Chapter Text
Clinking, chatter and hum drum of life fills the cacophony of sound emitting from the Trades Lane of Brugge. The hot stink of baked mud, and dust from the fields beyond permeate the air as the mid-summer sun cooks the ground. Today is the hottest day so far this summer, the lack of people standing in direct sunlight is a testament to the sting of the sun.
Several local kids take turns jumping into the quenching trough next to the forge, trying not to splash its hot stones, despite their giggly satisfaction at the sizzling noises when it does anyway.
You sarcastically growl at the children when too much water sloshes over the side, creating a muddy patch in front of the forge where you’d normally stand if the day wasn’t already hot enough to rival the heat the coals throw. The kids scatter, playful giggles and squeals giving away their escape routes. You shake your head at them, remembering that was you once, accept Grandpa Bismuth wasn’t as nice when he growled you away.
In the heat of the day, you sit in the shade finishing off the last details in a matching set of carving knives you’d made a while ago, signature crystallised Bismuth shards in the hilt. The rack of swords, axes and maces jingle and clink behind you as your body rocks the wood boards of the shop’s veranda as you sand the wooden handle of the last carving knife.
Brought out of your meditative-like state by the sound of lute strings harmonising with the clinking from behind you, a dopey-happy smile graces your face. Gazing up at the two strangers that grace the Bismuth 83 Shop front.
Owner of the lute melody smiles a bright and friendly grin as he looks at you, his floppy brown hair, slight frame and colourful clothes are a stark contrast to the man standing next to him. Neutral face, slightly taller, impressively broad shoulders, all black clothes, and most interestingly, for a fairly young-looking man; white hair.
Standing to greet them, you see upon closer inspection that the white-haired one also has striking yellow-gold eyes, while the brown-haired one has dazzling blue. The smile on your face turns slightly sultry as you slide up to the counter.
“What can I do for two handsome strangers, this fine day?” You can’t help but flirt, it’s such a nice day how could you not? Noticing rather strangely, the golden-eyed, white-haired beauty seems to be a little flustered by your flirting, the other one, however, takes it as a challenge, leaning on your counter, looking at you up and down taking you in with a small nip to his bottom lip.
“Good day it is, madame, my attractive friend and I require your services.” He winks playfully and you lean in next to him as you both look at the white haired one as he continues, “Geralt here, needs some repairs.”
White haired, Geralt, freezes under the combined scrutiny of you and his friend, and you giggle a let up on the flirting as you move around the counter. The movement snaps the adorably bashful man out of his daze, he moves to pull a steel sword from the scabbard behind his shoulder, laying it on the counter and curiously, pulls another, silver one out and places it next to the first.
The “Ah-ha!” moment comes then as you take a small step back, looking him up and down with an appreciative hum.
“Didn’t realise they made Witchers as delicious as you.” The other man barks out a quick laugh at you blatantly checking out his friend. Your eyes don’t leave him until he opens his mouth to speak, seeing his hesitation under your gaze.
“Both hilts need resetting.” He says bluntly, voice gravelly and oh so attractive, you want him to say more just to listen to his smooth cadence.
“You wack something too hard?” you look over the blades and see that the silver one has bent ever so slightly at the guard. Indeed, the evidence of high impact bending. While the steel one has had the pommel broken off. Your attention is drawn from the two distractingly attractive men to the gorgeous swords on the counter as you continue to inspect them.
The silver one has some runes inlaid in the fuller, slightly shimmering in the sunlight, clearly elven design and the signature of Witcher arsenal. The ever so slight bend common in the softer metallurgical nature of the metal, good for slicing and dicing but not so much smacking and bashing.
The steel one, while sharp and heavy, the Nilffgaardian steel is sloppily made, dawn-of-war weapons often are. Both are easily fixed, a little below your pay grade but how often do you get 2 pieces of eye candy to feast upon? You’ll do this for them, if for nothing else than to encourage them to come back.
You’d been muttering to yourself as you inspect the swords in your hands, testing their weight, balance and sharpness as you bring them to the workbench. Excited to work on something more than the alderman’s stupid collection of garish armour pieces he insists you make to prove your skills as a blacksmith.
