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After long months of travelling through the beginnings of autumn, you had managed to steadily make it back safely inside the walls of Kaer Morhen with Geralt before the bone-chilling frost of winter had a chance to settle in.
You both had been given a warm welcome from the surviving mass of Witchers; with hands clapping backs and hearty stew and ale being passed around, the sloshing of liquids filling the hall.
“Geralt!” they cheered, smiling brightly at his return. “And his…friend?”
“This is [Y/N], my travelling companion,” Geralt introduced you.
You shook all of their hands, greeting them politely, “It’s lovely to meet you all.”
“Welcome to Kaer Morhen, [Y/N],” Vesemir, the oldest Witcher there, said. He seemed to act as the head of them, like a father figure to them all. Your heart ached at the thought of your father, of where he was and if you’d ever see him again.
The Witchers took to you quite quickly, being a young but able girl. You helped around the kitchen - cooking, cleaning, and even going as far as to make extra snacks for the exhausted men, while also having them take turns teaching you what they could in physical training. The days were rough and exceptionally long. You were awake before dawn every morning and only just settling into bed after dusk.
It was worth it though, the long days. It was the first time in years you could honestly say that you felt safe. At home. The boys treated you well, always making sure you felt comfortable around them and including you in jokes and games when they felt it was appropriate.
However, there was one teenie weenie downside to it all.
There was an acute shortage of bedrooms in the Keep, forcing you to share a room with none other than Geralt himself.
Now, you didn’t think this would be much of an issue in the beginning. He certainly didn’t seem to have a problem with it. Since you’d been travelling with him for months on end, you’d fallen into a silent yet comfortable companionship. He would hunt for food; you would cook and make something delicious out of it (a far cry from the plain crap the Witcher was used to living off of). You would gather wood and twigs; he would build a blazing fire to keep you both warm for the night. There was an unspoken understanding and safety in the way the two of you travelled, huddling together in frigid nights for warmth and being comfortable enough to shed sufficient clothes to survive the sweltering heat-filled nights of summer. You both pitched in and you both reaped the rewards.
But there were certain…needs that you had to fulfil during the nights after a long day of hard work and labour. A certain release that you craved. One that you didn’t feel too comfortable asking the Witcher for. Not yet, at least. Not for a while. You didn’t want to overstep and ruin the relationship that had taken you so long to form.
In the wilderness, you both gave each other enough space to fill those needs by yourselves - Geralt had time while you were out gathering supplies, and you had time when he was hunting. It was simple, and you both got by fine without having to get intimate enough to fill those needs cooperatively.
Now, however, you were trapped in a tiny room for hours on end with a man who could smell your carnal needs and absolute and utter desperation from across the room.
***
You managed to last a few nights without getting too worked up, keeping your mind on things like surviving through the winter and keeping up with your schedule while remaining basically sleepless. Things that were arguably much more important than sex. At least, right now.
But after a few days, your needs were growing, and being surrounded by lumbering, unthinkably strong, testosterone-filled men was not helping whatsoever.
You were frustrated. Sexually.
And it was awful.
Wherever you looked, you could see the corded muscle of a different man, each with an array of terrifying weapons strapped to places on them you couldn’t even name. It was a turn-on within itself, in its own primal, protective way.
A lid was shoved onto any thoughts of the type before they could become anything more than that.
Just.
Thoughts.
Testing your luck in a room full of men who could smell lust was definitely not what you wanted right now…right?
There was no knowing how they would react, too. Though you doubted it, they could get violent. They could take what they wanted from you and leave you raw and bloody, and they wouldn’t show mercy or have a care in the slightest. They could ravage you and ruin you and would have nothing else to do but to listen to their commands. Which you definitely did not want……….right?
Deep down, however, you knew the men would understand. You knew they would probably laugh it off. Maybe a proposition at the most. But they would never force you.
***
You were up late for another night, swordfight training with Lambert. He had beautiful red-ginger hair that shone in the torchlight, and his build was just as impressive.
“Again!” he called, adjusting your stance by kicking your legs a little further apart and twisting your hip slightly. “Remember, one misstep in the field could mean death.”
You swallowed thickly, ignoring the rising need inside you at the slight touch that had felt so warm. So natural. So good.
