#alpha geralt

The Pull of the White Wolf

The air inside the Temerian tavern was thick enough to choke a horse. It was a suffocating soup of stale ale, roasted lard, unwashed peasant skin, and the sharp, sour tang of terrified Beta townsfolk. They huddled over their wooden mugs, whispering about the monsters in the marshes and casting frequent, anxious glances toward the darkest corner of the room.

Geralt of Rivia sat there, entirely unmoving. His golden eyes gleamed from beneath his white hair, tracking the nervous movements of the barkeep out of sheer, practiced habit. The local alderman had contracted him for a drowner infestation down by the riverbank, but the coin offered was an insult, and the suffocating atmosphere of the room was wearing on his patience. His medallion rested flat against his leather chest, completely still.

Then, the heavy oak door swung open against the howling wind.

A sudden blast of damp night air swept across the floorboards, carrying with it a scent that sliced clean through the tavern’s rancid filth.

It started as a faint, tantalizing whisper on the breeze, but within seconds, it bloomed into an overwhelming wave of rich, sweet wild honey and rain-soaked earth. An Omega. But to Geralt’s heightened Witcher senses, it wasn't just a pleasant aroma—it was a physical strike directly to his sternum. His lungs expanded, drawing the scent deep into his core, and the ancient, primal Alpha buried beneath his chemical mutations and rigorous training woke up with a deafening roar. The wolf behind his ribs didn't just pace; it scratched at his chest, demanding he look.

Y/N pulled back a wet, dripping hood, stepping across the threshold. Water droplets clung to their eyelashes as their eyes frantically scanned the crowded, rowdy room, looking for an empty table or a dark corner to hide from the storm. But their gaze ground to a sudden halt the moment it locked onto the massive, white-haired figure across the room.

The tavern’s background noise—the clinking of pewter, the raucous laughter, the crackle of the hearth—instantly fell into deafening silence.

Geralt was on his feet before his conscious mind could even process the command. The heavy legs of his chair scraped violently against the floor, drawing a few startled gasps from the nearby Betas, but his eyes never wavered. He crossed the room with heavy, deliberate thuds of his master-crafted boots, his broad shoulders throwing a massive shadow across the floorboards.

Y/N didn't run. Their breath hitched in their throat, their chest heaving as their pupils fully dilated, swallowing the color of their eyes. As Geralt stopped a mere two inches away, his towering frame completely blocked out the rest of the tavern. The sheer mass of his muscle and leather was intimidating, but the scent radiating off him—crisp winter frost, ozone, and old leather—acted like a heavy, warm blanket dropping onto Y/N’s shivering shoulders.

"You," Geralt rumbled. The sound was a low, gravelly vibration that rattled deep in his chest, vibrating straight through the soles of Y/N’s boots and directly into their core.

"You're a Witcher," Y/N whispered, their voice trembling with a frantic, intoxicating heat that had nothing to do with fear. Their hands gripped the edges of their wet cloak just to stay grounded. "The elders in my village... they always said Witchers don't have secondary genders. They told me the trials strip away the beast. They say you can't feel the pull."

"They lie," Geralt interrupted. His voice dropped an octave, rougher now, completely stripped of its usual stoic detachment. Slowly, hesitating for a fraction of a second, his massive, calloused hand rose. He cupped Y/N’s cheek, his rough palm brushing against their skin.

The moment their flesh met, a visible jolt of golden heat snapped through both of their nervous systems. Geralt’s fingers twitched, his thumb automatically sweeping over Y/N’s cheekbone, marveling at how perfectly they fit against him.

"You're my mate," he growled softly, his golden eyes flaring with a dark, territorial light. "I’ve looked for you across three kingdoms. I didn't know I was looking, but I know now."

Y/N leaned heavily into the intense warmth of his palm, their eyes fluttering shut as a soft, helpless sigh escaped their lips. "Yes," they breathed, the ancestral pull of the Omega locking tightly onto his essence. "I am. I'm yours."

The First Heat and the Sacred Mark

Three months later, the theoretical bond became an undeniable, roaring reality. They had fled the crowded towns, seeking the absolute isolation of an abandoned herbalist's cabin hidden deep within the ancient, untamed woods of Aedirn. The air inside the small wooden structure was thick, suffocatingly hot, and dripping with a heavy, syrupy sweetness that pooled in the corners of the room. Y/N’s first true heat had arrived, and it was a vengeance unlike anything they had ever prepared for.

Y/N lay in the center of a massive bed of thick bear furs, flushed, shivering, and panting heavily. Sweat slicked their skin, making their collarbones glisten under the dim moonlight filtering through the window. Every single instinct inside their Omega biology was screaming, clawing at their insides, demanding the heavy, grounding weight of their Alpha.

"Geralt..." Y/N whimpered, their fingers knotting tightly into the dark fur of the blankets, their hips rolling in a restless, agonizing search for friction. "Please. It burns. It hurts so much inside. I need you. Come here, please."

Geralt stood at the edge of the bed, his armor already discarded on the floorboards. Under normal circumstances, his harsh Witcher mutations kept his emotions under a tight, iron lock. But as he looked down at Y/N, his golden eyes were entirely gone, replaced by terrifyingly wide, pitch-black pupils that swallowed the light. The scent of his mate’s heat-fluid had driven his Alpha brain straight to the brink of absolute madness.

"I'm here," he growled, the sound less like a man and more like a predator marking its territory. He climbed onto the creaking bed, his massive, heavily scarred body instantly pinning Y/N beneath him. His skin was burning hot to the touch, sending shocks of electricity wherever his chest pressed against theirs.

The common folk across the Continent always gossiped that Witchers were nothing more than sterile, mutated monsters—incapable of the deep biological functions of an Alpha, completely unable to form the knot that sealed a permanent mating. But as Geralt guided Y/N’s thighs open, draping them over his thick hips, his instincts tore violently through the chemical dams of his mutations.

"Look at me, Y/N," Geralt commanded, his voice raw, his breath hot against their lips. "Open your eyes. Look at who is holding you."

Y/N forced their heavy eyelids open, staring into the dark abyss of his pupils. "Geralt... take me. Make me yours. Completely."

He didn't hesitate. Grabbing Y/N’s hips with enough force to leave faint red marks, Geralt aligned his rigid, leaking length against their dripping opening. With a heavy, unyielding thrust, he buried himself to the absolute hilt.

Y/N let out a loud, high-pitched gasp, their back arching completely off the furs as the sheer, massive width of him stretched them to the absolute limit. It wasn't just a physical entry; it felt as though his very soul had slammed into theirs.

"Ah! Geralt, you're so big," Y/N sobbed, their hands flying up to grip his broad shoulders, their nails digging deep into the thick muscle of his back.

"You're so tight around me," Geralt groaned, his jaw clenching tightly as the incredibly hot, wet friction of Y/N’s heat-walls clamped down around his shaft. He began to move, his strokes long, heavy, and punishingly deep. Every single time his pelvis slammed against theirs, his thick length clipped their deeply hidden Omega spot, sending waves of pure, blinding ecstasy straight to Y/N’s brain.

The cabin filled with the wet, unedited sounds of their joined bodies—the frantic squelch of his cock driving into their excess slick, the heavy, ragged slaps of their skin colliding, and the continuous, low purr vibrating out of Geralt’s throat. Y/N was weeping from the sheer sensory overload, their head thrashing against the furs as climax after climax tore through their body.

"Geralt, I'm falling apart, I'm—"

"Hold onto me," he hoarsely ordered, his pace accelerating into a frantic, bruising speed. "Don't let go."

As the heat reached its absolute, boiling crescendo, the definitive miracle of their bond occurred. Geralt’s hips locked violently forward, his movements freezing as a sudden, massive swelling began at the very base of his shaft. The flesh expanded rapidly, ballooning into a thick, solid sphere of muscle that stretched Y/N’s entrance to an unbelievable degree. The knot. The rumors were completely, utterly wrong.

Y/N shrieked as the intense, internal pressure filled them completely, anchoring them tightly together so that not a single drop of fluid could escape. They were locked, fused together at the pelvis.

"Geralt! The knot—it's so huge, it hurts, but it feels so good!" Y/N cried out, tears pouring down their cheeks as their internal muscles locked up in a massive, prolonged heat-climax.

While locked helplessly together by the knot, the final, sacred step of the bond had to be taken. Geralt leaned down, his white hair falling like a curtain around Y/N’s face. His lips pulled back, baring his sharp canines as he pressed his mouth firmly against the sensitive, throbbing scent gland at the crook of Y/N’s neck.

With a decisive, heavy snap of his jaws, he pierced the skin, biting down deep into the gland.

Y/N screamed, a sharp spike of agony piercing through the pleasure, but within a fraction of a second, the pain dissolved into a rush of pure, golden euphoria as their souls permanently fused across the bridge. The Alpha mark was set.

"Now," Geralt gasped, his blood-stained lips hovering inches from theirs, his body twitching as his own release began to build against the knot. "Mark me back. Claim your Alpha."

Driven by pure, unadulterated instinct, Y/N reached up, wrapping their arms around his neck. They bared their own teeth, pressing their mouth directly to the corresponding gland on the side of Geralt’s neck, and bit down with everything they had.

Geralt let out a loud, guttural roar that shook the rafters of the cabin. The double mark solidified. As his soul locked with theirs, his cock pulsed violently inside Y/N’s womb, unleashing thick, burning ropes of Alpha seed that filled them to the absolute brim, cementing the bond in a flood of heat and white-hot completion.

Enter the Lark

A full year of peaceful, beautiful traveling passed before a vibrant, remarkably loud addition forced his way onto their path. Jaskier, the self-proclaimed greatest bard from the text of the coast to the edges of Nilfgaard, practically thrust himself into their company after a disastrous romantic mishap involving a local count's mistress.

Initially, Jaskier spent every waking hour terrified of Geralt’s brooding silence and massive swords. But as a Beta, he possessed an observational sharp eye, and it didn't take him long to realize that the terrifying, legendary White Wolf was completely malleable whenever his Omega mate was in the room.

"I must say," Jaskier remarked one chilly evening, strumming a series of soft, melancholy chords on his lute while the campfire crackled before them. Y/N was sitting on a log, their head resting comfortably on Geralt’s thick thigh, while Geralt’s large hand methodically, gently combed through their hair. "The high-born ballads completely misrepresent the political landscape of secondary genders. They write about Alphas as mindless, destructive brutes who tear down kingdoms, but look at you, Geralt. You're practically an oversized, silver-haired lapdog."

