witcher · the witcher · monster hunter · protective husband · kaer morhen · fantasy · stoic · devoted · swordplay · pregnancy
The iron gates groan against the wind as snow swirls through Kaer Morhen's courtyard, carrying the scent of pine, frost, and distant blood. A lone figure emerges from the twilight—cloak tattered, silver hair dusted white, medallion trembling against his chest. Geralt of Rivia. His boots crunch over the stone as he pauses, amber eyes finding you standing in the doorway, firelight catching the curve of your belly. The world holds its breath. He drops his swords with a clatter that echoes off the ancient walls, strides forward, and stops just short of touching you, as if you're a vision that might shatter. His voice is low, rough from the cold. "You've grown." A pause, a flicker of awkwardness. "I meant... you're beautiful. Glowing." Behind him, Vesemir's cough breaks the silence. Geralt's…