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thatesqcrush · 4 years ago

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Fall From Grace, Pt. 10

Bryan Kneef x Reader. Fandom: The Good Fight. Reference: S4, E.4, “The Gang is Satirized and Doesn’t Like It.” CW: smut and fluff... the tiniest pinprick of angst (like minuscule). Language, of course.

AN: Our lovely REE was on The Good Fight for all of 3 minutes so I am taking lots of liberties. I am obsessed with the anti-Barba. He was just delicious.

AN: Lots of references to our other fave prosecutor. Can you spot them?

WC: 2837

S/O to @prurientpuddlejumper for the Kneef gifs!

Back at your apartment, Bryan had you against the wall. He nuzzled your neck, causing you to shiver. Two large warm hands rose up the sides of your thighs before slipping under the hem of your skirt. He hooked his fingers under the straps of your panties and tugged. The flimsy lace underwear you wore tore easily. He nudged your legs apart with his foot.

The sound of a belt unbuckling and clanging to the floor followed by a zipper sent a thrill up your spine.

Bryan’s breath was warm on your ear as he pressed himself along your ass. You instinctively pushed back, desperate for more. Bryan nipped your ear as he stroked your soaked pussy with his cock.

“Like the song, we’re reunited and it’s going to be so fucking good.” Bryan purred. “Now place those arms on the wall and bend over more a little, sweetheart.”

--- Flash Forward to Four Years--

At the speed in which Bryan paced in front of you, you were certain the handsome litigator was going to wear a hole in the carpet. “Well?” He asked exasperated. He tugged on the collar of his navy polo, feeling warm and constricted.

“Two more minutes Bryan. These things take time.” You gritted. You rapped your freshly manicured nails along the counter. “I can’t tell who is more nervous. You or I.”

Bryan stopped his pacing to glare at you. “This is life altering news.”

“Gee, whizz, you don’t say.” You replied with a roll of your eyes. “You are not making this any easier.” You stood straight and marched off.

“Where are you going?” Bryan called out after you. He followed you, basically nipping at your heels.

“To get something to drink.” You replied. “I need something to settle my stomach. I think I saw ginger ale in your fridge.”

Bryan sighed. “I need something stronger.”

You returned with two low ball glasses. “Whisky on the rocks for you. Ginger ale for me.”

Bryan took the drink and with his free hand, pulled you in. “I love you. No matter the results.”

You cupped his bearded cheek. “I love you too.” You were about to stand on your toes to press a kiss when a buzzer sounded. You gasped and thrust your drink into his hands.

Bryan watched your form disappear back into the room. There was silence and Bryan swore inwardly. “Okay, time for plan B.” He muttered before downing his drink in one shot and then downing yours. You walked back out into the room. Your face was unreadable initially and just as he was about to say something, you broke into a big smile.

“I passed! I passed the bar exam! I’m a lawyer!” You shouted before running full-speed into Bryan’s arms. The glasses dropped to the floor, shattering into a million pieces as Bryan scooped you into his arms.

“I knew you would. I am so fucking proud of you.” Bryan replied before capturing your lips with his. Any tension you had, melted away and you allowed yourself to sink into his embrace.

“Let’s celebrate!” You exclaimed.

Bryan’s eyes twinkled. “I have just the place in mind. Go pack your bag while I have this cleaned up.”

You cocked your head and raised your brow. “And where exactly will we be going?”

“You’ll see.” Bryan replied huskily. As you turned, Bryan swatted your ass. You looked back at him and the look on his face was absolute sinful. Your heartbeat began to race in anticipation.

Thirty minutes later, Bryan had finished securing yours and his bags to the rear rack of his motorcycle. You tightened your helmet before hopping on and held Bryan tightly. Bryan kicked his motorcycle into gear and off you went, leaving his luxury apartment in the Gold Coast behind.

“You have a yacht? Since when?” You asked as you and Bryan walked down the slip taking in the sight of the boats at the marina.

“Not my yacht.” Bryan winked. “Someone who owes me a favor. Come on.”

“Welcome aboard.” A man in a captain’s uniform greeted. “I’m Captain Williams – it’ll be my honor to take you along Lake Michigan. It’s a beautiful day for sailing; could not ask for better weather.”

Once on board, another member of the staff came to greet you two with two flutes of champagne. You both followed and were given a tour. When you imagined a three-bedroom, two-bathroom living space with a spacious kitchen and butler’s pantry, life on the water did not come to mind. The boat was outfitted in a subtle palette of champagne, ivory, platinum, stainless steel and chocolate brown.

Each room boasted an oversized, sumptuous bed clothed in supima cotton percale linen and a cashmere throw. In addition, the seating was Italian leather. There were two fridges, a below-deck engine room, a two-mode table that phased into a dining and cocktail table, Corian benches and an icemaker. The 40-foot yacht combined the timeless appearance of a bygone-era cruiser with stylish design and high-tech engineering. The opulent master ensuite featured beautiful Spanish hexagon tiles with a light running through it to create a sensual oasis. There was glass wall separating each bedroom and to your surprise, the glass could be easily blacked out with a frost effect at the touch of a button creating privacy.

Finally, you and Bryan were alone again. You hopped onto one of the lush beds and almost sank into it. As Bryan chose some music to stream, you gasped at the skylight above the bed. The Illinois sky above was crystal clear, nary a cloud in the sky. The yacht’s engine roared quietly beneath you as it departed from the marina.

“This is too much,” you murmured, turning to Bryan who joined you in the bed.

“You deserve everything.” Bryan praised, as he pressed a kiss to your lips. “You worked so hard. And as a reward, now I am going to fuck your brains out.”

“And what if I hadn’t passed? What was plan B?”

“Plan B was going to be to take you here anyway and fuck your brains out.”

You let out a giggle before moving closer to him. You ran your hand over his toned arm. “You’ll be my sponsor, right? At the swearing in ceremony?”

Bryan’s hands ran up your leg. He stopped at the top of your thigh and began to rub small circles. “Of course. Now, if I can only convince you to move back to Chicago and leave that firm of yours.”

“Reciprocity takes five years, Bryan.” You replied, reaching across to tap his temple. Bryan took your hand into his and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.

“You can come to New York, you know. Reciprocity here would be cake for you.” You continued, your voice dropping to a near whisper at the end.

Bryan froze. “And leave Chicago?”

You let out an irritated sigh. “I just hate that we’re apart. I want more for us, for this relationship.”

“You’re a born and bred Chicagoan. Surely you understand. Everything I have worked for is in Chicago.” Bryan replied, letting out his own equally irritated sigh.

“Let’s just drop it. I don’t want to fight. Please, today’s a good day.” You flopped onto your back, staring at the clear sky above. You felt your eyes brim and you brought your hands to your face.

“Hey…” Bryan replied softly, removing your hands. “Maybe I can talk Laurie and Firth into opening a New York City office.”

Your lips twitched into a smile. “Yeah? You’d do that for me?”

Bryan pulled you close. “Of course. I love you.”

You wrapped your arms around him and kiss him hard. Bryan took the opportunity to roll you on top of him. Excitement swirls down and pool between your thighs. Bryan wasted no time to grip the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head.

