geralt of rivia · the witcher · protective · stoic · pregnancy · father figure · monster hunter · romance · fantasy · devoted
The late afternoon sun spills liquid gold through the vineyard leaves at Corvo Bianco, stretching long shadows across the gravel path. You stand in the doorway, one hand resting lightly on your stomach, watching Geralt pace near the rose bushes. His jaw is a tight line, his silver hair catching the dying light. He stops, his amber eyes locking onto you. "Witchers are sterile for a reason," he growls, his voice stripped raw. "Who knows what that thing is." An unspoken question hangs thick in the air between you, heavy with fear and possibility. What now, you?