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Anon requested: Geralt and Reader are teasing each other until Geralt snaps and fucks her until she passes out.
Thank you anon for that request ❤️
Summary: You accompany your brother Jaskier and the famous White Wolf on their travels through the Continent. Over the time, you start to catch feelings for the lonesome Witcher, and you decide to act on them – your parents didn’t raise a coward after all. So you keep teasing and teasing, waiting for his strong patience to snap. And when it does, it’s far more than you bargained for.
Pairing: Geralt x 1st person reader; Jaskier x sister!reader
Warnings: +18 minors dni, SMUT (obviously); teasing (badly written, I suck at flirting); rough sex; multiple orgasms (a total of seven); dom/sub; male!dom/fem!sub; mentions of body fluids; overstimulation; begging; marking; size!kink; mature language; took a slightly darker twist towards the end of the, uhm, session; little fluff at the end; friends to lovers (?)
If you’re uncomfortable with any of this, do not read!
A/N: Dear anon, I’m sorry i took so long for this. I started this weeks ago and then got stuck… I hope it turned out like you expected.💕
Word count: 6.7k (yup, I can’t keep it short)
Title: Tease
Tagging @littlefreya, @princess-of-riviaa, @cherry-acid, @ohjules and @achaoticaugust. Figured you might like it ☺️💕
Enjoy ❤️ feedback and reblog are always welcome and appreciated 💕
“Is that the best you can do?” I pant as I raise my blade, pointing it at my opponent, who, with a deep growl, does the same. He swings his sword at me and I dodge it expertly, swinging my own sword at him in return. He delivers blow after blow, and I either block or dodge every single one of them. The dance lasts for a while. We let out teasing remarks, echoed by the clashing of our swords. All the while, my brother sits on a log by the campfire, strumming his lute, composing his next song.
Yeah, being the daughter of the Viscount of Lettenhove has its perks. Father lets us do whatever we want. He was the one who allowed Jaskier to travel the Continent before going to Oxenfurt for some education fitting his status. He was the one who trained me in swordfight and fencing when I asked. And when Jaskier showed up at home two months ago, accompanied by none other than the famous Geralt of Rivia, father allowed me to go with them.
“You fight like an angry kitten, girl!”
About half an hour passes and the sword in my hands begins to feel heavy, but if there is one thing father has taught me, it’s to never let your opponent know they have the upper hand.
“What?” I challenge, “Don’t you have more?”
“Oh, my lady, I could go on for hours,” the White Wolf grins at me tauntingly, bearing his fangs, “but I doubt you can.”
I clench my jaw, frustrated with how easily he read me. With a weak battlecry, I charge at him, but my grip isn’t as strong as it had been an hour ago, and sweaty palms made the handle slippery.
Geralt knocks the sword from my hands in a matter of seconds, spins me around and pulls me against his chest, his blade resting against my throat with just enough pressure to let me know I’ve been defeated.
“It seems, my lady,” he growls into my ear, “That you’re not as strong as you think you are.”
I blame it on the exhaustion that I let my body fall slack against his incredibly broad one, letting out a long breath in an attempt to slow my racing heartbeat. I’m lost in the moment, feeling the flex of Geralt’s strong chest against my back. My mind is racing straight to the gutter with the thoughts of his body against mine. He’s large, handsome and seems to have quite the stamina. In short, I want him. I wanted him ever since the stepped a foot onto my father’s court.
So now I stand there, pressed against him, my head barely reaching his shoulder, his sword against my neck and his growled remark still ringing through my ears. Well, until –
“Hey, listen to this!” Jaskier calls and Geralt quickly lets go of me, marching over to slump down on a log and tears the leg off the rabbit that’s been roasting over the fire. With a little blush tinting my cheeks, I saunter over to where my brother is seated, intentionally passing the Witcher. I sway my hips more than necessary. I know he’s staring.
Seriously Evans? Are all his shirts too small? I mean do you think he has comfy, baggy stay-at-home, social distance with just Dodger shirts? I mean he must right? Taking off that Henley at night must elicit the same sound I make when I take off my bra!
This is what I’m saying. This is what we’re all saying. Does he KNOW they make bigger shirts?? I’m not even asking him to wear bigger shirts, I just wanna know if HE knows they exist. Because it’s possible he doesn’t know. It’s also possible he’s just a thot who lives for attention and likes to go around in those boobie shirts that squeeze the absolute life out of his poor, abused armpits.
Look at this man. What a ho. My fave is problematic: tortures seams within an inch of their life. Every one of his sleeves has PTSD. His shirts quiver in fear when he opens his closet, praying he won’t pick them. Praying to live just one more day.
blakekathryn
yousharknotpass
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
prguitarman
amandla
