Chapter Text
Oxenfurt, Redania
Oxenfurt had changed since she last passed through. Fewer soldiers, more banners. Students were back in the inns, drunk on cheap ale and peace.
Ciri sat by the fire of a small tavern near the bridge, her boots drying beside her sword. She’d taken only two contracts that month- a drowner nest in the marshes and a grave hag outside Novigrad’s walls- and earned enough coin to eat warm bread without counting coins. For once, the Path was quiet, perhaps irritatingly so.
That was when the messenger found her outside the city walls. A lanky lad, holding out a sealed parchment and refusing payment. Said it was from the White Wolf.
She turned it over once, thumb brushing the seal. Geralt’s hand. It’d been months since she’d heard from him.
Then she broke it open.
*****
Dear Ciri,
Figure you’ve heard rumors of what happened out near Oxenfurt. Better you hear it from me.
Ran into a man named Olgierd von Everec. Born to coin and privilege, squandered it, still carries himself like a lord. He and his band had made a name for themselves in that area, not always in a good way.
Years past, he’d made a pact with someone he shouldn’t have. Gave him immortality... of a sort. It twisted him. Stripped him of what warmth he once had, left only the hunger.
I took a contract that bound me to him. Saw things I’d rather not put to parchment. At the end, I held his life in my hands. Could have ended him, but I let him walk. Honestly, I can’t tell you if that was mercy or a mistake.
He’s a rogue, Ciri- in a way different from the norm. If you ever meet him, don’t let curiosity dull your edge.
Take care,
Geralt
The parchment smelled faintly of smoke and horse, Geralt’s scrawl pressed hard as ever. No date, but the ink hadn’t yet lost its shine.
Ciri set it aside, thinking, the letter folded beside her tankard. The place smelled of beer dregs and wet cloaks. Students shouted dice rolls in the corner. Somewhere behind her, a minstrel tuned a lute he clearly couldn’t play. Peacetime had returned in all its glory. It was a good thing, of course. And yet…
She smiled into her drink.
Oh, Geralt. You still think I'd read this as a warning.
A “roguish man”? That was the sort she always ended up testing herself against. And Ciri was hardly the type of girl to restrain her own curiosity.
Truth was, she’d been restless for weeks. The Path had grown too quiet, the monsters too simple. After the end of the Wild Hunt and the war, things had been… different. A letter like this felt less like a warning than an invitation.
By morning she’d already decided. Her mare was stabled only half a day from the von Everec estate, and the thought of staying put itched like a rash.
Whatever waited there, she’d face it. She always did.
*****
The road east was narrow and half-sunk, the marsh pressing close on both sides. Frogs went quiet as she passed. A low mist hung over the ditches.
She reined in at a pond that cut across the path, its surface flat. For a heartbeat something moved beneath it- light, then shape. A face, watching her from below. Not a reflection, not her own, but the face of a bald man twisted in anger. Her medallion began to hum, a dry, metallic sound that set her teeth on edge. Then it stopped. The face was gone. Only ripples, then still water again.
Ciri stared a moment longer, then clicked her tongue and rode on, circling the pond warily.
“Damned echoes,” she muttered. “What in the hells did you stir up here, Geralt?”
The road was growing ever more swampy as she continued onward, the autumn rains having started to set in. Ciri tugged her cloak tighter, though the air wasn’t truly cold yet- just damp and heavy.
By the time the manor came into sight, its disrepair was obvious. Ivy choked the walls, shutters hung crooked, and the estate’s grandeur was rotted down to its bones. She'd seen its like many times in this part of the world. Yet, smoke still curled from the chimney.
Someone's home.
She carefully opened the iron gate leading inside, through it groaned like hell itself as she pushed it.
Well, he must certainly know he's got a visitor now.
Ciri strode up the path to the manor's front door, taking in the scenery cautiously as she did- she was sure that eyes were watching her. She slowed at the heavy door, Von Everec carved deep into the wood, and reached out a hand.
Before she touched it, the hinges squealed and it swung open.
A man leaned in the frame, tall and broad, hair wild, chest half-exposed where his shirt hung loose. Muscular, scarred, and grinning as he took in the lass standing in front of him.
