#game!geralt

[thedreamlessnights]

Almond, Apple, & Maple - pt. 1

Geralt of Rivia x modern fem!reader (upcoming NSFW)

Synopsis: When a strange young woman crashes into your kitchen and sends you tumbling through time and space, you find yourself transported to a new world - one of monsters, magic, and witchers.

Warnings: Descriptions of vomiting and nausea, as well as blood & severe injuries.

Word Count: 3.5k

A/N: Surprise! New Geralt series - someone please tell my brain to stop having long-winded ideas and relax? Anyway, as usual, this is the game version of Geralt and written accordingly. I'm very excited to get this story told, and I hope you all enjoy this first chapter! Comments and reblogs are extra appreciated <3

Theo is waiting when you arrive. You can see him from the porch, pacing back and forth in front of the window, the way he always does when it’s dark and you aren’t home. The sun’s just set, but with black clouds brimming the sky, you’d think it had gone to rest hours ago. 

When he finally sees you, Theo lets out a meow that’s deafened by the glass and rubs his cheek against the windowpane, no doubt purring up a storm. It’s only been a few hours since you left, but you’ve missed him. 

Despite your mile-long trudge through the snow and the way you’re sweating under your coat, your fingers are frozen. They fumble clumsily with your keys until the lock finally turns. Theo is immediately at your feet, nuzzling against your legs. He’s the only cat you know that doesn’t try to bolt when the door is open.

“Hey, bud,” you greet him, slightly out of breath. You slam the door shut and squat down, ignoring the protest in your thighs. The icicles of your fingers messily attempt to scratch behind his ears, but if Theo notices that you’re inept, he doesn’t seem to mind.

You’ve never been more grateful for the cans of cat food nestled safely in your inner coat pocket, clinking dully against your remaining seventeen cents. There’s maybe a dollar or two more of loose change that can be scrounged up under couch cushions and in pockets and loose drawers. If you’re lucky, you might find a few crumpled bills. For this week, at least, Theo will be fed. You can’t say the same for yourself.

The house is warm and quick to thaw you out, which means your fingers start working again within a few minutes. Once they’re functional, a can of soup serves as your dinner. Thankfully, the microwave is still working. You dump the soup into a bowl and let it heat, then get Theo’s dinner ready for him. 

When he’s started eating - that’s when the day’s events finally hit you. 

Exhaustion is at the front of it all, thick and heavy, like a two-ton chain on your shoulders. Behind it is defeat. Defeat is exhaustion too, but different. It pulls at you from within. It isn’t your aching body or cracked, dry hands, isn't a chain or a profound sense of guilt; it’s a tiny fire within you, threatening at any moment to go out. And the inclination to let it happen.

You stare numbly at the counter, knowing the fridge is empty, knowing you have only five cans of food left until you go hungry again. Knowing that none of the job interviews have called you back, and that it’s been too long to keep up hope. 

Your hands start shaking and you want to cry, but no tears come. You’ve no doubt exhausted your supply - your eyes still feel puffy and sore from the cry you had earlier. Instead, a lump locks in your throat, and something pulls in your chest, and all at once, you’re not sure you have it in you to go on.

It’s Theo that you’re worried about, more than anything else. It’d be horrible, so horrible for you to dump him off at a shelter, but it’d be even worse to see him go hungry. You’d been hoping - are still hoping - that it wouldn’t come to that, but… you can only hope so much.

The shrill sound of the microwave rouses you from your lethargy and chain of thought. Food. The smell of the soup is heavenly, and it seeps life into you as you chug it down, spreading warmth throughout your chest. But before long, it’s finished. You’re left staring at the empty bowl, still hungry. Wanting to cry again.

Theo must sense that you’re upset, because he nuzzles against you and purrs louder than ever. No tears come, but they would if you had any left. Without him, there’s nothing but a hollow life of work - if you can even find it - and isolation. How can you possibly think about survival when there’s nothing to survive for? 

“What am I going to do?” you ask aloud, swallowing hard. You rub your temples and your words ring out in the silence, as if some response might come. Nothing. Of course, nothing.

It feels wrong to be sitting still like this. More than ever, you should be doing something. Yes, you need to move. The water in the sink is ice-cold and won’t heat, but you scrub the dishes anyway and dry them. Clean the counters. Sweep the floor. Organize the cabinets. 

These miniscule tasks keep you sane. They keep you from thinking.

Padding up to you, Theo stretches up and paws at your legs, clearly wanting to be held. You take him in your arms and hold him close, burying your face into his fur and kissing the soft little spot between his ears. He purrs louder and wriggles from your grip, making his way into your coat pocket and tucking himself into a comfortable position. He’s always been small, and likes being in there, for some reason. You hadn’t even realized you were still wearing the stupid coat.

There must be some way to keep him, right? Someone willing to watch him, just for a little while? But who? And how could you ever repay them?

A flash of sudden, searing light interrupts your thoughts. 

