#Where's that angry hmm Geralt gif?

[dobismuted]

Well this is a mess

[honestsycrets]

The Whore and the Roach || [Geralt x Reader]

❛ pairing | geralt x fem prostitute!reader

❛ type | oneshot

❛ summary | ❝ she doesn’t want to be a prostitute. she just doesn’t know how to get out. he can help.  ❞

❛  warnings | whorehouse, prostitute, minor violence, geralt being a big good bully, protective!geralt

❛  sy’s notes | this is my first shot. it’s SFW. just a little sweetie shot mostly. gif by thewitcherdaily.

A soft wooden brush shifts over the study back of the muddy horse. He chomps on his supper of concentrate and hay to the swift rack of a brush over his back. His tail flicks periodically as he eats, suggesting that perhaps he has relaxed some over his long stay with you while his owner made a visit to Temeria. Your hand shifts over his long tail-- and you replace the soft brush in favour of a wide-toothed comb.

“Much better,” you say, standing off to the side of the horse. With one hand holding the top of the section, the other combs through his tail. The horse kicks out, and you’re suddenly a lot more happy that you were to the side of him rather than directly behind. “Keep still. You haven’t been combed in a while! Tell the Witcher he’s slacking. Better yet, I’ll tell him.”

The Witcher in question slips into the warm cozy stable. His large hulking body walks past you to settle his large hand on top of the chocolate strands of his horse’s mane. You glance to him, perking a small smile.

“You could at least brush him. It’s not enough that he has a foul-smelling Witcher on his back.”

“The pimp,” he states his question. You recognize the White Wolf for having come in some time ago. He spent three nights with someone else.

“Off with Mildritha for the night,” you gesture back. A long hmm slips from his lips. His large fingers weave through the horse’s mane, running his hand upon the side of his horse’s face. Roach, or so he affectionately calls the poor thing, looks up.

“Give this to him.”

The Witcher holds out a cloth bag. One look upon it and you realize it’s the missing coin. If you took it, you knew exactly what would come of it. No way were you taking that. Not on your life-- if something happened to it, you would be the one settled with paying off the Witcher’s debt. From the looks of it, it would be substantial.

“I can’t take that,” you say, the word seeming to snap off of your tongue. The Witcher deadpans and closes his glove around the bag of coin again. He prepares his things over Roach’s back and loin, unmoved by your words. It occurs that this man is perfunctory in every sort of the word. Once settled, he walks toward the door of the stable.

“Wait. Witcher!”

He stops, not bothering to turn. He’s listening, at least.

“Stay until morning. You could stay with me.”

He takes a step forward, clearly denying your request.

“You don’t know what it is like when he is angry. He’ll make me work again!” You say, like an absolute idiot. Living in a whorehouse wasn’t known for being a life of luxury, despite what the slinky red gown would tell others.

“So leave,” he rumbles.

You’re momentarily stunned. “It’s not that easy.”

Most women found it empowering: taking men for the coin they had. Maybe you would too, if there was no pimp to dictate how often you worked. So when your cunt was chafing and aching, you wouldn’t feel your teeth gritting like two hunks of rock sanding a sword. The best thing you could do that night was look exhausted and hoped men looked over you.

“Well. I mean. Some of us can’t choose our destinies,” you gesture humorously toward him. “Some of us are well renown Witchers. Some of us are whores in a house with an angry father. This is my life. I could never leave.”

He stops. Then turns to face you. In a way, meeting his brilliant amber eyes is something that gives you pause. Your eyes shift and falter, falling to the ground again. He lifts you under your arms and settles you up on the horse.

“What are you doing?”

“Keep her steady, Roach.”

It’s now, here, or never. Geralt walks out-- over to the whorehouse, forgetting everything you’ve said in the past. There’s a loud hey! from the inside. “What is he doing?” you whisper out loud-- then sit upright. The scuffle only becomes louder when your plump older father is corralled out with the Witcher lackadaisically, as if this whole ordeal is nothing to be really concerned about. You glance toward him, dressed in his unbuttoned dusty slacks and nothing else.

“Get off,” he motions, glancing over his shoulder. “Hurry the fuck up!”

Between his words and Geralt’s piercing gaze, you know which one of the two you’re paying attention to. Geralt seizes the reins and walks slowly toward the exit of town. There’s something to be said for the pimp’s stubbornness. “You can’t just-- you didn’t pay for her! Hey! Did you hear me, you dirty fucker!”

