I haven’t painted anything in months and I feel like I’m quite out of practice, so have a very loose repaint of La Gimblette by Jean-Honoré Fragonard I made today to get me back into painting.
Summary: When Geralt of Rivia returns from a brutal hunt in a foul temper, you, his devoted lover, knows exactly how to strip away the White Wolf’s iron control and give him the release only you can provide.
word count: 8000+
Paring: Geralt x Reader
warnings: NSFW, SMUT
A/N : Hello Friends! I wrote another smut Witcher fic! Wanted to do something a bit different and write Geralt as a sub, I hope you like it!
Masterlist
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The village of Elderglen clung to the edge of the Great Swamp like a stubborn weed refusing to be drowned. Three days of relentless rain had turned the roads into sucking mires, the kind that could swallow a horse and its rider whole if you weren’t careful. Ancient willows draped with moss leaned over black water, and at night the air hummed with the drone of insects and the distant howls of things that had no right to exist. This was the Continent—wild, unforgiving, a place where kings warred over scraps of land while older, hungrier things waited in the dark. Monsters born of the Conjunction of the Spheres still roamed here: fiends with branching antlers and eyes like burning coals, drowners that rose from the muck with claws dripping rot, and worse. The villagers paid coin for steel and signs, but they never quite met a witcher’s eyes. Mutants, they called them. Freaks. Useful only when the night grew teeth.
You had learned long ago not to flinch at those stares. You weren’t from Elderglen. You weren’t from anywhere, really—just another soul who had followed the Path beside Geralt of Rivia for nearly two years now. What began as a chance meeting in a smoky tavern in Vizima had become something deeper, something the bards would never sing about because it didn’t fit their tidy tales of heroic monster-slayers. You knew the real Geralt: the man who muttered curses at his own reflection in still water, who woke from nightmares of the Trial of the Grasses screaming in a language no one else understood, whose body bore the scars of mutations that had stolen his humanity but gifted him speed, strength, and senses sharp enough to hear your heartbeat from across a room.
You loved him for all of it.
The Rusty Cauldron was the only inn in Elderglen worth the name—two stories of sagging timber and thatch, its common room thick with the smell of sour ale, roasted turnips, and wet wool. You had taken the largest room upstairs three days ago, paying with the last of the coin Geralt had left you before he rode out. The villagers had whispered when you arrived alone: “The witcher’s whore,” they’d muttered behind their tankards. You had smiled sweetly and ordered another round for the loudest of them. By the second night they’d stopped talking. By the third they’d started leaving small gifts—fresh bread, a wedge of hard cheese—on the doorstep. Fear and respect walked hand in hand on the Continent.
You had spent the afternoon preparing the room exactly the way you knew he would need it. The heavy wooden chair dragged from the corner to the center of the floorboards. The length of soft rope you’d bought from the tanner in the next town, supple and strong. The strip of black silk torn from an old chemise. The fire built high so the room would stay warm even when clothes came off. You knew Geralt. You knew the storm that built behind those cat-like amber eyes after a hunt went bad. Three days tracking a fiend through waist-deep swamp, three days of rotten eggs and sulfur and the constant drip of foul water down his neck. He would come back caked in filth, muscles locked tight, words sharp as his silver blade. And you knew exactly how to break the storm open.
The door to the inn slammed open downstairs just after dusk. You heard the heavy tread of boots on the stairs—deliberate, weary, and angry. Then the door to your room crashed inward.
Geralt filled the frame like a thundercloud given flesh. White hair hung in damp, muddy ropes around his shoulders. His black leather armor was streaked with green slime and darker blood that wasn’t his. The medallion at his throat—the wolf’s head—vibrated faintly, still reacting to whatever residual magic clung to him. His jaw was clenched so hard the scar on his cheek stood out white. Those golden eyes swept the room once, found you standing by the window, and narrowed.
“You’re still here,” he growled, voice like gravel under a boot. He kicked the door shut behind him. “Thought maybe you’d have the sense to leave after three days in this shithole.”
You crossed your arms, keeping your tone light. “And miss the charming welcome? Never.”