Grandpa Bismuth never had to prove himself, but the alderman doubts your abilities as a blacksmith because you’re a girl. However, every week near about, the lout comes to you with increasingly complex designs challenging you to fuck up, because if you do, he seems to think it’s enough to kick you out of your shop, pull it down and build some ugly ass statue garden or some shit.
Eyeing the half-done pauldrons you were working with a slight sneer, the Witcher swords feel much more at home on your work bench, swords and blades are your specialty after all.
“I’ll fix ‘em up like new, I’ll even restore the grip leathers, I should be done in about an hour.” You say absent mindedly as you begin to work on them.
“No time at all!” Brown hair-blue eyes says cheerily, smacking Geralt on the arm playfully. Geralt is unimpressed with the contact.
“I knew your grandfathers work,” Geralt blurts out, the other man deflates at this, obviously not wanting this conversation. “Master Bismuth would be proud.” He says fondly, as if offering condolences.
“You’ve spoken to the alderman then, are you both another one of his challenges?” you pause your measuring of the steel sword for a new pommel, turning slightly.
“He actually told us explicitly not to come see you.” The smaller man says, Geralt smacks him on the arm in turn, not as playfully.
“Jaskier!” Geralt chastises, seemingly to stop the man spilling anymore secrets, “the alderman said you had a lead about a contract put up on the noticeboard outside town?” he questions.
“Oh yeah? I bet he said I was busy and wouldn’t have time for you, huh?” fully turning to the pair now, you cross your arms, a little defensive and more than a bit defiant. Bloody alderman.
“Something like that. What do you know about the thing that killed your grandfather?” Geralt asks rather bluntly, as seems his way of things.
The other one, Jaskier, has gone quiet, you don’t miss the way his eyes wander up your arms and across your shoulder as you grip your hammer. This man seems to be traveling down the rabbit hole very few have dared to venture towards. Most men in the city know you’re one for bar fights and brawls, often winning with the hidden strength many underestimate you possessing. That, and most who have dared to screw you out of a good time have come a hairs breadth from a killing blow from the many swords and blades you craft and test.
Oddly enough, being under this man’s studious eye doesn’t make your skin crawl, you can see the way he admires your equal strength and beauty. It’s very distracting.
“He, uh. He um, went to pick up a shipment of ingots from a merchant caravan that moves between here and Ellander. He was attacked and killed near the drop point, none of his things were taken. The guards tell me some of his organs were missing, like he’d been butchered.” You explain flatly, trying your best not to get emotional. It won’t do any good anyway.
“Can you tell me exactly where this drop point was?”
You explain to the Witcher where the drop point is, about an hour’s ride from the city’s outskirts, in a small village near a lake to the north. Jaskier remarks that it feels like an odd place to be picking up crafting materials, but your meaning catches the Witcher’s understanding, you are of course talking about dimerittium. The silvery magical metal is a very controlled substance so the fact your grandfather had regular shipments of it was possibly another reason the alderman is on your back. Grandpa Bismuth never told you about what he did with the dimerittium he worked with but your suspected it was under the table type of dealings.
“I guess I’ll find us some lodgings then.” Jaskier says cheerily, hearing missing organs and dimerittium is clearly enough for him to decidedly sit this one out. Geralt hums a nod to his friend and thanks you for the information and repairs before he sets off to investigate his new contract.
Jaskier stalls before parting ways, you feel his eyes on you as you return to the work bench, you smile to yourself at the blatant flirt’s attention.
“Anything else?” You ask the colourful man over your shoulder, retrieving the silver sword from where it had been resting on the edge of the forge, heating up so you could manipulate it. Pointing your toe just right as you bring down your hammer on the silver sword, knowing for a fact that it would make the plumpness of your ass jiggle, putting on the show for the obviously enraptured man behind you.
“I’m playing at the Inn on the corner tonight,” he jerks his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to the best place for ale and meals this side of town. Your intrigue for this man increases the more he talks. “You should swing by; I’ll buy you a drink.” Turning to him, intending to accept your offer you can see the rosy blush on his adorable face.