You wouldn’t allow your thoughts to distract you.
You slashed your sword in the way he had directed, moving your body languidly in a feeble attempt to defend yourself from his own swinging sword.
“You’re distracted,” Lambert pointed out. “Distractions to a Witcher mean death.” His sword lay in easy reach of your throat. A small smirk present on his face.
Could he tell what you were thinking? Was that what the smirk was for?
“Again,” he told you, giving you no clue to what held his amusement.
Hit, hit, miss.
It felt like fire was being poured on you. Your footing was muffled and your clammy hands barely gripped the sword. You could think of nothing but of how his form towered over you. How many years has he had practice on pleasing a women? How many years have any of them had?
How many had Geralt had?
Your brain blanked at the thought.
“Again.”
Miss, miss, miss.
“Come on, girl. Again.”
You were flat on your ass at this point, straining to keep your eyes open as the cold of the night settling into your bones raged war with the blazing heat aflame under your skin.
“Come on,” he urged, oblivious to the human constraints your body faced, passing you the wooden training sword you were using that he had easily knocked out of your hand. “Up you get.”
He had a shit-eating grin on his face.
He knew.
He fucking knew.
Your face flushed, stomach flipping with the effort to stand. You managed to block his first two barrages of attacks, but fumbled your footing, landing your ass on the hard ground in front of him. Again.
Lambert stared at you, planted wearily on the snow-covered dirt, before seeming to notice how dark the sky had grown. “Good progress for today.” Somehow, you doubted it. He reached a hand down and hauled you back up to your feet. “We’ll go again tomorrow, but for now, you need…..rest.”
His white toothy grin shone in the moonlight.
***
The moon was already cresting high in the sky when you turned in for bed. You were to be up again early in the morning, before the sun would even be peaking above the horizon. But for now, you crept as silently as you could back into your shared room to find Geralt seemingly asleep in his bed, figure unmoving except for his even breathing.
Your bed was pressed against the far left wall while his was pressed against the right - about 5 feet apart from the other bed with a long table between the two to be used as a bedside table, or for storage. It was a painfully small room, but you made do with what you had.
You changed out of your sweat-drenched training clothes and into your thin, silky pajamas before crawling into the comforting warmth of your bed.
A few minutes passed of attempting to wrestle to cravings inside you. And even more time passed. And more. You spent 15 minutes trying to sleep; attempting to keep your thoughts pure in respect for the man sleeping across the room from you. But you were weak, however, and very, very wanting.
Your thoughts swam in circles, centering on one man in particular.
Geralt.
Geralt against you.
Geralt inside you.
Geralt kissing you.
Geralt pressing you into his soft bed while he lay on top of you, pushing his tongue and fingers inside you.
Geralt fucking you hard and rough against the table.
Geralt.
Geralt.
Geralt.
You couldn’t help it.
You tried everything - breathing techniques, meditation, laying still for half an hour, but nothing was working.
Just this once, you promised yourself, biting your lip as you dipped a hand inside your steadily drenching panties. Hoping beyond hope that Geralt would stay asleep, despite the scent of your arousal you knew was already choking the room.
You felt insatiable as you thought about his hands on you. In you.
You circled a finger slowly around your clit as another slid inside of you.
“Fuck,” you moaned, shoving your face as far into your pillow as it would go in an effort to muffle the soft noises spilling from your mouth.
Your hips involuntarily flexed upwards at the need for friction, causing the bed frame to clamour against the wall. You silently prayed that Geralt would still remain asleep as you pushed another finger inside yourself, curling them so that they hit against that spongey spot inside of you that lit sparkles across your vision. You clenched your jaw, tensing so hard that it hurt, the pressure of keeping those noises trapped filling your chest to the brim.
You felt like you were about to explode. You were riding your own hand, half-conscious of the clacking noise the bed frame was making against the wall, head tipped back as your breathing snagged. “Geralt,” you moaned into your pillow. Your lips were tender and sore, almost bleeding at how hard you were biting them.
“[Y/N]?”
It was like a strike of thunder through a silent room.
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!
You froze. Like a deer caught in headlights; like a child being told off for breaking an expensive piece of bullshit pottery; like you were in a court hearing about to find out if you were to be given the death sentence.