Geralt didn't even look up from his task, though a low, rumbling warning growl vibrated in his chest. "Shut up, Jaskier. Or I’ll feed your lute to the fire."

"Oh, come now, don't be grumpy!" Jaskier laughed, leaning back against a mossy rock. "I'm merely complementing your domestic bliss. It's quite poetic."

"No, no, he actually has a point, love," Y/N chuckled softly, reaching up to gently swat at Geralt’s chin. "You do soften up quite a bit when it's just us. You're like a giant forest bear."

Geralt’s golden eyes softened instantly as he looked down at Y/N, the sharp edges of his Witcher face melting away. "Only for you," he muttered, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss directly onto the faded, raised scar of the mating mark on Y/N’s neck. "Only ever for you."

Jaskier smiled gently, watching the quiet interaction. As a Beta, he couldn't perceive the thick, heavy waves of pheromones or the invisible, golden telepathic thread linking the two, but the pure, unyielding devotion between them was undeniable. He quickly transformed into a fierce, loyal protector of their dynamic, inserting himself as a dedicated friend to both, ensuring Y/N always had the softest blanket on the rough trails while Geralt was away in the dark woods hunting monsters.

The Lilac and Gooseberries

The ultimate turning point arrived like a sudden winter frost in the bustling, chaotic city of Rinde. Geralt had been frantically searching for a way to cure Jaskier of a horrific, magical throat affliction caused by a rogue djinn, a quest that led them straight to the doorstep of a powerful, deeply enigmatic Beta sorceress: Yennefer of Vengerberg.

The precise moment Yennefer stepped into the dim room, an unnatural, suffocating scent accompanied her—a heavy, overwhelming wave of sharp lilac and tart gooseberries.

She was undeniably beautiful, sharp-tongued, and carried herself with an aura of absolute, terrifying authority. Because she was a Beta, she possessed absolutely no natural instinctual scent markers that should have ever interfered with a sacred Alpha-Omega bond. Yet, the moment Geralt’s golden eyes locked onto her deep violet ones, something deep within his brain snapped. A strange, heavy, freezing fog rolled over his consciousness.

Y/N, standing right at Geralt’s flank, felt a sudden, icy chill tear straight through the center of their bond. Geralt’s large hand, which had been resting possessively on Y/N’s waist out of pure muscle memory, suddenly dropped to his side. His gaze became entirely glassy, locked onto the sorceress as if she were the only beacon of light in a dark world.

"I can help your pathetic little bard," Yennefer said, her voice dripping with calculated, magnetic charm as her violet eyes scanned Geralt’s massive frame with clear appreciation. She glanced briefly at Y/N, but seeing no traditional gold wedding bands, and being a Beta who completely ignored the subtle language of scent dynamics, she assumed Y/N was merely a traveling maid or a servant.

Geralt did absolutely nothing to correct her. He didn't even speak Y/N’s name.

As the days dragged on in Rinde, the unnatural fog clouding Geralt’s mind deepened into an outright, terrifying obsession. He began to leave their tavern room for hours on end, drawn to Yennefer’s lavish quarters like a moth helplessly flying into a raging fire. The sacred mating bond, which usually kept an Alpha entirely, fiercely devoted to their chosen mate, felt suddenly muted—choked out by an artificial, overwhelming compulsion that defied all laws of nature.

He slept with her. The first time occurred in the chaotic aftermath of the djinn's rampage, their bodies coming together amid broken furniture and magical sparks. But the betrayal didn't stop there. Driven by the unnatural fixation, he returned to her sheets a second time. Then a third. A fourth. A fifth.

Each time, Yennefer, completely oblivious to the fact that the Witcher before her was a claimed, marked Alpha, welcomed him into her bed, fully believing him to be an unattached, lonely mutant. Geralt, his mind completely shrouded by the magical fog, never once uttered a word about his Omega.

The Agony of Betrayal

Back in the dim, cold room of the tavern, Y/N was physically, spiritually deteriorating.

Because the Alpha-Omega bond was an intricate, somatic connection tied directly to the soul, a betrayal of this magnitude carried severe, physical consequences. On the very night of Geralt’s first indiscretion, Y/N had awoken with a breathless shriek, clutching their lower abdomen as a sharp, burning cramp twisted their insides like a hot knife.

"Y/N? What is it? What's wrong?" Jaskier had asked, immediately scrambling out of his cot across the room, finding his friend gasping for air on the cold floorboards.

"I... I don't know," Y/N had wheezed, cold sweat soaking through their tunic. "It hurts. Deep inside. Like something is tearing away from my spine."

By the sixth time that phantom, agonizing pain ripped through Y/N’s stomach, they knew it wasn't a physical illness. It happened with horrific, clockwork precision, always in the dead of night when Geralt’s side of the bed was empty and cold. The bond was bleeding out.

Driven by a desperate, agonizing need to stop the tearing sensation, Y/N forced themselves to stand, clutching their trembling stomach. "Jaskier. Get your coat. Come with me."

"Where are we going? Y/N, it's pouring rain, it's past midnight," Jaskier pleaded, but the moment he saw the sheer, unadulterated heartbreak and raw agony etched into Y/N’s pale face, his voice caught in his throat. He grabbed his coat and followed without another word.

They tracked Geralt’s faint, lingering scent through the upper corridors of the grand estate Yennefer was currently occupying. As they ascended the stairs, the air grew heavy, the sweet scent of lilac and gooseberries mixing with the unmistakable, heavy, musky pheromones of an Alpha in the absolute throes of sexual passion.

Y/N’s heart shattered into a thousand pieces before they even reached the door.

The heavy oak door to Yennefer’s master bedchamber was left slightly ajar, a warm sliver of candlelight cutting across the dark hallway floor. Y/N pushed it open just an inch, their trembling hand resting against the wood, while Jaskier peered anxiously over their shoulder.

Inside, the room was bathed in a golden, flickering glow. On the massive bed, Geralt was pinned beneath Yennefer, his massive, scarred hands gripping her hips with bruising force, his white head buried deep in the crook of her neck. He was letting out those exact same deep, low, rumbling growls that Y/N had thought belonged entirely to them. He was completely, utterly consumed, his thrusts heavy, frantic, and relentless, entirely blind and deaf to the world outside the silk sheets. Neither he nor Yennefer noticed the door moving.

Y/N staggered backward into the shadows of the hallway, the physical pain in their lower stomach spiking so violently they nearly fell to their knees. Jaskier caught them by the elbows, his own face turning deathly pale with a mixture of absolute horror and white-hot fury as he looked from the bed back to Y/N.

"Oh, gods," Jaskier whispered, his voice shaking. "Geralt... how could he? The absolute monster..."

Y/N gripped Jaskier’s arm, dragging him away from the door, running down the corridor and out into the freezing night air. The tears were streaming silently down their cheeks, their natural scent of wild honey turning completely sour, bitter, and rancid with grief.

"He broke it," Y/N said, their voice dead, hollow, and devoid of life as they frantically packed their few belongings into a leather saddlebag back at the tavern. "The sacred vow of mates. He gave to a Beta what belongs only to his Omega. He threw our souls into the dirt."

"Y/N, wait, please! We have to confront him! We have to make him look at what he's done!" Jaskier pleaded, trying to take the bags from their hands.

"Explain what, Jaskier? That he prefers her? That he forgot I exist?" Y/N looked up, their eyes hardening with a desperate, tragic resolve. "I am leaving Rinde tonight. I am going to find a mage, a druid, an elven sage—anyone who knows how to sever a mating bond. I refuse to stay bound to an Alpha who cannot stay faithful. I will rip his mark off my neck if it kills me."

"I'm coming with you," Jaskier stated firmly, reaching for his own pack.

"No," Y/N replied, placing a firm hand on the bard's chest. "Stay here. Wait for him to come back. And when he does, you look him in the eye and you tell him exactly what he did. Let him know the cost of his obsession."

The Awakening

An hour later, the heavy oak door to Yennefer’s bedchamber swung open. Geralt stepped out into the corridor, methodically adjusting his leather jerkin and buckling his sword belt. Yennefer followed closely behind, wrapping a loose silk robe around her pale shoulders, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. The post-coital haze was still heavily visible in Geralt’s dull golden eyes, but as his boots hit the stairs leading down to the tavern’s common area, a sudden, eerie silence struck him.

The sweet honey scent that had anchored his soul for over a year was entirely gone. In its place was nothing but the bitter, sharp, burning smell of Jaskier’s unadulterated anger.

Jaskier was sitting alone at a central table, an unopened bottle of wine sitting before him. He was staring directly at the base of the staircase, his eyes filled with a terrifying look of pure hatred.

"Where are they?" Geralt asked. His brow furrowed as a sudden, sharp prickle of unease pierced through the heavy fog in his mind. He looked toward the door of their shared room. "Y/N should be resting."

"They're gone, Geralt," Jaskier said, his voice dangerously low, vibrating with a rage that shook the table. "And they are never coming back to you."

"What are you talking about?" Geralt took a heavy step forward, his Alpha instincts suddenly flashing green, sensing an immediate, catastrophic danger to his pack dynamic. "Did something happen while I was out?"

"Did something happen? Oh, hear the great Witcher ask a question!" Jaskier spat, slamming his fist against the wood as he stood up, towering over the table. "Six times, Geralt! Six separate times Y/N collapsed onto the floorboards of this tavern, screaming in absolute agony because their lower stomach felt like it was being ripped apart by wild dogs! They didn't know why their body was failing them. So tonight, when the pain came back, we went looking for the source. And we found it. In that room upstairs. With her."

Geralt froze mid-step, his skin turning a deathly, chalky pale color. The thick, magical fog that had blanketed his mind for weeks suddenly shattered like glass under a hammer, violently tearing away to reveal the raw, bleeding reality of his actions. His breath caught in his throat. His medallion began to vibrate frantically against his chest.

"They... they saw?" Geralt choked out.

"They saw everything," Jaskier hissed, stepping around the table until he was inches from the Witcher’s face. "Y/N told me to tell you that you broke the sacred vow. They have left Rinde to find a sorcerer or a druid who knows how to sever a mating bond entirely. Because they refuse to stay bound to an Alpha like you."

Behind Geralt, Yennefer gasped, her violet eyes widening in absolute, genuine shock. She stepped around his massive frame, staring at him. "Mate?" she echoed, her voice laced with sudden horror. "What does your bard mean by mate, Geralt? You told me absolutely nothing about a mate!"

