**Author’s note: Holidays are almost over, time to be productive again. If you haven’t seen Netflix’s** ***The Witcher*** **yet, it’s pretty good! Here’s me bastardizing more of that!**
Volodimyr blinked away the harsh torch light, shaking in terror. He’d pissed himself an hour ago and his crotch was still moist. The dingy, windowless dungeon closed in around him. He didn’t have a shirt, having lost it in the woods the night before. Volodimyr shrunk away from the figure in his cell with him, tugging on the manacles that tied his wrists to the table.
A pair of gold eyes, pupils cut like a snakes, stared at him.
The Witcher was picking at his teeth with a fingernail, features annoyed. His right arm was bandaged up, held against his chest. On the table were two short swords, one silver, one steel. The light reflected along their lengths. Next to those was a small wooden cup.
“Still haven’t drunk that, huh?” The bald Witcher asked. Volodimyr shook his head. “Why not?”
Volodimyr could only utter a squeak through quivering lips.
“I really don’t want to have to force you to drink it.”
“I-I’m not drinking W-witcher tonics,” blubbered Volodimyr. He knew what those tonics did to people, he’d heard the stories!
The Witcher rolled his eyes. “It’s not *my* potion. This has been whipped up by someone else. My employer,”
It was no mystery who the man’s employer was. Volodimyr had seen the Black Ones marching past his cell at night.
“So, you can imagine just how angry they’ll be if you don’t drink that.”
“W-what does Nilfgaard want with me?”
“You’ve got a little special something about you,” the Witcher tapped the silver sword on the table. “That’s the reason this is here.”
Volodimyr gulped.
“I-I can’t control it. You’re a Witcher, you know I can’t!” His voice cracked, trying to appeal to this Witcher’s sense of what was good. No, what was *right*. “I don’t mean to do the things I do!”
The Witcher picked up his silver blade and a chill ran through Volodimyr. This was it, wasn’t it? How stupid he was to try and get this Witcher to understand. They were emotionless husks. Almost as much a monster as he was.
Instead of running Volodimyr through, the Witcher cradled the weapon in his bad arm.
“Yeah, I know. Shitty thing, really. It’s like getting drunk and not remembering what you do, only instead of pissing yourself and puking in an alley, you slaughter whatever you see,” calmly explained the Witcher. “Still, you can blame the drunk for what he’s done. You don’t really have many options here. Drink that thing there, and you have a chance of getting out of this alive. Keep refusing, and we’re going to have a lot of problems.”
Volodimyr looked down at the mug and licked his lips. He didn’t doubt this Witcher could kill him. He only wished he knew how he ended up in a Nilfgaardian prison. When he turned, he had tried to be as far from others as possible. How did he get here?
The light reflected off the sword. Didn’t seem like that question mattered much, sitting across from a monster killer. With shaking hands, he gestured for the cup. The Witcher slid it over with the tip of his weapon. Volodimyr tried not to spill any and drank the whole thing.
It was bitter, causing his mouth to tingle. Other than that, he couldn’t locate anything defining about it. He smacked his lips a couple times, gently putting the cup down and watching the tip of the Witcher’s sword.
The drowsiness hit first, sucking all the energy out of his limbs. He couldn’t even fight back, slumping like a Novigrad drunkard. The world grew blurry, the corner of his vision darkening. The Witcher’s eyes were yellow lampposts in the growing dark. Panic clawed at Volodimyr’s throat as he felt the urges coming. The same as they did even second week. He tried to fight. It wasn’t time. It wasn’t!
Volodimyr’s humanity was grabbed by razor claws and dragged away. He blacked out.
It was getting harder for Yennefer to keep her chin high. Projecting her pride had turned into just that – a projection. Her ego and pride had been shredded and fucked nearly out of her. When she wasn’t bent over for Ciri, or tied in uncomfortable riggings, she was ordered to relieve many of the guards and servants of their stress. Yennefer had seen more cocks this past four months in Nilfgaard than she ever thought possible.
