Chapter Text
Psalm 32, 7-8: You are my hiding place; you will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance.
I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will counsel you with my loving eye on you.
“Duck!”
The words come too late, and Ciri is hit with a ball of muck before she can even bend her knees. It blasts her square in the face, exploding into her eyes, her nose, her mouth— as she splutters and paws at her face, she can feel it caking into her hair, dripping down her neck and under the hem of her tunic.
“That’s no fucking drowner,” Ciri grumbles as she spits mud back into the knee-high water. When she can finally see again, she turns to find Geralt at her shoulder, his eyes focused on the murky river they had waded into.
“It’s a water hag,” he says, silver sword tight in his hand. “And it’ll be back any second. Be ready.”
The contract had been for a drowner— the reanimated corpse of an evil man who met his demise in water, in an eternal pursuit to ensure others meet the same fate. But Ciri has come to learn that townsfolk often get their monsters wrong, never even caring to learn the specifics, just caring enough to cough up the coin to get them to disappear.
A water hag poses a bit more of a problem. Ciri’s eyes are burning but she keeps them open, her own sword poised to strike as they watch the river for the slightest odd ripple. The hag moves incredibly fast in water and is even able to cut through mud like it is simply air. There is no safe place to fight it.
Geralt shifts slightly, a barely perceptible movement that Ciri clocks only because she is so in tune with him, so in sync with his every breath. Her eyes cut to his, following his gaze to a bubble in the water between them.
All three beings move at once.
The water hag bursts from the water between them just as Geralt casts Yrden, slowing its attack. Ciri’s sword swings in a perfect circle and the hag lets out an awful screech just before Ciri slices off its head.
The head immediately falls below the surface, but its body wobbles a bit in the water before falling forward with a hard smack, sending a fresh splash of scummy water onto Ciri as it does.
“You’ve got a little something—”
“Don’t.” Ciri glares at Geralt, who does not even have the decency to look contrite, as she stomps past him towards the shore. Once she is on solid land she kicks off her boots and holds them upside down, watching water pour onto the grass. A tiny brown fish falls out of her right boot, flopping away on the grass until she picks it up and lobs it back into the river.
“I told you to duck,” Geralt says as he approaches.
“You could’ve said it sooner.”
“Hmm.” His lips are pressed together, every bit of his self control being used not to burst out laughing at the sight of her, looking like a half-drowned cat with so much mud in her hair that she could pass for a brunette.
“Stop laughing at me.”
“I’m not.”
“Your lip just twitched.”
“That’s not a laugh.”
“Well, it’s as close as you normally get.” When she approaches Roach, the horse lets out an indignant snort and backs up. “Oh, come on.”
“She’s very particular,” Geralt says defensively.
“She lets you ride her all the time and you’re always filthy.”
He smirks at that. “You’ve never complained about that before.”
Ciri splutters. “That’s not what I— You— Gods, Geralt you’re so—”
“Come on, Cirilla,” he says, taking Roach’s reins in hand and giving his horse a conciliatory pat. “We’ll walk back to town.”
“Fine.” She crosses her arms and haughtily stomps past him to the road. “But you’re paying extra for a hot bath tonight.”
Back at the inn, the innkeeper takes one look at Ciri as they enter the building and starts shaking his head.
“No, no, absolutely not,” he says, coming around the desk and waving his hands. Geralt steps between them and the man falters, audibly swallowing before taking on a gentler tone.
“Witcher. Perhaps your daughter—er, companion— could wash up in the stables first? So she doesn’t trekk mud all over—”
“I’m not a fucking horse,” Ciri snaps around Geralt’s arm. “And we paid for a room. We’re going to use it.”
“Of course, but the mess—”
“Move.” Geralt stoops down and tosses Ciri over his shoulder, barging past the innkeeper. Not a single speck of mud hits the floor as he carries her up the stairs to their room. There is already a large steel tub waiting in front of the fire, and Geralt grunts at someone in the hall to fetch them water.
Her damp boots are tucked in front of the fire— Geralt casts Igni to turn the feeble flames into a crackling roar— and she ducks behind the semi-sheer privacy screen to start stripping off as a pair of maids lug buckets of water in for the tub.
“Leave it,” she hears Geralt say, and then there’s a clink of coins and the door shuts. She peeks around the screen to find him sitting on the side of the tub, two fingers gently swirling in the water.
