#i will never stop crying at the mention of blaviken

[silviiarts]

Butcher of Blaviken

Pairing: Geraskier (Geralt of Rivia x Jaskier/Dandelion) - not yet together. They’re just friends in this fic. Rating: T Words: 1.9 K Genre: hurt/comfort Trigger warning: none 

The lute's chords rattled like the tinder that fed their fire, clear and almost loud in the otherwise dead silence of the night.

After a long day of work, very much needed to earn some coin, the bard loved to put his hands and instruments to the test; check if they could come up with a nice melody.

Geralt didn't mind the music, nor the musician's soft voice humming the lyrics that came to his mind. It was amusing, even.

He rested his back against Roach's plump back quarters, eyes closed and arms under his head like a pillow. Resting was a luxury reserved for the early night, when Jaskier was still awake in case that any danger showed up.

He was resting, but he wasn't asleep. And Jaskier knew this, so it wasn't uncommon for him to ask the witcher for advice every now and then.

"Hey, Geralt?"

"Hm."

"Does 'adventure' rhyme well with 'together' here?"

"... Hm..."

"Eh, that's what I thought. Thanks!"

And so they would spend hours and hours every evening. The witcher would gladly listen to all of his friend's tunes, although he didn't seem like it, and the bard would be pleased to share all his doubts and progress with him.

"Geralt?"

"Hm..."

"What rhymes with 'Blaviken'?"

The witcher's eyes slowly opened. He shifted, sitting up against his horse to stare at Jaskier.

"Why?"

"What do you mean why? I can't sing about the Butcher of Blaviken without it falling at the end of a verse at least once!"

But Geralt didn't reply this time; not even the slightest of growls.

Jaskier was waiting for an answer and Geralt refused to give it. But it made the air feel tense after a while.

"... Geralt?"

"Isn't a punch to the junk enough for you to learn?" He finally growled in the lowest tone, startling Jaskier.

Geralt could even wonder, even if it broke something inside, whether Jaskier was just doing that to test him, poke fun or, even worse, because he didn't care.

And those thoughts made his fierce, feline eyes glow like embers in the dim light, which sent chills down Jaskier's back.

"Oh God- What do you mean, Geralt?" He asked, scared yet concerned.

At least, he seemed so.

It took so much of Geralt's already scarce patience to calm down his own thoughts and realize that Jaskier was, indeed, confused.

That's why he decided to take a deep breath and spit some angry words to try and make him understand.

"The first time you called me... that," he growled, brows furrowed and jaws clenched. "I thought I had made it clear that I didn't want to hear it again."

"What, Butcher of Bla..."

"Yes. God fucking damn it, yes," Geralt growled, practically glaring at his companion now.

Jaskier seemed to start understanding that the nickname carried important memories for the witcher. Apparently, not very pleasant ones.

The bard was so used to the epithets used to write that he had paid no mind to what they meant. And, judging by Geralt's expression, it had been a grave mistake.

"Why do they call you that, Geralt?" He asked in the softest voice, after a rather long and uncomfortable silence. “I always assumed that it was… a compliment. For killing a lot of dangerous critters or… something.”

The bard had never seen his witcher so... distressed. Not even fighting the most terrifying of monsters in the Continent.

He wasn't even expecting an answer from his companion anymore, when he heard a grunt rasping out his throat.

"Long ago," Geralt muttered, narrow eyes fixed on the quivering flames, "I was offered a deal from one of the most powerful men in Blaviken, a sorcerer."

Jaskier listened, quiet. He wanted to shuffle closer to the other man's side, but he chose to sit opposite of him.

That way, he could watch the emotions -those he claimed to not have, cross his face and cast their own shadows on the tale.

He wasn’t used to hear the witcher speak for so long. The deep, harsh sound of his voice draped over him like a heavy blanket, reminding him of how serious that story was.

"I refused to kill a human. He wanted me to take the life of a runaway princess, born under a curse that turned her into a... mutant."

That last word had sounded almost painful to get out.

"He had tried to hunt her down all her life. He had had her chased, attacked and even raped. I had the chance to meet her, and ended up tangled in the affairs of men."

The snarl that contorted Geralt's expression was stiff, as he tried to keep his feelings to himself. He wasn't supposed to feel, after all, not even hurt in the soul.

"She wanted to kill the sorcerer, but I refused to help her. Her allies attacked me, and I... I killed them all. One by one, in cold blood. I broke so many skulls and ribs and families that day..."

Jaskier's blood ran cold at the strained pain that twisted the witcher's voice. He knew his kind’s potential, everyone did. But that was the first time he had heard about Geralt- his Geralt, killing a human.

Nonetheless, he understood his reasons. And when Geralt tried to pick up the fear or the horror in the bard's scent, he didn't sense any of it.

"We fought. I didn't want to kill her, but I also didn't want to die at the hands of someone who didn't care about living or dying anymore. Without her allies and without my help, she wouldn’t be able to get what she wanted anyway. She surrendered to my blade, and I... I did it."

Geralt's hands twitched into tight fists, elbows resting on his knees. His gaze didn't shift from the fire, as burning as the torment and regret in his voice.

"I had finished the sorcerer’s deed without even having a choice. He wanted to ravage her body, look into her flesh for the origin of the curse. I had killed her, I couldn't let him dishonor her like that, and I thought that, maybe, it could be my redemption...”

The witcher’s lip trembled ever so slightly at the memories that washed over him like a freezing tide. He growled under his breath, fighting his emotions down with all his might.

“I threatened him, but he wasn't afraid. He turned the whole village against me and twisted what had actually happened. They sent me away with stones."

Witchers could heal very well, and all that had happened too long ago for him to have scars from the stoning, other that the wounds that it left in his heart.

Although he had tried to turn Blaviken into a valuable lesson, ‘not to get involved with men, never pick a side between them’, all it had given him was a harmful nickname and terrible, awful remorse.

The Butcher of Blaviken, as if he had been the one to let all that blood spill on behalf of his own personal benefit.

"I made friends with a little girl in Blaviken, before anything happened," he rambled on for a little longer, in a strangled whisper. "She was held hostage by Renfri, and it was my fault. She begged me to leave Blaviken, she was so afraid of me..."

Such a story managed to make Jaskier, who always sought for the raw emotions in every tale to turn them into songs, go quiet.

That was no story to be told, to be celebrated. That was a mess of human ambitions and a helping hand that got bitten. The true, raw suffering of the man he loved, and was hated by anyone else.

"Oh, Geralt- my dear Geralt..." He mumbled, trying not to express his regret as pity.

Those words sent a shiver down the witcher’s spine. In all honesty, he expected his companion to get up and leave. To finally see that he was following a beast, turn on his heel and run to the safety and certainty of mankind.

But he didn't.

Instead, he did shuffle closer this time. He placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and let out a sigh.

"I'm so sorry, Geralt," he mumbled, in the thinnest of whispers. That was loud enough for him to hear.

Rage, fear, sorrow, regret, vengeance. Unable to tell them apart, there were many emotions that weighted on Geralt's heart on that moment. But, out of them, sadness was the heaviest one.

And he was just lucky that Jaskier could read him like an open book.

"People are so cruel, darling..." he muttered, gently stroking his hand up and down his friend's shoulderblade. "That... horrible name is all I had ever heard anyone call you."

The witcher grunted. Not that it surprised him.

"But no one had ever told me how fair you always try to be."

Jaskier's words definitely caught him off guard. He raised an eyebrow and looked back at him.

He was met by a warm smile, despite the tiredness of his usually bright blue eyes.

"Or how caringly you tend to Roach."

His whole body was burning against Jaskier's palm, and it was strangely soothing.

"Not even about the way your pupils grow when you're relaxed! Or what a good man you actually are!"

"Because I'm not."

"Of course you are! A bad person wouldn't regret anything, would they?"

This time, it was Geralt who had to shut up. Partly because he was exhausted, partly because he wasn't going to admit that Jaskier could be right.

Even the crackling if the fire was fainter, quieter; as if it were as touched by the story of the Butcher of Blaviken as Jaskier was.

The witcher's friend brushed his hand through pale locks, almost like petting a startled stray. Although it was that gesture what startled him.

Nonetheless, his gentle smile comforted him.

He wasn't leaving. He wasn't calling him any sort of names and running away in fear. Jaskier was right next to him, much closer than before, touching his hair like it was nothing.

"Hey, Geralt, don't worry..." He whispered, sweet as honey on the witcher's tongue. "It wasn't your fault, okay?"

After almost twenty years living with the weight of Blaviken on his shoulders, it was hard to believe Jaskier's soothing, albeit unbelievable words.

He replied with a soft growl, eyes shifting towards the bard. He pressed a kiss to Geralt’s forehead as soon as he turned, leaving him even more speechless.

"Don't worry too much about what happened... You gotta focus on the present now! I'll make sure to erase that hideous nickname from History. Just let me do my thing, darling~"

"Uh- I doubt you can do that," the witcher replied, barely hushing his words.

"Nu-uh! I already made a hit! The public's hungry for more stories about you. And I will make sure that no one ever calls you that again!"

It was futile to argue with Jaskier when it came to such things. He had already got into a fight with a drunkard that called Geralt a ‘mutant beast’ before.

The witcher exhaled a soft sigh and closed his eyes. When he noticed, his chest wasn't aching anymore.

[jaskierswolf]

The Love We Have

Part 3/5 - AO3 - Previous

Summary: Kaer Morhen has an old tradition in order to keep the witchers safe after the siege. Only witchers and their partners are allowed in the keep but Geralt is tired of parting with Jaskier over the winter so decides to invite him to Kaer Morhen… only he forgets to mention one tiny little detail.

Ship: Geraskier

Rating: T

Warnings: None?? Maybe… I’ll add them later if I remember any.

________

They hadn’t found a solution that night. Geralt hadn’t been willing to talk about it, so Jaskier had reluctantly let it go. They had time to figure everything out. It’s not like they had to have fake sex every evening, and they’d already said they were worn out from the road. It didn’t stop Jaskier’s mind from running faster than Roach in a field full of dandelions. Geralt had eventually pulled Jaskier to his chest and started rubbing soothing circles into Jaskier’s side.

After that Jaskier was out like a light.

Which was totally unfair.

They’d woken up wrapped in each other’s arms, legs tangled and honestly in his sleep hazed mind Jaskier hadn’t been able to figure out which limb belonged to which body. It had all been rather nice, until Jaskier remembered Geralt was now his fake boyfriend not his real one and he pulled away from Geralt in a start.

He’d ended up falling out of the bed and almost giving himself a concussion. He was a fucking nightmare.

“Bard,” Vesemir barked just as he was finishing his breakfast, “meet me in the library. You have work to do. Geralt, there’s some tiles coming loose on the roof above the armoury.”

Geralt nodded.

Jaskier just stared, wide eyed after Vesemir. “Wait what?”

“Chores, Jask.”

“Yes yes, but… why am I? I’m a guest!” he whined rather pathetically.

“We don’t have guests in Kaer Morhen. You’re family, you have to work.”

“Oh cock!” he grumbled, there went his relaxing winter.

__________________

It turned out he really shouldn’t have worried about having to fake his relationship with Geralt. They barely saw each other during the day. Geralt was stuck on the more physical tasks whereas Jaskier spent his days scribbling on potion bottles and ingredient jars, or helping Vesemir organise the vast library, a job he would have finished sooner if he didn’t keep getting distracted by the books. He’d never seen half of them, not even whilst at Oxenfurt.

Two more witchers arrived after Jaskier’s first week at Kaer Morhen, Lambert and Eskel. They travelled up the mountain path together and arrived just in time for dinner that evening. Thankfully, like Geralt and Jaskier, they’d been too tired to really say anything the first night.

The second night, however, was a different story altogether. Lambert, as it turned out, was a little shit. Jaskier, under any other circumstances would have adored him, but his questions about their relationship were driving him up the wall.

“So, you finally tamed the famed White Wolf,” Lambert snorted, taking a long gulp of white gull.

“Ah yes, well. It would seem that way wouldn’t it,” Jaskier said smoothly, not entirely a lie either which he was proud of.

“So when did he confess?” Lambert probed. Jaskier cooed over how he’d been in love with Geralt since Posada, love at first sight being all very poetic and exactly the sort of story Geralt expected from him. Geralt mumbled something about the Djinn and how Jaskier almost dying had opened his eyes. Jaskier wanted to laugh at that, but he kept his cool. The only thing he remembered was how Geralt had fallen into Yennefer’s arms and broken his heart.

“I found Jaskier in Oxenfurt in the spring,” Geralt explained, again not a lie. Jaskier was amazed by their combined ability to spin the truth. Jaskier remembered it fondly. Normally he had to track Geralt down so he’d been surprised to see Geralt on his doorstep come spring. “Missed him all winter, didn’t want to spend anymore time apart.”

“And the fool quite literally swept me off my feet,” Jaskier giggled, leaning against Geralt’s shoulder. He wanted to hold his hand under the table but… well…he had no excuse.

“I couldn’t wait to kiss him,” Geralt admitted, a stupidly fond smile on his face that Jaskier couldn’t help but return. He licked his lips and his eyes flicked down in a silent question. They’d spoken about kissing in front of the other witchers but this would be the first time.

Geralt’s smile widened, a rare occurrence that left Jaskier’s heart somersaulting in his chest. He swallowed and then leaned in to press his lips against Geralt’s. It was only a peck on the lips, appropriate for company, but Jaskier still felt dizzy. Gods, he was so in love. It was just not fair.

Geralt bumped his nose against Jaskier’s as they pulled apart and Jaskier could feel himself blushing furiously. How was Geralt so good at this?

“About time the idiot got his head out of his arse,” Eskel laughed, shooting both Geralt and Jaskier a fond smile, and raising his drink.

Jaskier choked, ale spraying all over the table. Some went down his throat the wrong way and he started to cough and splutter. He was wheezing for breath by the time he’d finished and his throat was sore. Geralt’s hand rested on his back, and Lambert and Eskel were looking at him like he was about to keel over.

“Fine,” he rasped “I’m fine, just… “ he coughed again.

What the fuck had Eskel meant? Geralt finally getting his head out of his arse? Come to think of it, Vesemir hadn’t been entirely surprised by Jaskier’s presence either. None of them were, and he knew Geralt had told his family about him.

So what exactly had his grumpy best friend been telling the witchers of Kaer Morhen.

Jaskier started thinking over the last couple of decades spent at Geralt’s side. The witcher barely admitted they were friends, going so far as to argue with Jaskier that they weren’t. At first that had stung but now Jaskier was starting to wonder if he’d read it wrong. Geralt wasn’t one for words or emotions, Jaskier knew that, but he would have thought that even Geralt would know that Jaskier needed to hear some kind of confession.

But Geralt’s love language was not words, and it never had been.

Geralt showed he cared in different ways. At first it was not riding away and abandoning Jaskier, despite his protests that Jaskier was just trouble, then Geralt would put away coin to save up for treats on the road. Treats that he didn’t indulge in himself, but sweet buns, healing potions that wouldn’t kill Jaskier, a spare bedroll, better shoes, warmer clothes. Piece by piece Geralt had made sure that Jaskier was well equipped for the road.

In turn, Jaskier paid for their rooms at the inn, helped to wash Geralt’s hair, which was honestly a gross job and Jaskier deserved a lot more thanks for it. Monster guts stuck to hair like a burr in a sheep’s wool. He played ballads and told epic stories of Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, all around the Continent until the Butcher of Blaviken was but a distant memory. A cautionary tale told to children before bed but nothing based in truth. No one, outside of Blaviken, even remembered that it had been Geralt at all. That was also Jaskier’s doing, morphing the tales of the Butcher of Blaviken into a monster of its very own, far apart from witchers; a demon that the White Wolf had banished.

