Orenda

Robbie pouts but doesn’t argue any further. As long as Evan was with him, Robbie did not need anything else. Rick takes a sigh of relief, grateful that he did not need to perform damage control on his six year old. Before he can sit on the bed, the door slides open.

“Dr L/N!” Robbie greets you cheerfully for someone who received a concussion and a fractured hip bone at a kid’s soccer game. You smile at the lively kid, excited to see someone else other than his dad who immediately sits upright.

“Hello Robert, hello Rick.” You walk over to check Robbie’s vitals and made sure everything was in order. Satisfied, you turned to address Rick. “He’s alright. Everything seems to be healing well and we may even discharge him in about two to three days.”

You thought the good news would bring some solace to Rick but maybe he wasn’t a man of many expressions as he simply nods his head, coughing out a thanks. Then again, it wasn’t easy being in his shoes.

Before the silence could drag out any longer, the door bursts open and a little tornado bursts into the room, tackling his younger brother much to your amusement.

“Hey bud, let’s take it easy on your brother okay?” A gruff voice comes from behind. “How you doing champ?” Robert DuBois walks in with two big paper bags from McDonalds.

“Fine! Like I told Dad for the hundredth time.” Little Robert emphasizes causing the adults to break into chuckles. Even Rick had cracked a smile. “I’m hungry, can I please eat Dad? Pleaseeee?” He drags out the last syllable and you wonder how Rick had the strength to not spoil this adorable kid. Parenting was certainly a wonder.

“Alright,” Rick gives in and the children cheer. “But no eating contests! I don’t want the Nurse telling me that she has to clean up after your mess Robert Quinn Flag.” He warns the younger of the two, trying to ignore Evan’s snickers.

“Don’t worry mate, I got it. Now why don’t you take a break! You look like you haven’t showered for ages.” Rick’s good friend steps in. You could have sworn the bigger Robert giving you a cheeky glance before turning his attention back to his friend.

“What about you Dr L/N? Are you busy?”

“Oh. Well, Robbie here was my last patient for the day. Thought I could see how he was doing before I say goodbye.” You replied, knowing that half of it was the truth. DuBois grin became wider and Rick smelled something brewing far away. As much he was his friend and partner on the field, Rick wanted to wipe the grin off his face.

“Good of you. Robbie, you feeling alright?” He looks at the boy who was named after him and was proceeding to make an assault on the fries. Robbie nods. “Uh huh, I’m -eachy.”

DuBois smiles, looking satisfied. “Great! Then you can have dinner with my friend here while I spend time with my godsons!” Rick’s head snaps towards his friend, mouthing a couple of words that you couldn’t make out.

“Yeah, sure! I would love too if Rick doesn’t mind.” You were casual but secretly hoping that you did not come off as desperate.

You see, when you had just transferred to Midway City Hospital, Robbie was one of your first patients. Despite his injuries that were borderline severe for a six year old, Robbie was lively as ever and may had a hand in getting you and Rick to talk to each other.

“Dr L/N!”

“Hello, Robbie. How are you feeling?”

“It still hurts, but it doesn’t hurt as much.” Robbie shrugs. The door slides open to reveal a strapping man whom you assumed to be Robbie’s father. Dressed in a black t-shirt, you could not help but to notice how it enhanced his physique. The moment he sees you, he attempts to sweep his blonde hair to one side, making himself presentable. Before he can say anything, his son beats him to it.

“My dad thinks you’re really pretty Dr L/N. I told him so but he didn’t believe me.” Robbie pouts, unaware that he had exposed Rick who turns beet red. Robbie doesn’t notice this and pushes on with his purpose. “He does! He wants to eat with you but he’s too scared to say anything.”

You were shocked at the brutal honesty of the kid, not knowing what to say yourself. Trying to be the professional medical personnel that you were trained to be, you made light of the situation.

“Aren’t you the big mouth huh? I suppose that means you are getting better! Now let’s check the machine ok?”

Bringing yourself back to present day, Rick coughs and looks at you, as if seeking for permission. You give a small nod. No ethical boundaries that you know of now that Robbie’s about to be discharged.

“I’m wrapping up in fifteen minutes if you can wait for me.”

And that’s how you find yourself almost running back to the counter to offload the equipment and belongings much to all the nurses’ and doctors’ amusement.

“Hot military single dad finally asked you out?” You turn to see Ingrid, one of the nurses chewing on gum with a cheeky glint in her eye. She was also one of your closest friends in the hospital. “About damn time.”

“Ingrid, it’s just a meal.” You blushed, not bothering to address the knowing look on her face with regards to your growing crush on the man. “I gotta go! Bye!” You dashed out almost as quick as you dashed in, leaving Ingrid chuckling at your eagerness to get to your “meal”.

***

You sliced the fish, placing it into your mouth to keep it occupied. Apart from meeting a cleanly shaven Rick at the first floor of the hospital, not a word was said between the two of you. Until now.

“Robbie will miss you. He always tells me how you took such good care of him.” Rick breaks the silence and you smile. “Well, Robbie is a pleasant boy. I’m just glad he’s better.”

Rick nods and you rack your brain for another conversation topic before the wave of silence hits again.

“So when can I-”

“Can I see you-”

You both look at each other and burst into laughter. “Please Doctor, go ahead.” Rick tells you.

“Call me Y/N. And no, you go ahead.”

A steely look of determination flashes Rick’s eyes and he sits up straight. “I hope that I can see you again. On another date. I want to get to know you better outside of this hospital and when my kids and best friend aren’t trying to play matchmaker.” He narrows his eyes in the direction behind you, causing you to turn around to see a large figure and two smaller figures farting behind a concrete slab of wall.

“I’m kind of upset you know.”

Rick neck almost suffers from whiplash from that sentence and you see the Colonel taken aback. You weren’t that mean so you break into a small smile much to his confusion.

“I was preparing so hard to ask you the same thing but I guess you have a habit of beating others to it first.”

Rick pauses, processing your words before he breaks out into a smile of his own. “I guess Robert making me clean up was worth something.”

You laugh at the sudden comment, shaking your head. “I would still have said yes Rick.”

“I’ve seen men who look polish but are the dirtiest, uncouth shit bags ever. To their wives, their children.” You closed your eyes for a moment to fight away the memories you were unfortunately a witness to. “You are an amazing father and I’m glad you asked me.”

A wave of confidence takes over Rick. “So, I know a great place and if you’re free for dinner on Saturday?” He pauses as if thinking about something. “I’ll let you once I find someone to take care of my boys.”

“Already taken care of lad! You just have a great meal with the Doctor!” A loud yell comes across the lobby that attracts everyone’s attention much to Rick’s embarrassment.

You almost fall off your chair at the force of two little bodies rushing to hug you.

“Yay! Now you can take care of me now!” Robbie jumps up and down, completely ignoring his long process to recovery. But it was Evan that took the both of you aback.

“Now can we call her mom?”

Your mouth is left hanging and Rick quickly comes to your rescue. “Slow your horses, it’s just a meal buddy.”

“But you love her!”

“Ok.” Rick mutters under his breath. “I think it’s time for Uncle Robert to take the two of you back so I can continue talking with Dr- Ms Y/N over here.” He cranes his neck, giving a death stare at his old friend who doesn’t seem to be any rush to rescue him from his kids.

As you wave goodbye to the kids and Robert, you turn to Rick who was trying to compose himself. You reach out, holding your hands in his.

“Hey, their sweet kids but whatever it is, you don’t need to be pressured.”

You squeeze his hand as a form of reassurance.

you’ll see why I used this gif lol

If anyone asks, he’s not watching you, he's just…watching. Waiting. Making sure nothing is amiss. 

If anyone asks, you just happen to be in his eye line. That’s not his fault, but he might as well watch to check you’re safe as well then anyway. 

Granted, there’s not a lot of danger here, not where you and Ellie are attempting to put up some sort of line to hang the wet clothes out on, and where he thoroughly checked the entire area before you all agreed to stay here. It’s not like he’d let you settle down here for this long if he thought it wasn’t safe. He’s better for you than that, always thinking of your safety. Always thinking of you.

He’s still standing there though, a few metres away from where the two of you are laughing and joking with each other, hands molded around his gun and watching you. 

Joel considers himself a man of discipline, of self control-but it seems as though he keeps forgetting that when you tip your head back and laugh. He hears the sound all the time, no matter if you’re around or not. This morning he woke up with his dream already fading, only the last image staying with him-his body curled around yours, limbs tangled together as you laughed at something he said. It…does things. Things that used to make him uneasy. The images of you, his daydreams and fantasies, they bleed into his daily life and distract him. 

He’s better at dealing with it now, after a little while attempting to get this thing under control, stamp it out and squash it so he doesn’t struggle through sentences when you talk to him and feel hot when you smile in his direction. He’s better at dealing with it, but only because he realises how right it is. 

A short while after meeting you, spending a few weeks with you tagged on to his little survival group-a few weeks of listening to you laugh at Ellie’s jokes, how your voice sounded when you’d just woken up and seeing the underwear you hung out to dry when you did the washing-he’d woken up groaning, face buried in his pillow and hips rutting desperately down into his mattress. Joel had spent a split second remembering his dream, a far off fantasy of bending you over the kitchen counter you always perch on top of, ripping your pyjama shorts off and kneeling behind you to lap at the sweet juices he’d coax out of you. 

He’d only spent a split second remembering that because then he’d heard movement in the room next to his-yours-and Ellie saying something, which you responded to with a drawn out ‘oh my goddd’, and his body had betrayed him. Made him fuck his hips down until he was swearing, hissing your name and fisting his hand in the sheets as he painted the inside of his pants. Coming untouched like a fucking teenager because he harboured this little infatuation on a woman at least 30 years his junior. 

Joel had spent a week after that avoiding you, patrolling with anyone else he could find, dodging places he knew you’d be and only offering short clipped answers to anything you said. Then you’d jogged up to him as he headed out for patrol, reached out to grab his bicep and turn him around to face you. Kept your hand there and brushed your thumb back and forth a few times as you asked if you’d done anything to him, if you’d upset him in any way. He’d managed to spit out some sort of lie about that week being tough for him for whatever reason he can’t even remember now, mind clouded by the way your tank top had displayed your cleavage so prettily for him. 

