#Same for that Witcher guy

[hanzajesthanza]

one thing about cahir is that he does not run away from shit. even when he really really should. he is brave and noble to the point of idiocy. isengrim was like ok i am taking you back to nilfgaard to probably be executed for treason and cahir was like “ok” and didn’t even fight back and let them tie him up and put him in a box because he knew he fucked up again and that was the consequence. i’m not calling him a bootlicker because he literally rebels against mentioned evil empire and fights them on the battlefield, but there is something funny about him entirely accepting evil and unfair authority even when it means his demise. he loses the deal he’s made with emhyr like “ok. you can break me on the wheel now. because i failed.” it wouldn’t be honorable to chicken out of his fate, so he won’t run. because he doesn’t want to. it’s all about honor with this guy. i mean regis barely asks milva who is this man, and cahir interjects to straight up tells regis his entire full name. even though that’s sensitive information and he is literally on the imperial wanted list at the moment. like no one fucking asked dude. cahir is literally the kind of guy to respond to a lukewarm online comment with his full name and address (which btw is in vicovaro). because he wears his honor and his name like a badge. he could have stfu as geralt accused and berated him, but instead he defends his honor by fistfighting a witcher (an injured and disabled witcher, but still a witcher who he has witnessed fight and kill coldly and calmly with superhuman agility and speed). and finally, we all know how he met bonhart. like no fuck you it’s my destiny to die by your blade. cahir was just comfortable with speedrunning death. i love how fascinating he is as this deconstruction of chivalry and knightly masculinity.

because sapkowski also tangles with this idea of “the knight” in the hussite trilogy and he also talks about it in historia i fantastyka and świat króla artura (a little bit) about how historical knights were essentially bandits sanctioned by law, and the romance and chivalry was a literary invention, and cahir gets to do both, because he’s just combining these elements of the modern, real world and fairytale. but unlike everyone else, who goes from fairytale to real—although cahir is set up as the black knight and this Evil Guy Hunting Innocent Princess, which is very fairytale—cahir goes from real to fairytale, because the invasion of cintra is so very real, and cahir’s journey is to leave behind this reality of violent knighthood, to become a kind of virtuous literary knight instead.

because i love how his persistance and determination in his pursuit of ciri, which is initially set up as evil and villainous, becomes part of his honor. because it’s his persistance to follow her down as he was tasked with as the black knight, which transforms into the noble pursuit of her as in a rescue as a truely knightly endeavor. which is just as powerful and insane as the darksided version of it. geralt tells him to fuck off multiple times and he even gets jumped and he still pursues geralt’s company because the only thing that matters is to find ciri. and i feel like he had even more persistence when seeking her for good, rather than when he was working for evil. maybe because this time it was personal and not a punchclock motivation. and that noble calling to find ciri held out even when geralt’s fatherly devotion lost hope. in tower of the swallow, he wouldn’t believe in her death even when he sensed it as much as geralt did. because that’s the same overconfident youth we saw in blood of elves, smirking when emhyr discussed this second chance with him. like no i don’t care what anyone says, even my own premonitions or the emperor i serve. we are gonna find this fucking girl—

like just really a masterclass in how to take a character from villain to hero, keeping his same motivations and obsessions and self-image, and at the same time make it relevant thematically with the whole story, setting, and historical and literary connections that have already been established.

[emikomusubi]

my dad has been binging the witcher for the past couple days and basically been silent the whole time except to comment on how annoying jaskier is but 3 episodes into season 2 he turned to me with a huge frown on his face and said "what happened to the bard guy"

[mustangs-flames]

unsurprised to see I wasn't wrong about YouTube being dogshit for Veilguard content lmao

[vulpinesaint]

one of my favorite hobbies is getting really into a media that i like again right after doing something that gets a lot of new people onto my blog. hello everybody who came here for poetry! in the next week i am liable to put so much witcher on your dashboards that you will never want to see anything related to it again

[ettadunham]

i'm kinda heartbroken about the new redthreadgames title becoming one of those clown gamer ragebait targets, because even if it is genuinely bad, there's now no way to find a normal fucking conversation on it on the internet.

anyway, i'm obviously gonna get it during the christmas sale anyway, it just sucks that there's so much bullshit to wade through because gremlins can't be normal about minorities in video games.

[goldevolution]

challengers is such a departure from stuff im normally into it was completely unexpected when i started fixating on it and to be honest im still shocked i give a fuck about it 6 months later. but at the same time its really not

[storywestistrash]

playing the witcher 3 with someone who loves the game asking for a report after every session is a nightmare cuz theyll ask "how could you reject that quest!!!" and the quest starts with going on a date with a woman who clearly wants to sleep with you and gives no indication that you can refuse to sleep with her

[aishicc]

Geralt from the Witcher versus Rook from Dragon Age Veilguard

[deikshen]

Shen Qingqiu who, while Shang Qinghua is recovering from some random poisoning (that demon has already died at the hands of Mobei, don't worry), is forced to spend time with Mobei-jun.

At first it's tense. He arrives, a mandatory tea out of politeness. It's usually frozen. They don't have much to talk about or anything in common except their concern for Shang Qinghua.

Except they do have in common. At some point, perhaps, Shen Qingqiu mentions some rare beast, and Mobei-jun comments that he killed a couple of those. That leads to the first long conversation the two of you can have.

The next time, Mobei-jun brings back the beast's fangs. The two return to their conversation about monsters. Mobei-jun speaks little, concisely, but he talks about how to kill those beasts, the properties of their organs, the functioning of their poisons. Shen Qingqiu shares his bestiaries and provides additional information.

Then, even when Shang Qinghua improves, Shen Qingqiu usually takes advantage of the time when he has to stay in the northern palace with his husband to, well, expand his bestiary. Mobei-jun also seems to be passionate about flora that can kill, or anything huge and dangerous. Shen Qingqiu enjoys their conversations and learns to get more than just a few words out of Mobei-jun's sullen mouth.

Of course, he actually tells Shang Qinghua:

"When your husband isn't being monosyllabic, it's a good conversation" he says simply. "I didn't know he knew so much about flora, monsters and strange beasts. When I find a rare flower and can't remember its name, I'll ask Mobei, not you."

Shang Qinghua laughs a lot at that.

"Ah, I think that's because, well, you know, inspirations and all that..."

Shen Qingqiu looks at Shang Qinghua very curiously.

"Inspirations? You created your perfect husband from scratch. Who did you get your inspiration from, Airplane bro? Spill the tea, let's see the vicious tastes of this shameless author."

Shang Qinghua laughs a little foolishly.

"Well, you see, I had this classmate in college. A very rich guy" Shang Qinghua makes a funny face as he buries in the past. "He was cold and monosyllabic, even hostile to those who were rude, but hey, he could give you an infodumping of all the monsters in The Witcher without even doing research. I heard him do it once and, man, that guy was crazy" and Shang Qinghua continues talking while, as if by omen, Shen Qingqiu begins to feel a strange sensation of vertigo. "He was kind of cute, well, not exactly my fully type, he was very tall but lacked many muscles, but he had the biggest and prettiest resting bitch face I've ever seen on anyone even my king. He always wore all those fancy clothes that cost the same as my apartment rent, those silver accessories, rings, necklaces, bracelets... His hair was also kind of long, now that I think about it, and when he wore it down it was, god, a delight. I liked him a little. He was my college crush." and Shang Qinghua shrugs, laughing. His cheeks are red and Shen Qingqiu feels that his own ears are red, too. "Cucumber bro, it's actually a bit silly. I remember this boy's last name was also Shen."