Geralt couldn't look her in the eye. He stared blankly at the floorboards, the heavy, suffocating weight of his betrayal crushing the air straight out of his lungs. "I... I am mated. To Y/N. I never hid it... the marks are right here."

Yennefer stepped closer, her breath hitching as she violently pulled back the collar of his leather jerkin. For the very first time, stripped of the distraction of her own spells, she saw it: the faint, distinct, deeply embedded scar of an Omega’s claim biting into his neck gland. She reeled back as if she had touched white-hot iron, her face twisting into disgust.

"I am a Beta, Geralt! I do not read pheromones or scents like your primitive kind do!" Yennefer shouted, her voice echoing off the rafters. "You never spoke a single word of them to me! You let me believe you were an unattached, lonely traveler! You brought me into your bed while your mate was down the hall, dying from the pain of your touch!"

"I... I don't know what happened," Geralt whispered, his voice cracking, a raw, broken sound that Jaskier had never heard from the legendary White Wolf. He gripped his head with his hands. "Every time I looked at you, the lilac... the gooseberries... I forgot. The bond went completely quiet. I couldn't feel their heartbeat anymore. It was like they didn't exist."

"Don't you dare blame my perfume or magic for your own disgusting weakness!" Yennefer screamed, her hands sparking with dangerous violet electricity. "I cannot believe you could do something so utterly repulsive. Y/N has every single right to rip that bond away from you and leave you an empty shell! If you were truly, deeply in love with your mate, no force on this Continent should have ever made you forget their face! If you care about that bond at all, you better start running. Find them before they find a way to sever it, or you will have to live the rest of your miserable, immortal life knowing you murdered your own soul."

The Hunt for the Lost Mate

The search dragged on for four agonizing months. Geralt, Yennefer, and Jaskier formed a tense, highly volatile alliance. Yennefer, deeply shaken by her involuntary role in the destruction of a sacred bond, used every ounce of her magical energy, opening continuous portals and casting complex tracking arrays across the Northern Kingdoms. Jaskier refused to leave Geralt’s side, not out of kindness, but to continuously berate the Witcher and ensure he didn't give up out of despair.

They followed a trail of broken rumors through the muddy roads of Redania, the cold hills of Ellander, and the dense forests of Cidaris. Through the telepathic bridge, Geralt could feel absolutely nothing but a dull, echoing, hollow ache—a terrifying sign that Y/N was actively, forcefully suppressing the connection, starving the bond of any emotional energy.

Geralt was deteriorating rapidly. His white hair was unkempt and matted, his eyes were perpetually bloodshot, and he had completely stopped eating or sleeping. The sheer guilt was eating through his muscular frame like acid.

The breakthrough finally occurred in a dense, lawless forest stretching along the southern border of Temeria. Yennefer suddenly reined in her horse, her hand glowing with a bright purple tracking aura. "Stop. I feel a massive spike of chaotic energy ahead. And... a physical distress signal."

Geralt didn't even wait for her to finish. The wind shifted, and a sudden scent hit his nostrils. It wasn't the pure, sweet honey and fresh rain he worshiped; it was a scent laced with terror, metallic blood, and a sudden, violent, stress-induced spike of pure, slick heat-fluid.

Y/N was in heat. And they were being hunted.

Geralt roared, spurring Roach into a frantic, deadly gallop, tearing through the thick briars and brush without any regard for his own safety. Jaskier and Yennefer struggled to keep up as the Witcher disappeared into the trees.

In a small, rocky clearing ahead, three rogue Alpha bandits had cornered Y/N against a steep cliff face. Y/N’s traveling clothes were violently torn, a deep, ragged gash bleeding heavily along their right thigh. Their face was heavily bruised, but they had clearly fought like a cornered animal—one Alpha lay groaning on the dirt with a completely shattered jaw. But the sheer, overwhelming physical pressure of a sudden, trauma-induced heat was paralyzing Y/N’s muscles, leaving them shivering and helpless.

"Look at this gorgeous little thing," the lead bandit sneered, stepping closer, his foul, unwashed Alpha scent choking the air. "An unprotected, marked Omega in heat, out in the wild. Just begging for a real Alpha to show them how a real mate tastes."

"Get... get away from me," Y/N gasped, clutching a broken tree branch with trembling hands, their eyes completely hazy with heat-fever.

Before the bandit could even raise a hand, a monstrous, earth-shaking roar echoed through the forest.

Geralt launched himself entirely off Roach’s back before the mare had even come to a halt. He hit the ground running, his silver sword already unsheathed and gleaming in the filtered light. His eyes were completely, entirely pitch black, his pupils having swallowed his golden irises whole as the absolute apex of feral Alpha rage took total control of his mutant body. His inner wolf had broken its chains, and it wanted blood.

The bandits barely had time to register the white hair before Geralt closed the distance. He moved like a whirlwind of lethal steel. With one brutal horizontal slash, the lead bandit’s weapon hand was severed at the wrist.

The second bandit lunged, but Geralt ducked beneath the strike, driving his armored elbow directly into the man’s throat with a sickening crunch, before spinning and delivering a massive, bone-shattering kick to the third man’s chest, sending him flying into the rocks.

The surviving bandits scrammed, bleeding, weeping, and screaming in terror as they disappeared into the deep woods.

Geralt let his silver sword clatter carelessly into the dirt. He turned slowly toward Y/N, his massive chest heaving violently as his heavy Alpha scent—now thick, terrifyingly possessive, and thick with an ancient dominance—flooded the entire clearing.

The Mating Heat (Explicit)

Y/N looked up through the haze of their fever, their vision swimming as they leaned heavily against the cold stone of the cliff. "Geralt...?"

The sight of Y/N’s bleeding wounds temporarily overrode the feral urge to immediately claim. Geralt dropped heavily to his knees in front of them, his massive hands trembling violently as he reached into his leather pouch, pulling out a small vial of healing salve and clean linen bandages.

"I'm here. I'm right here, my love. I'm so sorry. Let me fix you," he whispered frantically, his gravelly voice cracking with emotion. His large, scarred fingers were uncharacteristically gentle as he slit open the fabric of Y/N’s trousers to expose the jagged gash on their thigh.

Y/N hissed in sharp pain as he applied the cool, stinging ointment, but as Geralt’s large palms pressed against their skin to wrap the linen tightly around the wound, the intense, familiar warmth of his Alpha touch acted like oil thrown onto a raging fire. The heat in Y/N’s blood erupted into a boiling frenzy.

By the time the bandage was secure, Y/N’s proper, unsuppressed heat had taken complete control of their senses. A massive, intoxicating wave of hyper-sweet pheromones rolled off their body, so thick and potent that Jaskier and Yennefer, who had just managed to reach the edge of the clearing, stopped dead in their tracks.

Geralt’s head snapped up toward the trees. His pitch-black eyes locked onto his traveling companions. A low, vibrating, terrifyingly territorial growl rumbled from the absolute depths of his throat—a clear, animalistic warning that if either of them took a single step closer into his mate’s scent radius, he would slaughter them without hesitation.

"Stay back," Yennefer warned, her hand flying out to grab Jaskier’s collar, pulling the bewildered bard back into the thick brush. "His Alpha has completely taken over his cognitive mind. If we step into that clearing now, he will tear us to pieces. Give them the space."

Geralt turned back to Y/N, scooping them up into his massive arms effortlessly. He carried them away from the clearing and deep into a nearby, dark, sheltered stone cave. He laid them gently down on a thick bedding of his own heavy winter cloaks, the dark fabric immediately absorbing the sweet, clear heat-fluid that was pouring down Y/N’s inner thighs.

"Geralt, wait... I'm still angry at you, I still—" Y/N tried to protest, but the words died in their throat, dissolving into a high-pitched, needy whine as Geralt stripped away his leather jerkin and shirt, exposing his broad, heavily scarred chest. His cock was already completely free, fully erect and pulsing with a dark vein, its massive head leaking thick, clear pre-cum that dripped onto the stone floor.

"I can't wait, Y/N. I’ve been dying for four months," Geralt growled, his voice entirely primal. He grabbed Y/N’s ankles, dragging them down the cloaks before hoisting their legs high over his broad shoulders, exposing their dripping, swollen entrance to the cool cave air.

He lowered his massive weight down between their knees, the broad head of his shaft pressing directly against Y/N’s soaked, trembling opening. Without a single second of hesitation, he delivered one massive, unyielding thrust, burying his entire length to the absolute root inside them.

Y/N screamed out, a loud, echoing sound that bounced off the stone walls as their back arched completely off the cloaks. The sheer, colossal width of his mutant shaft stretched their tight walls to the absolute breaking point, completely filling the cold, empty void that had tortured them for months.

"Ah! Geralt! It's too deep!" Y/N sobbed, their hands scrambling frantically across his shoulders, their fingernails digging deep into his skin, drawing thin lines of blood.

Geralt didn't answer with words. He grabbed Y/N’s waist with both hands, locking them in place before he began to slam into them with a relentless, heavy, and punishingly deep rhythm. The cave filled with the raw, wet, explicit sounds of their coupling—the loud, frantic squelch of his thick shaft pulling completely out before driving back into their excess slick, and the heavy, rhythmic slaps of his lower stomach pounding against their bottom.

Every single heavy stroke hit Y/N’s deeply buried Omega spot with precision, sending massive waves of blinding pleasure straight to their brain. Y/N’s head thrashed against the cloaks, their mouth hanging open as they whimpered and whined under the weight of his pace.

"Please, Geralt... faster, give it to me," Y/N begged, their independent thought entirely incinerated by the heat.

Geralt let out a low, dark growl, his pace accelerating into a blurring, bruising speed. He pushed deeper and deeper, his heavy balls slamming against Y/N’s heat-slicked cheeks, until his pelvis came to a grinding, definitive halt against theirs.

Then, the biological lock began.

At the absolute base of his shaft, the flesh began to rapidly expand. The mutant knot swelled to twice its normal size, a solid, throbbing sphere of muscle stretching Y/N’s opening to its absolute biological limit, locking them completely together in a airtight seal.

"Geralt! You're knotting! Oh gods, it's so massive, it's tearing me apart!" Y/N shrieked, their internal walls clamping down around the massive sphere in a series of violent, rhythmic, and incredibly intense heat-climax spasms.

