Witcher fic: The Witcher and the Widow, chapter 8
Sex and violence! Possibility of triggers in this one.
Full story is here on ff.net or here on AO3.
Dorian was an unremarkable, uninspiring town; valuable mainly because of its position. From Dorian, you could travel west to the coast; north to Redania and the Academy, Novigrad and Tretogor; or east to Vizima and the lands beyond. South was... well, no one went southwards much any more. Quite apart from the massive, brooding bulk of the Brokilon Forest lying menacingly dormant to the south, to the south was also the massively brooding bulk of the Nilfgaardian Empire, also menacingly dormant. For now.
We lingered in Dorian for a few days, then a few days more; until over a week had passed and we were still there. We were resting, I told myself, though really I wanted to drag out my time with Geralt for as long as I possibly could. Dorian obliged me by being a convenient stopping point. Our lodgings at the inn became familiar - overly so, and yet I didn't want to leave. I took the opportunity to wash and mend all our clothes, enjoying the resultant spectacle of a naked Geralt lounging nonchalantly on the bed, and being flustered as he did the same to me. I trimmed and mended my torn dress. The hem now reached to my knees and the bodice was daringly low, but it was wearable, and not appreciably worse in style than what I saw some of the women of the town wearing, though I'd probably want to wear a shawl if I went out wearing it.
Geralt was constantly in search of a contract to replenish our - his - rapidly depleting coin. Frequently he'd leave, and every so often he'd return with a small handful of coin for some petty job he'd completed - a fleder in a cellar, a drowner in a well, a wraith haunting an estate. Slowly he accumulated it, his face twisting as he contemplated the slack bulge of his coin pouch. I frequently felt that I was holding him back and was consumed by guilt. I tried to make it up to him in other, womanly ways. If he picked up on that he did not say.
I left the room but rarely, preferring to watch the streets from a perch on the windowsill as I sewed, observing people scurrying about self-importantly like so many ants on an anthill. The mood, even as gathered from above, was grim. The few times I ventured out to the streets, always by myself, I found the townsfolk suspicious and distrustful. War and the threat of war were abundant topics of discussion - war with Nilfgaard, war with the Scoia'tael. Civil war. Rebellions. Famine. Poverty. Disease. I found the subjects depressing and ignored them as much as possible. I strove to put them out of my mind. Unwisely as it turned out.
Geralt grew more frustrated with the town as the days passed and turned surly. Well, surlier. He tried on two separate occasions to get me to agree to leave - once over dinner in the inn, and once while I was washing the blood out of his shirt. Both times I demurred, putting him off; distracting him with words or food or myself until he gave up on the discussion.
Seven days after we arrived, Geralt had had enough. I was sewing at my usual seat at the window, looking out at the morning drizzle, when he came in and closed the door firmly behind him. He'd been out scouring the market for work, again, and his hair was still sprinkled with tiny raindrops that shimmered silver in the lantern's light.
I looked up at him and smiled, my heart clenching at the sight of him as it always did.
He unbuckled his harness and laid it down on the bench beside the door, stifling the metallic chime of his sword hilts striking the wood, then very slowly and deliberately removed his gauntlets, pulling them off finger by finger and then laying them down too. He looked at me, eyes flashing golden in the gloom, and the corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. He unfastened his belt, pulling the supple leather through the loose knot securing it and releasing it from the prong of the buckle. He dropped the belt onto the table next to the gauntlets without looking, and reached up to the throat of his leather jerkin.
My mouth went dry and my heart started pounding, a rhythmic thudding that reverberated through me. As if he could hear, the other corner of Geralt's lips turned up as well, and he unfastened the clasps of his jerkin one by one, nimble fingers moving dexterously of their own accord while his eyes remained fixed on mine.
Geralt shrugged out of the jerkin and slung it over the room's sole chair, then settled in it lightly and bent down to remove his boots. One by one they slithered off and landed with a heavy thump on the floor, leaving him barefoot in breeches and his simple linen shirt. With a swift move he reached up and pulled the shirt over his head, dropping it carelessly to the side, and then he stood up and stretched. His breeches hung low on his slim hips without the presence of a belt to secure them, and as I watched they slipped down even further, revealing the point of a hip bone and a delicious ridge of muscle that disappeared beneath the waistband.
I felt a sudden sharp pain in the pad of my forefinger and gasped. I looked down to realise I'd accidentally driven the needle into my tender flesh. A ruby droplet of blood welled up as I pulled it out, hissing, and it trembled roundly, on the verge of falling onto the very clothes I was mending.
All of a sudden my injured hand was captured in Geralt's warm, firm grip and I started in surprise. I'd not heard him move across the floor, creaky as it was. Still with that sensual smirk in place, he brought my hand up to his mouth. His eyes captured mine as slowly, deliberately, his tongue swiped across the tiny wound, gathering up the bead of blood. He swallowed. The pounding of my heart stuttered almost painfully and his smirk deepened.
His tongue gently played over the pad of my finger, soothing the sting of the pinprick, and then he swirled it over and around, blazing a wet trail over the nail and back to the soft skin underneath. I gasped involuntarily and my breathing quickened, as did my heart rate. As I watched his pupils widened, dilating; and then his grip on my hand shifted slightly, drawing me further in.
His lips parted and then he was gently suckling on the end of my finger, scraping it over his teeth while his tongue caressed the tip. His mouth was hot and wet, reminding me of how dry my own was, and I swallowed convulsively. Slowly his suction on my finger hardened and he drew it further into his mouth, tongue flexing strongly against the underside. It seemed an age before my finger was fully engulfed and his lips were wrapped around the base, his breath warm and potent on the back of my hand.