That... That's the last straw.

"You-!" and Shen Qingqiu finds himself hitting him with the fan before he realizes it. "How-? What the hell!?"

"Ow, ow, OUCH, Cucumber bro!! What's going on?!"

Shen Qingqiu feels his face burning. His hands tremble over the fan. What the fuck!?

"... Bro?!"

"That classmate of yours" Shen Qingqiu hisses, just to confirm "His name was Shen Yuan?"

Shang Qinghua blinks, confused, recalling his thoughts. Suddenly, his entire face lights up with a wide smile.

"Oh, I forgot!! Yes, that was it!!" and his gaze becomes mischievous. "You met him, too?! He was a delicious little thing, honestly, a nice round butt, he... OUCH-"

"He was me" Shen Qingqiu hisses, opening his fan and hiding behind it. He wrinkles his nose in disgust. Of all the people in the world...!

Shang Qinghua gasps, looking like he was given some vital information. His face, contrary to what Shen Qingqiu expected, does not change into horror, but into mockery.

"Oh, bro" and starts laughing out loud "BRO"

"Damn fourth-rate author, what the hell is wrong with you!!!"

"Bro, BRO, I created a part of my husband based on you!! And you're married to my son self-inserted in a power fantasy!! It's like we're indirectly married!!"

"Fuck you!!"

"Ohh, how cute!! Do you want to jump to the honeymoon already?!"

"Get away!!"

Shen Qingqiu doesn't visit Shang Qinghua again for over a month. However, he does spend some time talking about monsters with Mobei-jun while his husband takes care of the demon court (in the time he would usually use to gossip and fool around with Shang Qinghua), it's just his thing.

[hanzajesthanza]

They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul. Regis’ eyes are jet-black. Onyx-black, dark as the darkest night, the purest night.

Because he is a vampire.

The eyes are the windows to the soul, and there is darkness and nothingness in there, a pleasant black void of murmurs and whispers that tickle the back of the head and make the eyelids heavy, that calms instantly, that evaporates fear, hate, love, pain. Makes one fall into…

Nothingness.

The soul lives on after the body has disintegrated into dust. The soul persists after death. What is death? What is a soul? And to a vampire? What can they be?

Dandelion witnessed the ghosts, visions of his friends, Geralt’s company, pushing the boat off upon Loch Eskalott. He saw three. Three, where there should have stood four. Alongside Milva’s braid, Cahir’s strength, Angoulême’s small hands, there should have been another. But there was only…

Nothingness.

This has happened before. This happened when they crossed the Jaruga, before Milva cut her braid. When their company was scoped out, felt out long-range magic—through the psyche of a dear friend. But where five stood, only four were seen. Because from such a magical scan, a vampire will not show up. Four humans, and where a vampire stands…

Nothingness.

[radiohyo]

Oh, if only I could say something here. Actually, no — I can and should.

On November 7, I downloaded a book for the plane ride, on a friend’s recommendation. I knew nothing about it except that the main character was depressed and that somewhere down the line there would be a romance arc that, according to her, might interest me. I hadn’t seen any fan art, and of course I had no idea how much of it I would end up drawing myself (guys, my whole fan art collection only had two pieces of chinese novels, one Witcher drawing, and some random Homestuck thing from 2014).

But a few months later, I celebrated New Year reading ships — drawing Amber until almost midnight. During the valentine’s day party, I sat off to the side reading the Aslevjal part, and that same night I cried over the poem. The next day in the studio, I was so shattered I couldn’t even time the etching process properly, and instead of using gasoline, I tried to thin bitumen varnish with acetone.

For the past six months, I’ve remembered every event in my own life alongside the events of the books. I was sure that I’d outgrown this kind of hyperfixation when I left my teenage years behind — and I’m genuinely happy to have been wrong about that.

There’s one old video meme that I don’t know how to translate into English, and it came to mind while I was finishing the final book so I was just sitting there, stupidly smiling, stunned that the world I had lived in for half a year had just ended. But almost happy, too, with how it all turned out (sadly, the Wolf wasn’t a surprise — I got spoiled when I started suspecting Amber and went looking her up on the wiki). Maybe later I’ll collect my thoughts and talk about the ending as well.

The conclusion of all this: thank you, Robin Hobb.

[tfalpha88]

hey, I would like to order some Red. I've heard it tastes amazing. I've always been your average small guy. I look up to everyone. I've always been one of those tech nerds. Never seeing the outdoors much

Ben was a geek, passionate about video games and new technologies. He had a YouTube channel and streamed live on Twitch. That night, he planned to stream the latest game released on PS5. He wasn’t much of an athlete—quite the opposite. He rarely went out, didn’t like sports, and was rather skinny. But, as usual, he was counting on an energy drink to keep him awake all night. In his emails, he had come across an ad for a new energy drink, designed for athletes and available in limited quantities. He figured that, like the others, it would probably help him stay awake for his stream. And sure enough, his order had just arrived.

There was a slogan printed on the back of the can: “Awaken your power, activate the RED.” Even though he knew all energy drinks were more or less the same, he was curious to see if this one would give him more energy than usual. The drink had a red berry flavor—sweet with a slightly tangy edge. He drank it to the last drop before launching his live stream.

As soon as he finished the can, the side effects began. Ben didn’t understand what was happening to him. A thick red cloud of smoke escaped from his mouth, and all the memories of his life began flashing before his eyes.

He saw himself as a child, one Christmas morning, receiving his very first gaming console. It was his best memory. His parents didn’t have much money at the time, but they had saved up just to get it for him.

From that day on, he became a huge fan of video games, spending all his free time in front of his console. He had a soft spot for role-playing games—especially those with vast immersive worlds like The Witcher, Final Fantasy, Elden Ring… They were more than games to him—they were worlds where he could escape, become someone else, someone strong and powerful.

Despite his introverted side, he was a kind person who genuinely liked people. During his teenage years, he wasn’t the most popular kid, but he was still well-liked, despite being a bit of a geek. He hated PE at school. He remembered a soccer game where he took a ball to the face and became the laughingstock of the class. From that day on, he avoided sports as much as possible.

Later, he started his YouTube channel to share his love for video games and new tech. During his livestreams, he always made sure to engage with his community and answer all their questions.

But the drink kept working, and Ben felt a powerful energy surging through his body. New memories—ones that hadn’t existed before—started to appear and blend with the old ones.

He remembered that same Christmas when he received his first console… except this time, he got a soccer game with it. It wasn’t the game he had wanted, but he ended up enjoying it and became really good at it. He even became a football fan. When he wasn’t on his console, he was out playing soccer with his friends. He developed a passion for sports games, and at school, PE became his favorite subject. He was popular, and everyone loved him. Later, he created a YouTube channel dedicated to sports games, which became a big success.

As those new memories took shape, Ben struggled to figure out what was real and what wasn’t. But this new reality started to grow on him… and soon, his body began to change as well. He became more muscular, his clothes transformed, and even his overall look began to shift.

A new surge of energy—stronger than before—rushed through his body. He felt excited by this strange force. The red smoke kept pouring out of his mouth, and his memories continued to change… and then vanish.