It took her a heartbeat before she realized this had to be him. Olgierd von Everec in the flesh.
His gaze swept her slowly, and then he leaned forward in a bow. “White hair. Emerald eyes." His smile widened as his eyes lingered on the way her leathers had ridden up during the horse ride. “And pretty. No mistaking you. Lady Cirilla herself.”
Ciri grinned despite herself. Cocky bastard.
She bowed slightly to acknowledge him. “None other. I figured I’d see if the stories were true. You must be Mister von Everec.”
“Call me Olgierd. But more importantly, which stories?”
“Which ones do you want me to believe?”
He laughed, genuine enough. Then he stepped aside, one hand sweeping to the inside of his dilapidated estate. “Please, Ciri, come in before you decide. You've been on the road- have a bite and drink at my table.”
To that offer, Ciri graciously said yes.
Inside smelled of damp stone, cut through by strong liquor. A hearth roared in the center, doing its best to stave away the autumn’s creeping chill. On the table sat a half-empty bottle and two glasses, almost as if he’d known he'd have a guest.
“Drink?” he asked, pouring without waiting.
Cloak off, Ciri sat. She accepted the glass from him- an old piece, once again bearing his family name. To her host, she tipped her glass, and then she drank. The spirit burned sweet and strong, with a pleasant woodiness. Olgierd smiled, then took a seat of his own and a sip to match.
To begin, they circled each other in words- pleasantries, tidings, even briefly touching upon the weather in this part of the world (recently rather gloomy, she was assured). To Ciri, it felt like two fighters sizing each other up. They chatted like this for a while, sinking into their chairs, establishing formalities, yet leaving the obvious unsaid.
When she lifted her glass to finish the last drops, she caught him watching. Not her eyes. Her mouth. The hollow of her throat. Then lower. He didn’t blink when she caught him staring- if anything, it seemed to please him.
“Geralt ever tell you of our dealings?” he asked, tone casual. They'd finally arrived at the elephant in the room. Ciri paused for a moment, wondering how much to delve into what Geralt thought of him.
“Some,” she said, savoring the liquor. “Enough to know you’re not a bore. Hard to kill as well, at least once upon a time.”
He leaned in, forearms braced, and edged a bit closer to her. “True. All true. And you, witcher’s girl, walker of worlds- I’d wager you’re not boring either.”
"So I'm told."
He swirled his glass, then poured Ciri a fresh shot. “You know, for years, nothing in this world could touch me. Blade, flame, poison… none of it. Men feared me, envied me. I thought immortality was a gift for the longest of times.”
Ciri arched a brow. “And now?”
“Now?” His laugh was bitter. “Now I know it was a curse.”
At that, Olgierd launched into a bitter tirade about the cruelties of his former life. Ciri listened, interested, but felt he was still building to his real point.
“You... stop feeling things. Food’s ash, wine’s vinegar. Even laughter feels empty.”
Ciri tilted her head and decided to play with the charming rogue a bit. “And women?”
His grin was sharp. “Even worse. Flesh without spark. You’d finish with a wench and feel nothing at all.”
She laughed. “You’ve a gift for romance.”
“Call it honesty. When Gaunter took his ‘gift’ back, the pain came first. Then hunger. Then… life.” He knocked back his glass. “Everything burned again. And I’m grateful for it.”
She chuckled. “So what you’re really saying is: now a wench feels just as good as she used to.”
“Better.” His grin flashed. He leaned in closer, voice lowering. “Not all girls are worth the hunger, though. A whore in Oxenfurt will open her legs for coin, but that’s still hollow, even now.”
He paused. His gaze lingered on her face- her mouth, her eyes, the small twitch of amusement at the edge of her lips.
“But you...” he said slowly, like the thought wasn’t fully formed until that moment. “You feel real.”
He downed the rest of his drink, and when he looked at her again, it was with a newfound hunger.
“A rare, beautiful lass- that’s what makes a man remember he’s alive.”
She raised her eyes, bemused. “You’re trying to pass this off as philosophy?”
“Not trying,” he said, holding her gaze. “Telling you plainly what I think.”
She tapped her glass. “You’re not subtle, Olgierd.”