But that wasn’t Jaskier’s love language. That was just… helping out a friend. He was a bard, a poet, a romantic. If he truly thought he’d had a chance with his best friend then he would have adorned Geralt in pet names, flowers, sonnets. No one would have any doubt about who Jaskier truly loved, who his heart belonged to, and he’d foolishly expected to be wooed in quite the same way.

Fuck.

A fool.

An utter fool.

All he needed was a hat with bells and a tambourine.

“Oh fuck,” he finally muttered aloud.

“Jask?” Geralt’s voice cut through his turmoil and he blinked until he was back in the now familiar dining room at Kaer Morhen.

Four sets of golden eyes were watching him.

“I need a moment,” he stammered and then, like the coward he was… he fled.

_____________

He paced around the room until the sound of his footsteps started to annoy him, the never-ending echoing thud reverberating around the room. He threw himself on the bed, inhaling Geralt's scent. It usually helped to ground him but today was different. It just confused him. He felt completely off-balanced. Did Geralt actually want him?

As more than a friend?

It completely changed the last two decades of his life. The wasted opportunities he’d had if hadn’t been such a coward.

Fuck!

Why couldn’t he have just said something?

Why didn’t Geralt?

But what if he was reading the whole thing wrong? What if this was just false hope? That thought burned through him, making his heart ache. He felt like he’d been thrown into a fire, flames blazing around him, a slow torturous death as his love seared through his soul.

He sobbed helplessly and held a pillow to his chest. It didn’t help. Nothing helped. He’d flown too close to the fucking sun and now he was falling, wings melted and falling apart, his tears glistening in the very rays that had been his end.

“Jaskier?”

“Go away,” he grumbled. He couldn’t face Geralt, not now. It was too soon and too overwhelming.

“I’m sorry, Jask.”

Jaskier threw his pillow at the door and Geralt ducked out of the way. He heard the door close and he went back to feeling sorry for himself, praying to all the gods he’d feel better after a good cry. He was pathetic. And yet again, Geralt had found him bawling his eyes out.

“Fuck!” He yelled, not even caring anymore who could hear him. Fucking witchers and their fancy mutations and enhanced hearing. It wasn’t fucking fair.

And the whole ‘only significant others’ rule was completely bullshit.

“Fucking shit balls,” Jaskier screamed into his pillow. “Cock,” he mumbled rather lamely.

It would have all been quite fun if he wasn’t quite so in love with Geralt. If they’d been just friends he would have enjoyed the easy flirtations, his personality was practically made for it. He was so fucking angry with himself for not being able to do this, even Geralt was putting on a better show. He sniffed and wiped the snot from his nose.

“Oh get a grip, Jask,” he muttered, grimacing as he looked at his hands. “Gods, I’m a wreck.”

“You’re not a wreck,” he heard Geralt say.

He sat up, slightly dizzy from moving too quickly, and glanced around the room. It was empty. Was he hearing voices now?

“Geralt?”

“I’m outside.”

“Oh.”

Jaskier stared at the door, longing to open it but something held him back. He wasn’t sure what he would do if he saw Geralt right now. Either yell at him or snog him senseless.

He wasn’t really sure if Geralt wanted either of those things.

So he crawled off the end of the bed and knelt in front of the door, pressing his forehead to the wood. “I’m sorry.”

“Hmm.”

“I��m normally better company, or at least I try to be… for you?” he whispered, knowing Geralt could hear him.

Geralt hummed and Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut, tears still running down his cheeks. He hadn’t meant to cause a fuss.

“I didn’t think it would be so hard,” he sighed, his fingers scraping at his scalp.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt grunted. “I know it can’t be easy, pretending to love me, but…”

Jaskier had scrambled to his feet and pulled the door open before Geralt could finish that sentence. The fucking bastard thought it was all so hard because he was unlovable! Jaskier’s misery turned to anger in the blink of an eye. Geralt fell backwards through the door, his head landing at Jaskier’s feet and he blinked up at him in surprise.

“Don’t you fucking dare finish that sentence, Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier hissed.

“But…”

“You are my best friend in the whole wide world and I love you, so don’t you dare start spouting some nonsense about how no one could love you. You horse’s arse!”

“Jask,”

“Now get in here, you and I are going to pretend to have sex.” Jaskier’s words surprised him, they were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“What?!”

“We’ll tell the others that I was just being dramatic, I’m a bard after all,” Jaskier explained with a wave of his hand. He needed to stop moping and get into his role, plus if there was a chance that Geralt did love him back, which he was really beginning to suspect he did… then… well… what better way to find out?

[waiting4inspiration]

Stranger to the Rescue III (Geralt x Reader)

Summary: Geralt finds you in the woods, wounded and close to death. He takes you somewhere so you can heal, but he figures out what you’re really trying to do

Warnings: mentions of suicidal thoughts/suicide, angst, blood, fluff, mentions of witcher trials, mentions of death, this looks like it’s turning into a series

Word Count: 2,196

Stranger to the Rescue Part 1 II Part 2 II Witcher Masterlist

Sometimes, meditating helps slow down your death from a wound for just a little bit until you can get back to Gorthur Gvaed. It would be a close call, but the important thing is that you get back to your home. There’s something in Gorthur Gvaed, something in the atmosphere that helps you to heal, and you joke to yourself that it might be the only magick you’re susceptible to. 

But you’re too weak to meditate. The pain in your abdomen, the venom slowly seeping into your veins makes it almost hard to keep your eyes open. Luckily, being a Witcher means that your heartbeat is slow which means that you have more time on your hands before the venom reaches your heart and kills you. 

Unfortunately, it’s been long enough for the venom to start making you hallucinate. 

You had to stop riding for the night. Not because you know you don’t have any strength to fight off the nocturnal monsters that would surely come for you, but because you can’t keep yourself on top of your horse. You should use Igni to light a fire, but it just seems easier than searching for a flint and then try to light a fire that way. With Igni, there is a guaranteed outcome. 

Kneeling on the ground close to the fire, you try to focus on meditating to slow down your heart to what it should be as a Witcher. Your heart has picked up pace and it’s not a good thing. But the pain in the wound on your stomach makes it hard to focus and ease your mind. 

Your eyes flutter open as you fall forward. Catching yourself on an arm as you press a hand to your wound, you groan in pain and find that you’ve been panting. “(Y/n),” Geralt’s voice echoes around you like a breeze of wind, making your head snap up to find the Witcher you had come to know well, especially when you were at Gorthur Gvaed. 

You see his figure stepping closer to you through hazy eyes. Trying to whisper his name, you end up whimpering in pain and fall to the ground onto your back. You feel something wet on your hand and you don’t have to check to see what it is. 

Your wound is bleeding again and now it’s a case of whether you’ll bleed out or if the venom will get to your heart first. 

But you can’t care. All you can think about is how you found that one monster that bested you. 

Feeling something touch your face, your eyes snap open and you find yourself staring up at Geralt’s face. Another hallucination perhaps?

No. This is too real to be a hallucination.

“Geralt?” you weakly question, blinking so that your eyes can adjust and focus instead of making you see a blurred face. 

A small relieved smile grows on his face, glad to see that you’re not dead as he feared you would be. “What the hell happened to you?” he questions, pushing the hair sticking to your sweaty face away as you shake your head. 

Groaning as Geralt helps you sit up, you drop your gaze down to your abdomen and bite your lower lip. “Abandoned Cockatrice lair that wasn’t so abandoned,” you whisper, trying to laugh to lighten the mood but you end up coughing. And you can taste a hint of blood on your tongue. “And well, you know what happens when a Cockatrice gets a mouth full of flesh.”

Geralt’s head drops to your hand that presses against your stomach. Slowly removing your hand, you hiss at the cold touch of the breeze around you and whimper when he lifts the ragged pieces of your shirt. “Fuck,” he mutters, shifting a bit away from you to reach for your satchel a bit aways from you to check if you have any potions to help heal you or prolong your death until he can get you somewhere. 

The first option would be to get you to Gorthur Gvaed, but that’s still a long way away from where you are right now. The closest place where he can take you that would allow him in without him having to fight would be Vizima. 

He has to remind himself that magick won’t work on you to heal your wounds, so he pushes aside the thought of asking a sorceress for help. 

You have one vial of the potion he’s looking for. It will be enough to get you somewhere safe. 

Helping you sit up as he pulls the cork out with his teeth, he helps you drink the potion and notes of quickly your heart seems to be. It’s not a good sign. Groaning as he pulls the now-empty vial away from your lips, your head lulls to the side and you breathe out a heavy sigh. “Geralt,” you whisper.

He picks you up from the ground, an arm under your knees and one around your waist as he turns towards your horse. And you black out before you can ask him where he’s taking you.

You don’t remember most of your dreams when you sleep because you quickly push them aside when you wake. It’s better that way because you know that you won’t be upset about what you had dreamed of. But you know that dream you have now, you will never forget.

It’s a dream you have often. A dream of before you become the first and only female Witcher in existence. A dream, where you can hear your sisters screaming as they die during the final trial. 

In the dream, you glance down at your hands to stare at the potion given to you by the mysterious wizard. He told you to drink it before doing the trial. And you know you’re the next one that will be taken by the Witchers in Gorthur Gvaed. 

At the end of the trail, you’re in searing pain, screaming and crying, wishing it would just end. The male Witchers around you don’t do anything, except wait to see if they have succeeded, or if you will die like the other girls. 

The dream ends with your eyes opening to reveal to the surrounding group of Witcher that they are the infamous gold color. 

And that’s when you wake. 

You glance around you with a deep frown on your face and think to yourself that you must still be dreaming. Because never have you been in any room as nice as this. Every room you’ve slept in has been a shabby room in some inn or on the floor in forests. This is the kind of room you’d be in if you were hired by someone with a title to get rid of a monster. 

Pushing yourself to move a bit up and taking note about how soft the bed you’re lying on is, you jump when you feel a hand touch your shoulder and your head snaps to the side. “You need to stay lying down,” Geralt - who tries to get you to lie back down - says with a stern sound in his voice. 

Doing as he says, you fall back down and glance around the room. “Where am I, Geralt?” you ask quietly, turning your head to him as he takes in a deep breath and looks around the room as he folds his hands in front of him. 

“Vizima,” he simply mentions and turns his head back to you. 

You sigh, throw your head against the pillow and shake your head. “I’m not exactly welcome in Vizima, you know.” Your words make him frown and you look back at him. Knowing that he means to ask you why, you chuckle and smile at him. “Same reason you’re not welcome in Blaviken.”

He understands that and he doesn’t have to ask anymore on that topic. He knows that you had to choose a side when a Witcher has to be neutral. You had to choose which is the lesser evil. That seems to be a common Witcher problem, Geralt thinks. 

“You’ll be safe while you’re with me,” he states, making a small smile grow on your face before you give him a look that challenges him to tell you why that is. “I’ve built a few connections here.”

You chuckle at that and turn your head to look up at the ceiling. “Want to bet that your connections are the people I’ve pissed off?” you tease. 

Smirking to yourself when you hear him sigh and catch him rolling his eyes, you slowly push yourself up and lean against the wall behind you. “I told you to stay laying down-”

“I’ll be fine-”

“You need to slow down, (Y/n),” he snaps, making you huff out and turn your head away from him like a stubborn child. “I know you’ve been hunting monster after monster without stopping to breathe or to heal. When was the last time you were at Gorthur Gvaed?” he questions but you don’t reply. 

In truth, the last time you were home was when you were there with Geralt. And that was months ago. And when you don’t answer, Geralt understands what’s going on. He understands because he remembered what you had said to him. 

“You’re looking for that monster that bests you. You’re on a suicide mission.”

“Shut up,” you bark, turning your head back to him and glaring coldly at him. “You don’t know me as well as you think you do,” you sneer at him and he narrows his eyes at you. 

He stands, takes a step forward and holds his stare with you. “You’re a Witcher. You might be a woman, but you’re still a Witcher. You are like me. I know what goes on in your mind better than others even if you deny it,” he fights back and you try to keep your head tall even though he towers over you now. 

You shake your head at him and fold your arms over your chest. Huffing again, you look to the side and bite your lip. “You are not like me. You have something I don’t have, something I will never have.”

“And what’s that?”

“A family. Friends. Connections that will help you,” you say, your head snapping back to him and narrowing your eyes at him. “I have none of that. I’m alone in this world and I have nothing,” you sadly say as you turn your gaze away from him once more. 

Geralt stares down at you for a while before he sits down on the bed beside you. He reaches out to turn your head towards him again and keeps his hand cupping your cheek. “You have me,” he whispers, runs his thumb over your lower lip and pulls it out between your teeth when you try to bite it. “Stay with me.”

You softly shake your head. “Geralt, I-”

Before you can protest, he leans forward and presses his lips to yours and stops you from speaking. You reach up to touch the side of his face and pull him closer and deepen the kiss. He slowly breaks the kiss, stops it from going farther and rests his forehead against yours. 

“You should rest, let your wound heal,” he suggests and you nod your head. “And I should make sure Jaskier’s not causing any trouble.”

“You still traveling with the bard?” you ask with a chuckle as he pulls away from, rolls his eyes at you before he laughs too. 

“He’s the connection,” he mutters, making your smile drop and he chuckles at your expression. 

As Geralt walks out the room, and closes the door behind him, he hopes that you’re still there when he comes back. He’s gotten used to you running off after every encounter he has with you. He’s used to you leaving before anything else can happen. Except for the time when he met up with you at Gorthur Gvaed. 

That was when he got to know you more, when he learned what made you want to be alone for so long. That’s when he learned that you’re more like him than you think you are. 

And when he does come back, he finds you exactly where he left you. You’ve gone back to sleep, a hand gently resting over your abdomen and a peaceful look on your face. You always seem to have a deep, brooding look on your face but he’s been told that he has the same kind of expression. 

But he can’t help smiling as he stares at you and sits back in his seat, folds his hands in front of him and leans slightly forward. He thinks about - if you stay with him - all the things he could do with you. 

Ciri would love you, that he can already see. He knows that she will love to learn how to be a Witcher from a female. Ciri would want to learn from someone she can look up to as well. Someone who would know how to speak to another female. 

And he thinks that you need someone to. Someone besides him. Something like what he has.

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[thearcher18]

so....erm i wrote my first witcher fic. not my best work but i literally wrote this in one hour and i just wanted to.

title: talk me down

fandom: the witcher

relationship: geralt of rivia & jaskier, geralt/jaskier

words: 1k

tags: hurt/comfort, pre-slash

also on ao3

They had been traveling for six days when the farmer sought them out. There was a pack of werewolves terrorizing the village and had already killed several people. The village, which was in middle of nowhere, was small, consisting of not more than a hundred people. So it was stupid of the farmer to not have mention a seventeen year old girl looking to avenge her family.

After Geralt had left Jaskier, who had been complaining as usual —seriously, Geralt, you should know there is no point in telling me to stay— and had only given up when Geralt mentioned that they didn't exactly had enough coins for a decent meal tonight. Jaskier had given a reluctant nod —I forgot. of course you deserve a good meal after saving the day— he'd said.

The girl, Lorelei, had been excellent at hiding. Apparently, she started following him right after he left the inn. The forest, in which the werewolves lived was quite deep, the smell of blood was fresh. Geralt could sense that the wolves were close and they knew he was here so he sheaths his sword— the potion he'd drank earlier heightened his senses, his eyes sharp and blood pounding in his ears. Adrenaline flowing rapidly in his veins.