Then, he makes the wrong choice when he grasps at the other side of Roach’s reins. His chocolaty head jerks, clonking the old man in the face. Geralt stops with the loud splash of his head hitting a deep puddle, just enough to explain himself… somewhat.

“You have your coin.”

From there, there is no response. The town shrinks as Geralt walks on. Every wooden tavern, home, and whorehouse snuffs out their lights. Out of your age old home, there’s a moment. Just a small, lingering moment of uncertainty. You put out those thoughts with the fear and turn back around to the Witcher.

“You paid him for me?” you ask.

Geralt glances toward you. “Yes,” he states. Then, nothing. He’s not much of a talker, and maybe it’s your fault for being a prostitute. Most men only came to prostitutes for one of two reasons. Something told you-- Geralt had his fill of company a few nights ago.

“Then you’ve bought me. Why did you buy me?”

Nothing more than a dull hmm, a noise that indicates he’s at least heard you. Gone from one man to another, your eyes settle over Roach’s mane. Another thought hits you. The wind whistles through the trees on an otherwise quiet night.

“Where are we going?”

“A forest.”

“You’re dangerously talkative, you know. Seems to work out for you.” You glance over. Geralt glances at you at long last. He mounts Roach-- his strong muscles shifting around you to grasp Roach’s reins. His body affords the safety that you’ve gone without for so long, but you don’t want to give into safety. All safety was short lived.

“And what’s in this forest, anyway? Treasure? Another creature?”

“Women,” he answers. “The forest is full of them.”

Maybe he was a Witcher with a one-track mind. You think he has to be to be constantly on the move hopping place. The creaks of the forest aren’t every man’s friend. Unless you were something like him-- something that everyone despised. The bright lights of the town become dimmer and dimmer until they are specks in the dark forest surrounding you.

“That’s not it,” he rumbles.

Woop! There goes that.

“The women there will take you in,” he reasons. “You can’t come with me.”

A gamut of emotions ran through your face-- unsure which was worse or better. Living in the forest with no one you knew? Not even Roach? Though, if you had to guess, being used until your body was dry of the ability to have children was not the best life. You wonder, would the pimp have killed you after that point?

“That’s not exactly a great investment of your coin,” you say. “Buy a whore for nothing?”

“Losses and profits. Is that what you’re worried about?”

“Y-- well, no. It’s not my fault if that’s what you’re thinking.”

He’s unreadable. Partially because when he hovers behind you, with his warm and brawny chest behind your back, you can’t see his face. Maybe it was better that way-- being unable to see his deadpan expression, because some times, it’s like looking into the mirror.

“He was my stepfather,” you say. “Been with mother since I was a babe. I thought he cared, y’know, like a father?”

“Seems not,” he clips short. “Caring fathers don’t whore their daughters out for coin.”

No point arguing there.

“For someone that doesn’t have much company, you sure are a know it all.” You grumble, glaring off to the side. Your hand strokes over his mane, not really knowing if its at all for him, or soothing for you. Probably you. Roach doesn’t seem to give a shit one way or another. You carry on like that, making small quips he doesn’t pay attention to until he stops abruptly.

“What?”

“Stopping for the night,” The Witcher grumbles, pulling you off of Roach. He sets you down on crunchy leaves. You glance around, looking toward the tall arching trees, and you follow them to kiss the dark peppered sky. You had never slept outside before. Somehow it was more freeing than sleeping inside.

He’s quick to set up a makeshift camp. Nothing takes too long with the Witcher-- and you suppose that’s out of demand of a man who must run and rush wherever he goes. You stretch out by the crackling fire he’s arranged, glancing over tentatively when he crumpled beside it. It’s cool. Much cooler than you thought it would be. You run your fingers together, pulling your cloak around yourself for added warmth.

“Come over,” he rumbles.

“Come over?” you repeat as if your brain is as empty as the wind that carried through the leaves and chilled your skin.

“You won’t shut up,” he acknowledges from the ground, turning over to pierce you through with his amber eyes. “You’re cold. I don’t want to hear it all night. Come here.”

You lift, trudging his way to sit beside him. It’s not particularly warmer here, if only a little, but just as you gave it that thought, the Witcher dragged you down beside him. The ground is unforgiving. Harder than your back is used to. Maybe, in time, it would become accustomed to a rougher lifestyle. If it meant not being forced another another man, it was worth it.

“There,” he mutters, allowing you to rut close. His chest heaves slow, very low. You listen to the slow beat, his body serving as a shield from the small wind that carries through the forest. Your eyelids become heavy, unusually comfortable with a man. The Witcher-- even. “Now go to sleep.”

@kingniazx​