He dropped his saddlebags with a wet thud and stalked to the washbasin, splashing water over his face. It did little to cut through the grime. “The fiend was supposed to be a simple contract. One night. Instead the bastard led me in circles through every sinkhole in the swamp. Three drowners on the second day. A pack of ghouls on the third. And the villagers?” He laughed, bitter. “They tried to haggle the pay down when I dragged the head back. Said it ‘wasn’t as big as they expected.’ I should have left the corpse in their well.”
You stepped closer, reaching for the buckle of his sword belt. “Let me help—”
He jerked away, eyes flashing. “I don’t need help. I need a drink and silence.”
Your fingers paused, but you didn’t retreat. This was the ritual. The snapping. The walls. You had seen it before—after the striga in Vizima, after the leshen in the Redanian woods. The White Wolf was used to being the strongest thing in any room. Control was his armor. Tonight you were going to peel it off layer by layer until the man beneath could breathe again.
“Fine,” you said calmly. “Then sit and clean your sword. You’ll rust the silver if you leave it like that.”
He grunted something that might have been agreement and dropped onto the low stool by the hearth. The silver blade—already gleaming despite the muck—came out with a soft rasp. He began the methodical wipe with an oiled rag, movements sharp, angry. Every muscle in his broad back stood out beneath the wet leather. You could see the tension coiled in his shoulders, the way his jaw worked as if he were chewing on words he refused to spit out.
You watched him from the doorway for a long moment, a silent predator in your own right. The air in the room was thick with dust, sweat, and the smoky residue of the day’s hunt. Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, sat slumped on a stool, methodically cleaning the silver blade of his sword. The firelight caught the hard planes of his face, the deep-set weariness in his eyes. He’d tracked a fiend through the swamps for three days, and the victory had been messy, brutal, and left him caked in grime and something darker. He was a coiled spring of tension, every muscle in his broad back corded tight, his movements sharp with a frustration that had nothing to do with monsters.
You knew that look. It was the look of a man whose world had been reduced to violence and grit, a man who needed to be reminded he was more than a weapon. A man who needed to break.
“Sit,” your voice cut through the quiet, not a request.
His head lifted slightly, those cat-like eyes finding yours. A flicker of something—relief, anticipation, surrender—passed through the amber before he grunted, pushing the sword aside.
You pointed to the heavy wooden chair you’d placed in the center of the room. He looked at it, then back at you, a question in his silence.
“Now, Geralt.”
He stood, a tower of scarred muscle and leather, and moved to the chair. He sat without further protest, the old wood groaning under his weight. His hands rested on his thighs, palms up in a gesture of weary compliance.
You moved behind him, your fingers trailing over the thick column of his neck, feeling the knots of stress bunched there. He let out a low, rumbling sound that wasn’t quite a growl, more a vibration of pure need. You took the length of soft, supple rope from the table. Looping it around his left wrist, you pulled it tight against the chair’s arm, securing it with a knot that was firm but not cruel. His breath, already heavy, deepened. You did the same to his right, his arms now bound at his sides, his powerful biceps flexing instinctively against the restraint.
“What is this?” His voice was gravel, worn smooth by fatigue.
“This,” you murmured, your lips close to his ear, “is what you need. But you don’t get to see it coming.”
You took the strip of black silk from your pocket. He didn’t flinch as you brought it over his eyes, tying it securely at the back of his head, plunging him into a world of touch and sound alone. His world narrowed to your voice, your hands, the scent of your skin.
“You had a long day,” you whispered, your hands sliding down his chest, over the hard leather of his armor. You began to unbuckle it, piece by piece, the sound of straps and clasps loud in the quiet room. Each inch of revealed skin was a conquest. His chest, a map of old scars and new muscle, heaved. His stomach, ridged and tight, twitched under your fingertips. You worked him free of his trousers next, pulling them down his legs until he sat bare from the waist down, the cool air of the room hitting his heated skin.
And there it was. Geralt’s cock, thick and already half-hard, lay heavy against his thigh. It was a formidable thing, long and thick with a prominent vein running along the underside, the head a dark, flushed pink. It twitched as you looked at it, as if it knew your gaze was upon it. The scent of him—musk, leather, the wild—filled your senses.