It comes out of nowhere and instantly spreads through your kitchen, brighter than you can stand, a ghostly hue of green. Just as you’ve shut your eyes to block it out, something rams into your shoulder and knocks the wind out of you. 

Your arm instinctively wraps in front of Theo as you stumble back. Your ribs burn with a hot, throbbing pain, and you search for breath that doesn’t come - gasping airlessly, sweat trickling down your neck until you finally taste oxygen. Oh, and your shoulder is jammed and aching too, but it’s clearly the least of your worries, because the room has started spinning. 

This is no gentle turn, no light sway of the ocean. It’s vertigo. The world is coming apart. You can see nothing but a black void as reality breaks at the seams and drags you with it. Nausea and disorientation wash over you until it’s all you can do to hold on to your dinner; hot, stinging bile in your throat, aching ribs. It hurts to breathe. Your knees buckle and legs crumple until you hit what should be hard ground, but it’s nothing. You’re falling. Theo starts wailing and digs his claws into your chest.

You’re on the sea, crashing in the thunderous waves, taking in mouthfuls of the salty water and coughing it back out - sinuses burning. You’re in an earthquake, gravel rattling beneath your hands like the ground might collapse under you, swallow you whole. 

You’re in soft grass, crawling on all fours, not knowing what’s real and what’s not. Your head throbs in rhythm with your heart and your body feels like it’s closing in on itself, compressing, bones bending. And all at once, it stops. 

You immediately lose your dinner. 

Thick, burning acid climbs up your throat again and again until you’re left retching, stomach churning. Theo meows fitfully in your coat, but you can’t move to let him out. With how hard you’re shaking, it’s hard to do anything but collapse onto your side. Then he finally worms his way out of your pocket and sits on your chest, wailing some more.

The bright light hasn’t faded, and you blink a few times and squint until you finally realize it’s the sun. Warm, golden light is shining down on you. Which would be lovely, if it wasn’t seven o’clock at night and the middle of winter. You’re dry, too, so your memories of the ocean clearly weren’t real.

I must have hit my head, you think. Exhaustion must have gotten the best of you, and you’d collapsed, hit your head, and hallucinated all of this. But when you finally gain the strength to sit up, setting Theo at your side, your thoughts stall in place.

There’s a young, ashen-haired woman lying unconscious next to you, and a wound on her abdomen is oozing blood. At first, she doesn’t seem real. But she’s warm when you lay a hand on her arm, and the ground has stopped spinning, so you figure she is. And she’s hurt.

Your hands move of their own accord, twitching, knowing that you should do something to help but not knowing what. In medical terms, you’re mostly clueless. Thankfully, when you carefully lift her shirt up from the abdomen, the wound doesn’t seem very deep. There’s bruising there too, deep violet blooming around her navel, but it’s her head that’s really scaring you.

On her temple is a swollen lump, not bleeding much - but it’s the internal damage that you worry about. Sure, you’d been trained in CPR when you were younger, but you have no idea how to treat an injury like this. The first thing you do is make sure she’s breathing. Then you find her pulse, strong and even under your fingers. Those things encourage you. 

You know that you should stop the bleeding, too. Clean the wound. Unfortunately, the only possessions you have at the moment are your coat and the seventeen cents left in the inner pocket. And Theo. Not exactly suited for fixing this sort of thing. 

Her clothes are… strange. They almost look like a costume, if the leather didn’t look so real, so meticulously fitted. And she has two swords at her back, though she’s clearly not in any position to use them. Not important, you chide yourself. The number of questions you have about what just happened is only growing and growing. But you can deal with those once she’s been treated. 

Your gaze catches a pouch on the girl’s belt, and you pull it open and lay out her things, muttering an apology under your breath for invading her privacy. Inside are a handful of strange-looking coins, a vial or two of substances you don’t recognize, and a roll of cotton bandages. When you open the vials and give them a whiff, both are their own disgusting, putrid odor, and neither are identifiable. Shuddering at the smell, you replace their corks and return them to the pouch. Which leaves only the bandages.

As cautiously as you can, you wrap them around her abdomen in an effort to stop the bleeding. It seems to staunch the blood flow. Somewhat. You don’t dare to move her or touch her head - nothing to be done about that here without the risk of making it worse. So you stand up with still-shaking legs and take stock of your surroundings. 

Green fields. As far as the eye can see, there are green fields with blooming wildflowers and bees buzzing from one spot to the next. Birds chirp in the distance, a bubbling stream lies about twenty feet away, and the sun is warmer than ever. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it was spring. You have to take off your coat and tie it around your waist to ward off the growing heat.

There’s some form of wooden shack on the horizon, but you don’t feel right leaving the woman alone. Still, isn’t it better to get her some help? Should you be trying to wake her up? After a moment’s hesitation, you give her shoulder a slight shake, and she stirs. Another shake rouses her completely. 

