#geralt fic series

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: this one came out of no where.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

It’s uncharacteristically grim on the plains of Debray. Rains pelt the tall green grasses, flattening them in a slanted downpour that dims the horizon. Clouds blot out the daylight and lend to atmosphere of unease in the warring lands. 

Behind the castle walls, one can forget about the bloodshed staining the counties red, though it is all the dukes and his audience can speak of. The lords that bluster through those gates, sometimes at the toll of morning, some in the black swathes of night. You can’t count them all, you can name even fewer, but they come anon and leave just as brusquely. 

A peel of thunder shakes the land and a dark line limns the curve of the horizon. What appears first as a storm cloud advances quickly through the fields, appearing more clearly to the naked eye, distant nonetheless. Men. Another party fast on the approach. 

The alarm goes up at a man’s holler. Ethred, man at the gate hollers to the other men in mail. Niam peers out from the vantage of the tower and calls back down. A hush falls and bodies scurry all around, metal clinking and boots crunching. There’s something amiss. Something you can’t quite place. 

You turn away from the window, the steam rising from the basin in your hand swirling around your head. You carry on down the corridor, wool skirts around cautious steps as you balance the swaying water in the vessel. You approach the lady’s door and give it a rap with your knee. Merinda, another handmaid, opens it from within. 

You enter without a word and place the basin on the vanity table. The duke’s daughter preens herself with a painted fan, fluttering her lashes at her reflection as her curls spill down her long back. She tilts her head this way and that. She snaps the fan shut and puts it down, touching her soft brown cheeks with a devilish grin. 

“Do you know what father mentioned last eve?” Jazlene asks with a vain flutter of her lashes. 

“What did he mention?” Her mother, Lady Rezlyn prompts lazily as she plucks another cherry from a dish heaped in fruit. 

“A husband,” the daughter grins coyly at herself, “it is well due, isn’t it, mother? Who do you think it might be? Lord Gai, perhaps? He is young still.” 

“Perhaps the Earl of Mesafin,” her mother taunts back to a disgusted gasp. 

“Do not,” Jazlene pouts, “I could never... I am much too pretty for that haggard beast.” 

“Well, then, who might you have, precious?” Rezlyn goads. 

There is a clamour in the hall that keeps the younger of the woman from answering. She rolls her eyes and darkly glare at the door. You peer back behind your shoulder as a wail goes up carrying her father’s name; ‘Lord Dustan!’ 

“What is all that?” Jazlene whines, “as if it isn’t enough with the rain and the winds. It is summer!” 

“It’s always summer in Debray, darling,” Rezlyn scoffs, “otherwise I’d have never married your father. Pray you don’t hook yourself a winter lord.” 

You peek over your shoulder as you stand near the door, in your vigil, awaiting your next order. You face the ladies again as the elder continues to feast and the younger fusses over her thick brows. You scrunch your lips back and forth, a habit that often has your jaw aching. 

Jazlene turns to narrow her eyes at you, “what is it then? What has you making faces?” 

You bow your head, appeasing her ego, “my lady, there were men coming. A party approaching from the north.” 

“There are always men,” she shakes her head, “who was it then? Anyone I should wear silk for?” 

Her mother laughs, “I warn you, daughter, that trite tongue will not endear any husband.” 

“I do not know, lady,” you answer. 

“Ugh, useless, must I work as my own handmaid?” Jazlene tisks, “come, pin my hair. Merinda find me a gown. Mother... wipe the dribble from your chin.” 

“Eh, watch yourself,” Lady Rezlyn rises and wipes her lips with her sleeve. She wears muslin in a dark shade of burgundy, embroidered with little copper finches. “Or hope you marry above me before you lash that tongue at me.” 

Jazlene merely trills with laughter. You take the pins and work at twisting her fine curls into place. Merinda brings to her a dress of teal satin and is promptly shooed away, “something pink. It brings out my bosom.” 

You ignore her bawdy jest as her mother harrumphs. You work in quiet tandem with the other handmaid. You add a touch of paint to the lady’s cheeks and kohl around her eyes. You tint her lips with pigment and she pushes out her lips at the mirror. You help Merinda dress her, pulling the noble daughter’s corset tight enough to leave her lightheaded. 

The pair of ladies, elder and younger, leave the chamber with you at their skirt tails. They sweep through the corridors with chins up. They are queens in their own minds. Their fine dresses and sparkling gems are untouched by the disparity of war. The lives lost are squares on a game board, tawdry talk for men in their studies. 

“Lord Dustan,” Lady Rezlyn mimics the earlier call for the lord of the castle, “my husband. Dear, dear husband!” 

The women go to the banister and look down upon the great hall as the flurry continues below. You and Merinda loom behind, not daring to stand at a level with the pompous nobles. You have never volunteered yourself for their impetuous lashings. 

“Woman!” Dustan booms back up, “do not trouble me now.” 

“Oh, has another lord come? Perhaps a suitor for our lovely daughter--” 

“Cease!” The duke demands hotly, “now is not the time for womanly games.” 

“Tell me it true, husband, she will be an old maid before you find a suiting son-in-law--” 

“Go away to your chambers. Now. The men who come are not to be trifled with and you lot do trifle overly much!” 

“Bah! Oh do not be so uncouth!” Rezlyn decries. 

“Father, please, is it a husband?” 

“Go before I send my guards up to put you away like thieves in a dungeon. Hear me when I warn you that this does not concern you. Not as yet,” Dustan snarls, “you would spoil this war with your puny concerns.” 

“Ugh,” his wife puts her hand to her forehead, “he does tax me. All I ask of him is to take care of us, daughter. As any husband should.” 

“I should have your lips sewn shut!” Dustan rebukes hotly, “be gone before I find a tailor.” 

The women share an aghast look. The turn back to flutter away in their skirts. You and Merinda follow them to the drawing room, closing them in as they fall onto the velvet cushions. Jazlene reclines dramatically on the chaise as her mouth mopes on a sofa. 

“Shall I be alone forever, mother?” Jazlene snivels, “why won’t he let me marry?” 

“He only wants to find the right man, that is all, darling,” Rezlyn coaxes. “He is overprotective and that is good for it means he will find a husband for you with a similar bearing.” 

“Such sweet words cannot convince me. He punishes me. When all my lady friends have wed and borne a whelp or two, I remain with the dust and stone.” 

“Do not be theatrical,” Rezlyn girds, “you are silly.” 

“I am not silly, mother. I am afraid. I am twenty and three and I have no suitor. I have only a war butchering any man who might have my hand. Why must this go on? Why must I suffer for the gripes of stubborn kings.” 

“We cannot fear. This war will be won and you will have a knight for a husband. Isn’t that better? To have a warrior you can be proud of than some bookish lord in his tower?” Rezlyn stands and moves to sit with her daughter, petting her as she cooes, “oh my beautiful, no man can resist you. You will see.” 

⚔️

Some hours pass with the restless women, pacing and chattering, about careless things beyond marriage and war. Like needlework and a banquet that should be had upon the truce. Would that the day would come sooner. 