You knelt between his spread legs, your own breath catching at the sight. You didn’t touch it yet. You simply watched, letting the anticipation build, letting him feel the weight of your stare through the blindfold.
“You’re already so hard for me,” you said, your voice a low purr. “All that killing, all that rage… and this is where it lives now. Right here.”
A low growl started in his chest, but it died as you finally, finally, wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock. His whole body jerked. The skin was hot silk over steel. You gave him one slow, torturous stroke, from root to tip, your thumb smearing the bead of moisture that had gathered at the slit.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word torn from him.
You leaned in, your breath ghosting over the sensitive head. “You will,” you promised. “But not yet.”
You took him into your mouth.
The first touch of your lips, the wet heat of your tongue lapping at the underside of his crown, drew a ragged, broken sound from his throat. His hips bucked against the restraints. You took him deeper, your mouth stretching to accommodate his girth, your tongue pressing flat against that throbbing vein. You worked him with a slow, deliberate rhythm, one hand pumping the base in time with your bobbing head. The sounds were obscene, wet and slick, punctuated by his increasingly desperate breaths.
You pulled off with a pop, leaving him glistening and trembling. “You taste like the road,” you said, licking your lips. “And like you need to come so fucking badly.”
“Let me,” he growled, the command in his voice fraying at the edges. “Untie me. Let me fuck your mouth.”
“No.” The word was absolute. You went back down on him, this time with more fervor, sucking hard, hollowing your cheeks. You traced the rim of his head with the very tip of your tongue, then dipped it into the slit, tasting the salty pre-cum. His curses were a continuous, filthy stream now, his head thrown back, cords standing out in his neck.
Just as you felt his muscles begin to tighten, that telltale clench in his thighs and abdomen, you pulled away completely. You sat back on your heels, watching his cock jump, angry and neglected.
“No,” you repeated, your voice firm. “You don’t get to come. Not until I say.”
“You cruel, beautiful bitch,” he snarled, but there was no heat in it, only a desperate, aching need.
You smiled, though he couldn’t see it. “You love it.”
You moved then, shifting your position. You trailed your hands down his inner thighs, feeling the coarse hair, the muscle quivering with tension. You pushed his legs wider apart, exposing him completely. The sight of his balls, drawn tight and heavy, and the dark, furrowed pucker of his asshole made your own core clench with wet heat.
You leaned forward, your face inches from that secret part of him. You blew a soft, cool stream of air across it.
Geralt froze. “What are you—“
You didn’t answer with words. You answered with your tongue.
You pressed the flat of your tongue against his hole, licking a broad, wet stripe from his perineum up to the base of his spine. He made a sound you’d never heard before—a choked, guttural gasp that was all shock and raw sensation. His body went rigid, then shuddered violently.
“Oh, gods,” he moaned, the fight leaving him in a rush.
You did it again, slower this time, circling the tight ring of muscle before pressing the tip of your tongue against it, breaching him just a little. He was clean, tasting of soap and skin, and the intimacy of the act, the sheer vulnerability of it, had him unraveling. You rimmed him in earnest then, fucking him with your tongue, soft and probing, then firm and insistent. His moans were no longer growls but high, broken things, his hips pushing back against your face, seeking more.
“Please… fuck, please…” he begged, the word foreign and beautiful on his lips.
“Please what?” you asked, pulling away just enough to speak, your lips wet from him.
“I don’t know… anything. More.”
You gave him more. You slicked your index finger with your own saliva, then pressed it against his loosened entrance alongside your tongue. You pushed inside, just the first knuckle. He cried out, a raw, ragged sound, his whole body seizing. The heat inside him was incredible, a tight, clenching vice around your finger. You worked it in deeper, crooking it, searching.
Your other hand returned to his cock, which was leaking profusely now, a steady stream of pre-cum dripping down the shaft. You fisted him, your strokes rough and fast, perfectly timed with the thrust of your finger inside his ass.
“This is what you needed, isn’t it?” you hissed, your own arousal a throbbing ache between your legs. “To be taken apart. To have no control. To just feel.”