I heard an odd, strangled noise, but it wasn't until Geralt's eyes laughed at me that I realised it had come from my own throat - a groan of desire and longing, husky and deep, totally unlike my usual voice. I blushed and closed my eyes in embarrassment. Geralt suckled again, then slowly withdrew, leaving my finger oddly chill in his wake, and I groaned again in regret.
"Lynnéa," he murmured, and I opened my eyes again. He was staring at me, pupils wide and depthless, and I fell headlong into them all over again.
Geralt tugged at my hand, gently but insistently, and I obeyed, putting aside my mending and getting to my feet. I swayed towards him ever so slightly, drunk on his presence and scent, on the remembered feel of his mouth on me. Smirk still firmly in place, he tugged again and I swayed into him, my hand on his chest, and closed my eyes as his lips descended to mine.
His kiss burned through me, hot and needy, and I tasted the metallic remnants of my blood on his tongue: a tiny, potent zest. My whimper was stifled by his mouth as we kissed, and I clutched at him as my legs trembled. Geralt threaded his fingers through my hair, releasing it from its usual knot, and pulling on it. My neck bowed back and his mouth left mind to sear a path down my neck. I whimpered again as he nipped at the skin over my jugular and my breathing grew even more erratic. My nails dug into his chest and he grunted approvingly.
He suckled on the nipped spot while his hand slid up underneath my shirt to knead insistently at my breast, thumb pressing over my already hardened nipple. My breath caught as he pinched, gently at first, but then firmly; and my back arched, pressing him harder against me.
My fingers roamed from his chest to his stomach, skimming over the skin and tracing that tantalising ridge of muscle down to the waistband of his breeches. His stance widened as I lightly scraped my nails back up to the start of his breastbone, and then around to his back.
Geralt's hips butted against mine insistently, and then his fingers descended to my trousers, leaving my nipple aching. He undid the buttons with a flick and pushed them down, until they puddled on the floor at my feet. I stepped out of them, nudging them aside. The hand tangled in my hair tugged unrelentingly again, and my neck bent back even further, until I was staring at the ceiling and clutching at Geralt for balance.
His mouth left my neck and moved to my ear, where he suckled on the lobe, his breath hot and moist against me. His other hand slid down over the curve of my hips to the top of my thighs and then snaked upwards to the junction between them, his fingers delving into me suddenly, and I gasped.
I was aching and more than ready for him, and he rumbled approvingly in my ear as he felt that hot readiness on his fingers. I expected him to take us over to the bed, but he did not move; merely stayed where he was, holding me firmly to him, his arm as strong and steady as a rock behind me. I relaxed, became pliant in his arms, trusting him to support me.
As if this were a signal Geralt began his assault on my sensitive flesh, fingers stroking and pressing against me. My whimpers deepened into moans, full voiced and throaty. I became aware of his voice, low and deep in my ear, urging me on wordlessly.
I shuddered as he slipped two fingers deep into me, his thumb rubbing over my nub. My hips moved in time as he thrust them. "Yes," he hissed in my ear, "yes;" and I bit my lip as the room sparkled around me.
His pace quickened and I felt my release building. His tongue traced the curl of my ear, warm and wet and delicious, and I shuddered again.
"Lynnéa," he whispered as he stroked, "we need to leave Dorian." He nipped hard on my ear lobe and I groaned animalistically. "We need to go." His thumb circled my nub. "No more delays." He pressed and my breath caught. "Tell me we'll go." His tongue flicked into my ear. "Tell me, Lynnéa." His fingers curled, crooking within me and hitting some unknown magical spot, releasing a torrent of ecstasy that burst from me explosively.
"Yes!" I screamed as I came. "Yes, yes, yes!" Caring only for the feel of him around me, within me, his approval in my ear, his passion beside mine.
I collapsed in his arms, quivering and trembling in the aftermath of my release, panting harshly. He was cradling me when I recovered and I looked at him reproachfully. He was unrepentant.
"You cheated," I croaked, my mouth dry and parched, and he grinned.
"Yes."
I grumbled unconvincingly and he laughed, a low chuckle.
My limbs shook and he scooped me up effortlessly. I buried my face in his chest. "Cheat," I muttered again, inventively. "You know I can't refuse you anything when your hands are on me."
His chuckle reverberated through his chest and into mine. "I know," he said.
He placed me down on the bed and then lay beside me on his side, head propped up on his hand while the other moved from my shoulder to my hip in long slow strokes. The smirk was still fixed on his face, and his pupils were still dilated. Insufferable man.
He shifted closer and I felt the hard butt of his arousal against me. "You can't put things off forever," he said reasonably. His hand slipped over my backside and down the back of my thigh, pulling it up over his hip. "Running away never works." He skimmed back up to my stomach, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind, and worked at the buttons of my shirt, opening them one by one. "I don't know why you persist in doing it." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my abdomen, working up to the underside of my breast. "You know it's pointless."
I grasped his head in my hands, threading my fingers through his silver hair.
"Geralt."
"Mmm?"
"Shut up and take off your pants."
"As m'lady commands."
When I woke next it was early afternoon, and the sun had emerged from behind the clouds to shine golden through the window, gilding our skin where we lay entangled on the bed. Geralt was still fast asleep, his breathing deep and regular, face smooth and unlined; and I brushed his hair back gently before gingerly sliding out from underneath him.
Standing up, I stretched, smiling, and fetched a cloth and the ewer of water to wipe myself down with. Then I put on my dress and tied my hair back. If we were to be leaving we'd need provisions, something to hold us for a few days at the very least, preferably a week, but I doubted our meagre funds would hold up to that. I gathered up Geralt's coin pouch, since I had no coins of my own, and slipped out of the room, closing the door carefully behind me.