She flinches and sits up with a start - halting the action with a pained yelp as she cradles an arm around her stomach, grimacing. Finally, her green eyes, so bright they almost appear to be glowing, land on you. “Wh-where am I?” she asks faintly, sounding as if she’s not quite conscious. “Who are you?”

Good questions, you think. But you have so few answers.

“I have no idea where we are,” you start. “This place just… appeared. I was in my kitchen, and - then I was here.” It’s a pathetic explanation, but it’s what you have. After a pause, you give her your name, too. You want to say more, but your mouth closes on its own. You don’t know what just happened, and you’re in no position to explain it.

“I see,” she says, voice tinged with effort as she straightens up. Her gaze lands on Theo, calmly laying beside you, and her lips quirk into a small smile - contrasting ghastly with her greying skin. “And who is this little one?” she asks.

“This is Theo,” you answer softly. 

“Ciri,” she reveals. “I’m… Ciri. I’d say it’s nice to meet you both, but...” She trails off, shaking her head. The movement sends blood trickling from her temple down her cheek. “It seems I’m a little worse for wear at the moment,” she lightly remarks, though her tone can’t hide the exhaustion, the dark circles under her eyes. “Help me up?” 

It’s easier said than done. 

You manage to get her standing and haul her arm over your shoulder as support, but she’s stumbling rather than walking. The sun is scorching hot and merciless, and you find yourself immediately missing the snow. You can’t stop here. 

The grey shade of Ciri’s skin gets worse and worse the further on you go. Her steps get progressively clumsier too, like her legs have started to spasm. Finally, her knees simply give out and she collapses, panting as she plants her gloved hands on the grass. The shack isn’t far now, but she’s bled through her bandages. It seems the wound was worse than you thought. At least Theo is obediently following behind the two of you, and seems to be enjoying this strange adventure.

“Only a little further,” you tell Ciri, even though you’re shaking with overextension and every inch of you hurts. Even though you know in your gut what the odds against her are.

She nods, gritting her teeth in determination, so you prop your shoulder under her arm and help her up. It’s worse this time. She’s a dead weight. You’re practically dragging her. But something anxious - manic, even - buzzes under your skin, fills your breath, surges strength to leadened muscles. Your thoughts trip over one another again and again until you find the word. Adrenaline. It’s the only reason you’re still walking.

The two of you have just made it through the door of the shack when she collapses again, tilting her head back against the wall as she gulps in air, pressing her hand against her abdomen.

You’re suddenly overtaken by the fear that she’ll die and leave you here alone. That you’ll be left with a corpse, a hollow, rotting shell of a girl you barely know. You want to ask her if she has any last wishes, if there’s anything you can do. But, seeing as she clearly hasn’t given up on life yet, it seems cruel to start bringing up death.

Instead, your hands, forever busy, start rummaging through the shack’s cabinets and drawers. You find a few small treasures: a bottle of spirit, some dried fruit and meat, and a length of clean (or, at least, it looks clean) cloth. You don’t waste a moment before returning to Ciri, undoing her blood-soaked bandages to press the cloth against the wound.

She softly cries out as you apply pressure, but makes no move to stop you. Her body lies limp as you work. Then you secure the cloth with the old bandages, tying them as tight as you dare. Her stomach is still bruised, after all, and she’s clearly in pain. At least her face looks less grey now. A little.

“Well, well. What’ve you got there?” she asks, her gaze turning toward the floor, where your newly-found treasures lie.

“Some kind of spirit, I think,” you tell her, picking up the bottle and examining it.

“Give it here?” 

You hand it over without hesitance. She bites off the cork, spits it on the floor, and takes a whiff of the liquid inside. Finding it acceptable, she downs a large swig and tilts her head back again, sighing in relief. Yes, she’s definitely less grey now.

She can’t be very old. What happened to her? Who did this to her? You’re suddenly filled with blind anger. A helplessness that you can’t do more, can’t even comfort her. Theo must be sharing your line of thought, because he crawls onto her lap and starts purring, tucking himself into a circle.

“Thank you very much, Theo,” she says weakly, petting his back. She takes another swig from the bottle, then closes her eyes. You linger near the window, fighting the urge to pace around the room. You’re just about to ask her what happened to her when the rapid sound of hoofbeats approaches.

“Ciri!” a voice calls. Deep - coarse. Warm. The hair on your neck stands up at the sound of it. From fear or anticipation, you don’t know.

“In here,” she responds. She doesn’t bother yelling, just speaks the words as if they’re meant for you. You doubt whoever it is out there can hear her, but he comes inside anyway, bursting through the door like he’s afraid it won’t open.

You immediately gape at the sight of him, thoughts conflicting. This stranger, he’s tall, and broad, and beautiful. And a little scary. You should be afraid of him. He clearly thinks you hurt Ciri, from his expression. You should move, or explain, but you can’t. You just stare at him.

He stalls at the doorway, taking in the sight of her with wide eyes, looking almost pained. You can’t tell what color they are - his eyes - but as they rake over the extent of her wounds, something hardens in his gaze. Then it turns to you. He takes a slow step forward, muscles pulled tense like he’s waiting for a fight, watching you the way one watches a venomous snake. Do you imagine the way his hand instinctively twitches toward his blade?