He’d sat on his bed that night and cleaned his gun, listening to everyone settle down and hearing you potter around your room. When everyone else had seemed to be asleep and it was just you moving, he’d set his gun on the table, laid down and feverishly unbuttoned his jeans to push them down to his thighs. Spit on his palm and wrapped it around his cock, imagining your much smaller hand dragging up and down, your body settled between his legs as you wet your lips to close your mouth around his tip-

And he’d grunted into the silence of his room, the thought of you setting him off too easily. 

It became a routine, one he felt somewhat ashamed of. He’d see you bent over outside as you and one of the other patrollers checked the vegetables in the garden and he’d storm back inside, slamming the door to his room and leaning back against as he palmed over the bulge in his jeans. Soon enough he’d feel the sticky mess you’d caused, guiltily wonder what you’d think and how outraged you’d be. And then he’d go back outside, see you straighten up and look over your shoulder, offer him a soft ‘hi Joel’ and a pretty smile before walking off and he didn’t feel ashamed at all, mind dreaming that you wanted this-that you were encouraging him.

Which is why he’d stopped trying to get rid of this thing you’d created in him, because he could fantasise that you wanted it too. He could let his thoughts drift and imagine that, really, it’s obvious you feel the same if he starts looking more carefully.

When he was sat down you’d walk past and brush your hand over his shoulder, you smiled differently at him than you did other people, asked him how patrol was and offered to grab his washing when you did yours as well. Joel knew he was embellishing things, overthinking during late nights, but he couldn’t stop himself. It meant he could tell himself that he needn’t have been worried or ashamed before, that you evidently felt the same way about him. He could spend blissful moments fantasising that you thought about him just as much, that all those little things were to entice him and you wouldn’t do them if you saw him just as a friend. 

So he doesn’t struggle with it anymore, he lets his desire run its course. Doesn’t feel ashamed when he takes himself in hand to the sound of you humming something through the wall, doesn’t feel guilty when he watches as you go about your daily routine. He only pretends he doesn’t because he knows other people might comment on it, and you aren’t together yet. He’s sure you will be, but you’ve yet to say anything and he doesn’t want to embarrass you.

Joel’s growing tired of this game he’s playing though-scolding himself for wondering why you say goodnight and smile but don’t ask to come in, then immediately wondering again why you don’t comment on his clear affection for you.

He offers you food before anyone else, gives you ammo even though he’s almost out. He can fight well enough without any weapons, but you shouldn’t have to. Surely you can see that? He’ll give you every weapon he owns if you ask. All he tries to do is show you how much he cares, how well he can take care of you. A week ago he killed a clicker that was getting too close to you and god the way you said thank you afterwards-he’d just wanted to drop to his knees and show you exactly how much he longed for you. 

When things like that happen, when he almost loses you and his body feels like it’s going into overdrive, he thinks about if you weren’t in his life. He never thought he would be like Bill and Frank, that he’d never have a life like theirs. But the thought of you not being here? Joel doesn’t think he can survive that. If you suddenly turned around and told him to stay away, that you’d changed your mind, you didn’t want to flirt, wanted to move rooms and keep him at arm's length, it would break him. He’d do it, there’s no doubt about that-no matter if he thinks you were made for him and he was made for you, that he can’t fathom another option other than you being together-he couldn’t face it if he was the reason for your unhappiness. But fuck, it might kill him. 

You’d gone on a trip to find supplies one time which he hadn’t been able to join and he damn near lost his mind. Barely slept for two days and almost beat up a man he thought had mentioned you in an unsavoury manner. He hadn’t, but Joel needed somewhere to put his anxiousness. His nerves at the thought you might not make it back. 

Joel blinks, snapping out of his daze as you start heading back inside, sending him a small wave as you pass him. His face softens from its usual scowl immediately and his heart stutters, craning his head to watch you smile at something Ellie says. 

You stop a few metres behind him, pausing with her to sort out whatever you’re holding.

“No seriously why would I lie dude?? You’re hot as hell! What happened with that guard the other day?!? The one with that cool stick and poke tattoo sleeve and the nose piercing?” 

With who?

You-

Someone else had been with you? Was he not good enough? Didn’t he do enough for you? All you have to do is say the word, he’ll go on more patrols, he’ll get you the food you like, he’ll kill more clickers for you, he’ll-

“Oh god dont even talk about him-can’t fucking believe I even thought he was nice. Like, we spend all those patrols watching each other's backs, I save his life-MULTIPLE TIMES-and you know what he fucking does?”

Joel’s hands tighten on his gun.

“No no no what happened?!? He was so adorable! Honestly thought he’d be lovely for you-”

He grits his teeth, hoping Ellie will just shut up. He loves that girl to death but doesn’t think he can bear hearing another word about this.

“Well we’re by the lookout right, it’s dead silent and nothing’s really happening and then I suddenly feel this hand on my thigh-”

“WHAT-”

“Ellie! Keep it down! But the thing is I obviously move his fucking hand and then he tries to kiss me and goes-you’ll love this-he goes ‘sweet little thing like you did so well helping me out the other day I thought you deserved a reward’-”

“I’m going to be sick-”

“I punched him in the nuts obviously, and also-’helping me out’ he had a fucking clicker on his chest and I killed it! I didn’t ‘help him out’ I saved his goddamn life. Which I now wish I hadn’t-”

Joel feels like he’s burning up, red film over his vision and hands shaking with barely contained rage around his weapon. 

What was it Ellie said? Tattoo sleeve and a nose piercing?

-

It’s almost two in the morning when Joel sees him. Evidently drunk and clinging to another guard. He recognises him. Fucking useless, couldn’t shoot a clicker on his best day let alone when he’s unable to stand. He’s meant to be checking the perimeter tonight as well. This guard is really really not helping his case.

It doesn’t take long for the other guard to get annoyed, shove him into an alleyway and keep walking on his own. Joel smiles a little, fingers twitching next to the holster on his thigh. 

It only takes him a few strides before he’s standing at the entrance to the alleyway, stature blocking out the light that managed to find its way between the buildings on either side. The knife in his holster sticks out slightly, he can see it jutting out in his shadow as he towers over the lump of a man on the grimy floor. 

The lump groans a little and raises his hand to shield his eyes from the searchlight peeking over Joel’s shoulders, squinting and then huffing at the clearly seething man in front of him. 

“Lo-look man, I don’t…uh, I don’t know what-why you’re here, but I’d app-appresh-fuck, be grateful if you could just-just give me hand getting-going back to the…the thing, the-the building-”

His hand stretches out towards Joel, who only tilts his head as he watches the action. Eventually realising he’s not getting any help, he drops his hand and starts grumbling to himself, trying to push himself up from the ground clumsily. 

“Aight man could-coulda just helped me up-don’t gotta be all-all wah and grumpy and-ouch fuck why is there gul-glass here? Stupid fuckin-fuckin-”

Joel’s finding it harder to contain himself as the seconds go by. How could Ellie have thought this pitiful thing was good enough for you? He’d gotten drunk when he was meant to be securing the area, managed to cut himself on a tiny shard of glass. You deserved better. Joel has never and would never let you down like that. He keeps you safe, does everything in his power to make sure you’re provided for. That’s what you deserve, at the very least.

He’ll do this for you, to keep you safe. 

Joel says your name quietly, watching for the man’s reaction in the dimly lit alley. He stumbles, foot slipping slightly as he tries to prop himself up on the wall-then he freezes, mouth slightly agape and eyes flitting around as though he’s checking for an escape route. 

He says your name again, louder and clearer this time. The man’s breathing picks up and he turns toward Joel, already swinging his hands out in an attempt at a placating gesture. Joel raises his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for an explanation-

“There’s nothing-she’s-she’s a very lovely-I don’t-nothing really-nothing happened-we didn’t-I swear, man-we didn’t do nothin’-honest-”

“You tried to do somethin’.”

He interrupts quietly, low voice and dark expression stopping the panicked tirade instantly. 

The other men tend to stay away from Joel on hunts and excursions, taking one look at his grim face as he puts his knife to good use and wisely deciding not to cross his path for a little while. There’s a glint in his eyes they see, mocking them and reflecting the metal of his blade. He wears the same expression now, and the man is fortunately not far enough gone that his body rings an alarm bell in his mind, prompting him to swallow nervously and flit his eyes past Joel to a blessedly open and public space. 

Joel takes a step forward.

The man stumbles backward. 

“Didn’t you?”

“What-no, no-man come on please just-just let me-”

Joel’s fingers touch the hilt of his knife and the man’s eyes widen a fraction.

“Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t try anythin’ and you can leave. Tell me.”

The man flounders for a second before taking a small step toward Joel, hope flashing in his eyes as he offers a weak smile.

“I-really-you-you’ll-okay, well-I didn’t-I didn’t I swear I didn’t try anything I didn’t do a goddamn thing Joel-”

A soft chuckle leaves Joel, making the man fall silent as he takes a step forward to crowd over him. His hand curls around the knife, gripping it in anticipation of this moment. He’s been waiting for this.

“You’re lyin’ to me.”

It only takes a fraction of a second for Joel’s other hand to come up and grip the side of the man’s head, slamming him to the side and listening to the satisfying crack of his skull against the wall. 

He falls to the ground, dazed and cradling his head, wincing as he feels the stream of blood running down his neck. Joel takes another step forward and the man seems to register the danger again, falling back on his hands to crawl away. It makes Joel smile darkly, the thought that he might get away-it’s laughable.

The smooth slide of metal echoes through the alleyway as Joel plucks the knife from his holster, flipping it a couple of times just to see the man on the floor try and speed his movements up, attempt to escape even though he knows it’s futile. Joel doesn’t let anyone go.

Within three strides Joel is standing over him, light reflecting off of the blade he holds and face blank as he stares down. He raises one foot, presses it into the man’s chest and leans his weight on it. It elicits a choked gasp-only serving to encourage Joel and make him press down harder. 

He grunts as he moves down, feeling his age for a second as he shifts from his foot to his knee on the man’s chest. The head wound keeps him unfocused enough that he doesn’t fully register what’s happening when Joel picks up his arm, feeling the joints in his wrist and the bone underneath the skin. Snappable. He twirls the knife between his fingers before pressing the tip against the centre of his wrist, watching with interest as a drop of blood wells up and slides down his forearm. The man sucks in a breath and winces, struggling to lift his head to see what’s going on. His eyes are barely open now, eyelids feeling heavier with every pulse of blood that runs down his neck. 