He remembered that same Christmas again… but this time, he didn’t get a console at all. His parents couldn’t afford it. Instead, they gave him a soccer ball. He was so angry that he kicked it with all his strength—straight into a window, which shattered. Of course, he was punished. It was the worst Christmas of his life.

He never discovered his love for video games. Instead, he found his passion for sports. As a kid, he spent all his time outside, playing soccer with his friends.

He had a complicated relationship with his parents, who could never afford to give him what he truly wanted. As a teenager, he became selfish and arrogant. He was the jock in class. Some admired him, others feared him. He wasn’t exactly a good person, but he had charisma—and that made him the most popular guy in school.

He loved sports. He loved the adrenaline of training, the rush of power it gave him. He built a strong, athletic body. He knew he was attractive, and he used it to his advantage.

He launched a YouTube channel to share fitness tips. It was a massive hit. But that wasn’t all—he also created an OnlyFans account where he uploaded his workout routines… fully nude. That, too, was a huge success. He made a fortune.

Thanks to the body he had built, he could now buy everything he ever wanted. As his old memories vanished, along with the red smoke still pouring from his mouth, his new reality fully took shape. His body became even more muscular, his clothes turned into workout gear, and his bedroom morphed into a fully equipped gym—where he now filmed all his videos.

The old Ben, the geek, was gone. He had never existed. Only the athletic and arrogant Ben remained in this new reality. He was just about to start his fitness livestream, and he fully intended to talk about this new energy drink—RED—which he now found incredibly effective for training.

[moistmailman]

Witcher AU

*On a sunny peaceful day at the Arc Cottage*

Jaune, chopping wood: It's way too hot to be doing this today. Why couldn't it be cloudy-

*Suddenly the family dog starts to bark wildly towards the dirt road*

Jaune, turning around: What is the dog barking about now?

*Jaune looks and sees the dog barking at a stranger passing by the on a horse*

Jaune: Damnit, Tyrus get over here!

*Tytus continues to bark, completely ignoring Jaune*

Jaune, groaning and dropping his axe: Why do you never listen to me? *Walk towards the dog* Do you find it funny to annoy me? I'm sorry, stranger, he doesn't bite but he is a-

*Jaune finally notices that the stranger on the horse was slouched down on top of the horse, arms dangling on the sides and blood slowly spilling onto the horse's body*

Jaune, eyes widening and now running up the horse: OH SHIT! H-HEY, A-ARE YOU ALRIGHT?! OH SHIT.

*Jaune inspects the stranger to reveal them to be a tall redheaded woman that was badly cut up, some cuts reaching bone even, but miraculously she was still breathing faintly*

Jaune: Oh fuck. This looks bad. BLEU, I NEED HELP!

Bleu, walking out: Can you literally not deal with the dog yourself- what the?!

Jaune, trying to delicately move the woman off the horse: JUST SHUT UP AND HELP!

Bleu, running up and grabbing the woman with Jaune: Okay fine, on the count of 3. One two THREE.

*Jaune and Bleu carefully lift the woman off the horse, causing the woman to unconsciously groan in pain*

Jaune, picking the woman up in her arms: Okay, go inside and tell mom to get the guest room ready! And get me a bowl of hot water, a rag, and my medical supplies.

Bleu, eyes wide looking at the woman:......

Jaune: BLEU!

Bleu: Jaune, do you know what this woman is?

Jaune: Nearly a corpse if you don't move!

Bleu: Jaune, this is a Witcher.

Jaune, looking down at the woman: What?

Bleu: Look at her veins! They're black! From drinking potions!

*Jaune finally noticed that the redheaded woman was paler than most and her veins, mostly in her face, were visible and pitch black*

Jaune: Holy shit, they're real? They're not a folktale?

Bleu: What the hell could've done with this a Witcher?!

Jaune, shaking his head: Doesn't matter! Just do what I say!

Bleu: R-right. Okay! *Runs off into the house*

Jaune, carrying the Witcher: The hell could've done this to a Witcher?

*CUTAWAY*

Pyrrha, weekly waking up: W-..…..where am I?

*the redhead looks around and notices she's not only not on her horse but currently in a room on a bed wrapped in a blanket with a fireplace roaring in the background*

Pyrrha: Am I bandaged? *Tries to the right arm* and is my arm in a sling?

An approaching muffled feminine voice: I'm going to check in on her real quick, okay?

*The door opens, and the smell of roast beef and garlic creeps into the room before a blonde woman head pokes her head through the door and makes eye contact with Pyrrha*

Blonde woman: *nods before pulling her head back out the room and closes the door"

Pyrrha:.........

*the door then quickly opens again with the blonde woman eyes wide*

Blonde woman: Oh shit! You're awake actually?!

*the woman quickly leaves"

Blonde woman's voice muffled: JAUNE! SHE'S AWAKE! YOU KNOW, THE ONE YOU CALLED BEAUTIFUL A FEW DAYS AGO!

Pyrrha: *slightly blushes*

A muffled masculine voice: I swear to God if she heard that then I'm going to be pissed!

Another feminine voice: DONT BE EMBARRASSED! SHE WOULD BE LUCKY TO HAVE YOU!

Same masculine voice: DON'T START TOO, MOM!

*finally footsteps approach the room and a tall blonde man with blue eyes walks into the room*

Jaune, awkwardly: H-hey, so, you're actually awake?

Pyrrha: *nods*

Jaune: So uhm.....you didn't hear anything my sister yelled out, right?

Pyrrha, deciding to show mercy: She yelled something?

Jaune, sighing in relief: It doesn't matter? How are you feeling? You were beaten up pretty bad when we first found you.

Pyrrha, cracking her neck: Not as bad as I was before because of you guys.

Jaune, smiling: That's a relief. I thought I wouldn't be good enough to treat someone with your wounds. Especially since I didn't have much here to actually treat them with.

Jaune: Where is 'here' exactly?

Jaune: Oh, you're at my house outside of any of the towns. Well, my parents house I guess. Actually, our house is more like it. But my parents legally own it, but we all help with the bills and keeping the house afloat. Am I rambling? I'm rambling, I'm sorry.

Pyrrha, chuckling: It's alright. Does my savior have a name by any chance?

Jaune: Jaune! J-jaune Arc to be exact. Short sweet and rolls off the tongue. Ladies love it.

Pyrrha: *raises eyebrow*

Jaune: Okay fine, a very small minority of ladies like it....possibly?

Pyrrha: *lightly giggles*

Jaune: That's....a better response that I usually get from women whenever I use that line.

Pyrrha, smiling: What's their usual response?

Jaune: Disgust, or pity. Sometimes in between.

Pyrrha: Well I'm sure it's their loss then, because you seem quite dashing in my opinion.

Jaune, blushing madly: Holy shit, really?

Pyrrha: *laughs*

Jaune, scratching the back of his head: I hope this isn't a personal question, but I gotta ask.....who....what happened to you?

Pyrrha, face getting serious: I got careless. I was hunting a Leshen when it somehow got a jump on me. Wouldve killed me if it wasn't for your craftsmanship. *Gestures towards her bandages*

Jaune, eyes wide: Holy shit, a Leshen? They're real?

Pyrrha, nodding: Yeah, dangerous creatures too. Slashed me before I could even drink a potion.

Jaune: Damn, so it escaped?

Pyrrha, shaking head: No. The Leshen grew careless too and got too close when he thought I was done for. That's when I stuck my hand in its mouth and burnt it from the inside out.