“Geralt,” Ciri says, sounding immensely relieved. “It’s alright. She helped me.”

At her words, he instantly relaxes, gaze turning away from you as he steps over to Ciri and squats down at her side. Your head’s begun spinning again.

“Geralt, is that Ciri?” a distorted, cool-toned voice asks. “Is she there?” The words seem to have come from the air - you can’t see a source for this new speaker. Then Geralt pulls out a small metal box from his belt and holds it up toward his mouth. Like a phone.

“She’s here.”

The response comes through the box again. “Don’t move.” And, apparently, the voice doesn’t wait for an answer. Ten seconds later, a swirling circle of light appears in the midst of the room and a dark-haired woman walks out of it. 

“Ciri,” she murmurs, going pale. The word is half relief, half fear, and her voice is much clearer now that it isn’t coming from the strange box. She kneels at Ciri’s side, tucking bloodied hair out of her face. “Come with me,” she says. “We must get you out of here, get you somewhere safe.”

“Not going to argue with that,” Ciri says, attempting a laugh. The sound cuts off in pain. The dark-haired woman purses her lips, then helps her to her feet, half-carrying Ciri the way you did. The two of them walk toward the swirling circle of light together, and you watch them helplessly - not knowing if you should say something.

At the last moment, just before they’ve entered, Ciri angles herself toward you. “Wait - I forgot to thank you for your help,” she says. “You may have just saved my life. I can’t repay you at the moment, but… thank you.”

Frozen, you simply nod in response, watching as the two of them step into the light together. Ciri’s words swirl through your mind restlessly. There’s a flash, then both of them are simply gone. Vanished into the air. And, a moment later, the circle fades. 

Leaving you and Geralt alone.

You stare at him across the room, and he stares back at you, looking even more confused than you feel. You’ve seen a fair amount of insanity in your life, but never anything like this. You can’t even begin to process what you’ve just seen. And, funnily enough, you’ve never felt more alone in your life, even with his company. 

Now that Ciri isn’t here, you can take in the sight of him fully. Dark leather armor, snow-white hair, and two swords strung on his back. Like Ciri.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think they were wearing costumes. But Ciri’s blood is much too real on your hands, and so is this… weird, fucked reality that you’re in, sunny when it should be winter, daytime when it should be night, you have no idea where you are, and - fuck. What the hell is happening?

Your feet move to take a step toward the table - to sit down, think all of this over. But something strange happens when you move. Your body starts shuddering and the ground below you suddenly feels unstable. Your head throbs and your legs feel strangely light. Instead of taking a step toward the table, your knees tumble out from under you.

Or they would have. If Geralt hadn’t caught you.

tags:

@henryownsme @madamemelancholysstuff @fullmoonshadowwrites @darkscrossfire @beforethepen @julijal @ailynyan @ivuravix

(So sorry if you didn't want to be tagged! If you’d only like to be tagged for my other series, Accismus, please let me know and I'll happily fix that for future works ❤️)

[geraskierslovechild]

A while ago I read a Game!Geralt/Jaskier fic that I loved so much because of their dynamic, since Game!Geralt is pretty different than Netflix!Geralt

So I was wondering…. Does anyone have an fic recs with that pairing?

[cosmos-coma]

Holidays with You at Kaer Morhen

Hello! I’ve been taking some time away for the holidays, but I still wanted to put out some headcanons before the season came and went!

Below the cut enjoy seeing how each Witcher prefers to celebrate the holidays with you!

Geralt

- Geralt definitely prefers a quieter holiday season, despite the dull feeling that comes with midwinter he’d rather ring it in quietly.

- Cirri, however, will not stand for it and neither will you.

- There’s one day where you rush into him in the great hall shouting “Geralt, Ciri just hurt herself outside!” And that’s all you had to say.

- He beelines for the door and immediately when it opens a snowball smacks him square in the nose. Ciri, who threw it, is in utter hysterics while you’re trying desperately not to laugh too hard.

- You end up all in an extremely competitive snow ball competition in which you have no chance against one Witcher and his teleporting daughter.

- Ciri of course wins in the end when she dumps snow down Geralt’s shirt. You suspect he let her win, having decades of witcher experience, but the way Ciri cheers like its the best day of her life easily heals his bruised pride.

Eskel

- Eskel also likes quieter Holidays, but no matter what he likes to spend them indoors. He won’t admit it, but he’s a bit of a baby when it comes to the cold, so the closer he can stay to a fire the better in his opinion.

- Which is perfect for you because that means its 10x easier to drag him into the kitchen with you.

- Together you two almost single-handedly made enough treats to feed the entire keep all winter. Honey cakes, cookies, cranberry bread.

- Of course you also make Eskel taste test everything, his favorite job of all (as well as Lil Bleater’s, when she manages to sneak in).