Suddenly, just behind him, he heard the rustling of leaves; a brief smell of meadows and horses, carefully concealed so the witcher in his normal form wouldn't have sense it— a human.

Geralt tried to get her to leave. That it was dangerous but she was determined and vengeful and the fire in her eyes reminded him so much of Renfri that he felt his breath stutter but Geralt didn't have enough time to convince her when suddenly the werewolves revealed themselves— big and vicious creatures. One was an alpha and the other three were betas, all powerful. Geralt had dealt with bigger packs before but today he had to somehow protect the girl.

The werewolves attacked, either side of him— snarling and hungry for his blood. All four of them pounced on him at the same time. He killed the first beta in just two minutes; that turned the other three werewolves more vicious and angry. The alpha aimed for his neck but Geralt quickly moved but his claws dug in his sides. Geralt roared and managed to severe another beta's head.

He was too late in noticing Lorelei running towards the only beta left and before he could even try to fend off the alpha, the beta tackled her to the ground and riped her throat out.

“No!” Geralt roared but it had been too late. He severed the alpha's head and succeeded in cutting the beta in half with vicious slash.

But it didn't matter now.

Geralt moved towards the girl's body but she was already dead— eyes wide, pupils dilated. “Shit.” Guilt was heavy on his soul.

He pulled out a scarf from his belt— the scarf Jaskier had gifted him. He tried to picture his beaming smile, his bright eyes. But he didn't deserve him, did he? He was a monster. Geralt laid the scarf on her torn neck, the blood instantly soaking it.

You killed Renfri. And you didn't save the girl. Both their blood is on your hands. You are a monster. Everyone had always been right about you.

The potion had already worn off; making him weak in the knees and the injuries he sustained were long forgotten as he picked the girl up and made his way towards the village. Geralt doesn't know how he had reached it— only one thought running through his head;

You couldn't save her.

Thankfully, the farmer was just there as he laid the girl's body down. “I—” he began but the farmer cut him off with a shake of his head.

“Since her family was eaten by those bloody wolves, she had been a lost cause.” The farmer rambled on how they all had seen it coming but Geralt didn't listen— instead, he continues walking towards the inn.

Walking away from the sour stench of the girl's blood.

“Witcher! Your coin!” The farmer yells but Geralt didn't deserve that anymore.

“Keep it.” Geralt says, gruffly and he doesn't know how says it but he does and pretends that his hands aren't trembling.

Thankfully, the inn wasn't far and the bard was standing there in front, probably about to complain but as soon as their eyes met, Jaskier stops. Geralt doesn't know what he looks like. But whatever Jaskier sees is enough to make him understand. He is grateful but what would the bard do when he finally knows that he couldn't save the girl? That he had been too slow, too weak.

Jaskier doesn't ask anything. Doesn't speak at all. He just leads Geralt in the inn towards their room where he's already had a hot bath set up.

Geralt realizes that his body isn't responding to his mind. He's almost motionless— a puppet in Jaskier's hands as he helps him out of the armour and pulls him towards the tub. There are firm, lute calloused hands cleaning him up, cleaning his wounds— strong gentle fingers massaging his scalp but Geralt refuses to relax.

Geralt knows he hadn't felt like this since Renfri, and he knows that circumstances were different, that he had killed Renfri but he hadn't killed Lorelei— but he couldn't save her. And it was almost the same thing.

Jaskier is pulling him up and helping him get in his clothes and suddenly he wants Jaskier to stay away from him. He wants him to leave and never come back because how long is it going to be when it's Jaskier that he couldn't save? His sweet, lovely, wonderful Jaskier. And even the thought of it makes him sick and he jerks back from Jaskier's gentle hands.

“What—”

Geralt ignores the hurt look in Jaskier's cornflower blue eyes— regret builds inside him but he keeps his resolve.

“You should leave.” Geralt snarls, hoping he doesn't have to stand from where he's seated at the edge of their bed— and Jaskier's eyes widen slightly but he doesn't move, damnit.

“Geralt, what—”

“You don't understand! I couldn't save her!”

Jaskier's eyes soften but he still doesn't budge, still standing in front of him. “I know.”

And Geralt wants to yell, wants to roar that why haven't you left!, wants him to stop looking at him with kindness and wonder as if he's some kind of a hero— because he isn't. He's a monster, the Butcher of Blaviken—

Suddenly his vicious thoughts are cut off by firm, gentle hands that cup his face. “Geralt, it wasn't your fault.”

Geralt tries to shake off his hands, wants to stop looking at his bright blue eyes. But Jaskier's hands don't move. “I could have stopped her before—”

“No, you didn't know, darling. She made a choice. I saw her earlier, she had that wild look in her eyes and she wouldn't have stopped.” Jaskier rest his forehead against his and says firmly, “It wasn't your fault.”

And there is something in Geralt that just breaks. Witcher don't cry, but he is shaking and Jaskier's there, pulling him in— and Geralt buries his face in Jaskier's chest.

He knows that this probably won't be the end of this conversation. That he is going to get awful nightmares just like has of Renfri's. That the guilt isn't just going to fade away. That he would sometimes look at his hands and find them red with blood— with Renfri and Lorelei's blood.

But he also knows that Jaskier will be there for all of it. Wrapping him in his arms and making Geralt feel the most safe and secure he's ever felt in his life. His bright laughter, his careful understanding, his beautiful singing will probably get him out of any dark corner his mind will lead him to.

And then maybe, maybe he would understand that some things just weren't his fault.

[all-hail-the-witcher]

lean on me - part 1

hello hello. i am participating in @comfortember and here is my humble contribution! (yes its 4 days late. im sorry theres an election and im in college, ill catch up)

featuring: dagger!jaskier courtesy of @jaskierswolf

___

ship: platonic or romantic geraskier and literally everyone else is there too and theyre best friends

genre: comfort and injury recovery 

warnings: hummm, mentions of torture, injury, description of injury, blood (but not much), jaskier kills a bunch of people but its more implied than shown

words: 2905

editing: nah nah nah sister

___

Geralt didn't meet him in Vizima.

The man might be a stubborn, dense ass half the time, but he always followed through on his word.

And there was the small, teeny weeny fact that he had been supposed to meet Jaskier a month ago.

At first he thought that Geralt must have been held up by a contract in a different town and would be there soon. But in all his years of traveling with the man, he’s never seen a contract last more than a week tops. And despite all Geralt’s very insistent grumblings that he could take care of himself, Jaskier was worried. And not just oh ho hum this thing seems to be nagging at me, gosh darn it worrying. This was full on, I can’t get out of bed in the morning because I’m so paralyzed with fear and when I do manage that I can’t particularly do anything because my stomach is in knots and my hands wont stop shaking so the only time I'm remotely at peace is when i manage to get an hour of sleep and even then I’m plagued with nightmares kind of worry.

He had started to ask around about Geralt. Poking his nose where it didn't belong was something he was quite good at after all and no one questioned it. But on the 28th day of no news to say he was getting antsy was an understatement. He had half a mind to commandeer a horse and go out looking for Geralt but he could hear Geralt’s voice in the back of his head telling him what a stupid idea that was because 1. Not only did he have any ideas as to where Geralt could be but also 2. He didn't know what he was walking into, and something that could capture a Witcher and hold one was not something he had any desire to cross paths with unprepared, thank you very much.

But then, if Geralt had been kidnapped by someone Jaskier was probably his only hope at getting out. Or he could be bleeding out in a forest somewhere, maybe even trapped in a cave. There was the chance that he had been arrested, but Geralt usually could get out of those situations.

He could also be dead. But Jaskier refused to think about it. Geralt was far too stubborn to die.

He just turned to go back to the inn after yet another day at the market with no news of any Witchers, the White Wolf or even the Butcher of Blaviken (he knew Geralt hated that name but hey, at this point Jaskier would take what he could get) when there were a series of shouts from behind him to “GET OUT OF THE WAY!”

Jaskier whipped around just in time to see a horse barrelling towards him at a full gallop, knocking aside people and stalls like they were nothing. He rolled to the ground and out of the path of destruction, pulling his arms over his face instinctually, when the sounds of hooves pounding against packed dirt stopped suddenly and there was a warm muzzle prodding his arm.

Jaskier peeked up uncertainly. He had definitely done many strange things in his life, but he could honestly say “stopped a horse on a mad death stampede” was not one of them and he wasn't quite sure what to expect.

He looked once, looked again, and then a third time just to be sure because there was no way that this could possibly be “Roach?”

She was covered in sweat, and saddleless, her reins dangling around her neck and she looked slightly underfed which sent fresh spikes of worry shooting through Jaskier’s stomach. Geralt often went hungry himself when the coin was tight to make sure Roach had food. So the fact that Roach was not in her usual top condition was worrying to say the least. He wasn’t sure if he should cry with relief or worry because on the one hand, if Roach was here then that meant she might know where Geralt was but on the other hand Roach was always near Geralt and since Geralt was definitely nowhere in sight that meant that something horrible had probably happened to him and Jaskier knew that he probably couldn’t possibly-

Roach nipped at his doublet sleeves, seemingly sensing that he was distressed. Jaskier smiled tightly and rubbed her neck. “Hi girl,” he muttered. “I missed you too. And while I am very, very happy to see you and even happier that you don't seem in one of your normal murderous moods, I do wish you had brought Geralt with you.”

At the mention of her owner, Roaches ears flicked back and she nipped at Jaskier’s doublet again, stomping her hooves impatiently.

Aha. Maybe there was a reason why Geralt was so partial to his horse. “Roach,” he said very seriously. “Do you know where Geralt is?”

Roach turned and began to walk back the way she came, snorting when Jaskier didn't follow.

“Oh you wonderful, glorious girl!” Jaskier praised, reaching up to grab her reins and lead her away to a stable. “I’m going to give you all the apples and sugar cubes that you can eat!” Roach stayed firmly put.

“Melitele’s tit, you really are Geralt’s horse aren’t you girl?” he muttered. “Look, I want nothing more to jump on your back and go find him. But you know he’d kill us both if we went in unprepared! And besides, you don't even have a saddle. So just give me an hour, I’ll get you into a stall with Pegasus and you can eat something cause you look a little skinny and Geralt would have my head if he knew I let you starve, and then we can go find him, alright?”

Roach gave him what Jaskier assumed was a glare.

“Oh you absolute mule. C’mon, let’s go.”

read the rest on ao3

___

ooo what's gonna happen nest?? idkkkk

spoiler its soft

throw me an ask if you wanna be on my taglist 

taglist: @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @barlowarts @eminasan @llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar @nonegenderleftpain @electricrituals

also tagging: @bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher @holding-hands-with-solkar @the-blondy

[henryobsessed]

The Widow and the Witcher  Chapter Two

Summery: Julia had purchased Geralt, but will she be able to heal him?

Word count: 2800

Warning: Mention of effects of abuse

A/N Eager for Constructive criticism :) 

Chapter Two

The trip home was longer than expected. Tobias after completing the sale helped to lead the men to the cart, Kias had insisted that the Witcher remain caged. "We use cow prodders to keep him in line, but if he's not in this cage then he's in the wagon cage, as he's too dangerous to be let out. I'm not sure what your mistress is going to do with him, but you'll keep in mind he was the Butcher of Blaviken." Making reference to the bloody fight that the Witcher had won against a gang of men in the streets of Blaviken. Tobias realised Kias was relieved to be done with the Witcher but also worried we would let him go. "Don't worry well not let him out of his cage, and you can get cleared of this place if that's your worry" Tobias laughed as Kias turned quickly at that statement and hurriedly started packing up his camp.

First, they stopped at the market to check on the other servants. Even though Tobias had wanted to go to Renee he knew that he would have to wait. He gave instructions on closing, and left a message for Renee to join him at the estate and re-joined the wagon. While he had been with his men, Julia had visited her husband's friends ordering more food, clothes and bedding to be delivered to the estate that afternoon. The merchants were curious about this new Julia who was exhibiting more purpose and energy than they had seen since Wilfred had died, but refrained from being nosy. They too had heard the slavers cry, and some had contemplated doing the same thing. This sort of slavery was frowned on in Wolnosci, but they all could see that this had lit a fire in their friend's beloved wife's eyes, and they hoped this would be the beginning of her healing from the loss.

Once they arrived at the estate Jolna and Petra helped take the 5 men to the bathhouse, leaving Tobias and Julia with the Witcher. Julia dismounted and went around to the back of the wagon. Tobias was hot on her heels but as she climbed in the back he waited outside knowing she needed to talk to the Witcher on her own, but he would be there if she needed him. Inside the wagon, Julia sat next to the caged man, his heavy breathing could be heard in the silence. Pulling her knees up under her chin Julia took a moment she felt a strange calm as she looked at the man in the cage. Her memories of him the tall proud Witcher who had sat at their camp filled her mind. He didn't look any older but his body spoke of the abuse he had suffered. After a moment of silence she spoke "I can't begin to understand what pain you have been through to bring you to a situation like this. But I remember a white-haired Witcher who risked his life to save my Father, and my 10yr old memory tells me that you are that same Witcher."

Julia waited, hoping that there would be some sign from the man to acknowledge that he knew she was not a threat. "I hear you" a deep raspy voice whispered into the silence. It was all Julia needed to give her the courage to continue, "I need to know what your injuries are, I don't want to move you until I know that it won't cause you more damage." Again, she waited, this time all she heard was a rumbled "mmmmm". Sitting in the stillness she had a thought of how she could assess his wounds without causing more. Getting up she said "I'll be back soon Geralt. Tobias my Loyal friend will be outside if you need something." Again, she waited not wanting to leave before he acknowledged her. Even raspier as thou it was thick with emotion, he breathed: "thank you."

Leaving the wagon, Julia spoke to Tobias "stay here and listen out for his voice. He's quiet so you will need to actively listen. I am going to go prepare the spring, I think the best way to assess his wounds will be in a weightless environment. I won't be long but if any of the men come back, see if you can work out a way to move Geralt into the healing room." At Tobias's nod, she ran to the dwelling.

As she entered the healing room Julia set about preparing the spring. Many years ago Wilfred had hired a man to help work out a way to empty the stagnant water and replenish it with the fresh waters from the spring. Moving the leavers to set in motion the refreshing of the waters she moved to get the additional minerals to add to the spring to aid in the cleansing of Geralt's wounds. After this she went to her books seeking out the one that her mother had handed her on her death bed. It was a special book describing the elixirs and potions used by Witcher. Quickly looking through the pages she found what she needed the recipes for adding healing. Grabbing the herbs she quickly made the appropriate elixir, as well as a tea to aid in a deep sleep.

A sense of calm and purpose filled Julia as she worked on her preparations, not only for Geralt but for the other men who she knew would also have ailments. As she mixed her herbs she realised this was the premonition that she had had this morning. She felt alive all her senses tingled with life, senses that had become dull and silent over the last 3 years since Wilfred had died. As she kept working the other servants were led into her rooms, along with a cart pulling Geralt and his cage. The 5 men looked clean and now dressed in clothes that would be warm, a better protection than the rags they had been in before.

Julia addressed the men, "I don't know what situation has bought you to a place of being with Kias, but I want to get to know each one of you more in the coming weeks. First, you need to know that here you will be safe. You will be fed, clothed, and given a warm bed to sleep. I am a healer, so in a moment I will be talking with you individually about how you are in your body, and if there is anything that is causing you pain. I will do my best to keep you all healthy. In return, all I expect is that you respect me and my servants, that you are honest with me about your circumstances, and when we work out what you can do best to serve this household, that you will do it to the best of your ability. If you do this, we will work well together."