“Woah jesus-ow man, that-ow fuck, what are-what’s-”

Joel presses the blade in further and the grumbling stops, replaced with an anguished cry that makes him chuckle. 

“Trust me, I’m doin’ you a favour. These hands wander a little bit too much for your own good.”

-

A few days later, he’s after a specific pistol he lent you about a week ago. You’d said it was on the dresser in your room, somewhere in the books and clothes you’d piled on top of it. He’d had to hide his enthusiasm when he realised you were practically inviting him to look around your room, your private space. 

Now it’s not like he was going to snoop through all your drawers, root through your things or anything-but he can’t find the pistol. 

He’s looked through the pile of books you’ve amassed from city trips and it’s not underneath any of those, though he does enjoy the fact that a few of those books have shirtless men on the front, or men in flowy white shirts clutching women. Strong, protective men. 

In other words-him, he thinks with a burst of pride. 

There’s other books, random ones he doesn’t care so much about and he ignores those in favour of the clothes you’ve dropped onto the dresser. There’s a few shirts there, some trousers and some shorts-and a bra. It’s black, with a bit of lace on part of it. Not the most terribly practical post apocalyptic wear, but he knows you like to be reminded of before, like to have your little luxuries. He indulges you as often as he possibly can. 

He brushes his thumb over the lace, imagining what it would look like against your skin and feeling his cock twitch. For a few seconds, Joel just stands there and feels the material, fantasising about you deliberately leaving it there-somehow knowing he would ask you about his pistol and that he would see your bra, wanting him to see it and imagine you wearing it. 

Your voice suddenly rings out and he drops it back onto your dresser, attempting to focus back on your voice getting closer, asking him if he found it yet. A guilty glance downwards helps him all of a sudden, showing the handle of the pistol poking out from under the dresser. He leans down to pick it up, closing his hand around it and pausing. There’s more lace under the dresser. 

More lace and less fabric. 

In your favourite colour. 

There’s not a hope in hell Joel can help himself, and he hooks a finger into the item to pick it up, letting it hang from his hand. With a flush sweeping through him, Joel realises that he’s holding a pair of your fucking panties. Actual underwear that you’ve worn. Lace that he knows would hug your pretty ass so perfectly, delicately cover your cunt. 

Your footsteps echo on the floorboards outside and he clears his throat, not even questioning himself for a second as he shoves the underwear into his back pocket and straightens up, schooling his features and willing his heart back to beating a normal rate as you round the corner and lean against the doorframe. 

“Yeah-yeah sorry couldn’t find it for a second there-I’ll get out y’hair now-”

He’s stood in your doorway before, watched you grab your bag or dropped things off to you but he’s never stood in the centre of your things, the epitome of you, and definitely not while you’re there as well after he’s just found some of your underwear. He needs to leave, fast. 

The realisation that he’s also just stolen a pair of your panties, a nice pair that you’ll notice are gone, and has them stuffed in his back pocket, hits him all of a sudden and he coughs lightly, looking down under the pretence of checking the chambers of his pistol. In a few long steps he’s at the doorway as well, and he hesitates. Looks to his left and down, sees you looking back up at him with an indecipherable expression on your face. His eyes flit to your mouth and back up, trying to ignore how soft your lips look, how pink and waiting to be kissed and-

Joel looks forward again and strides out of your room, making the small journey back to his own. 

-

It was a tense dinner, for Joel at least. Just over an hour of listening to you laugh at Ellie’s shitty jokes and watching your lips close around the top of the bottle you were drinking from. Enough to drive him a little bit crazy. 

He was tense through dinner, but right now he’s wound tighter than jungle gym screws as he sits on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched and head in his hands. 

His infatuation, obsession, with you has been going on for a while, has made him think and do some things he probably shouldn’t have. But he’s never stolen your underwear before. This is…uncharted territory, at the very least. 

After he’d left your room to head to his, he’d stood still for a few minutes simply wondering what the hell he’d just done. He’d slowly pulled the lacy garment from his pocket and looked at it for a few seconds before shoving them into the bottom drawer of his bedside table and storming toward the mess hall. 

And now? Now he’s trying his goddamn hardest to ignore what he’s done. It’s exceedingly difficult when he knows there’s a scrap of lace, a tiny piece of fabric that you’d worn, not even a metre away from him. 

With a shaky sigh, Joel slides the drawer out and picks up the panties. 

Just the feel of them on his skin makes his cock twitch, mind already drifting and imagining the way he’d slide them down your legs. He holds them up and swallows, clothes suddenly feeling too hot when he realises they’re almost all lace apart from a small scrap of satin that would cover your core. He brushes his thumb over the area, feeling the smoothness. He hasn’t felt anything like this in years, nothing so luxurious in his wardrobe by miles. It’s unsurprising that you own them, after all-you deserve nothing less. 

Joel swears quietly as he lays them carefully over his jean clad knee, and shucks his jacket off. His fingers fiddle with his button and zipper next, grimacing at what he’s doing as he leans back and lifts his hips up to shove his trousers down over his hips. It’s not very comfortable but he’s barely focusing on that, mind too drawn to the pretty fabric. 

One hand slips inside his briefs to free himself while the other tentatively touches the panties again, fingertips brushing over them lightly. Picking them gently, Joel spends a few seconds just appreciating the delicacy of them, and knowing how perfect they’d look against your skin-then he raises his other hand to his mouth, spits on his palm and slides it up and down his cock a few times, grunting at the slick feeling. 

When he swipes his thumb over his tip, collecting the precum that’s beaded there and dragging it down to mix with his spit, he imagines what the lace back of the underwear would look like on you. The cut tells him they wouldn’t stretch very far over your ass, and certainly wouldn’t cover anything. He sucks in a breath as he pictures you bent over in front of him, lace wedged between your cheeks and damp patch on the strip of satin. Joel tightens his grip on the material and speeds his other hand up, trying not to groan at the relief he feels.

He can perfectly imagine what you’d look like laid out beneath him with your legs spread as he kneels between them. He’d be able to run his fingers over the silky fabric and listen to you whimper as he did so, he could press his nose up against you and inhale your scent-flick his tongue out and lick stripes along where it covered your slit. With the thought of the material getting so wet that it would cling to your puffy lips, show him the outline of your perfect cunt, Joel feels his balls draw up and his thighs flex, abdomen tightening with pleasure.

It’s his last fantasy that pushes him over the edge though, a fleeting dream of jerking himself off over you, much like he is right now-but you’d let him paint your cunt with his release, whine as you felt it on your tender core and he’d just tug your panties back up, watch the satin get darker as his cum soaked through. He’d make you wear them the rest of the day, knowing you were coated in his seed as you went about your chores. 

With a low groan that he can’t keep down, Joel shifts his hand so your panties are wrapped around the tip of his cock, sensitive against the lace, and drops his head back. His hips buck up slightly as he cums, soaking the fabric and making his eyes slip closed when his member throbs achingly in the aftershocks.

There’s a split second of shame that accompanies his post-orgasmic bliss, rooted deep inside him as he wonders what you might think at the sight of him right now. Jeans and briefs shoved down just far enough to pull his cock out, a pair of your prettiest underwear wrapped around his length as he fucks up into them and his cum painting them filthily. He scratches at his scruffy beard, figuring you wouldn’t have a nice opinion at the very least.

-

Joel does his washing separately over the next few days, grumbling some excuse about not having enough of a load to add to their communal pile when Tommy asks him about it. The guilt comes back in full force when he delicately washes your panties, but not even an hour later he sees you reaching up to fiddle with a shelf and his shame flies out the window with one look at your shirt stretching over your form. 

His biggest problem is when to sneak them back into your room. Infuriatingly, your schedules and chores over the few days mean that you’re together all the time. While Joel usually counts himself as blessed when this happens, he can’t find it in him to be that excited when he knows if he doesn’t get your underwear back into your room soon then you’ll most certainly notice. If you’re not together, he’s free as a bird and you’re sitting in your room. No chance he’s going to be able to slip in there any time soon. 

He can’t sneak in, but he does need to ask you about a perimeter issue he wants your opinion on, which is how he finds himself in his current situation. Standing in your doorway as you sit on your bed and rub lotion into your legs. 

Yet another one of your little luxuries that’s going to make him lose his mind. 

Joel stands there, lips pressed together and hands clenched by his side as he takes in the absolute vision of you-clearly just out the shower, hair damp and tucked behind your ears, tank top and (incredibly short) shorts on your figure and hands massaging cream into your legs.

You notice him after a minute or so, finally looking up and catching him staring intently at you. A sheepish grin crosses your face and he quirks a brow at it, trying to prompt you into speaking because he doesn’t trust himself right now.

“I know, I know-it’s not like it really matters or anything, but I don’t know Joel-it’s the little things right? All the tiny things that remind me of before, they just-I’m not sure-make me feel a bit better about all this? Yeah I don’t-I don’t know, but-you must have a reason to be here other than listening to me ramble about this so what’s up?” 

You finish with a soft smile and he’s immediately at ease, comforted by one glance from you. If this were pre-outbreak, he’d have signed himself into a lab so they could study the effect you have on him. It’s addicting, the way you calm him. A medical marvel, quite frankly. 

He clears his throat when you pat the empty space of the bed in front of you and beckon him over, unscrewing the lid of your lotion again. At least his legs still seem to be working right, that’s a small miracle.

When he sits down though, there’s no thoughts of the perimeter in his head. It’s pushed out of his mind the second he sits down next to you and he can smell the product you’re using-flowery and sweet and so you.

He can’t help himself-he picks up the tub next to your leg and smells it, eyes darkening when he thinks about you lathering yourself like this every night. What he wouldn’t give to be able to watch every day, just be in your presence as you do this. He curses himself internally as he realises that trying not to let others onto his obsession has caused him to miss this part of you, and now it’s the first time he’s seeing it. 

You’re watching him curiously, hands rubbing mindless circles into your calf. 

“What’s it-does it just make you…soft? What’s it actually do?”