- Eskel knows that he’s gonna have to train a little extra to make up for all the treats before the season ends, but he knows it makes you happy to take care of him.

  Lambert

- Lambert on the other hand likes to be the one to ring in the holidays with a literal BANG.

- However before that, you have gotten him to enjoy mulling wine and cider with you. He’ll joke and say that it’s because its something he can get drunk off of later, but you know he enjoys the quality time as well. Plus? he smells AMAZING afterwards.

- Once that’s done and you two have at least one waterskin full of your mulled masterpiece Lambert leads you out to the lakeside, plenty of blankets in hand and you two set off your creations.

- They aren’t all perfect, some just fizzle out and die, but others explode into the most spectacular colors and your eyes light up like everything in the world is exactly right. Lambert wouldn’t trade those moments for the world.

[writingmysanity]

Witcher Blurb

based on THIS post.

word count: 206

Words echo off the stone walls, vesimir’s teachings being the sole source for his boys education for many more years than he cares to admit. He glances at the lot of them, blank faced and slack jawed, trying to forget why he turned grey earlier than even his own mentor. Even young Ciri, who is normally his best pupil and taking notes is staring blankly ahead, fighting the closing of her eyes. 

“Did none of you hear a word of what I just said?” his voice booms over them, startling them back to attention, poor Ciri nearly leaping to her feet, hands on the table, blinking rapidly to clear away the sleep.

“Ive been zoned out for the past two and a half hours,” she admits sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck, offering him a small smile, mouthing ‘sorry’.

“I got distracted about halfway through,” Eskel grumbles into his now empty vat of ale, looking at the bottom of his glass sadly, voice thick with sleep.

“Ignoring you was a conscious decision,” lambert huffs, biting back his yelp when his brother’s shoe meets his shin. “Aye,” he growls at Geralt, who shrugs, blinking quickly himself. Vesimir just sighs, laying his head in his hands. 

“Dismissed.”

==

Tag list: @errruvande @thesleepy1 @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie @queenxxxsupreme @screechingdreamercollectorsblog @open--till--midnight @one-eyed-captain-kinky @seidenbros @cosmos-coma @deanmcogorman

If you would like to be added to the tag list, please send me a message or ask or something.

[parkkrys]

What you Most Desire

The first chapter has been posted for @jaskierminibang which I am glad to have participated in. It will be an ongoing piece of work but I am super excited to write this and hopefully, you all will like it too!

All grammar mistakes are my own! Fic can be found here

Artwork is done by Thatgothwitch on A03! They are wonderful and I appreciate them so so much!

Rated Teen and up

Tags: Game!Geralt/netflix!Jaskier, Arranged Marriage, Siren Jaskier, secret relationship, based off The Witcher 3: The Wild Hunt

Summary:

Jaskier is a male siren who grew up on the shorelines of Skellige but was later captured/discovered at a young age. Unfortunately with his capture, male sirens were now known and he wasn’t allowed to go home, instead he was placed in the hands of Crach an Craite and in the end, the man treated Jaskier well. Even if it meant he was placed into an arranged marriage with Crach's daughter Cerys. Even though both parties expressed their displeasure there was no convincing the elder man otherwise.

Jaskier has accepted his fate, he wasn’t destined for a happy ending but it all changed when he met Geralt of Rivia, a Witcher who is very tired and seemed to be fed up with everyone. It should have been clear that he didn’t want anyone to talk to him but Jaskier’s curiosity was always his weakness. An unexpected friendship grew between the both of them which quickly turned into something else and even though forbidden, they couldn’t seem to stay away from one another. And now, Jaskier had to figure out what the heck he was going to do now when the wedding was days away. Was he to leave Skellige with Geralt and be happy or will he stay out of obligation to marry Cerys?

[jagalart]

Yarrow and Feverfew

Art trade with the incredible @liscepu, I'm so grateful for the chance! Thank you for fueling my love for the game again <3

[wiltkingart]

admit it - you thought i wouldn't come back, gwynbleidd

[heraldofsomething]

[ramen-flavored]

[thedreamlessnights]

Accismus - pt. 1

{next chapter}

Geralt of Rivia x gn!reader (Eventual NSFW)

Synopsis: After coming across a djinn, you wish for constant protection. He grants it by sending you a witcher.

Warnings and tags: Mentions of nausea, vomiting, and corpses. No usage of Y/N. Enemies to lovers if you squint.

Word Count: 2.7k

A/N: First Geralt fic (which all my friends saw coming). This is the first chapter of a multi-part series, with more soon to come! I haven't seen the show - this Geralt is based off the third game, and the characterization, settings, and descriptions are written as such. Hope you all enjoy!

accismus - feigning indifference to something while actually desiring it.

The woods are quiet today.

Stillness blankets it all like a fog, thick and heavy in the morning air. The dawn sky, painted scarlet-orange and deep blue, gilds the tops of the trees with golden sun. If it were not so utterly, pittingly silent, it would be beautiful. 