Downstairs the inn was relatively quiet, the stench of stale alcohol and unwashed bodies not yet overwhelming. I nodded to the innkeeper as I passed and he grunted.
Outside the air was damp and clean after the morning's rain. I breathed it in deeply, already looking forward to being out on the road again with Geralt, out in the fresh air and sunlight every day, with the crackle of a fire at night. I went down the tavern's steps and made my way through the town to the market.
The market bustled, hawkers calling their wares, goodwives gaggling like geese, and children dodging madly down the ways. Guards patrolled in pairs, filching an apple here and a pinch or a kiss there, and I sniffed. It never changed.
I prowled the stalls, looking for foods that were long lasting, but more importantly, cheap.
A group of serving girls had gathered, giggling outside the door to a residence, smooth dark heads leaning close in together as they whispered conspiratorially. I smoothed my own locks back self-consciously as I passed, then halted as I heard one say "witcher".
I fiddled with my dress, brushing non-existent stains from the skirt, and strained my ears, listening.
"Oh, yes," said one. "He's staying in the tavern. I've seen him. He's ever so handsome."
There was a chorus of sighs.
"I hear he's staying with a sorceress," another added confidentially.
"Oooh!" said the chorus.
"I wonder if the rumours about witchers are true... they say they can plough all night and still leave you wanting..."
Stifling a smile, I moved on.
I reluctantly parted with several precious orens at a baker's to buy a few loaves of a dark rye bread, rich and thick and tasty, and then moved to the next stall where the keeper was selling various types of cheeses. I found a half wheel of a dark yellow cheese, wrapped in muslin, battered and bruised. I picked the cheese up and sniffed. No whiff of spoil. I shrugged and haggled with the keeper, paying slightly less than I'd anticipated.
A few stalls further down I found vegetables and fruit, fresh and dried, and bought a small bagful. The stall next to that had honey, and I crowed under my breath as I haggled for a small pot, already imagining making griddle cakes on the fire at night time.
By the time I'd finished my shopping I had a heavy bag on my back and the sun was sinking behind the walls, drenching the square in deepening shadows. The stall keepers were packing up their wares, the market goers had trickled away with the setting sun, and the square was all but deserted. I counted the remaining coins, feeling satisfied over my bargaining, and started to head back to the inn.
Ticking off coins and days in my head, I was paying less attention to the street than I should, and consequently was taken completely by surprise when a hand snaked out of nowhere and grasped me by the upper arm. Hard fingers bit into my flesh painfully and I winced and looked up. My heart sank. A group of four louts had surrounded me unawares, dirty and slovenly and horrible, grinning at me menacingly.
"Well well, lads," sneered the largest of them, a hulking brute with a large belly and scraggly beard. "Lookee what we got here. Looks like this lovely lady is needing our help to get home safely."
The 'lads' chuckled, licking their lips and rubbing their hands together lasciviously. I drew myself up, my eyes darting about, wondering whether I would be able to break free if I threw the food at them and ran for it.
"What do you say, lads," said the brute. "'Ow about we give the lady a hand, then. I'm sure she'd be most... grateful." He stared at my cleavage appreciatively and I cursed my stupidity at wearing the dress.
I forced myself to smile up at him winningly, my mind working furiously. "Well, sir," I said slowly, "I thank you for your concern, but truly there's no need. I only live nearby."
"'Sat so," leered the brute. "Well then, not far to go. If we help you, of course."
Of course, I thought sarcastically, and hefted the bag on my back, measuring its weight.
He stepped forward, licking his thick lips. "Now then lady, don't be discourteous like. 'Ow about you just step over 'ere then, and we'll 'ave a bit o' fun and be on our way, then."
I stiffened. "Thank you, but no. I must be off."
His heavy brow lowered. "No? No? D'you hear that lads? The lady says no. How could she possibly turn us down?"
The lads crowded in behind me and I felt a hard, daring pinch to my buttocks. "Ow!" I yelled, and whirled around, slapping at the offending hand. They fell back laughing, fending me off easily with upraised hands. The one to the left reached out and grabbed my right breast with a dirty hand, squeezing painfully. Tears sprang to my eyes and I dropped my bag of supplies to attempt to pull it off.
They moved in closer, their breathing hoarse, the stench of their dirty bodies and thick breaths rolling over me like a winter fog. I slapped at them, starting to panic, but they only laughed and pressed in. My hand connected with a chin, and the mood quickly shifted to ugly. Their leering faces pushed in, angry now. One of them slapped me across the cheek, making my ears ring. Another hand pinched my breast, twisting cruelly. I felt fingers down my back, and then the brute pushed in behind me, the hard jut of his erection grinding into my back. He grabbed at my flailing arms and pinned them before me, fingers clamping painfully around my wrists.
"Now then, lady," he growled in my ear as I panted, wriggling futilely, my eyes rolling in fear, "don't be ungrateful, we just want a bit o' fun."
I turned my face away from his fetid breath, the tears starting to run down my cheeks. "No, please..." I whimpered.
He laughed. "See, lads, she's beggin' for it now!" The lads all laughed with him, and my tears continued to flow.
He wrenched on my arms painfully, sliding one hand up to my breasts and groping, then nodded to his lads. "Grab that bag, and into the alley, quick now." Reefing on my arms, he dragged me backwards into the shadowy darkness of the alleyway behind us. I looked around wildly, seeing no one, not even the incompetent guard, and I started to despair.
Laughing amongst themselves, the three louts picked up my bag of supplies and followed us.