Geralt let out a loud, triumphant, animalistic roar that echoed out of the cave. He held Y/N completely pinned beneath him, his hips twitching violently as his knot fully flared, releasing thick, hot, endless ropes of Alpha seed deep into Y/N’s pulsing womb. The volume was immense, filling them completely and overflowing past the seal of the knot.

As he came, Geralt leaned down, his teeth pulling back as he buried his fangs directly into the old, faded mating scar on Y/N’s neck. He bit down hard, drawing a fresh drop of copper blood, pouring his renewed scent, his absolute submission, and his soul back into the connection. They remained locked together for hours in the dark, the heat forcing them to mate again and again over the course of two unbroken weeks.

The Conversation After

When the two weeks finally drew to a close, the frantic heat-fever broke, leaving behind the cool, quiet reality of the stone cave and the heavy conversational air.

Geralt sat quietly against the stone wall, Y/N resting entirely against his broad chest, securely wrapped in his dry cloak. The physical bond was fully restored, humming with a vibrant, golden energy through their veins, but the emotional bridge between them remained fragile and fractured.

"I need you to listen to me, Y/N," Geralt said, his voice raw, hoarse, and heavy with unshed tears. His massive arms wrapped tightly around Y/N’s waist, pulling them closer against his heartbeat. "When I met Yennefer in Rinde... it was as if a heavy, freezing fog had descended directly onto my brain. I don't know if it was the residual magic of the djinn, or some twisted compulsion she possessed, but whenever she was within my sight, all thoughts of you were forcefully wiped away. It was as if an iron wall had been built inside my head, hiding our bond from my own consciousness."

He pressed his face deep into Y/N’s hair, his broad shoulders shaking silently. "But the very second Jaskier told me you had seen us and left... that wall shattered completely. And I felt everything. I felt the six times you collapsed on the floorboards. I felt the physical agony of the betrayal rip through my own stomach. I have never felt such absolute self-loathing in my entire life. I am so sorry, Y/N. I will carry the shame of it until the day I die."

Y/N remained completely quiet for a long time, their fingers lightly tracing the scars on Geralt’s forearm, listening to the heavy, steady thumping of his heart.

"I believe you about the fog, Geralt," Y/N said softly, their voice trembling slightly. "I felt the precise moment it broke from across the Continent. But understanding why it happened doesn't magically erase the memory of walking up to that door and seeing you with her. It doesn't stop the pain I felt. It is going to take a very long time before I can ever fully trust your Alpha again."

They finally emerged from the mouth of the cave together, hand in hand. Jaskier and Yennefer were waiting patiently by a small campfire a few hundred yards away.

Yennefer stepped forward, her usual sharp, sarcastic demeanor completely replaced by an expression of deep, genuine remorse. She looked directly into Y/N’s eyes. "I want to apologize to you. Properly. I am a Beta, and I was entirely blind to the language of scents. Geralt should have told me the truth, but I should have seen the signs on his neck. I can see your bond clearly now—it is incredibly loud, almost deafening. But I also know that a body heals far faster than a mind. There will need to be an immense amount of work done before things are ever back to how they used to be."

"Thank you, Yennefer," Y/N said softly, accepting her nod.

The Pups and the Keep of the Wolves

True to his sacred vow, Geralt became an absolutely immaculate mate over the next several months of their journey. He anticipated Y/N’s every single need before they could even voice it, hunting their favorite wild game, gathering fresh berries, and never letting them out of his sight unless explicitly permitted. He carried all the heavy supply bags, built the campfires, and gently, thoroughly scented Y/N’s neck every single morning to reassure their inner Omega that their Alpha was present and protective. Slowly, meticulously, the trust was being rebuilt brick by brick.

Three months into their long journey back toward the northern lands, Y/N woke up at dawn feeling an entirely new, profound sensation. It wasn't the agonizing, hot tear of a failing bond, but a warm, heavy, swirling pool of pure golden energy settled deep within their lower stomach. Their natural scent changed overnight, shifting from pure wild honey to a rich, thick, milky sweetness that filled the campsite.

Geralt froze from across the camp, his head snapping toward Y/N as he dropped the firewood he had just gathered. His golden eyes widened to the size of saucers.

"Geralt?" Y/N asked, looking down at their hands resting over their stomach. "What is it?"

"You're... you're carrying," Geralt choked out, his voice thick with a sudden, overwhelming emotion. He scrambled across the dirt on his knees, his massive, calloused hand pressing flat and trembling against Y/N’s stomach. Through the fabric of their tunic, his heightened Witcher senses could distinctly detect two tiny, additional heartbeats fluttering with rapid, perfect precision. Pups. Twins. And the scent already settling into Y/N's womb carried the unmistakable, sharp genetic marker of his own bloodline.

"Oh, by the gods!" Jaskier gasped from his bedroll, clapping his hands together with a massive grin. "Witcher pups! The ballads I write about this will be absolutely legendary across the Continent!"

"We need to move north immediately," Geralt stated, his tone shifting into an intensely fierce, protective growl as he looked at the horizon. "The winter storms are coming early, and traveling on the open road is no longer safe for you in this condition. We must make the journey straight to Kaer Morhen. Vesemir and the other Witchers... they know the ancient elven texts. They will know how to assist in the birth of mutant pups. You will be completely safe behind the stone walls."

The long journey up the treacherous, ice-covered paths of the Blue Mountains was incredibly difficult, but Geralt treated Y/N as if they were made of the rarest, most fragile glass. He carried them in his arms up the steepest, slipperiest rock slopes, wrapped them in three separate layers of heavy bear furs, and kept a continuous, low, vibrating Alpha purr rumbling in his throat for hours on end to keep the pups completely calm inside the womb.

When they finally breached the massive, ancient iron gates of the old fortress of Kaer Morhen, Vesemir, Eskel, and Lambert were already waiting in the snowy courtyard, having smelled their approach from miles away.

"Well, look what the white wolf dragged home," Lambert smirked, crossing his arms. But his sarcastic jaw dropped completely open the moment the thick, undeniable scent of a heavily pregnant Omega flooded the mountain air.

Vesemir stepped forward, a rare, incredibly warm smile softening his heavily scarred, weathered face as he looked from Geralt down to Y/N. He placed a heavy, welcoming hand on Geralt’s shoulder. "Welcome home, children. Come inside, out of the freezing wind. Let’s get the grand hearth fire started."

Months later, inside the warm, safe stone walls of the ancient keep, surrounded by a makeshift pack of fiercely protective Witchers, a loyal bard playing soft melodies, and a supportive sorceress, Y/N gave birth. True to the unyielding law of the Witcher bloodline, they welcomed two healthy, strong, silver-haired twin boys—both born as true, powerful Alphas.

As Geralt sat in the center of the massive nesting bed, his powerful arms holding his mate and his two Alpha sons tightly against his chest, the final, lingering shadows of the old pain entirely dissolved into the dark stone, replaced by a deep, unbreakable, and eternal future.

A Pack Formed in Snow

The high stone walls of Kaer Morhen, which had stood cold and desolate for decades, were entirely transformed by the thick, sweet scent of a healthy Omega and the sharp, milky pheromones of two newborn Alpha pups. The great hearth fire in the center of the main hall crackled day and night, roaring with massive pine logs that Lambert and Eskel aggressively hauled inside, competing over who could provide the best wood to keep the nesting room warm.

Geralt had not left the massive wooden bed in the corner of the keep's master quarters for a week. His massive, scarred frame was positioned like an iron shield around Y/N, his large arms wrapped completely around their waist, holding them securely against his chest. Tucked safely between their bodies were the twins—two robust, silver-haired baby boys whose tiny scent glands were already pumping out faint, distinct notes of winter frost and cedar wood. True Alphas, even in the cradle.

"They have your jaw, Geralt," Y/N whispered one evening, their fingers gently brushing over the soft, silver fuzz on the firstborn’s head. "Both of them. Absolute terrors in the making."

Geralt let out a low, deeply rumbling purr from his chest—a vibration that physically rippled against Y/N’s back, instantly soothing the lingering phantom aches in their stomach. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the fresh, dark bite mark on Y/N’s neck, inhaling the sweet, pure honey scent that was finally free of any sour grief.

"They’ll be stronger than me," Geralt rumbled, his gravelly voice thick with an emotion he had never known before. "They have their mother’s heart. I’ll make sure they never learn my mistakes."

A soft, hesitant knock disrupted the quiet room, and the heavy oak door creaked open. Jaskier slipped inside, uncharacteristically quiet, carrying a steaming bowl of venison stew that Vesemir had spent hours brewing with mountain herbs to help Y/N recover their strength.

"I brought sustenance for the beautiful parent," Jaskier murmured, setting the bowl down on the bedside table before looking down at the twins with wide, emotional eyes. "By the gods, Geralt... they really are miniature copies of you. I’ve already written three stanzas of their birth ballad. I’m thinking of referencing the silver moons of Kaer Morhen."

"Keep it quiet, Jaskier," Geralt grunted, though there was no real heat in his voice. His Alpha was no longer threatened by the bard; Jaskier’s loyal Beta scent had become a permanent staple of their pack’s safety. "They just fell asleep."

"Oh, please, my voice is a soothing balm to these young ears," Jaskier scoffed lightly, though he lowered his voice to a theatrical whisper as he pulled up a stool. "Vesemir is practically vibrating down in the armory. He’s already digging out old wooden training swords from three centuries ago. I think he’s forgotten they can’t even hold their own heads up yet."

Y/N chuckled softly, leaning back against Geralt’s chest as the Witcher took a spoonful of the warm stew and gently fed it to them. "Let him. It’s nice to see this place have some life in it."

The Mark of Healing (Explicit)

By the third week, the pups were robust, sleeping peacefully in a beautifully carved wooden cradle placed right beside the roaring hearth, guarded watchfully by Eskel. For the first time since the birth, Y/N’s body felt entirely recovered, the heavy milk-sweetness of their scent shifting into a slick, heavy invitation that made Geralt’s golden eyes darken the moment he stepped into the bedchamber.

The trust between them had been a long, grueling climb, but watching Geralt worship the ground they walked on for months, seeing him handle their sons with trembling, reverent hands, had finally melted the last icy barrier around Y/N’s heart.

Geralt shut the heavy door behind him, locking it with a heavy iron latch. He didn't say a word as he crossed the room, his eyes entirely pitch-black, his massive frame radiating a thick, possessive Alpha musk that made Y/N’s core instantly drench with heat-slick.

"Geralt," Y/N breathed, standing up from the edge of the bed.