Joel winces slightly as he says this, voice quiet and uncertain. Did he really just ask if it made you soft? Get a fucking grip.

You huff out a small laugh though, inching your leg towards him and nodding, eyes sparkling as you watch him puzzle through this interaction.

It’s as if his arm moves of its own accord, hand stretching out and fingertips gently touching your shin. When you don’t move or flinch away, he lays his palm on you, swallowing as he tries to soak in the feeling of your skin under his. 

You smile encouragingly at him and he feels like all common sense has gone out the window, like the only thing that matters is that he’s touching you. He slides his palm up a little, then back down again, working up to rubbing circles into you.

Joel hears you hum in contentment, simply watching his hand move. With uncommon uncertainty in himself and absolutely no idea what’s going on, he takes his hand away to pick up the tub. Even just these few seconds feel painful now, hand itching to touch you again, feel your softness against his calloused palms. 

Pausing for a moment, he looks down at the plastic container he’s holding, wondering if he’s really going to do this. Do you really want him to? Are you really on board with this? 

He gets his answer when you nudge your leg forward a bit again, sock clad toes brushing against his thigh, and he gives in. Stops fighting the burning need that’s been blazing in him since the second he saw you.

Joel shifts, turns his body toward you and slides a finger through the silky product he’s holding, collecting some and staring at it. Inching toward you again, he smears it over your shin and furrows his brows at the sensation. It’s so smooth, foreign to him and yet addictive already. 

His rough palm settles onto you again, rubbing the body butter in large circles. His face is concentrated, focused on the motions. 

It’s soothing, a calming repetitive movement that puts him at ease. Calms the racing heart that your presence alone causes. Joel doesn’t look at your face again for the next few minutes, afraid that you might ask him to stop-instead he presses his thumb down to massage firmly into the side of your leg as the rest of his hand caresses your calf muscle. He doesn’t even really know what he’s doing, just moving wherever his body tells him to, wherever it feels right. 

Then he hears a soft sight and he glances up, sees a nervous expression on your face and your lips pressed together. You breathe out his name-it’s coated in worry and he hums in response, knowing you’ll understand him. 

What’s wrong? Tell me, please. 

“There’s-did you hear? About-about the guard they found? Tommy told me today. I’m just-what if-”

“Nothings gonna happen.”

I won’t let anything happen to you, believe me. It would kill me. 

“You can’t know that Joel. People are saying it’s happening again-the woods on the east side are getting crowded-”

“Some of the guys been talkin’ about more infected, but I ain’t seen any. Don’t really think there’s many more near here than usual, that guard must’ve been unlucky or off his patrol route.”

Whatever happened, whatever he ran into, he probably deserved it. 

His hand tightens minutely around your leg as he finishes, almost dreading what you might say next. He looks up in time to see your eyes soften, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth before you sigh again. 

“Clickers don’t cut people’s hands off, Joel.”

Keeping his face carefully blank, he keeps rubbing circles into your skin, slowly working his way up to your knee. 

“Sounds stupid I know but-I mean we have to deal with all this other shit, the last thing we need is a crazed axe murderer or something on base right?”

He can’t contain the soft chuckle that elicits, and his heart stutters when you smile at the sound. 

“Don’t think we have one of those around, wouldn’t be surprised if he just crossed the wrong person or fucked a deal with raiders or some shit. You don’t got anythin’ to worry about.”

I’ll keep you safe. I swear. 

“Mhm, got Tommy to protect me after all don’t I?”

Joel’s head shoots up to stare at you, eyes searching yours to see if you mean what he thinks you mean. His hand freezes where it’s edging onto your thigh-a grin spreads across your face though and your shoulders shake a little as you watch him. 

“I’m kidding Joel, of course I’m kidding-I love him to bits, but-”

He doesn't deserve you. No one does. 

Joel watches you shrug, smiling softly at him and he knows. All of a sudden knows he’s not unwelcome, that he can keep going. 

So he does-he shifts up the bed towards you a little and lays your leg over his lap. Picks up the tub again and scoops some more out to smooth his palm along your thigh. He couldn’t look away if there was a gun to his head, it’s enrapturing-the sight of his large hand, rough and weathered, sliding along your soft skin and rubbing just firmly enough to make you hum pleasantly in approval. 

You lean back on your elbows and he slips his hand further up than he has before, fingertips edging underneath the hem of your shorts. He comes back down again immediately, still focusing on the circles he’s moving in but can’t ignore the way his cock twitches when he thinks about the fact that he just brushed over some sort of lace on your skin, hidden from view by the shorts. 

There’s a ringing in his ears, fogging his thoughts and he just has to do it again. Joel slides his palm over you again, higher and higher, until his fingers disappear beneath your shorts. He hears your breath hitch, pauses his movements and keeps his hand still where it is. His fingertips are barely touching you, gently brushing against the lace he can feel on your love handles. It’s an effort not to imagine gripping them, pulling your hips up as he drives his cock into you over and over from behind. 

You’re both still for a few seconds, neither daring to move in case it interrupts the moment you’ve accidentally created. Joel feels like he’s burning up though, like he can’t let this get away from him. He needs to move, needs to go further. 

He looks up to lock eyes with you, questioning you silently. He’s not sure how but he sees you answer, sees it in your face, and he slips his hand to the inside of your thigh, fingers brushing the material covering your core. 

It makes you suck in a breath and he keeps moving, shifts so he can slip his hand up inside your shorts and over your underwear until his palm is resting on you, cupping you gently. The heat of his touch makes you lean back further, widening your legs ever so slightly for him. He can vaguely feel his cock pressing up against his zipper, aching at the sight of you-he’s too focused on you to do anything about it though, eyes dipping to where your shorts now cover his hand as well. 

Joel grips your thigh with his other hand, pressing it slightly to widen your legs so he can freely move his palm against your centre. He’s been waiting for this for as long as he’s known you, and it’s as though his whole body is vibrating, jittery with the realisation that this is actually happening he’s actually touching you like this. You’re letting him do this, lying on your bed so prettily for him and widening your legs so he can press his fingers up against your cunt. 

Pressing the tip of his middle finger harder against you, he can suddenly feel dampness on the fabric where it’s soaking up your arousal. His member throbs as he brushes his finger up and down slightly, knowing that he’s done this, he’s turned you on this much. He slowly drags the digit up, pausing when you gasp and he smiles-presses in on your clit and watches your legs jerk as though you want to close them around his hand. Joel rubs gently, circles the pad his finger in tight circles and watches your hands fist in the sheets, chest rising up and down. 

A whimper forces its way out of your throat and he can’t not touch you properly anymore, needs to feel your skin on his. Your head snaps up when he moves away, and then instantly drops back down when he hooks two fingers into your panties and tugs them to the side with your shorts, not wasting any time in pressing his middle finger against your entrance. He grunts when he feels the wetness there, dips the tip of his finger into you and pulls back out to trail up your slit, spreading your arousal onto your clit and circling it lightly. 

He can see the glistening wetness on your pussy, on his finger and making his mouth water. Joel doesn’t have the restraint he thought he did and moves away again, raising his hand to his mouth so he can lick his finger. 

“Jesus Joel-”

Slipping the finger into his mouth, he sucks and hums at your taste, addictive. 

“Knew you’d be so sweet, darlin’-”

Your eyes widen a little at his words and then you’re dropping back on the bed again, laying yourself out for him. 

He moves his hand toward you again, pressing his slick finger against your entrance once more. It’s difficult to decide where he wants to look, but his desperation wins out and his eyes darken as he dips his head, pupils expanding at the sight of your walls parting for him as his finger pushes into you slowly. He groans when he sinks into you down to the first knuckle, hand flush against you and jeans too tight at the searing heat he feels. 

The thought of your channel gripping his cock, split open and stretched around him, makes him unconsciously shift his hips up, attempting to find some relief as you rhythmically clench around the digit inside you. 

You feel even better than he’s fantasised, perfect and dripping and tight around him. One finger is already a slight stretch and his mouth is suddenly dry as he pictures working you open, trying to fit two or three into you. Joel falters for a second, stilling his hand and wondering if he’s even going to be able to fit his cock in your pretty pussy-he’s not a boastful man but he’s aware that he’s…large. The hesitation is gone the longer he imagines it though, instead curling the digit to press up against a spot that makes you suddenly cry out as he thinks about pushing into you, sinking his cock into your feverishly hot cunt. 

The aching between his legs verges on painful now, throbbing and heavy and he twists his hand to press his thumb against your clit. It makes your legs twitch again and his mind supplies a fleeting image of your thighs closing around his head, keeping him in place as the scruff on his jaw rubs against your soft skin and his tongue plunges into you, drinking up whatever you’ll give him, desperate for anything he can get. 

Joel brushes his finger back and forth over the spot inside you and rubs the pad of his thumb in small circles over your clit, pressing down a little to see your hips jerk up. Your walls tighten around him, chest rising and falling heavily and whimpers falling freely from you. It makes him press his thumb down harder, licking his lips when you moan and quiver around his finger, wetness dripping down onto his hand a little.

He slows his movements partly, attempting to wrap his mind around the fact that he’s just made you cum. You came on his hand, sounded so pretty and looked so addicting for him.

It’s enough to make him slip his hand away, barely registering the whine it pulls from you as he pushes your thigh further to the side and lays on his stomach between your legs, throws all self control out the window and immediately fastens his mouth to your cunt. 

Your back arches and hands plunge into his hair, mouth open in a silent scream as he flattens his tongue and licks a stripe up from your entrance to your clit. Joel groans into you and presses his face harder against your core, undulating his tongue against you while he grasps your hips tightly, holding you to the bed as he feasts on you. He moves like a starving man, like he wants to drown in you and he’d be happy about it. 

It’s evident in the way his eyes slip shut and he tilts his head down to flick the tip of his tongue against your clit, making you whimper before he dips back down and groans when he pokes the muscle into you, probing your entrance to lap up the wetness dripping down. Your thighs rest on his shoulders, twitching every now then then when his tongue slides along a particularly sensitive area and he shifts his shoulders up slightly to encourage you, eyes opening again and staring up at you from between your legs to beg you to close them around his ears, make him stay here and drink his fill of you. He looks drunk, delirious as he moves, mouth never staying in the same place for more than a few seconds.