I blinked in the darkness of the alley, blinded and afraid, and bit on my lip, trying not to scream. It seemed the very fate I had tried to avoid before I met Geralt had now caught up to me. My head rang with the remembered blow from the baker back in my hut, making me dizzy and weak, and I felt panic bubbling up inside me. I had no Geralt to save me now. I was alone, and about to be raped.
The brute behind me thrust his hand up under my skirt between my legs, his thick fingers biting into the delicate flesh there, making me cry out in pain. He probed for a bit, while I bit my lip and wished him away.
"Oh yeah," he grunted, "this 'un will be a good fuck." He pushed me into the wall face first, hard, fumbling with his trousers with his other hand. My forehead connected with the wall with a sharp crack and I reeled, dazed. Caught up in my memories, I whimpered and cowered against the rough bricks, screwing my eyes shut tight and fervently praying to Melitele to make it stop.
And the goddess heard me.
A harsh throat cleared itself behind me and the louts ceased their anticipatory mutterings.
"Leave the lady be."
The hand between my legs stilled and then withdrew, and I huddled into myself, sliding down to collapse at the base of the wall.
"Now then, sir," said the brute ingratiatingly, "we was just having a bit o' fun. No harm done."
"Mmhmm," said Geralt. "Seems that way."
I looked up. He was standing in the mouth of the alleyway, arms crossed over his chest. His hair glinted like bone in the dark and his eyes glowed yellow and feral. A shiver went down my spine.
The brute seized Geralt up and even as I watched I fancied I could see his loutish thoughts churning. Just one man, his expression said. One of him, and four of us. Even with swords, we can take him.He bared his teeth. "At him, boys!" he yelled, springing forwards.
The louts circled around, surrounding Geralt, and he lifted his larger sword from its scabbard, holding it easily in both hands. The brute had picked up a large cudgel from somewhere and he swung it menacingly, face contorted in rage. Geralt's expression never varied, only his eyes moved, flickering from one opponent to the next.
The first lout rushed in, club in hand, and it whistled as he swung it through the air at Geralt. Geralt spun deftly out of his way, his sword streaking silver through the darkness, and it hissed as it parted clothing and flesh. The scent of blood rose in the air and the lout grunted loudly. Then the rest were upon him.
Geralt moved in a blur, the sword an extension of his hands as he twirled between his adversaries. The brute moved in and swung a heavy overhand blow at Geralt's head. Geralt parried it, his sword ringing against the thick cudgel, and metal screeched as he slid the blade down before spinning away to strike from the rear.
The brute yelled as Geralt's sword bit into his back and staggered forward, knocking one of his lads to the side. Geralt sprang into this opening and thrust his blade into the lout's belly deeply, ripping upwards through his abdomen and chest cavity. The reek of entrails joined the stench of blood in the air and I retched weakly, my eyes fixed to the carnage.
Shaking his blade, Geralt dropped the body to the ground and spun to the left. The lad there held a rusty old sword, pitted and worn with age and ill use. He held it up in a weak parrying gesture, only to have it torn aside by the strength of Geralt's blow. He staggered backwards and Geralt kicked him in the knee, making him stumble and fall forwards. Geralt leapt over him, blade reversed, and thrust it into the back of his neck. He gurgled obscenely and collapsed.
The brute yelled again in anger and swung his cudgel powerfully, striking Geralt a glancing blow to the side. He rolled with the blow, springing back to his feet a few paces beyond the brute's reach, and then whirled back into the fray.
The last lad swung his club clumsily at Geralt, who almost contemptuously flicked it aside and ran him through. His sword erupted from the lout's back in a spray of blood and he kicked the body back to fall in a heap at the brute's feet, then looked up at him and grinned evilly.
The brute rushed forward with his cudgel raised, swinging it heavily at Geralt's head. Geralt danced to the side, flicking his sword up and across the brute's thighs. The brute cried out and staggered back, blood spurting out into the air. He shifted his grip on the cudgel and lumbered forward again, snaking it down towards Geralt's back.
Geralt swayed to the side, letting it whistle harmlessly past him, and then spun around, his blade sparkling in the darkness. It bit deep into the brute's side and he staggered back, dropping the cudgel as he held the wound. Geralt walked up to the brute and spun him around, grasping him by the hair and exposing his neck. He brought his sword up and drew it deeply across the brute's throat, slicing effortlessly into flesh and tendons and nearly severing the spine. Blood spurted in a red shower and he dropped the limp body to the ground, then looked over at me.
I looked back up at him from my huddle, my eyes wide and tears tracing down my cheeks. It had all happened so fast... barely a minute had gone past. All that death... and the night had barely deepened. I blinked.
Geralt straightened and flicked the blood from his blade before sliding it home on his back again. It made a steely slither as it slid back into place and I shivered. He bent down and quickly searched each of the bodies, pocketing whatever coin they had on them.
He walked over to me and knelt beside me. "Lynnéa." He looked me over, reaching out with a gentle hand to hold my chin and study my face. His lips tightened as his fingers tenderly brushed over my swollen cheek and forehead. "Come on, let's go."
He helped me to my feet as I sniffed and wiped my nose on my hem, waiting patiently as I steadied myself and straightened my dress. He put his arm around me and we started moving.
I stopped by my fallen bag of provisions and picked it up slowly. It felt ten times as heavy now as what it was before and I groaned under my breath. Geralt halted me, taking the bag out of my hands, and slung it over his shoulder, carefully avoiding his sword hilts. He led me from the alleyway back out into the square, his eyes hard as agates in the darkness, scanning constantly. I leant gratefully into him, swearing fervently under my breath.
Thank you, Melitele. Thank you.
Pettishly, I kicked the brute right in the stones as I went past. Hard. Then slowly, we set off back to our room in the inn.