“Good. I’ve no taste for subtle.”
She rolled her eyes, but the smirk lingered. “So all this speech, this whole night, was just to tell me your cock works again?”
His grin widened as his hand lingered up her arm, fingers curling at her shoulder. “Not just that. You’re not some nameless tavern wench. You’re Ciri. White hair, a witcher, those eyes…” his gaze dropped, deliberate, “and tits a man can’t ignore. I’ve wanted you from the moment you walked through my door.”
She feigned shock, as if she hadn’t known all along what he wanted. “Blunt. Guess immortality didn’t teach you patience.”
“No,” he said. “It taught me hunger. And now my hunger has teeth again.”
She met him with a wry smile- teasing this rogue was rather entertaining.
“Big words. Still only words.”
That earned her a laugh. He leaned in, palm settling heavy on her thigh, fingers dragging higher. “And what if I show you instead?”
Ciri raised her eyes and just looked, still teasing, clearly enjoying every bit of this game.
“Show me what?”
He caught it instantly: the way she didn’t move his hand, didn’t tense, just let him test the ground. Boldness flashed in his eyes as his fingers pressed higher, grazing the heat at the crotch of her trousers.
“You came here curious, aye? But you’re staying because you want me to fuck you.”
“You sound awfully sure.”
“Because you’re not stopping me.” His voice was deep now, hunger cracking through.
He leaned back just enough to look at her. Really look. White hair loose, lips parted, green eyes daring him on. The road dirt clinging to her, her sweat, the faint musky armpits mingling with the scent she wore- it hit him harder than the best liquor ever had. For years, fucking had been a chore, dull as cards. But now, with Ciri, every nerve screamed awake. His cock throbbed against his trousers, rock hard.
He met her eyes again, grin cutting a little wider. Not doubt, but calculation.
Ciri held his gaze. A slow breath, a tilt of her chin; the kind of small move that says go on more clearly than words. The fire cracked between them.
She tipped her head, smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Is this your idea of charm, Olgierd?”
She leaned back slightly, one boot sliding lazily off the other, the movement deliberate and slow. Her thighs parted just enough to tempt. Challenge flickered in her eyes.
Olgierd stared for a moment too long. Then laughed low and deep. He stepped in close enough for her to feel the heat pouring off him and bent down, cupping her jaw in his hand. Not rough yet. Just firm. Testing. His thumb dragged over her cheek, down her neck, slow and possessive. Olgierd’s thumb traced the corner of her mouth, then slid down her neck, over the curve of her breast, a slow, heavy stroke. He wasn’t just looking at her now; he was weighing her, tasting the risk. The air between them went tight.
“Gods, girl… you’ve no idea what you’ve woken. I’ll split you in two just to prove I can still feel it.”
Maybe this is what she'd been craving lately. Not coin or the Path, or another monster to kill. But this: the tension in the air, the promise of pain wrapped in pleasure. A man as fucked-up and reckless as she was.
Her breath hitched.
That was when his grip tightened.
His other hand fisted in her collar. One savage pull and the leather parted down her chest. Her shirt went next, buttons skittering across the floor. Her breasts spilled free, pale and rising with every breath.
Before she could speak, he caught her mouth with his. Hard. Tongues clashed. His body pinned hers back into the chair as he ground against her, and she could feel the shape of him- thick, hard as stone, grinding right into her soaked core through her trousers.
Fuck. He’s not going to be gentle with me.
Somehow, Ciri didn’t mind.
She moaned into his mouth, then bit his lip until it bled.
He broke the kiss with a growl, blood smeared across his grin. Fisted a handful of her hair and yanked her head back.
“You baited me, witcher’s girl,” he rasped, breath hot on her throat. “Now you’ll see how far it goes.”
She laughed, breathless and eager.
“About fucking time.”
*****
He picked her up and pressed her greedily onto the grand dining table. Silverware clattered to the floor. Ciri’s thin bra ripped off in the commotion, baring her heavy, pale chest. Her tits heaved with sharp breaths, pink nipples stiff in the cold air. Olgierd stared like a starving man.
