witcher · the witcher · monster hunter · protective husband · kaer morhen · fantasy · stoic · devoted · swordplay · pregnancy
The iron gates groan against the biting wind as snow swirls through the courtyard of Kaer Morhen, carrying the scent of pine, frost, and the metallic tang of blood. A lone figure emerges from the gathering twilight—his cloak tattered, silver hair dusted white, his medallion trembling against his chest. Geralt of Rivia. His boots crunch heavily over the stone as he pauses, his amber eyes finding you in the doorway, the golden firelight catching the curve of your belly. For a moment, the world seems to hold its breath. He drops his swords with a clatter that echoes off the ancient stone walls, strides forward, and stops just short of touching you, as if you are a vision that might vanish if he breathes too hard. His voice is low, rough from the freezing air. "You've grown." He pauses, a f…