As much as Julia wanted to go to Geralt, and help him right away she instead saw to each man. She assessed their health, and talked to them about where they were from, and their situation. All but one had indentured themselves to help family financial problems. The last one named Harlan had been kidnapped as he was travelling to Temeria. All agreed to stay and work for Julia. She dressed some wounds and dispensing small herbal supports for malnourishment and stomach ailments. Julia directed Petra to take them to the eating room as Nessie had prepared a small meal to help them gain their appetites back. As they left, she turned to Geralt he seemed to be asleep his eyes shut head bowed.

As she approached, he turned and looked at her, the pained look in his eyes caused Julia's heart to clench, "We are going to lower you into the Spring Geralt, but before that, we need to remove your clothing. Can you tell me how long you have been confined like this?" Tobias and Jolna waited with Julia while Geralt found his words. "I have only crawled for the last 8 months so I don't know if I can walk. I had just fought a particularly strong Bruxa and had taken a healing elixir when Kais came across me. I was not yet strong enough to fight him. They kept me in this cage during the day and in a wagon cage that I could crawl into, but it was only tall enough that I could sleep stretched out." his words were slow, measured, and Julia could tell that even this small amount of conversation was wearing him out.

Inspecting the cage Tobias found the latches and carefully removed the side. Julia trying to see the best way to remove his disheveled and dirty clothes concluded she would need to cut them off him carefully. Kneeling next to him Julia put her hand gently on his arm pulling his attention to her face, "I'm sorry I know this may be painful but just touch my arm if you need a rest or for me to stop." He nodded and closed his eyes a tenseness setting in his face as he prepared himself.

While Julia proceeded to start cutting along the seams of his shirt Tobias and Jolna disassembled the rest of the cage to allow more access to the big man. All that was left was the last piece that seemed to be holding Geralt up. As each layer of clothing was removed more and more Julia could see the scaring and abuse that Geralt had suffered, sometimes Geralt would groan loudly in pain as she had to shift a limb or mumble a curse word but he never once halted the action. It showed Julia that even in this state his will was strong, giving her hope that his spirit was not completely broken.

As the last of the layers of clothing was freed from his body, she looked up at Tobias, tears silently running down her cheeks. This was the first time treating a patient that the extent of abuse caused her grief, pulling herself together she spoke with a soft voice "Right let's get you over to the spring" his eyes opened at her words gazing at her wet cheeks, Julia stood quickly and went to get her pain relievers taking a moment to compose herself, while the two silent men pushed Geralt towards the water's edge. Julia touched Geralt on the shoulder his eyes glassy with pain met hers "I want you to drink some of this it's a pain relief and healing elixir it will help you to move and with the pain." Lifting the cup to Geralt's lips he drank slowly.

The warm water felt good on her tired body, Julia had been running on adrenalin and even now could not relax as they wheeled the cart into the water. As the water began to cover Geralt's body she heard him groan again but this was less of pain and more of relief. Once the buoyancy of the water made it possible Tobias and Jolna lifted Geralt from the cart, and floated him toward Julia. His body was in a crouched position being supported by the two assistances, she started to run her hands lightly over his skin making mental note of the old scars compared with the wounds. His body was malnourished. Julia remembering how Geralt had looked when she had seen him with her father, remembered that he had once been strong and muscular. She hoped with time he would regain those features. The trauma of the last 8 months had caused his skin to sag with loss of weight and his muscles held no strength. There were many wounds that would need cleaning and some burns that had turned into blisters along his torso.

Placing a supporting hand on his lower back she massaged along the spine feeling for any damage. Thankful that it seemed to be just stiff and not out of alignment she moved to his hips. The smallest pressure as she felt around the hips brought on a cry from Geralt, pausing she gently manipulated the joints and muscles assessing each action until she was confident that nothing was broken. Once she was sure the hips were loosened, she pushed the right hip up releasing the thigh and leg to straighten out. Seeing more scars and wounds as she straightened out the other leg Julia felt a sense of great sadness and anger. How could anyone treat someone so badly, even our animals were not treated with such cruelty.

She now had him fully stretched out, bringing a flat board and towel over she placed the towel over his pelvis to give him some privacy and floated the board under him. When she saw it took his weight without sinking, she spoke. "We are going to let you float here for a while Geralt, the water will not grow cold but Jolna will stay just in case you need anything. I'm going to get you something small to eat and then we will move you to a cot here in the room. Your wounds will need dressing, but I will do that once your dry and laying down."

Julia ran her hand over his brow which had lost some of its tension. Without opening his eyes he mumbled a thank you and fell silent. His breathing seemed to even out as she watched the silver medallion, the only thing she had not cut off his body rise and fall with each breath. Almost hypnotic in its action she stared for a moment mesmerized by the medallion. A sound from Jolna made her pulled her eyes away from the sleeping form. Taking a deep breath, she turned and moved out of the Spring. She was caught between wanting to stay by her patient and the need to gather food for herself. He stomach made a grumbling sound making the decision for her as she moved out of the room and away from the sleeping man.

Tobias made note of the hour, it was dark outside, and the house was quiet. During the evening Renee had arrived and seeing the chaos jumped into action. She helped set up the beds for the new servants, helped Nessie in the kitchen and had seen to the clean-up. Tobias was so blessed to have met this beautiful caring woman. Having no memory of his mother he had instead looked for a woman like his mistress, knowing if he found someone with a similar character that he would be blessed, and he had found her. Walking out onto the balcony Tobias watched Renee, her sandy coloured hair blowing about in the evening breeze. He walked up behind her and pulled her into his arms. "Thank you for tonight my love, your willingness to see a need, and jump straight in to help has only accentuated my love for you."

Still looking at the stars but now resting her head on his chest Renee chuckled, "Well if you had walked into a house and seen what I saw you would have done the same. Anyway, poor Nessie was beside herself. Her planned meal had jumped from 7 to 13 people in just minutes of your arrival at home. However, all I did was just take orders. She truly is a master in that kitchen." Turning around in his arms Renee looked up at Tobias. His eyes taking in her soft round face, freckled nose and sea blue eyes, which seemed to sparkle with love. His eyes shifted to her small pink lips and that was his undoing. He bent down and kissed her deeply.

Julia looked down at the sleeping form, she had spent most of the afternoon and evening dressing his wounds, applying salves on the burns, and feeding him. His amber yellow eyes had watched her silently apart from the groans of pain as she had treated him, but Julia had not felt unsafe or in danger as the slaver trader had said. Instead, she felt something different, like a cry from deep inside him that called out to her. Her only hope was that he would learn to trust her enough to talk to her. The sleeping tea she had prepared was working, his face relaxed, his breathing steady. Relaxing into the day bed she had pulled over to be closer to Geralt in case he needed her in the night. Julia fell into an uneasy asleep filled with just one picture in her mind, those piercing amber-yellow eyes.

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[ancientstone]

Alright so AU where Geralt doesn’t realise he’s been given a decoy Ciri

Perhaps Geralt goes to fetch Roach, maybe someone stops him to mention the ballads they’ve heard or some guard decides to question why he’s there, either way, he doesn’t notice the hidden passage in the palace, and therefore, not half an hour later, leaves Cintra not with Ciri sat scared under a cloak on his horse, but this girl:

In my head I’ve taken to calling her Alice, so that’s her name now.

Full name: Alice Cavannah of Cintra

Calanthe needs a child who can pass as Pavetta’s daughter, and it just so happens that currently staying in the palace for the banquet set to take place that night is a nobleman and his family - in particular, a nobleman who is on the wrong side of Calanthe’s temper, has been trying to redeem himself for years and gain a better position in court, and has a daughter roughly Ciri’s age.

For her parents, the decision wasn’t hard, mainly because her Father, who she is almost completely distant to, declared that she would go. In comparison, Alice is far closer to her Mother, but that doesn’t stop anything as her Mother goes along with whatever her husband says, merely absently nodding her consent as if being asked if she would like fish for dinner.

Alice also has an older brother, one who would be knighted not a few hours later (the knighting scene in episode one), and sending off their daughter in place of Ciri and having a son knighted in Cintra firmly puts their family name in Calanthe’s good books, much to their delight.

It also helps that Alice had a similar schooling to Ciri, and knows of the local nobles, lords, and ladies. If they tried to play off a peasant girl, their ploy would be blown within minutes.

“You’ll be back soon, I’m sure.” Calanthe promises breezily as she digs through Ciri’s wardrobe to find a dress for her to wear, to give her a more princess-like appearance. “Once all this nonsense with Nilfgaard has blown over, the Witcher will bring you right back.”

“Yes, your majesty.” Alice whispered, squeezing her hands together tightly to try and save off crying.

She’s told to quickly says her goodbyes, and then gets a cloak dumped over her head to avoid prying eyes who could call out the fraud. The Witcher, who she is told is named Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken, helps her onto a horse, and slowly they leave the city, Alice glancing back to see if her parents are watching. They’re not.

Her brother is, though. He waves at her from a window. She hesitantly waves back.

So, they head out, a tense silence between them. Alice is scared stiff, mainly because she’s never heard much about Witchers, being in Cintra most of her life. She knows Calanthe hates them, and doesn’t entrust this Witcher to look after her granddaughter, so tries to be as quiet as possible, less she angers the man with two very sharp-looking swords. 

Alice is also terrified that Geralt is going to figure out that she isn’t Ciri, and, not being a princess, will be killed for it. Her parents are unlikely to avenge her death (gods, her death might even be good for them - sacrificing their only daughter in the name of the Queen is sure to get them higher titles), so it wouldn’t matter if he did.

She spends the time nibbling her lip, a habit her Mother is always scolding her for, and praying to any God willing to listen to the thoughts in her head that she sees this out alive.

Geralt, meanwhile, is having a Panic™

What do you say to a princess? How does Ciri expect to be treated? Will she mind camping, or will he have to get inn rooms every night? Does he have enough coin for that? They gave him a bag of her belongings, does she have a bedroll, blankets, more suitable clothes for travel, better shoes? Is it rude to ask? 

The only other princesses he’s ever met either stabbed him in the gut or tried to eat his organs. Ciri probably won’t do that. He hopes. Then again, if she’s Calanthe’s blood, maybe he’ll be dead by morning.

Should he take her to Kaer Morhen? Or will the Nilfgaardian threat blow over before they get there? Is it better for them to head to the Blue Mountains or should they just hide out in the forests somewhere and wait and see?

Whatever he decides, the one thing he does know for sure is that this girl is completely petrified.

“It will be okay, Princess.” Geralt says roughly, as awkward as anything. “No harm is going to come to you.”

Her eyes are huge as she stammers, “T-Thank you, Witcher.”

“Call me Geralt.”

She flinches, squeaking, “Thank you, Geralt.”

Fuck, Geralt thinks.

They don’t come to any inns as dusk begins to fall, so Geralt tries to find the cleanest spot he can among the trees for them to make camp. He helps her down, and she shies away from his offered hand as if expecting to be hit before eventually taking it, and then sets about making camp.

Turns out, the palace didn’t think to give her anything practical, surprising for the granddaughter of the Lioness. The bag is mostly dresses, shoes only suitable for palace floors, and a hairbrush and a few toiletries.

He goes to swear, and then reminds himself not in front of the Princess.

“We might have to get you some new clothes.” He says, and she jumps at the sound. “We want to hide from Nilfgaard and anyone else who may try and find you. That will be easier if you dress plainly.”

What Geralt expects, he doesn’t know, a bit of a tantrum, perhaps? Something about how a lady of her status can’t go around in cheap fabrics like a commoner? Tears?

He doesn’t expect the girl to bite her lip, nod, and then hunch her shoulders around herself, trying to look as small as possible, swamped in her cloak and eyes to the floor.

The night is spent almost entirely silent. He goes out and hunts, gutting and skinning the hares away from camp so he doesn’t spook her, and then cooks a pretty bland stew that the Princess seems to force down out of politeness than a real hunger. He then gives her his bedroll, something she’s hesitant to do until he reassures her that he can go without sleeping, and meditates most of the night, listening for threats and the sound of her breathing. 

She cries at one point, trying to stifle her sniffles in her hands.

Over the next two days they move fast and far, not talking to anyone and putting as much distance between Cintra and them as possible. Slowly, as if she realises that Geralt is not going to eat her alive, the Princess begins to relax. That doesn’t exactly make her chatty by any means, or any less stiff and jumpy, but in their brief, stilted conversations, she seems less worried that he will bite her face off. A small improvement, but an improvement nonetheless.

Surprisingly, it’s Roach that brings them together.

Ciri takes to the mare straight away, and voluntary begins brushing her down each night, muttering soft things that she thinks Geralt can’t hear into the horse’s ears.

“She doesn’t tolerate most people.” He says as he builds a fire, pausing to observe them.

The Princess ducks her head. “O-Oh.”

“It means she likes you.”

“Oh!” For a split second, her face brightens, and she spins on her heel to gently pet Roach’s nose. “I like her too. What’s her name?”

“Roach.”

The Princess turns towards him, her face not quite disgruntled, but showing more emotion than she has so far. “Like the fish?”

“Hm.” Geralt nods.

“Why did you name your horse after a fish?”

“My brother named his horse Scorpion.”

“Is it...A Witcher thing?”

“Not reall-” Geralt stops, thinking about it. “Actually, I suppose it is.”

The Princess turns before he can see her expression, but he thinks she may be giggling. A lump forms in his throat, and he swallows it down.

Meanwhile, with Alice, she can’t decide if this is fun (she gets to explore the countryside, see other places, have a horse, camp, get dirty) or most frightening thing she’s ever done (she’s pretending to be the Princess of Cintra, if she messes up, the Lioness with solely blame her, not to mention punish her family. There’s so much on her shoulders that at random moments all she wants to do is weep)

Geralt doesn’t seem as frightening as he first appeared, and he’s actually been really nice, not asking complicated questions she doesn’t know the answer to (does he already know about Cirilla’s life? Her favourite foods? Her favourite song? She doesn’t, and dreads saying something that could contradict what he already knows) and keeping his distance.

He also named his horse after a fish.

On the morning of the second day, they camp outside a town, Geralt wanting to wait until most of the main morning traffic has passed before entering. To pass the time, she carefully twists braids into Roach’s mane (who preens under the attention), watching out the corner of her eye as Geralt goes over sword practice.

In a brief moment of boldness, Alice asks, “Is it...Hard, to use a sword like that?”

Geralt pauses, glancing towards her. “In a way, like most skills it becomes easier over time.”

“My-” Alice nearly outs herself by saying brother, quickly redirecting, “Grandmother uses a lot of swords.”

“Yes. Did she ever teach you?”

Oh Gods!

“My...My Mother didn’t let me. Said it’d make me brutish.” The news of Pavetta’s death was widespread, when it happened. She can recall her parents talking about it for years afterwards. “When she died, my Grandmother kept her wish.”

Geralt’s expression does several different things, and the longer the bout of silence draws on the closer Alice finds herself huddling against Roach, as if asking the horse to hold her up.

Stupid! She chastises mentally. That’s the Lioness! Of course she taught Ciri! And you just insulted her daughter! Wait until the Queen finds out about that!

Finally, Geralt grunts, something he seems to do regularly, before easing his stance, relaxing his shoulders. “Would you...Like to learn?”

Alice blinks.”M-Me?”

“Being able to defend yourself is one of the most important skills you can have, and I’m sure your Mother would prefer you alive and wielding a blade than dead and weaponless.”

The Lioness is going to be fuming by the time she gets back.

Still, somehow, Alice finds herself nodding , and Geralt hums, putting down his sword and pulling out a smaller dagger. “Come here.”