You and Merinda stifle yawns that pass between you. The act is contagious as you stand in the tedium of the wealthy and wait for a duty to be called upon you. The hours you spend watching the women preen and swoon make you envy the stable boys and the shit shovelers. 

The noise beyond those walls continues. You heard the moat open and the clopping hooves of horses, even the clatter of carts. The voices had since hushed but footfalls carried back and forth. The wordless activity betrays an air of impatience, almost of nervousness. As the ladies within mirror the sentiment. 

Finally, as the windows darken and the candles burn brighter, a knock shakes the door. The ladies snap their heads around. Merinda is asleep on her feet as you move first. You open to a man in grey and black waits on the other side. He is not Lord Dustan’s. 

“The duchess and her daughter,” he garbles through a mouth that sounds full of salt. 

You dip your head and look to the ladies in question. There is a tension, of unease, of unknowing, of excitement turned to dread. This is not as it has been. There is not call to the dinner table. There is no buoyant introduction of a lord Dustan met as a young scamp. There is silence and fear. Has someone died? Has a battle been lost? 

The women emerge and greet the man with niceties and tight-lipped simpers. He does not pay them heed as you and Merinda exchange looks. You trail after the ladies but the man stops. He turns back, a hand on the pommel at his waist, and sneers, a furrow in his brow. 

“One of ya,” he grits. 

Jazlene says your name. She must’ve noticed Merinda swaying on her feet. If she even cares so much about a maid. You keep your head down and follow as they press on. Down the corridor and around the duke’s study, recently deemed his war room. You’ve never been within. It is not the domain of women. 

The grey and black soldier thumps on the door. Mother and daughter clasp hands. Even they can sense the unusual frigidity. The door opens from within. It is Lord Dustan. He wears a serious look on his lined face. The ladies are beckoned in and the soldier nudges you after them as you hesitate. 

Lanterns light the space from the desk at the rear of the chamber. The large table draped in maps, wooden horses, and little wooden pucks stands central on a thick rug. A figure stands behind it, head down as his burly and broad silhouette seems to sop up the shadows. 

The ladies follow the duke to stand across from the man. His head is down as he slides a horse along a road on the map. He stops it and grips it tight. He looks up and the lantern light dances on his features. You suck in a breath, as the rest do, stunned by his appearance. 

His hair is white, his eyes are a goldish yellow, pupils deep pools of black, and his square jaw is just as thick as the rest of him. You have never seen a man like him before, but you have heard of one. Of him. King Geralt of Rivia. 

You stand in similar confusion to the ladies. Their silent confoundment is broken by Duke Dustan as he nears the table. He sniffs and presses his fingers to the table top. 

“Your highness, my wife, Lady Rezlyn, and my daughter, Lady Jazlene,” he introduces. 

The women glance at each other then curtsy to the white king. He watches them dully. You fold your hands, taking it in curiously. It is rather something to witness the scene. You are so unimportant as to not be a part of it. 

“Your highness,” the recite, “it is...” 

“An honour,” Dustan finishes for them, “of course it is. We fondly welcome you and your allyship. We hope that we will be essential in ending this war. In helping you attain the peace you have so valiantly fought for--” 

The king raises his hand to silence the lord. You can’t help but quork your head. Allyship? But King Geralt, he is of Rivia, he is of the hinterland, he is the one who invaded the summer country and bid it his own. He is the foe. That is what they told you. 

“Enough...” the king speaks in a silty tone that scrapes in his throat. His eyes wander over the women and narrow. You wince as your own meet his golden irises and you shy away, putting your chin to your chest. That’s a mistake. “...words.” He slaps his hand down, “you do not win wars with words.” 

“Yes, your highness, you are correct. I know it well. It is why I invited you here. It is the very reason I made my entreaty. You have my men, they will win this war for you.” 

The king is hardly impressed by the fact. He looks back to the table and moves the horse further before turning it back. He knocks it over and stands completely straight. 

“And the daughter of Debray, your highness. To have a wife of summer’s blood, men will bend the knee. If you show them you do not mean to eradicate but to join with them,” Dustan moves to stand closer to his daughter, “isn’t she a fine queen for a fine kingdom?” 

Jazlene swoons and falls against her father. She’s fainted. Rezlyn grabs onto her other shoulder and you peek up at the chaotic scene. You come forward to help, snatching a pillow from the single couch, and you place it under Jazlene’s head as they lay her down on the floor. 

A shadow shifts as Dustan and Rezlyn fuss over their daughter, fanning and calling to her. You look up as darkness clusters over you. You see the king staring down at the scene. No, not them. He staring at you. Before he can reprimand you, you put your head down. 

You must quit that lest you find yourself at the wrong end of a switch. 

[darkmasterlistyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King Masterlist

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Status: In Progress

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

Part 15

Part 16

Part 17

Part 18

Part 19

Part 20

Part 21

Part 22

Part 23

Part 24

Part 25

Part 26

[0dde11eth]

Ok but the warmth spreading through geralts chest when jaskier buys two Oranges, and Peels geralts first and for him

It's such a small gesture. It was unprompted and jaskier did it without thinking, just chattering away about his adventures at the market

Geralt has never tasted a sweeter fruit

[podcastenthusiast]

"Here should be safe to set up camp," Geralt says, scanning the treeline with his eyes in that odd witcher way. Like he's seeing much more than a mere mortal could.

"Thank the gods," sighs Jaskier, who's been really starting to regret skiving off those physical fitness courses at Oxenfurt.

"Get a fire started while I tend to Roach."

"Oh Geralt, I'd love to, I would. Truly it's colder than a sorceress' shapely—"

"Jaskier."

"Well, as they say: you can lead a bard to timber, but you can't make him—"

"Just do it, Jaskier."

"I don't know how! All right? I've never built a fire in the middle of nowhere before! It's not one of the seven liberal arts, and I much prefer my fires stoked by comely barmaids in taverns."

Geralt looks at him for a long moment. It's a complicated look—frustration and amusement and a hint of regret. Mostly it's a look that says Jaskier is an idiot for joining him on the Path.

"Right," Geralt says slowly. He begins building the campfire himself.

"I imagine they teach wilderness survival to baby witchers at witcher school."

Geralt looks at him again and there's something different in his expression. The ghost of a smile? Jaskier doesn't quite know how to read it.

"Kaer Morhen," he says. "And yeah. Something like that."

"Oh?" Jaskier has to rein in his enthusiasm, his curious questions. Geralt so rarely reveals anything personal about himself or his past. Not that Jaskier has been forthcoming in that regard either. They live in the moment, day by day, but some context would help his creative process.

Besides all that, he genuinely wants to get to know Geralt a little better.

"Vesemir took me out into the forest one day. Gave me a knife and left me there for a month."

There is no bitterness in his words. If anything, the witcher sounds...almost fond. Nostalgic. Proud of his younger self for overcoming the challenges his mentors set before him.