“It better be hot,” she teases, stepping out from behind the screen as bare as a newborn babe. Her clothing had thankfully protected her from most of the muck, though there was some caked on her neck and shoulder, a little dribble drying along the length of her spine.
He looks up, flicks a bit of water at her as she approaches. “Scorching.”
She climbs into the tub and sighs. He was right. The water is so hot it stings, steam rising from the water and fogging the dirty mirror mounted on the wall. Ciri lets the heat soothe her sore muscles for a moment, then she takes a deep breath and lets her body slide down the side of the tub, submerging her whole head underwater. When she resurfaces, the water is already starting to turn brown as the mud seeps from her hair.
“Tip your head back.”
Ciri does, and Geralt’s fingers start to comb through the matted strands. His touch is gentle, picking at each snarl with nimble care, something that had surprised Ciri the first time he did this, weeks before.
They have spent most of the summer on the road, picking up new contracts and following leads all around the Continent. At some point she had forgotten her hair brush in one of the inns they stayed at along the way, and after getting caught in a rainstorm her hair had dried into a knotted mess by the time they made camp.
After one too many hisses in frustration and winces in pain, Geralt had simply tugged Ciri into his lap and got about untangling her hair, working through each knot in a stoic silence, his gentle touch eventually lulling her to sleep right in his arms.
This is their last contract, as they are due back in Kaer Morhen by tomorrow evening. Geralt had received a letter from Lambert earlier that week bidding their return, a cryptic promise of something special waiting for them upon their arrival.
“You did good today,” Geralt murmurs once her hair is silky smooth, all traces of mud gone from her ashen tresses.
Ciri sits up and turns around, eyes bright. “Is that so?”
“Mmm.”
She folds her arms over the edge of the tub and leans forward, resting her chin on her forearms and blinking up at him with a look so innocent it could only mean trouble. “How good?”
Geralt tilts his head, his gaze equal parts amused and scrutinizing. “What are you angling for?”
“You know.” Ciri bites her lower lip. “Was I good enough to get the real thing?”
Geralt grunts. He reaches down into the tub, scooping her out and tossing her onto the bed. She giggles, her damp skin already drying from the heat of the roaring fire.
“Not quite yet,” he says, a fist in her wet hair to tip her head back for a kiss. “No skipping ahead.”
She watches as he crosses the room to dig through their packs, producing a small black box, the sight of which causes her thighs to clench. Geralt leaves the box on the edge of the bed— a promise.
Already getting worked up just by the sight of it, Ciri crawls into Geralt’s lap and drapes herself across him. He wraps her naked body in his arms and tucks her against his broad, still-clothed frame, his chest rumbling with a pleased sigh as she nuzzles against him. Face in the hollow of his throat, relishing in his earthy, musky scent, still sweaty from the fight— a deeply masculine scent all his own, the smell that makes her feel the most at home.
Geralt lets her squirm for a moment, listening to the flutter of her heartbeat, the pulse in her throat, her wrists, her cunt. Then he lifts her up, arranging her knees so they rest on either side of his hips. He can still taste her on his tongue from the night before, a memory he aches to refresh.
A hand between her shoulder blades to hold her steady, he dips his head to lick at her soft breasts. Tiny little things, barely enough to fill his hands, but so fucking sensitive he thinks that one of these days she might come just from a few well-timed swipes of his tongue. Fits one into his mouth while his massive hand kneads the other, her cute, pink nipple rolled between his fingers until it’s all puffy and flushed from the attention.
Ciri whines, fingers wound in his hair, her hips canting forward in the air in a plea for friction. He takes pity on her eventually, dropping her onto his lap again so she can rut her leaky cunt against the bulge of his cock.
“Please, Geralt,” Ciri gasps, pressing frantic half-kisses along his throat and cheeks as she babbles, “please don’t make me wait any longer.”
His sweet, beautiful, desperate girl. So quick to swear at him on the road and so quick to beg him in his bed. He shifts them easily, maneuvering her so that her back is to his chest and her torso fits between his spread thighs. She reaches back and tugs at his shirt with an impatient huff, even going so far as to tear it a little, so Geralt sends it to the floor with an amused grunt.