“Yes! Fuck, yes!” he shouted, his back arching off the chair, the ropes biting into his wrists.
You found that sweet spot inside him, the firm nub of his prostate, and rubbed it firmly with your fingertip. At the same time, you tightened your grip on his cock, twisting your wrist on the upstroke. His reaction was electric. He screamed, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure, his cock pulsing violently in your hand. You could feel his orgasm gathering, a tidal wave about to crash.
And you stopped.
You pulled your finger out and released his cock in the same instant.
The sob that wrenched from his chest was a thing of pure agony. “No! Don’t stop! I was so close, please, I can’t—“
“You can,” you said, standing up. Your own clothes felt like a prison. You stripped quickly, letting your garments pool on the floor. The firelight danced over your skin. You climbed onto his lap, straddling him, your wet cunt hovering just over the weeping head of his cock. You could feel the heat of him radiating against your folds.
He sensed your nearness, smelled your arousal. “Ride me,” he begged, his voice shattered. “Please, just fuck me. Use me. Let me feel you.”
“Beg prettier.”
“Please.” He turned his blindfolded face toward you, his expression one of utter torment. “My love. My heart. I need you. I need to be inside you. I’m begging you. Let me feel your cunt.”
It was enough. You lowered yourself onto him, taking that huge, thick cock inside you in one slow, inexorable slide. The stretch was immense, breathtaking, a perfect, burning fullness that made you see stars. You threw your head back, a moan tearing from your throat as you sheathed him completely, your ass meeting his thighs.
“Fuck,” he gasped, the air punched from his lungs. “So good… so tight and wet… you’re fucking perfect.”
You began to move, rolling your hips in slow, grinding circles, milking his cock with the walls of your cunt. You set a punishing pace, rising and falling, each descent a shock of pure pleasure. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a lewd counterpoint to his broken moans and your own sharp cries. You rode him hard, using him for your own pleasure, your tits bouncing, your nails digging into his shoulders.
“Kiss me,” he pleaded suddenly, straining against his bonds, trying to lift his head. “Please, I need to kiss you.”
You leaned down, capturing his lips with yours. The kiss was messy, desperate, all tongue and teeth and shared breath. It was a claim, a connection deeper than the physical joining of your bodies. He poured all his frustration, his need, his adoration into it.
“I love you,” he mumbled against your mouth. “I love you so much.”
“I know,” you breathed, riding him faster. “Now fuck me back.”
He couldn’t move his arms, but he could move his hips. He drove up into you, meeting your every downward stroke with a powerful upward thrust, pistoning into your sopping cunt with a ferocity that stole your breath. The coil in your own belly wound tighter and tighter, a shimmering wire of pure need.
“I’m gonna come,” you warned, your rhythm faltering.
“Do it,” he urged, his voice a dark rumble. “Come all over my cock. Soak me. Let me feel it.”
The sheer vulgarity of his words, pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you, a violent, convulsing wave that clenched your cunt around his invading length in rapid, fluttering pulses. You cried out, your body bowing backward as pleasure, white-hot and blinding, radiated out from your core. You ground down on him, milking your climax, feeling his cock throb inside you as you drenched him.
But you didn’t stop moving. Even as the aftershocks trembled through you, you kept riding him, your cunt still fluttering around him.
“Now you,” you panted, leaning close to his ear. “You want to come, Geralt? You want to fill me up?”
“Yes! Gods, yes, let me come!” He was thrashing now, the chair legs scraping against the floor, his entire body slick with sweat, every muscle straining.
You increased your pace again, a brutal, frantic rhythm. “Then come for me. Come inside me. Give me everything.”
With a roar that shook the rafters, he obeyed. You felt his cock swell even further, then pulse, a hot, liquid jet of his release flooding your depths. He came and came, his hips slamming up into you in short, savage jerks, each spurt wrenched from him with a guttural cry. You collapsed against his chest, feeling the frantic hammer of his heart, the tremors that wracked his massive frame as he emptied himself into you.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing and the crackle of the fire.