Jaune, nodding: That would explain the teeth marks on your arm.

Pyrrha nodding: Couldn't even chop it's head off and put it on my horse because of my injuri- wait, where's my horse?

Jaune: Oh don't worry. She's in our barn. Well behaved creature by the way. Didn't even throw a fit when my sister cleaned off....well, you're blood.

Pyrrha, sighing: That's a relief. I was nervous I had to bury another horse.

Jaune, nodding: Yeah, you have nothing to worry about. She's in good health.

Pyrrha: Thanks.....why did you help me by the way?

Jaune, tilting his head: What do you mean?

Pyrrha, shrugging: I mean....you saved a woman's life despite not knowing her. Why?

Jaune, sheepishly: Cause it's the right thing to do? Is that not common nowadays?

Pyrrha: No, not at all honestly. Especially for witchers. Most of us wont wave a finger if they didn't get coins for it....in fact, most people wouldn't help a Witcher in the first place honestly. Most people fear us.

Jaune, awkwardly: Well, I guess I'm different. Honestly, I didn't really notice you were a Witcher at first until my sister pointed out. N-not that I wouldn't have helped you if I knew though! I would have helped you regardless honestly! Unless you were a bandit or something though, then I probably wouldn't have helped you. Wait, how would I even have known if you were a bandit in the first place? Wait, I'm rambling again. I'm sorry

Pyrrha, chuckling: Don't be. It's kinda cute.

Jaune: *blushes madly*

*an awkward pause surrounds the two*

Jaune, perking up: Oh, you must be hungry. Will you like some roast beef my mom just made it and she's an amazing cook?

Pyrrha: If it's not too much trouble.

Jaune: Nonsense. My mom loves giving food out. She's a slave for compliments. Before I go, I never ask. What's your name?

Pyrrha: Its Pyrrha. Pyrrha Nikos.

Jaune, nodding: Right. And my name is Jaune Arc.

Pyrrha, smiling: Yes? You already told me that.

Jaune, blushing: O-Oh yeah. I forgot. I-I'm just going to make you a plate now.

*Jaune opens the door causing an older woman whose ear was against it to fall into the room*

Jaune, annoyed: Mom!

Jaune's mom, stumbling to stand up: Pfft, sorry about that. Went to knock but tripped the second my son opened the door. My son who is single by the way.

Jaune, groaning: Mom!

Jaune's mom: She said you were cute!

Jaune: *groans louder*

Pyrrha: *chuckles*

[gingersnappish]

Lambert and Aiden: in some couples it's 'opposites attract' and in others, well....

in others, they are cut from exactly the same cloth.

Does anyone, even Witchers, need that many knives?

~Inspired by that post that went around a little while back that was along the lines of 'when you are undressing with your partner and the pair of you end up with a pile of knives bigger than the pile of clothes' by the end, or something to that effect. It reminded me so strongly of these guys that I had to make this!

[wickedwitchofthegalaxy]

☞︎𝑅𝓊𝓁𝑒𝓈☜︎

𝒫𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔: 𝑮𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒍𝒕𝑿𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: NSFW, Angst, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Enemies to Lovers, Gore, Size Difference, Trust Issues, Power Imbalance

𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 6K

𝒮𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: The woods are no place for a dancer, but when you’re forced to flee a life that isn’t your own, the only option is to follow the whispers of a bard and the promise of a Witcher’s protection.

𝒩𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈: I’m so excited to share this with yall, as it might be one of my last fanfics for a while because I want to shift towards OC’s and fleshing out a few ideas for potential books. Anywho, hope you guys like it. Banners by @cafekitsune !

𝐸𝓃𝒿𝑜𝓎 🖤

There’s something about the silence in the woods that’s wrong, like it’s holding its breath, waiting for you to slip. The woods are thick with mist, the air damp and heavy, clinging to your skin like a warning.

You should have stayed at the inn; you should’ve kept your head down. But you didn’t. Not this time. And now you’re in a place you don’t belong, looking for a man who’s more myth than man.

Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher.

You don’t know what you’re expecting to find when you locate him. In the stories, he stands out in every room; he shouldn’t be hard to find, which were your exact thoughts when you left the inn and headed into the forest that Jaskier said the Witcher would be riding in from. It was only a 20-minute walk, and you had been waiting on this supposed White Wolf since the break of dawn. Every step forward is a gamble and the moment you step into a clearing, you realize you’ve lost the bet.

The clearing is not empty. It’s filled with the noise of metal on bone, of vicious growls and heavy breathing. You freeze. A figure cloaked in battle-worn leather is in full swing against… what is that thing?

He’s fighting—fighting something—someone. It’s not the first time you’ve walked into danger without meaning to, but this time, it’s different. This isn’t the same as a drunken noble’s leering hands or a back-alley brawl. No, this is life or death.

You should leave. You know you should. But you don’t.

You step forward, not thinking, not planning.

“Geralt!” You call out, way too loudly.

He doesn’t even flinch in your direction.

The sword in his hand moves with terrifying ease, slicing through the air. It’s the creature, that thing, some twisted shape of beast and man, that’s the focus of his ire. You’re invisible to him.

The creature, too quick, too feral, lashes out. Its clawed hand strikes, barely missing Geralt but connects with a nearby tree, shredding the side of it.

The world seems to stop as Geralt’s focus shifts. His eyes snap to you, and a single syllable leaves his lips.

“Run.”

You don’t.

Instead, you take a step forward, propelled by some stupid instinct to survive, or it’s something else. Maybe it’s the gnawing knowledge that waiting any longer will leave you trapped in a life that isn’t yours. And right now, even this forest, this creature, this man, feels safer than the suffocating pull of the noose tightening back home.

“Geralt, I—”

The words choke in your throat as the creature turns its attention to you. It’s fast, rabid, and it’s snapping at anything in its reach. Geralt curses under his breath, his shoulders tensing as his blow slices into the leg of the creature. The monster’s blood splatters across his face, and he doesn’t flinch. He never flinches. But when he steps toward you, when his movements are a blur of motion, you feel the urgency, the danger.

There’s a flash of light, the sickening crack of bone, and the creature drops. Silence.

The thing lies crumpled at Geralt’s feet, its twisted form unnervingly still. The quiet that follows is asphyxiating, pressing in on your ears as though the forest itself has collapsed inward. Your fists tremble, but you keep them closed at your hips, forcing yourself to hold steady. The fear claws at the edges of your resolve, but you push it down, shove it deep where it can’t stop you. You’ve survived worse, or at least you tell yourself that you have.

Geralt straightens, his blade dripping with something too dark to be blood. His gaze is on the corpse, but you know, you can feel, that he’s aware of every breath you take. He wipes the blood from his blade with a cloth you don’t remember him pulling out, his movements methodical and swift. The weight of his attention shifts to you slowly, like a hunter debating whether the effort of pursuit is worth it.

“What,” he begins, his voice low, “are you doing here?”

It’s not a question. It’s an accusation, one that cuts deeper than you thought it would. His eyes, yellow, and cold as winter’s wrath, meet yours, and it’s as if the forest stops breathing again.

You can’t find your voice immediately. The scene, what’s left of the creature, the way the Witcher’s chest heaves, the still-damp blood streaked across his face, pins you in place. Your words stumble out before you’ve fully caught them.

“I—Jaskier—he said—”

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s lips press into a thin, humorless line. He steps closer, his boots crunching against the blood-soaked earth. He towers over you now, his expression carved from stone.