Triss wasn’t even a reprise from the indignity. That bitch was the one who stole Geralt from her. It was a small comfort to watch her crying quietly into a pillow while Ciri fucked her in the ass for the umpteenth time. Yennefer shouldn’t have been spiteful, but it felt good to be a bitch to Triss.
Guards leered at Yennefer as she walked past. She wore a tight black dress with a cut that showed her shapely right leg. She wore black stockings and dark heels. Her hair was down, and a small, intricate collar was around her neck. Her nails were painted. It wasn’t her choice to look like this. Whatever the Empress wanted, she did.
Whenever Yennefer passed the guards and felt their eyes leaving her, she allowed herself to slump under the weight of her actions. Beyond the blows to her dignity, Yennefer found to nights alone the worst. Her poor decisions tortured her, running circles in her head. She was an ouroboros, self-cannibalizing in the event that one day she’d run out of things to blame herself for.
That day continued to elude her. She was miserable when alone. Loneliness sat on her chest like a cat wanting dinner, weighing her down. It felt like she was weighed down by lead. Even moving took effort.
Ciri ordering her around, even if it was just to be fucked and used, made the days easier. Yennefer could make it through the days as long as she was being told what to do. She didn’t even question the orders anymore.
However, the order to go out to the central pavilion that sat in the middle of the massive palace was a strange one. For once, Yennefer wasn’t accompanied by guards, and the closer she got to the garden, the less men there were. Soon, she was alone, heels clacking, torches flickering, her crooked shadow wrapping around tall pillars and sharp corners.
Yennefer jumped in surprise when she rounded the corner and saw Wix. He was leaning against the wall next to the iron studded door leading to the pavilion. Yellow eyes fell on her and he wore a slanted smile. She saw his right arm bandaged and noticed the two silver swords hanging from his hip. One short, one long.
“Ah, the woman of the hour. Was wondering when you’d get here,” called the Witcher. She narrowed her eyes. More than him killing the Archgriffin, she just didn’t like this Viper School Witcher. He was loud, crude, prone to harsh remarks, and childish. He wasn’t tall, brooding, empathic, caring, selfless, heroic.
Wix wasn’t Geralt and she tried to ignore that.
“What are you doing here, Witcher?”
“I like to brood long into the silent hours of the night, when all the guards have fucked off to lose to cards, or sniff at the skirts of whores,” he chuckled.
“Quaint.”
“The Empress sent you.”
“Aye.”
“And you just jump at the commands like a bloodhound promised a scent.” Wix stated. She narrowed her eyes.
“Funny for a Witcher to make metaphors about bloodhounds and commands.”
“You know a thing or two about us, eh?” He asked, and she winced. “Before you go into the pavilion, Sorceress, entertain me for a question.”
“I’d rather not.” Yennefer snapped, stepping past him and grabbing ahold of the iron handle. Before she could open the door, Wix grabbed her arm and pulled her close. She could count the scars that marked his bald head, see the parts of his chin where his beard wouldn’t grow because of gnarled lines from old wounds.
“Why not leave? You’re a Sorceress, you and Triss both. Why stay in this wretched castle, being the plaything of the Child of Destiny, bowing at every command? Did the Brotherhood really indoctrinate you so much that any monarch’s command launches you into action?” Wix asked, voice a harsh whisper.
“What else is there?” Yennefer snapped back. Her voice cracked. “A cold room in Novigrad? A shit smelling bar in a backwater alley? Selling potions and remedies to a bunch of pock-marked fools too stupid to tell beer from piss? I don’t know about you, *Witcher*, but there isn’t a whole lot left for me to aspire to. Not since that bitch Triss and –” she stopped herself, throat tight and eyes burning. A flicker of sympathy flashed over Wix’s face, but nothing more.
“Gotta make our own meaning, that’s the whole point of living.”
“Thank you for your philosophical nonsense,” Yennefer shot back and yanked her arm out of his. “Why do you care anyway? You got Triss to suck your cock and now you’re hoping I will too?”