He closed the distance in a single stride, his large hands slamming against the stone wall on either side of Y/N's head as he pinned them in place. His chest heaved against theirs, his hot breath fanning across their lips. "I want you. I need to feel the bond completely open again. No more shadows. No more past."

"Take me," Y/N whispered, their hands flying to the laces of his leather trousers. "Show me I'm yours."

Geralt growled, a dark, primal sound that echoed off the stone. He stripped Y/N’s linen robe off their shoulders in one rough, impatient tug, exposing their flushed skin to the warm firelight. He dropped to his knees, his face burying directly into the crook of Y/N’s thighs. He inhaled deeply, groaning as the thick, sweet scent of their slick drove his Alpha brain into absolute frenzy.

He didn't hesitate. His long, rough tongue stroked heavily over Y/N’s drenched slit, drinking them in, forcing a loud, echoing sob from Y/N’s throat as their knees buckled. Geralt caught their hips with his massive hands, digging his fingers into their flesh to hold them upright while he devoured them, his tongue driving deep inside their tight channel over and over until Y/N was shaking, crying out as a sharp, intense climax tore through their core, dripping heavily down his jaw.

Geralt stood up, his white hair wildly disheveled. His cock was entirely free—huge, dark purple, and throbbing violently as a thick bead of pre-cum leaked from the head. He grabbed Y/N’s waist, spinning them around so they were face-first against the stone wall, bending them over at a sharp angle.

He aligned his massive, rigid length against their dripping opening. With one heavy, brutal thrust of his hips, he buried himself to the absolute root.

"Ah! Geralt!" Y/N shrieked, their palms pressing flat against the cold stone to stay upright as the massive width of his shaft stretched them completely wide, hitting their Omega spot with a bruising force.

Geralt let out a guttural roar, his hands locking onto Y/N’s hips like iron vices as he began to pump into them with a relentless, punishing speed. The room filled with the wet, explicit slaps of his lower stomach pounding against their bottom, the heavy squelch of his thick shaft tearing through their excess slick, and the loud, ragged gasps of their breathing. He didn't hold back; he drove into them deeper than he ever had before, every single strike re-aligning the spiritual threads of their broken bond, cementing his scent into their very bones.

"Geralt, I'm yours! Only yours!" Y/N wailed, their head tilting back as another shattering orgasm rolled over them, their tight walls clamping down around his cock like a vice.

The intense, violent friction was the final trigger his Alpha biology needed. Grinding his pelvis hard against their backside, the base of his shaft began to violently expand. The massive knot ballooned rapidly, stretching Y/N’s opening to an absolute, unbelievable limit, locking them completely together against the stone wall.

Geralt let out a loud, triumphant roar that shook the very foundation of the keep. He held them completely pinned, his entire body twitching as his knot fully flared inside them, unleashing wave after wave of thick, hot, endless Alpha seed deep into Y/N’s womb. The sheer volume overflowed, dripping down their legs as his release pumped continuously for minutes.

While locked helplessly by the knot, Geralt leaned down, his lips baring his sharp teeth as he bit down directly onto the mating mark on their neck, drawing a fresh drop of copper blood, pouring his entire soul, his apologies, and his eternal fidelity into the connection. They remained fused together against the wall for hours, the bond hummed with a flawless, golden light, entirely healed.

The White Wolf’s Pack

The next morning, the grand hall of Kaer Morhen was filled with a rare, peaceful warmth. A massive breakfast of roasted wild boar, fresh bread, and winter ale sat on the long wooden tables. Yennefer sat by the window, a cup of herbal tea in her hands, a soft, rare smile touching her lips as she watched Jaskier attempt to teach Lambert how to properly hold a lute without smashing it.

Geralt walked down the grand stone staircase, his arm wrapped tightly and possessively around Y/N’s waist. For the first time in over a year, his golden eyes were entirely clear, devoid of any guilt or sorrow. Y/N walked beside him, their skin glowing with the thick, healthy radiance of a fully satisfied, fully claimed Omega, their neck heavily scented with the crisp winter frost of their Alpha.

Vesemir sat at the head of the table, holding one of the silver-haired Alpha pups in his massive, scarred arms, rocking the boy gently while Eskel held the other.

"They have the look of true wolves," Vesemir said, his gravelly voice filled with immense pride as he looked up at Geralt and Y/N. "They will be fine warriors, Geralt. True Alphas of the School of the Wolf."

Yennefer stood up, walking over to Y/N. She reached out, her fingers gently touching Y/N’s shoulder, her violet eyes tracking the brilliant, golden telepathic thread that now pulsed flawlessly between the mates. "The work is done," the sorceress said softly. "The bond is stronger than it ever was before. I can see it. It’s beautiful."

"Thank you, Yennefer," Y/N said, offering her a genuine, warm smile.

Geralt pulled Y/N closer against his side, his large hand resting flat over their stomach, his inner wolf letting out a continuous, contented purr that filled the room. The road behind them had been broken by betrayal, stained with agony, and clouded by dark obsessions—but they had fought through the dark, tracked the scent of their souls across kingdoms, and built a new, unbreakable pack in the mountains.

They had their happy ending, wrapped in the safety of the snow, the wolves, and an eternal, faithful love.

The Winter Gathering

As the first true blizzard of the season slammed into the peaks of the Blue Mountains, rattling the ancient iron shutters of Kaer Morhen, the interior of the keep became a fortress of absolute warmth. The thick stone walls, which had historically only echoed with the grunts of brutal training and the silence of lonely mutants, were now entirely alive.

In the center of the grand hall, Vesemir had cleared away the heavy iron weapon racks to make room for a massive, circular rug woven from thick sheepskins—a nesting ground for the pups. Geralt’s two Alpha boys, barely two months old but already showing the heavy, dense bone structure of their Witcher lineage, rolled around in thick linen wraps. Their silver hair caught the orange firelight every time they twitched in their sleep.

Lambert sat on a low three-legged stool nearby, a whetstone scraping methodically against the edge of his silver blade. Despite his usual abrasive, mocking demeanor, his heavy Alpha scent was consciously dialed back, replaced by a strangely protective, mellow note that helped keep the nursery space calm.

"I’m just saying, Geralt," Lambert grunted, squinting down the edge of his sword, "if the firstborn keeps pulling on my leather laces with that kind of grip, we’re going to have to skip the wooden swords entirely. Boy’s got a fist like a rock already. A true Alpha."

Geralt sat at the long oak table, a large wooden mug of dark winter ale between his massive palms. His golden eyes never wandered far from Y/N, who was resting on a cushioned bench right beside the hearth, a soft wool blanket draped over their legs.

"They’ll learn control first," Geralt rumbled, his gravelly voice dropping into that low, soothing register that kept his mate’s instincts grounded. "Vesemir’s old texts emphasize baseline discipline before muscle memory. I won't have them breaking things around the keep before they can even walk."

"Oh, let them break a few things!" Jaskier chimed in, stepping out from the kitchen corridor while wiping his hands on a stained white apron. The bard had taken it upon himself to manage the keep's winter provisions, ensuring Y/N’s meals were heavy with fats and specific mountain herbs to maintain their stamina. "A keep without a few shattered vases or scratched floorboards is simply a tomb, Geralt. Look at this place! It actually smells like a home now. Honey, pine, cedar... it’s completely revolutionized my poetic output. I’ve written an entire second movement to the birth ballad."

"If you sing it while I’m trying to sleep, bard, I’ll throw you off the battlements," Eskel warned softly from the corner, though a rare, amused smirk played on his heavily scarred face as he carefully adjusted the blanket over the secondborn twin.

Y/N leaned back against the stone hearth, a peaceful sigh escaping their lips. The sheer sensory input of the room—the scent of their Alpha’s crisp winter frost mixing with the loyal Beta warmth of Jaskier and the protective, territorial presence of the other Wolf Witchers—created a perfect, impenetrable cocoon of safety. The trauma of Rinde, the agonizing months of running, and the sour taste of betrayal felt like a lifetime ago. The bond hummed between Y/N and Geralt, flawless and heavy with absolute, unyielding devotion.

Claims in the Hearthfire (Explicit)

Later that night, after the great hall had cleared and the twins were safely tucked into their heavy wooden cradle under Vesemir’s watchful eye downstairs, Geralt guided Y/N back up to their private quarters. The room was fiercely hot, the smaller fireplace having been stoked to a roaring blaze that cast long, dancing shadows across the massive four-poster bed.

The moment the heavy iron latch slid into place, the quiet, domestic Alpha vanished. Geralt turned, his pupils instantly blowing wide until his eyes were two pools of midnight black. The thick, musky scent of his arousal flooded the small room, instantly triggering a heavy, breathless shudder from Y/N’s core.

"Geralt," Y/N whispered, their back pressing against the closed oak door as their own sweet honey pheromones flared in response, their thighs instantly growing slick with a heavy, transparent heat-fluid.

"You're glowing tonight," Geralt growled, his voice deep, gravelly, and entirely feral. He crossed the floor in three heavy strides, his massive hands reaching out to grab the hem of Y/N’s linen tunic. With one rough, upward jerk, he pulled the fabric completely over their head and cast it aside, leaving them entirely bare in the firelight.

He didn't wait. Geralt dropped heavily to his knees, his massive shoulders pinning Y/N’s hips against the wood of the door. He buried his face directly into the junction of their thighs, inhaling deeply with a raw, shuddering groan that vibrated against Y/N’s sensitive skin. His long, rough tongue stroked upward, licking away the thick, sweet slick that ran down their inner thighs, lapping it up with a frantic, desperate hunger.

"Ah! Geralt, please," Y/N cried out, their fingers tangling wildly into his long, white hair, pulling him closer as their hips involuntarily rolled against his mouth. The rough friction of his tongue driving deep into their tight, sensitive opening sent a sharp, electric jolt straight to their brain. He ate them out with a relentless, heavy rhythm, his thumbs digging into the flesh of their hips to hold them still while his mouth completely devoured them, driving Y/N over the edge into a breathless, shaking climax that left them weeping against the door.

Geralt stood up, his own breath hitching as he stripped away his leather trousers. His cock bounced free—colossal, rigid, and throbbing violently, the dark purple vein pulsing under the skin as thick ropes of pre-cum leaked from the heavy head. He grabbed Y/N by the waist, lifting them effortlessly before throwing them onto the center of the massive feather mattress.

He crawled between their knees, his massive, heavily scarred chest pinning Y/N down into the furs. He aligned the scorching head of his shaft against their completely drenched, twitching entrance. With one massive, unyielding lunge of his hips, he buried himself to the absolute root inside them.