“Gods,” he muttered, groping her breast in one rough hand, thumb rolling her nipple before biting the other until she gasped. He handled her breasts with a roughly, thumbs circling her stiffened peaks, kneading the soft weight until she gasped.
Her voice came out ragged. “Hungry, are we?”
He lifted his head, lips wet. “For this? Starved.”
Then he moved onto her thighs. The trousers he’d already half-torn in his frenzy gave way with a savage yank, seams splitting, leather ripping loud in the hall. Her panties followed, soaked through, the thin cloth tearing in his fist with ease.
Her thighs fell open under his hands, skin streaked with dust and sweat. Between them her cunt glistened, hair damp and tangled, lips swollen and wet- betraying just how ready she was for Olgierd's cock to push inside. The smell hit him first- sharp, musky, salty- raw and dank heat coming from her open legs.
Olgierd grinned like a man staring down treasure. “Fuck,” he rasped, drinking the sight in. “You’re dripping for me already.... and you smell like a hard ride. Could bury myself here and never come up.”
"Then do it.”
Olgierd’s stubble rasped her inner thigh. Then his mouth closed over her slit, tongue pushing deep, dragging up through the folds, slow and greedy. Ciri’s taste was strong, bordering on filth, the ripe tang of an unwashed woman after the road. He groaned into it, lapping at her like he’d missed the flavor for years.
His nose ground against her mound as his tongue worked her hole, fucking her with it, wet noises echoing in the hall. When he pulled back, strands of spit and slick clung from his beard to her cunt, glistening in the firelight. He smeared his mouth across her lips again, sucking her raw, then flattened his tongue over her clit and dragged it slow until her hips jerked.
Ciri’s breath caught sharp. Her hand locked in his hair, shoving him harder against her. “More,” she moaned, grinding down onto his face.
He chuckled against her flesh, then shoved two fingers inside, knuckles deep, curling until her thighs quaked. His tongue never stopped, flicking her clit as he finger-fucked her, wet slaps sounding as her juices spilled over his beard and hand.
He kept her there, riding his mouth, until her sharp cries broke free. Her body arched, cunt clenching hard on his fingers, hot slick gushing against his tongue. Olgierd groaned, sucking it down.
Only when her legs shuddered weak did he finally lift his head, beard dripping with her mess.
When he moved up, beard wet, she kissed him first, licking herself off his lips. Her hand tore his belt loose, his cock spilling into her grip. And Ciri was pleased to discover that Olgierd was just as well-endowed as his hot bulge had teased.
She smirked up at him, eyes bright. “So this is what you’ve been hiding.”
Without waiting for his answer she slid down off the table to her knees, hand stroking him once before her mouth closed around the head. Her tongue lapped at the taste of salt and pre-come as she sank lower, cheeks hollowing as she sucked him greedily. Her fist pumped the shaft while her lips stretched wide around him, spit dripping down her chin.
Olgierd’s hand fisted in her hair, groaning low. “Gods, look at you… Wolf’s cub, on her knees."
Ciri moaned around him, sucking harder, pushing down until he hit the back of her throat. Her eyes watered, spit streaming down her chin, but she never stopped, hungry for more.
He yanked her head back suddenly, cock sliding wet from her lips. She gasped for breath, a string of spit dangling from her mouth to his shaft.
“Enough,” he growled. “I’m not wasting myself down your throat.”
He shoved her back, pressing her flat to the floor. Her legs were forced apart under his weight, his cock already nudging slick against her hole.
His thick head pressed to her slit, slick with spit and pre-come, grinding against her folds like a battering ram at the gate. She was tight- gods, tighter than any girl he’d ever had- but she was soaked, the wet heat of her cunt spilling down her thighs. The gates might have been narrow, but they were wide open, slick with welcome.
He pushed harder, savoring the strain of her entrance clenching against him, feeling every ridge of resistance. Then, with one brutal shove, the gate gave way. His cock split her open, inch after inch vanishing inside until his hips crashed flush against her arse.
Ciri screamed, raw and guttural, her back arching off the table as her hole seized around him. She’d taken cocks before, but never like this.
Olgierd groaned through clenched teeth, grinding deep and holding there, forcing her to feel every inch of his thickness pulsing inside. “Gods above, girl. You’ll suck me dry....”