Before he knows it you’re bucking up against him, sensitive and begging him to make you cum-there’s no way he could deny you, and he’s desperate to feel you come apart on his tongue. He’ll take his time tomorrow, spend a few hours between your thighs now that he can-this won’t be a one off, he’s sure of it.

For now though, Joel shifts one of his arms to hook around you, hand splaying over your lower stomach and thumb dipping down to pull the hood of your clit back, the sight almost makes him drool and he grunts, closes his mouth around it and suckles harshly. The pressure makes you jolt, sitting up suddenly and curling over him, feeling his hair tickle your stomach. 

His name bursts out of you and he shifts his hips down, rutting gently into the mattress at the way you moan through the sound. When you whine at him and tug on his hair, he pulls his mouth away with a wet pop, but can’t resist dipping his head to lap at the juices dripping from your entrance for a few seconds. His mouth is coated in you, chin shining and wet under the lights of your room and your thumb brushes over his lips. The tip of his tongue pokes out to chase it and licks gently, tasting as much of you as he can.

You smile softly and fall back with a thump onto your bed, tugging at the jacket on his broad shoulders to get him over you. Your eyes are slightly glassy, body limp and he can’t resist grinning at the state he’s gotten you into, tired and blissed out from his attention. One hand lazily traces over the buttons of his shirt and he catches it, gently gripping your wrist and shaking his head minutely. Leaning down, Joel nudges his nose against your cheek and presses a kiss to your jaw.

“Sleep. Gonna be here in the mornin’-”

Let me stay with you, I’m begging you.

Your smile widens, blinding him a little and making his chest ache.

“Yeah?”

If you let me. I’ll stay here forever, go anywhere you like. Just let me, darlin’.

-

A couple of weeks later, he’s leaning against the wall next to Tommy as he watches you and Ellie across the room. He has no idea who the women are that you’re talking to, but you’re both smiling so he doesn’t intervene. 

Ellie’s laugh rings out loudly all of a sudden and the room quietens for a few seconds before resuming its usual volume. Joel’s already focused in on you enough that he can hear what Ellie says next though, hear her asking you to tell the women about the guard that hit on you a few weeks back-the ridiculousness of men and what he said to you. You laugh as well and nod, starting your story with a grin. 

When you reach the end, Tommy is listening as well, chuckling next to Joel as your outraged expression. 

“Then he calls me a ‘sweet little thing’-”

Tommy’s laugh trails off, eyes darting around the room before landing on his brother and clearing his throat quietly. His eyes search Joel’s, staring intently at him.

Joel only claps him on the shoulder and pushes off the wall, calling out ‘Darlin’-’ as he heads over to you.

There’s no need for you to know after all, you know that the guards hands were cut off and you got so worried-what would be the use in telling you about the three little words carved into his back?

please comment/reblog if u like it so it counts as interaction! otherwise my stuff doesn't get out there very much :(

tags; if I didn't tag you it's because your age isn't in your bio!! ONE MORE GODDAMN CHANCE TO PUT IT THERE

I had faced demons, angels, ghosts, werewolves. Any monster you could imagine. I had been beaten, stabbed, bitten, almost killed.

None of those struggles were as challenging as Cas and me getting undressed in the backseat of the impala. I had whacked my knuckle on the door, Cas had hit his head on the ceiling, and I was stunned either one of us could get our pants off.

I finally groaned and told Cas to sit up on the seat.

"Why-"

"Just do it," I said.

I was desperate and this trouble was making me agitated. I just wanted to get fucked. Was that too much to ask for?

Once Cas had sat up, I straddled his waist.

I licked my lips as I looked down and wrapped my hand around his length. I heard a quiet groan come from the back of his throat. I looked at his face through my eyelashes. He was watching me position his cock at my entrance.

I smirked before slowly lowering myself onto his cock. His jaw fell open as I did. Once he was fully inside of me, I paused.

"Fuck," I muttered. "Always feel so fucking good."

I bit my lip as I lifted my hips before lowering myself back onto him. It was enough to drive me insane.

I started speeding up my movements, moaning as my nails dug into Cas's shoulders. I was soon bouncing on his length, my desperation clear as day. This was all I wanted. All I needed. It was my dream.

He pushed my body closer to his, lips latching onto the skin of my neck. He groaned against the skin. My head was tilted down. My moans were going right into his ears.

"So good," I muttered. "My angel."

His lips stopped suck marks into my skin as he groaned at the praise.

His hands gripped my waist. His nails dug into the skin as he started guiding my movements. His hips started thrusting up to meet mine. Fast and rough. Clear that we had both been needing this for days.

"Fuck, Cas, shit," one of my hands grabbed at his hair as my eyes rolled back. "Needed this. Fuck! Needed you."

"(Y/n)," his voice was breathy and quiet. He was so focused on how he felt.

I felt a familiar tightening in my stomach. My pussy clenched around his length. Cas moved both of us faster as the feeling.

"Wanna feel you," he grumbled. "Please. Let me feel you. Wanna see you come for me. Now. Please."

One particularly harsh thrust seemed to snap something inside me. I let out a shattered yell as I started shaking around him. Cas continued moving my hips roughly.

I continued clenching around him, my orgasm causing the thrusts to feel even more intense.

I felt Cas start slowing down as he got to the edge. He let out a loud moan and held my hips down as he came inside of me.

I ran my hand through his hair, "So pretty, Angel. Love seeing you so blissed out."

He grinned up at me.

We sat there for a moment, just smiling at each other through the afterglow.

I jumped when there was a pounding on the window.

"In my damn car!"

It was Dean. Shit.

When the eldest Winchester went to open the door, Cas grabbed onto me and took us back to the bunker.

We were in my bed. He was sitting against the headboard, still inside of me. I was happily in his lap.

"I tried to save some of your dignity," Cas explained.

"Good," I nodded. "Gave us a couple of hours before they get back here."

I slowly rolled my hip on his length again, biting my lip at the feeling.

"I'm not quite done yet."

Cas groaned as I rolled my hips again.

"Make me feel good, Angel."

“Having fun?” you asked, sidling up beside him.

You reached for his drink, already nodding back at an eager patron who had caught your eye on the other side of the bar. They were never as subtle as they thought. A gulp to clear your throat, and you returned the tankard to him.

“Loads.”

You rolled your eyes fondly at his grumpiness, and he took his own sip, hiding his smile.

“One more customer,” you promised, “then we can get out of here.”

He watched as you rummaged through your pockets, cloak flapping around you, face crumpled in concentration until you retrieved a few coins and your potions bag. He grumbled in protest as you threw the coins down to pay for Geralt’s drinks, asking him to order you food to go rather than engaging with his arguments about money.

“Get us something nice,” you leant closer to him, a private comment between you, “it’s been a lucrative night.”

“Big orders?”

“Big overspenders.”

The glint in your eye was contagious, and Geralt’s wolf-yellow stare followed you keenly as you approached the customer who had beckoned to you earlier.

He watched the interaction passively, catching the bartender’s attention to order meals when he drifted past, keeping half an eye on you as you charmed the wide-set, bearded man at the other end of the bar. A subtle exchange of coin, poultice bags and jars marked the end of your exchange.

Geralt startled as a hand found his thigh, someone unfamiliar in your bar stool beside him.

“Hello, stranger.”

Fuck.

He didn’t recognise her voice, but a subtle glance as he swigged his ale jolted the Witcher’s memory. He glanced back at you, hoping your customer might keep you talking a little longer.

“Estellede.”

“Wasn’t expecting you to be in town,” she drawled.

Her voice was still slow and sticky, drawing his attention and trapping him in her thrall like molasses engulfing him. The few times they’d had together were pleasant, sweet, but nothing he was desperate to repeat. Certainly not if he had to explain himself to you.

He wondered what you’d think, eyes drifting across the room to follow you. He hadn’t been to a brothel while you had been travelling with him, nor had his old flames drawn him in, their fires dampened. The hand on his thigh grew more insistent, stroking higher, and he forced himself back into the conversation.

“It was last minute,” he told Estellede gruffly, face in his tankard as he drained the dregs.

“Oh, here for something special?”

She was flirting, he knew that. Knew how she wanted this evening to end. Geralt, for the life of him, couldn’t be bothered.

“My partner wanted to visit.”

He nodded across the room in your vague direction, catching your brow furrowing as you noticed his conversation. A glance told you he was fine, and you tried not to stare at the woman, her hands obscured by Geralt’s body. That particular missing piece of the image wasn’t difficult to work out, as Geralt gently moved her fingers from trailing too close to his crotch.

“Partner?”

Estellede didn’t seem especially put off. She had known him a handful of times across two decades – plenty of time to assume that the Witcher was completely incapable of having a partner in the romantic sense. Geralt remained stoic, hoping she might just leave. Wondering why he didn’t want to take up her offer. It was a question he chose not to think about too much, not while your eyes were on him from the other side of the bar.

“That’s a turn out for the books, White Wolf. Partner.”

She was teasing him, that trailing hand back again and her body pressed into his arm. He refused to give her more than a grunt, acknowledgement she was speaking.

“I should introduce myself – ”

Estellede stood abruptly, and Geralt’s fingers encircled her wrist, instinct winning over his stoicism. His grip was gentle but firm, as he pulled her back to stand beside his chair.

“I don’t think that’s wise, Estellede. And I’m not interested. Sorry if I’ve disappointed you.”

“Never thought I’d see the day. She your wife?”

He pursed his lips, passing his tankard from hand to hand and wishing the damn barkeep would return to refill it.

“Not married,” Estellede observed, her voice far too loud for the Witcher’s liking.

He hoped her words would be obscured by the chatter of regulars, those customers you had served who remained for a pint. It took Geralt conscious effort to avoid looking at you, checking if you were approaching. If you were worried. Or jealous.

He wouldn’t look.

“No,” he confirmed, a gruff edge to his words which the woman was choosing to ignore.

“She’s quite close with that bloke over there. Are you sure she’s your partner?”

It was reflexive, the motion bypassing his brain, as Geralt whipped his head around in time to catch you in a perfectly boring conversation with the stocky man you had been selling to. More potions and coin were exchanging hands. He cursed aloud, Estellede’s damn cackling piercing his skull. Geralt grit his teeth.