It takes a moment for the true meaning of that to sink in and, once it does, Jaskier is horrified. His own parents weren't great, but even they would never simply abandon him.

"He just— like as a test— what—?"

"Real eloquent, bard. I doubt he had any choice. Probably wasn't even supposed to give me anything."

"How old were you?" he demands, unsure if any answer will make this revelation less abhorrent.

"Six? Seven? Maybe eight. I don't know." Geralt makes a gesture with his fingers and the pile of wood beneath his hand sparks with flame. "Not old enough to have learned Igni yet."

He can picture it, too, so vividly. Curse his dammed artist's imagination. Geralt, just a kid, alone and scared and definitely cold—because no one bothered to teach him how to start a fire.

"Stop it," the witcher snaps.

"What?"

"Looking at me like that. I'm fine. I was fine back then. Wasn't so bad at all compared to the Grasses. Vesemir came back for me like he said he would. I survived the trial—no, I didn't just survive; I exceeded all expectations, which is why they..." The witcher trails off. Takes a breath.

All of that... It's quite a lot of words for Geralt. Honest words, even.

It's his job to talk, to sing, to commit the most painful and difficult experiences to beautiful poetic verse. But Jaskier doesn't know what to say to his friend right now. Surely he has to say something.

"Geralt..."

"Don't waste your pity. Save it for the ones who didn't make it through. I did."

"Okay," the bard replies, careful and tentative. He isn't a brave man, nor a particularly kind one. But Jaskier considers himself an honest fellow so he adds, "Just because you made it through, you know, that doesn't mean what happened to you was all right, Geralt. Children aren't supposed to be left alone to fend for themselves."

The witcher laughs—a humorless, wretched sound. He doesn't say anything at all to that. Which is okay, really; Jaskier just needed him to hear it.

There is a long silence. The fire crackles. Jaskier absently strums his lute.

"You're gonna write a ballad about this, aren't you," Geralt says after a while.

"No!" Maybe. Yes. He won't perform it.

"Hm."

The fire crackles.

Quite out of the blue, Geralt tells him, "I befriended a wolf back then."

"What? You're joking!"

"Witchers don't have a sense of humor. Common knowledge."

"Common misconception. Most people are just stupid. No, hang on, stop distracting me—You had a pet wolf?!"

"Not a pet," the witcher corrects, smiling faintly. "Fangtooth was her own wolf."

"Fangtooth?" Jaskier repeats, struggling to contain his amusement. "Not Roach?"

"No."

"Forgive me, but that's adorable."

"I was just a child. I wanted to stay with her in the wilderness. Be a wolf, too. Or a knight." He shakes his head dismissively. Silly childish dreams.

"But you didn't," Jaskier says. And feels stupid for saying something so obvious.

"Too late for that," Geralt replies without reproach. "I was already a witcher."

"As a child, I wanted to run away and join the circus," the bard offers.

"Of course you did."

They're quiet for a moment then. Comfortable, shared silence. Just the sounds of birds and forest creatures, and Roach contentedly eating grass. The fire crackles.

"Geralt, will you teach me to light a fire? Without witcher magic, obviously, since I don't have any."

"Why?"

"Because...well, because I could be a more useful traveling companion. Like Fangtooth must've been."

"...Fine," Geralt agrees after some thought.

It is a skill he will be very grateful to have on freezing nights in the coming years, especially whenever the witcher is too injured or ill from those dreadful potions to help set up camp. He will try not to think of the child Geralt once was, subjected to horrific tests of his ability to survive all on his own.

Except he hadn't been on his own back then, not completely. And he isn't alone anymore, either.

[procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics]

witchers x maleficent!/fae!reader

summary: how witcher characters would react to someone having maleficent type horns/wings and magic

notes: got this out just in time for the new season phew

warnings: gn!reader, lambert the middle schooler, jaskier's composing

tagged: @majesticwren @obsessiveformiyatwins @levithestripper @lu-in-the-library @sunndust (msg me to be added!)

based on this request | masterlist | requests are OPEN!

Geralt

He’s mostly just praying that fate isn’t throwing another curveball at him

Sureeee he’ll spend time with you!! (his fingers are crossed and he’s praying let them be normal let them be normal

Will end up totally accepting you, but he doesn’t love the attention that comes from being a witcher in the company of a fae

He secretly adores your wings

Jaskier

Immediately in song-writing mood

Will make up things about your life to fabricate contents for his ballads

Won’t treat you very different from his other ~weird~ friends

Loves loves loves the attention that comes with it (read: basks in it like the sun)

Yennefer

Yen is fascinated

The academic in her wants to tell her colleagues

And the girl who was all alone and abandoned in her absolutely adores you

You’d do good to make sure that she’s on your side, or she might sell you out

Definitely wants a piece of your magic either way

Ciri

Poor ciri

Eugh she just wants some friends

That don’t die…

She loves your horns and wings

Definitely adores you for also being *different* and having your own magic thing going on

Eskel

He adores your wings

If there is a wing care routing, please let this man do it

Otherwise, he might invent a conditioner-potion for your wings

Don’t scare him in the beginning though, or you may get stabbed

Lambert

Has the reaction of a seventh-grader

Might literally go woahhhhhh

Big hater, but not against you

Will protect you, but will also ask you if you can carry stuff with your horns constantly

Yeah becoming a christmas tree-esque creature may be a con

Coen

Coen honestly just enjoys a helping hand

Your magic will in fact be contributing to his work

Tbf he also makes sure you don’t get killed by angry farmers

The whole thing starts off as a symbiotic relationship but will turn into a friendship (if not more hehe)

Vesemir

Bro does not trust you

Thots and prayers girldude

Oh you have horns and wings? LIKE A MONSTER??

Unless one of his witchers (read:children) introduces you to him, he may attempt murder

[write-ur-wrongs]

Stayaway

In an attempt to get out of funk, here is a very short, not edited, written-directly-into-tumblr, song-inspired grealt x reader fic. Inspired by Stayaway by MUNA (the best band in the world, begging y'all to listen to their music you will be forever changed!!).

*********

"Come on! I know you're home, I followed you!"

The bard was yelling and banging on your door incessantly and you knew you had to answer eventually. The bastard followed you home after all, he knows where you live.

"I'm not home!" you shouted back, delusional.

"Y/N! I may be a fool but I'm not stupid," he replied, and you could hear the familiar smile pulling at his lips, "Now open up! The door and your heart!"

"Jask," you sighed, laughing despite yourself at his poetic antics, "go away!"

"No! I miss you!"

"I'm not home!" you tried again, will wavering.

"Y/N!" he pleaded, and you swore you could hear half that cursed smile pull down into a pout.

You rested your forehead against the door and bit your lip, debating. All the while, your hand betrayed you, reached for the doorknob and turned it open.

Before you knew it, you were face to face with an old friend and while the sight of him filled you with joy, you were also flooded with other, less welcome feelings of remembrance.