The wind is absent in the leaves. Animals are frozen in place, statues in the trees and underground, and nothing moves even an inch. It seems the world is holding its breath.

Then a chirp erupts from the trees, clear and piercing, and the forest returns to life. Whatever threat had been is gone, and the birds go back to their usual high, sweet chatter that echoes through the nearby clearing. Leaves and branches softly rustle, rabbits scurry across the ground, and wolves howl in the distance.

Well-hidden in his position, the witcher sits alone, not yet detected. Despite his state of stillness, his eyes are restless, searching for something he cannot find. 

His frustration seems to slowly devour him, eating away at him little by little.

Nothing here is amiss. The earth smells as it should - of mud, crisp air, berries ripened and full. Salt from the sea lingers in the wind, dulled to a fine mist in the breeze, and bloodmoss oozes the scent of metal and rot.

Aside from the sound of the birds, waves crash on the shoreline in the distance, but there is little else - only the occasional creak of a branch as an animal hops from one tree to the next. 

All should be well. For reasons he cannot explain, it is not. 

With a sigh, the witcher rises to his feet. The movement triggers a flurry of wings into the air, which halts him for a moment before he continues on - feeling as if he’s being watched.

This sensation has gone on since last night, and it only seems to strengthen by the moment. His senses seem to have betrayed him. He can’t sleep or get a moment’s peace, and he certainly wouldn’t be able to concentrate on a contract. 

If Yennefer were around, he’d ask her opinion on it. She’s nowhere to be found, though - hasn’t been for months now. As usual, she hadn’t deemed it important to tell him where she was headed off to.

When he reaches the clearing, he stops. Even the beat of his heart is wrong now. Too fast, out of rhythm. The uneasiness increases until it seems to swallow him whole. Then the hair stands up on the back of his neck. 

His eyes dart back and forth through the trees, searching for something, anything, but finding nothing. Too quiet, he thinks. Hushed and muffled - the woods are waiting, just like he is.

Something takes hold of his feet. How, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t hear a thing, doesn’t see anything at his boots - but, inexplicably, he’s being pulled backward by an unseen force. His chest hits the ground, hard. Then he’s being dragged.

His ribs throb and ache. His ears ring. He searches for purchase in the ground but finds nothing but soft earth. Then, as his fingers claw at the dirt, he’s yanked into the air.

The pressure of the grip becomes a hot, wrenching pain. If he didn’t know better, he’d think that it was branding him - invisible, fiery hands plastered to his ankles, seared forever into his skin. The ground is ripped out from under him in an instant, and he falls into the sky. 

The world becomes darkness. It blurs slowly into life, then fuzzes into waves of colors. His stomach churns with bile, acidic, rancid, and rising up his throat. Colors fade into pure white. The white fades into green. 

Green, which flies toward him in a flash until it hits him, knocks the wind out of him. Only when his fingers curl into it does he recognize it, gasping and straining for air. 

The pain lessens. The green is soft under his hands. 

The witcher breathes into it - the sharp smell of it, the keen familiarity against his cheek and fingers. He moves to stand, and for just a moment, his feet hold him.

Then he is sick on the grass.

Geralt of Rivia falls from the sky. 

There really isn’t another way to describe it. One moment, the air is unnaturally thick. The breeze in the grass stills, hair rises on the back of your neck. Even your lungs seem to halt. 

Then, the sky opens a few feet above you and spits a white-haired man onto the grass. He hits the ground with a loud thump, a sharp, scraping breath, and a moment of silence. 

For that moment, you worry he’s dead. Dealing with this stranger’s corpse would be the final straw on the haystack of an awful, awful week, and you really don’t have it in you to dig another grave at the moment. 

Then, mercifully, his lungs return to their work. The hoarse inhales are painful to listen to, but they’re familiar from experience - he’s out of wind. Eventually, his breathing returns to normal. A little strained, perhaps, but whole and deep. He’ll be alright. 

Relief settles, and your eyes scan him from head to toe where he lays.

A good deal of black armor, fitted with brown straps of leather and chainmail pauldrons. White hair, but the color doesn’t seem to be from age. Not that you can exactly be sure of that when his face is toward the ground - making it impossible to do any sort of real inspection - but the two swords on his back say enough when they catch your eye.

The White Wolf. 

It must be. You’ve heard enough stories. Two swords mean a witcher. Two swords and white hair mean Geralt of Rivia. 

A very stunned Geralt of Rivia. 

His fingers curl into the grass and he stands, stumbling around for a moment before collapsing onto the ground, spilling up the contents of his stomach.

You give him a little privacy. Back turned, eyes scanning the horizon. Your mind is desperately trying to compensate for why he’s here, ignoring the persistent, nagging voice at the top of your head.

You know why he’s here; you just don’t want to believe it. Anything but this.

After a moment, the sounds of his sick fade into nothing. All you can hear is the soft whisper of the breeze against your cheek. When you turn back to him, he’s laying on the grass again - face up this time, a hand drawn over his eyes.