“Do you have a death wish?”

He doesn’t look away, doesn’t give you room to breathe, the question hanging there like a snare waiting to snap shut. His lips tighten, and for a moment, he looks as though he might simply turn and leave you standing there. But he doesn’t. Instead, his hand lingers near his sword, his jaw clenched tight.

“You shouldn’t be here, much less yelling my name in the middle of the forest. Jaskier told me to meet a woman by the name of—“

He takes a deep breath and exhales dramatically, making his distaste for his next words. “The Court Swan, at the inn. I’m assuming that’s you?” His words are laced with disbelief, as if Jaskier has played one of his infamous jokes on him about your nickname.

You hesitate before nodding. “Yes. That’s me.” You take a step forward, ignoring the shake in your knees. It’s a dance, you tell yourself. Every movement calculated, every breath measured.

Geralt studies you with a scrutiny that feels more invasive than any gaze should, like he’s peeling back every layer of pretense with those sharp, wolfish eyes. You’ve felt the prestige of a royal audience before, the way their eyes skim over your form with detached judgment, but this is something else. This is dangerous. He’s dangerous.

“You’re a dancer.” It’s not a question, but you hear the skepticism in his tone. He casts a wary glance around the forest as he continues. “Why is a dancer running errands for a poet?”

“I’m not—” Bile rises into your throat, and you swallow hard. You shift your weight, your boots sinking into the damp mud as your hands clench at your sides.

“I’m not running errands. I’m here because… because I saved his life.”

Geralt’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers behind his eyes, and a dry smirk etches across his lips. “And that turned into my problem how?” His voice remains flat, cutting.

The weight of his gaze, his questions, presses down on you, and suddenly you’re spilling the truth before you can stop yourself.

“The royals I dance for—danced for—found out. They didn’t like that I helped him.” You pause, swallowing hard. Geralt’s gaze doesn’t waver. If anything, it sharpens. You can feel the sting of it, like a blade poised just above your skin.

“So they decided to punish me for it.”

He wipes his blade again, the motion deliberate, and sheathes it with a muted click. The admission hangs in the clearing, and for a moment, Geralt says nothing; neither of you moves, the world around you held at bay.

“I saved his life,” you repeat, your voice stronger now, gaining resolve. “Jaskier has these friends; they—” You pause, searching your pockets for the letter Jaskier sent with you to give Geralt. Finding the small envelope, you hold it up to him. “They’re victims of… one of the royals… habits.”

Geralt shifts slightly, his shoulders still tense, his eyes narrowing. “And what do you expect from me, exactly?” He grabs the envelope, it growing smaller the instant it leaves your hands and enters his. The forest presses in around you, the trees whispering secrets in the breeze, as if the woods themselves are listening and waiting for you to shatter under all this pressure while he opens the letter and reads it.

“Help,” you say, almost pleading. “I don’t know where to go or what to do. Jaskier said you might—that you know things I don’t.”

Geralt exhales sharply through his nose, the sound closer to a growl than a sigh. “Of course he did,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his damp, blood-matted hair. “And what exactly does he think I’m supposed to do? Take you in? Fight off your enemies? Play bodyguard for a dancer who thought it was a good idea to get involved in politics?”

“I didn’t ‘get involved,’” you bite back, heat rising in your cheeks. “I—” The words catch in your throat, shame and anger tangling together. “I didn’t have a choice. What do you know about me? What did Jaskier tell you?”

His eyes narrow further, the yellow of his irises growing colder, more assessing as he studies you. His staring is almost rude; you would have called him on it in any other situation. But you guess this is a situation where you too would be cautious of the strange girl coming to you for help. Especially in the middle of the woods. “Jaskier wasn’t being entirely honest when he mentioned my ‘help’,” he says finally, his voice low and deliberate. “Damien—Damien…?”

“Damien Clyde.” You clarify quickly, before the monster’s name can burn your tongue.

“Clyde,” Geralt repeats, testing the name as his eyes unfocus slightly. He shifts again, his gaze returning to the shadows of the trees around you. “I know Damien Clyde well—well enough to know that he’s ruthless.”

Geralt’s gaze returns to you, sharp and penetrating. “He’s got a lot of enemies,” he continues, his voice lower, almost a whisper. “But he also has a lot of loyal followers—people who will do anything to protect him. Even if that means hunting down a pretty little dancer.”

“Which is why I need your help,” you say, your voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. “I’m not asking for much. Just a place to hide, a way to keep ahead of his hunters—”

“You’re asking for a miracle,” Geralt cuts in, his voice sharper now, a low exclamation that seems more a reaction than an accusation. “And that’s not something I can provide.”

You feel the strike of his words like they were physical, your heart sinking. “I don’t know what else to do,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I need something—someone—who knows the way Damien thinks, knows how he operates.”

Geralt looks at you then, really looks, his eyes searching yours as if trying to find some hidden truth there. “And what makes you think I can help with that?” he ventures, his voice softer now, almost gentle. “What do you think I know about Damien Clyde that you don’t?”

You hesitate for a moment, considering his question. “You’ve faced monsters like him before,” you finally say, your voice firm, though the anxiety still ripples through you. “You know what makes them tick. Damien is a monster in his own right, just… different. I think you’ve seen enough to understand,” you insist, your voice holding onto that firmness despite the doubt that claws at you. “More than most.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch out between you while he contemplates your words. When he does reply, it’s with a shake of his head and a heavy sigh.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he admits, his voice low and laced with frustration as he crumbles the letter in his hand. “But I can’t leave you to fend for yourself either.”

“Then what can you do?” You countered, desperation edging into your tone. You take a quick step, closing in on his personal space. His whole body tenses, and if you thought he was scary before, getting closer only tripled his effect. Regardless of his enhanced presence, you keep his gaze, your head tilting up as you add, “If it’s not a miracle, what’s left?”

Geralt takes a deep breath, his jaw flexing as he peers down at you. “I can give you a head start,” he states, his arms crossing while he rolls his shoulders. “I know some places, some people… ways to get you out of sight for a while, to keep you safe. But Damien’s going to keep coming after you.”

You shake your head, your eyebrows furrowing before you speak up, your voice rising slightly. “No, I’m not leaving your side. You know how to evade him; you know everything I need to know in order for me to live. I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Geralt’s eyes slim, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. He hesitates for a moment, as if weighing his options, before letting out a slow breath. “Dammit,” he mutters under his breath, as if cursing the situation more than you.

“You’re asking for more than I can give,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “But for now… I guess it’s enough.”

“Then let’s go,” you cut in, determination in your voice as you turn and start walking deeper into the woods. Geralt doesn’t move immediately, watching you with a mix of frustration and something darker; resignation, perhaps. Finally, he sighs and shouts, “Where do you think you’re going?”

You stop, confused, and turn back to him. “What? I thought—”

“Wrong way,” Geralt interrupts, his tone sharper than you expected. He glares at you, and his eyes flick around the woods as if he’s checking for threats.

“Rule one: always follow me.”

You blink at him, taken aback by the sudden correction. “I didn’t—”

“You didn’t think,” he cuts in, his voice tinged with frustration. “Keep close and do as I say. No more running off, no more going your own way. No more thinking, just listen.”

You swallow, nodding quickly as you step back to where he stands, his judging eyes never leaving you. “Got it,” you say, trying to keep your voice from wavering. “Lead on.”