"Y/N!" he exclaimed, pushing himself into your home and saving you from dwelling on the heavy memories that tried to creep up over you. "You're home, what are the odds?"

"Hilarious as always, Jaskier," you said, closing the door behind him. "What brings you to my little hamlet?"

"Fate, chance, what have you," he said, his cheery demeanor working overtime to cover for his abject curiosity, "The sea called and I had to answer. You know how it is."

"I do, do I?"

"Don't you? I mean you just disappeared... I assumed something called and you, you know, answered?" His tone stayed light, the practiced levity of someone who's spent years buttering people up for information all while staying neutral.

"I guess..." you bit your cheek, busying yourself by playing hostess, and pouring you both a glass of wine, "things changed and I thought, 'hell, why not change too?'"

"Fair enough... oh thank you."

"Of course," you said, taking a sip of wine yourself before guiding you both towards your couch, "but seriously Jaskier, why are you here?"

"Seriously? I was just passing through on my way to Oxenfurt when I saw a familiar face. A face I thought I'd never see again..."

You looked up from your glass then, but immediately regretted it when you met the bard's earnest gaze.

"Yennefer thought she saw you in Novigrad a while back but then... nothing. We thought you were gone for good."

"Jaskier, come on," you pleaded, praying he wouldn't elaborate on who 'we' entailed, while another, less disciplined part of you hoped for the opposite. Maybe if you knew he missed you, maybe if you knew he was looking for you... maybe you could let yourself be found.

No!

"Don't shake your head at me, Y/N. You disappear from the city, you quit your job, no one has seen you at the pub, the library - anywhere!"

"I- I know... but Jask," you stammered, trying to start three sentences at once and fumbling them all.

"I mean, you loved your job, didn't you? And what about us?" he asked, voice cracking slightly. "Gods, was the breakup that bad?"

"The thing is, Jask," you sputtered between large sips of wine, "It wasn't. It was easy, actually. He did what he always does when we fight; scowl, shut down, turn away, and then take it out on our friends. The break was clean."

"If it was so clean, then why did you leave?"

"It's the rest of it! The, the staying away that was, is impossible. If I had stayed and kept going it out with you guys, we'd drink and dance and I'd wonder where he is. Or one moment I'd be at the library studying and the next, Yen be asking me about the breakup and trying to 'cheer' me up by bringing up the good times and next thing you know? I'm answering the door for him when he rolls back into town injured and brooding. I couldn't stand it! I- I couldn't risk it."

"That's -"

"Pathetic? I know."

"No! No, but if there were so many good times, so many reasons to go back then why not-"

"Damn it, Jaskier! This is why I had to leave." You said, gesturing between the two of you before dropping your hand on your lap with a smack. "If I let him back in, then he's not the man who broke my heart anymore. Not the one who told me I was overemotional for being worried when he'd disappear for months. Suddenly everything is fine... until it's not and I'm hurt and alone again."

You felt tears begin to prick the back of your eyes and shoved the heel of your palms into them to force them down.

"Hey... Y/N," Jaskier said, gently pulling your hands away from your eyes and taking them in his. "I'm sorry, I didn't know..."

"It's okay," you said, giving your friends hands a squeeze and looking up to the ceiling, letting your tears fall for a moment, "I'm okay."

"Y/N..."

"Oh alright, but I'll be okay," you amended, laughing at yourself lightly and wiping the tears away. "Jaskier, don't look so sad. I just need time, space, distance... I will be fine."

Your words had little effect on your friend though, who seemed to grow more anxious and sad with every passing moment. You quirked your brow at him and shoved his shoulder playfully, trying to break the mood.

"Jaskier, will you relax?" you asked, desperate to get him to smile now. You really had missed Jaskier and now that he was here, you realized how much you wanted him to stick around.

"Y/N, I'm really sorry." He whispered, refusing to meet your gaze.

You were about to try another lighthearted quip when you heard a knock at your door. Not someone knocking, just a knock. One quick but deliberate rap.

"Who...?" you heard yourself asking, even though you only ever knew one person who knocked on doors like that.

"Y/N, I'm so so sorry," Jaskier kept repeating. "I really didn't know. I never would have told him if I'd known."

Your mouth was bone dry but you couldn't get your hand to reach for your glass of wine. You just kept staring at Jaskier, watching him babble.

"I'll go tell him to leave, Y/N, I'm so sorry," you heard him say, his voice barely registering over the ringing in your ears.

You felt him get up off the couch, your blurred vision registering the now empty spot on the couch only after you heard your door be pulled open.

Every fiber of your being was on fire. You were frozen. You wanted to throw yourself on the floor. You wanted to run to him.

"Y/N..." you heard him say. Fuck he sounded sad. You wanted to hold him, tell him it'll be okay. You wanted to slam the door in his face. You forgive him. You'll never forgive yourself.

Against your better judgement, you felt yourself to turn look towards the front door and your breath caught when you saw him.

Gods above, you thought, he should have stayed away.

[peyton-warren]

Stick Handling Series Masterlist

Characters: Jake Jensen, Walter Marshall, Captain Syverson, Ransom Drysdale, Curtis Everett, Geralt, Ari Levinson, and more HC and CE characters making appearances in the future.

Summary/Author's note: Really has nothing to do with Hockey!! @longlineofcrazy challenged me to write what it would be like to watch hockey with my 3 main muses (Jake Jensen, Walter Marshall and Syverson). What was supposed to be just a series of stupid drabbles has morphed into something else completely- implied smut starting around Part 4, and not so implied in Part 8. Vague discussion of military deployments and secret squirrel stuff in Chapter 7. Mostly it's conversations I have with my muses in my head.  Appearances made by Ransom Drysdale, Ari Levinson, Geralt, and Curtis Everett and I’m sure others will come along.   

Reader is non-specific body type and non-gendered until Part 8. I tried to keep it as inclusive as possible. The boys are in a relationship with the reader but not with each other, which makes things a bit tricky at times.

Part 1: Icing    Part 2: Tripping Part 3: Unsportsmanlike Conduct  Part 4: Holding the Stick  Part 5: Interference  Part 6: Roughing Part 7: Delay of Game Part 8: Too Many Men on The Ice (coming soon)

Part 9: Holding

Drabbles, inspos, snippets, and thots - #Stick Handling Series

[thedemonofcat]

So I just finished season three of the Witcher. I think episode five is when it really hits that this season is being divided in to parts.

Mainly because it’s kind of odd that for the supposed last episode Ciri and Jaskier just disappeared from the story

Anyways I’m very munch looking forward to the Witcher season three part two.

[loki-is-my-kink-awakening]

Fic Rec Friday

Theme: a fic that lives in your mind rent-free.

The rules are simple: tag the fic that lives in your mind rent-free and describe why it's so good/how it has a hold on you. Then, tag some fellow associates to see what everyone else is reading. Spread the love!

Thanks for the tag, @cha-melodius. I didn't realise each week was different, so excuse me for not doing last week's one already. 🙈

Alterity by Scotch

Lokius. A rewrite of canon and beyond.