“It’s a date.”
_________________
Clouds have begun to build in the west, cool air from the ocean meets the hot wind of the land and builds magnificent fluffy white clouds high in the sky, once the air pressure drops a storm is sure to arrive shortly after. The slight reprieve from the sun’s heat the clouds bring is short lived as the humidity spikes, the sweat on your brow is ignored as you move with the sword in your hands.
Fancy foot work and calculated movement has you dancing around your court-yard, dummies made of straw and wood barely stand of their posts, straw-grass guts lay scatted on the ground at your feet as you work through the forms you practice with. Whirling around the cobblestones, sword in your hands where it feels at home, you let your heart race with the imagined monsters you fight.
Ever since you were a small child, Grandpa Bismuth encouraged you to practice your sword forms, he always said if you want to know how something works you have to be familiar with it. He also said to fully understand something you had to pull it a part, but he was talking about killing Nilfgaardians. Not something you were interested in per se, but the way a sword in your hand made you feel powerful, now that was where your heart lies, but duty bound to your grandpa’s legacy you took over his shop.
Little moments like this when you were able to lose yourself, imagining a life you could have had, one of adventure, risk and reward. Lost in your imaginary to and fro with what’s left of the training dummy you don’t hear the trespasser enter the courtyard.
When you swing a blow through the training dummy leaving nothing but the stump you hear a whistle from behind you; a single note drawn out. You twist your body to face the stranger, bringing the sword up in a strike pose leveling the tip of the sword with the tip of the stranger’s nose.
Geralt stands before you unfazed by his sword in your hands pointed at him. He looks right past the tip of the sword to you with a quirked eyebrow, the white haired Witcher had picked up a sword from the rack near the gate where he’d entered and now raises it to clang against his in your hand.
“Fighting imaginary monsters is one thing but how are you with a real challenge?” He tempts you, with a hint of playfulness in his eye. You smile at him confidently.
“What do I get if I win?” you tap Geralt’s sword, squaring yourself with him, preparing to lunge into battle. He regards you with a small chuckle.
“Anything you want.” He pulls back his sword readying for this fight. “That’s if you win.”
The Witcher switches his grip to hold his sword backwards, pointing the pommel towards you, an interesting stance. You hold the sword out from your body, the strength in your wrist evident from the slight hold on the sword, Geralt regards your active display of strength with a nod and a slight downturn of the corner of his mouth.
He lunges first smacking at your sword to test the strength of your grip, surprisingly you twist around with the momentum of his swing and level your sword to the Witcher’s neck.
“What do you get if I lose?” you pose to the yellow-eyed man as he turns his head to you, now thoroughly impressed.
“How’d you do that?” he asks rather confused; no human should be able to move that fast. You smile at him still pointing your sword at him, leaning in close to his ear.
“I’ll tell you if you win, if I win, I get a kiss.” You whisper to him, and he swings his sword around to his back, swapping hands when the blade doesn’t connect with yours, now holding the sword with the other hand standing up straight to take another swing at you.
His yellow eyes find you standing out of his reach with your sword still posed like you’re still to strike. The Witcher eyes you oddly, “Why isn’t my medallion reacting to you?”
“Win and I’ll tell you.” You say smugly, lunging again but as he swings to block your blow you duck and go for his legs. He quickly responds this time, stepping over you to stop you taking out his legs.
The back and forth between you lands no blows, both of you equally matched. The song and dance of the twang and scrape of your swords rings out in the courtyard, the both of you growing frustrated at the stalemate.
Unable to end the fight with swords, Geralt disarms you by hitting your cross-guard in a twisting motion, rending your grip open and causing you to drop the sword. Breathing heavily, you frown at him aflame with instant fury in being bested, until he drops his own sword with a smile; Coming together in a flurry of fists you breathe in the same space, as you come close to the Witcher his scent wafts over you like a warm blanket; all warm leather, dirt and fire smoke; earthy, it’s intoxicating. Pulling a part and grappling with each other as you wrestle, the close proximity has you both hot and heavy.