She does, and he places the dagger into her hand, adjusting her grip and inching her fingers into the correct positions. It’s heavy, surprisingly so, and Geralt carefully puts his hand around her wrist.

“Ideally we’d do this with one made of wood, but I only have this, so we won’t do much just to be safe, but I can show you how to hold a blade, and how to use it in a pinch.”

“Okay.”

“It’s not a toy.” He says sternly, meeting her eyes. “Don’t swing it wildly, don’t touch the edge, and when in doubt, drop it and step back, understand?”

“I do.”

He hums again, pleased, and then carefully starts the lesson.

Alice, surprisingly, finds herself enjoying it. She can see what her brother saw in it when he was younger and still in training. There’s something about learning the different stances, the hand positions, the control, that feels good, right, almost like the beginnings of a new hobby.

Her favourite hobby is still needlework, though. Alice adores a night by the fireplace carefully stitching away.

They keep on going until lunch, which is when they stop to eat (a little to her disappointment), and then head into town, Geralt dropping a handful of coins into her palm and pointing out a shop.

“Go buy yourself a few set of clothes, ones good enough for a winter outside. Don’t go with fashions, go with practicality. I’ll be outside.”

“Okay, I understand.”

The fabrics on offer are cheap, bland, and all variations of dim green or brown, however, with a little help from the shopkeeper, Alice is able to find some items which work. She switches into one of her new purchases, pulling on a new pair of boots, before heading back outside.

She keeps the dress she’d been wearing, though. It belongs to a Princess, and the Queen may be angry if she loses it. Alice gently tucks it into her bag.

“Good.” Geralt nods his approval and Alice finds herself smiling shyly, before they turn to leave.

It is as they walk away, following the road northwards, that they catch wind of a conversation by another set of travelers passing by, on their way south.

For a split second, Alice freezes, before whipping around so fast that her head spins dizzy. Her eyes follow them, and her vision mists with fear-struck tears as her jaw drops low in horror.

Beside her, Geralt goes as still as a statue, his skin pale.

Cinta has fallen.

......

Anyway, this is getting super long so I may have to come up with a part two, but I’ll leave this here for now

Oh, and I’m totally naming this the Double Trouble AU

[for-a-muse-of-fire]

and the damaged love she made

the wench and the witcher

“and the damaged love she made”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Paring: Geralt of Rivia x Fem!POC Reader.

Summary: Ghosts and guilt make for poor bedfellows.

Warnings: NSFW/18+ - Nipple-play, orgasm denial (kind of?), table sex, sex as a coping mechanism.

A/N: Y’all want some angst with your smut? ‘Cause I got you some angst to go with your smut. Title and lyrics below the cut from (another) one of my favorite Hozier songs - “To Be Alone.” Hoz mentioned that this song is about “trying to love a damaged person in modern society” and, well, if the shoe fits. This did get a tad longer than expect, but thank you guys, as always, for reading.

@coconutxraikage - @kingniazx - @onyour-right - @ly–canthrope - @kianya-loves - @c-s-stars - @gczanetti1 - @pantrashtic - @alwaysnatz​ - @agniavateira​ - @witchernonsense​

But I don't know what else that I would do Than to try to kiss the skin that crawls from you Than feel your weight in arms I'd never use It's the god that heroin prays to

You jerk awake with a sharp inhale, startled from the oblivion of sleep with a suddenness that makes your heart kick double-time. For a moment, you can’t get your bearings - all you’re certain of is the frantic rush of blood in your ears. The room is dark, your vision doesn’t adjust right away; you blink hard as you rub your eyes and try to figure out what the fuck, exactly, jostled you awake. Your confusion – irritation – is tempered when you hear the breathless grunt beside you.

 The sound makes your heart sink.

 Geralt is moving fitfully when you turn to face him. There’s a tension to his jaw and a crease to his brow that makes you frown. He’s breathing heavily, short and shallow pants that seem to match the erratic twitch of his closed eyelids. The paleness of his skin is highlighted by the fine sheen of sweat that covers him. You hear him grunt again, like he’s been struck, and then his body goes taught – the veins in his neck and forehead pulsing visibly under his skin.

 “No,” Geralt mutters. “No more.”

 Your stomach twists over itself. “Geralt,” you whisper as you sit up.

 He flinches when you touch him, twisting his face away from the brush of your fingertips. The noise that pushes up through his clenched teeth makes something go sour in your belly. He groans like a dying man, “Renfri.”

 “Geralt,” you try again, louder. “Hey, wake up.”

 Against your better judgement, you swing a leg over his hips. One hand braces you on his heaving chest and you can feel his heart thundering beneath your fingers – faster than you’ve ever felt it.

 “Geralt,” you call to him. “Geralt, wake up. Come on now – .”

 The touch of your fingers on his cheek is what snaps him into wakefulness. It’s a violent coming to, a blur of movement that startles a gasp out of you. The Witcher sits bolt upright and you barely rear back in time to keep him from cracking his forehead into your nose. His hands band around your wrists, hard, and you wince against the sudden pressure. Geralt’s golden eyes are wild, frantic, darting around the dark room with the look of a cornered street dog; his lips curl away from his teeth in a silent snarl.

 “Hey – hey – it’s all right,” you tell him in soft, firm voice. “Geralt, look at me. Geralt.”

 Those sharp gold eyes snap to your face the second time you call his name. You see anger, and pain – fear – flash over his face before he shuts down. Suddenly, he’s marble-cold and unreadable.  He drops your hands, almost pushing them away, and you have to scramble aside as he rises.

 “Geralt,” you start. “Darling – “

 Nothing. The Witcher yanks on his trousers, throws on his shirt, and disappears out the bedroom door; you watch him go with a sigh, scrubbing your hand over your face. It’s old hat, this shut out, but it doesn’t sting any less. For all the warmth and kindness that he is capable of, you find it easy to forget how quickly he can turn cold. Sitting up, you reach for your shift.

 To be fair, you imagine it’s how he’s survived so long.

 The cold floorboards help clear the last vestiges of sleep from your mind and you simply sit for a moment. You breathe. You temper your worry, focus your hurt, and do your best to come to some kind of center. Pity won’t do – he hates pity – but that’s not what makes you stand and finally go looking for the wayward Witcher.

 Geralt sits at one of the empty tables downstairs, elbows braced on the worn wood. His face is cast mostly in shadow, but the bit of moonlight from the windows paints his hair with silver. You watch him go tense, hear him inhale once, sharply, as your take the last step down to the main floor. Your fingers grip the railing for a moment. The temptation is there – the question is heavy on the back of your tongue. You recognize the name he called out. It’s a name you’ve heard him murmur in his sleep before; murmur, or shout. It’s like it’s branded on him, you think. Scarred over, like so much of the rest of him, and so you don’t ask about Renfri.

 You don’t ask about Blaviken.

 “Do you want me to leave you be?” you ask instead.

 He doesn’t answer, but that’s answer enough – the silence pricks at you, needles in as you try to remember it’s not personal. “All right,” you murmur. “Just… come back to bed when you can?”

 You make it up a step or two and then you hear it:

 “Wait.”

 He’s watching you when you turn. That gaze stays heavy on you as you cross the distance over the cold stone floor. You stop close at his side, weight eased back against the edge of the table. Honey-gold eyes peer up at you as Geralt reaches out; one big hand grips your waist and you shuffle at his insistent tug until you’re settled directly in front of him. He seems to study you. The intensity of it shivers over your skin, but then Geralt curls forward until his face is pressed to your belly. After a moment’s hesitation, you touch him – tangle both hands through the soft fall of his whitecap hair.

 His breath rushes hot through the cotton of your shift. He rubs into you in an almost feline gesture and you try not to squirm.

 Calloused fingers ghost their way up the backs of your legs. You feel the press of lips over your belly – damp, questing kisses that stir smoldering warmth in their wake. There’s the rattle of wood over stone as Geralt nudges his chair away to stand. His mouth leaves its exploration of your covered stomach only to slant over yours in a kiss that makes your toes curl. It’s an all-consuming kind of a kiss; greedy and wanting, as if he can flush out his past by drinking you down instead. It’s not dissimilar to being caught in the river’s current. You hold on tight, grip his hair – grasp at his collar – or risk being swept under entirely.

 This won’t fix it. You know that. Even through the haze of your growing arousal, you think you should stop, ask him to stop, make him talk to you. This is a bandage on a festered would.

 But he’s already shut you out once tonight. So you hold fast.

 Geralt lifts you without so much as a pause and then you’re pressed back onto the table with the Witcher looming over you; his mouth breaks with yours and goes searching again. The path he finds takes him down your thundering pulse point. He tracks your goosebumps over the ridge of your clavicle and farther, until the neckline of your shift gets in the way. Strong fingers tug it down, then grip over the exposed flesh. His fingers twist around one nipple and his mouth covers the other; you arch with a gasp of his name when the pleasure fires a line straight to your cunt.

 He sets his teeth into the sensitive flesh, bites hard enough that the pain blurs with the pleasure – you shudder out a moan. Your other breast receives the same treatment from his deft fingers. He is singularly focused on your skin under his hands, his mouth, and you writhe under him. You feel the swollen, slippery throb of want settle between your legs. It sings in your veins, buzzes over your skin, and your orgasm is like a shock – a jolt that pulls a started cry from you. Geralt greedily claims the sound with his mouth over yours. You can feel the slick of you coating your inner thighs as you tremble.

 The mutant pulls you to sitting, one hand gripping at the side of your neck while the other works open the buttons of his trousers. You grasp at him, fingers curled his shirt collar. He ruts towards you, pushes his cock through your swollen folds and then he’s buried to the hilt. It’s a flash of pleasure, a harsh stretch that borders on too much. Your spine snaps up straight, the motion tearing your mouth away from the Witcher’s as you cry out to the dark ceiling. His voice coils around your, low and wrecked; the hand pressed at the side of your neck slides back to fist in your hair.

 He braces. You expect fast. You expect desperate, and bruising – you expect him to use you to drive the last fragments of the nightmare away. He’s done it before. But now…

 Geralt doesn’t move. You can feel him, hard and thick, stretching you open as you pulse around him and it’s torture. His breath puffs out against your neck, hot and sharp. He fills you, so well – gods so fucking well – but he won’t move. It makes you quake, dizzy and drunk with lust, as your thighs tremble around his hips.

 “Please,” you plead brokenly. “Geralt, please. I need – mmph – “

 “What do you need, sweetheart?”

 His voice is a rock-slide growl, thunder and smoke, and so sensual that you clutch hard around him with a whimper. He moans into your skin. You feel the tug of his fingers, pulling your hair at the roots to force your head back, force you to stare up into his face.

 Gods, he’s so fucking beautiful. “You need me, hm?” he rasps again. “Yeah, you need me, don’t you?”

 A roll of his hips has you seeing stars, makes you mewl, “Yes, gods – “

 “Tell me. Tell me how much…”

 Geralt’s eyes are molten, shining back at you from the dark, but you see something unexpected. It’s a kind of desperation. He searches your face, for what you’re not sure, but the intensity of it is overwhelming. His hips rock forward, just once, and you choke back a cry.

 “I need you,” you gasp to him. “Need you so much it fucking hurts, Geralt, I -  “

 Another slow thrust – you moan, “Fuck – I need you, I need you – I always need you.”

 He snaps forward, sudden and brutal enough that you shout with it. It’s a maddening rhythm that he finds. Deep, slow drags that pull the head of his cock over a place inside of you that fires something electric under your skin. It makes your eyes roll back, makes you pant and grunt, and beg and gods it’s so good. You feel the Witcher rasp his lips over the line of your jaw, stubble rough on your humming skin; you grip his shirt so hard that it makes your fingers ache.

 “Come for me.” It’s not a command, not an order – but a low, ragged plea, “Come for me, sweetheart – “

It rages through you, this sudden climax, blinding hot and without mercy – you keen for him and shut your eyes against it. Geralt’s rhythm falters as you squeeze down around his length; over the ringing in your ears, you hear his strangled moan. He pulses inside of you, fills you until you’re ripe and dripping with him. The dull throb of him makes you shiver and gasp into his shoulder.

 Your limbs feel somehow leaden and too light, all at once.

 Geralt’s thumb sliding over your jaw coaxes you back down to earth. You let him tip your head up again and stare up into that gods-carved face of his. He’s studying you again, fond and intense. Its hard to breathe when he looks at you like that.

 “Come back to bed, Geralt,” you murmur to him, finally. “Come keep me warm, hm?”

 The Witcher nods, hums low in his acquiescence. He doesn’t smile at you, not quite, but it’s a close thing. Your questions remain, whispering insistently in the back of your mind, but you set them aside for now. For tonight, for now, Geralt seems himself again. For tonight, you won’t share a bed with a ghost and its guilt. And that’s enough.

 It has to be.

[suffering-and-happy-about-it]

The Witchress of Keadwen (Geralt x reader, Part 4.)

Series description: The Butcher of Blaviken has a long and famous past, thanks to his friend Jaskier. Yet, neither of those dies easily and it still lurks behind Geralt like a shadow after all those years. History, neither unfriendly relationships, doesn't die easily.

Part Summary: Your arrival to villages of Borin and Corin were more or less accepted by the folk living there. Yet with uncovering the mystery risen up around Mahakam mountains, there were more questions than aswer. 

A/N: Why did I fell so hard so the Witcher politics? It was almost not mentioned in the series at all, but I am all about Temeria this and Redania that.

Tagging:  @osgon-azure​ @davnwillcome @missdictatorme​ @nemodoren​

Word count: 2.8K

Master list: H E R E

The party of mighty heroes was established, consisting of two witchers and one certainly attractive and legendary bard. As it was said the previous night, all of them met in front of the residence early in the morning to gather the last clues so later that day, they could set on their journey. The fog was thick and white as cow’s milk, the air was ice cold.

"I feel that I'm dying Geralt, I swear, I shall fall on this grass and never get up again." - Jaskier jested rather loudly, catching your attention. You were just feeding your horse and it appeared that you were talking to the animal. That was kinda a common thing when you were a witcher. You hadn't a better friend than your animal.

"It's only a hangover, Jaskier. You'll be fine as always." - Geralt grunted back, having a hangover himself. He shouldn't drink four ales and two wines. Yet he did and this was what he had gotten for acting dumb.

"This is the professionality you get from Geralt of Rivia himself." - You chuckled back and swung your leg over your horse to get on top of it. While Roach was a small, brown, and gentle mare, your horse was a beast. It had about two meters and it was as black as night. It was one of the expansive warhorses that weren't common for a witcher. What was common for a witcher was a werewolf head you had strapped to the saddle. Geralt has done the same and jumped on Roach’s back, only Jaskier still stood on the ground and was looking at both of you.

"Where is your horse, bard?" - You asked a bit unbelievably, your look being shot at Geralt as he was the bard's friend. - "If you ride on one horse, I don't judge. Just hop on there so we can go." - You said to Jaskier, petting your horse's neck.

"He doesn't have a horse." - Geralt said, making Roach go forward. Jaskier nodded and started walking behind Geralt. No. On your watch, the bard wasn't going on his feet. It wasn't that you liked him or anything that human, it would just be too fucking slow. And your horse was a big, strong one. Your two meters tall horse called Chamberlain stopped right next to Jaskier and you furrowed while you offered him your palm.

“You are too slow on your feet and I am not listening to your crying.” - You hissed as you helped Jaskier on the horse’s back. You almost slapped the man when you felt palms on your hips. - “If you touch me again I swear to Melitele that I will decapitate you, bard.” - You hissed and made Chamberlain go.

