Chapter 9: Chapter 9
He didn’t come for this.
Just to check on the family whose roof he repaired. To make sure the child who once gave him apples was walking again.
But the moment he enters the square, a drumbeat thunders. A wooden pole goes up. Tables are set. Wine kegs are opened like he’s a visiting king.
“Witcher! You returned!” “Come! Come! You’ll eat, you’ll drink—don’t say no, I’ll drag you!” “Play something for him!”
Shirou tries to resist. He fails.
👥 The Overwhelming Kindness
He’s used to rejection. Hatred. Even being feared.
But this?
People touch him. Pat his shoulders. Cheer for him by name. Call him “protector” and “miracle man.”
Children race to tug his sleeves. Men brag about how they stood their ground too (they didn’t). Even elders quietly murmur blessings behind clasped hands.
Shirou politely bows.
But every motion is rigid.
He smiles when he’s supposed to.
But inside?
He’s struggling not to escape.
“...This is harder than facing the Wild Hunt,” he mutters.
💃 The Unruly Daughters
The young village women are the boldest.
Some too forward.
Some too curious.
One plays with her braid and asks if his coat is really red from “monster blood.” Another twirls in front of him, “accidentally” spilling cider, letting him see the curve of her collarbone.
“Are all Witchers… built like you, sir?”
“Can I touch your swords? The metal ones, I mean—!”
Shirou coughs, steps away—quickly.
Then comes the chorus of mothers rushing in, scolding their daughters.
“That’s not how you treat a man like him!”
“Apologize to the hero!”
“No, not like that—curtsy properly!”
“Show him dignity. And if he looks, just enough leg to let him imagine.”
Shirou almost chokes on his cider.
🥵 The Widows and the Abandoned
But it’s the mature women that worry him most.
Widows.
Divorcees.
Women whose husbands fled when the monsters came, leaving them to fight alone.
These women watch him. Not giggling. Not bashful.
Hungry.
One thanks him softly and lingers too long on his arm.
Another passes him a slice of honeybread with her number of children softly whispered in his ear—and a promise she needs “a strong man” to help harvest more.
A third openly places her hand on his chest and murmurs,
“You saved my life, Witcher.”
“Let me thank you the only way I can.”
Shirou, flushed red, backs away quickly into a wall—only for two more women to close in from either side.
🧍 “I’m just passing through…” he tries.
“Then let us make it worth your stop,” says one, sliding a silk scarf over his shoulder.
“Please… stay at my house tonight,” says another. “It has a bed. Soft. Big enough for two. Or three…”
He flees to the stables.
Only to find two younger widows already there, brushing his horse and sighing about how lucky it is to carry him.
Shirou lets out a long sigh.
Shirou tries to remain distant, as always.
He accepts bread, drinks only lightly, and entertains the children with quiet sparks of fire and flourished parries between carved sticks.
He smiles when they smile. Laughs softly when they pretend to duel. Even kneels down to mend a boy’s loose sandal strap.
“You’ve done enough,” a woman says quietly beside him. “It’s not enough to save us. You stayed. You care.”
He doesn’t know what to say. So he just nods.
🐴 The Empty Stable
He doesn’t realize it until the doors close behind him.
It was too quiet. Too deliberate.
A “wrong turn” into the stables after checking his gear becomes something else.
“You looked like you needed peace,” says one voice. “Or company,” says another.
They step forward from shadow—lantern light catching their eyes, their lips, the soft curves of bodies once hardened by grief.
“We know what we’re doing, Witcher. And what we’re asking.”
No giggles.
No games.
Just women with scars on their hearts, and pain still too fresh to weep over.
“You saved us. Now… let us forget.”
🔥 What Happens Between
No words are needed.
Shirou doesn’t resist—not out of lust, but out of empathy.
He does not command. He does not pretend to be their savior.
He simply responds. Gently. Steadily.
They touch him with trembling hands, kiss him like he might disappear, and cling to his strength not out of worship, but because they remember being abandoned.
And tonight, they’re not abandoned.