As soon as Geralt’s strong arms wrap around you, pinning your own arms at your sides, while his breath rushes across your ear and off your cheek, you knew you’d lost. Against anyone when it came to sword skills you had a high chance of success but hand-to-hand combat and sheer strength, this handsome Witcher had you beat.
Sweating in the afternoon heat and tired from your play-fight you both freeze despite the excited coil of your muscles, ready to jump back into the fight, but not moving yet, begging the other to yield. Both of you too stubborn to admit defeat.
You look to Geralt over your shoulder, he doesn’t even look like he’s sweating but his breathing comes out hard, one small wriggle to escape his grip and you see why.
The hard line pressed to your hip has you tilting your head with a cheeky smile. “You got another sword in your pocket or are you having too much fun?” He releases you instantly at this, stepping away cautiously, you stand straight and rest your hand on your hip popping it out seductively.
Geralt chuckles with a hum eyeing you with slight embarrassment, “How about we call it even?” He yields and raises his hands in surrender, eyeing you hopefully. Letting out a relaxed sigh, you nod with a short laugh.
“We’re even.” Flipping the sword in your grip to offer it to him, he takes it and gives it a twirl and a swing. “Fixed like new!”
“Thank you.” The Witcher says as he sheaths his steel sword. “And sorry… about this.” He gestures to himself, a little embarrassed.
You shake your head, dismissing his worries. “The heat of battle can affect, well. That.” You tilt your head towards him as you move away to collect his silver sword that leans up on the deck of your living space behind the shop. “Plus, I’ll take it as a complement.”
He chuckles and takes the silver sword from you, also slipping it into the sheath. The Witcher squirms under your eye as you drink him in, ramped up after a fight.
“Come inside, we can wash up and head over to the Inn, Jaskier asked me to come watch him play, plus it’s hog roast night, I won’t be missing dinner and a show.” You usher him inside as you climb the steps to the back door. He follows with a short grumble, passing you as you hold the door open for him.
He walks past and you get another whiff of his scent; this time it’s mixed with a petrichor of the rain that will soon be beating down on your tiled roof. If the blood in your veins wasn’t already rushing in your ears, the sight, smell and sound of this irresistibly attractive man would have you climbing the wall yet, but his timidness has you holding back, unlike with the bard.
“Do you want a spare shirt? This one has holes in it.” Sliding up next to him once you shut the door, you poke a finger through a small hole in the side near his ribs and run your finger across the skin there. You can almost see the gooseflesh across his neck before he snatches your hand.
“Is that an invitation to take my shirt off?” He holds your wrist firm but not tight, daring you to make the next move.
“Well, since neither of us won how about we indulge both options?” Stepping closer to the Witcher you press yourself to him, his hand around your wrist ever so slightly pulling you in. in the close proximity you blink up at him slowly like a cat, and when he dips his head imperceptibly closer you can’t help but bite your lip.
“A kiss and an explanation. How generous.” He whispers.
You can see in his half-lidded eyes the desire unbridled there. Perhaps his timidness is for the bard’s sake, or now that doors are closed, for the eyes of the public?
You hum and inch closer to the Witcher, meeting in the middle as he ghosts his lips across your cheek to the corner of your mouth, only planting his kiss on your lips as he fully encompasses them. Chaste at first, testing to see your reaction. How chivalrous, it’s not like you literally have been flirting non-stop and just about threw yourself at him the moment the doors were closed.
With a brave spark of arousal, you kiss him again right before one would normally pull away after such a delicate kiss. But as you reach in for another, you’re excited to find him more than willing to deepen the kiss.
The heat of the day seems to prickle at your face as you blush, and more excitingly, the same tingly heat finds its way between your legs. Geralt releases your hand to press his to the side of your head, pulling you closer as he parts his lips to swipe his tongue across yours. Practically shuddering with arousal, you grab a handful of his shirt at his shoulder, pressing yourself to his broad chest.
Hands wander, grabbing, sliding and pulling as you both fully indulge in the heat of the kiss. His hands have slid down to your sides, coming to rest over your ribs, his thumbs pressing daringly close to your breasts. Your hands have swooped over his shoulders and up his neck to tangle in his hair, the loosely tied cord in his silver-white hair no match for your talented fingers.