Jaskier wouldn’t recognize you in the morning. All the fancy diamonds were now gone, you weren’t wearing any make-up or jewelry. Jaskier could feel one of your swords poking his leg the whole ride, the second one’s hilt almost hitting his forehead.

Since he never has seen a female witcher, a witchress you would say, he was kinda wondering about your armor and the similarity it bore to Geralt’s. You had the same medallion of a wolf head, the same leather was used on your chest pieces, even the scabbard of the swords were similar. Yet you looked more charming, feminine, and gentler than Geralt could ever look, which made a lot of sense.

It could be felt that you’re going to the mountains shortly after - even if the sun got on the sky and the birds started to sing, the air was getting colder and colder. You had to cross three villages and a mountain pass to even get to the place of your contract - that could last a week if you’d be quick. Which certainly wasn’t your case since Jaskier was with you. And besides, you and Geralt had to look at the place where did all of the massacrings happened, and you had to speak with the survivors, which could be a difficulty on its own.

You had your suspicion about the monsters. It could be trolls or giants. But... This behavior wasn’t normal for either of them. Giants mostly didn’t even live on the Continent. Once you encountered one, it was on Skellige and you were glad that he didn’t notice you. And trolls... Yeah, they cooked people rather often, but they weren’t big enough to massacre a whole village and to break trees and stones apart. There was something fishy going on with this whole contract.

Most scared you were of the case that you would not have enough herbs to brew potions. Healers and herbalists could be hours, days, or weeks away and although it was just the start of fall, many rare herbs simply didn’t grow anymore.

To your surprise, you were stopping by the first village in the evening. It was getting cold, the sky was cloudy and the rain was about to break through any second. It was kind of normal when small kids started to yell and cry when they saw your pupils glow in the dark. Cows were running away, pigs shitted themselves. That was what being a witcher meant most of the time. Animals shitting themselves, usually being the first ones to notice you riding by. Then children crying and hiding behind their mother’s skirt since you were the scarecrow used when kids didn’t want to go to sleep. And at last, it meant a shit ton of disrespect and hatred from strange people.

The innkeeper was more or less quick with you.

“Are there any survivors from Makaham mountains taking refuge in this village, good man?” - You asked quietly, but at your question, the innkeeper shook his head.

“No, lady, we don’t have any folk from these poor villages ’ere. But if you’ll continue souther in the direction of Lyria and Rivia, you will surely find a village of Borin and Corin. There is the folk you search for.” - He answered, giving you two pints of ale for you and Jaskier. Geralt was sitting there with a pin of beer. As you mumbled a quiet thank you, you got back to your companion.

“Borin and Corin are the villages we need to visit next. Something tells me it will be already the territory of dwarves.” - You furrowed and sat down to the men, now waiting for the dinner you’ve ordered.

“Something about all of this doesn’t make sense.” - Geralt drank up and looked over the inn. It was calm, there was only one musician in the corner and most of the people didn’t even notice you. They surely weren’t provoking you, at least for that moment. Jaskier didn’t completely understand what you were talking about, but you hummed and nodded.

“Why would these rich Redanians hire us for a contract that is taking place in Mahakam? These mountains aren’t even in Redania, this isn’t Radovid’s concert nor theirs? And for a reason, I don’t trust that this is because they are worried that the monsters could ascend to their homeland.” - You nodded at Geralt’s suspicion, gently stroking your hair.

"Do you mean that this has something to do with the tension between Redania and Temeria?" - Jaskier asked all of a sudden, making you both interested. Geralt mentioned Jaskier to go on with his speech.

"People like you do not take interest in the normal people's problems," - Jaskier started, yet as soon as he saw Geralt raising his eyebrows and you shifting your position uncomfortably, his tone and expression changed drastically. - "Politically speaking, King Radovid is trying to take over Temeria, which is by cutting off its business and preferably killing off its king. Yet I think this has barely anything to do with this nonsense. It's just another bloody monster, killing everything that moves. You both know how these things go."

For a long moment, there was complete silence. Geralt was drinking his beer, so his furrowing face was hidden behind the bottom of the pint. His eyes were presumably closed as far as Jaskier could say. Your face was turned from the bard as well, but suddenly, after ten long minutes, you woke up from the trance. - "That makes sense. You aren't completely dumb."

"I can't be dumb when I am the biggest storyteller on the whole Continent." - The man in bright clothes jested playfully, laughing unbelievably.

"Although, I am not sure why would Skellige gave their consent to this. Honestly, I think all we are going to find will be some giants, piles of bones, old blood, and ghouls that were attracted to the place of massacre. Yet we can't just turn out horses back and drive to Redania just like that. Trying to accuse the king of buying giants, sailing them to Mahakam, and watching as they get out of your control... It is an amusing story and an impressive theory, but I don't think it would get us too far." - With that, you had Jaskier speechless, which didn't happen often.

It was rare to see witchers speak... Normally. You were talking in full-blown sentences that made some sense and told kind of a story. And it actually could be heard that you know what you're speaking about. Redania, political situation with Skellige, possibly bounded to Cintra and Temeria. One would never suspect that witchers could know so much about politics.

"But we can't be sure. Maybe the Devil sent his reign of terror to rule over Mahakam? Maybe we will find some undead, what can I know?" - You finished the speech, finishing the ale in one good swing. The truth was that witchers could not digest alcohol well, but they were good and grateful drunks. Whatever alcohol you would serve them, they would drink all of it.

As the last night, all of you went to sleep early. There was a long road ahead of you just to get to Borin and Corin and you weren't even thinking about some bad weather if a storm would meet you on the road, the journey could last additional week.

As far as you would talk about Jaskier or Geralt as your companion on the road, it wasn't exactly the best, but it wasn't the worst either. Jaskier could lift your spirits after you had enough forbearance to listen to his voice. His stories were pretty interesting, even if you were aware of how many of them were manufactured by the man. His facts about the monsters were mostly wrong, God knew what happened, but you at least smiled when his voice got the loudest and his eyes started to widen itself.

Geralt could at least hunt and prepare the fireplace when he wasn't exactly the most talkative from the bunch. He was mostly sitting there and prepared various potions and liniments. Your pouch was full of them already, yet Geralt was making some recipes you had never heard about. These recipes were unknown to you.

When the mist was settling down on the dawn of the fifth day, you were approaching the gates of Borin. Normal people were living there along with the dwarves, yet these villages couldn't be more different from the ones you would find in Redania or Kaedwen. There were mining shafts, members and ashes were flying in the air and there were only some conifers or bushes, normal flowers weren't growing where Borin was built. Some houses were built into small hills, only showing the door in the ground, some wooden cottages and houses could be seen and on the main square of the village, there was a monstrose fireplace.

For you, these villages were kind of a mystery. They never appeared as rich, neither they bounced above the abyss of poverty. Dwarves who lived in this town and who quarried inside the shafts exported their ores to Nilfgaard and the Northern Kingdoms, sometimes to Lyria or Rivia... Basically to anyone who had the best offer. Who paid the most got the best ore on the Continent.

And there were camps for the refugees who lived higher up in the Mahaken mountains. The tents were big and could fit at least ten to twelve people. A lot of fireplaces were started to the human beings and dwarves could warm themselves up.

"This is so terrible and ashaming." - A voice in your ear had woken you up from your thoughts. Jaskier was looking at the suffering people. And in his eyes were tears. Oh, you have forgotten. This man surely never saw how whole towns and cities... Sometimes even provinces or kingdoms looked after Nilfgaard raided it. There were dead bodies set on fire laid down next to roads, people hung up on the trees, buildings that were torn down, and cities that were fabricated.

That was mostly why you had to take roads that were leading through the woods. That was where elves, Cintrans, dwarves, and halflings were hiding. That was where most of the refugee camps were located. And the things there... You saw non-humans eating cooked parts of their friends because there was nothing else left to eat. Non-humans were killed, their clothes and poverties were stolen, their bones were cowardly buried in one big pit.

"They have something to drink, normal things to eat, and a place to sleep. I have seen way worse than this, bard." - You said quietly, getting off Chamberlain's back. As usual, witchers were the main interest of everyone. Yet this time, it wasn't meant to make you angry. Refugees and beings living in Borin understood that you are there to investigate.

Slowly, you walked to the refugee camp, having an emotionless expression on your face. You led Chamberlain just a few meters behind, still letting Jaskier sit on its back. - "Is there anyone who comes from the villages of Lhanbyrde or Hwen? I wish to speak to someone who saw what happened there."

Geralt was watching you with his eyes. That charm, calmness, and smile could be admirable. You politely asked the people if anyone saw what happened in the heart of Mahakam - Geralt would just randomly ask someone in his typical barbaric style, scaring them to death. Jaskier surely thought the same thing since he was already looking at Geralt with his eyebrows rose. This was the way to go.

"I, good lady, I saw what happened there." - A boy stood up immediately looked you in the eyes. The boy was about sixteen years old, he was pretty tall and too slim for his age, which could be caused by the events of the last few weeks. No matter what, he was too young to even see such horrors. A nod of your head was what made him talk about what he did see.

"It happened all of a sudden. We were sleeping, oy? And suddenly, fire and screaming filled the air. I heard bones breaking, I saw people bleeding out, I saw all of that. But these footsteps, fair lady..." - The boy gasped for air and looked away for a second.

For a second, you shot your look at Geralt, widening your eyes a bit. The giants you were talking about before. Dear lord, this was strangely exciting. - "Do tell, boy. What about these footsteps? What about them?" - You sighed and the corners of your lips curled upwards.

"I don't know what it was, lady, but the footsteps were... I have never heard anything more horrifying. It was... Like the sound... Of a gong. The land was shaking under the footsteps. Whatever it was, it was huge." - The boy told you and there were tears in his eyes. The memories sure were terrifying someone who wasn't a witcher, yet for a witcher, their memories were everything and more.

Quickly, you bowed to the boy and put up the emotionless expression once again. Chamberlain was still slowly driving behind you with Jaskier on its back. As usual, you booked a room inside the inn, ordered alcohol, and some food to eat.

Good thing was that now you were almost sure about the monster species. On the other hand, there was also the thing that you were most possibly about to die in a painful death. The other thing was... How did giants get into the middle of the Continent? As a lot of questions got answered, more of them raised from the darkness of mystery.

[dancedelion]

Be Good to Me (part 3 / 3)

Genre: angst with a happy ending, Beauty and the Beast AU Summary: Jaskier has just been broken up with (again), he has nowhere to stay (again) and people are booing his songs (again). He overhears the villagers talk about a beast in a castle in the woods. Then they mention it's supposed to be dangerous. Well, now he's got no other choice. That beast won't even know what's coming for it. (Geralt doesn't.) Ao3: Be Good to Me part 1, part 2

So Jaskier's plan didn't quite work out. It's not unheard of. But if Jaskier knows anything, it's how to improvise. So, when Geralt doesn't look like a monster, and then doesn't act like a monster, Jaskier learns to cope. New plan: stay and get to know Geralt, bring a fantastic song back to the village, get rich. Or something like that.

Geralt has built walls around the walls around his walls, but Jaskier is nothing if not stubborn.

And then Geralt puts a blanket on him, and listens to his songs, under only small protests, and picks books out for him he thinks he'll like – and then he saves two girls from monsters – and Jaskier needs to revise his plan again. Stay and get to know Geralt, bring a fantastic song back to the village, get rich.

The audacity, really, of that man – to be sweet where he should be callous, to be beautiful where he should be monstrous. Jaskier was promised a frightening monster, and instead what he got is this – this disgustingly kindhearted, annoyingly pretty man. This stupid-jokes, incredible-with-a-sword, doesn't-even-look-old-with-white-hair man. Get away from me with your dumb puppy eyes.  He seems to think the villagers are right – like he's a monster, has he looked in the mirror even once? You'd think a witcher knows his monsters.

All “don't love me”, all “fear me”, all talk, no substance. How dare you. How dare you be soft with your horse. How dare you look at me like you're fond of me.

It's obnoxious, loathsome, against the law, and just horribly unfair, really. Had the villagers just said extremely nice man lives in a castle, Jaskier never would have come.

How dare Geralt be loveable where he should be – how dare he be loveable.

Oh no. Oh fuck.

Jaskier keeps his eyes on Geralt and Fiona in the middle of the entrance hall, with their sword practice, and thinks to himself – if Geralt does something even mildly unlikable right now, it was all just a fluke. If he picks his nose or something, then that's it, none of that lovey-dovey stuff. But in that moment, Geralt ruffles through Fiona's hair – the vicious bastard. The vile, cruel, completely diabolical, sweet, adorable – fuck, fuck, fuck.

Jaskier is known to do something stupid every now and again, but this takes it to a whole new level.

Geralt has had his share of days. Bright, bright days. A life he almost got to have. But here is the yellow buttercup. The last one.

It's quiet for once, everyone else asleep. Only Geralt is sitting in front of the fire, contemplating a week long life. It'll be a good week, he thinks. Better than any that came before.

“Geralt.” Geralt turns his head. Jaskier is hesitantly stepping closer and eventually sinks down next to him. Geralt stares into the fire and waits for him to speak.

“What's wrong?”

“Why would something be wrong?” “It's that buttercup, isn't it? Is it the last one?” Jaskier picks it up from out of his hand and swirls it in his fingers. Geralt just watches him do it.

“You can stay here as long as you want,” Geralt says, “it was never my place to begin with. Not really.”

“You sound as if you're leaving.”

Jaskier turns the buttercup again, its stem thin and breakable between his fingers.

“Would you take care of Roach?”

Jaskier looks up. “You would leave without her?”

“I mean in case. Just in case something happened.”

“Just tell me what's going on.”

“Tell me you're going to take care of Roach.”

Jaskier is tense beside Geralt. Firelight dances in his eyes.

“Of course I'd take care of Roach,” he says, “but you need to tell me. Tell me why you're here.” He looks at Geralt intently and Geralt has the sudden urge to shuffle away, out of the light and back into the shadow. But he stays. He knows the light paints him red, like blood, like rage, like a setting sun.

He has his hand in a tight fist, but something makes him want to open his palm.

“It's a curse,” he says tersely.

“A curse?”

Geralt's teeth gnash together.

“I'm sorry, but I'll need you to elaborate. Curse? What's that mean? There's all kinds of curses, all kinds of -” “What do you know about what happened in Blaviken?” “Uhm,” Jaskier says uncertainly, “I don't know. I heard... people died. Villagers. Lots of them.”

Here is the wordsmith, speechless in the face of the Butcher of Blaviken. Geralt nearly snorts.

“Yes. It was a complicated affair. I had to – I -”

Geralt swallows. He sees her in the fire before him, her rage.

“I killed her men. They were threatening innocents. She, she was. She was so – angry. The world had wronged her over and over. I'm not sure I made the right choice. I – I'm not sure there was a right choice.”

He doesn't want to say this out loud, he wants to keep it in his chest forever and ever. He slowly lets his palm fall open.

“There's no excuse for what I did. It felt like the only thing to do. So I did. I – she -” He shakes his head. (He digs in his heart, digs deeply, until he finds where he buried her name.) “Renfri.”

Each sound of it is hard to lay bare, but he manages it. There is not a lot more pain to be had. (Seven days of it.) Jaskier doesn't react, he just listens. (Would it be easier if he wouldn't?) “And one of her men had a wife. A witch. She was angry, too. She got the jump on me. I was... not at my best. She brought me to this castle. Cursed me. That's why I can't leave here. And she cursed that bouquet of yellow buttercups. I would have time until all of them wilted to break the spell, and if I didn't, then...”