Slowly, you reached behind his head and untied the blindfold. It fell away. His eyes, when they met yours, were hazy with spent pleasure, the amber soft and vulnerable. You leaned forward and untied his wrists. The moment his hands were free, they flew to you. His big, calloused palms cupped your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks as he looked at you with a reverence that made your heart ache.
“I needed that,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I needed you.”
“I know.”
In one fluid, powerful motion, he stood, your legs still wrapped around his waist, his cock, still semi-hard and slick with both of your releases, slipping from your body with a wet sound. He carried you the few steps to the bed and laid you down on the furs, coming down over you, his weight a delicious anchor.
“My turn,” he growled, and the submissive wolf was gone, replaced by the predator you’d unleashed.
He didn’t wait. He hooked his hands under your knees, pushing your legs back toward your shoulders, spreading you wide open. The position exposed everything—your swollen, used cunt, glistening with his cum, your asshole, the sensitive inner lips of your pussy. He looked his fill, his eyes dark with a fresh, hungry intensity.
“Look at you,” he murmured, dipping a finger into your soaked entrance and bringing it to his mouth. “Taste you. Taste us.”
Then he was on you. He drove his cock back into your well-fucked cunt in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The force of it knocked a scream from your throat. He set a pace that was pure, unadulterated animalism. No finesse, no gentle lovemaking. This was fucking, raw and desperate. The bedframe slammed against the stone wall with every powerful drive of his hips. His hands gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise, holding you open for his relentless pounding.
“Take it,” he grunted, his face a mask of fierce concentration. “Take all of me. I’ve been dreaming of this… of fucking you just like this… all fucking day.”
You could only moan, your words lost in the onslaught of sensation. He was hitting a spot deep inside you with every stroke, a spot that made your vision blur. You wrapped your legs around his waist, meeting his thrusts, your bodies slapping together in a slick, sweaty rhythm.
“I love you,” he chanted between gritted teeth, a mantra against the driving need. “I love you, I love you, I need you, I needed this, it feels so fucking good…”
You were both covered in a sheen of sweat, the air thick with the musky scent of sex. He leaned down, capturing a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard, biting gently, the dual sensation making you arch and cry out. He switched to the other, lavishing it with the same rough attention.
You felt another orgasm building, coiling from the base of your spine, fed by the sheer force of his fucking, the vulgar words spilling from his lips, the possessive way his hands roamed your body.
“Geralt… I’m going to… again…”
“Come with me,” he demanded, his pace becoming frantic, erratic. “Come on my cock. Now.”
His command was all it took. Your second climax shattered you, a deeper, more body-consuming wave than the first. Your cunt clamped down on him in a series of violent spasms, milking his cock. The sensation tipped him over the edge. With a final, ground-out roar, he slammed into you, hilting himself, and you felt the hot rush of his second release flooding your already filled channel. This orgasm seemed even more intense than the first; his cock jerked and pulsed inside you, jet after jet of his cum painting your inner walls.
He didn’t pull out. He stayed buried deep, his hips making tiny, involuntary thrusts as he rode out the last pulses of his climax. His weight settled on you, warm and heavy and perfect. He nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his breathing gradually slowing from ragged gasps to deep, even draws.
But the night was far from over.
After a few minutes he lifted his head, eyes gleaming with that familiar predatory hunger. “Still not done with you,” he rasped. He pulled out slowly, and a thick gush of his cum leaked from your well-used cunt onto the furs. The sight made him growl low in his chest.
He gathered the mess with two thick fingers and brought them to your lips. You sucked them clean without hesitation, tasting salt and musk and the unmistakable flavor of both of you. His gaze darkened further.
“Turn over.”
You obeyed, rolling onto your stomach. He gripped your hips and pulled you up onto your knees, ass raised high. His hands spread your cheeks, and you felt the blunt head of his cock—still hard, still leaking—press against your other hole.
“Relax for me,” he murmured, voice gentler now but no less commanding. He had already slicked himself with the cum dripping from your pussy. The first push was slow, careful, the stretch burning in the most exquisite way. You moaned into the furs as he sank inch by inch into your ass, filling you completely. His mutations gave him stamina no ordinary man could match; you had learned that long ago. Tonight he intended to use every second of it.