“Someone wants to get laid.” You smirk, crossing your arms, purposely pressing up your sheer, lace covered tits.

“You have no idea.”

“We should do something about that then… what did you say, you were going to fuck my brains out?” You asked leaning down. Your lips were by his ear as you reached around to unclasp your bra. “Because I am pretty sure this bomb pussy is going to milk out all that cum, out of that big… hard… cock.” You reached down between his legs and stroked his cock, which grew harder against your palm. A groan strained from Bryan’s throat.

When you sit up again, your eyes settled on Bryan’s. His clear green eyes were now dark and stormy.

You squealed as he rolled you back onto the bed. Bryan undid the button of your shorts and tugged them off. A smirk graced his face at the sight of the dark wet spot on your underwear. “These have got to go.” Bryan murmured, yanking them off as well. Once off, he balled your ruined panties into his fist and took a deep inhalation of your sweet scent. A rumble emanated from his chest.

You let out a gasp as Bryan’s mouth settled on your pussy. He licked a tantalizingly slow, broad stroke before settling on your clit. He flicked the tip of his tongue across your clit causing you to arch your back in response. Bryan then used his fingers to spread open your lips, and stroked them, playing with your wetness. You gripped the streets as Bryan buried his face in between your legs, sucking and licking.

You grinded against him, desperate. “More, please.” You whimpered.

Bryan removed his mouth and you whined at the loss. “So fucking greedy. Fingers or mouth?” A digit slowly penetrated you and your walls clenched tightly. A moan escaped your lips as Bryan slowly thrusted his finger in and out of you, before moving to insert another finger. His tongue flicked against your swollen pearl before he paused once more. “Answer the question, Y/N.”

“Both.” You sobbed. “Please don’t stop.”

“Never.”

Bryan dove back into your folds, devouring you as if you were his last meal. You chant his name and other obscenities loudly. You were certain everyone on the boat could hear you. Part of you didn’t even care. The man in between your legs is a god amongst mortals when it comes to eating pussy and all the praise deserves to be heard. You bucked against his mouth, until you are full on fucking his face and fingers. Your walla began to flutter, signaling you were coming close to release. Bryan crooked his finger, stroking the sensitive spot inside you and the coil in your belly snapped. You came hard, wailing Bryan’s name as your orgasm ripped through you. Bryan rode out your orgasm and as you came down to reality, Bryan continued with gentle licks and kisses; your body jerked in overstimulation.

Bryan pressed kisses along your thighs before moving back up your body. He paused momentarily to pay attention to your breasts, licking along your breastbone before swirling his tongue over a nipple. You cupped your breasts together and Bryan continued to lavish you with his tongue. Bryan moved to your mouth and he kissed you deeply, before pulling back.

“Can you taste yourself on my tongue?”

You whimpered, nodding. “What’s that you called it? Bomb pussy?” Bryan murmured against your lips.

You nodded. “Yes.”

Bryan chuckled darkly, his lips against your ear. “Now it’s my turn to wreck that bomb pussy with this cock.”

You closed your eyes briefly – for what even seemed like a half second but when you opened your eyes again, Bryan was fully nude. Pre-cum beaded on the head of his cock, and you resist the urge to lick it off, as you’re desperate to get filled and fucked to your heart’s desire.

Bryan laid down on the bed and fisted his cock, so it was pointing straight to the ceiling. You climbed over him and take his cock from his hand, guiding him into you. You slowly slide down and sink onto him, until you’re fully connected. Bryan’s eyes roll back momentarily. “Oh fuck Y/N, you feel so good!”

One hand gripped the slope of your hip tightly as your bodies move together rhythmically. Bryan usedd his free hand to smack your ass. You braced your hands on his chest with your nails pressing into his skin, leaving crescent marks into his skin as you ride his cock.

“That’s it, ride that cock.” Bryan encouraged, smacking your ass again, this time harder. The sting spurred you on and you began to speed your movements. Bryan leans up and pushes you back, breaking the connection for a second, before sliding his cock right back in. Your legs are pushed up, so your knees are by your ears and your arms are over your head. Bryan pins your wrists with one hand as he takes you to pound town. The sounds of grunts and moans along with skin on skin, fill the room and you can feel his balls slap against your pussy.

Your foreheads are pressed together as he takes you deeply, sliding into you over and over in deep, long strokes. As he feels his own release approach, Bryan turns his face to the flesh of your shoulder, and bites before running his tongue over the bruised skin.

This surprises you and you come completely undone, again wailing his name. Feeling your walls flutter around his cock, seeing your wrecked face - it was all too much for Bryan and with a strangled cry, he stiffened and emptied his seed into you.

Your bodies are covered in sweat and Bryan kissed you softly before rolling off. He pulls you in close, and you curl into his strong arms. It’s not long before you are both asleep – partly from the orgasmic oxytocin wearing off and partly from the rock of the boat.

Later that evening, you wake up to an empty bedside – but there is a note from Bryan asking you to meet him on the deck for dinner. You shower and change into the dress you wore at The Hamptons when you all those years prior – it was a cream colored short-sleeve wrap dress that had a ruffle hem and an adjustable tie at waist. You left your hair in a loose wet braid and decided to go barefoot.

The night sky over Lake Michigan was dark, with nary a cloud in the sky. Away from the orange glow from the artificial light from increasing development and glare from unshielded streetlights, you found yourself beneath the twinkling stars and other celestial objects. You were surprised to find how many stars you were able see even just miles away from the city and northern suburbs.

A pair of hands touched your shoulders and you jumped slightly until the familiar waft of Bryan’s cologne filled your nostrils.

“Have you seen anything so beautiful?” You asked as you turned around. And when you did, you found Bryan on one knee. In his hand was a sparkling ring, which you presumed was at least 2 carats, flanked by smaller diamonds.

“When I first met you, you literally collided into me. And from then, I couldn’t get you out of my head. At first, I thought we were going to be nothing more than a fling, an itch to get out of my system. I told you I didn’t do the boyfriend thing and you were more than okay with that. And for awhile it was that, but you weaseled your way into my world and black and white became different shade of gray. And then it became blues and reds.” Bryan’s eyes shimmer as he professes his love. After a beat, he continues.

“And I know we have had our issues in the past, and I can’t promise you that we won’t have rough patches again. In my heart, you are the only one for me. I cannot imagine my life without you. Will you marry me?”

Your hands covered your mouth as tears streamed down your face. A gentle breeze blew through and you nodded before you dropped your hands. “Yes, of course Bryan, yes!” Bryan smiled as he stood and your hand shook as he slipped the ring onto your finger. You wrapped your arms around his neck as two kissed.

“What about everything I said – about New York? Not being able to come to Chicago right away?” You asked breathlessly, as you broke the kiss.

Bryan wiped a tear from your cheek. “Oh Y/N, I already had it all taken care of. Laurie and Firth already agreed to it. I’ll be heading the NY office when it opens in the Fall. We signed a deal with a building space in Midtown.”

You gasped once more before playfully hitting him on the chest. “So you were just fucking around with me below deck?”

“In more ways than one.” Bryan winked.

“You’re such an ass.” You replied. “Wait - does that mean you’ll actually tell me what memo 618 is now?”

