his heels. “Yeah,” he says softly.
The heat you’re feeling - that’s what this is? Oh, gods. It’s all over the two of you, and… and it’s… oh, gods.
“Got most of it off you,” he continues. “Thing is, it’ll still be in your system for a while.”
“What about you?”
He shrugs. “Might affect me less. Might be the same. Not really sure.”
You think of his shaking hands as he’d wiped you off, and heat instantly pools between your legs. You press your knees together, and his gaze follows the action and lingers.
Shit.
“Might… might have a book with the antidote recipe,” he mumbles distractedly, eyes still fixed on your thighs.
Taking in a sharp breath, he stands abruptly and begins sorting through his things. You want to stop him. You want to stop him, because what was uncomfortable and hot is now very much pleasant, euphoric even, and the only thing you can think of anymore is having him touch you again.
“Geralt,” you breathe.
His hand tightens on the book he’s just grabbed, but he doesn’t respond. He simply starts sorting through the pages with clumsy fingers.
You’ve never seen him clumsy before.
Your thoughts seem to have fogged over with some sort of lustful haze, and you can barely keep yourself still. It’s almost painful, when he’s so close and you’ve been wanting him and you know how nice his touch feels.
Geralt sits down a few feet away to read, but you can tell he’s not getting anywhere. His eyes trace over the page again and again and he keeps shaking his head, as if he’s trying to shake himself into concentrating. You watch him in increasing discomfort, shifting and balling your hands into the fabric of your clothes, trying to be patient.
After a minute or so of this, Geralt snaps the book shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fuck,” he says softly.
You know he must want you. You can see it in the heat of his gaze when he turns to look at you, even though he’s been trying not to. You know he can hear how fast your heart is beating, and that he can smell you, you can see the way his hands have balled into fists and how his jaw clenches. You see the way eyes trail over your chest, taking in how your clothes are sticking to you from the rain.
His gaze darkens with interest as he stares at you, and you’re staring at him, and his eyes finally meet yours.
In a flash, you’re on your feet - and he’s somehow there, somehow already next to you. You want him so badly that when he takes your face in his hands, you let out a sob of relief.
Then he kisses you.
The kiss is hot and hungry and desperate and you’ve never known anything better, never want it to stop. His hand is on the back of your neck, needlessly coaxing you closer to him as his chest presses against you, free hand roaming down to grip your waist.
Trying to steady yourself in his grip, you rest a hand on his shoulder. Your other one goes up into his soft, silky hair, and he groans into your mouth as you tangle your fingers into it.
Desire pulses through you at the sound - you start feverishly clawing at his armor, wanting it gone, wanting to touch him. He steps back a little and yanks it off impatiently, dropping the pieces carelessly to the floor. When it’s finally off, he kisses you harder, guiding you backwards. He wants you against the cave wall, you realize. You hit it hard. There’s no pain.
Now that he’s shirtless, you can see that his torso is just as scarred and beautiful as the rest of him, and you only want more. He presses a leg between your knees and starts to kiss down your neck, and you let out a whimper, fighting the urge to grind against him.
When he gets down to your top, his hands fumble with the lacing for a moment before he gives up and rips it. You feel the stitching tear before it falls away, and - gods, you might die here. Geralt of Rivia might kill you.
You don’t wonder about what the hell you’re going to wear after this. You barely even care. All you can think of is him, his hands, sliding down your ribs, his lips, pressing kisses to your clavicle. To hell with the clothes. To hell with anything else but him.
The way you ache for him is painful - his touch is both burning and soothing and it riles you up into a state of frenzy as you try to get him closer. Your heart is pounding in your chest with such force that it’s a wonder that it doesn’t give out, and everything Geralt is doing is making you less and less coherent - his tongue tracing down your chest, his mouth hot against your skin.
You let out a soft whine as his fingers find your right breast, thumb circling around your nipple before he takes it into his mouth. With his free hand, he mirrors his actions on the other side, and you start squirming and whimpering, wanting him to keep going but wanting him inside you.
His fight against his impatience is evident. The grip of his hand on your waist is bruising, but his mouth is gentle. The longer he goes on, the tighter that grip gets. You want him to squeeze you even harder. You want him to take you, take you hard enough that you’ll feel him with every step tomorrow.
“Geralt,” you pant. “Please.”
You’re not even sure exactly what you’re asking for. Don’t stop, you think. Don’t stop touching me, don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop—
Geralt growls in response to your words, a low, feral sound that rumbles up from his chest as he kisses further and further down. You can feel the vibration of it against your ribs, and your hips instinctively rock toward him.
That action seems to wipe away any patience he’d had. His lip curls and he steps back, ripping the rest of your clothes off of you. You think he’s going to take you right then, but he doesn’t.
He drops to his knees.
Any thoughts you’d had left die as his warm mouth finds your clit. Your mind instantly goes blank and fuzzes over with pleasure, legs shaking as you resist grinding down into his mouth, and your hand fixes tightly in his hair.
The gasp you’d been letting out quickly fades into a moan, and Geralt hums against you in response, gripping your thigh and hoisting it over his shoulder. You lean back against the wall for support, nearly mindless with pleasure, letting out soft noises you barely recognize.