Turning ever-so-slowly to look at the bed across from you, you held your breath, pulling your fingers discreetly from your panties.
You knew he could smell everything; the desire coursing through your veins; the embarrassment; the fear; the tiredness; the arousal; the hope.
He could smell what you did.
He could hear what name - who’s name - you had just moaned.
It was like he could see through you, into your being. Your soul.
“What are you doing?” he asked, more command than question, voice still rough with sleep.
He knew.
You knew he knew.
You wouldn’t get away from answering this.
Still, you decided to play dumb. “I- What?” you stammered. “I’m not doing anythi-“
“You’ve been taking a while,” he observed. “Did you want some help?”
“Help?” you repeated, his words not yet setting in.
“Yes.” He rolled over to face you. “Help.”
Your core seemed overjoyed by his offer.
“I could’ve had you on your 5th orgasm by now.”
You believed him.
Heart thundering, you knew you would let him do whatever he wanted to you. You were already his. Standing on wobbly legs, you walked over to him, pausing before his bed. You weren’t exactly sure what to do at this point - how to manoeuvre this.
He sat up, leaning against the headboard and eyeing your thin, almost see-through camisole, trailing his eyes down to where you needed him most. His nostrils flared, taking in your heightened scent. “You smell good,” he praised, your walls fluttering at the compliment. He had an easy grin on his face.
“What do I smell like?” you dared to ask, your throat bobbing with a gulp. Your eyes flickered between his cat-like ones.
“Sweet,” he answered. “Saccharine.”
“You smell better,” you promised him. He gave a grumbling throaty laugh that sounded more like an exhale.
Geralt grabbed onto your waist, gently lifting you onto his bed and helping you to kneel over him on the blanket.
But you didn’t last long. Not in that position, at least.
He flipped you over so that he was on top, the blanket falling away to the floor in the process.
Geralt wore nothing but a pair of grey briefs. When you dared to look, you could see the outline of his hardened cock.
Good Gods he was massive.
You went to grab at the hem of his underwear, but he was quick. Like a viper striking, in one second your hands were reaching forward, in the next your wrists were held by a hand against his headboard.
Single-handedly, he pulled your panties off and discarded them on the floor. Your heart was pounding noisily in your chest. And elsewhere.
He used his remaining hand to steady one thigh, fingers digging into your flesh so hard you knew there’d be a bruise by tomorrow. You didn’t care.
He kissed your knee. Then the other. Then kissed his way up your thighs until he reached between them. Geralt paused briefly. “Are you sure?”
“Please,” you begged. “I need you.”
He didn’t need any more convincing.
“Fuck,” you muttered, watching his face disappear between your spread thighs. You melted into him. You were at a complete loss of words at the pleasure searing through you.
His tongue lapped at you while his fingers mastered your clit. He kissed and licked up and down your vulva. You shuddered, moans spilling from your lips like a prayer. Your thighs clenched involuntarily, your mouth almost drooling at how good it felt.
“Holy fuck,” you groaned, biting your lip again.
When his mouth swapped places with his tongue, it felt like life, death, and rebirth.
He sucked on your clit, licking and grazing his teeth over it as he plunged two fingers deep inside you, pounding them against you a spot inside you that curled your toes and made you see stars.
And he did it over and over, again and again, muttering praise to you.
“You taste so good.”
“You’re doing so well.”
“You smell so sweet.”
“You look so good right now.”
“S-Shit,” you moaned shamelessly. “I’m going to- F-Fuck. I’m going to cum.”
“Cum for me, [Y/N],” he told you, reattaching his lips to your clit.
You came irrevocably undone, legs shaking uselessly as your orgasm took over. Breathing heavy as he helped you ride out your orgasm, your legs tightening around his ears.
When you finally relaxed your vice-like grip of your thighs around his head, Geralt let go of your wrists and his mouth and fingers left you, giving you a minute to breathe.
“You lied,” you rasped.
“Hm?” He raised an eyebrow.
“You wouldn’t have had me on my 5th orgasm,” you told him. “You would’ve had me on my 50th.”
He chuckled softly. “Guess it helps when you have 100 years of experience.”
He licked his fingers clean.
***
Barely a minute had passed before you were reaching out to the Witcher. He let you trace and adore his muscles, kissing each one, before finally attaching your lips to his. You shared a passionate, searing kiss that felt like fireworks in your tummy.