This a series but I highly recommend because Loki goes to therapy. It's not easy. In fact, it's a struggle throughout. But it is important character development.

We also get time travel elements throughout and I just love when we see a scene for the second time but now from the other side (past or future). It's just genius writing, imo.

Also, the author wrote me mpreg in the third installment For All Time? Always because of my crazy comments on the last two chapters of I'd Lie For You And That's The Truth.

This series is not finished, nor is it being updated for the time being, but all fics published are complete

Don't Tell Me You Love Me by Dandelion (Honestly Dying)

Geraskier. Hanahaki Disease. Major Character Death.

I love to hurt myself, clearly. When I read this the first time, I sobbed so hard. I made so much noise.

And my window was opened so my neighbours in their garden heard me 😬

I've just re-read it again and still sobbed my heart out.

The imagery of the last moments in the fic, of Geralt burying Jaskier, of him visiting the grave, that stays with me. I see that image in my head a lot whenever I think about hanahaki fics.

Cold Frame by Nameless Dragon

Stucky with Loki. Idk what that ship name is. Slowburn. Broken people fix each other.

Ongoing WIP. We are 30 chapters in and only recently has there been small yet meaningful touches. Like a hand on an arm sort of thing. And it's so charged, it's unreal, and I scream for each and every small moment.

There are far from developing a relationship. Everyone has some form of PTSD and needs to heal. Loki also has physical hurts to heal.

Wishing For Tomorrow's Sake by BabyBlueGlasses

Ironfrost. Fake/pretend relationship, idiots in love.

The journey of these two eventually getting together was delightful. Full of twists and turns.

I particularly loved Loki having budgies because I love them, too. Also geeky Loki ftw.

And how they helped each other to grow as people. Yup, I just loved it.

Whole Lotta Love by StereoBone

Steddie. Idiots in love, bisexual awakening.

Like, all the moments that build and build, it's just so good

When we get to Steve eventually realising how him and Eddie have been in a relationship for three months, then realising he's bisexual all at once, it's just amazing. I love it.

Tagging @jesskier @kingeomer @echo-bleu @unclewaynemunson @rauchendesgnu @xavantina @zara2148 @runnyeggsnham @highwarlockofphilly @dapperwerewolf

[night-dark-woods]

the one problem with someone writing THE perfect fic for a certain pairing (Especially rarepairs) is that then youre forever left chasing more like that one perfect fic :(

obviously theres LOTS of good fics out there and i also have a lot of faves that are more ooc (as a completely neutral descriptor!) and very fun. but theres always those one or two fics for a pairing that drive me fucking insane and i have to space out my rereads.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 25

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: 😁.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The queen snores in her bed. At last, peaceful. You leave her as she is, piled in bedclothes amid the glow of the low-burning fire. You emerge into the corridor, silent, and the door drags closed with a scrape at your cautious pull. The shadow by the pillar shifts.  

You glance over at the guard. Gilles has been relieved of his watch and another man stands in his place. You think you recognise him. He must’ve been one of those which helped the queen seize your cart. The road feels so very long ago and yet there is still much ahead of you. 

“Hold,” the guard warns and gives a whistle, the noise echoing along the high ceilings.  

There’s scuffling further down and you turn to face another silhouette, this one slender and lithe like a wraith. Ezme steps into the light of a lamp and stare at you placidly. She beckons with a hand. 

“Come, maid, I will show you your quarters,” she says. 

You bow your head and go to her. It is unusual you wouldn’t be left to find your way to the servants wing yourself, likely near the kitchens, and yet you are much too weary to question any of it. She turns and you walk at her side. The promise of sleep, even if only a little, has you aching to recline. 

The corridors are quiet but for the soft pad of your footsteps. Fewer lamps light the way than in the daytime and the path grows black. You follow the stirring of the women next to you as she carries on. She touches your arm to stop you, nudging you to the right. You wait and listen as she lifts a latch, the metallic noise cutting through the din, and hinges creak loudly. 

She guides you into the dark chamber by your wrist. It is lit only by moonlight and a brazier burning at the foot of a broad bed. The door clanks shut and you shiver. Ezme moves around you, her skirts brushing your own, and she goes to the low mattress. You squint, these are not servants’ rooms. The bed frame, the brazier, the space swathed in darkness; more often, bodies crowded over bags of hay or on the scant tatters of blankets. 

“You will sleep here,” she says softly, “with me. You will be safe.” 

“Safe? From what?” You croak and rub your cheeks as they burn with fatigue. 

“Need you ask,” she replies knowingly, “it is much too late for those questions. Come, lay, the morning will be upon us swiftly.” 

You don’t argue. She is right. You go to bed and remove your apron and cap. You fold them and put them to the foot of the mattress. She moves a dark square over the blankets towards you. You pause and reach to touch the obscured shape as the dim light offers only vague outline. It’s soft, furry. You feel around and find the familiar rough patch sewn into the lining. It’s the king’s cloak. 

“You will want to keep that close,” she says, “the soldier made certain to leave it for you.” 

“Bryce?” You wonder aloud, “is he your friend?” 

“He is a familiar face,” she shrugs and pulls her dress over her head. “The Lord of the Castle likes him well enough.” 

You shift the cloak over your apron and strip off your outer layer, standing only in your shift. You mirror the maid across from you and slip beneath the thick blankets. A sigh escapes you as your muscles finally release the tension of the day. She is still on her back as you lay upon your side, staring at the low flicker of the brazier against the wall. 

Curiosity nips at your exhaustion. How does a servant come upon a room like this? Is it simply at your expense? For whatever reason Bryce has bid her to keep you close. Certainly, the old soldier is overly cautious. 

Your eyes close before you can think very much on the unexpected resting spot. The day has been turbulent and full of many surprises. You only dread those that await you on the morrow. 

⚔️

Ezme wakes you from a heavy slumber. You both dress in the morning hue, rinsing from a basin before you face another day. You leave the cloak on the assurance it will be waiting for you. A thought glimmers of what the king might think should it go missing. Would he blame you? 

You emerge and part from your nocturnal companion. You procede to the queen’s chambers to find them open and the corridor a titter. A pair of servants, themselves dozy, carry one of her chests through as her shrill cry careens through. You approach as the steadfast guard with the fiery hair watches you with narrow eyes.  

You peer within and find the Queen Jazlene digging through the contents, tossing fabrics without a care, in a desperate search. You are stunned to find her awake with the sunrise but not disheartened. It might be a good omen. 

"Where is it?" She throws her hands up and scowls as her eyes skim around, "you," she points in your direction, "where is my blue dress? The one with the silver lace? It must be here!" 

"Your highness, perhaps another chest," you step inside. 

"You did remember to pack it, didn't you?" She accuses as she stands, "I did bid it." 

"Yes, your highness," you affirm, though it was Merinda who would've taken the order. "Shall I go look in the luggage?" 