“Want to feel you,” she says petulantly, snuggling back in against his now-bare skin. Lets out a satisfied hum as his arms crossed over her, squeezing her tight, and she bites at the muscle of his bicep. “Trousers, too.”
His pants follow his shirt to the ground, and Ciri licks her lips as his thick cock bobs between his splayed thighs. He watches her with caution— one time she had tried to take him by surprise, to sit herself down on his cock to prove that she could take it all, and even though the wet heat of her had felt like bliss for a second, it was soon cut short by her yelp of pain and flash of fear.
He had spanked her peachy little ass raw that night, but only after he spent the better part of an hour with his face in her cunt, licking her out until the ache was forgotten.
She knows better than to try anything now, though Geralt does catch a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Ciri takes it upon herself to lean forward in his lap and grab the box from the edge of the bed. Settles back against his chest, a leg thrown over each of his thighs, the box resting on her belly. Geralt reaches over her to flip open the lid, revealing three cylindrical glass objects nestled in the velvet interior.
Each one is slightly longer and thicker than the next, but they all have the same round, flared base. She is quite familiar with the first two— how they feel in her hands, in her mouth, in her cunt— and is eager to be introduced to the third. Once she is, she can finally have the real thing.
That’s the deal they made, weeks ago— when Geralt had first brought the box to her, showed her each of the toys and told her, in that low, stern voice of his that once she was able to fit each one inside her, once she could take them all without pain, then he would give her his cock.
It’s a fair deal, all things considered. The first time she saw his cock she felt a little lightheaded, thinking about taking the whole thing inside of her, getting stretched out and split apart by an appendage so thick she can’t even wrap her fingers all the way around it.
But when she looks at it now all she feels is want.
Geralt lifts the third and largest toy from the box and places it beside him on the bed, then closes the box and shoves it away.
“But I—”
A light smack to her cunt makes Ciri squeal. Geralt’s fingers come back damp as they stroke her cheek.
“Patience, Cirilla,” he murmurs. Two fingers brush her lips. “Suck.”
His fingers taste like her. Mostly salty, a little sweet, an earthy-honey flavor she’s grown to enjoy because whenever she tastes it she is normally licking it off his tongue. Ciri sucks his fingers eagerly, taking them as deep as she can, past the second knuckle. When he pulls his hand back a thin string of saliva stretches from her lips. It breaks and splatters over her flushed breasts.
“Look at you,” he hums, using his first and third fingers to spread apart her cunt, middle finger tapping at her swollen clit. “Puffy little clit. Wet, pink cunt. All for me.”
It’s yours, she had told him the first time he touched her, and it’s true. Every part of herself is his for the taking, just like every part of him is hers in return.
Well. Almost every part.
It doesn’t take long for her to come. Never does, not with Geralt in charge of her pleasure. He is relentless, almost cruel, but only because he knows she can take it. His child surprise in more ways than one— hadn’t pegged her for a hedonist, but he should have known, given how much she likes to be spoiled.
“More,” Ciri gasps as she comes down from her first orgasm, her nails digging into Geralt’s thick thighs. “Use the toy, Geralt, I can take it.”
“You think so?” He grabs the toy, brings the tip to her cunt, drags it over her entrance to catch the cum that’s dripping from her and onto the sheets. “Look how tiny that hole is. Doesn’t look like anything can fit in it.”
It’s the scrunch of her nose, the determined pout that scrunches up her face as she grabs his wrist that nearly breaks Geralt’s self control, that almost has him flip her onto her stomach and shove his cock inside her and fuck her until she cries. But he stays strong, lets her guide his wrist and force the tip of the toy inside her, lets her gasp and whine as she fits it all the way into the hilt.
Geralt gives her a moment to settle around it, wishing it was his cock so he could feel her walls pulsing, the slick heat of her gripping him tight.
“I did it,” she sniffles, tilting her head to look up at him with a triumphant smile. He can’t help but kiss her, licking the taste of joy from her mouth.
“How’s it feel?” He twists his wrist a quarter turn, rotating the toy. She heaves a shuddering breath.
“S’good,” Ciri says, and he slowly pulls it out, waits a beat, then presses it back in again. “See? I can take it, Geralt. M’ready for you now.”
How did he get this girl? What did he do right to land him here, in a warm bed with this beautiful thing in his arms, smiling up at him and begging for his cock?