Wherever he’d come from, it must have been a hell of a trip.

“Where am I?”

His voice is not anything like you’d expected. From the stories, you’d thought it would be ice. Cold, emotionless, piercing. Instead, there’s a gruff hoarseness to it; an underlying warmth.

“Velen,” you answer. “Not far from Crow’s Perch.”

He lets out a disapproving noise. “Five minutes ago, I was in Skellige. Why am I in Velen?”

Your lips won’t seem to work, but Geralt doesn’t wait for an answer. If it’s really him, that is. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe there’s another witcher with white hair. Unlikely, though.

He sits up once more, steadier this time. Analyzes the severity of his injuries, then his surroundings, then… you. His voice may not be piercing like you’d thought, but his gaze cuts into you like a knife, cold metal tracing along your frame. 

The hair on the back of your neck rises as he looks you over, suspicious but not scrutinizing. He’s angry and wary of you, and - considering everything - perhaps he should be.

“We haven’t met,” he says. A fact, not a question.

“No. We haven’t.”

Your voice is stronger than you feel, and that gives you just enough of an edge to meet his gaze, even if just for a moment. Then your confidence breaks, and you look away.

“Care to tell me how I got here?” he asks.

“A portal. You fell out of the sky.”

He lets out a huff. “I gathered that.”

It’s much quicker than it should be, the way he pushes himself to his feet and steps toward you. Your legs freeze in place, heart thumping loudly against your ribs as he approaches.

Up close, you can see the gold of his eyes - a witcher’s eyes, slitted like a cat’s. A scar runs deep in his left cheek and up his forehead, and there’s another above his right brow. The little doubt you have left at his identity is crumbling. 

You know better than to lie to him, and your words are chosen carefully.

“I’m not sure how you got here. There was nothing, then you arrived.”

It’s the truth, technically. You aren’t sure - your suspicions are just that, for now. 

“There’s something you’re not telling me.” He cocks a brow. “Mind cluing me in to whatever you’re hiding?”

Shit. Your shoulders slump a little, betraying you.

“I need to confirm my suspicions, first.” You can’t process what to say next - the words stumble from your mouth, blocky. “I - I’m not even sure you’re who I think you are.”

“And who is it that you think I am?”

This conversation isn’t going the way you want it to. He’s too forward, sees too much to try to slip anything past him. You can’t even decide what to call him. Well, the Butcher of Blaviken probably isn’t the safest bet, and the White Wolf seems wrong.

“Geralt of Rivia.”

“Then you’d be right,” he confirms. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way-”

“-Wait,” you cut in. “I need you to try something before I explain. There’s no point in telling you if I’m wrong.” 

His gaze on your face feels like fire in a way that makes it impossible to meet directly. You can’t help shifting your eyes away from it as you step back. Then you point in the direction of the horizon. 

“Walk twenty paces that way.”

If he was suspicious before, he’s ten-fold now. 

“Some kind of trap?” he asks. “You shouldn’t waste your time.”

“I’m unarmed. I’m only asking you to walk away from me, and I’m sure that you can hear there’s no one else here. Do I look like a mage to you?”

“No,” he says, eyes sweeping over you, “but I know the makings of a trap when I see one.”

He’s right to be cautious, and you haven’t exactly given him a reason to trust you.

“I’ll do it, then.”

Eight steps are all it takes. Eight steps to feel exactly what you’d expected to feel, but what you hoped you wouldn’t.

It’s like meeting a wall - a solid, invisible stopping point. When you push past it, the world blurs. Everything spins. Your head feels like it’s being squeezed, gripped, as if waiting for the bone to finally give. Your legs lose their strength and crumble.

When you topple back, bile rising hot at the back of your throat, the sensation disappears altogether. It’s a bitter awakening from your earlier denial.

“Alright, what the hell was that?” Geralt croaks. He’s hunched over, voice strained. “Some kind of magic? A curse?” 

So he’d felt it too, then. You might as well take the plunge and get it over with.

“It’s a wish, actually,” you tell him, shakily getting to your feet. “A wish from a djinn.”

He bristles at the sound of that, straightening up. “Talk. Fast.”

You’re not going to argue with that.

“I wished for protection to be with me always, and - apparently - I got a witcher as the answer.”

Something flickers in his expression before he answers - something that looks a little like fear but could easily be anger. Perhaps both. Or, maybe, it’s something else altogether.

“Better undo it, then,” he says.

“I can’t.”

“You used all three wishes?”

Your silence serves as an answer.

“Great. Stuck with you until we find another djinn.” He runs a hand over his face. “How’d you get your hands on one in the first place?”

“It was… given to me.” The words come out ingenuine, and Geralt’s eyes narrow. “Is that the only way to break it?” you add quickly. “Another djinn?”

His gaze lingers on you for a long moment, as if searching for something hidden in your expression. You wish he’d stop doing that. It's unnerving.