"Oh, yes, you shall," she struts toward you, "I will not be dressed as some northern wench for the banquet." 

Banquet? You withhold your curiosity and bow your head. You have a task and it is always better to tend to it without question. 

You spin and hurry from the room. You nearly collide with another servant, a tray in their hands. Another chore you needn't attend. You press on and find your way through the kitchens to the rear of the castle.  

The luggage remains mostly in the stables which entails a venture into the wintry without. You mourn the cloak upon the foot of the bed but it would be worse to flaunt the king's patch so heedlessly. You tuck your hands into your sleeves and put your chin down before you push through, the door resisting your strength as the wind blows against it. 

You stagger through and the heavy wood slams just as quickly as you clear its breadth. The gales are strong but the snow has relented. You see dark bodies speckled amid the white as powder dusts up in heaps. The servants work to clear away the thick piles and make pathways around the castle's yard. 

You cross to the stables and delve into the stink of horses and hay. The beast nicker and neigh as you pass as others doze without notice. You find the luggage, chests still upon carts as others litter the unswept floor. If you find the dress, it might just reek of horse. 

You recognise the crest of Debray upon a chest and the painted sides of a few others. You unstrap several lids and raise them, the cold nipping but sweat rising nonetheless. The longer you sift through the contents, the number your hands and fingers become, the clumsier you are. 

A patch of blue, so pale and shiny it's almost white, gleams from beneath the heaps of cloth. You yank upon it, bringing out several other gowns with the effort, and claim victory. You do not neglect to suss out a pair of slippers and a hair net you think might go with it. You set it aside and pack away the mess you've made, breathless from the expense. 

You hug your lot and curl around the next row of horses, searching out Daisy as she leans her head against Chestnut's dark neck. Their eyes widen at your approach and they huff almost in time. You pat their noses before you apologise that you must leave them. 

Once more, the violent gusts greet you in the open, sending a spiral of snow around you and dusting you with the chill. Your teeth chatter as the wind pushes you from behind and fill your skirts. You can hardly aim your steps as you end up against the castle wall, sidling along until you're at the door. 

Within, the cold follows and lingers in your bones. You flit through the kitchens, pots steam as the large ovens blaze and bodies cluster and clash. You barely avoid a collision as you pass into the corridor. As you step around one figure, another appears. 

“Aye, there the mouse is,” Bryce greets as he folds a leaf around his finger, readying it to pop in his mouth, “I see she’s got you at work already.” 

“Sir,” you stop before the soldier, “how was your night?” 

“Eh, dark,” he shrugs, “and you? The other maid saw to ya?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Very good. If ye can, stay close to that one at the feast,” he girds, “she’s wise. She knows well how to bide the shadows.” 

You nod and hug the fabric, another shiver flowing through you. He tilts his head as he continues to play with the leaf between his fingers. 

“Don’t tell me you were outside without a cloak,” he accuses, “where’s yours, then?” 

“Sir, it was only for a moment--” 

“This cold does not soften for summer maids,” he tuts and shakes his head, “you will make yerself sick and who should have to deal with it, hm? Who should have to hear the king rant of it?” 

“Apologies, I was only in a rush,” you pout. 

“Don’t be sorry,” he steps closer and touches the dress in your arms, “in a rush for flimsy gown. These halls are too cold for satin.” 

“The queen bids it--” 

“Oh, I would expect,” he chortles. 

You purse your lips, slanting them one way then the next, as you recall your task. You watch him pinch the silk before he rescinds his reach. He puts the leaf in his mouth and chews. 

“You said feast and the queen said banquet? Is that this evening?” You wonder. 

“Certainly, is,” he sucks on the sweet leaves, “Lord Vesemir would celebrate our departure most fervently but as any good winter lord, he would not send his guests out in the cold without full bellies.” 

“Oh,” you utter thoughtfully. 

“And I suppose, it will appease the queen,” he adds, “for a time before she is once more miserable in the wildlands.” 

“And we are to leave on the morrow?” 

“Aye, by the nightfall,” he crosses his arms. “They must clear the pass and ready the horses and carts. It will be a labour but best we move on.” 

“I believe so too, sir,” you teethe your lip. 

“Aye, you are prudent, as ever,” he lowers his gaze to the floor, “mouse.” 

You shift on your soles and exhale solemnly, “I must...” 

“Yes, very well, go on to your queen,” he steps aside, “I must find our king. I suspect he might be hounding the lord of this castle, if not sparring with him.” 

There is a reluctance between you as you carry on your way; Bryce to one wing and you to the other, as if to mark the divide of king and queen. You come up the stairs and hurry along, the queen’s doors still ajar. Her voice carries still and servant scuttles out as a plate is hurled after them, crashing onto the floor as it narrowly avoids their foot. 

You slow and cautiously peek into the room. The queen shakes her head and pinches a morsel of brown meat on her plate, eyeing it with scrutiny. For a moment, her face twists, then she forces herself to shove it in her mouth. She chews as a battle rages across her features. 

Her gaze is drawn by your movement and she gulps down her mouthful. She stands, nearly overturning the stool upon which the tray rests. She brings her hands up as she storms over to snatch your armful. You back away as she lets the dress unfurl and you bend to gather up the slippers and hairnet as they fall. 

“Ah, wonderful, a proper attire for my first proper appearance as queen,” she beams and dances around with the dress, “oh, my hair, my hair. You must braid it for me.” 

She lays the gown on the bed and gives it a longing touch before she retreats. She clammers to the plain wooden table upon which she’s had a looking glass propped up. She leans forward as you stand behind her. Her hair remains in the braids she’s worn for some time, looking wilted and ratty from neglect. 

“Yes, your highness.” 

“I suppose the king feels horrid for his display yesterday,” she preens at herself. “He must realise he cannot keep a lady like me cooped up.” 

You think to mention that it is more send-off than anything. That is on Lord Vesemir’s whim, rather than King Geralt’s. At least that’s how you have it. Yet, you know well not to argue. Let Jazlene believe as she well and the world is always a bit more pleasant. 

You set to undoing her hair, gently as you notice how dry it is, whether from the cold or the air. She snaps her fingers and demands another servant bring her the tray off food. She picks at it as you unwind her hair and let it free. 

She looks at herself one way then the other. She smiles and wipes her mouth with her sleeve.  

“I am still pretty, aren’t I?” She asks, “I will be after the child comes, won’t I?” 

You swallow and nod, “yes, your highness.” 

“Gilles, Gilles,” she chimes and waves a hand, “come, come,” she turns in her seat and you pull away from her, not wanting to tug on her locks. “Tell me, how pretty am I?” 

The man steps into the doorway and clears his throat. He looks as sheepish as you’ve ever seen. You glance back at Jazlene as she poses and bats her lashes. 

“You are beautiful, my queen, as the summer sunsets,” he avows. 

There’s a click in your head, a wriggle in your chest, and a churning in your stomach. No. No, it can’t be. She wouldn’t betray her marriage. 