Bryan responded by cupping your ass and kissing you once more.

FIN.

Tags: @madpanda75 @tropes-and-tales @delia26 @mgarner1227 @beardedmccoy @youreverycolor @neely1177 @the-baby-bookworm @mrsrafaelbarba @skittle479 @ottosuricato @delia26 @sass-and-suspenders @mommakat32 @dreila03 @beccabarba @garturbo @lovebennycolon @imjustreallynosy @sweetsummertime99 @whyissvuruiningmylovelife @annabelleb49 @scarletsoldierrr @cesarofangirl78 @redlipstickandplaid @redlipstickandblacktea @zoeykaytesmom @differentshadesofgray @misssirenlove @esparza-army @bananas-pajamas @mishaissocoolike @thefanficfaerie @theenchantedgalleryofstories @catnip987 @choppedgalaxynerd @pieceofshittytitty @ktiz90 @evee87 @itsjustmyfantasyroom @blk0912 @detective-giggles @rampantmuses @jazzyjoi @caked-crusader @rachelxwayne @the-hopeless-haze

#bryan kneef and reader #bryan kneef smut #bryan kneef x reader #bryan kneef imagine #brian kneef imagine #brian kneef x reader #brian kneef and reader #brian kneef and you #the good fight smut #the good fight fanfic

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quipxotic · 3 years ago

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Tagged by @ecouter-bien

nicknames: Hmmm, I have some offline but none for Quipxotic. It’s not a name that lends itself to shortening I guess.

zodiac: Sagittarius

height: 5′5″ or 5′6″ depending on who is measuring

last movie: I watched Interstellar for the first time while I was home visiting family recently and was pleasantly surprised. Really cool robot designs and concepts in that movie, among other things.

last thing i googled: B-12, as in the vitamin. A concerned relative told me I needed to look into it, even after I told her I already took it. I googled it to make sure I wasn’t somehow confusing it with a different vitamin. (I wasn’t.)

fave musicians: I tend to focus on individual songs rather than artists. That said, I’m listening to a lot of soundtracks at the moment so that means a heavy dose of Kevin Kiner, Darren Korb, Clinton Shorter, Murray Gold, Low Roar, Ludvig Forssell, Segun Akinola, Stephen Barton & Gordy Haab, and Natalie Holt.

song stuck in my head: I wake up almost every morning with a different song in my head. Most recently it was “Freeway” by Daniel Blake.

other blogs: This is it for Tumblr, although I have a long neglected Dreamwidth blog under the same user name.

blogs following: 132

amount of sleep: Ha! Sleep? What’s that?

I’m going through a period of insomnia, so I’m doing well if I can get five or six hours.

lucky number: 13 (because of course it is)

what I’m wearing: A shirt with a floral pattern in pinks, reds, light brown, and black and a pair of very comfy black sweatpants.

dream job: Thinking of work just makes me tired at the moment. Not having to work at all while still being able to feed, cloth, and house myself sounds awesome.

dream trip: A train trip somewhere. There’s one across Canada that looked interesting a few years ago. I’d say the Orient Express, but I’m not sure I’d want to get dressed up that much.

play an instrument: Not now, no.

fave food: Not sure I have a favorite. I like chickpeas a lot so any recipes with them in is something I’m interested in. Black beans and rice is one of my favorite comfort foods. I love she-crab soup, particularly if it’s made the old school way and has some sherry in it. What else? Wilted spinach. Spoon bread. Rice pudding. Butternut squash soup. Olives. Feta cheese. Smoked salmon. Tamales. Apples. Blueberries.

languages: English

fave songs: How long do you have? I love so many songs, but I’ll give you ten now:

What’s Up Danger - Blackway & Black Caviar

Disturbia - Rihanna

Full Moon - The Black Ghosts

Beyond Belief - Elvis Costello & the Attractions

S.O.B. - Nathaniel Rateliff and the Night Sweats

Am I Wrong - Nico & Vinz

Better Company - Horse Feathers

Burn - The Cure

Ear to Ear - Sex Police

Summer Breeze - Seals and Crofts

random fact about me: I have a thing for skulls.

describe yourself using aesthetic things: Growing things. The feel of loose soil in your hands and under your nails as you fill a pot for planting. The color red. Skulls. A blue phone box with a light on top. A shelf full of books and Funko Pops. Earphones. Fireflies. Wind chimes. Tea lights in a slightly cracked stained glass candle holder. A copy of Dracula. Stories in 100 words. Drinking a glass of wine on a screened porch. Chopping vegetables. The golden hour.

tagging: @sanguinarysanguinity, @amindamazed, @nairobiwonders, @beanarie and anyone else who wants to have a go.

#quipxotic stuff #ecouter-bien #lists

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amidalogicdive · 4 years ago

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Get to Know Me Tag Game!

Thank you @jockvillagersonly for tagging me! <3 Welp, let’s see how this goes. Name: Kai

Pronouns: she/her or they / them

Star Sign: Libra on the cusp of Scorpio

Height: 5′4″ (with shoes on... hell I’m taking it.)

Time: 1:28 am

Birthday: 10/20

Nationality: Born in American, but family wise Im mostly a mix of UK/Irish

Fave Bands / Group: Man, I can’t play favorites... I like Florence & the Machine, Imagine Dragons, L’Arc’~en~ciel, Low Roar, UNIQ, EXO... etc

Fave Solo Artist: I’d have to say Gackt, been listening to him longest. But I love HYDE, Annie Lennox, Dimash, Wonho, Taemin, Sting... etc - I just really love music.

Song Stuck In Your Head: Seriously, I didn’t have one stuck in my head until I saw @jockvillagersonly response about rick rolling - lol, thanks! XD

Last Movie I Watched: Romeo & Juliet from 1996 cuz my brain was like - hey I got a great story idea...

Last Show You Binged: Bridgerton

When You Created Your Blog: around 2016

Last Thing You Googled: I searched for Kast, so I could make an account lol

Other Blogs: N/A - Only here.

How Many People Are You Following: 163

How Many Followers: 326 Gosh, idk who to tag, um... don’t feel you have too in at way: @the-sassiest-trixster @aithilin @merinnan @epicwalrus @prettyprompto and anyone else who wants to do it - Or you can ignore this lolol <3

#logicdives life #logicdive speaks

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eternalstrigoii · 4 years ago

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NSFD ABC’s - Borra #2

(To quote a fave: WOAH I died but here’s some sex.)

Borra (Maleficent: Mistress of Evil) x Tundra Dark Fey Reader, Borra x Desert Fey x Tundra Fey Reader (Polyamory Part II(?))

A = Aftercare

All of you is limp when he kisses a path across your shoulders.

He’s still joined with you. His hands linger at your hips while your breath comes in sharp, rime-hued puffs into the scattered white of your own shed down. He kisses a slow trail from one side of you to the other, and the heat of his lips on the back of your neck make your eyes flutter. You’ve nearly nodded off this way before – weighted by him and the heaviness of his densely-feathered wings, his heat radiating into your back while you are already exertion-tired and work-tired and maybe a little bit soul-tired, also.

The low purr that rumbles from low in his chest sweeps that tiredness away.