Geralt grunts, but there’s a hint of reluctant approval in his eyes as he turns and starts walking again, this time in the right direction.

“Let’s move,” he mutters, not looking back to see if you’re following. “And keep your head down.”

 

 

One Month Later…

 

The forest and a small, tucked-away hut have become a sanctuary for the two of you, away from prying eyes and the ever-watchful hunters sent by Damien. The rules that Geralt laid down, the ones you initially dismissed with an eye roll or two, are now second nature. Rule one: always follow him. Rule two: don’t ask questions unless he allows it. Rule three: never assume you’re safe. They’re becoming etched into your memory as much as the steps you now take in combat.

You haven’t felt this alive in years. Every day is a test, a dance of a sort. Although you did miss just dancing. It’s grueling, Geralt’s training regime, but it’s given you purpose.

Today, the clearing outside the tiny hut is quiet, the only sound being the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Geralt is off to the side, sharpening his sword with deliberate strokes. You approach him, your own blade feeling unfamiliar in your hands. It’s a strange sensation, not just the weight of the sword but the unfamiliarity with its use.

“Come on,” Geralt says without looking up, his voice rough from disuse. “You’re better than this. Focus.”

You take a deep breath, gripping the hilt tightly. He watches you from beneath his tousled white hair, his eyes sharp as always. It feels as if he can see right through you, to the fear and doubt lurking beneath your surface.

“Show me,” he instructs, his eyes never leaving yours and his tone even. “What you’ve learned.”

You move forward slowly, cautious. The blade feels like a stranger’s hand in yours, and you thrust forward with a hesitant jab. It’s clumsy and weak, nothing like the smooth, deadly movements you’ve seen him perform. Geralt barely reacts, just steps back and shakes his head.

“Again,” he orders, his voice low. “But faster this time. You’re thinking too much.”

You nod, trying to ignore the way his gaze follows your every move. There’s an intensity to his focus that makes you want to prove yourself, to show him that you’re not just a dancer who stumbled into his world by accident. You gather your courage and lunge again, more confidently this time.

Geralt blocks the strike effortlessly, his own blade moving in a blur as he counters with a series of rapid jabs. You dodge, your heart pounding in your chest as you scramble to keep up. Each strike feels like it could be the last, and the sweat on your skin isn’t just from exertion, it’s fear.

“You need to relax,” he says, lowering his sword and stepping closer. “Focus on your breathing. You’re too tense.”

You try to listen, but the pressure of the situation—of Damien, of everything you’ve left behind—makes it hard. “It’s not that easy,” you admit, your voice shaky with toil as you lower your own blade. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here. Why did you agree to this?”

Geralt’s cheek twitches slightly as he looks at you, his eyes keeping yours for a moment too long. “You’re not the only one who needs to survive,” he says, his voice low. “I took on your burdens the moment you screamed my name in those woods. Your end will be mine; that’s assured.”

You swallow hard, feeling something tighten in your chest. “So this is just about survival?”

He hesitates, then steps closer, his fingers brushing lightly against the blade in your hand. “Maybe,” he admits quietly. “But it’s more than that. You’re not just some dancer to me anymore, are you?”

“What does that mean?” you ask, your voice on the edge of silence.

Geralt hesitates again, then steps back, his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Later,” he says, his tone clipped. “Let’s just finish for today.”

Disappointment floods through you, and you don’t bother to hide it. Your hand gripping the hilt of your blade harder. “Fine,” you mutter, squaring up to him. “Later.”

Geralt watches you for a long moment before raising his blade, stretching it out between you two, his hand steady and practiced.

“Rule one,” he says, his gaze locked in on your eyes, “always follow me.”

You fight with a ferocity you didn’t know you had, pushing yourself to keep up with his quick movements. Every thrust and parry brings you closer to frustration. Your arms ache, the weapon in your hands feeling heavier with each swing. It’s a cruel reminder of your mortality, how little separates you from failure.

Geralt’s moves are sharp as he counteracts each of yours with ease. “Focus,” he snaps after one particularly errant swing. Another parry, another twist of his wrist, and your strike falters… Again.

“You’re letting your emotions get in the way.”

Of course I am, you bastard. I’m not a machine.

“I don’t have time for this!” You bark, your anger bubbling over. Your vision blurs; whether from sweat or tears, you can’t tell. “I don’t have time for you and your rules, Geralt! I need to find a way out!”

His face darkens, the pale skin stretched tight over a grimace as he steps back, and you hate the way your stomach twists at the sight.

Why does his silence feel like a punishment? Like I failed some mysterious test?

“Then leave,” he says, his voice calm and flat, dangerous in its restraint. “Go somewhere else. I’m not stopping you.”

You freeze; your sword dips, the blade scraping the dirt. “You know I can’t,” you mutter, teeth clenched against the truth as you abandon your blade. Your eyes are barely able to lift from the ground to meet his as you continue, ”he’ll find me. And if I go alone—“

“Then you’ll end up dead,” he growls, finishing for you, his eyes hardening. “And Damien will still win.”

I know that. I know that, but do you think I want to hear it? Do you think I haven’t imagined my own corpse lying in his shadow?

The thoughts press down on you, but your voice cuts through them, bloody and breaking. “Then help me!” you yell, your voice cracking. “Don’t just stand there, judging me and shit! Fight for me!”

An unmistakable glow overtakes his eyes, fire behind the gold. His tone lowers, softer now but somehow more threatening. “Is that what you want?” He’s in front of you in seconds, his long legs carrying him quickly and placing him inches away from you. “You want me to fight for you?” He whispers, his head leaning down.

You take a shuddering breath, your heart pounding as you look up at him, his expression more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen it.

He’s testing me. Always testing.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice breaking as the admission drags itself out of your chest. “Yes, I do.”

Geralt’s gaze softens ever so slightly, though his jaw remains tight. He reaches out and takes your chin gently between his fingers, tilting your face up to meet his. “Then you need to fight for yourself too,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip. “I can’t do it alone.”

Haven’t I been doing that?

You swallow hard, your heart pounding as you meet his eyes. “I’m trying,” you plea, your words shaking as they exit your mouth. “I just… I don’t know how.”

“Let me show you,” he states, his voice low and steady. “But you have to listen, and you have to trust me.”

Do I even know how to trust anymore? When was the last time someone asked me to? When was the last time I didn’t regret it?

Tears well up in your eyes as you nod, feeling smaller than you ever have.

How did I let it come to this? When did I become so helpless?

Your voice shakes as it leaves you, and your hand comes up to clutch your stomach. “I want to.”

His bright amber eyes search yours, as if looking for some kind of answer to this mess. “Good,” he finally replies, his tone soft and deep. “Then show me.”

He closes the distance between you, his hands cradling your face as his mouth captures yours in a kiss that’s both angry and gentle.

Angry and gentle. How is that even possible? How is he pulling me closer while it feels like he’s punishing me?

“Show me you can fight,” he murmurs against your lips, his hands tracing the curve of your neck, gliding down to your shoulders, urging you closer. “Show me you’re not afraid.”

Afraid?

You kiss him back, your movements clumsy, desperate, as if to prove something; to him or to yourself, you’re not sure. Your hands find the buttons of his shirt, your fingers trembling as they work to undo them. “I’m not,” you mumble, the words quaking. “I can handle this.” 