It doesn’t escape your notice in the heat of the kiss, that Geralt is purposely avoiding your breasts, only a small movement of his thumb and it would press delightfully in the flesh there. His hands wander further down but stop at your hips.
“Just a kiss.” He whispers with a smirk as he pulls away, it’s almost as if he could sense your frustration at his purposeful avoidance. “Now, you answer my question,” His hands stay on your hips, his fingers squeeze into your softness there as he continues, “then, maybe, we can negotiate new terms.”
His eyes are hungry as he looks at you, no matter what those new terms will involve fun for both of you. You smile up at him from your embrace, eyes flicking down to his lips as you nod.
“Agreeable terms, master Witcher.” You respond, the nod gives away to a heave of a sigh, and he allows you space to breathe and think of your answer. “Follow me.”
He lets you take his hand and lead him into the living space in the back of the blacksmith, the space is long and narrow, sitting area just inside the door, a fire pit in the middle of the space with a kitchen stove on the far end of the room. It’s a very Skellegan design, dark stone floors, raw wooden walls and high gable roof, roomy for a black smith’s quarters. Along every available space on the walls are picture frames and portraits, and even a few mounted weapons.
“These are some of my ancestors, and my mother’s Wall of Theory.” You wave your hand at the wall of pictures, portraits, drawings and sketches, diary excerpts and travelling receipts. “Your guess is as good as my mother’s as to what ran in our blood, she had stories about possible Elder-Blood, Wild Hunt Rider, monsters, Fairies, maybe even Witchers.” You nudge your elbow into his arm at that, and he eyes you with a strange look.
“You and Jaskier would be two peas in a pod, then. He’s got quite a lot of interesting theories about his origins too.” He turns to face you with a blank look, “doubt there’s any Witcher blood in you though, we’re sterile.”
With out missing a beat, nodding your head just slightly as you eye him up and down, the heat between your legs never leaving, “Good to know.”
He laughs at your boldness, rolling his eyes, clearly understanding what you’re insinuating. “You couldn’t be any more obvious, little minx, just like Jaskier, always wanting to jump my bones.” You laugh giddily as he snatches you up into his embrace, “be careful what you wish for, you might just get it.”
Again, without thinking too much about the insinuation, too caught up in your arousal, “Oh, so you and the bard? Also good to know.”
“Gods give me strength.” Geralt whispers as he kisses your neck, making you giggle more.
You let him work over your neck, pressing his lips to your skin, the scrape of his teeth as a promise of what may yet to pass, causes ripple of arousal to grow as his hands travel your body, still teasing. You can’t help the gasp that escapes you as he sucks a hickey into your skin. Desperately trying to clear your head through your arousal, you pull away from him but purposefully pushing your hips towards his as you speak.
“Come now Witcher, we have an hour or so till sun set to kill, before heading to the inn, lets wash up before we get too pre-occupied.” You can see the way he tenses his jaw as you speak, you’re sure he’s not listening with the way his gold irises are blacked out by his wide pupil, eyeing your lips. He nods, acknowledging what you said but unable to supress the grunt as your hips press into his very hard cock straining in his pants.
With a flourish of a spin you dance away from him like you did in your play-fight and he’s blinking to follow you with his hungry gaze. Taking his hand, you lead him further into the living quarters through to the washroom.
The washroom has a large brass tub with clawed feat, it stands adjacent to a water pump, unusual for normal living quarters but with the extensiveness of personal history on the wall, it does explain the out of placeness the blacksmith has between the other building in Brugge, you think this was one of the first dwellings, maybe even has elven foundations.
In any case, the opulent bath has Geralt’s eyes widening, as he eyes the contraption next to it, a boiler.
“Constant hot water, for relaxing baths. Nice big bath fit for two,” You let go of the Witcher’s hand and bend over the tub to turn the spigot on the boiler, beginning to fill the bath. “Perfect, no?”