He resisted the urge to thump the innocent bar top beneath his hands, quickly whipping his gaze away before you could catch him.

“Yes,” he ground out. “And I believe her business is almost done. If you wouldn’t mind leaving.”

Estellede laughed again, that high, clear laugh which cut through her rich, rasping voice.

“Why would I leave? I don’t even have a drink yet. And you have ruined the rest of my plans for the evening.”

The food wasn’t ready yet, and he knew you were looking forward to a decent meal. He wouldn’t deprive you that, and so the Witcher was condemned to remain in place. Estellede at least kept her hands to herself, as she looked between Geralt and his supposed partner.

“She’s not your partner, is she? Not in the way you want.”

“Shut it.”

He was in no mood for this. She was wrong.

“Testy,” Estellede mused, fingers tapping along the bar.

Refills of ale were finally being offered, and the pair sat in silence as they sipped. Estellede’s gaze kept slipping to you. It was making Geralt nervous. The woman caught him as he took a swig, wiping the ale from her mouth roughly as she spoke.

“She travel with you, Witcher?”

“Yes.”

The truth felt like less effort. Geralt finally glimpsed hot food being wrapped in cheesecloth, taken from the kitchen only to be dropped on a different table.

Fuck.

“Why?”

He fixed her with a stare, catching the slight hitching of Estellede’s breath over the din of the pub. Good to know he still had some capacity for being intimidating.

“She helps fund the journey when the season’s slow, we have better protection travelling together… it just makes sense.”

“What does she sell?”

He knew Estellede didn’t really care, only insomuch as she could dig further into his psyche, but Geralt found himself suddenly keen to talk about it. To share.

“Potions. They’re really good. I think she could be a mage, if she chose.”

“Handy,” she conceded, once again looking at you with a searching gaze.

“She picked up how to make Witcher potions, too. Remarkable for a human, and very handy for me. She’s definitely saved my life with those.”

Geralt was never prone to bragging, so why did it feel so good to brag to Estellede about you? He bit down the worry – it was immediately superseded by surprise anyway, as the woman’s eyebrows shot to her hairline.

“You taught her Witcher potions?”

“She’s perfectly capable–”

“I’m sure she is. I’m just… that’s your culture. Your creed. I’ve never heard of a Witcher sharing… anything of it.”

He swallowed down the realisation which lodged in his throat. This was no time to be second-guessing himself. For the importance of his connection to you to knock the wind from his lungs like a charging Voref.

“It’s… convenience.”

“You love her,” Estellede seemed to realise, far too loudly.

“I… ”

He didn’t.

“I don’t.”

“I think you do.”

Did he?

“Witcher, I didn’t know you could blush.”

He growled, despite knowing it would neither scare her nor convince her. Estellede smirked.

“You should tell her.”

“I forgot how annoying you are,” he grumbled.

“You should,” she insisted.

“How do you know I haven’t told her?”

“Geralt. I don’t believe for a second you would let her out of your sight, if you were truly partners in anything other than business.”

In truth, he hardly did let her out of his sight. But that would do nothing to help his case. He glanced at the corner again, shocked to see you gone. Before panic could set in her noticed you emerging from the back of the tavern, smiling as you took food from the barkeep.

“If you won’t enjoy my company tonight, you shouldn’t be alone. Tell her.”

Geralt waved her off with a grimace, pleased to see Estellede finally taking a hint and standing from her barstool. For one last moment she leaned in close, making you frown as you approached. Estellede whispered in Geralt’s ear.

“Tell her. Or I will be very offended you turned me down.”

“Goodbye, Estellede,” Geralt ground out.

You had paused on his other side, trying not to intrude on the moment, clearly feeling left out as your eyes roved the inn. Anywhere but Geralt and his companion.

With a polite greeting to you and a parting hand to Geralt’s shoulder, she took her tankard and left. You hesitated, uncertain if you should reclaim your seat.

“Who was that?” you asked gently, trying not to be demanding.

Geralt owed you nothing. You knew he had friends and… others, all across the continent.

“And old acquaintance. Just catching up,” he gave you and unconvincing smile.

You weakly returned it.

“Business good?”

The chance of subject was unnatural, far too chatty for Geralt’s usual conversation, but you appreciated the gesture.

“Yep. Upsold him, we should be good for quite a while. I’ll need to make more heart tonics, though. And impotence potions.”

Geralt wrinkled his nose, and you laughed.

“Humans get old, and once they do, they’ll pay through the roof to have working dicks again.”

“Charming.”

“It’s funding our dinner,” you teased, holding out one of the cloth-wrapped bundles of food.

It smelled amazing, he had to admit. The cold weather outside wasn’t inviting – and he wondered if you would mind staying in the tavern a while longer. Even if that last customer kept staring at you. Geralt didn’t think you had noticed. Or you were ignoring the man.

The Witcher took his portion, holding it to his nose, and pretending to loathe it.

“You’ve rather ruined my appetite.”

“Too bad,” you laughed, “I’ll just eat both meals.”

As Geralt finished his drink, he caught you glancing at Estellede, now laughing with a group of friends by the window. Your expression softened, something approaching worry settling on your face for the briefest of seconds, until you shielded it from him once again.

“We could stay here, tonight. If you wanted,” you offered nonchalantly, rubbing the rim of your tankard.

Geralt tilted his head, waiting for you to continue.

“Since you have an old friend here you might want to stay with. I could get a room upstairs here, leave you to it for a bit.”

“I believe I said she was an acquaintance,” Geralt corrected gently.

You didn’t respond, staring down at your drink. It broke his damn heart.

“If you wanted to, I wouldn’t mind sleeping in a real bed. We could regroup again in the morning,” you tried, forcing some energy back into your voice.

Geralt couldn’t help frowning at your tone, sorry to have soured such a successful evening for you. Damn Estellede.

“That’s a kind offer, but not something I’m remotely interested in.”

You didn’t respond, your gaze fixed on the jugs and tankards laying behind the bar.

“We could still get rooms,” he continued, “or you could. To get a break. I’ll sleep anywhere, though. Don’t waste coin on me.”

You blinked, and he wasn’t really sure if you were listening. The tankard cradled in your hands was held firm, above the sticky wooden counter. Geralt shifted in his seat. That knee was bothering him again.

“We should just go,” you said finally, pulling your cloak tighter around you and moving to finish up your ale.

The feeling settling in your chest was so intense, familiar and yet so much worse than you had felt before. You couldn’t place it, didn’t know how to fix it, how to make it leave. You only knew that Geralt’s acquaintance made it boil up and ache behind your ribs, filling your throat and making your eyes sting.

“Hey,” Geralt’s hand settled on your forearm, a suggestion to stay.

Not an insistence.

“Talk to me,” he murmured.

“I don’t feel well.”

The words were sharp, and The Witcher waiting a moment more, seeing if you would elaborate. You didn’t.

“We’ll get you a room then,” he decided, “a bath and a meal might help. Plus some proper sleep.”

You reached silently for your coin purse, and Geralt stoically accepted the coin, silently pledging to pay you back the moment a job found him.

“This is a steep rate for a room,” he pointed out, counting the coin in his hand.

“Get two.”

“No, I can’t. Not on your coin.”

You gave him a withering look, and Geralt stood, wandering off to find lodgings.

*

Talking to the tavern owner (at full height, with swords nestled along his back) secured a good rate for a room and a hot bath. A single room. Geralt would sneak the coin back to you and sleep in the stables with Roach – he was used to it anyway.

The two of you fetched your bags in silence, taking them up to the room Geralt had a key for, which he declared to be yours. It was the only key he had, and you suspected he hadn’t bothered with a second room. You tried not to picture Estellede, her hand on his upper thigh and her lips to the shell of his ear.

“You want me to stay?” Geralt asked, eyeing the hot bath and the screen placed beside it.

“Only if you don’t mind.”

He didn’t. He perched on the bed, view of the bath obscured by the screen, and stared up at the ceiling as he listened to the rustle of clothes and the crackle of the fire.

“Tell me about her?”

He could hear you descending into the bath. Geralt pulled the sword from his back, laid it across his lap. Stared at it.

“No one special.”

The light movement of water sounded like a tsunami to his ears, each slight shift dragging his imagination to places it didn’t belong. He could hear you thinking, imagine the questions ticking through your mind as you sank into the warm water.

“She really wasn’t,” he insisted, fingers stroking down the sword blade, “someone I’ve… met a few times.”

He wondered if you’d nodded behind the screen. He hadn’t heard you speak.

“It sounded like a successful evening?” he tried.

Is this what it’s like talking to me?

“It was,” you finally replied. “Like I said: they bought a lot and paid well.”

“Good.”

He could hear you scrubbing your skin. The shifting of water in the tub. He propped the sword up against the bed, a metallic clunk as the blade unbalanced and fell to the floor.

“Sorry if you were bored tonight,” your voice crept from beyond the screen, and Geralt leant back onto the bed.

“All part of the job. It’s warmer here than camp, anyway.”

You laughed lightly.

“True.”

Geralt unpicked the parcel of food he had brought upstairs, still holding some warmth as he regarded the pie and cheese, the berries sat atop it. Nothing special, but rich and nourishing. He picked at the cheese, appetite mysteriously absent. He chose to blame Estellede.

“Any good?” he heard you ask, followed by the splash of your head disappearing underwater.

He waited for you to surface before answering.

“Fine. Though the pie is a little undersized.”

“Anything less than a whole deer is undersized to you,” you teased, only for the joy of hearing Geralt’s affronted scoff.

“There’s cheese,” he offered, “that’s good.”

“Looking forward to it.”

Geralt picked his sword up from the floor, trying to balance it against the wall this time. It fell again, and he heard your laughter from behind the screen. He smiled, then frowned. You weren’t chatty, and Geralt couldn’t believe that he was missing it so much. You often said you hated your one-sided conversations with him, and he could suddenly understand why. He shoved some pie in his mouth.

Chewed. Swallowed. Picked at the berries – they were too sour. You still hadn’t spoken.

“The last guy you sold to seemed nice. Took ages – I hope he paid you well.”

You nodded, then realised Geralt couldn’t see you.

“Yeah, he did. Wanted to tell me his life story.”