“Just because I’m being paid doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to ask questions.” He frowned.
“You should continue to let coin talk for you,” she hissed. Before Wix could respond, she tore away from him and flung the doors open. They banged shut as the entered the pavilion.
It was dark and overcast. Fresh lit candles scattered on the ground and railings offered their amber glow, but it didn’t do much. Gaps in the clouds turned the sky into a glittering puzzle where the pieces were at random, glowing fragments she couldn’t put together. The moon showed its face in slivers, as if sliced through a grater.
A cold whisper of wind ruffled her hair and tugged at her dress. Yennefer stepped cautiously out onto the well-maintained grass, next to bushes cut in the shapes of druids and deer. After the echoing hallways and snappy Witcher remarks, the silence was jarring. She looked around, wondering why Ciri wanted her here, now.
She heard a rustle of leaves, a low rumble like rolling drums behind her. Yennefer’s skin crawled, and she spun toward the sound. Nothing. A shifting of the towering bushes, swaying in the window. An eyeless doe head watched her as if worried she were a hunter with her bowstring drawn. Yennefer relaxed.
Feet on the grass, and then something hit her in the side. She felt herself leave the ground, hitting it hard. Yennefer rolled, old instincts dull from fucking kicking in. She got to her feet and lifted a hand toward her attacked before stopping. Yennefer’s jaw dropped.
The werewolf was tall, taller than others she’d seen before, and even in the dim light she could see its muscles rippling and twitching under grave-black fur. Its teeth were viciously white, lips curled back. Ember eyes tore into her, and it took a step toward Yennefer.
Its cock was out, bright red and nearly the length of her forearm. She caught the familiar glint of precum at its tip. Heavy nuts swung underneath. Yennefer had a flashback to her adopted dog back in Novigrad, bending over for it and letting it mount her. This was hardly the same. She gulped, realizing why Ciri wanted her here.
Yennefer didn’t fight back as it grabbed her and tossed her into the center of the pavilion. It thundered toward her, claws raking her dress open. Black tatters flew into the air and hung for a moment like fireflies. Her nipples hardened, heart punching against her ribs, abs flexing, and long legs spread to offer herself to the beast.
It sniffed the air, a throaty growl rumbling up from its chest. She yelped as it grabbed her ankle and lifted her into the air like a coin purse. Her flesh broke out in goosebumps as it sniffed her cunt. It lapped at her folds. She didn’t even try to stifle a moan as it pushed its tongue inside her. Yennefer groaned even as the blood rushed to her head.
She didn’t bother fighting back. What was the point? Ciri wanted her here, wanted her to service this beast. It was getting so easy to just lie down and take the abuse. As her dark hair hung to the floor, and the werewolf’s tongue pushed deep into her, Yennefer whimpered and accepted it.
The beast dropped her, and she crumpled. It grabbed an ankle, dragging her over the well-maintained grass, smacking its lips above her. Yennefer’s head rolled as it effortlessly picked her up and shoved her against a nearby tree. A shudder ran down her spine as its cock pressed against her.
“Please,” begged Yennefer, but she didn’t know to what.
When it thrust its cock into her, its claws raked at her belly. The force from its thrust pushed air from her lungs and Yennefer shuddered, on her tippy toes and clawing at the tree while she came. After all the beasts, all the Ciri-cock she had to endure, Yennefer was practically hardwired to be as wet as possible as soon as possible. Proud Sorceress, torn from her pedestal.
It pulled out of her with little resistance, and she pushed against it as it started to pound her sloppy cunt. Having been with the Archgriffin, among other things, Yennefer’s pussy was malleable and loose. It helped too that she took daily tonics to easier endure the days inevitable fuckings.
Rammed against a tree, lower body lifted up, teeth grinding together, Yennefer was stunned at the force of the beast fucking her. She’d taken bigger, even rougher, but there was something different. She dared look over her shoulder even as her stomach bulged from the forearm length wolf-cock gutting her.