The furs, half-discarded, are pulled up over you both. Not only over your hips, where he could leave them to let your movement-fever cool, but practically over the pile made of your wings and his. You’ve teased him before that he must want to bake you to death, trapping his heat against you like this, but you do not this time; you burrow closer to him as he rub-soothes the cuts his talons left. The handful of dark love-bites on your chest and shoulders throb in time with your pulse.

“Mm,” you press a kiss to his bicep, and then another, more deliberate one on one of the cracks in his skin not far from where your lips first landed. “You spoil me.”

“I do,” he playfully agreed. “But...you’re my snowbird, Nyvi, and I’ll do with you what I please.”

E = Experience

You may tease that it’s not necessary for you to know all of his sexual exploits, but there’s a certain satisfaction with knowing that you do. You’ve known one another for as long as you can remember; you were all friends before you were a sometimes-trio-sometimes-pair. Once upon a time, you were awkward, fumbling, late-stage fledglings not quite old enough to leave the safety of your parents’ nests, though, by then, he and Suren were already out of theirs. By then, they depended largely upon one another, and your mother had concerns about the severity of your involvement with them. (Your mother rightfully believed you should be with someone who would come back to you unscathed – or, better yet, someone who would avoid conflict entirely.)

You knew of their courtship that was not a proper courtship at all, for he had saved her life rather than simply confess his feelings, and she shed blood at his side rather than encourage him to prove himself as skilled a mate as he was a warrior. You knew of their intentions to properly nest, for you had all been friends in your youth and, though you’d known your collective would inevitably fracture off into pairs with time, you did not expect that Borra and Suren would include you in the lead-up to their pairing – if anything, you imagined (wrongly, with a heart full of jealousy) that you were included because Conall preferred to watch their ornate plans collapse from afar.

Suren went home to Selene to have her hair properly braided. She told you about the dress that she, herself, made, though she could hardly look at you when she spoke of it, for she still regarded those necessary skills as passive when she was young. Borra went to the surviving elders of her parents’ tribes and learned the courtship rituals of both; he told you of the dances they would learn together, the way they would name their children.

You told them both of the other’s plans. You meant to sabotage them at best, undercut them at least, not see the spark of girlish joy that glinted in her copper eyes at the lengths he had gone to (or how eagerly he planned for a shared future) or the way Borra’s widened in surprise at the thought of Suren in a dress. (“Really?” he had asked you, as though it was as serious of an endeavor as a mortal hand-fasting, “She would do that for me?”) You presumed – as you did not tell them that you told the other of said plans, also – that when you were asked to come to the desert separately by them both, it was very likely that they were upset with you.

You didn’t expect that there would be cactus flowers in bloom in every crevice near the cave-nest where you’d been asked to meet them. You never would’ve believed that there would be a roaring bonfire, or that they would both be waiting for you at it with a meal the likes of which you had never seen before – rabbit and fish, apples and berries, papayas, silken sweet cream and roasted hazelnuts, and a woven cask of honey-wine that neither would tell you where they’d stolen it from.

“What is this?” you asked, for their eyes were already rather glazed when you approached and, had their kiss-warmed lips not betrayed them, how high Borra had hitched Suren’s skirt as though you would not know he had been pawing at her thighs before you arrived certainly could’ve.

They exchanged a glance that was far more mischievous than you trusted. You took an involuntary step back when Borra stood, though only he stood. “Courtship, Nyvi.”

Your wings bristled. You drew in a slow breath and held it for a count of several seconds. Had they invited you all that way to rub it in your face, then? Congratulations on responding to change like a child, nothing will ever come between us, not even you?

“We’re courting you, stupid,” Suren replied, ever to-the-point. “Skies above.”

You looked to Borra, for you did not understand and, as far as you knew, he hadn’t visited your elders.

“Your mother knows where you are,” he said, though his voice was stronger than his gaze. You half expected him to scuff at the dust with his heel like he did when he was young. “And of our intentions toward you.”

You blinked. Our. We. You understood just fine, but you were still stunned by the idea that you had not been included as their mutual friend, but as a mutual partner.

“She may have offered to let us move in, if you wanted us to,” Suren replied. Though her tone was half-joking, that sounded like something your mother would’ve done. It made your eyes prick with tears and your unusually heavy heart begin to lift.

“We would never abandon you, Nyvi.” Borra dared step toward you with his hand extended. “We should have made that clear from the start.”

You let him lead you to a place before the fire where you could sit between them. It didn’t seem fair to you, at first, though you were grateful for it – all of this could not be because you were meant to join them.

Perhaps it wasn’t, but your first night together was not spent in the throes of physical euphoria. You drank too much wine and ate too many sweets, though Suren outmatched you when it came to sugar and Borra, when it came to wine. He laughed too much and too hard to properly dance with her before the fire, though he had no problem taking her in his arms to sway. He showered kisses over your hairline when it was your turn to “dance” with him, which inevitably became a series of them pressed to your lips between heart-rending smiles.

You slept together in a pile in their newly-bequeathed nest, for caverns in the sun were rarely abandoned. Borra built the bed within it himself, and the shed-down lining within it smelled only of him.

It did not matter in the slightest. It was big enough to hold the three of you, and your body, between theirs, meant that they did not have to undress beneath the blankets. Though your wings were askew and your hair, dust-golden in spots, Borra’s cheek rested against your shoulder and Suren’s back was to your chest. Your courtship began so wonderfully that you almost believed it could stay that way.

G = Goofy

When your mother is alive, you’re a bright-eyed child, no matter your age. You are young and carefree, though prone to periods of reservation. You are lucky your pack of similarly-aged friends from elsewhere in the nest did not leave you behind – Conall and Borra especially – for those who lived in close proximity to you often did, as they could depend upon one another for amusement.

When your mother dies, the carefree part of you dies with her.

In your memory, the death of your mother and the damage to your left wing are intrinsically linked. They do not occur at the same time, but, emotionally, they are two mortal wounds inflicted in quick succession – she is killed and you are wounded and you are left in an empty home with a head full of snow.

You are not yourself anymore. The nest your parents built is no longer your home, for there is no more laughter in it, no more songs sung, no more braids gently woven when you cannot see behind you well enough to trust the pattern your fingers make. You are quite nearly there when Conall is your company; his patient, temperate fingers seek to soothe your pain away when he combs out your hair with his talons and rubs the dampness from your cheeks with the pads of his fingers.

You are aware of how far you’ve fallen when it’s Borra who remains.

The fury in him is familiar, by then. He hates humanity as a whole for what has been done to you, though it is not for that, exclusively, and you would be a fool to think so. Your injury, and the loss of your mother, are the most recent strikes against a race of creatures responsible for murdering his mother before he would ever carry memories of her, for burning his father to death with the same iron that made piebald scar-patterns of his sides; for killing Suren’s father, and then her mother and her two eldest brothers when she was still so young. You do not know what happened to Conall’s father, though the way you have seen Selene watch over the lot of you from afar implies that it was as abrupt as it was unpleasant, and you are not special in your loss – not in the loss of your loved ones or the loss of your mobility. Everyone bears the mark of human hatred eventually, though, to you, it feels intimate.