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Full story is here on ff.net or here on AO3.
Dorian was an unremarkable, uninspiring town; valuable mainly because of its position. From Dorian, you could travel west to the coast; north to Redania and the Academy, Novigrad and Tretogor; or east to Vizima and the lands beyond. South was... well, no one went southwards much any more. Quite apart from the massive, brooding bulk of the Brokilon Forest lying menacingly dormant to the south, to the south was also the massively brooding bulk of the Nilfgaardian Empire, also menacingly dormant. For now.
We lingered in Dorian for a few days, then a few days more; until over a week had passed and we were still there. We were resting, I told myself, though really I wanted to drag out my time with Geralt for as long as I possibly could. Dorian obliged me by being a convenient stopping point. Our lodgings at the inn became familiar - overly so, and yet I didn't want to leave. I took the opportunity to wash and mend all our clothes, enjoying the resultant spectacle of a naked Geralt lounging nonchalantly on the bed, and being flustered as he did the same to me. I trimmed and mended my torn dress. The hem now reached to my knees and the bodice was daringly low, but it was wearable, and not appreciably worse in style than what I saw some of the women of the town wearing, though I'd probably want to wear a shawl if I went out wearing it.
Geralt was constantly in search of a contract to replenish our - his - rapidly depleting coin. Frequently he'd leave, and every so often he'd return with a small handful of coin for some petty job he'd completed - a fleder in a cellar, a drowner in a well, a wraith haunting an estate. Slowly he accumulated it, his face twisting as he contemplated the slack bulge of his coin pouch. I frequently felt that I was holding him back and was consumed by guilt. I tried to make it up to him in other, womanly ways. If he picked up on that he did not say.
I left the room but rarely, preferring to watch the streets from a perch on the windowsill as I sewed, observing people scurrying about self-importantly like so many ants on an anthill. The mood, even as gathered from above, was grim. The few times I ventured out to the streets, always by myself, I found the townsfolk suspicious and distrustful. War and the threat of war were abundant topics of discussion - war with Nilfgaard, war with the Scoia'tael. Civil war. Rebellions. Famine. Poverty. Disease. I found the subjects depressing and ignored them as much as possible. I strove to put them out of my mind. Unwisely as it turned out.
Geralt grew more frustrated with the town as the days passed and turned surly. Well, surlier. He tried on two separate occasions to get me to agree to leave - once over dinner in the inn, and once while I was washing the blood out of his shirt. Both times I demurred, putting him off; distracting him with words or food or myself until he gave up on the discussion.
Seven days after we arrived, Geralt had had enough. I was sewing at my usual seat at the window, looking out at the morning drizzle, when he came in and closed the door firmly behind him. He'd been out scouring the market for work, again, and his hair was still sprinkled with tiny raindrops that shimmered silver in the lantern's light.
I looked up at him and smiled, my heart clenching at the sight of him as it always did.
He unbuckled his harness and laid it down on the bench beside the door, stifling the metallic chime of his sword hilts striking the wood, then very slowly and deliberately removed his gauntlets, pulling them off finger by finger and then laying them down too. He looked at me, eyes flashing golden in the gloom, and the corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. He unfastened his belt, pulling the supple leather through the loose knot securing it and releasing it from the prong of the buckle. He dropped the belt onto the table next to the gauntlets without looking, and reached up to the throat of his leather jerkin.
My mouth went dry and my heart started pounding, a rhythmic thudding that reverberated through me. As if he could hear, the other corner of Geralt's lips turned up as well, and he unfastened the clasps of his jerkin one by one, nimble fingers moving dexterously of their own accord while his eyes remained fixed on mine.
Geralt shrugged out of the jerkin and slung it over the room's sole chair, then settled in it lightly and bent down to remove his boots. One by one they slithered off and landed with a heavy thump on the floor, leaving him barefoot in breeches and his simple linen shirt. With a swift move he reached up and pulled the shirt over his head, dropping it carelessly to the side, and then he stood up and stretched. His breeches hung low on his slim hips without the presence of a belt to secure them, and as I watched they slipped down even further, revealing the point of a hip bone and a delicious ridge of muscle that disappeared beneath the waistband.
I felt a sudden sharp pain in the pad of my forefinger and gasped. I looked down to realise I'd accidentally driven the needle into my tender flesh. A ruby droplet of blood welled up as I pulled it out, hissing, and it trembled roundly, on the verge of falling onto the very clothes I was mending.
All of a sudden my injured hand was captured in Geralt's warm, firm grip and I started in surprise. I'd not heard him move across the floor, creaky as it was. Still with that sensual smirk in place, he brought my hand up to his mouth. His eyes captured mine as slowly, deliberately, his tongue swiped across the tiny wound, gathering up the bead of blood. He swallowed. The pounding of my heart stuttered almost painfully and his smirk deepened.
His tongue gently played over the pad of my finger, soothing the sting of the pinprick, and then he swirled it over and around, blazing a wet trail over the nail and back to the soft skin underneath. I gasped involuntarily and my breathing quickened, as did my heart rate. As I watched his pupils widened, dilating; and then his grip on my hand shifted slightly, drawing me further in.
His lips parted and then he was gently suckling on the end of my finger, scraping it over his teeth while his tongue caressed the tip. His mouth was hot and wet, reminding me of how dry my own was, and I swallowed convulsively. Slowly his suction on my finger hardened and he drew it further into his mouth, tongue flexing strongly against the underside. It seemed an age before my finger was fully engulfed and his lips were wrapped around the base, his breath warm and potent on the back of my hand.