"Geralt! Oh gods!" Y/N shrieked, their eyes flying wide as their back arched completely off the bed. The sheer, stretching width of his mutant cock filled them to an unbelievable degree, hitting their internal Omega spot with an intense, bruising force that shattered what was left of their sanity.

Geralt let out a low, victorious growl, his fingers locking into Y/N’s hands, pinning their arms securely above their head as he began to move. He drove into them with a brutal, relentless pace, his hips slamming against theirs with a heavy, wet, rhythmic slap that echoed through the quiet room. Every single thrust was deep, unedited, and punishingly thorough, the hot friction of Y/N’s tight, pulsing walls clamping down around his length with every single stroke.

"Look at me," Geralt commanded hoarsely, his black eyes boring down into theirs as his white hair fell around their faces like a curtain. "Tell me who owns you. Tell me whose scent is in your skin."

"Yours... always yours, Geralt! Ah!" Y/N cried out, their legs wrapping tightly around his thick waist, pulling him even deeper into their core as another massive, toe-curling orgasm slammed through their body.

The intense, rhythmic squeezing of Y/N’s walls triggered the final, primal lock of his Alpha biology. Grinding his pelvis hard against theirs, the base of his shaft began to swell violently. The knot ballooned rapidly, expanding to twice its width, stretching Y/N’s opening to its absolute structural limit and locking them completely together in a airtight, biological seal.

Geralt let out a loud, deafening roar that rumbled through the stones of the keep. His entire body locked up, muscles straining as his knot fully flared inside them, unleashing massive, hot, endless waves of his Alpha seed deep into Y/N’s pulsing womb. The volume was immense, filling them completely and overflowing past the lock, soaking the dark furs beneath them.

While locked helplessly together by the knot, Geralt leaned down, his lips pulling back as he buried his sharp canines directly into the raised mating scar on Y/N’s neck. He bit down hard, drawing a fresh drop of copper blood, pouring his renewed scent and his absolute, immortal submission back into their soul. They remained fused together in the quiet room for hours, the bond vibrating with a flawless, golden light that nothing on the Continent could ever break again.

The Legacy of the Wolf

By the time the spring thaw finally arrived, cracking the heavy glaciers on the peaks of the mountains and sending fresh, clear water rushing down into the valley, the twins were already crawling across the flagstones of the grand hall.

Yennefer stood by the open courtyard gates, her heavy fur cloak draped over her arm as she prepared her horse for the journey back to Vengerberg. She looked back over her shoulder, her violet eyes settling on Y/N, who was laughing as Jaskier tried to retrieve his favorite silk hat from the clutches of the firstborn twin.

Geralt stepped up behind Y/N, his large, scarred hand resting possessively over their hip, his heavy Alpha scent wrapping around them like an invisible shield.

"The path ahead is clear," Yennefer said softly, a genuine, warm respect in her tone as she nodded to Y/N. "You’ve built something rare here. A true pack. Keep them safe."

"We will," Y/N replied, leaning back into the solid, warm chest of their Alpha.

As Yennefer rode out through the iron gates, her portal flashing purple before disappearing into the crisp mountain air, Geralt turned Y/N in his arms. He looked down at them, his golden eyes bright, clear, and overflowing with a fierce, quiet adoration.

"They’ll be ready for training in a few years," Geralt murmured, his thumb gently tracing the fresh, dark bite mark on Y/N’s neck. "But until then... they’re just our boys."

Y/N smiled, reaching up to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. "Our Alpha boys, Geralt. The future of the Wolf."

With the pack fully gathered, the betrayal fully healed, and the sacred bond anchored deep within the ancient stones of Kaer Morhen, the White Wolf and his mate had finally found their eternal, unyielding peace.

The Covenant of the Pack

The sun dipped low beneath the jagged teeth of the Blue Mountains, painting the sky in deep bruises of violet and burnt gold. It was the first evening of late spring when the mountain air didn't bite with ice, but instead carried the crisp, clean scent of melting snow, pine resin, and damp earth.

Down in the courtyard, the shadows lengthened over the ancient stones. Jaskier sat on the edge of the well, his fingers moving lazy and unhurried over the strings of his lute, letting a soft, winding melody drift up into the rafters of the keep. Beside him, Lambert was grumbling over a leather stirrup, but his posture was entirely relaxed, his heavy Alpha musk completely quieted, blending seamlessly with the baseline scent of the keep.

Up on the high stone battlements, away from the chatter below, Geralt stood like a statue carved from the mountain itself. His broad back was braced against the weathered granite parapet, his long white hair caught in the gentle evening breeze. But he wasn't looking at the horizon. His golden eyes, bright and completely unclouded, were locked entirely onto Y/N.

Y/N stood beside him, cradling both twins against their chest. The boys were growing rapidly, their small bodies solid and heavy with the dense, unnatural muscle of true mutant Alphas. They had fallen asleep under the heavy warmth of the fading sun, their tiny, silver-tufted heads tucked beneath Y/N’s chin, their scents—frost and cedar—soft and clean against Y/N’s skin.

Geralt slid his massive, calloused hand over Y/N’s hip, his long fingers splaying over the small of their back, pulling them tightly against his side. The physical touch was automatic now, a constant, instinctual reassurance that his inner wolf demanded every hour of every day. Through the restored telepathic bridge, Y/N could feel the steady, rhythmic pulse of his devotion—a deep, booming frequency of absolute love, entirely stripped of the old, agonizing fog.

"Vesemir wants to mark their heights on the main hall doorframe tomorrow," Y/N whispered, leaning their head against Geralt’s thick shoulder. "He swears they’ve grown an inch since the thaw."

Geralt let out a low, vibrating purr deep within his chest, the sound rumbling directly against Y/N’s temple, instantly washing over the twins and causing the firstborn to let out a tiny, contented sigh in his sleep. "He’s probably right. They’re eating through the winter larder faster than Lambert ever did."

He shifted, turning his body fully toward Y/N, his large hand moving up to gently cup the back of their neck. His thumb swept back and forth over the dark, deeply embedded mating scar—the permanent vow they had forged in blood, broken in agony, and rebuilt through the raw fire of the cave.

"I look at them," Geralt murmured, his gravelly voice dropping into a rough, emotional whisper that belonged only to Y/N, "and I look at you. And I remember the dark. I remember the cold in Rinde when I couldn't feel you."

Y/N shifted the sleeping boys slightly, looking up into the dark gold of his eyes. There were no more tears, no more sour tang of grief in their pheromones—only the rich, syrupy sweetness of wild honey, heavy and entirely satisfied. "The cold is gone, Geralt. You brought us home. You spent every single day proving you would stay."

"I will spend every day of the rest of my life proving it," Geralt whispered fiercely, his black pupils flaring slightly as his Alpha instincts flared with a protective, quiet pride. He leaned down, his lips brushing softly against the mark on Y/N’s neck, inhaling their scent down to the absolute bottom of his lungs. "You are my mate. My only mate. Nothing on this earth will ever cloud my eyes again."

"I know," Y/N breathed, tilting their head to give him deeper access, their soul humming in flawless, golden synchronization with his. "We are the pack now."

Below them, Jaskier’s lute hit a long, sweet, concluding chord that echoed off the mountain face, settling quietly into the valley. The ancient iron gates of Kaer Morhen stood shut against the lawless, chaotic world outside, keeping the darkness of the Continent completely at bay. Inside the walls, surrounded by the wolves, the snow, and a love that had survived the ultimate betrayal, the White Wolf and his Omega were finally, unyieldingly whole.

Epilogue: The Marks Left in Stone

Five years passed over the Blue Mountains like a single, long winter’s night.

The ancient training grounds of Kaer Morhen, once silent save for the whistling wind and the ghost of old tragedies, were now filled with the sharp, explosive laughter of youth. The spring sun beat down on the dirt courtyard, melting the last stubborn patches of ice into the gravel.

In the center of the ring, two young boys—scarcely five years old but already possessing the broad chests and dense, heavy bone structure of their Witcher lineage—circled each other. Their hair was a brilliant, striking silver, tied back loosely with leather cords just like their father’s. They held small, weighted wooden training swords, their bright gold eyes entirely focused.

"Keep your footing, Varek," the firstborn, Garrick, grunted, his scent already carrying the sharp, heavy wood-smoke undertone of a developing Alpha.

"Watch your own flank, brother," Varek shot back, a fiercely competitive grin splitting his face as he shifted into a flawless School of the Wolf defensive stance.

Up on the wooden balcony overlooking the courtyard, Y/N stood with their arms leaning over the railing, a soft smile playing on their lips. Their skin carried the vibrant, radiant glow of a completely fulfilled Omega, their scent—thick wild honey and fresh pine—completely saturating the mountain air.

A massive, heavy warmth materialized behind them. Geralt wrapped his powerful arms around Y/N’s waist from behind, pulling their back flush against his broad chest. He buried his face into the crook of Y/N's neck, inhaling deeply, his rough tongue tracing the dark, heavy mating mark that sat prominently on their skin. A continuous, deeply rumbling Alpha purr vibrated from his chest straight into Y/N’s bones.

​"They're moving too fast," Geralt rumbled, his gravelly voice filled with an immense, quiet pride as he watched his sons. "Vesemir already has Garrick and Varek reading the bestiaries. They can identify a drowner's weak points before they can even write their own names."

"They have your blood, Geralt," Y/N murmured, leaning back into his absolute warmth, their fingers looping through his large, calloused hands. "They were always going to be wolves."

Down below, the heavy iron doors of the keep creaked open. Jaskier stepped out into the sunlight, wearing a ridiculous, bright crimson coat, carrying a fresh parchment scroll and a quill.

"Alright, my miniature monstrous dynamic duo!" Jaskier called out, clapping his hands. "Vesemir says training is paused for midday meal. I’ve also added three new verses to the Saga of the Silver Twins, and I require you both to strike a heroic pose for visual inspiration."

"No poses, bard!" Lambert bellowed, walking out behind him with a massive platter of roasted mountain goat and fresh bread. "They're training to kill monsters, not look pretty in your cheap taverns."

Eskel followed, a rare, relaxed smile on his scarred face as he walked over to the twins, effortlessly catching both of their wooden swords as they playfully lunged at him. "Inside, Garrick, Varek. Your grandfather brewed the stew himself."

The twins let out a synchronized, boisterous cheer, dropping their guard and racing each other toward the grand hall, their high-energy Alpha pheromones filling the courtyard with life, joy, and the undeniable promise of a future.