Its eyes burned in its skull. The suddenness of the glare caught her off guard, and she almost forgot that it was laying claim to her. She saw boundless hate and infinite self-loathing locked in the way it looked at her, as if it wanted to be doing anything else other than fucking her. Yennefer felt a pang in her chest.
Then in her head as it grabbed her hair and shoved her against the bark, scratching her cheeks and blurring her vision. She wasn’t even mad. Yennefer deserved this, every bit of her suffering. Her tits swung with each hate-filled, maddening thrust. Her breaths sped up, toes dangled inches from the ground.
She let herself get lost in the fucking. Yennefer didn’t even care when it pulled out, tossed her to the ground, and forced itself into her ever loosening asshole. There wasn’t even any trouble, her sphincter swallowing the doggy dick without protest and she could feel its tip rearranging her insides and stretching her around it.
Yennefer was pressed against the ground, cheek buried in the dirt and asscheeks clapping as the werewolf started to fuck her. She could feel its cock rubbing against her and the earth, causing pleasure to spread through her like frostbite. She wondered what it must have looked like, pinned under the beast, legs sticking out from underneath, the wet sounds of her asshole being ruined.
The werewolf’s spit dropped into her hair in thick globs, the stench of rot of its breath. She felt the pressure growing inside, another orgasm threatening to overtake her as it hate-fucked her. It sped up. Her eye twitched in a painful spasm at the bucking rhythm. The claws on either side of her head curled, ripping out clumps of earth.
She came as it stuffed its knot into her, stretching her wide and causing her to squeal in pain. Her hips reflexively arched and pushed against her breeder. Yennefer grabbed its wrists to hold herself still as her guts were pumped full of cum, thick, gooey heat flooding into her. She shuddered, panting.
It heaved above her, and graveyard silence crept into the pavilion, standing between them. After several minutes of the knot, after she could feel its seed sloshing around in her belly, the werewolf finally pulled out of her with an audible pop. Her butthole winked, suddenly vacant, and a stream of steamy cum drooled out of her. Yennefer lied there, accepting her fate and whatever came next.
She heard soft sobs.
Turning on her side, belly swollen and holes sore, she looked at the beast. The werewolf loomed above her, red rocket slipping back into its sheath. Its head was buried in its claws, shoulders shuddering and muscles rippling. She opened her mouth to say something but couldn’t think of what.
It lifted its head from its hands. Among the wolfish features, there was always something vaguely human about werewolves. The seething hate in its eyes was human, the disgust for which it looked at Yennefer was human. As were the pearl tears that dotted the corners of its eyes, soaking into its dark fur.
Another chill ran through Yennefer, uneasy. Then unease mutated to fear. Fear to panic. She caught her reflection in the red of its stare and her heart tried to escape the prison of her ribs. She clambered to her feet, guts full, slipping on soaked grass. Yennefer found her stride and ran for the doors, leaving the werewolf weeping in the dark.
When she flung the doors open, she saw the Witcher’s snake yellow eyes watching her from the gloom of the dying torchlight. There was a disapproving frown on his face, and a silver sword in his hand. Yennefer staggered, nearly tripping. She ran down the halls, past guards standing at pathways, naked and leaking cum. Her feet slapped against the cold stone floor.
Yennefer ran through the winding palace until her legs burned and her muscles ached. She fell in a small hallway where there were no guards and a single pair of cast iron torches. Yennefer crawled, halfway into the light, and leaned against the wall. She pulled her knees to her chest, sitting in a puddle of werewolf cum, and cried. Her wails echoed back to her like wraiths trapped in a well. Yennefer cried until her voice was horse and face was numb. Everything burned.
Yennefer of Vengerberg, proud Sorceress and monster fucktoy, bawled like a wretch long into the night. When she finally slumped to the ground, exhausted and drained, she dreamed of herself trapped in a red glass mirror, trapped in the werewolf’s eyes.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/ektr2b/the_werewolf_part_1_yennefer_eu_witcher_fantasy