Heat starts building between your legs, electrifying and so ridiculously good that you’re not even sure you’ll be able to stay upright. Your knees start shaking even more and your vision blurs and he’s licking you as if he can’t get enough, can’t stop, and he feels so fucking good, better than anything you’ve ever felt, and–
Pleasure is suddenly blinding you. Geralt’s grip tightens where he’s holding you - practically holding you up, and your ears start ringing. You shake and gasp and hold onto his shoulder for dear life.
When you finally start coming down again, you realize that the heat is still there - still as intense, and you can only think about one thing.
“Fuck me.” It’s a plea, more than anything, half a sob.
He must either be moved by it or desperate himself, because he presses a soft kiss to your thigh before gently removing your leg from his shoulder, wiping his mouth as he gazes up at you. There’s still so much want in his eyes.
Legs still shaking, you sink down onto your knees and kiss him. His arms wrap around you, warm and strong, and his hand goes back to your neck, and you crawl on top of him until you’re practically straddling him.
He’s painfully hard in his trousers, and he sighs in relief when you unlace them, breath tickling against your cheek. He still smells like heat, a woodsy, heady sort of heat, and he’s thick and hot when you take him into your hand. He drags in a strained breath as you stroke him, fingers tightening on the nape of your neck.
“Ah,” he gasps. “Fuck.”
That does it - you can’t fucking wait any longer. You shuffle further up his lap, line yourself up with him, and sink down on his cock.
The hand that’s not on your neck moves to your back, and his brows pinch in pleasure. He feels - he feels so fucking good, and he’s beautiful, and gods, gods. You’re shuddering around him already, clenching hard.
“Fuck,” he groans. Then he puts both hands on your hips and starts fucking you.
Your hands end up pressed against his chest, and all you can do is moan and let him take you and watch his beautiful face as it contorts with ecstasy, completely entranced by him. His cock feels so fucking good, blissful friction that builds deep inside you, friction that’s getting him close too, and he’s squeezing your hips harder, and you’re already tensing with another climax.
His thrusts are deep and hard and, gods, you don’t even know if you can believe this is real, any of this. How is he real, so tall and gentle and strong, how is this real, how is he taking you away from that awful town, keeping you safe, fucking you like this, fuck, fuck, fuck—
You come around him and he shudders and groans and kisses you, thrusting into you even harder, fucking into you until you’re panting and clinging to his shoulders as you clench around his cock. Then the two of you go boneless and he lays back against the ground, bringing you down with him, smoothing a hand down your spine as the two of you lay there.
The heat is back. It’s a little less this time, but it’s back. Geralt is still inside you, still hard, and he grunts as you rock your hips down. Then, to your distress, he places his hands on your ribs as if to hold you still and pulls out of you, shifting out from under you and leaving you sitting on the cold floor.
You watch shamelessly as he stands and gathers something from his pack, and your heart skips a beat when you see that he’s pulled out a blanket. He lays it out, smoothes it down, then looks at you expectantly and pats the center. “C’mere,” he says.
You quickly scramble over, and he kisses you harder this time and lays you down, coaxing your legs apart as he thrusts into you again. It’s slower this time, less desperate, more intimate. That heat is still there and the two of you are still drunk on it, but it’s not so demanding, not so aching.
You stare at him like he’s come from the heavens and listen to the gradually increasing strain of his breath, and he kisses you and licks into your mouth, and his thrusts slowly get faster, and - gods, it feels so good you can barely think or breathe, and, don’t stop, you think. Please don’t ever stop.
When he arrives at his peak, he brings you right there with him - gasping and digging your nails into his back, shivering with pleasure, and he groans and presses his cheek to yours and keeps thrusting until he’s finished and you’re both panting.
He rests his forehead against yours for a moment before kissing you again, and you wince a little as he pulls out of you. The heat is still there and, honestly, you’ll probably ending up fucking again, but for now you’re content to just lay there.
To your shock, Geralt sits up and reaches for your ruined top, using it to clean up the mess he’s made of you.
“Geralt!” you exclaim.
“What?” he says, smirking a little. “Ruined it already.”
You begin to laugh hysterically, and Geralt chuckles, finishing his clean up before he lays down next to you.
“Hope you have other clothes,” he says.
“Dirty ones,” you reply. “If I stink, it’ll be your fault.”
“Mm. Sorry about that,” he says, not sounding particularly sorry at all. “Make it up to you.”
“Is that so?” you ask. “How are you going to do that?”
His hand wraps around your waist, and you let out a yelp as he pulls you closer.
“Got some ideas,” he says, nipping sharply at your ear.
Ignoring the heat building in your gut again, you lightly slap his arm. “You owe me a new outfit,” you tell him.
“Sure,” he says. “Buy you a new one when we get into town.”
“Will you, now?”
“Uh-huh,” he says distractedly, kissing down your neck. “Just gotta let me take it off you, too.”
You smile to yourself at the thought. “Don’t rip it and we have a deal.”
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Characters: Emhyr var Emreis, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Additional Tags: Fake Marriage, Prophecy, enemies-to-lovers, Idiots in Love, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Romantic Comedy, A Witcher Wheel of the Year Challenge
For the @witcherwheeloftheyear Litha event
Prompt: Fake marriage
Summary:
An ancient prophecy states that Nilfgaard will perish if Emhyr var Emreis does not marry within a certain period of time. Certainly, Emhyr does not want Nilfgaard to fall, but neither does he want to marry some random noblewoman. Resourceful as he is, he finds a logical solution to his problem. However, this involves a certain witcher...