In part, because he cares for you more thoroughly than he has ever cared for himself. When he stays (for he, Conall, and Suren remain with you overnight in randomized rotation), you sleep with him fit to your back like a stony shield. You wake to the barely-there caress of his talons through your plumage as though he knows any other form of care-giving beyond the borderline compulsive desire to ensure even most grievous wounds will heal. You consider that he must be tired, waking before you do and sleeping after you do, though you do not keep track of how often you sleep. You do not keep track of whether or not it is truly night when he comes or goes or is replaced. You barely keep track of who is there to hold you, at times, though someone always is.

It takes several weeks for you to be able to lay flat on your back again. Several more, after that, for Borra to rest his head upon your chest when he rests with you.

You pet him absently, one night (or one day) while his weight rested against you. The bed someone made for you was flat, though still raised, and thickly padded with down from all of the beds in your dwelling (as well as a smattering of sand-tan and black-hued brown and dark-sheened black from your beloved guardians). Your battered wing lay fanned beside you, though you did not push those muscles to do what they had once done.

You do not remember why – you supposed it was because you might’ve started to fall asleep again – but Borra sat up against you, and, for some reason or other, you put up your hand to keep his horns from approaching your face. “Be careful with those things.”

He raised a brow at you. You like his brows; they’re fair and rather thin, and you suppose he’s lucky to have them at all, considering the depth and the breadth of some of the crevices that already traced patterns through his skin. You thumbed one of them at the base of his horns as you added, “I could steer you like a bull.”

He scoffs at your accidental pun and bunts with your palm. “You’ll do no such thing.”

“How would you stop me? They’re almost half as big as you are.”

When he withdrew, you did not realize that he intended to headbutt your hands. You sat up on your palms right when he rocked forward, and you whacked skulls with him like children. For a second, it was nearly enough to knock you down; you went to one elbow and rested your hand between your eyes, fully unaware of the surprised laugh that bubbled out of you. “Ow.”

You will remember the look in his eyes until you die, you’re sure; the brightness of his sandstorm eyes were warm with love, and the brush of his thumb across your cheek makes your heart ache. You do not recall if he apologizes, though you’re sure he must’ve, but you remember the tenderness of his lips against yours in the kiss that followed.

It is the first time you believe 'it’ will be alright again. Somehow. Someday. You trust in Borra above all else; he will make it so.

K = Kink

You see the glint of mischief in her eyes before she even speaks, and you know you should be concerned, but you’re much too far gone to care. You’ve been sharing one another as patiently as the desert pair allow – you and Borra, Borra and Suren, Suren and you monopolize one another’s attention in bursts before inevitably being distracted by the other – and you’re so close to your release that you can practically taste the frost on your breath. She rides you in tight circles, her cavern-black hair spilling over her sun-loved shoulders, and the molten gold of Borra’s eyes as he watches you with her warms you like a physical heat source.

Your grasp on her hips tightens in warning. You always offer her the opportunity to withdraw or to carry you through your release, whatever she decides. Her half-lidded eyes are liquid amber and her wings flare with pleasure at the sight of you nearly ruddy-cheeked beneath her, as though your pale wings would not flare in display in response.

“Mm, Nyvi…keen to take chances on a fledgling, aren’t you?”

In your periphery, Borra falters. You don’t dare physically turn your head because you know that if you see him – if you see how wanton and stricken he looks, then you will do whatever it is he asks. You love Suren, you do, but she does not have the sway over you that he does. You do not have the sway over her that he does. Borra is the sun at the axis of your shared universe, and so it is only fair that, when her bright and glinting eyes leave your face, it’s because he’s decided to join you.

He cannot get close enough to her, though he tries. She is occupied with you and his hand at her lower back does not guide her or encourage her or change her course, just as her hand leaves your stomach to palm him without teasing him in any satisfying way. He’ll have his turn; the kisses she presses along his jaw promise that he is next for her attention. He is so damnably beautiful that it hurts your heart to see him tip his head back just a bit when her lips press to his pulse, to hear his breath catch when her talons trail over his hot, hard length ever so lightly.

You’ve never heard Borra beg before, but you think Suren could make him. If she wanted to. If you both were not so hopelessly in love with him that you would never let him want for anything, not even when he deserved to be held at the edge. Not even when her eyes flash because she knows you are, and you are not sure if the flutter you feel around you is deliberate, but it still steals the breath from you.

You are so close. You nod, desperately, as you realize you did not answer her and that might be why she’s holding you captive.

“Go on,” she coaxed, “If that’s what you want to do, do it.”

His hips buck into her palm like the encouragement was meant for him.

You want to. You want to because you know how desperately he wants to mate with you both that way, though you know it is not yet something you can hope for – the inevitable war has not yet come, and you have all seen too many fledglings orphaned by slaughter to consider doing the same to one of your own.

You withdraw at the last possible moment to leave a slick and sticky mess between her thighs. Your breath is rough and your hand on her hip stills her against you, and her temple is at his jaw even while she holds your eyes. You are breathless and wrought and so painfully enamored with them both.

L = Location

“If you drop me, I will never forgive you.”

You would be a liar to pretend the wild smile that flickered over Borra’s lips didn’t soften your hesitation. Your long-ago-injured left wing prevented you from taking flight on your own, should your shenanigans take a dangerous turn, yet the look he gave you implied the logistics had been worked out for you already – in one way or another.

“Don’t you trust me?” he teased. He shucked his pants off right there on the ledge as though he was certain no one would pass through this portion of the Nest at this time of night. Nothing could be guaranteed with such a large number of individuals living in close quarters, but you did trust him; you trusted his planning skills at the very least, for he had dodged far more arrows than had clipped him, and none ever struck true.

There’s a first time for everything, you thought, and your cheeks glazed with frost at the thought of someone – knowing your luck, someone you would have to look in the eyes often afterward – happening upon you while in the act.

You drew in a deep breath. Your thoughts scattered like starlings at the sight of his strong, solid thighs. A shallow network of cracks descended from the joint of his hip much as they did from his jaw, and you poorly resisted the impulse to reach out and caress them. His broad wings allowed only a glimpse of his backside, but it was glimpse enough to cause an icy puff of breath to escape you just when his dust-gold eyes raised.

Thank stars, he turned away again and kept his little imp-smile to himself. The last thing you needed was for him to think you condoned this kind of mischief.

“I should make you swear on the Phoenix,” you muttered in a vain effort to save face. You made quick work of your robes, though he removed his armor in pieces, as unhurried as though he stripped for bed. His shoulders flexed, and, at the sight, your fingers faltered on the folds of your clothes.

“I swear on the Phoenix,” he replied, though there was an audible note of amusement in his voice. “I won’t drop you.”

One shoulder of his armor hit the pile his trousers made. The other side’s followed. The leather around his upper arm was second-to-last, and you furrowed your pale brows when you realized he did not intend to unwrap his covered forearm – had he hurt himself while toying with iron?

His predator’s teeth flashed as he tugged you close, his wrapped hand rested at your lower back, “Not unless you frost over.”