When he pulled back, his shaft gleamed slick, shining with her creamy wetness all the way to the root. Then he slammed forward again, the slap of his balls against her cunt loud in the hall. Each thrust dragged more noise out of her- wet squelches, sharp cries, the table groaning under their weight.
This wasn’t love-making. This wasn’t even simple fucking. This was a siege.
Ciri’s mouth fell open in shock, half-moan, half-curse. Her back arched off the floor, body trying to make space for the thick iron bar now lodged deep inside her.
Olgierd groaned through clenched teeth, savoring the heat clenching around him. He didn’t move now, just ground deep, making her feel every inch he’d buried. “That’s it… take it. Imagine Geralt’s face if he saw this....”
Her laugh broke ragged, breathless. “Fuck… you’re splitting me in two…”
He smirked, pulling halfway out only to slam back in, harder. “And you’re taking it. All of it.”
He drove into her, pace brutal, floorboards creaking with every thrust. Her heavy, abused tits jiggled with the rhythm. Every time he bottomed out, a strangled cry tore from her throat, caught between pain and filthy pleasure.
Then his eyes flicked to the table above them- to the heavy silver candlestick engraved with the von Everec crest. Without slowing his cock, he reached up, grabbed it, and spat thickly onto the polished metal.
“Let’s see how much more you can take.”
Her eyes widened. “You wouldn’t-”
“I would.” He pressed the wet crest to her ass, pushing hard, spreading her hole with the blunt tip. Her scream came sharp and loud, cunt clenching hard around him as he worked it in. Inch by inch, he stuffed her with both cock and silver until she was stretched full in both holes, body shuddering beneath him.
The sight made his cock throb inside her. “Fuck… look at you. Pinned on my cock with my crest filling you to the hilt.."
Her laugh collapsed into a broken moan as the double stretch tipped her over. Her body seized, cunt spasming hard around his cock, juices spilling hot down his shaft and thighs. She screamed, nails clawing bloody lines into the floor as she came shaking under him, once, twice, then thrice. Her wetness tore from her in waves, soaking the wooden floorboards.
That clutch dragged him over the edge. He slammed into her once more before groaning, spilling thick and hot inside her, pumping his seed deep until it leaked out around his cock and over the floor, joining the puddle of Ciri's orgasm.
They hugged each other, panting, for a long while. When he pulled free, the mess between her thighs was obscene- his come and her slickness pouring down, the silver crest still lodged tight in her ass.
Olgierd smirked down at the wreck he’d made of her. “Filth suits you.”
Ciri turned her head, giggling despite the sweat and mess. “And you’re not half bad for a washed-up noble.”
*****
Ciri flopped back, spent, her chest rising with deep, uneven breaths. Olgierd collapsed beside her, eyes on the timber ceiling above as their sweat cooled in the autumn air. The silence between them wasn’t awkward. So they lay there, wordless, and the moment stretched on.
Eventually, though, he slowly stood, took a sip of water, and began to rummage through a cupboard. “You’ll die if you only take cock and spirits tonight.” he grunted to her. “Best we get some soup in us.”
She propped herself on an elbow, hair a tangle, breasts still flushed. “Soup? After splitting me like firewood, you want soup?”
“Mushroom and plum,” he said, hauling out a clay jar and a bundle of dried fungi. “Everluce wine to wash it down. You’ll have to trust me, it’s better than it sounds.” At that, he gestured to her- he wanted Ciri to come take a drink of water too.
She laughed, standing to join him at the hearth. They cooked like a pair of vagrants: him chopping, her stirring, both of them still naked. The scent of dried fungi and fruit filled the hall, blending with the sweat and musk already thick in the air. Eventually, the bottle of Everluce came out.
Between sips of wine, they talked. For the first time, Olgierd spoke plainly to her- the Man of Mirrors, Iris, everything.
“Geralt freed me from it. From him. I owed him that much truth when I said it- and I’ll say it again now. Without Geralt, I’d still be damned. I owe him everything… even though he could be a right pain in my arse sometimes.”
He lifted the ladle, poured soup into two wooden bowls, and handed one to her. “Immortality isn’t living. It’s rotting without end. You want to know how I know I’m mortal again?”