“Then what?”

“I don't know. I didn't ask for specifics.” Geralt draws his shoulders together.

“She didn't say anything about what will happen if you don't break the curse?” “I just assumed it was your average death spell. I was a little too preoccupied trying to fight her to have a lovely chat.”

She had been powerful, she had to be to enchant this entire castle. And he'd tried to fight her, but his spells has been weak and Renfri's face had been at the forefront of his mind.

“Okay, okay. It doesn't matter. What's important is, how can you break the spell?”

“I think she was going to tell me. Right before I nearly got her at the throat and she teleported away. So I'm just assuming it's the standard 'True love's kiss' horseshit.” “So what we have to go on is... nothing, basically. Great. I mean, at least we know she left you that magic dinner table, so she's clearly not a completely evil witch, maybe moderately evil, where would you estimate her on the evil scale? Geralt? One to ten?” “Jaskier,” Geralt growls and grits his teeth. Jaskier stares at him. Geralt stares back. Jaskier stares some more. “Six,” Geralt says, “maybe seven. Her laugh did kind of sound like a cackle.”

“Okay, that means maybe we still have a chance to crack this, right? Maybe it does have to do with love. I mean, I mean, we still got one buttercup left?”

“It's a week.” “A week, right, we can work with that. Cause I'm not going to let you die, you know that right? I won't let you leave, you don't get off that easily. Fiona won't either, you still haven't taught her how to fight with a sword properly, and after that comes daggers and maybe the crossbow or bow and arrow – and she doesn't know how to hold a silver sword yet? And I've written like two songs about you that you haven't heard, and don't think I'm stopping there either, I'm writing another twenty and if you're not there to hear every single one of them, I'm going to be so mad. Mad. And you've never been there to witness it, but believe me, you don't want me mad at you. I'm going to -” “Jaskier.” “Yes?” “I'm sorry.”

Jaskier is crying and he won't stop talking and Geralt feels like something is wrapped tightly around his chest.

“No, listen,” Jaskier says, his voice cracking, “I'm going to find you somebody to love. I'll go back into the village, wolves and monsters be damned.” And if you get lost, you will follow the trail of blood I have left behind? With corpses for milestones? I don't think so.

Jaskier has stopped twirling the buttercup in his hand. He is holding it almost reverently now. He looks down at it pensively. “Maybe someone out there will want you,” he says.

Only out there?

There is nothing for you to find. Climb into the mirror if you want to find me someone to love. But if you're looking for someone who can love me? Yeah, good luck with that.

“Don't leave,” Geralt says and has to keep himself from adding please. ***

Jaskier wants to scream. You need true love's kiss? Fine. I'll go into the village and find a woman who's favorite color is yellow. I'll go into the village and find a woman who knows how to tame a scared horse. I'll do anything.

But Geralt is shaking his head.

“It's too late,” he says, “no one falls in love in one week.”

Do people fall in love in degrees? Each infuriating thing you say, I fall further in your direction? Do I stumble at your lovely grunts, your intensely amber eyes? And the worst part is there, right there, is Geralt's open palm.

“I do,” Jaskier says absently, “I can fall in love in one evening, if the object of my affection so demands.” He lifts his gaze when he says it, tries to catch Geralt's gaze – but how do gazes ever meet? What is the likelihood of two people being in the same place? Is love a trade or thievery? Is it my love for your love or do we steal smiles and honeyed words from strangers? Do we hook our fingers in unwatched places and tear each other apart? Is it tear for tear for tear? For a moment, Jaskier thinks Geralt is going to look at him, but then he looks back into the fire. “Well, most people aren't fools like you,” he says. Do only fools fall for you or does falling turn you into a fool?

Jaskier's fingers itch to reach out – he itches to entangle their fingers in a way that is irresolvable.

“Then I guess,” Jaskier says and wets his lips, “we have a few days left then. Make the most of it?”

He lets his fingers ghost over Geralt's palm, holding his breath. Jaskier gathers all the courage he can muster and reaches down, flattens out Geralt's fingers.

Geralt stares down at their hands, not pressed together, fingers not entangled, just palm against palm. Jaskier doesn't know what to say other than I'm right here, so he presses his lips together.

But then Geralt pulls his hand away and it's as clear a rejection as Jaskier's ever going to get.

Why are you so scared of what I'll find once you've let me past the guards of your castle? Are you scared I'll walk into a room with broken tiles that you haven't cleaned for years? Are you scared the sight of the rodents that you let die in there is going to send me in a panic and make me wreck your cabinets? Or are you scared I'll stay?

*** Geralt can't bear it. He doesn't know what he'll do – smile, cry, take a grip – but it's all terrifying.

You think I am a cruse you can break. I'm nothing for you to fix. There is no curse, there's just me. It's all me. I have no man hidden away beneath these monstrous eyes.

Jaskier draws his hand away again, starts fumbling with his fingers.

I'm not your adventure path, I'm not your escape from an ordinary life, I'm not your prince. All that I am is right here. A pair of yellow eyes in the dark.

Geralt looks away into the far corner of the room.

Do you think I want to be your tragic love story? A sad song you won't share with anyone else? Do you think I want you to think of me when you smell blood?

Geralt can feel Jaskier's eyes on him, but Jaskier never really sees. So Geralt gets up and walks away, out of the room, before he asks for more than he is allowed to have.

*** Days are shorter the less you have left of them.

*** The flower will die in hours. At sunrise. (At the beginning or the end of it? Will Geralt have another sunrise?)

“Go to sleep,” he says to Jaskier, who has been talking to him for hours.

“I'm not going to sleep,” Jaskier says. “I'm not missing a second of this.”

“There's nothing to miss,” Geralt says, “go to sleep.”

“No way.” “Will you go if I come with you?” “What – you mean, like -”

“Hm.”

“Okay. Okay. Just a reminder, though, you're the one who suggested this. No take-backs!” Geralt harrumphs.

“Unless you wanted to take it back! You can change your mind, of course. But I'd really rather -” “Jaskier.”

They lay down next to each other on the bed Jaskier has been sleeping in. Jaskier turns on his side and stares at him. Geralt waits a few minutes. But if he only has one night left, he'd rather look at Jaskier, so he turns too. The moonlight comes in dim, makes Jaskier's face blue. Geralt studies the line of his delicate nose, the soft looking lips, the eyebrows.

Eventually, he can't stop himself. Jaskier's eyes are blue, blue, blue.

There is not a lot of time left to say things, so Geralt makes an exception.

“I thought I was going to be alone.”

He says it quietly, like a secret not to be heard.

“I told you you can't get rid of me,” Jaskier answers, just as quietly.

It's hard to keep himself from touching the small smile on Jaskier's face. “I'm glad,” Geralt admits.

He doesn't quite understand why Jaskier lets him have this, but he doesn't want to think about it just now.

*** Jaskier knows better than to touch, this time. But he can look, so he will. Does Geralt seriously think he would walk away if Geralt had horns? Does he think Jaskier wouldn't adore him if he had claws instead of hands? Geralt thinks his eyes are so horrible, but Jaskier would love him if he didn't have any eyes or twelve of them. I know the shape of your heart, whether you want me to or not.

Tomorrow, Jaskier will take Roach and get out of this place. He will probably never find something, someone like this again. So he'll go without aim.

Jaskier stays quiet, for once. The small distance between them feels fragile. The air is loaded with all the words not spoken.

They lay for a long time, like they are memorizing each other's faces – Jaskier knows he is. And then he dares again -

“You like to think these walls are here to protect the world from the monster safely locked inside,” Jaskier whispers. “But that's not really true, is it, Geralt?” He shifts just a little closer.

“Who hurt you?”

It's silent for a long while and Jaskier thinks Geralt is not going to answer. But then it come, really quietly -

“No one hurt me. I did. Hurt someone.”

*** The ache is quiet now, almost gentle. The twilight makes the world seem dulled, obscures its harshest parts.

“I didn't love her,” Geralt whispers, “I barely knew her. But I liked her. I thought – I thought she understood me. I let her – I -” Even now, it's hard to say, but if he's going to say this anytime, to anyone, it'll be here. To Jaskier.

“She was going to kill that girl, the little girl -” Get out of Blaviken, Geralt.

“I fought her and won. And I thought, if I'm going to have to lose the fight some day, why couldn't it be this one?”

She'd had such big brown eyes.

“I killed Ren – I kil-” That's as far as he'll ever get to saying it.

Geralt closes his eyes, so he won't have to see the disgust on Jaskier's face. Here I hide my yellow eyes, Jaskier, do you understand me now?

But then there is a touch to his cheek. He can feel Jaskier's fingernails on his cheekbone. To scratch? Geralt would let him.

He thinks of Fiona and Zofia, who he couldn't bear to tell the truth. They would hate him – or worse, be disappointed – no more sword lessons – no more dinners – he would lose the only thing he won't be losing now – their fond memories of him.

You have been sharing your bed with the Butcher of Blaviken. Do you understand what it means now? He opens his eyes a little, because he won't die with his eyes closed.

There is no anger on Jaskier's face. Just a soft smile.

Can I keep it? At least until the sun rises?

“It's okay,” Jaskier says. “It's okay.” Geralt has to hold in a gasp.

“You were between a rock and a hard place,” Jaskier whispers, “you had to make a tough decision. That doesn't make you a monster.”

Jaskier's hand is cold against his face, but Geralt's chest feels warm.

“Do you think humans don't get lost in the woods sometimes?” Jaskier keeps going. “It's not neat and not clean and so, so messy, but I found you.”

Is this why you write songs? To find words that can reach into people's chests? It would only take so much to tilt his head down. Will you meet me on the pillow, three inches from here?

“It's almost morning,” Geralt says.

“Right.”

“I want to see the sunrise.” “Of course.” Geralt lets his gaze linger, only for a moment, on the moonlight in Jaskier's eyes. Then he swallows the unbidden words down. There is nothing in this small space between them for him to have, and more importantly, nothing to keep.

They go outside, the sky already turning lighter. Geralt takes a breath in the brisk morning air. He turns to look at a place shaped like a home.  A home to kings and queens, princes and princesses, chamber maids and butlers, maybe even a witcher sometimes.

I want to see the sunrise, Geralt thinks, and looks at Jaskier. His face looks beautiful in the faint red light coming from the horizon. The light catches on his hair and there, the sun reflects in his eyes.

“Geralt -” That's when the pain starts.

A face etched into wood -

A hand he didn't take -

A truth never spoken -

Not a monster, but a coward -

Laughter a stomachache in his abdomen -

There is always pain, pain, pain when something is born.

*** Geralt doubles over in front of Jaskier, starts coughing. And Jaskier can't watch it. He falls to his knees and grips Geralt's shoulders, but Geralt is not looking at him anymore.

“No, listen,” Jaskier says quickly, “if this is about love – if you need someone to love you – then – you know, I know you're a witcher and you're not used to emotions, but some of us are human, and I can't really help, but, and you probably haven't considered this, but maybe possibly, perhaps maybe it is so that I – and this might come as a surprise -

“Jaskier,” Geralt chokes out, “get to the point.” “The point is,” Jaskier takes a breath, “here I am. And I know you don't, but... and I know it might not matter, but... I love you.”

Geralt's eyes widen, and yep, bet you didn't see that one coming, witcher.

“Jaskier...” he gets out, but then he starts coughing again. And Jaskier's arms come up to steady him, but it doesn't stop.

And Jaskier's heart burns.

And it doesn't matter.

***

Geralt is gone.

*** The White Wolf is not.

*** “Sweet Melitele,” Jaskier reels back when he sees the wolf. He has white fur and piercing yellow eyes. He seems irritated, turning his head from side to side, walking backwards like he's cornered. Eventually, the wolf's gaze settles on Jaskier and Jaskier stares back at him.

“Geralt?” Jaskier tries. The wolf whines softly, then inclines his head, which Jaskier is going to take as a yes. “Death spell?” Jaskier says exasperatedly. “Fucking hell, Geralt. It was a transformation spell. You've had me all riled up over nothing. Well. Not nothing.”

Jaskier scrutinizes Wolf-Geralt.

“This is why we don't fight the evil witch until after she's given us all the relevant information,” he says sternly.

Geralt makes another noise, maybe a whimper? “You are adorable,” Jaskier says startled and maybe a little delighted. In response, Wolf-Geralt growls at him and bears his teeth. Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you're a dangerous scary beast. Any maiden will faint when she sees you. Hey, now you've finally got fangs!”

Jaskier sits cross-legged in the snow. Geralt steps closer hesitantly. Jaskier sobers up a little.

“So, I guess the spell only resolves at requited love. Sorry. I tried.”

Geralt draws back his ears.

“Yes, it's true. I did fall in love with you. I mean, I tried not to. I did my best.”

Geralt steps a little closer, but it seems like even as an animal he doesn't know how to respond.

“Yeah you're right,” Jaskier says, “I didn't try all that hard. I do love love.”

Geralt looks at him, in that infuriatingly Geralt way of his, which just -

“That is -” Jaskier starts indignantly, “not fair! No puppy-dog-eyes for you as long as you actually look like a puppy!”

The wolf growls a little again.

“Yeah, yeah, you look like a gruesome, threatening big bad wolf,” Jaskier waves him off. “Don't you think it's a little concerning that our conversations are kind of... the same now? I know, I know, for you the perfect conversation is the one that doesn't happen.”

The wolf gets up again and starts pacing in front of Jaskier. If Jaskier were to take a hard guess, he'd say that Geralt would be yelling at him right now in his human form.

“So what do we do now?” Jaskier asks. “I mean, we should go to a mage, probably. Someone who could turn you back. You know anyone?” Geralt stops the pacing, sniffs the air and turns his head.

“Yes? You know someone?” Jaskier says. “I mean, as much as you look lovely – uhhh, terrifying! Frightening! - right now, I do want the old Geralt back. I liked him. My best friend.”

Geralt looks a little displeased, as much as wolves can look displeased.

“Ah! Can't argue!” Jaskier exclaims. “You don't got the vocal cords for it. I'm your very best friend in the whole wide world. Any objections?”

The wolf growls a bit, but doesn't speak a single word of protest.

“Yeah, didn't think so,” Jaskier says flippantly. “We should go straight away. I'm going to tell Fiona and Zofia we're leaving and pack some things. You just – just wait here.” Geralt sits down and stares at him, which Jaskier takes as his cue to leave.

*** The front doors fly open and the girl – Fiona – comes running through. Geralt steps back, still unused to this body, though it comes more naturally to him than he expected. There is something familiar yet foreign in the way a wolf thinks.

Fiona comes to a still in front of him, staring in shock. Jaskier has been running after her and pauses a few feet behind her. Now they're staring at each other – the white-haired girl and the white wolf. But how do wolves say, don't be afraid?

She doesn't have a weapon with her, even though Geralt told her to always keep a weapon close by. Though Geralt wouldn't know what to do if she attacked him. Run, maybe. (There is no way he would ever hurt her.)

Wolves can't smile, can't lift their hands to show they don't carry weapons – wolves are weapons. All teeth, all claws. There must be different tricks, but Geralt doesn't know them yet.

Geralt tries to put it all in his eyes – I won't hurt you, as wolf or as witcher. For a few seconds, they just exchange glances. Then she falls forward and Geralt stumbles back a little, can't find an escape route. He flinches when she throws her arms around him to -

hold him? Geralt is stunned. Is she - hugging him?

He holds still, careful not to move.

“Geralt,” she says close to his ear. He presses his nose against her back.

“How do you know it's him?” Jaskier asks surprised.

“Isn't this how he always looks? White hair, yellow eyes. I see no difference.” Snarky.