You watch with a curious eye as Geralt looks up to the rafters of the small room and hums. Herbs hang from strings along the rafters, and a small fluke in the roof lets out the steam of the bath, when he looks back to you, shirt almost half off as you undo the buttons, he smiles, motioning to do the same.
As you both strip an item of clothing, eyeing the other as it’s dropped to the floor, you take turns admiring each new expanse of skin. Your eye follows the criss-cross of scars on the Witcher’s skin like a map, dipping into the valleys between the peaks of taut muscle. The man who stands before you has the physique of the statues the alderman coverts, all brilliant displays for close to godliness in your opinion. And here the Witcher stands before you almost naked, dick straining for your attention, like a treat.
The white-haired Witcher’s eyes travel your body like looking at a beautifully complex painting, up and down, you can tell that his eyes rest on your breasts by the way he stares and absent-mindedly licks his lips. He smiles when your eyes wander further down his body, your eyes blow wide at the sight, and he can’t help but let out a small laugh at your excitement.
You eye the small trail of silver hair below his navel and where it disappears into his draws like a funnel for your attention, the V of his hips guiding you there like the hills guide a river. Nearly ripping off your own smallclothes, finally naked for his own attention to travel lower, you step to him and lay your fingers at the hem of his linen draws to ask permission. He smiles at you, running his hand feather light up your arm as you tuck your fingertips into his waistband. One swift pull to the laces and they’re falling from his hips, the head of his very impressive cock appears over the edge, and you bite your lip, breath coming out slightly uneven.
Your eyes fly to his, a small pang of worry that he hasn’t said anything since you started stripping off. His dark, half lidded, eyes nearly plead for you to touch him.
“You can touch me.” His hand glides over your jaw and he rests his thumb on your chin as he leans in, “I promise I won’t bite unless you ask.”
Your resolve is broken with a whimper as he captures your lips in a fervent kiss, hand pushing his draws off his hips, the other coming to feel the weight of him in your palm, you gasp as your touch wraps around the girth of him and tests the length of him with an upward stroke. Your parted lips give him access to push his tongue against yours, the taste of him now and thought of what he might feel like inside you later has you feeling light-headed.
The Witcher hisses against your lips as your hand wraps around the base of his length, squeezing him slightly. The break in your kiss gives you a moment to see the bath water reach the half-way mark in the tub; with the two of you in there doing what your about to do, half will be enough. You twist to turn off the spigot, Geralt’s hand comes down to rest on your hips as he steps around behind you, using you for balance as he brings a leg over the edge of the tub into the hot water. You scramble in right after him.
As the both of you stand in the tub, hot water only coming up to your knee, you sink the rest of the way to your knees, barely feeling the difference in your feverish skin and the heat of the water. Geralt follows you to his knees, his hand gripping his cock as you just did; you reach past his left side to grab the cloth, sponge and soap on the little ledge next to him. you reach closer to him, and he takes the opportunity to run his right hand over your hip, sinking his fingertips into the plushness of your ass, the pull of the skin there makes your cheeks part. You can feel the wetness squelch in between your legs as he does so, and he lets out a small laugh.
“All this for me?” sitting back on his haunches, he reaches further, into your wetness, swiping a finger between your folds, dangerously close to your entrance. You let out a breathy moan as his fingers explore you, his other hand lifting from his cock to your other hip. He manages to twist you around so you’re facing away from him with very little force as you were unbalanced trying to reach past him. Grabbing on to the edge of the tub, to right yourself, you can feel the way his hungry gaze devours you with the content hum he gives, his hands slide up to cup either side of your ass, thumbs digging into your skin as he spreads your cheeks.
You can’t help the blush that rises to your whole face or the gasp that follows the feeling of his undivided attention. The sound of your slick when he opens you up for his own viewing pleasure has you nearly shaking with anticipation. His fingers dig into your folds and hold you open for him, the hot water sloshing in the tub as he surges forward. Not being able to stop the filthy gasp that falls from your mouth as he licks a stripe from your clit to your puckered hole, you cover your mouth with your hand to supress the wanton moan that threatens to spill from your lips.