It’s a bit too much for him to think about, so he wraps a hand around her throat to keep her head tilted up toward him, kissing her long and deep as his other hand works the toy faster, angling it upwards with each thrust.
Her cunt is leaking over his fingers, dripping down his wrist and onto the sheets as he works the toy deeper. Eventually he drops his hand from her throat to pat at her clit again, which is oversensitive to the point that she drops her head back against his shoulder and wails.
Such a responsive little thing. The very first time he touched her she gushed all over his hand, and he has made it a goal to make her do the same thing every time since. His prim and proper princess, the girl who he sometimes still caught taking a sip of tea with her pinky in the air, reduced to a near-feral mess by his hand.
“Such a good girl,” he grunts when she comes again. Doesn’t squirt this time, but that’s all right, just makes it all the more sweet next time. He pets her hair when she comes down, letting the fake cock fall out of her cunt and replacing it with his hand, cupping her with his palm just for a bit of pressure. “Took that so well, Cirilla.”
Ciri mewls a bit, slumping down until she is lying horizontally across his thighs, face just a few inches from his aching cock. She nuzzles her face against it, presses a soft kiss to the base, and a thick drop of his seed drips onto her cheek.
“Will you let me suck on it, Geralt?” she asks, blinking up at him with half-lidded eyes and a fucked out smile. “Just to try?”
How the hell is he supposed to say no to that?
She’s sloppy. No finesse, just enthusiastic hands and an eager mouth. Chokes on him a bit the first time, then pulls back to press wet kisses up and down his length. Giggles when it twitches, then wraps her mouth around the swollen, flushed tip and flutters her tongue in a way that makes Geralt grasp the sheets so hard they tear.
“Do you like it, Geralt?” Ciri asks, coquettish as her tongue laps at the underside of his cock, tracing a thick purple vein.
“Mmm,” is all he can manage.
Her toes curl, feet wiggling together in the way they do when she’s excited. “Am I going to make you come?”
Gods.
“Yes, Cirilla,” he bites out.
“Won’t it feel better inside me?” Her voice is a taunt, a siren call, one he is too weak to resist. “Won’t you put it in, just a little bit, so you can come inside me? I’m so wet, Geralt, you made me come so hard. Won’t it feel so nice?”
A demon, that’s what she is. Not a gift, not a child surprise, but a demon sent to bring about his ruination.
Geralt flips her onto her back with an animalistic growl, grabbing her legs behind the knees and pushing them up until her ankles nearly reach her ears. Ciri squeals in delight, propping herself up on her elbows, settling her calves over his broad shoulders so that she can watch.
His fat, leaking cockhead rests atop her soft curls and they both hold their breath as he shifts his hips, angling his cock lower until the tip pokes at the shining lips of her cunt. Presses in slowly, every bit of his self control focused on not rutting forward like a beast. Her flushed cunt splits open to take him, Ciri letting out a broken gasp once the tip is fully inside.
“Let me feel it, Geralt,” she whispers, awestruck, eyes not looking away from where they’re joined. “Please. Come in me.”
It only takes a few strokes for him to release, spilling into her with a roar so loud he’s sure half the town heard it. Ciri clenches around him in a desperate attempt to keep him inside her, and when he eventually falls back onto his heels she clenches again, her fingers reaching down to catch a thick droplet of his seed that drips from the well of her cunt.
“You’re going to give me the real thing next time,” she says, after bringing the drop to her lips— a command, not a question, followed by an adorable yawn.
“Yes,” Geralt agrees, his spent cock giving a valiant twitch at the thought. His thumb catches another drop as it leaks out of her, and he presses it back inside. “Next time, Cirilla.”
They leave for Kaer Morhen in the morning. They are no more than a day’s ride away and they make good time, even racing the last few miles to the gates.
Ciri wins, cackling as she flies through the entrance to the witchers’ keep, but when Roach’s hooves slow behind her she urges her own horse to a stop. Geralt is frowning when she turns to call back to him, staring at something beyond her with an inscrutable expression.
“Hello, Cirilla.”
Ciri turns at the unfamiliar voice. A gorgeous woman is walking toward them, dressed in a black sleeveless gown with luscious raven hair spilling over her bare shoulders. Her eyes are a piercing violet, and they are staring right at her.
This is her. The woman Ciri has been wondering about for the last four years.
“Yennefer.”