The Passiflora. A name well known all over Novigrad, where the elites meet up to drink, play gwent, and indulge in their most forbidden fantasies, for a price that is. A symbol of the city’s debauchery, overall. And in such a prominent brothel, the Butcher of Blaviken often seeks to wind down from being on the road, let out some stress. And he’s had a favourite since he stepped foot in the brothel. He can afford to be picky, hunting monsters earns good money after all, so the madame always makes sure to get him exactly who he wants.

They look so pretty, smell even better, unlike the usual street harlot. The exposed skin draws Geralt in, almost breaking his stony composure. His eyes rake from their face down their body, those pupils dilating almost imperceptibly. A gloved hand goes to their back and traces down their spine, briefly resting on their rear before fully pulling away. “I’d like some time with you. If you’re free.” The White Wolf says, raising an eyebrow as he steps back to admire them properly, arms crossing over his broad chest.

Were he being honest with himself, he yearned for a day where he wouldn’t be paying them. Not for the money, just the nature of the relationship. Witchers aren’t known for being romantics, yet he’s not immune to infatuations like this one. He wants to know more, see more, just have a regular conversation outside of the business realm.