“All just for me.” He moans from behind you, licking you again, this time his deft tongue pushes into your entrance, and you greedily try to swallow him up. Wet sounds of slurping and sucking emanate from behind you as he presses into your heat with an intense need.
One hand stays on your ass kneading the plushness while the other reaches up to flick back and forth over your clit. Practically shaking under his mouth and fingers, you supress a loud moan when his fingers press into you harder, all the while, his tongue darts in and out of you. He leaves you breathless and then has the audacity to bring his fingers down from your clit to press in right where his tongue had been, two fingers enter you abruptly and it feels like your breath has been stolen when he flicks his tongue back in between his fingers.
Moaning loudly under his ministrations, any doubt that this might have been a one-way initiated activity has been thrown out the window, he eats away at you like a man starved, like you’re the last drop of water in a desert of endless heat. His own moans from between your legs has your head spiralling; breathless, shaking and fully under his spell, you come.
Hard.
Your hand has flown from your mouth to the side of the tub as your wails of ecstasy bounce around the walls of the washroom. Your dizzy head and buzzy feeling in between your legs has you almost collapsing to the edge of the tub, but Geralt’s hands come back to your hips, your orgasm hasn’t even subsided when he suddenly pushes his cock into you. He has you nearly screaming as he fucks into you, driving a little bit more in with each thrust and with every one of your quick breaths he sinks deeper, extending your orgasm until he’s almost fully seated.
The warm, buzzy feeling has reached your head, and the world is drowned out, the hot water in the tub barely a comparison for the heat of your skin. Everything has narrowed to the feeling of his hands digging into your hips and the push and pull of his cock inside you as he stretches you out. The burn of your accommodating him is lost in the aftershocks of your orgasm as he quickly builds you up to a second one.
Geralt groans sinfully as he keeps his first few thrusts shallow, allowing you to enjoy the stretch of him, “Could fuck you like this, slow and steady, ‘til nothing but my name falls from your lips.” He threatens with a deliberately slow drag back out until just his tip sits inside, when you try to babble something along the lines of, please, he pushes back in nice and slow.
Reaching under yourself to play with your clit, desperate to come on his cock this time, the press of his hips to your ass makes you fumble for your clit. Your fingers instead brush where he enters you, you can feel that he doesn’t sit flush with your hips as he begins to buck into you. Desperate to have ALL of him right now or else, you lift your leg, so your knee rests under your chest. The stability giving your arms a rest but as he ruts back into you, the last inch or so enters you. Feeling the way the tip of his cock slams into the soft spot near your cervix has you seeing stars, you scream out again, this time he reaches over your hip for your clit pressing two slick fingers into the nub.
“There we are, right here.” He concentrates his efforts internally and externally, moaning alongside your ecstasy as he bares down.
You feel his hips stutter as you clench around him, letting a breathy moan escape you as you come, but again he doesn’t slow down, he fucks you straight into overstimulation. Seeing white, you screw your eyes shut, finally coming on his cock, and with one final flick across your bundle of nerves inside AND out you feel your self gush around his girth.
“Oh, my gods! Wholly shit, Geralt!” Screaming as the Witcher makes you squirt, the sound of his name screamed as you climax has him following suit with a cry of his own. As he pumps hot rope after hot rope into you, filling you to the brim, he only slows when you feel a glob of his empty seed trickle down the inside of your thigh.
Geralt stays buried in your wet heat as you both come down from your orgasms, your breathing stabilises before he tries to pull out, the wet squelch that sounds from between you has you both laughing.
“I can’t believe you got me to squirt.” You say as you collapse into the still warm water, bringing your legs under you as you sit on the bottom of the tub, and lean back into Geralt’s chest. As you lean back into him, he finds the soap and sponge left on the edge of the tub, rubbing the two together to get some suds before pressing it to your overwhelmed body.
“I’d do it again in a heartbeat with the way you squeezed my cock and screamed my name.” He presses a kiss to the back of your neck as he brings the sponge to your chest, pressing his right hand to your breast to squeeze as he uses the sponge on the other.
“So there’s the possibility for a next time, Good to know.” He chuckles at you taking notes for this next time, pressing a kiss to the spot behind your ear.