In the dimly lit stable, amidst the scent of hay and animal musk, Shirou finds himself surrounded by several women. They are not giggling teenagers or desperate widows, but women who have known loss and pain, women who have found solace in each other's arms. They are not here for hero worship or curiosity, but for a moment of escape, of intimacy, of comfort.
Their hands, steady and sure, begin to undress him. Slowly, they peel off his coat, his shirt, his pants, until he stands before them naked, his huge cock already half-hard, anticipating what's to come.
The women take their time, their hands exploring every inch of his body, from his broad shoulders to his muscular thighs. They trace the scars that mark his skin, the remnants of his past life as a hero, and now a Witcher.
"You're beautiful," one of them murmurs, her voice a soft purr. She leans in, her lips brushing against his chest, her tongue flicking out to taste him. Shirou lets out a low groan, his cock twitching at the contact. He looks down at the women, their faces lit by the soft lantern light, their eyes filled with desire and need.
One of them, a woman with fiery red hair and eyes that sparked with mischief, steps forward. She takes his cock in her hand, her fingers wrapping around the thick shaft, her thumb brushing over the swollen head.
"This is what we need," she says, her voice a low, sultry purr. "This is what we've been craving."
Shirou grits his teeth, a shudder running through him as she begins to stroke him, her hand sliding up and down his length. He can feel the heat of her, the softness of her touch, and it's almost too much.
He groans, his hips jerking involuntarily as she begins to stroke him, her hand sliding up and down his length. He looks down at her, her head bent, her red hair cascading over her shoulders, obscenely beautiful in the dim light of the stable.
The other women watch, their breaths coming in soft, anticipatory gasps. They can't take their eyes off the scene before them, the raw, primal power of it. They've never seen such a man, such a cock, and they're almost as aroused as the woman who's touching him.
The scent of sex fills the air, pungent and intoxicating, as the woman with the red hair kneels before Shirou, her tongue tracing the outline of his cock, from the heavy balls up to the swollen head.
Shirou hisses at the contact, his hips jerking forward, his cock throbbing in her hand. The woman with the red hair laughs, a low, sultry sound that sends a shiver down Shirou's spine. She takes him in her mouth, her lips wrapping around the head of his cock, her tongue swirling around the sensitive tip.
Shirou groans, a deep, primal sound that seems to come from the very depths of his soul. He looks down, his gaze locked onto hers, her eyes closed as she takes him deeper, her lips sliding down his length. They've never seen such a man, such a cock, and they're almost as aroused as the woman who's touching him.
The woman with the red hair, her mouth full of Shirou's massive cock, looks up at him with lust-darkened eyes, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She bobs her head, taking him deeper, her throat constricting around his length.
Shirou can feel the heat of her mouth, the wetness of her saliva mixing with his pre-cum, the suction of her throat drawing him deeper. He groans, his hands fisting in her hair, his hips thrusting forward, his cock sliding deeper into her mouth.
"Fuck, that's good," he growls, his voice raw with desire.
"Suck me deeper, you filthy little slut. Take every fucking inch."
The woman with the red hair looks up at him, her eyes filled with lust and defiance. She can't take him all the way, but she doesn't back down. She bobs her head, her lips sliding up and down his length, her tongue swirling around the sensitive head.
Shirou's hips begin to move, thrusting into her mouth, his cock slamming against the back of her throat. The other women watch, their breaths coming in soft, ragged gasps.
One of them, a dark-haired beauty with eyes as smoldering as the embers of a dying fire, steps forward. She kneels beside the woman with the red hair, her gaze locked onto Shirou's. She leans in, her tongue darting out to lick his heavy balls, her fingers gently cupping them.
Shirou's body tenses at the double sensation, his cock throbbing even harder in the woman's mouth. He groans, his hips thrusting forward, his cock sliding deeper into her mouth. "Fuck, yeah," he growls, his voice ragged with desire. "Lick me, you filthy sluts." The woman with the dark hair begins to suck on his balls, her tongue swirling around them, her lips sucking hard, her fingers gently massaging them.