He started slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged against every sensitive nerve inside you. Then faster. Harder. The slap of his hips against your ass filled the room again, punctuated by your cries and his low, filthy praise.
“Fuck, so tight… taking me so well… my perfect girl…”
You came again just from the fullness, clenching around him until he snarled and spilled deep inside your ass with a shout that rattled the shutters.
He didn’t stop.
He flipped you onto your back once more, hooked your legs over his shoulders, and drove into your cunt again. Then he had you against the wall, your back to his chest, one arm banded around your waist while the other rubbed your clit in tight circles. Then on the floor in front of the dying fire, slow and deep while he whispered every endearment he rarely allowed himself to voice. Each round blurred into the next—hours of sweat-slick skin, broken moans, and the wet sounds of bodies joining again and again. His witcher endurance was legendary, and tonight he proved every rumor true. You lost count of how many times he made you come, how many times he filled you until cum ran down your thighs in steady streams.
The candles had burned low and the village outside had gone silent when he finally carried you back to the bed for the last time. He collapsed beside you, pulling you into the cradle of his body. His chest was still heaving, but the tension that had lived in his shoulders for days was gone. His big hand stroked down your spine in long, soothing passes. The ropes and blindfold lay discarded on the floor like shed armor.
For a long while neither of you spoke. The fire had died to embers, casting the room in soft orange glow. Outside, a nightbird called once and fell quiet. Inside, there was only the steady beat of his heart against your ear and the warmth of his skin.
“Thank you,” he said at last, voice rough but soft in a way the world never got to hear. “That… that’s what I needed. You always know. Always.” His lips brushed your temple. “I come back half monster, and you remind me I’m still a man. Your man. I love you. More than the Path. More than anything.”
You turned in his arms, pressing a kiss to the scar on his jaw. “I love you too. Every version of you. Even the grumpy one who snaps at me when he’s covered in swamp muck.”
A low chuckle rumbled through his chest—the sound you had been waiting for all night. He tightened his hold, tucking your head beneath his chin. “Stay with me. Always.”
“Always,” you promised.
Outside the window the swamps of Elderglen whispered on, full of monsters and danger and the endless road. But inside the little room at the Rusty Cauldron, Geralt slept peacefully for the first time in days, wrapped around the woman who had once again taken his strength, his control, and his stoicism—and turned them all into surrender.
And in the morning, when the sun rose over the misty hills, he would wake with clear eyes and a quiet smile just for you. The Path would call again soon enough. But tonight, and every night you chose to claim him, the wolf was yours—body, heart, and soul.
Finished my new pookie for The Arcana bc I’m in love :3
Her name is Dagny and she’s always cold, so she likes to bundle up whenever she has to leave the shop. Her favorite food and drink are sweet bread and pomegranate juice.
Jeff can’t put his finger on it, but something’s wrong with him.
He’s never the first one to arrive for band practice, let alone early. But here he was in the garage tuning his guitar.
Jeff is watching from across the room. He’s punctual. He’s been playing his music at a lower volume. He hasn’t killed anyone’s character out of spite in at least a month. And Mike actually deserved it last week.
Jeff even heard him make comments about the cubs/cardinals game to Wayne in passing.
And there’s something wrong with Eddie’s hair.
It’s not frizzy like it normally is. It looked … soft. Defined. Conditioned —
“You’re sleeping with Steve Harrington!” Jeff snapped, pointing accusingly to Eddie.
Eddie’s face dropped.
His eyes darted between their friends — when did the other guys get here?
For a moment Jeff felt bad blurting it out, catching the fear in Eddie’s eyes. But just like everything else Eddie has faced, he’s replaced the fear with confidence.
Eddie’s eyes narrowed angrily at Jeff. “So what if I am?”
Jeff shrugged, plucking at his strings. “Good for you, man. Just hit me, that’s all.”
That made Eddie physically stumble. Like he wasn’t expecting that. “What?”
“You’ve been different,” Jeff said. “Not in a bad way. Good actually. Just — made me realize it.”