I heard an odd, strangled noise, but it wasn't until Geralt's eyes laughed at me that I realised it had come from my own throat - a groan of desire and longing, husky and deep, totally unlike my usual voice. I blushed and closed my eyes in embarrassment. Geralt suckled again, then slowly withdrew, leaving my finger oddly chill in his wake, and I groaned again in regret.
"Lynnéa," he murmured, and I opened my eyes again. He was staring at me, pupils wide and depthless, and I fell headlong into them all over again.
Geralt tugged at my hand, gently but insistently, and I obeyed, putting aside my mending and getting to my feet. I swayed towards him ever so slightly, drunk on his presence and scent, on the remembered feel of his mouth on me. Smirk still firmly in place, he tugged again and I swayed into him, my hand on his chest, and closed my eyes as his lips descended to mine.
His kiss burned through me, hot and needy, and I tasted the metallic remnants of my blood on his tongue: a tiny, potent zest. My whimper was stifled by his mouth as we kissed, and I clutched at him as my legs trembled. Geralt threaded his fingers through my hair, releasing it from its usual knot, and pulling on it. My neck bowed back and his mouth left mind to sear a path down my neck. I whimpered again as he nipped at the skin over my jugular and my breathing grew even more erratic. My nails dug into his chest and he grunted approvingly.
He suckled on the nipped spot while his hand slid up underneath my shirt to knead insistently at my breast, thumb pressing over my already hardened nipple. My breath caught as he pinched, gently at first, but then firmly; and my back arched, pressing him harder against me.
My fingers roamed from his chest to his stomach, skimming over the skin and tracing that tantalising ridge of muscle down to the waistband of his breeches. His stance widened as I lightly scraped my nails back up to the start of his breastbone, and then around to his back.
Geralt's hips butted against mine insistently, and then his fingers descended to my trousers, leaving my nipple aching. He undid the buttons with a flick and pushed them down, until they puddled on the floor at my feet. I stepped out of them, nudging them aside. The hand tangled in my hair tugged unrelentingly again, and my neck bent back even further, until I was staring at the ceiling and clutching at Geralt for balance.
His mouth left my neck and moved to my ear, where he suckled on the lobe, his breath hot and moist against me. His other hand slid down over the curve of my hips to the top of my thighs and then snaked upwards to the junction between them, his fingers delving into me suddenly, and I gasped.
I was aching and more than ready for him, and he rumbled approvingly in my ear as he felt that hot readiness on his fingers. I expected him to take us over to the bed, but he did not move; merely stayed where he was, holding me firmly to him, his arm as strong and steady as a rock behind me. I relaxed, became pliant in his arms, trusting him to support me.
As if this were a signal Geralt began his assault on my sensitive flesh, fingers stroking and pressing against me. My whimpers deepened into moans, full voiced and throaty. I became aware of his voice, low and deep in my ear, urging me on wordlessly.
I shuddered as he slipped two fingers deep into me, his thumb rubbing over my nub. My hips moved in time as he thrust them. "Yes," he hissed in my ear, "yes;" and I bit my lip as the room sparkled around me.
His pace quickened and I felt my release building. His tongue traced the curl of my ear, warm and wet and delicious, and I shuddered again.
"Lynnéa," he whispered as he stroked, "we need to leave Dorian." He nipped hard on my ear lobe and I groaned animalistically. "We need to go." His thumb circled my nub. "No more delays." He pressed and my breath caught. "Tell me we'll go." His tongue flicked into my ear. "Tell me, Lynnéa." His fingers curled, crooking within me and hitting some unknown magical spot, releasing a torrent of ecstasy that burst from me explosively.
"Yes!" I screamed as I came. "Yes, yes, yes!" Caring only for the feel of him around me, within me, his approval in my ear, his passion beside mine.
I collapsed in his arms, quivering and trembling in the aftermath of my release, panting harshly. He was cradling me when I recovered and I looked at him reproachfully. He was unrepentant.
"You cheated," I croaked, my mouth dry and parched, and he grinned.
"Yes."
I grumbled unconvincingly and he laughed, a low chuckle.
My limbs shook and he scooped me up effortlessly. I buried my face in his chest. "Cheat," I muttered again, inventively. "You know I can't refuse you anything when your hands are on me."
His chuckle reverberated through his chest and into mine. "I know," he said.
He placed me down on the bed and then lay beside me on his side, head propped up on his hand while the other moved from my shoulder to my hip in long slow strokes. The smirk was still fixed on his face, and his pupils were still dilated. Insufferable man.
He shifted closer and I felt the hard butt of his arousal against me. "You can't put things off forever," he said reasonably. His hand slipped over my backside and down the back of my thigh, pulling it up over his hip. "Running away never works." He skimmed back up to my stomach, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind, and worked at the buttons of my shirt, opening them one by one. "I don't know why you persist in doing it." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my abdomen, working up to the underside of my breast. "You know it's pointless."
I grasped his head in my hands, threading my fingers through his silver hair.
"Geralt."
"Mmm?"
"Shut up and take off your pants."
"As m'lady commands."
When I woke next it was early afternoon, and the sun had emerged from behind the clouds to shine golden through the window, gilding our skin where we lay entangled on the bed. Geralt was still fast asleep, his breathing deep and regular, face smooth and unlined; and I brushed his hair back gently before gingerly sliding out from underneath him.
Standing up, I stretched, smiling, and fetched a cloth and the ewer of water to wipe myself down with. Then I put on my dress and tied my hair back. If we were to be leaving we'd need provisions, something to hold us for a few days at the very least, preferably a week, but I doubted our meagre funds would hold up to that. I gathered up Geralt's coin pouch, since I had no coins of my own, and slipped out of the room, closing the door carefully behind me.