Geralt watched them go, his grip tightening just a fraction around Y/N’s waist. The telepathic bond between them, once a frayed and agonizing wire, was now a massive, golden river of pure, unadulterated devotion. Every single day of the last five years had been a quiet testament to his vow. He had cherished them, protected them, and worshipped the very ground they walked on, entirely erasing the shadows of Rinde from their hearts.

He turned Y/N in his arms, looking down into their eyes, the dark gold of his irises overflowing with an immortal, unyielding love.

"I have everything," Geralt whispered, his lips pressing firmly, reverently against theirs. "My mate. My pack. My home."

Y/N smiled into the kiss, wrapping their arms around the White Wolf’s neck as the mountain wind carried the sounds of laughter from the grand hall. The scars of the past remained, but they were nothing more than lines in the stone—proof that they had survived the winter, conquered the dark, and built an eternal kingdom in the snow.

“And what am I to do with him?” Vesemir asks, looking back up at the court. “He’s no child surprise, far too old for the mutations to take.” The beta growls a low warning, which is unimpressive, but Vesemir doesn’t allow the challenge to go unpunished. Growling back louder, a vicious snarl that sends the beta aback. A fraction of a movement caught Vesemir’s eyes: a young girl hanging off the skirts of her maid. The red swollen mark on her cheek would soon become a proper bruise. She was a timid thing, holding on to a well-cared-for doll. “She’ll do,” Vesemir says, his eyes narrowing on the girl. "She’ll make a fine playmate for my youngest.” “No!” The forgotten omega at his feet snaps, grasping Vesemir’s arm, pulling attention back onto him. “You will not touch her.” Cornflower blue meets harden amber, the first time Vesemir had seen the omega’s eyes full of defiance. The pieces clicked; maybe he would have a use for this omega after all. “Very well, then,” Vesemir shacks his arm out of the boy’s grasp. “I’ll take the omega off your hands, as well as his dowry.” “Dowry!” The beta yells, “Yes, if he is to mate one of my sons, a dowry is to be paid,” Vesemir explains, taking the time to now circle around the omega. “Then again, you are trying to cheat your way out of a 1,000 crown contract. You must not even have a dowry for your children.” A few snickers meet Vesemir’s ears, it seems someone else was enjoying the look of humiliation on the Lord’s face. After that, getting the dowry, a horse for the omega, and a bag of his belongings didn't take much convincing. “Go witcher.” The lord sneered, “Do not expect a warm welcome again.” —------- It was a long ride to where ever the Witcher alpha was taking him. While Jaskier was pleased to be away from his father, he will dearly miss his little sister and hope she will be safe without him there to protect her. The alpha didn’t speak much or at all, only deeming him worthy of conversation to command when to rest, eat, and water the horses. Jaskier wasn’t good at silence, so he spent most of the time lost in his head, humming songs or speaking softly to himself. He had made it through most of Hannelore Varidil’s epic poem, which he had memorized years ago. When they had stopped in a village outside of Kaedwen after weeks of camping outside, Jaskier was ready for a real bed, even if it was filled with straw. The Witcher dismounted effortlessly, while Jaskier still hadn’t mastered it. Once his feet touched solid ground, a young boy quickly gathered the reins in exchange for a few coins. “Come.” One-word commands. It seems that all the conversation Jaskier will ever have. Vesemir leads him to some form of market, stalls set up near two established buildings, the inn, and a tailor. Assuming they were heading for the inn, Jaskier didn’t think much but walked forward, only to be stopped by Vesemir. “Finally going to sell me then?” Jaskier couldn’t help the quip as it left his mouth. Then, he braced himself for a smack that never came, only a chuckle. “Not worth the hassle.” Vesemir answered, “They’ll probably arrest me for kidnapping.” “Fair. So what are we doing?” “Shopping.” Vesemir turned to the nearest stall, selling vegetables, and moved on before finding a traveling merchant with what he needed. “A master Witcher,” the merchant smiled. Vesemir didn’t need his secondary gender to tell him what he needed from the man. The Distaste was obvious, but he wouldn't turn down a paying customer.

“A blue Opal pendant to match your omega’s beautiful eyes.” The pendant was beautiful, and its silver wiring suited it better than the gilded sapphire next to it. Vesemir huffed but didn’t correct the merchant; instead settled on a crescent moon-shaped jasper with bronze wiring. “My mate prefers the simpler things in life,” Vesemir admits, holding the necklace in the light. “A young thing such as him-“ 

“I wasn’t aware we had an arrangement.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, watching the omega smile out of the corner of his eye. “I mean our situation.” He looks up and meets Jaskier’s eye again. “You can’t keep traveling like this, Jask. We need to get you somewhere safe. Comfortable.”

“But I am safe,” Jaskier pouts. “I feel safer with you than I do anywhere else.”

“That’s the problem, little lark,” Geralt says, the endearment spilling from his lips like water. Every time he calls him that, Jaskier’s shoulders relax like Geralt’s taken a great weight off them. He makes it a point to do it as frequently as possible now. “I told you before, the Path is no place for a child. And all that aside, you’re going to keep getting sicker if we don’t let you rest.”

Jaskier waves him off, sinking back into his bath. “You worry too much.”

“No, you don’t worry enough!”

The omega flinches at his tone, glaring at him from the corner of his eye. 

Geralt sighs, looking at him apologetically. “I just mean you should take care, Jaskier. If you’re this ill barely a third of the way into your pregnancy, what do you expect to happen later on?”

“I’m not that ill.”

Geralt scoffs. “You turned down a minced pie today, Jaskier.”

He purses his lips, caught. “Fine. You’re getting rid of me, then?”

Geralt should take it for the opening it is. He knows how dangerous traveling with him is for Jaskier. How much worse will it get when he has a child at his breast? Geralt’s new worst nightmare had quickly become returning from a hunt to find Jaskier taken, hurt, beaten, ripped apart and sold for parts. And besides all that, it was becoming dangerous for Geralt. He’s never been so attached to someone—perhaps Eskel or Vesemir, but they know the dangers of their line of work and can fend for themselves. It’s hard to focus on monster hunting when half his mind is preoccupied with the omega waiting for him back at the inn. 

A distracted witcher is a dead witcher.

“No,” Geralt says, not even surprising himself.

There’s no question. He physically can’t bring himself to let Jaskier go. He’s tried considering it a time or two in the months they’ve been together, and each time, his stomach ties itself in knots.

The omega relaxes in the tub. “Good. Because as much as I love you, Geralt, there are some things even you can do to break my heart.”

His tone is light, teasing, and he doesn’t seem to realize the impact the words have on Geralt.

He’s still reeling from those words (I love you echoing in his mind) when Jaskier finally pulls himself from the bath, dripping wet, pruned, and smelling of chamomile. Perhaps the sight, perhaps the smell, perhaps those words muddle his mind enough for Geralt to blurt out, “Come to Kaer Morhen with me.”

Jaskier blinks up at him from the towel he’d been drying himself with, his hair tufted up on one side from where he’d rubbed it. “Kaer Morhen?”

“The homeplace of the witchers,” Geralt explains. “The wolf witchers, at least. It’s where I grew up. It’s where I—where we go every winter.”

“And you… want me to come with you?”

“Is that… is that alright? For me to ask?”

Jaskier chuckles and comes to where Geralt is sitting at the edge of the bed—there’s only one, since they’re on a strict budget, after all—and insinuates himself between Geralt’s knees. He doesn’t even seem to be aware of his nudity. Geralt decidedly is aware of it. “Dear witcher,” Jaskier says fondly. His hands land on either of Geralt’s shoulders and his scent, warm and happy, surrounds Geralt’s senses. “Never doubt how much your generosity means to me. It sounds lovely, but…”

“But?” Geralt gives into temptation, lets his hands settle in the dip of Jaskier’s hips, his wrists almost brushing the soft skin of his ever-growing belly. Some deep, base instinct makes him want to rub his scent glands over Jaskier’s bump, to claim him and the pup as Geralt’s. He digs his fingers into his bard’s hips to keep from doing that. He hasn’t been given permission. Jaskier has given no indication that he sees Geralt as anything more than a close friend, a platonic person who could protect him and his pup. The last thing Geralt wants is to breach his trust.

Jaskier purrs softly, not seeming to realize he’s doing it. He fiddles with Geralt’s hair. “I feel as if I’m taking advantage of you.”

Geralt snorts. “Trust me, if I didn’t want you here, I would have dumped you before we even left Posada.”

The bard tips his head and smiles and gods above Geralt just wants to pull him into his lap and press his face against his neck where his scent is strongest. Still grinning, Jaskier asks, “Why do you put up with me, witcher? You don’t seem the type to form attachments.”

“I’m not.”

“And yet… here we are.”

Geralt observes him carefully in the candlelight. “Here we are.” He drags his thumb absently across Jaskier’s ribs, watching goosebumps rise in his wake. Jaskier takes a breath at that, pulling himself away from Geralt to continue drying and dressing himself. Geralt mourns the loss of his touch but lets him go.

“So.” Jaskier twists open a jar of sweet-smelling oil he’d been rubbing on his belly of late. I may adore this child with every fiber of my being, Geralt, but that does not mean I wish to have the marks of pregnancy on my youthful form for the rest of eternity. “Kaer Morhen?”

“Mmm.” Geralt picks up his swords again, going about cleaning and sharpening them absently while he watches Jaskier go about his routine. “Vesemir will be there. He’s a healer, of sorts. He could help with the delivery. Or we could bring someone if you like. A midwife of your choosing.”

Jaskier hums back at him, a mannerism he’s beginning to pick up from Geralt without even realizing it. “Vesemir?”

“My… father, I suppose.” At the omega’s inquisitive look, he goes on. “Witchers are born human and come—came, rather—to the keep when they were young. Many were orphans. Some… weren’t.” Jaskier clearly catches on but graciously deigns not to dig in. “Vesemir was one of the teachers before the sacking of Kaer Morhen, when mages destroyed all knowledge of making new witchers and killed all but a handful of us. Vesemir is the oldest living witcher. He took it upon himself to care for the keep and the last few witchers.”

“You speak fondly of him,” Jaskier says. “Are you close?”

Geralt grunts, not in agreement or disagreement. “I suppose. As close as witchers let themselves get. We have a lot in common. All the witchers left do. No one quite understands the life of a witcher more than another witcher.”

“How many of you are there left?”