“Yes,” he says. “There’s no other way.”

“I didn’t mean to involve anyone else.” Your words are hushed, but you know he can hear them. “What if… what if we found another djinn? Undid the wish?”

“Being easy to find isn’t exactly what djinns are known for,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Your luck gets worse and worse. Not that you’d thought that djinns grow on trees, but - well, with Geralt being a witcher and all, you’d hoped he’d have more of a lead than you do.

“What do we do now, then?”

You aren’t exactly fond of monsters. Running witcher contracts with him would only put both of you in danger. There’d be a mental toll on both of you, unable to get any privacy. Not to mention, the sorceress from all those stories probably wouldn’t enjoy your neverending presence, either. Clearly, if you want to continue to live, staying like this is out of the question. 

Geralt muses over the situation, considering his options. “Yennefer - a… friend of mine - might know where to find a djinn, but… well, I wouldn’t know where to find her, either.”

The word friend sounds like he’s tempted to say something else. You have a pretty good idea of what it is, but you let it slide without comment. He’s already unhappy with you, after all.

“I could ask around at The Chameleon,” he continues, “see if anyone’s heard anything. Unlikely, but it’s a start.”

“The Chameleon?” you ask, pushing away your curiosity.

“A tavern in Novigrad. Friends with the owner.”

“Right.” You kick a stone, wishing you could go back in time. You’ve wished for that a hundred times in the last few days, and - as usual - it doesn’t come true. The rock rolls pitifully across the dirt, and your eyes sting. “Which way?”

“Let me guess,” he says. “You don’t have a horse? I don’t know about you, but I don’t exactly want to walk to Novigrad.”

The image of a beautiful black stallion is raw in your memory. You close your eyes to shut it out.

“No horse,” you confirm, turning away so he doesn’t see your face. “There are stables not far from here.”

“Got any money?”

You do, for once. It feels like blood money in your pockets, weighing you down, but you nod.

“How much?”

“Enough for two horses, at least.”

The least you can do is pay for his horse, after all. Maybe that’ll make him a little less angry.

“Lead the way,” he says.

The sun is up now, starting to heat the earth, hot dirt under your shoes that will scald later in the day. Geralt stays close to you, closer than he needs to, his right fingers flexing every now and again as if he’s itching to grab one of his swords. He doesn’t trust you; why should he?

The walk to the stables seems so much longer in the growing heat, and it’s even worse with an angry witcher behind you. When you finally make it, drenched in sweat, Geralt heads in to talk to the stable owner. 

You’d prefer to stay outside and wait, but the djinn’s wish doesn't allow that. You follow him in - lingering a few steps behind, keeping your head down. 

He’s much better at negotiating than you’ve ever been. Two minutes of talk later, you’re buying horses at a very reasonable price. The stable owner leaves for a moment and returns with two shiny brown mares, glancing nervously at the swords on Geralt’s back. Geralt doesn’t waste a moment before leading his horse outside.

“Is it always that easy?” you ask, following him out.

“No,” he says. 

He spends a moment longer there, giving his horse some oats and a pat on the neck, murmuring something under his breath. The words aren’t for you.

For some reason, you feel as if you’re invading a private moment - something you’re not meant to see. Just as you’re about to turn away, he props his foot into the stirrup and swings smoothly into the saddle. It’s followed by an impatient look in your direction. “Well? Are you coming?” 

You scramble onto your horse without another word, and your journey to Novigrad starts.

[elythegardeningbard]

The Asskier Chair

For those who don't know me well here, I moved in last year in my new home with my two children. I had been living with my parents since the beginning of the divorce proceedings so of course, when I moved in, I had basically nothing.

My parents offered to look around a few places, thrift stores and such, to help me fill up the place and this is the phone call I received from my mother (translated from French):

Mom :"I found you a chair"

"Okay"

Mom : "It's 80$. But you need it"

"I don't see how I would need an $ 80 chair..."

Mom: "You don't understand. There's a bard on it"

"A bard..? On the chair"

Mom: "Well exactly, on it yes. Actually... You sit on his face"

"..." Confused

So she sends me the following pictures

And of course I bought the Chair and of course, Twitter decided via poll that it would be names Asskier

Apparently, my dad was not impressed and he told my mom I wouldn't want it because we sat on his face.

Mom "Pretty sure it's the main reason Elias will want it. It's pretty gay"

Here's a more current picture of Asskier, living its best chair life in my living room

Near My lute and the Fireplace

[zacksnydered]

HENRY CAVILL as GERALT OF RIVIA. Netflix’s The Witcher ‧ Shaerrawedd

[norrtam]

[ashenknightt]

shoutout to the witcher books theyre kinda silly

[finleycannotdraw]

interdimensional geraskier convention?????

from left to right: hexer geraskier, book gerlion, netflix geraskier, and game gerlion

colored about half of it on a discord call and the other half trying to ignore my family who had just arrived

closeups under the cut!

[wiltkingart]

neither monster nor man