Downstairs the inn was relatively quiet, the stench of stale alcohol and unwashed bodies not yet overwhelming. I nodded to the innkeeper as I passed and he grunted.
Outside the air was damp and clean after the morning's rain. I breathed it in deeply, already looking forward to being out on the road again with Geralt, out in the fresh air and sunlight every day, with the crackle of a fire at night. I went down the tavern's steps and made my way through the town to the market.
The market bustled, hawkers calling their wares, goodwives gaggling like geese, and children dodging madly down the ways. Guards patrolled in pairs, filching an apple here and a pinch or a kiss there, and I sniffed. It never changed.
I prowled the stalls, looking for foods that were long lasting, but more importantly, cheap.
A group of serving girls had gathered, giggling outside the door to a residence, smooth dark heads leaning close in together as they whispered conspiratorially. I smoothed my own locks back self-consciously as I passed, then halted as I heard one say "witcher".
I fiddled with my dress, brushing non-existent stains from the skirt, and strained my ears, listening.
"Oh, yes," said one. "He's staying in the tavern. I've seen him. He's ever so handsome."
There was a chorus of sighs.
"I hear he's staying with a sorceress," another added confidentially.
"Oooh!" said the chorus.
"I wonder if the rumours about witchers are true... they say they can plough all night and still leave you wanting..."
Stifling a smile, I moved on.
I reluctantly parted with several precious orens at a baker's to buy a few loaves of a dark rye bread, rich and thick and tasty, and then moved to the next stall where the keeper was selling various types of cheeses. I found a half wheel of a dark yellow cheese, wrapped in muslin, battered and bruised. I picked the cheese up and sniffed. No whiff of spoil. I shrugged and haggled with the keeper, paying slightly less than I'd anticipated.
A few stalls further down I found vegetables and fruit, fresh and dried, and bought a small bagful. The stall next to that had honey, and I crowed under my breath as I haggled for a small pot, already imagining making griddle cakes on the fire at night time.
By the time I'd finished my shopping I had a heavy bag on my back and the sun was sinking behind the walls, drenching the square in deepening shadows. The stall keepers were packing up their wares, the market goers had trickled away with the setting sun, and the square was all but deserted. I counted the remaining coins, feeling satisfied over my bargaining, and started to head back to the inn.
Ticking off coins and days in my head, I was paying less attention to the street than I should, and consequently was taken completely by surprise when a hand snaked out of nowhere and grasped me by the upper arm. Hard fingers bit into my flesh painfully and I winced and looked up. My heart sank. A group of four louts had surrounded me unawares, dirty and slovenly and horrible, grinning at me menacingly.
"Well well, lads," sneered the largest of them, a hulking brute with a large belly and scraggly beard. "Lookee what we got here. Looks like this lovely lady is needing our help to get home safely."
The 'lads' chuckled, licking their lips and rubbing their hands together lasciviously. I drew myself up, my eyes darting about, wondering whether I would be able to break free if I threw the food at them and ran for it.
"What do you say, lads," said the brute. "'Ow about we give the lady a hand, then. I'm sure she'd be most... grateful." He stared at my cleavage appreciatively and I cursed my stupidity at wearing the dress.
I forced myself to smile up at him winningly, my mind working furiously. "Well, sir," I said slowly, "I thank you for your concern, but truly there's no need. I only live nearby."
"'Sat so," leered the brute. "Well then, not far to go. If we help you, of course."
Of course, I thought sarcastically, and hefted the bag on my back, measuring its weight.
He stepped forward, licking his thick lips. "Now then lady, don't be discourteous like. 'Ow about you just step over 'ere then, and we'll 'ave a bit o' fun and be on our way, then."
I stiffened. "Thank you, but no. I must be off."
His heavy brow lowered. "No? No? D'you hear that lads? The lady says no. How could she possibly turn us down?"
The lads crowded in behind me and I felt a hard, daring pinch to my buttocks. "Ow!" I yelled, and whirled around, slapping at the offending hand. They fell back laughing, fending me off easily with upraised hands. The one to the left reached out and grabbed my right breast with a dirty hand, squeezing painfully. Tears sprang to my eyes and I dropped my bag of supplies to attempt to pull it off.
They moved in closer, their breathing hoarse, the stench of their dirty bodies and thick breaths rolling over me like a winter fog. I slapped at them, starting to panic, but they only laughed and pressed in. My hand connected with a chin, and the mood quickly shifted to ugly. Their leering faces pushed in, angry now. One of them slapped me across the cheek, making my ears ring. Another hand pinched my breast, twisting cruelly. I felt fingers down my back, and then the brute pushed in behind me, the hard jut of his erection grinding into my back. He grabbed at my flailing arms and pinned them before me, fingers clamping painfully around my wrists.
"Now then, lady," he growled in my ear as I panted, wriggling futilely, my eyes rolling in fear, "don't be ungrateful, we just want a bit o' fun."
I turned my face away from his fetid breath, the tears starting to run down my cheeks. "No, please..." I whimpered.
He laughed. "See, lads, she's beggin' for it now!" The lads all laughed with him, and my tears continued to flow.
He wrenched on my arms painfully, sliding one hand up to my breasts and groping, then nodded to his lads. "Grab that bag, and into the alley, quick now." Reefing on my arms, he dragged me backwards into the shadowy darkness of the alleyway behind us. I looked around wildly, seeing no one, not even the incompetent guard, and I started to despair.
Laughing amongst themselves, the three louts picked up my bag of supplies and followed us.