“Of my school, the wolf witchers”—he thumbs his medallion—“there’s only me, Vesemir, and my brothers Eskel and Lambert. There are several others left from other schools, but we’re not nearly as close.”

“So, this winter,” Jaskier says. “Would it just be us and Vesemir? Or will your brothers be there?”

“Hard to tell,” Geralt shrugs. “We usually don’t know who’s going to show up until they arrive at the keep. The past couple years, Lambert has brought a guest.”

Dark eyebrows rise as Jaskier slips into a clean change of smallclothes. “A guest? Then it won’t be strange if I come?”

Geralt snorts. “No, it will be strange. Lambert’s guest is a witcher from one of the other schools.” He meets Jaskier’s eye. “None of us have ever brought home a human. Not since it’s just been the four of us.”

“Let alone a pregnant omega?” Jaskier snorts. He flicks a wrist, playing at being scandalized. “Imagine what they’ll say, Geralt! They’ll accuse you of stealing my virtue!”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “As if you had any to begin with.”

Jaskier gasps, clutching his chest. “You wound me, darling. I’ll have you know I was the picture of innocence before—well, before this.” The hand at his chest smooths over his stomach as he looks down fondly.

Geralt hums in response, languishing in the omega’s happy scent as he strokes his baby bump. “They’ll know it’s not mine anyway.”

“How so?”

“Witchers are sterile,” Geralt says. He expects the shocked, saddened look Jaskier shoots his way, and waves him off. “I’m not sensitive about it. It’s part of the Trials to become a witcher, and they don’t hide the information from us beforehand. We go in knowing we will either die in the trials or come out the other side an alpha with no ability to breed.”

“Oh.” Jaskier wilts a little, his scent—usually a mix of honey and lilies—dips toward something like sandalwood. “I’m sorry, Geralt.”

“It’s not your fault, Jask.”

“No, I mean.” He throws his chemise over his head and scrambles up onto the bed with Geralt, laying his head on the witcher’s shoulder with no regard for the sword in his hands. Again, that blind trust that makes Geralt wonder what he did to deserve it. “Here I am, running around and making poor life decisions while carrying a pup, and you can’t…”

“Jask.” Geralt nuzzles his hair absently to get his attention. The omega tips his head up to look at him with watery blue eyes. Geralt sets the sword aside—again—and resolves to finish it in the morning. “I told you, I don’t care. Especially not when I get to see how happy you are every day.”

Jaskier squints, mushing his cheek against Geralt’s shoulder, looking every bit like a contented house cat. “I am happy. I feel as if I should be worried or anxious or afraid, but I’m not. I have many regrets in my life, but this is not one of them. I’m glad I have the pup. I’m glad I have my freedom. I’m glad I have you. You’re a dear friend, you know that, Geralt?”

Geralt grunts.

“You are!” Jaskier shoves his arm gently, not even enough to dislodge himself from Geralt’s shoulder. “Not many people would be willing to put up with me, with or without the child. And here you are, not just tolerating me, but taking care of me. Why is that?”

Geralt shrugs with his free shoulder.

“Oh, don’t get silent on me now, Geralt! We’re having a heart-to-heart!”

“Exactly.”

“Ugh!” Jaskier flings himself back on the bed, kneeing Geralt in the thigh as he squirms to get comfortable. Geralt pinches his leg in retaliation, making him giggle. “Fine. Don’t tell me, then. I’ll just assume you are susceptible to my charm and wit. You saw me in Posada and thought, ‘Yes. Now there’s a man I’d let rub chamomile on my lovely bo—‘”

“It was one time, Jask.”

“One very memorable time, on my part.” Jaskier grins, cheeky and lecherous. With a face like that, there’s no wonder he was knocked up before the age of twenty. 

Geralt makes himself end that line of thought the second it arrives. 

Instead of admiring his friend’s fuckability, he grunts. “It’s not too late for me to leave you along the road somewhere.”

“No!” Jaskier wraps his arms around Geralt’s waist from behind, his head knocking against his hip. Geralt twists to accommodate him, letting the bard rest his head in his lap. “I’ll surely shrivel up and die the moment you leave me. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you?”

“I think you overestimate how much you need me. You’d make it just fine on your own.”

The omega tips his head to level an unimpressed look up at him. “When we met, I was getting booed out of taverns and stuffing bread in my pants so I’d have something to eat later.”

Geralt just hums.

Jaskier pokes him in the side. “I’m happy with you, Geralt. It’s a peculiar arrangement, but I couldn’t ask for anything better.”

Geralt watches him for a moment, aware his face was probably too fond at the moment but too content with the omega’s closeness to care. “You pet your stomach when you’re tired, you know that?”

Jaskier looks down. Sure enough, his hand had strayed to the little bump and was smoothing over it. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Winter isn’t for another two months still.”

“Very astute, love.”

Geralt snorts and tugs his hair until Jaskier yelps and bats his hands away. “I mean, I think we should find somewhere safe for you until it’s time to make the trip to Kaer Morhen.”

Jaskier frowns and turns to lay on his back, his head still in Geralt’s lap. The hand that had tugged his hair now smooths it back. “You want to split up?”

“Only for a couple weeks,” Geralt says. “The Path, as I’ve said, is no place for you right now. You’re only going to get more uncomfortable in the coming months, and you need to be somewhere you can rest and relax. It would… I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you or the pup because you’re with me.”

“What do you propose, then?”

“I can put you up somewhere. Somewhere with good weather and plenty of things for you to do. Somewhere you can relax and pick at that lute you’ve barely touched the past few weeks.”

Jaskier frowns. “Fingers were too swollen.”

“The swelling will go down if you rest.” Geralt leans over him to catch his eye. “And as much as I love having you close, knowing you and the pup are safe and healthy, I’d feel better knowing you were somewhere you can get warm baths and hot food whenever you want.”

“How do you propose we do that, hmm? It isn’t as if we have the money.”

Geralt puts a hand on Jaskier’s chest to hold him steady as he reaches over the edge of the bed for his sword. He unclasps the pin there, the one he’d pulled from Renfri’s body as a reminder all those years ago. He holds it out for Jaskier. 

The bard takes it and studies it. “I’ve seen this but didn’t want to ask.” His thumb runs carefully across the clasp. “I figured it was sentimental. It’s fine craftsmanship. I’m sure it would sell for a pretty penny, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“It is,” Geralt says. “I’m not sentimental. The person who gave it to me is long dead. It was more of a… reminder to myself, than anything else. I don’t…” He looks at Jaskier. The bard was now holding the hand Geralt had put on his chest, stroking his wrist softly as he watches Geralt with those wide, innocent eyes. “I don’t think I need it anymore.”

Jaskier’s heart rate spikes for a moment as he turns the pin over in his hand, pink flushing his cheeks. “If you’re sure,” he says. “I don’t want you giving up any more than you already have for me, Geralt. I’ll never be able to repay you for your kindness.”

“I’m not doing this so you’ll pay me back.”

“Then why are you?”

The same question from earlier, just rephrased. Glancing at Jaskier, Geralt knows he did it on purpose. Geralt sighs and takes the pin back, just to give himself something to do. “Because you’re special, Jask.” The bard beams, and Geralt nudges him softly. “Don’t let it go to your head. I’m going to sell this so you don’t freeze or go hungry while I’m gone. I’ll let you pick the town.”

“Oxenfurt,” he says without hesitation.

Geralt frowns. “Why Oxenfurt?”

“I’ve got friends there, at the university,” Jaskier explains. “I know at least one of them will put me up, especially if I pay for food and whatever other expenses I’ll have.”

“How do you know these friends?”

“Stand down, guard dog,” Jaskier chuckles. “We grew up together. Priscilla was from a neighboring family, and we were the same age, so we always sat together at parties. She is kind, and generous, and happily bonded to her alpha, Philippa.” He gives Geralt a significant look and Geralt stops bristling—which he didn’t even realize he was doing. “They’re good friends, Geralt. They’ll ensure I’m looked after while you’re gone.”

Geralt nods, smoothing a hand down Jaskier’s chest. His gaze strays to the little bump on the bard’s belly, where Jaskier is still stroking.

“You want to feel?” the omega offers. “Pup won’t be moving for a couple months, probably, but it’s a fascinating feeling.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier takes his hand and lifts his chemise, letting Geralt finally rest his palm over the little swell beneath his navel. His skin is hot and smooth, little divots where his skin has begun stretching to accommodate the life growing beneath the surface. It’s not big—Geralt’s hand covers the full expanse of it—but it feels significant. If he focuses, he can feel the vibrations of the pup’s heartbeat. His breath leaves him in a rush. 

“What?” Jaskier asks in quiet alarm. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Geralt says. He strokes his hand across Jaskier’s belly gently, soothing him in and taking in the feel. “I can feel their heartbeat.”

“Really?” Jaskier slips his hand under Geralt’s, brows drawing in with the effort of trying. 

Geralt chuckles softly at him. “You won’t be able to. Witcher senses.”

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier squeaks. The scent of tears alerts Geralt to his sudden burst of emotion.

“Jaskier?” He shifts around so the bard is no longer on his lap and leans over him, one hand still on his belly and the other on the bed. “Jaskier, what’s wrong? Are you in pain?”

“No, no.” Jaskier gives a shaky laugh and wipes his face with the hand not trapped under Geralt’s. “I’m fine. Just… overwhelmed.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He flips his hand over to catch Geralt’s fingers in his. “That was the greatest gift you could give me. Guh.” He gives a mighty, nasty sniff that makes Geralt laugh. “Shut up. Don’t make fun of a poor, pregnant omega.”

“I would never.” Geralt raises their joined hands to his lips before he even realizes what he’s doing and presses a kiss to the omega’s knuckles. Jaskier’s cheeks turn pink and his scent takes a sultry spike that Geralt doesn’t let himself linger on. “So, we’re agreed? Tomorrow we leave for Oxenfurt, where you’ll stay with your friends if they’ll have you. I’ll return for you in two months when it’s time to make the trip up the Blue Mountains. We’ll spend the winter in Kaer Morhen until the pup arrives, then we stay as long as you need to recover.”

Jaskier blinks up at him. “We… you mean you intend to keep me around after the pup arrives?”

“Of course,” Geralt says, though he hadn’t put much thought to it before. All he knew was that there was no way he was willing to part with his omega. 

No, not his omega. Just Jaskier. Jaskier, who happened to be an omega. Jaskier, who was carrying another alpha’s pup.