Yet you thought the very same of her husband. That’s different. The king rules all, even the queen. And that she so garishly flaunts her fleeting affections. But how can you judge, when your own folly looms over you like a cloud? 

You think of the king’s story; Cerrill and Wynifred and their forbidden romance. It tints in a different effect now, it aligns more evenly, for you do not see this ending well for either queen or guard should they stray. Just as you don’t see yourself faring any better. 

[vulpinesaint]

constantly frothing at the mouth over netflix witcher season 2. it's been over a year and i will still launch into Essays if asked about it. in fact it's only getting worse. this is because i have this weird thing where i care about characterization and good narrative

[0dde11eth]

Jaskier deciding to prove to geralt that he CAN fend for himself in the wild.

He has even found a patch of wild corn dogs!

He brings a pile back to camp, and smirks at geralt. "Pass the mustard dear, If you're nice I'll even share my catch with you."

Geralt (being the little shit that he is) passes the condiment without comment.

Fun fact, cattails explode with fuzz if you break their skin, whether you use your hands... or bite into it

Jaskier can't even cuss geralt out because he's too busy trying to spit out the insane amount of fluff

[viking-raider-library]

Geralt of Rivia x OFC: Series List

Keys: ✽- Complete, ✽✽ - Hiatus, ♥ - Mature, ✢ - Sensitive Content

A Witcher’s Destiny ✽/♥

A New Destiny *A Witcher’s Destiny Sequel* ✽/♥

A Soldier’s Daughter: I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX✽✽/♥

[kuwdora]

wip ask meme: 9, 10, 12

Ahhh, let me dig into this older WIP that is so fucking messy. This excerpt is from a 17k draft in which I am freewheeling everything and don’t have a plot, but it’s all about old Jaskier, his relationship with Geralt, and Jaskier's relationships with children and mentorship when he's retired.

Anyway. I have Geralt/old Jaskier snippets to share. I might have shown them somewhere on tumblr before? Or discord? I can't remember...but now I am excited to tackle this again, omg.

What is your favorite dialogue you’ve written so far?

“I haven’t been arrested for breaking any obscenity laws in a few decades. Why not bend me over right here? This would be the perfect place,” Jaskier said, gesturing at the fountain where they sat and reached down to drag his fingertips across the surface of the water.

“I won’t carry you out of town because you can’t run for your life anymore when the town guard comes after you,” Geralt replied evenly, and he nudged Jaskier’s boot with his heel.

“That’s not a no,” Jaskier pointed out, his bushy eyebrows arching into the wrinkles of his forehead. “What do you say? Shall we put on a show they won’t soon forget?”

“You throwing your back out mid-performance would be unforgettable,” Geralt said, nodding thoughtfully when he glanced around the square. His lips quirked upward when he looked back to Jaskier. “I can hear their applause now.”

Jaskier’s huff of laughter was bright and warm. “We know what kind of stretches I need to do so that won’t happen again.”

“Let’s limber you up behind closed doors. Wouldn’t want to spoil the main event for the people,” Geralt said, bumping his boot once more. Jaskier reached over, fingers draping along his jaw and pulled him into a brief kiss. Geralt hummed against his mouth and moved his hand along Jaskier’s arm and squeezed.

“Now you’re singing my song.” Jaskier said, tapping his lips playfully when he leaned away. He adjusted the collar and cuffs of his doublet and rocked back and forth several times, preparing to haul himself to his feet. Once there Jaskier held out his hand to him, the grin wide and his eyes crinkled in delight. “Come along, my strapping witcher. We’ll have them tossing all their coins at us before the night is over.”

What is the last line of dialogue you’ve written?

My god it’s been so long that I can’t tell what the last line of dialogue was, but lemme share another funny snippet that I don’t think I’ve shared on tumblr yet?? But maybe I have, I honestly can’t remember and I can’t find it any of my tags so…please enjoy (again?)

“Since when do you turn down a swim?”

“Since the water’s still too cold,” Jaskier mumbled.

“It’s not that cold,” Geralt said.

“My balls will freeze and snap off,” Jaskier said and shuddered.

“You’re not using them anyway,” Geralt said, his laugh a quiet huff against Jaskier’s cheek.

Jaskier lifted his head from Geralt’s shoulder. “I might not get much use out of them anymore but I still like my balls, thank you very much. I’ve had them a very long time. Would be sad to see them go. And thankfully I’ve never needed them to bring life into this world.”

“Yes, Father of 10,000 Songs, how could I forget,” Geralt said and that earned him a baleful glare.

“The disrespect,” Jaskier muttered. “My music has been sung from the Buina to the Yaruga, I have published 8 books of poetry, written a seminal text on Northern Redanian folklore. I gave my orphaned babies to Priscilla who raised them into such beautiful plays in ways that I never could. I have as many academic accolades as you have scars, been translated into two languages. They’ve named children after me in Paalbrooke.”

“They named a beer after you, not a child,” Geralt corrected and Jaskier tweaked his nipple.

“You’ve never truly appreciated my work,” Jaskier said.

“A very distinguished repertoire,” Geralt rumbled quietly.

“Hrmpth,” Jaskier said.

“Swim?” Geralt reminded him.

“Only if you promise to fondle my balls and warm me up once we’re done,” Jaskier said, lightly tapping his chest with arched fingers.

“I promise,” Geralt said and Jaskier made a pleased sound as he made the concerted and slow effort to push himself from Geralt’s chest.

What emotions do you expect your readers to feel?

Oh, I hope the readers would feel love and humor, the fluffiness of domesticity in an established relationship of many decades. I have so much I need to sort through with this WIP/series and narrow down the key moments in Jaskier’s life at that age, and how Geralt has grown into his relationship with Jaskier after all the canon events are long over.

current wip ask meme

[write-ur-wrongs]

Hurt So Good

Request: Reader is a healer and lives in Novigrad. When Geralt is hurt, he always visits her. I found these prompts: "Yes, I have feelings for you.”,"It could be worse. ", "I... sometimes, I guess I kinda wish you could see yourself through my eyes."

word count: 1656

___________________________

“He’s back,” Olivier said, holding the door to your room open with one hand, a drink-filled tray balancing effortlessly in the other, “and he looks rough.”

“What?” you asked, reluctantly pulling your attention away from your work. Your last patient of the day had just left your makeshift office and you were anxious to get the blood-soaked bedding cleared before stains could settle in. Sighing, you tossed the soiled sheets back into your wash bucket and turned to face Olivier, straining to hear your friend over the sounds of the bustling Kingfisher inn behind him.

“Your witcher’s here,” he repeated, “and he’s bleeding all over the fucking place.”

“Geralt,” you breathed, brushing your hands on your skirt and rushing to stand. You kicked the wash bucket under the table and threw the last of your clean linens on the bed, cursing the way your hands shook as you tried to prepare yourself before seeing him again. “Send him in, yeah?”

Olivier wordlessly waved the witcher in before pushing himself back into the clamour of the inn.