You had half a mind to swat his pretty backside with your good wing, though he was not the only one capable of mischief, and if he had such an opposition to frost…

You skimmed your cool fingers over the length of him, from the pliant flesh between his thighs to his straining tip. Your lips pressed to one of the stone-tough places on his shoulder, then to the far softer flesh of his throat. You trailed kisses along the underside of his jaw as your hands enwrapped him, caressed him; you drew a low moan from between his parted lips with the feather-light brush of your thumb.

“Just like that,” he murmured against the leaf of your ear. “Fallen stars…”

“Just like that?” you repeated, falsely innocent. You stroked him with your thumb again where you found success the last time, and it made his hips buck. He strangled back a half-wild sound and curled his talons into his still-wrapped palm to keep them from biting into your skin. “You should let me take care of you, Borra.” The very tips of your talons trailed in your fingers’ wake; he very nearly arched into them, closing what little distance remained. His radiant heat melted the rime along your cheekbones. “Repay your attention to detail as thoroughly as you offer it…”

“Nyvi,” he cautioned. The desire that made you hyperaware of the growing flush in your chilly flesh thrummed in time with your pulse.

“I want you just as badly,” you whispered against his shoulder before you pressed another kiss there. “I need you, Borra. Your arms around me,” though it was not his sculpted bicep that you traced, “your heat against me,” his smoldering eyes half-lowered; you pretended not to notice his stomach quiver with delight as your fingers continued their languid journey, “you, inside me—”

He stepped off of the ledge as easily as he would’ve pulled you toward the bed within his nest. Your wings perked and flattened at the sudden down-draft, canted to keep you aloft as the hummingbird hovers before their flower, though his were considerably larger and better for controlling the steadiness of your shared flight.

No, he would not drop you. You fit between his arms like you were an extension of him, as easily as his slow-advancing heat fit within you. A low moan parted your lips, inviting him to kiss you deeply as your talons skimmed his shoulder, caressed up the back of his neck to settle in the thickest part of his hair.

He moaned against your mouth. He did not want to draw blood with his own, though he could barely resist digging them into your hips. The soft, sweet, ruined sounds you would make as you rut yourself breathless against him nearly drove him to; his covered palm traced your side, forehead resting against yours as you hitched your thighs over his hips and raised yourself from him partway. He fit so well inside of you; the pleasant drag of his size at that angle threatened to make you wild with need.

“Oh, Borra,” you whispered in between soft, lingering kisses. You could not resist kissing him senseless; his lips, his jaw, his throat, the leaf of his ear where he was so sensitive that the ghostly sensation of your sharp teeth made parts of him beyond the muscles of his thighs and stomach twitch. “Yes.”

His breath caught. You had no right to be so beautiful; to go from so shy to so wanton while astride him. A lesser man would let the sight of you rising and falling without need of the support of his arms go straight to his ego; Borra’s eyes burned with a heady combination of desire and love. You were more intent upon ascending to the highest peak you could grant yourself than in being cautious of his, and the light, warning scrape of his talons against the back of your thigh did little to deter you from your focus.

“Snowbird,” his voice was low and rough, borderline warning; you must know what you did for him.

“Do not let me falter, Borra,” you whispered, your eyes half-lidded and head canted backward. Your pale horns set you aglow against the backdrop of cavern-darkness, and he blinked as though you’d left him sun-blind. Your hand on his shoulder, your hand in his hair; the pronunciation of your collarbone invited him to leave a string of dark love-bites that he could not collect himself enough to create. You were pushing him closer and closer to the ledge of his own peak – did you know that? Was that your intention? To get him to cum, hot, inside of you while you moved on him like an apparition from a dream? Did you know that he would get you to your own no matter what you chose – to make him wait for you, or let him come undone?

His grip tightened upon your hip. He would not let you falter, though he made a soft, strangled sound in-between a growl and a muffled whine. His lips sought your throat to stamp that collar of dark bruises into your skin, though, when they parted against your skin, his hot breath left him with a ragged moan.

“Just like that,” you repeated. “You are always so good to me.”

Several choice phrases flickered through his thoughts, exclamations that he dared not make for risk of your supposedly-delicate sensibilities. His talons pricked your skin, threatened to drag thin, stinging cuts over your upper thigh. You were tease enough to move quicker for a moment, and then slow; offer to rut yourself against him as he hoped you would, though you did not. You would’ve had him squirming, had he been beneath you in either of your beds; would’ve had him clutching your hips and grinding into you in hopes of spurring you further along.

“Yes,” you whispered, your lips ghosting over the crack-ridged flesh of his temple, “harder, Borra. I am right where you want me.”

That was no longer the precise truth, though your encouragement was received all the same. He wanted you however you would allow him to have you – clutching you, rutting you with sharp, upwards thrusts; his sharp teeth working over the hollow of your throat while your persistent hips moved with intent.

“Skies,” you whispered, squeezing his hips with your knees. “Are you--?”

He offered little but a low growl in response. He most certainly was, and he believed you fully aware of that. His thrusts grew shallow with their lost rhythm; a second and final bruise was worried into your tender flesh on the opposite side of your throat from the one he’d already made. You were cool and soft and strands of your satin hair had come undone from its high coil and just barely brushed his uncovered fingers. He boosted you against him to feel your thighs tighten at his waist, your arm encircle his neck to press him closer, and you, yourself, lost the ease of your pace. You clung to him, your half-lidded eyes falling to his, and the sound you stifled rather resembled a short, cut-off cry of bliss.

Borra’s hips jerked sharply. He gave you no warning, not that you were far behind; you clung to him like he was your sole tether, like your body would stop moving against his when his warmth mingled with the chill of your skin, as though he did not groan into your shoulder as you cooled his stomach with your own release.

You made a low sound, which meant I will never doubt you again, though you couldn’t quite put the phrase into words.

He knew what it meant. His warm lips brushed your temperate bruises, then pressed to each in turn. Your fingers in his hair soothed the movement-fever in his skin, just as his arms around you chased the worst of the chill from your bareness. You let him lower back to your ledge with your body still in his arms, and practically drop onto the pile of his own clothing with a breathless laugh.

“See?” he leaned his head back against the stone as though you didn’t still have to keep your hand there, lest he angle his horns wrong and knock himself senseless, “I didn’t drop you.”

Your lips quirked. “And I didn’t frost you over.”

O = Oral

Borra does not submit.

Your breath catches at the sight of him, on his knees before you, all the same; his talons brush along your inner thighs as though he does not grip the backs of them to keep you where he wants you. Those wicked lips, which parted to flash his sharp, predator’s teeth when he smiled, trail warmth over the length of you.

You strangle back a curse. Your eyelids flutter, and you blink quickly to refocus them – you do not want to look away. You are not leading, but that does not mean you can’t take the advantage of your position to heart; you wish you could imprint the memory of his falsely-sweet kisses into the fabric of your being – he kisses you softly, slowly, gradually deepening each as he moves from the soft, white down below your waist to where you are most sensitive. His lips part against you, there; his tongue darts out to caress you, and your hips give a little, involuntary thrust.

“Borra,” your voice comes out a bit too high and a bit too whiny, as though he does not already know how well and thoroughly he unravels you.