A low sound escapes him, somewhere between a growl and a hum, as he shrugs his shirt off the rest of the way.“That’s what I wanted to hear.” He breathes, his voice rough.

His hands move slowly as he peels your shirt from your body, pulling it over your head and tossing it aside. The cool air kisses your skin, but it’s his mouth you feel most. You let out a soft gasp as his mouth reconnects with yours, then moves, trailing along your neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin as his hands roam down your back. His calloused fingers mix with the cool breeze, leaving goosebumps to emerge along your body.

He lowers his kisses down to your collarbone, hands slipping under your waistband to touch your skin. You gasp as his teeth graze the sensitive curve. His hands are everywhere, on your waist, your back, your face, his lips never leaving your flesh, which causes your words to fly out with little thought. “Show me how to fight; I’ll listen this time.”

Is this what surrender feels like?

“I’ll show you, but first,” he promises as he leans down, hooking his hands under your thighs and lifting you. You cling to him as your heart hammers in your chest. “you have to let go.” He murmurs against your lips, the words less a challenge and more a demand.

Let go? Of all the things Damien has done? Of all those poor women? Or is he meaning let go of my old life, the one I worked so hard to achieve? Maybe he means all of it, and if he does, how am I supposed to just… let that go?

Your hands find his face, cupping his cheeks as you search his expression. His wet lips, his golden gaze, they’re too much, too honest. You press your forehead to his, closing your eyes tightly. “I don’t know how. I—I can’t.” You admit, your voice a fractured whisper.

“Yes, you can,” he says, the conviction in his voice stronger than your doubts. His eyes remain on yours as he carries you toward the hut, taking large steps while keeping a tight hold on you. “You’re stronger than you think.”

He doesn’t bother with closing the door as he maneuvers you inside, the hut’s worn frame groaning under the sudden shift in weight. You barely register the dim interior, your focus consumed entirely by him, his grip, his heat, the way he sets you down on the makeshift straw bed with a care that feels at odds with his rough edges.

His hands find your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks in a way that sends warmth spiraling through you. His lips crash into yours, this kiss deeper, hungrier.

“Just trust me,” he mutters against your mouth again, his breath warm as it mingles with yours. His hands are already at your waistband, his fingers deftly unfastening the fabric. “Trust me.”

How does he make it feel like he’s taking something from me and giving it back at the same time?

The words linger in the air, heavy and unfamiliar, before spilling from your lips. “I trust you.” You whisper as the faint rasp of fabric fills the space, his hands pushing your pants past your ankles.

You let out a soft whimper as his fingers graze your skin. His hands, steady and searching, make their way down your body, his touch a mixture of need and tenderness. His mouth finds your neck again, lingering at the tender spot beneath your ear.

“What’s my third rule?” He questions, his voice a low growl while his lips brush against the shell of your ear.

The words come to you like a reflex.

“Never assume you’re safe.” You reply, your voice barely a breath as his fingers brush against the sensitive skin between your legs. “Good girl,” he praises, the depth in his tone making the two single words vibrate through you.

I’m not safe. Not from Damien. Not from myself. Not from him.

“Don’t assume anything right now.” He commands, his hands starting a slow, deliberate tease against your clit.

“This is about trust,” he murmurs, his voice softening as his fingers find their way inside you, the sensation tame yet overwhelming. “Show me you trust me.”

You can’t hold back the moan that escapes you, your hands tangling in his hair. His thumb finds your clit, brushing it before circling the swollen nub with an infuriatingly slow pace.

“I trust you,” you gasp, clutching at him, desperate to pull him closer. “Please, Geralt.”

Please what? Please stop? Please keep going? Please make me forget everything but this?

His lips return to your neck, trailing a line of heat down to your collarbone, where he pauses, his breath fanning. "You keep saying it," he mumbles against you as two fingers curl inside you, his thumb stopping its circles as he shifts his focus to finding that sweet spot inside of you. "but trust is more than words." His teeth graze your shoulder, each edge marking your flesh with a maddeningly gentle scratch.

A choked gasp leaves you as his fingers find it, and he presses again, firm and deliberate, sending a jolt through you that makes your body arch into him. His lips curve into a smirk against your shoulder, his breath warm as he shifts his angle; his fingers press and release in rapid succession, as though he’s flicking a switch that ignites something molten inside you.

"Trust is letting go."

Letting go. The words land heavily, like a challenge. Your thoughts spin out of control, colliding with the steady rhythm of his touch. His fingers move deeper, his pace increasing ever so slightly, causing the most beautiful, juicy noises to leave your soaking heat.

It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s everything.

Your control splinters under the sensation, the rest of the world dissolving into nothing but the relentless pace of his touch and the way your body reacts to him. His thumb resumes its place over your clit, pressing firmly, circling, teasing, in perfect counterpoint to the rapid release and maddening pressure of his fingers inside you. It’s as if he’s playing you like an instrument, coaxing sounds from your lips that you didn’t know you could make.

“Like that?” he murmurs, his voice low and knowing. The meticulous motion of his fingers quickens, not frantic but punishing, each thrust landing with perfect accuracy to help prove his point.

Your answer comes as a broken moan, your hands gripping his shoulders, nails biting into his toned muscles. “Come on beautiful,” he growls, his voice slicing through the haze, grounding you and yet setting you further adrift. “Don’t hold back.”

It’s not a request. It’s a command; an answer.

You can’t even think of resisting, not when his lips find the edge of your jaw, his teeth grazing the delicate curve with just enough pressure to make you shiver. “That’s it,” he growls, his voice a low mix of admiration and darkness. “That’s my good little dancer.”

His hand never falters, fingers thrumming inside you with care, his thumb rubbing your clit with a focus that borders on cruel. You’re unraveling, thread by thread, piece by piece, until you’re nothing but raw nerve endings responding to him.

This is surrender; you’re sure of it now.

“Geralt—” His name is a plea, a prayer you didn’t know you had in you.

“Let it happen, baby,” he murmurs, his golden eyes locking on yours while his free hand grasps the inside of your thigh, spreading it open further. The calluses on his palm feel rough against the tender skin, a downright opposition to the soft, devastating rhythm of his other hand. “Don’t fight it.”

You don’t even know what it is anymore. The trust he keeps demanding? The fear you’ve been holding onto like a lifeline? Or this—a brutal, undeniable pleasure that’s tearing you into eight million different pieces?

Your hips buck against his hand, chasing every stroke, every press, every flick of his fingers as if they’re the only thing keeping you alive. And maybe they are.

He leans in, his lips brushing over yours. Just a breath, a glimpse of contact that steals the air from your lungs. “You’re close,” he says, his voice so deep it almost sends you over. “I can feel it.”

You shake your head, a wordless denial, though you don’t know who it’s meant for.

“You are,” he insists, his fingers quickening, pushing deeper, as if to prove it. In seconds he’s replaced his thumb with his free hand, that thumb taking over and having a better angle to rub your swollen clit with more ferocity as his other fingers continue their assault against your sweet spot. Your body betrays you, the denial caught in your throat unraveling as your thighs quiver against his hands.

Your eyes shoot open, locking with his as his voice rings out, “And you’ll take it,” he says, his voice a low snarl. His eyes bore into yours, molten gold burning through the fog of pleasure clouding your mind. “You’ll take it because I’m giving it to you.”

“Geralt,” you manage to yelp, the name cracking on your lips as your nails dig into him.