“And he’s not my witcher!” you hissed after him, his words registered a beat too late. You’d have to remember to correct him tomorrow, or later tonight. It would depend on how long Geralt stayed this time, and though you’d never admit it, you hoped it would be the former.

You didn’t have a lot more time to fret over it though, as Geralt came ambling into your room, fresh blood dripping readily onto the floorboards.

“Holy fuck?!” you swore, eyes wide.

“Y/N –” he tried, grimacing painfully as you practically lunged at him, your hands grabbing at his free arm while the other gripped his stomach.

“That looks fresh, when did this happen? Sit down, lay down –” you cut him off, guiding him rather forcefully to the bed so you could get a better look at the wounds.

“I’m fine, really. It’s just –”

“Who did this? Did this just happen? Outside?”

“Erm, yes, n-no, I –”

“Gods, Geralt.” You cut him off again, growing impatient with him and the small smile that had been pulling crookedly at his mouth since you laid a hand on him. The impossible man had the nerve to try to get up every time your eyes left his to examen his abdomen, where more blood pooled with every move. “Will you stop trying to get up?”

“Will you let me get a word in?” he asked, the gentle lilt of his voice pulling you back to him despite your growing worry.

You let out an exasperated whine, pushing him back down on the bed before pulling away with a slight wave of a hand, gesturing for him to elaborate.

Taking a moment to re-adjust himself on the bed, Geralt cleared his throat a little before starting. “It was a rotfiend.”

You gasped, another interruption on the tip of your tongue but you bit it back when he laid a steady albeit slightly clammy hand on your arm. How much blood had he lost?

“It could be worse…”

“Than this?” you tsked, shaking your head. “Geralt please, you’re strong but not invincible.”

“It’s just a scratch, the beast barely managed a swipe as I dealt the final blow.”

“Pretty big swipe,” you muttered.

“It was big,” he admitted. “Must have been feeding in those crypts outside Velen for months before anyone noticed it.”

“Velen…?” you questioned, the fresh gleam of his wounds contradicting the days journey he’d had to have undertaken to make it to you in Novigrad. “How –”

“I took a portal,” he cut in at once, anticipating you.

“A portal,” you deadpanned, not a question but an incredulous statement. “So, you had a sorcerer with you, one clearly willing to assist you or at least pay you a favour, and rather than have them deal with this, you put yourself in a worse situation by portalling here. To me?”

Geralt only looked at you in response, his strong features betraying a softness you told yourself must have been from his weakened state. It had nothing to do with you.  

Holding each other’s gaze for a few beats, you finally resigned and got to work on his wounds, starting with gently cleaning them out before tending to the sutures. As you worked, your eyes kept catching on the ragged lines of scar-tissue that covered Geralt’s abdomen. The worse among them was a thick ribbon running up his ribcage before disappearing under his shirt. You felt a familiar shame burn at the pit of your stomach as you let your fingers gently ghost over these reminders of previous wounds you’d tended to. They were easy to spot, glaring against his other, smoother scars left behind by sorcerers’ healing.

“Why?” you finally asked, your voice small, “why me?”

“I wanted to see you,” he stated plainly, craning his neck a little to get you to meet his eyes. When you refused, he reached for your hand and gave it a small squeeze. “I always want to see you.”

At this, you scoffed and shook your head.

“Do you not want to see me?” he asked, pulling his hand away from your arm.

“Of course, I do,” you breathed, but your voice was strained as you tried to focus on the task at hand.

“Then why won’t you look at me?”

“Damn it, Geralt!” You throw the blotting cloth down on the bed and push up to stand. “What do you want me to say? That I wait night and day for you to come crawling through my door beat to a pulp? That, that I love seeing you here? That I curse you when you leave and pray for your swift return? Well, I don’t, Geralt.” You were pacing now, arms waving emphatically as feelings you’d worked so hard to repress came rushing out of you. “I – fine, yes, I have feelings for you, Geralt, okay?” you finally admitted, your arms landing by your side with a slap. “Difficult, complicated feelings. You’re covered in these painful reminders of -”

“-of when I got to see you,”

“Of you being hurt and me not being able to heal you properly.”

“You heal me perfectly, Y/N. Not as quickly as a sorcerer, sure, but more thoroughly than they ever could.”

“Your scars tell another story though, don’t they?”

“Y/N…” he breathed, reaching a steady hand out for you to hold.

You looked from his hand, calloused and bruised, to his striking cat-like eyes that always knocked the breath out of you and sighed, shaking your head. “I guess I just don’t see what you see in me.”

His hand didn’t move as he spoke. “I... sometimes, I just I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. See the strong, gentle, loving person I see."

“Wow,” you laugh humourlessly, cocking your head at him, “exactly how much blood have you lost?”

His hand dropped as something akin to hurt flashed across his features momentarily, regret hitting you like cold water. Geralt threw his head back against the pillow and pinched the bridge of his nose before muttering, “I’m going to fucking kill Jaskier…”  

“Now I know you’re not trying to put that line on the great bard,” you teased, trying to soften the blow to no avail. You studied his profile carefully, taking in the way the muscles of his jaw flexed tightly, how his fingers pressed punishingly into his closed eyes and sighed. You still had to apply healing serum to the stitches and then dress it and it had always been easier to talk to him if you kept busy, so you got to work before asking him the question that had been nagging you since came back to you the first time.

“If what you’re saying is true…” you faltered slightly, feeling his eyes on you the moment your hands touched him, “t-then why do you only come see me when you’re hurt?”

It took Geralt only seconds to answer you, but with your breath held and your pulse pounding in your ears, you could have sworn he’d made you wait hours.

“I thought I needed an excuse.”

“An excuse? So, you just waited until you were at deaths door before seeking me out? How – “but you stopped yourself from going down the myriad of questions – how did he know he’d have time to get to you? That’d you’d have the materials and ingredients to heal him? – when you saw the guilty look on his face and the realization hit you.

“Oh, my fucking god,” you squawked, smacking his arm lightly, “you took these hits intentionally? Knowing I could take care of them? That’s… that’s –” Sweet? Romantic? “Fucked up!” you finished, applying the dressing with far more pressure than necessary.

“I know, I know,” he wheezed, trying to tough out the pain, “Jaskier said the same thing.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” you couldn’t help it. You were laughing. This big, dumb, gruff oaf of a man, specially engineered to be cunning and strategic and with enough years on him to provide the wisdom to know better, had been letting himself get hurt to see you. He was laughing too now, the warm sound rolling over you and this time, you let it fill you with fondness.

“You’re all set to go, Geralt,” you said, dumping the linens into the bucket you’d abandoned when he came in and helped him get up off the cot, smoothing his shirt back down. “Get some rest and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You promise?” he asked, looking down at you with soft, open eyes, a dimple creasing into his cheek as his crooked smile pulled against his lips. You couldn’t help it, you reached up and cupped his face with a hand, gently sweeping your thumb over the spot.

“Keep yourself in one piece going forward and I promise you, my door is always open.”