“How?” she asked, blowing on the steam.
He grinned, wolfish, eyes dropping to her thighs. “Because I can’t get enough of you. Food, wine, cunt- all of it feels again. All of it matters.”
Ciri shook her head, sipping her spoon of soup (it was a far more pleasant broth than she’d anticipated), and laughed at the audacity of the charming rogue. “You’ve got a way with words, Olgierd. Shame you waste them trying to talk your way back between my legs.”
He leaned across the table, grin sharp. “No words needed. You’ll open them again yourself before the night’s out.”
And she knew he was right.
For a while, Ciri sat cross‑legged by the hearth, soup bowl cradled in her hands, her thighs still sticky, her body sore and humming. She told herself it was just another reckless night, another test of her limits. Yet the part of her that leaned into his touch knew it was more than that. He’d awoken something absent since the Wild Hunt’s defeat, the thrillseeker in her that thrived in danger.
*****
After dinner, he took her to his bedchamber, still hungry. And as he predicted, it was Ciri who laid on the bed and spread open her thighs.
They fucked again, slower and more tender, his mouth on her tits, her nails raking his back, both of them stinking of sweat and liquor. He used her every way he pleased until her voice was ragged and she was too weak to curse him anymore. By the time she passed out, his sixth hot load was dripping out of her, soaking the sheets.
Rain leaked through the shutters come morning. The bed reeked of sex and damp linen. Ciri stirred, stretching sore limbs, the sheet slipping off her hip to bare the curve of her ass. Her thighs were sticky, her cunt still leaking from the night before. She shifted, feeling the soreness in her hips and the pleasant ache low in her belly. There was no shame in it, only the satisfaction of having wanted something and taken it fully. She groaned, achy, and pressed herself into Olgierd’s side. It’d been ages since she woke up this late.
Olgierd lay propped on an elbow, smirk lazy, fingers tracing circles over her arse. “Thought witchers rose with the dawn?”
“I’m not on the Path,” she muttered, half-shut eyes. “And you wore me out.”
His hand slid lower, slipping between her thighs, finding her still slick. He pressed two fingers in easily, watching her twitch. “Stay in bed, then. The world can rot a little longer. I’m not done with you.”
She caught his wrist, but only held it there, not pushing him away. Her grin was tired, lips dry. “Greedy bastard.”
“Earned it,” he rasped, bending close to bite her shoulder. His cock was already stiffening against her thigh.
Ciri laughed softly, shaking her head. “Six times in a night, Olgierd? What are you trying to prove?”
He pushed the fingers deeper, curling them until she gasped. “What it means to live,” he answered, with no shortage of flourish.
“So last night was philosophy, was it?”
"In a sense, yes." he replied with a grin. "Practice beats theory."
Ciri snorted- Olgierd was full of himself in a way she couldn't help but find charming.
“You sound half-mad.”
“I am,” he said simply, pulling his fingers free and smearing her wetness down the curve of her arse. His cock rubbed against her, heavy and ready. “Mad, mortal, and… hard again. That’s a curse and a gift both. I do know of a certain lass that could help me with at least one of those, though."
Ciri giggled and decided to give him a bit of attitude simply for being so presumptuous.
“And I suppose you expect me to waste another day in this drafty hall? I’ve got monsters to slay. Hardly time to lie about with some washed-up noble between my legs.”
But even as she spoke, her thighs eased apart, subtle, and the sheet slipped down to show the sticky gleam between them. Wetness clung to her folds, still leaking from the night, and fresh slick already welling up at the thought of him.
Olgierd chuckled. “You call it wasting. I call it living.” With one smooth thrust he lined up and drove home, burying himself balls-deep in her soaked heat.
Ciri gasped, then let out a breathless laugh, her smirk fading into something softer as her eyes rolled to the ceiling. For once, she looked content. “Hells,” she muttered, almost to herself. “Maybe madness does have its perks.”
And so the morning slipped into afternoon, then to dusk, the manor echoing with laughter, curses, and the slap of flesh. For a whole day, Olgierd remembered what it was to be mortal again- and Ciri, reckless as ever, made sure he didn’t forget it.