Geralt hummed, remembering Estellede’s words. You seemed to have that effect on people. He thought of the potions in his bag. The ease with which you’d replicated the instructions he’d given you. The countless times you had effortlessly found the right potion for a fight, had the right mixture ready when he returned bloody and beaten from a fight.

He was sure you hadn’t told a soul about the potions you made just for him. He hadn’t even doubted it – you were trustworthy.

“He say anything interesting?” Geralt offered, anything to keep the conversation going.

“Not really. Born here, going to die here.”

“Nice.”

He wasn’t sure you even heard his reply, your head underwater again. When you resurfaced you spluttered a bit, and Geralt hid a laugh. Not the time.

“Did you want a bath too?” you offered, “Might be nice, if you’re planning on…”

You trailed off. Geralt huffed in irritation.

“I’m not planning on fucking Estellede. But I will take a bath, if you’re hinting that strongly.”

Wrapped in a blanket you emerged from behind the screen, fixing him with a glare, trying to read his face. He just seemed annoyed.

“I wouldn’t judge you if you were, Geralt. I’m not your keeper.”

Your words were so soft, he regretted snapping. Wordlessly the two of you swapped places, and you reclined on the bed as you ate, listening to the clattering of Geralt’s clothes hitting the floor, the sloshing of the bath water as he displaced it.

He wasn’t sure what possessed him, the warm water around him, naked and a few short strides away from you. That feeling wouldn’t stop bothering him.

“I told Estellede you were my partner.”

You blinked, chewing through your mouthful of pie. Not sure what to say. Geralt didn’t elaborate.

What did he want you to say?

“Why?”

A slosh of water.

“She was getting… touchy.”

You wrapped the blanket tighter around yourself. Blinked at the ceiling. Ignored the sounds Geralt made as he stretched out his sore muscles in the bath.

“She probably wanted to sleep with you.”

Pointing out the obvious felt like the only thing you could do. You’d never known Geralt to be especially prone to pleasures of the flesh – but the rumours you heard seems to contradict that. A brief encounter with a bard he had known had left you in peels of laughter at tales of the Witcher’s misfortunes, plenty of which were rather promiscuous.

“I don’t think I can.”

“Of course you can,” you ventured carefully, “if you want. Don’t let me stop you.”

“Would you – ”

He cut himself off. Dunked his head under the water, no doubt flooding the floor. You frowned at the ceiling. He finally came back up for air, sitting silently.

“Would I what?”

“Estellede said I should… tell you something.”

Idiot.

“What?”

A slosh of bath water. A grunt. Water dripping to the floor, another blanket being pulled from its position by the fire. Geralt emerged, torso bare and fabric slung around his hips. His hair was wet and limp around his face, framing an expression so sincere and worried you found yourself checking the room for danger. His sword lay beside your feet, abandoned.

“I care for you.”

You blinked at him as he stood over the bed, face painted with a nervousness you didn’t recognise on him. It was a struggle to speak, to understand his meaning. To know if he meant it, in the way you wanted him to. He tilted his head, water dripping from his hair.

“Say something,” his words were a grumble, frustration and hurt and desperation all muddled into the bass of his voice.

You had no idea what to say.

“I care for you too, Geralt.”

He was attractive and kind and brilliant – as well as he hid it – and yet, completely off limits. Until now, it seemed.

“Your heartbeat… it’s fast.”

“What do you mean, you care for me?”

“I care for you. And I… want us to be more than friends.”

This was torture for him. You could tell. A balancing act between avoiding vulnerability and his searing natural sincerity.

“I’d like that too,” you told him, carefully, watching his reaction.

He nodded, not smiling, not moving closer. As you pulled your blanket closer around your undressed body, your hands were shaking. Geralt cleared his throat, looked around the room. Spoke to the wall beside your head.

“You’re, um, I don’t know what I’d do without you. And, I couldn’t… go home with Estellede. Because she wasn’t you. And I said you were my partner because I didn’t want to say friend.”

“Geralt…”

His gaze locked on to you, fast. You tried not to startle.

“I’m not this loyal to just anyone,” you began, finally feeling a warmth reaching your cheeks as the moment sank in.

The gravity of this moment.

“You’re remarkable. I love travelling with you, and if you want more, I’d like that,” you admitted.

His mouth quirked up, and you raised one hand, inviting him to crawl onto the bed beside you. To your surprise he lay alongside you, propped up on an elbow, looking up at you. Geralt captured your outstretched hand with his, cupping it against the sheets beside his bare chest. Just holding it there. His skin felt warm, palms calloused but soft from the bath.

He pulled your hand closer to his face, speaking into your knuckles, inches from his lips.

“I really fucked that up.”

“You didn’t,” you protested, laughing a little at his pessimism.

“Estellede said to make it romantic.”

“Can you stop bringing up Estellede!”

You were still teasing, laughing lightly, but Geralt frowned.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. This is just… weird.”

His eyes watched your face like he was tracking, microexpressions and breathing all analysed, worry held in the locking of his sharp jaw.

“I don’t know why,” he admitted, “I wanted this to be right.”

You shuffled down in the bed, remembering to avoid your blanket shifting and grabbing it with your hand, pleased to see the flicker to Geralt’s eyes to that exposed skin. Now laying on your side, facing him, it was easier to believe this was real.

“It’s right. We’ve known each other so long… It’ll take time.”

He thought for a moment, both of you taking a moment to process, the room pleasantly warmed by the fireplace. You let your eyes trail across the defined muscles of his shoulders, his chest –

“I couldn’t remember when it stopped being anyone else. It just… happened.”

“Hm?”

“Everyone I met, I looked and I just saw how they weren’t you.”

“Geralt…”

You couldn’t help it. Pulling him closer, the hand on his jaw your chest to his. You sank your head into the side of his neck, cheek to cheek, breathing him in. He pulled you back. And kissed you. Slow and gentle and needy, languid in a way the Witcher never was. Only for you. His fingers cradled your chin, guiding you, your connected hands still trapped between your chests.

When your trapped arm grew painful you gently pulled away, smiling at the contented slow blink of his eyes opening. He smiled back, all the way that you could see the sharpness of his white canines.

Stretching out your hand, you fought the urge to tease him, to make some stupid comment about Estellede. But you didn’t have the heart. You relished in the intensity of it, the tingle in your spine and the swelling of your lips, the tension between you as Geralt caught your free hand and pulled it to his chest.

His heart was pounding, and you knew he could hear your matching pulse.

Lazily you pushed one leg forwards, against the line of his thighs. He groaned subtly as your thigh brushed against him, half-hard. You checked his expression, brow raised, lips reddened.

“Yeah?” you asked, barely a syllable.

Geralt pulled you closer, fingers trailing against the edge of the blanket which covered you. You let yourself be pulled flush into him, contorting yourself until he groaned once again at the closeness.

“Yeah.”

He pressed his face into your neck, you could feel him smiling against the sensitive skin there. Open-mouthed kisses warmed you from the inside, as his hands trailed further down your waist.

“Don’t tease.”

Geralt chuckled, fingers pausing as he looked up at you, pupils wide and cheeks flushed. You reached for his hair, pulling him in for a kiss again. Just to remember that this was real. The Witcher pulled away first, reluctantly, and you felt him hard and insistent against your stomach.

“No teasing,” Geralt confirmed.

*

Your mind was blank as Geralt finally collapsed onto you, heavy and spent and sweating, a euphoric grin wide enough to match yours. He was panting, trying to speak, recovering all at once.

Wrecked, warm, muscles loose from pleasure, you let out an airy laugh as Geralt wrapped both arms around you and flipped you. Laying on his chest instead, you propped yourself up to fuss with his hair. It was still damp, and you cleared it from his face, deep grey turning white near his roots as it dried.

“I haven’t seen you this out of breath… ever,” you teased, “who knew this was the best way to get you tired.”

“I think you and a particularly nasty Striga are tied,” he mused, lips tugged into a smile as you rolled your eyes. “I know which I’d prefer.”

You closed your eyes, lay on his chest, basked in warmth and hormones and hope.

“Don’t say the Striga.”

Geralt hummed like he was thinking about it. You groaned.

“Funny.”

It seemed to take enormous effort, both of you drained of all energy, but he kissed your head sweetly all the same.

As you recovered you started to move, trying to take your weight off Geralt until he protested and you remained in place, chest to chest and covering him completely. His hands held you in place, lazily weighing on the small of your back. You could feel the shifting of his chest as he breathed.

“Am I crushing you?”

“No.”

The word was murmured, and you smiled at the sleepiness overtaking him. It was strange to see him so off-guard. You were glad for it. Holding yourself up against him, you watching his eyelids slide open to watch you.

“I want to ask you a stupid question…” you trailed off, lips pressing to the slight sheen of sweat covering Geralt’s shoulder, avoiding meeting his eye.

He laughed hoarsely, head refusing to leave the pillow. He was still breathing deeply, melted into the sheets. You hoped you wouldn’t ruin his peace.

“Go on,” he mumbled.

“Is this serious? I know we’re not traditional but…”

“It’s you.”

But - back to the idea - the concept - the beginning. Geralt did not intend to keep you and yet it had worked out that way.

They were too far from your homeland after he snatched you from bandits outside of Crow’s Perch. You hadn’t been a contract. He’d simply been passing through and immediately discerned that you did not belong in their small camp. Your eyes were wide and wet, your lower lip swollen, your hands bundled in your lap.

He’d kill all of them and afterward, you’d thanked him - ducking your head - almost shy.

“My father can repay you...”

“It’s alright.”

***

There are times that he could send you back to Skellige. There are boats that could whisk you away or other wanderers he could pass you off to at the many, many taverns they visit.

He asks you only once. “Would you like to go home? I could find safe passage for you.”

You look at him. “If you’d like. I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You aren’t.”

A lie.

You are, but he doesn’t seem to mind it. He doesn’t mind that he must accommodate both of you or that he must put your safety first in every new dangerous situation. They share beds and sheets and stews and it never goes beyond that. It’s camaraderie. You are just as silent as he is and yet he finds your presence comforting. It’s strange - like a new sort of magic.

You continue to surprise him.