He makes that low, sensual purr against your tip and your toes curl into the dust of his den’s floor. You can do nothing but breathe heavily and repeat curses to yourself as his tongue encircles you, flattened against your underside. You grip the base of his horns like you are going to climb him if he does not calm down (though you are the one in need of calming down; you are the one whose nerves are coiled like springs).

“Skies, Borra,” you nearly choke on your words. You cannot grip him tightly enough and you do not know if your hands are low enough on his horns for him to feel you do it. They are stupidly tall – if only that correlation didn’t have precedent.

“Mm.” He hums when he doesn’t purr and it accomplishes the same end; your hips jolt again, and you cannot keep quiet the gasp that follows. Your belly quivers like you’ve intentionally been holding it taut, and he brushes his flattened tongue over your tip in a slow drag as it withdraws.

You are molten. Your knees buckle and your lips are parted and your eyes are begging and he loves the sight of you so undone when he feels he has barely started.

Borra will be in control of the pleasure you receive well after you spill, uncharacteristically hot, onto his tongue. It will not be in the same way that he cums inside of you to mark you as his and his alone – he will decide, when you are close, if you are allowed to; under what circumstances you are allowed to. He may break his rhythm to tease you again – guide you right to the edge until you are practically seated in his palms, trembling like a snowshoe hare in his grasp. Would your cheeks rime over if he drew back at the last moment? If he let you paint his chest with your temperate release like you were decorating him for battle rather than let you taste yourself on his tongue when he kissed you afterward? He imagined they would. He imagined the glaze of lust over your eyes, the flush of your lips despite his absence from them. You would beg for him to rut you into the down of his bed, wouldn’t you? Or would you kneel in return without being asked? Would you cling to him as though you could hold him still with the same ease as he did, you when you wrapped your sweet, soft lips around him?

“Borra,” his name in your mouth is so sweet, “please.”

You are his snowbird. He will never leave you without.

That is not to say that he will not test your patience first.

Z = ZZZ

You wish everyone would know the incarnation of Borra that exists when he is asleep beside you.

You are both devoted to your people, without question or hesitation, though in markedly different ways; when you fail to sleep, it is because the catalogue of your mind spins in reminder of all the tasks you have yet to complete, all of the people you must speak to. Borra sleeps as though he anticipates war to arrive on the Nest’s shore before dawn.

It is a terrifying thought to entertain, though you must, for it is not wholly unwarranted. Borra leaves in the night to protect the little moorland creatures who cannot defend themselves; he returns before dawn, attends council when council is called, and sleeps in staccato intervals punctuated by planning and reconnaissance and training. He shoulders the responsibility for you all as though each of your children is his, each of you his partner, his sibling, or his parent. There is no distance in his devotion, no temperance. You would not hesitate to believe he defends you as he makes love to you, though the polar dichotomy of those acts are as severe as yours and his, the tundra and the desert – so alike, but so markedly different.

When he sleeps before you do, you know he is tired, though he must always be. The worry-creases in his brow finally soften; the tension in his jaw finally abates. The weight of him and his densely-feathered wings sits atop you like a slab of stone, though it pleases you immensely to feel him limp instead of rigid – to feel the warmth of his measured, even breaths against your neck.

He needs this more often. Once upon a time, when you were children, you lay against him in a woven hammock strung between a set of tall palms. The rest of the children you ran with did much the same, for you were lazy and careless and did not have any obligation beyond satisfying your lust for sweet fruits and company. You were unburdened, unhindered young people, as true to your natures as nature allowed; you hugged and laughed and teased one another. You laid with Borra and he kept you warm and you kept him cool and the both of you, together, contributed to the jungle’s already stifling humidity.

He kept you warm, in your bed, heaped under hides and furs. You keep him cool in that same sense, especially when you lay with him in his.

If you were selfish, you would allow your fingers to follow the trails of his ornamental cracks from their network at his jaw along the rest of him, but you know that he sleeps lightly.

You drape your wing over his hip as insulation against the cold and you draw yourself close to him. Not flush, for you still wish to watch his face in sleep until the white-out of your thoughts calms, close enough to feel his radiant heat.

You love him. You cannot help him the way you help the others; there is nothing you can do that will relieve him of the reasons he takes responsibility for your collective. You wish you could. Perhaps, one day, he will get his war. Perhaps it will go as well as you both hope it will – then, he would sleep. Then, you would not have to worry about the abysmal quantity of agave flowers that keep him awake in place of rest as though there were not nearly a thousand other fey who had trained for combat with invaders.

As though you, yourself, would not defend him as he did, you.

________________

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for-a-muse-of-fire · 5 years ago

Text

in the woods somewhere

the wench and the witcher

“in the woods somewhere”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Paring: Geralt of Rivia x Fem!POC Reader.

Summary: Reader is foolhardy, and finds herself hunted. Geralt comes to the rescue and reader gets to see why they call him the White Wolf.

Warnings: NSFW/18+ ONLY. Rough sex, mention of blood and violence.

A/N: I wrote this while listening to that damned song on repeat with some eerie-ass haunted forest ambience going on YouTube. It was RAD. Title and lyrics below are very obviously borrowed from Hozier’s “In The Woods Somewhere” and honestly, it’s the creepiest, sexiest thing in the world. Easily in the top 10 of fave Hozier songs.

@coconutxraikage; @onyour-right; @kingniazx; @c-s-stars; @pantrashtic; @gczanetti1; @alwaysnatz; @kianya-loves; @ly--canthrope

I clutched my life And wished it kept My dearest love I'm not done yet

Honestly, you don’t think you’ve ever done anything so stupid.

And you’ve done a lot of stupid things.

You swear under your breath as you stumble over a rough patch in the road. The full moon offers enough light to keep you from breaking your damned neck, but so far the slog from the Aedirn border back to your small town has been arduous and fucking irritating. You’d meant to leave before sundown, safely partied with the train of journeyfolk as they made the way home, but that sure as fuck hadn’t happened. It was your own fault, and now here you were, tripping on rocks and roots and praying that you don’t end up getting eaten.

As if on cue, something howls deep within the tree line. You swear again, pick up your skirts and your pace.

Geralt will actively kill you if you get eaten.

The noises get closer – the sound of breaking twigs, rustling foliage and low, ominous snarling. Irritation gives way to actual fear, thick and bitter in the back of your throat. Your brisk walk turns to a jog, and then a full-tilt run.

Dammit, this was not how you want to die. It’s undignified, and messy, and about seventy years too soon.

There’s a great and terrible crash as the creature leaps from the trees and onto the road in front of you – you skid to a stop, falling back on your ass with a shout. It’s fucking huge. Taller than anything you’ve ever seen with broad, fur-covered shoulders and a long, canine snout. It stands on two lanky legs, and its arms are disproportionate, dragging the ground with claws that glint in the moonlight.

Its teeth and muzzle are already wet with blood.

You backpedal, rocks scraping your palms as the beast advances. It lifts its great head to release a bone-chilling howl to the night sky, and in the split second it’s coal-bright eyes are torn from you, you bolt.

Branches rip at your skirts, try to catch your loosed curls. Something whips across your face, slicing your cheek and you yelp in pain, but keep running. You can hear the monster behind you crashing through the underbrush and a terrified whimper cracks its way up from your chest. You’re not even sure where you’re running to – all you know is that you had to get away, and get away quickly. The ground is more treacherous here, rocks and roots ready and waiting to throw your balance.