The garage was silent. As if everyone was afraid to make a move.
“Is there — is there gonna be a problem?” Eddie asked, all bravo drained from his voice.
“Nope,” Jeff said. “Like that we’re not waiting on you. Bring him by sometime.”
Eddie stood still, still trying to process everything.
“How did — how did you know?”
Jeff pointed to his own curls. “Your hair. Looks nice. Figured Steve washed it, huh?”
Eddie blushed, pulling a strand over his face. There was a mumbled of a ‘yeah.’
Gareth scoffed. Eddie’s glare quickly went to him. Gareth threw his hands up defensively. “No, it’s just that if anyone can take that mane of yours, it’s Steve ‘the hair’ Harrington.”
Eddie let out a laugh. “Whatever. Just play, bozos.”
Yeah, something’s different about Eddie.
He’s happier than he’s been in years. And Steve Harrington is to thank for that.
It's been 10 years since Sonic last saw Shadow, and in that decade, life had not been kind. He's stumbling through adulthood with no sense of direction or purpose, crumbling under the existential dread of aging, and to top it off, is suffering through an exhausting divorce process. Just as his whole world seems to be collapsing around him, however, an old friend returns... And might just be the lifeline he didn't realise he needed.
Now Sonic is having to navigate adulthood, heartbreak, grief and whatever these new (or maybe old) feelings are for his ex-rival. The strangest part is that Shadow seems to be the stable, emotionally competent one. What he doesn't know is that Shadow is hiding a secret of his own- Ten years of feelings that he thought he'd let go of threatening to return.
This is a future-set Sonadow slow-burn fic where Sonic and Shadow reconnect after a decade of no contact. A mix of hurt/comfort, slice-of-life, domestic fluff, and humour, with an emotional cocktail of fluff, drama, tenderness and spice (eventually). Themes include grief, romance, aging panic, unconditional love/care, and a flipped dynamic- Sonic is the one trapped in his grief and lost in darkness, and Shadow is the one who’s already healed and able to lead Sonic back towards the light.
Chapter 1
(It's quite short but Chapter 2 is gon' be a BIG one.)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I am writing an Old-Man-Yaoi Sonadow fanfiction apparently.
I had been heavily inspired by @nebrasska-alasska through reading her incredible fics to get back into writing- and so, this whole idea started with some writing prompts I searched up as some exercise, but ones I wrote Sonadow for. I wasn't a big fan of the others but this one really stuck with me to the point where I wanted to clean it up and keep going with the plot, and then a whole thing emerged from it. I've always enjoyed writing but I've spent most of it RP-ing, so turning to writing proper prose has been a new challenge for sure.
I hope people give it a chance and enjoy :D This is my first time writing a proper fanfiction so I hope ya'll enjoy it! (And I've never used AO3 before so please bear with me, and if you have any advice or tips let me know!)
---
(I've put a mature status as there will be some spice eventually. Though these will be only be reserved for one or two chapters, I'm warning this as an 18+ readers only fic, thank you!)
Eddie steals Steve's letterman jacket out of his locker after school. He shows up the next day with it on, smoking a cigarette on the front stoop and pretending like it's just a normal day. Like he did steal the king's most prized possession, the mark of his rule, from right under his nose.
Steve corners him outside the gym during PE. Everyone knows that's where Munson takes his midday smoke break.
Steve expected the day to end with Eddie pushed up against a wall with a fist in the face.
Instead, he finds himself in the back of a dirty old van with his legs in the hair, Eddie Munson between his legs, wearing nothing but his own letterman.
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 2.5 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14 - Part 15 - Part 16 -Part 17 - Part 18 - Epilogue
Summary: it's the mid-late 1990's and Eddie owns a mechanic garage/tow truck service with his Uncle Wayne. Reader is an artist who gets a flat tire on the freeway, and the rest is kismet. Lots of sexual tension, biker bad boy Eddie with a soft heart, both not sure how to navigate this adult crush they have on each other, amidst other complications. No Vecna, and they all met when they were young, but as very different people. Eddie and Steve are heavily tattooed and grew up in the MC life. Although Steve and Eddie's characters verge on OOC, I really try my best to keep them canon at their core. There will be dark themes later in this fic: cheating (not on reader), violence, allusions to domestic abuse, etc, so please continue with caution. Appearances by uncle Wayne, and eventually some other ST characters. Plenty of references for SOA fans to enjoy, though I don't go into detail about their ranks and whatnot. Eddie is in his early 30’s and reader is late 20’s to early 30’s.