Geralt was starting to lay down, readying himself for sleep once more.
But you had other plans.
You pressed your lips against his as you blindly navigated your way down to his underwear and pulling his cock out.
You ended the kiss quickly, your attention diverted.
“[Y/N],” Geralt said, waking you from your lustful daze.
“Mm?” you hummed, glancing up at him as you shimmied down his body.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he reminded you softly.
Offering a small smile, you simply said, “I know.”
Holding his cock in one hand, you licked a stripe up the underside, then gave a small kiss to the head.
He inhaled sharply, his hands tightening on your shoulders.
You wrapped your mouth around him, making sure to keep your teeth away, and then bobbed your head a few times, simultaneously drawing faint squiggles of shapes on his thigh with one hand, and gently cupping his balls with the other.
Geralt groaned, the muscles of his thighs tensing. “[Y/N]…wait-“
You paused your ministrations, looking up at him through lowered lashes.
“I want to c-cum in you,” he stuttered out honestly.
And you knew he didn’t mean your mouth.
You removed your mouth from his cock with an audible pop, and he wasted no time in scooping you up and placing you on the table. The wood of the table bit into your bare ass, it was cold and rough. He didn’t need to prepare you before. You were already soaked from when he made you orgasm like you never had before. He pulled the camisole over you, exposing your breasts to the frigid air, and disposed the cloth with the rest blanketing the floor.
Covering his cock in your juices, he pressed his cock against your entrance.
“Please,” you moaned, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him as close to you as you could get. Trying to touch as much of his skin as you could.
He pushed inside you, and you both inhaled loudly, groaning. He pulled your face against his and slipped his tongue inside your mouth. His hands groped your breasts as yours dug and scratched at his back.
There was no warning.
He pounded inside you.
He fucked you.
“God! Holy fuck,” you moaned as the table rattled against the wall and your back hit repeatedly into the glass of the window. You weren’t sure how soundproof the walls were, but it was the least of your worries right now.
You had spent the better part of a year thinking about him fucking you, and now he finally was.
It loud and unceremonious, and it was so fucking good.
It was as if time had stilled. Like you were breathing underwater and dancing on the moon. It felt like anything was possible. Like you were flying.
You were drunk on his sex, veins itching and burning with the need to cum.
Sweat poured off of the both of you, both flush-faced and moaning.
His hips snapped against yours, the sound of slapping of skin and squelching juices filling the room.
Your eyes were unfocused. You felt high. It was too hard to think straight when he was inside you. It was impossible to do anything but let go and allow him to take over. And it felt so fucking good with him.
Your core tightened to the point of flames as his hips stuttered and rolled one last time into you before you were both heaving and shuddering through your orgasms, clinging onto each other for dear life, sharing warm breath.
You both collapsed back into his bed, a mess of limbs and sweat. You had hardly caught him speaking through the pleasure flowing through you. “I’ve been waiting a long time to do that.” It was the truth, you realised. That you had both been yearning for each other. You had both needed each other.
Leaning against his neck, you sucked a large, noticeable hickey. You branded him. You weren’t above claiming what was yours. “So have I.”
The last thing you remembered before falling asleep was his satisfied, catlike purr and a kiss against the identical spot on your neck where you had marked him.
***
The next morning, the two of you wandered into the main hall together.
It was almost as if there was a fresh glow to your body. The way you moved, the way you talked, the homely sigh you let out, your newfound energy. It was like you had been born again last night.
Maybe you had.
“You look well,” Vesemir pointed out, a pointed look between you and Geralt.
You hummed in agreement, warm smile on your face as you accepted a bowl of stew another Witcher offered. “Thank you.”
Lambert sat down across from you. “Will you finally be able to train properly tonight, then? No more distractions?”
You raised an eyebrow in confusion.
Lambert pointed to your neck, in which you realised Geralt had left hickeys covering every inch. It seemed he too liked to claim what was his.
Geralt sat beside you, lazily tracing shapes onto your back as you contentedly rest your head on his shoulder, soaking in the rise of the morning sun through the high windows decorating the hall.
“No promises, Lambert.”
It turns out, sharing a room with the Witcher was not a downside at all.