I blinked in the darkness of the alley, blinded and afraid, and bit on my lip, trying not to scream. It seemed the very fate I had tried to avoid before I met Geralt had now caught up to me. My head rang with the remembered blow from the baker back in my hut, making me dizzy and weak, and I felt panic bubbling up inside me. I had no Geralt to save me now. I was alone, and about to be raped.
The brute behind me thrust his hand up under my skirt between my legs, his thick fingers biting into the delicate flesh there, making me cry out in pain. He probed for a bit, while I bit my lip and wished him away.
"Oh yeah," he grunted, "this 'un will be a good fuck." He pushed me into the wall face first, hard, fumbling with his trousers with his other hand. My forehead connected with the wall with a sharp crack and I reeled, dazed. Caught up in my memories, I whimpered and cowered against the rough bricks, screwing my eyes shut tight and fervently praying to Melitele to make it stop.
And the goddess heard me.
A harsh throat cleared itself behind me and the louts ceased their anticipatory mutterings.
"Leave the lady be."
The hand between my legs stilled and then withdrew, and I huddled into myself, sliding down to collapse at the base of the wall.
"Now then, sir," said the brute ingratiatingly, "we was just having a bit o' fun. No harm done."
"Mmhmm," said Geralt. "Seems that way."
I looked up. He was standing in the mouth of the alleyway, arms crossed over his chest. His hair glinted like bone in the dark and his eyes glowed yellow and feral. A shiver went down my spine.
The brute seized Geralt up and even as I watched I fancied I could see his loutish thoughts churning. Just one man, his expression said. One of him, and four of us. Even with swords, we can take him.He bared his teeth. "At him, boys!" he yelled, springing forwards.
The louts circled around, surrounding Geralt, and he lifted his larger sword from its scabbard, holding it easily in both hands. The brute had picked up a large cudgel from somewhere and he swung it menacingly, face contorted in rage. Geralt's expression never varied, only his eyes moved, flickering from one opponent to the next.
The first lout rushed in, club in hand, and it whistled as he swung it through the air at Geralt. Geralt spun deftly out of his way, his sword streaking silver through the darkness, and it hissed as it parted clothing and flesh. The scent of blood rose in the air and the lout grunted loudly. Then the rest were upon him.
Geralt moved in a blur, the sword an extension of his hands as he twirled between his adversaries. The brute moved in and swung a heavy overhand blow at Geralt's head. Geralt parried it, his sword ringing against the thick cudgel, and metal screeched as he slid the blade down before spinning away to strike from the rear.
The brute yelled as Geralt's sword bit into his back and staggered forward, knocking one of his lads to the side. Geralt sprang into this opening and thrust his blade into the lout's belly deeply, ripping upwards through his abdomen and chest cavity. The reek of entrails joined the stench of blood in the air and I retched weakly, my eyes fixed to the carnage.
Shaking his blade, Geralt dropped the body to the ground and spun to the left. The lad there held a rusty old sword, pitted and worn with age and ill use. He held it up in a weak parrying gesture, only to have it torn aside by the strength of Geralt's blow. He staggered backwards and Geralt kicked him in the knee, making him stumble and fall forwards. Geralt leapt over him, blade reversed, and thrust it into the back of his neck. He gurgled obscenely and collapsed.
The brute yelled again in anger and swung his cudgel powerfully, striking Geralt a glancing blow to the side. He rolled with the blow, springing back to his feet a few paces beyond the brute's reach, and then whirled back into the fray.
The last lad swung his club clumsily at Geralt, who almost contemptuously flicked it aside and ran him through. His sword erupted from the lout's back in a spray of blood and he kicked the body back to fall in a heap at the brute's feet, then looked up at him and grinned evilly.
The brute rushed forward with his cudgel raised, swinging it heavily at Geralt's head. Geralt danced to the side, flicking his sword up and across the brute's thighs. The brute cried out and staggered back, blood spurting out into the air. He shifted his grip on the cudgel and lumbered forward again, snaking it down towards Geralt's back.
Geralt swayed to the side, letting it whistle harmlessly past him, and then spun around, his blade sparkling in the darkness. It bit deep into the brute's side and he staggered back, dropping the cudgel as he held the wound. Geralt walked up to the brute and spun him around, grasping him by the hair and exposing his neck. He brought his sword up and drew it deeply across the brute's throat, slicing effortlessly into flesh and tendons and nearly severing the spine. Blood spurted in a red shower and he dropped the limp body to the ground, then looked over at me.
I looked back up at him from my huddle, my eyes wide and tears tracing down my cheeks. It had all happened so fast... barely a minute had gone past. All that death... and the night had barely deepened. I blinked.
Geralt straightened and flicked the blood from his blade before sliding it home on his back again. It made a steely slither as it slid back into place and I shivered. He bent down and quickly searched each of the bodies, pocketing whatever coin they had on them.
He walked over to me and knelt beside me. "Lynnéa." He looked me over, reaching out with a gentle hand to hold my chin and study my face. His lips tightened as his fingers tenderly brushed over my swollen cheek and forehead. "Come on, let's go."
He helped me to my feet as I sniffed and wiped my nose on my hem, waiting patiently as I steadied myself and straightened my dress. He put his arm around me and we started moving.
I stopped by my fallen bag of provisions and picked it up slowly. It felt ten times as heavy now as what it was before and I groaned under my breath. Geralt halted me, taking the bag out of my hands, and slung it over his shoulder, carefully avoiding his sword hilts. He led me from the alleyway back out into the square, his eyes hard as agates in the darkness, scanning constantly. I leant gratefully into him, swearing fervently under my breath.
Thank you, Melitele. Thank you.
Pettishly, I kicked the brute right in the stones as I went past. Hard. Then slowly, we set off back to our room in the inn.
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