One night - he is surprised by a Harpy who is very far from its natural habitat. It swoops down and sinks its talons into his shoulder. He collapses from the pain of it and a moment later there is the shrieking wail of the creature - a death scream.

He whirls around and you have shoved his sword through the harpy’s throat. Dark red blood seeps down its mottled milk-pale body. Its stringy hair partially hacked and spilling like feathers.

“How?” he mutters - eyes wide.

“You do know that they train their women in Skellige?” The corner of your lips curl in mild amusement.

***

He likes you, which confuses him. It makes him anxious - sour with an unsettled ache in his gut. It becomes a problem. He lies next to you on the grassy grounds outside White Orchard. He stares at the sky - following the trails of stars that twist into shapes and creatures and mythical beasts.

“Why haven’t you wished to go home?” His voice is low - rumbles from his chest.

You turn on your side - resting your cheek in your palm. He can see the flash of your white teeth when you speak. “My home wasn’t very happy. It wasn’t good to me.”

His fingers curl into fists - his nostrils flaring. Rage pulses in his blood that he did not know could hit him so quickly. “Perhaps - I am delaying the inevitable,” you finish.

He exhales sharply. “You do not have to return.”

“I should...at some point. I have responsibilities.”

He is silent as he mulls over your words. His jaw flexes. “Then I will help you remove whatever - whoever - makes you unhappy there.”

You laugh. It is the first time you’ve done so.

***

His infatuation with you occupies his thoughts. Too much. Too often. He is distracted. The next time - he’s in Oxenfurt he decides to take care of it. He puts you to bed in a nice room above the tavern and goes downstairs where he finds Joanna - a woman he’s had before and one who might share a passing resemblance to you.

They fuck in a hallway. He buries his face into the curve of her neck - hitches her knees high around his waist. It is fast and hard. He threads his fingers into her hair and bites her jaw. He calls her your name, which Joanna doesn’t seem to mind.

He ruts like a dog in heat. He’s almost feral with it. He’s so consumed that he doesn’t realize he feels eyes on him. Something prickles at the nape of his neck.

When he finishes, he tucks himself away and returns to your room. He can hear your heartbeat thrumming wildly. He can smell your sweat.

He doesn’t confront you, of course. Instead - he slips into the bed and brushes the side of his arm against your back. He means it to be casual - thoughtless - as if he had shifted in his bed and accidentally touched you.

You roll your shoulders - knocking his arm away and slip closer to the edge of the bed.

***

It’s an impossible situation. It’s burning in the air - incense the smell of sweet apple and lavender and the sour bite of blackberries. You’re frowning as you peek over his shoulder.

“Don’t look,” he hisses as he pins you to the wall at your back.

There are people. Fucking. The whole room echoes the wet slap of flesh and high-pitched moans. They’re collecting clues in Novigrad for a very large contract and their journey had sent them to here. A “party” at Duke Irvin’s manor.

Your gaze narrows. “I think I can handle it.”

They need to leave. They need to get the fuck out of here.

He guesses that the sexual energy is for a spell - some form of magic that is feeding something. He’d place his gold on the Succubus he’d been hired to take out.

He glances behind him and the both of you are already attracting unwanted attention. There’s a purpose here - you must fuck. It’s a required ticket to the party and he just hadn’t realized until they’d stepped in here. .

“We need to go.”

“We can’t,” you say. “There are guards at the door.”

“Then I’ll take them out.”

You sigh - your eyes flit from the writhing bodies to his face. “We have to do it.”

“No,” he growls and you flinch - hurt.

“Shit,” he says. “I didn’t - I didn’t mean it like I don’t - I don’t want to do that, but not here. This - this is wrong.”

What he wants to say is that he’d thought about fucking you nearly every hour of the day. He had dreamt of it. He had fantasized about it and all the possible ways it could happen. He doesn’t want it to be here - in front of these people - these prying eyes. He’s not good with words. He’s not good at explaining anything.

You palm his cheek and he draws away out of instinct. Your thumb sinks into his flesh and he pauses. “It’s fine, Geralt. I know you won’t hurt me.”

“We don’t have to,” he mutters through clenched teeth. His heart is in his throat - his muscles are tensing and tweaking with tension. He is consumed by it - stressed. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to.”

You drag that thumb from his cheek to his lower lip - your press your nail into the fat of it and he groans. Your eyes are twinkling - dazed with fascination as you study his face. “I wouldn’t mind...”

Geralt is hard. He’d been hard since he walked in and scented the air. There is sex and slick and furious heartbeats. Pleasure and lust and, as a Witcher, his sex drive is already inhuman. He could fuck all night if he chose and never tire.

He cups the hinge of your jaw and lifts your face to his. “It won’t be gentle,” he murmurs against your mouth.

“I didn’t ask for gentle.”

He kisses you fiercely. Sloppy and insistent. He thrusts his tongue between your lips and you fist his hair - gasping against the smooth bone of his teeth. There is no one else in the room. There is you beneath him - your small, thin fingers hooking into his linen shirt. He picks you up easily - hands roaming the bare thighs under your dress. His touch is rough - brazen - as if he could strip you open and eat you piece by piece.

“Are you wet?” he husks between kisses - his tongue delving deep deep deep -

“Yes,” You’re burning. “So long - all night -”

His hand supports your ass as his other reaches under your dress. He can feel the heat of you and when his fingertips breach your cunt - he grunts like he’s tasted it. Your throbbing and soaked against touch. He pushes in and you clench around him - ripple and quake as you clasp his shoulders and cling to him.

His hold on you was unrelenting and it was amusing to see you arch into his chest. Your soft mewls and pretty moans as you scrape your nails over feverish skin. “Shall I eat your cunt?” he grumbles as he licks a long path up the line of your throat.

His senses are verging on extremes. The sounds of men and women screwing around them. The tight dripping vice of your sex around his fingers. The sweet-salt brush of too much - he can smell it all - he can smell the crevices of your beautiful body and he can feel eyes on him - on the both of you - watching as they rip at each other. He doesn’t care anymore. He’d throw you on the floor of the room and sink into you regardless of prying attentions.

He growls as he thumbs at your clit and then curls his fingers - pushing up against the top of your cunt from the inside. “Answer me,” he demands. “What do you want me to do to you?”

“I don’t know,” you sob - hips chasing his hand.

He puts his mouth to your ear - his tone gravely and full of hunger. “Shall I fuck you like I fucked that whore back in Oxenfurt? Right up against the wall. Mount you like some beast, princess? I know you saw me - I know you watched.”

You draw a breath in and he grins. “Did it wet your sweet cunt?” He nips your jaw. “Did you know that I thought of you while I fucked her? I wanted to return to our room and shove my cock into your beautiful little body - into that plump mouth of yours.”

You groan - unladylike and primal - and haul him to your lips for a frantic kiss. “Fuck me,” you plead against his roving tongue. “I want - want it -”

His fingers thrust in and out - scissoring and jamming up - and each push forward leaves a liquid-suck that thickens his blood. You really are a princess - a trembling damsel who had shared sleeping pads and thin cots and stews and ale with him. You’d wiped the blood from his brow - his chest - a particularly bad wound on his thigh. No complaints.

He removes his fingers and undoes his trousers. He is so stiff - throbbing and pulsing with his own ferocious longing for you. He was capable of controlling himself when the lines were set - when you had the option to say no, but now - it is done. It is over and you spread your thighs wider - hook your feet at his ass and he sinks into you.

Your mouth drops open and he can feel his expression go slack with the tightness of your cunt. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth - your brow knitting together as you try to accommodate his girth. He nestles his face into the crook of your neck - his words as soothing as he can make them. “Relax, little princess,” he murmurs. “Relax for me.”

He eases his hips back an inch before pressing forward. You cry out - choking on the air - squeezing his shoulders. “I know,” He kisses your cheek - his lashes tickling your skin. “I know it’s a lot for you.”

It’s a lot for him. His cock is in a vice. He may just spill his seed before he can get fully seated.

“Slow,” you plead. “Just - just give me a moment.”

He is only halfway and you're clenching around him - biting back a groan. He saws his hips - easing his way into you - conquering you by the smallest increments. He puts his fingertips to the apex of your cunt - stroking the puffy folds that are stretched around his length. He circles the bead of your clit and you jerk -

“Helping you,” He’s nearly wheezing now - unable to concentrate. “Just need some more to take your tight cunt.”

He’s shocked he is able to have so much control in this. The entire world has blurred and darkened - narrowing to the white-heat of your center - your insides and your soft, pliant body. It takes another minute until he’s buried to the hilt.

“Alright?” He’s grinding into you - savoring each spasm of your pussy. You grip his face and kiss him messily - sucking his tongue into your mouth before you rest your forehead against his.

“Move,” you wish. “Please.”

He does immediately. He draws his cock all the way to the tip before driving forward again. He feels as if he is splitting you with each long, bruising stroke he delivers. He can’t hold back any longer. He wants to ruin you - destroy you for anyone else. He wants to brand you completely.

There is the lewd smack of his hips making contact with the bowl of your pelvis. The fabric of your skirt is heavy and hot and he wants to rip the clothes from your form. Bare you.

Not here. Not here. Not here for others to see you.

You are trembling in his arms. Your thighs quaking around his waist - your sex dripping. He knows you must be sore and you still bear his ministrations beautifully. You accept every sharp punch of his prick.

His words in your ear are gruff - plainly dressed in his long-cherished desire for you: wanted this - your cunt - tight as a fist - let me lick you after - make you come on my tongue - stay with me - stay with me - stay with me

Your eyes roll back - lashes fluttering. He clasps your chin - dragging your face back down so his gaze can meet yours. “Look at me when you come around my cock..”

That’s it. It’s all it takes. You finish with a choked-off whimper - squeezing him in a vice that almost hurts. “That’s it,” he croons. “That’s perfect. Fuck - you did so well for me - took all of me-”

Your teeth flash against your mouth. The room is vibrating with all the sex and his own burning arousal. He can go and go and keep going and he doesn’t think it will ever be enough.

You wrap your arms around his neck - pull him near. “Please, Geralt. Please.”

“What?” he murmurs - lips brushing your temple - a kiss to your hair. “What do you want? What do you need?”

He will fill you - stuff you - plug you up. There are eyes on them - trawling over your skin - the crown of his silver hair. He swallows.