A/N: This was the very first reader insert series I ever wrote for fandom. I adore those of you who have taken the time to show love for this! It's so nice to be able to share these stories with others and not just watch it rot away on my computer. Inspired by the song and video I'm on Fire by Bruce Springsteen
playlist
Series One Shots
AO3
Eddie & Wayne artwork
Steve & Astrid artwork
biker!Eddie sitting for a painting
The Velvet Hammer
Steve & Robin's house
Eddie's apartment above the garage
A while ago I received a request about how the Arcana LIs would react to their familiars walking in on them during sexytimes, and I couldn’t not write it. Each headcanon will be posted separately due to length. Under the cut we’ll get the ball rolling with everyone’s favorite Count. Here it is @megustacat ! Sorry about the wait!
I have a bunch of stories that I just never posted, so I’m gonna do my best to get those up and as well as work on my master post. It’ll be updated periodically to make everything easier to find.
I’m eventually going to make Masterposts for my stories that have chapters and sequels. It’s gonna be a lot of work but I’m excited for it!
There’s also a new OC and story coming soon! I’m currently writing for him and Walker while also trying to edit for stories if already written but haven’t posted.
I haven’t been very good at posting on my AO3 account or my Wattpad so I also gotta get on top of that.
There’s so much I gotta do, but I know it’ll all be worth it in the end!
Same goes for this account as well. There are a few stories I’m currently working on and some I just haven’t posted, so I’ll be doing that for a while before I start anything new.
Is there a chance Damon could sleep with someone other than MC and DG, like if he gets really drunk and loses consciousness?
I've seen many wives talk about their husbands getting drunk and making mistakes. Maybe MC and Damon's marriage could face this problem too?
uhm... correct me if I'm wrong, but if he's drunk and unconscious, that means somebody raped this poor guy 😦
which is something that could happen too, not sure how your MC would react to this, but it's possible they could misunderstand this and see it as cheating, if you want to add some angst and drama~
canonically, Damon isn't much of a drinker, so he gets drunk quickly. but even then, he wouldn't cheat on MC. he'd react pretty aggressively if someone else tried to touch him or drag him to their home.
Sorry, but how could rape possibly be enjoyable? I’m not sure trust can be built after something like that. It seems to me that it would be the end of the relationship instead 💔
eh? trust? relationship? are we talking about the same character here? a literal serial killer? 😂
like… I totally get where you’re coming from if you’re thinking in terms of a normal romance story, but this isn’t that kind of game at all. it’s horror first and foremost, and it deliberately plays with themes that are meant to be disturbing, taboo, or uncomfortable.
the appeal comes more from the intensity, the danger, and that whole ‘this is wrong but intriguing’ feeling. it leans into a very specific horror/kink niche where fear and attraction blur together.
and it’s totally okay if that’s not your thing! that’s exactly why I try to be upfront about it, so people can decide for themselves if they want to engage with that content or avoid it ^^
hey! I have a question regarding the "rape" content of Br0ken Colors. it's mentioned, or do the love interests rape MC?
hallo~ 👋
so this is only about DG (in later chapters). I’m honestly not sure how to answer your question, since I assume you’re asking to figure out whether you’d be able to handle that scene. the thing is, everyone has different limits when it comes to this kind of stuff, so I can’t really reassure you one way or another ^^"
it’s not a brief mention, it’s a full scene, and it’s very much designed to be arousing. think a mix of sex and horror, not meant to be super realistic. as MC, you can either be into it or try to resist, but DG won’t stop either way. so in the end, you’ll have to decide for yourself whether that kind of content is something that would upset you or if you’re okay with it.
thanks for the question, have a nice weekend! ^o^
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