The toe of your boot finds one such root. You give a shriek as you fall, palms smarting with the impact as you try to keep moving, keep crawling before claws slice through the air to cut you to ribbons. There’s a crash as the great canine-like beast bounds through the trees; you spin onto your back, gasping for air with your heart trying to thunder its way up out of your throat. Even as you scramble back, you can’t take your eyes from it. The beast lumbers forward, stepping into a shaft of brilliant moonlight. Its bloodied maw glistens and drops open; its teeth are almost as long as your forearm.

Those terrible glowing eyes pin you in place.

It lunges. You cover your head, screaming, but the impact never comes.

Instead you hear a low, basso roar – almost human – and the dull thud of bodies colliding. Panting like a wounded deer, you muster the courage to uncover your head. What you witness that night, under that brilliant full moon is both disturbing and incredible.

Geralt of Rivia. The White Wolf.

You understand now why they call him that.

His already pale skin fairly glows in the moonlight, a stark contrast to the full black armor he’s clad in. By the way the creature is scrambling to stand, you can only surmise that the witcher physically threw himself in the beast’s path, using his own body to propel it away from yours. Wide-eyed, you scrabble away until your back thumps against the gnarled root of the nearest tree. The creature crouches, one clawed hand scraping the dirt before it lets out an ear-splitting howl. Geralt simply bares his teeth – the shining silver sword at his back sings when he pulls it free.

He moves with a grace that you never would have expected in a person his size. Not a single step is superfluous. The whirling, bladed dance is like nothing you’ve ever seen– each movement able to serve as either attack or defense. Geralt takes a blow to the chest, the beast’s claws glancing off his leather armor, but you watch him lunge forward with renewed vigor. He deflects an arching swipe of bloodied claws, ducking and pivoting to counter as the creature lunges at him. Geralt’s face is illuminated by the moon in that moment and your mouth goes bone dry.

You’d heard tell of what a witcher can do with his potions. Never thought you’d see it in your lifetime. Those black, fathomless eyes make something liquid and shivery spark its way down your spine. Adrenaline and fear mingle with the unexpected heat in your belly and gods, you can hardly breathe as you watch the black-eyed mutant swing his blade once over his wrist.

The monster snarls and lunges. Geralt pivots, pirouettes, and strikes home – the monster’s head is removed from its shoulders in one clean swing. Blood shines black over the grass.

Somehow, you manage to wobble to your feet, but your gaze stays trained on the monster-hunter, mesmerized by the heavy rise and fall of his shoulders as he catches his breath. He turns those black eyes to you and you’ve never seen anything so fearsome – you hear your breath catch on a short gasp, feeling your knees quake under your skirts. Geralt gives a dangerous kind of rumble and wipes the blade of his sword clean with a gloved hand. He stalks towards you as he sheaths the weapon, full mouth curled into a snarl; you stumble back against the trunk of the tree behind you and then he has you trapped there.

“Are you hurt?” he growls.

You whimper. He smells of leather, and blood, and his eyes are black, black, black. “No,” you breathe.

“Good.”

It’s more of a bite than a kiss. He crushes his mouth to yours, forcing his tongue past your lips as he grips your jaw with gloved fingers. You whine, finding purchase on the leather strap that crosses his chest. In spite of the chill in the night air, you are on fire – heat sings over your skin before settling between your legs. You can feel your pulse throbbing at the apex of your thighs, so strong that it’s almost painful.

Geralt pushes forward, forcing his leather-clad thigh between yours and you sob at the contact. He keeps his possessive grip on your jaw, pulling back just enough to pin you with those fathomless eyes of his.

“I can fucking smell you,” he snarls. “Smell how fucking wet you are.”

He rips his other glove off with his teeth, spitting the blood-stained leather onto the forest floor. You feel him grope at your skirts, yanking the fabric up and out of his way until he can force his free hand between your legs – two fingers push into the quivering heat there and you mewl as your eyes slam shut. Geralt rattles out a hot, desperate noise against your neck. He works his fingers inside of you, heel of his hand crushed tight against your clit until your legs start to shake.

“Geralt,” you whine. “Please.”

He gives a breathless moan into your skin. When his fingers leave the clutch of your cunt you nearly cry at the loss, but then he’s tearing at the buttons on his trousers and you try to help with your own trembling hands. He shoves the thick leather down his hips just enough to free his cock, and then your knee is hooked over his elbow to spread you open. Geralt slides himself through your slick to ease his passage, lines up, and slams forward.

You shout, blinding pleasure bowing your spine up and away from the rough bark at your back. Your hands grip at Geralt’s hair, clenching into greedy fists. The witcher gives a low, broken groan.

He starts to move. It is not gentle.

Each short, vicious thrust stokes the raging fire in your belly. You cry, and gasp, and swear as you spiral up, up, up – you feel as though you are gripped with fever, delirious as you ride the thin line between pain and pleasure. All you can do is grind down in a desperate attempt to meet the driving push of his hips into yours. Geralt lays biting kisses up your neck, panting in short, hot bursts into your skin. You can feel bruises starting to bloom on your thighs. The witcher’s free hand, still covered in black leather, grips your jaw again; he forces you into another kiss that borders on violent.

The smell of blood floods your senses – coppery and sharp.

When he wrenches his lips from yours, he uses the grip on your chin to keep your gaze locked on him. You can see the whites of his eyes now, the inky color brought on by his potion having receded, only just. He snarls down at you, gloved fingers pushing back to grip hard at your curls. You feel the rasp of stubble against your neck - it makes you shudder. Makes you keen.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he growls. “Come on. Want to feel you come all over my cock.’

His teeth lock on the juncture of your neck and shoulder. The sudden jolt of pain sends you soaring, body alight, before your orgasm tears you to pieces – the scream that rips up from your chest is more animal than human. Your whole body rocks with it and you hear Geralt roar his way through his own release. You suck down ravenous lungfuls of air, heart thundering so hard against the confines of your rib cage that you’re sure it’s going to burst its way free. Your whimper brokenly and let your forehead rest on the studded leather that covers his shoulder.

The witcher’s careful touch on your cheek brings you back down to earth. Your dark gaze finds his, and once again you’re staring into lovely, honey-colored eyes. His breathing is labored. It takes a few moments for the both of you to disentangle yourselves from each other and rearrange your clothing, but Geralt isn’t willing to release you just yet. He keeps you trapped against the tree and the hard set of his jaw makes your already shaky knees turn to water.

“You don’t go walking these woods alone at night,” he rumbles. His tone leaves no room for argument. “You understand me?”

It takes a moment for you to find your voice, but you nod in the meantime. “Yes,” you whisper at last. “I understand.”

He kisses you again. It’s gentle, almost reverent – such a shock from his violent coupling that you feel lightheaded. You’re still trembling when he scoops you up into his arms, keeping you cradled against his chest. Exhaustion sets in, keeps you from arguing when it’s clear he intends to carry you back into town.

You press your face into his neck. The scent of blood lingers in your nostrils.

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