“Don’t fight me,” he growls again, but there’s something different now; a hint of frustration, a flash of unapologetic desire. His pace quickens and he adds a third finger, thrusting harder, each motion a declaration of his lesson.

Your head tips back, your lips parting as you let out a sound that’s somewhere between a moan and a sob, the pleasure climbing higher, threatening to crest.

“Yes, yes, baby,” he purrs, his voice softening but no less commanding. He leans in, his lips retaking their place by your ear. “Don’t you dare hold back now.”

You don’t. You can’t. It feels like he’s everywhere, filling every part of you, dragging you down until there’s nothing left but the electric pulse of your own climax.

“There she is,” he grunts, a harsh whisper against the shell of your ear. “Don’t stop now. I want all of it.”

The tension inside you coils tighter, until it pulls taut, stretching to the breaking point, then fractures, an eruption that floods your veins with unbridled energy and a rush of power. Cries tear from your throat, and your body convulses around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you, leaving you shaking, gasping, unraveling completely in his hands.

He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t stop. And the sounds spilling from your lips are unrestrained, a language you don’t recognize but can’t suppress.

He watches you like he’s orchestrated the entire thing, some maestro of chaos and submission. “There,” he rasps, his voice dragging across your skin like gravel. “That’s what I wanted.” His lips trail and hover at the edge of your jaw, close enough that you feel every syllable. “No masks. No more dancing. Just you. ”

Your hands tremble against his shoulders, searching for some way to anchor yourself as the tremors pulse through you. He shifts, his movements slowing, fingers easing their pace but never truly stopping.

He’s still there, still consuming, like a river that flows faintly beneath a hidden surface.

“Look at me,” he breathes, and there’s no question in his tone. It makes your eyes flutter up to his, barely able to keep them focused on his face.

“Did you feel it?” he asks, his voice lowered, yet holding the same harsh charge. His fingers remain inside you, his other hand stills on your sensitive clit while his fingers inside rub small circular motions against your bulging g-spot. “That breaking point? That moment when you let it all go?”

You can only nod, your throat too raw for words.

“Good,” he says, his lips ghosting over the corner of your mouth, not a kiss, but enough to make your heart skip. “Remember it. Because that’s trust.”

[berryzoey]

Helloooo :P

could i perchance request my beautiful wives (Mira, Zoey and Mystery) who likes playing video games, specifically farming sims? i am a BIG Stardew Valley fan, and i force all my friends to play it with me (send help i have 100+ hours of the game played). i feel like Mira would enjoy mining while Zoey would enjoy foraging as well as gaining hearts w all the NPCs. plus!! in co-op you can marry the other person you’re playing with 👀

tysm <33

LOVE GROWS (WHERE MY ROSEMARY GOES)

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 : mira, zoey, mystery

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 : playing stardew valley with their farming sim obsessed s/o

𝐚/𝐧 : sorry i’ve been letting requests marinate for a lil bit guys. it’s been forever since i played stardew valley. i think last time i played was 2-3 years ago? anyway, i love this idea! please enjoy. :)

𝐌𝐈𝐑𝐀

One factor you and your girlfriend loved in particular about Stardew was mining; finding gems and other valuable items was thrilling, but there was something about it that made you enjoy it even more. You loved monster slaying.

Many of the other games you played included monster slaying, like Dark Souls and The Witcher, but when you needed to wind down you liked to play a bit of Stardew Valley. Farming simulators were your favorite, while Mira always liked more intense games; hence why you both liked to play it. Certain people like certain aspects more than others, but who cares?

As your girlfriend grabbed a picaxe, you grabbed your sword. “We need to check our daily luck.” She advised, or more like stated. It was a no-brainer when it came to a good mining trip.

“On it.”

Quickly, you ran to your tv to put on the correct channel. Patiently, you waited for the dialogue to appear, sitting on the edge of your seat in anticipation. Then, finally. “Fortune teller says it’s good fortune today!” You cheered, immediately running out of your home and towards the mines.

“Perfect, let’s kick these monsters butts and get our loot!”

“Yeah!” You shouted as you threw a fist into the air, feeling pumped up by the energy your girlfriend was giving you. Her eyes widened, then her lips curled into a smirk. “Yeah!”

Then it became a game of who could scream louder and more excited:

“YEAH!”

“YEAHHHHH!!””

“YEAHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

“YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

“Can you guys please quiet down?”

“Sorry, Bobby!”

───

𝐙𝐎𝐄𝐘

A heavy sigh was released from you as you gripped the joycons of your Switch, anxious for the future before you. This meant all or nothing, one would fall and one would rise. In your inventory were the right materials; goat cheese for your beloved sculptor, and crab cakes for your beloved writer. They were staring you right in your face, mocking you.

Now, one might say “Romance them both!”, why would you do that? Are you going to cheat on them at the same time? You’re going to have a love affair with both of them and then eventually break their hearts because it’s inevitable that you will get caught? Wow. Wow we wow.

While you could date more than one person in this game without consequence, the idea of actually doing it made the both of you feel awful. So, you decided you could only pick one. Finally, you spoke. “We must make a decision.”

“I agree.” Her voice wavered, just a bit. Enough for you to tell this was going to be harder than any other decision you’ve ever made.

For a beat, nothing was said. The weight of guilt rested upon your shoulders, dragging you and your girlfriend down along with it. It pained your soul, it felt like you were dying. “Leah or Elliot?” You whispered, staring intently at the amount of hearts each npc had.

Both had 9 hearts, each only needed one more interaction to bring it up to 10.

Zoey broke.

She laid her head on your shoulder, hiding the pained expression on her face. “I feel so guilty though, they’re both such good options!” She whined as she lightly punched you on the shoulder.

“Me too, but your Switch is dead right now so we have no other choice.” Breaking the news was heart wrenching, but it was the truth.

Abruptly, she grabbed both of your shoulders and began shaking you back and forth. “I can’t, [Name]! It’ll tear me apart!”

“I know, honey, I know,” a light grip was then given to both of her hands by your own. “We must get through this hardship; together.”

Her hand tightened around yours, a fierce look now in her eyes. “Right.”

This was it. You could do this.

The both of you go back and forth on who to pick for 3 more hours before taking a break and falling asleep on each other.

───

𝐌𝐘𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐘

“Okay, we have the recipe. Now it’s time to craft the ring!”

Finally, after hours of going through the mines of Skull Cavern, you finally got it; the prismatic shard. The final item you needed to craft the ring required to propose in the game. This was the moment you had been waiting for. “Do we have what we need?” You asked, leaning over his shoulder to look at his screen.

“We should, we spent a lot of time mining yesterday,” He muttered, looking for the crafting recipe. You quickly responded. “Okay, let me check my inventory.”

“5 iridium bars and 1 prismatic shard?”

“Yes, perfect!”

“This is about to be the cutest wedding ever!” You cheered, throwing a fist in the air. Triumphant, it felt almost as good as winning a game of Monopoly.

You were adorable.

As you prepared to craft the ring, there was a silence that fell between you. Then, “I would prefer it if it was real.” He mumbled, playing with the ends of his arm warmers.

Slowly, you put your Switch down to look at him. A faint blush could be seen underneath his silver locks, threatening to get brighter. “That is the cutest thing you’ve ever said.” You whispered, then you pressed a kiss to his nose. “I love you so much.”

@𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲𝐳𝐨𝐞𝐲 °❀.ೃ࿔ - please do not translate or plagiarize my works.