She shuffles a little closer.

“Look, I don't know what happened,�� she says so quietly that Jaskier won't hear it, “but Jaskier told me you're leaving. I just had to say good-bye.”

He breathes in her scent. He can smell her the same way as always.

“I'm going to tell you everything, on one condition, maybe two. You have to come back. In one piece and ideally as a witcher.”

He nudges her, which is as close to a promise as he can make her.

“So I'll tell you a secret now,” she goes on, “and I trust you'll keep it. My real name is Cirilla. Ciri for short.”

Finally, she lets go of him and steps back.

“So long, witcher,” she says and smiles a little, “try not to get shot by a hunter.”

Then she turns and walks back into the castle.

“We're all set, then,” Jaskier says, “let's go.”

And Geralt starts walking toward the gate – the gate that hasn't let him through so many times. He pauses in front of it. Maybe it still won't let him through – maybe he's cursed to stay here forever. Even now. And he has been here so long, years even. How do you open a gate?

Jaskier steps around him and opens the gate for him, gives him a look.

But how do you cross a threshold? Jaskier was right – this castle is his fort. He's safe there. But that means he needs to leave all the more.

“I'm here,” Jaskier says from the other side of that line. So Geralt follows suit, preparing for the witch's magic to reign him in, but it doesn't.

He is finally outside the castle.

*** Geralt leads him through the woods for hours, growling all the way, which deters any monsters in close proximity. Once they are in a safer part of the woods, Jaskier decides they need need to set up camp. He fiddles with the clasp on his bag for a long while – Geralt huffs at him.

“Excuse me, tone down the judgment, please,” Jaskier says, frustrated. “Come back to me when you have opposable thumbs again, maybe then I'll listen to your criticism.”

Eventually, he manages to spread out his bedroll. Geralt just sits there and stares at him.

“We're going to fix this,” Jaskier assures him. “Don't worry about it.”

Geralt tilts his head in a way that suggests he is clearly worried. Jaskier sighs and sinks down on the bedroll. He's not too worried. Geralt's alive and that's already much better than what he expected yesterday. The rest will work itself out fine.

He tries to sleep, but hears Geralt's footsteps around the clearing. Suddenly, it becomes quiet. Jaskier sits up.

Geralt is between the trees, walking away. Leaving.

“Wait,” Jaskier calls, feeling horribly fragile all out of a sudden. Geralt stops, but Jaskier's heart doesn't stop racing. He gets up and walks a few steps towards the wolf.

“Don't leave,” Jaskier says, “please.”

Geralt seems uncertain.

“I don't know what's going on in that head of yours. I never do. But you're not better off on your own, whatever you believe. I'm sticking with you.”

The wolf just looks at him, like he's considering. Jaskier holds his breath the whole time.

Finally, Geralt steps toward him again.

“Just, just come here,” Jaskier says quietly and lies back down on his bedroll. “Please.”

Jaskier doesn't think he will, but he lays tense all the same. But Geralt does come closer. And he does lay down closely next to Jaskier. His fur tickles Jaskier's nose.

He doesn't know if he's allowed, but he decides he'll take his chances. He puts one arm over Geralt's body.

“Did you know,” Jaskier whispers, “that your fur is really soft?”

Geralt growls, which Jaskier assumes to mean shut up. So he does. This time, he falls asleep easily.

*** The next day, it takes them only a few more hours to reach a village. The villagers, for some strange reason, don't seem to agree that Wolf-Geralt is harmless and cute and needs to be petted – they look at them suspiciously, but they won't come close.

Geralt eventually stops in front of one door and looks at Jaskier expectantly.

“This is it?” Jaskier says. “This is where we find help? Okay, I'm just going to trust you on this.”

He starts knocking. When nothing happens, he knocks a little more vehemently. The door flies open.

“Who wants to lose a hand?”

The woman has black hair and she's wearing a black dress, and what's that in her eyes? Death?

“Geralt, she's terrifying. Are you terrified? I'm terrified. Do you know her? Please tell me we go the wrong door.” But Geralt already trots through the door. The woman has turned to Geralt and she raises her eyebrows at him.

“Geralt?” she says, chiding him, “what did you do this time?”

Geralt gives her a long look.

“Yeah, you're right. We better discuss this inside.”

“Geralt, do you really think this is a good idea? Don't you remember how this all started? With you angering the wrong creepy witch? I feel like falling into the clutches of another evil witch is not the solution to this problem.”

“Where did you pick up the stray dog?” the woman asks, and Jaskier opens his mouth to answer, but then he realizes that she was talking to Geralt. Completely indignant, Jaskier strides into her house and shuts the door behind him.

“Wow, I can not believe -” Jaskier starts, frantically waving his hands around, “I'll have you know if I were a dog, I'd be an incredibly pretty, high-bred -”

“Does he ever shut up?” the woman asks Geralt.

“Uhm, how about you talk to the person who is not a wolf and can actually answer you – and to answer your question, no, I do not-” “Tell me what happened,” the woman says and crouches down to look at Geralt. “So it all started when Cecilia – or was it Catherine? Chloe?”

“Quiet!”

Despite his utter indignity, Jaskier stays quiet. The woman looks Geralt in the eye. Geralt says nothing. He does growl a bit, though.

“Well, if that wasn't a riveting tale -” Jaskier begins sarcastically, but the woman interrupts him again.

“I see,” she says to Geralt.

“What, can you speak wolf? Is that your magic power, you can talk to animals and -” “I can read minds.”

“Can you just once wait for me to finish a sente-”

“No,” the woman says curtly. “Okay, okay, I see how this is gonna be. Wait, you can read minds? Can you also read my mind?” Naturally, Jaskier thinks very intently fuck you.

“If you heard that, I meant it, but also, don't, don't do that – I would like to keep my thoughts to myself -” “Then why don't you?” “I'm sorry, I talk when I'm nervous, my best friend has been turned into a wolf, I'm allowed to be a little nervous.”

“Best friend? Interesting,” she says, still staring at Geralt. “Now shush.”

Jaskier is a bit offended at being shushed, but he also wants to get this over with, so instead of trying further, he starts looking around the place. Little trinkets clutter the shelves, probably potions and other witchery items. Finally, his gaze settles on the witch again, the flowing black hair, the ethereal beauty. How does Geralt know someone like that? Distant cousin? But despite both of them being hauntingly beautiful, they look like polar opposites. One graceful and elegant, one grounded and big. One dark, one light. Maybe they were lovers. And that... yeah, that... Jaskier turns his back on them.

“And you seriously didn't say anything? Men,” the woman says.

Then, “oh don't look at me like that.” Then, “yes, you could have.” Then a deep sigh and, “and now I have to sort out your mess again.”

Jaskier tentatively turns around again. The witch gets up and finally looks at Jaskier.

“So what's the verdict? You seem pretty powerful, you can turn him back, surely?” “I can.”

“Great!” “But only for an hour.” “Oh.” “But it can be permanent,” she continues.

“So hot, so cold,” Jaskier exclaims dramatically, “I do have feelings, you know?”

“I can give you this hour, but you have to break the spell yourself, Geralt. You know how. You know! I won't hear any protests.”

Geralt seems resigned, his ears hanging low.

“Hey, this is good news, right?” Jaskier says to him. “You'll be back on two feet in no time.”

All out of a sudden, fear grips at Jaskier. Maybe Geralt will send him away once he's all witcher again. Jaskier is tolerable as a begrudgingly accepted housemate, maybe even as a friend, but Geralt won't want somebody around who's hopelessly, so hopelessly in love with him. Maybe he'll even think he's doing him a favor by driving him away. And if that's the case, Jaskier will fight him on it, but if not...

Well. He's imposed himself on Geralt enough already.

“Yeah great,” Jaskier says weakly, “wohoo.”

The woman fixes him with her gaze, probably seeing right through him immediately with her magic witch senses, so he lets out a nervous laugh. “I have a room upstairs,” she says, “I'll get you once I'm done.” “Can't I come -” “No distractions.”

And they're off. Which is fine, totally great, Jaskier will just worry a little more. He's good at that.

*** Jaskier stands in front of the closed door to the witch's room. He doesn't know what he's nervous about, really. Going inside, and he'll be face to face with Geralt again – the witch told him Geralt did indeed have a witcher face again and arms and fingers and gorgeous white hair. She told him no parts have gone missing. And Jaskier has seen that a hundred times before – what's there to be afraid of?

He lifts his hand to the door handle, but then lets it sink again. Geralt was with him just an hour ago, why fear his words now that he has words again?

He takes a deep breath, lifts his arm again and then -

Geralt opens the door.

“Geralt!” “Jaskier.”

And that tone of voice is hard to read, always so hard to read. No body language, but your actions betray you.

“You're all witcher again! That's nice. Must have been disorienting, seeing everything from the eye-level of an eight-year-old? How tall are eight-year-olds?”

Geralt's hand shot out and grabbed Jaskier's wrist.

“Yeah, it sure must be nice to have fingers again- woah,” Jaskier says, nearly losing his balance when Geralt drags him into the room.

“So, so – cure! The witch says – by the way, how do you know this witch? I don't know whether to be frightened or impressed that she's the kind of person you go to for help.”

If Jaskier just keeps talking – words, words, words, please don't interrupt me with heartbreak and rejection - “Yennefer. Old friend.” “Lover?” “Yes. Then no.” “Still not a man of many words, I see. That's good actually, because there's something I'd really rather not talk about, let's just pretend I didn't say it, really, please -” “Jaskier -” “Anyways! She said you knew how to stop the curse. And I distinctly remember you telling me you were too busy fighting to hear how, which means – you lied to me. You lied to me.” Geralt listens to him silently, his face all angles again, all hard expressions. It has gotten dark outside and only a candle on the nightstand by the single bed in the room gives off light.

“You're right,” Geralt says quietly, working his jaw, “she did tell me how to stop the curse.” “How?” Jaskier asks. “Tell me.”

“I thought it wouldn't work. I thought there was no way it would. But... I might have been wrong.” “Well, that's good. What do we need to do?”

Geralt is so stiff across from him, the candle illuminating the side of his face. “She said -” He pauses and just breathes for a moment. “She said. If you won't tell your loved ones that you care for them, then you don't need a voice. If you do so well being alone, be alone. Told me to go live in the woods for all she cared. I didn't know what that meant. She wanted me to prove – to prove I'm not a monster.”

And you thought that was impossible, oh darling. Jaskier wants to reach across the space between them, the way he could that night when they were lying in that bed together.

“She wanted me to prove I could still feel things. So you weren't too far off. It was about love. But... it was about. About me, falling in love and... admitting it.”

“So go on then,” Jaskier says, takes a small step forward, daring him. “Admit it.”

But Geralt still looks like he's in pain.

“Do you love Fiona like a daughter, or Zofia, or...”

But Geralt is still not looking at him.

“You know Yennefer will be extremely mad if she did all that magic only for you to turn into a wolf again because you're so emotionally constipated,” Jaskier says light-heartedly.

He thinks for a moment, Geralt won't say it, only knows how to cross his arms and not how to open them.

***

Jaskier's wide eyes are on him. He can see his yellow eyes, his white hair, his looming, frightening – everything. Don't look at me. You can look at me, but not in this light. Not from this angle. Look into my eyes when night has turned them grey. Look at my human-shaped silhouette. Indulge me in darkness' gentle lie. Geralt can't stand the feeling of the candlelight on his face, so he steps back a bit, into the shadows again.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says again, as if Jaskier's name could draw him in, could draw him closer. “I thought you'd be gone. I thought you'd get fed up soon enough. I didn't expect...” Jaskier smiles at him, but it looks a little distorted.

“Do you even know why I stayed,” he says.

Geralt really doesn't.

“Because of the magic dinner table?” “No, you idiot.”

Jaskier steps closer again, and this time Geralt doesn't flee.

“I've already laid my heart bare.” Jaskier exhales slowly. “Don't you want to return the favor?”

My heart for your heart.

“I didn't care about these yellow buttercups for so long. I didn't care what would happen when they died. It didn't matter. But then... you. You came along and... made it matter.” Each word is hard to say, but Geralt has to. You made me believe flowers can bloom in winter. In snow, in ice.

“It was dark in her castle before you came along. Quiet. Lonely. And I've always craved -”

Jaskier steps even closer. Geralt pushes the words out one by one.

“And I really think I might – I must – I love -”

your voice your light your eyes

“you.” you you you

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes. “Didn't – didn't expect that.” He comes closer still and finds Geralt's hand.

“But I'm not complaining,” Jaskier adds quickly, “the opposite, in fact.”

His hand is warm and Geralt searches for his other one, too.

“You know,” Jaskier says, talking faster, “I've never been in love. I mean, I almost was a million times or I could have been if – I would have, if I – it was just an if-love. But now I know what a when-love feels like – when – when you look at me, like that – or it's a yes-love, a yes-please-love, a please-shut-me-up-right-now-love -”

Geralt surges forward and kisses him, suddenly less tense and more desperate. He knows, now, the curse must be broken.

You can look at me, but only with your hands, not with your eyes.

Jaskier's hands roam over him.

Look at me with the arches of your fingertips.

He's not trapped anymore. He's free, so free, like a bird – like two birds, singing the same song.

I will let you look at me with your lips.

And Jaskier does, presses soft kisses to Geralt's cheekbones, his forehead, his eyelashes. Geralt can't get enough of it, of his scent so close, of the warmth he radiates. Geralt's skin is so hard, like stone, but it gives way where Jaskier touches it. He can make an indent in the crook of Geralt's neck. Leave fingerprints all over him. (Geralt doesn't know how long it will take until he turns to stone again.) Geralt takes Jaskier's face into his hand and wants to keep it, keep this. Maybe he can.

From the depths of his mind somewhere, he can hear the rumors, the insults, the whispers – the monster in the woods, in the enchanted castle, with horns and fangs and violence in his beastly eyes. But here is Jaskier, with his brave stupidity and his gentle hands and his light voice and his hand finds Geralt's chest and the ache fades from where his palm touches him.

Jaskier grabs his arms, turns the both of them into the candlelight and

– sees him.

[jaskierswolf]

A Thirst Like Flames

Part 3/6  (1, 2 - 4)

Ship: Gerlion - Rated: E (for smut) - Also on AO3

CW specific for this chapter: voyeurism, exhibitionism, Dandelion/female OC, sex work. (Can you guess what happens?)

Summary: There was an itch prickling over Dandelion’s skin, a constant ache in the pit of his stomach and his mind felt hazy at all hours of the day. He watched the sun creep behind the horizon, quill in hand, the long feather brushing against his cheek, willing for some kind of inspiration, anything to distract him from the never ending lust. He couldn’t help it, he was a young man in his prime and he’d spent the last few months in the wilderness with a rather gorgeous witcher.

The arrangement, as Dandelion had begun to think of it, was working well. With his ballads gaining popularity over the continent, his coin purse was beginning to fill out. Not that it stopped them from sharing rooms at inns, but occasionally he or Geralt would actually manage to visit a brothel to sate their needs. Masturbation was wonderful but even that was a short term solution. Occasionally one just needed to good tumble in the sheets, and Dandelion always made sure he paid for the night. He enjoyed the afterglow of sex just as much as the act itself, and even though he was paying them, he enjoyed waking up in his lover’s arms, but mostly the pair of them got each other off in the mornings or just before bed, whenever the need arose, and if they had the coin they’d visit a brothel. It worked for them.

The life of a witcher and that of a travelling bard did share one thing in common.

It wasn’t easy to settle down.

And honestly, neither of them wanted to. Geralt kept bemoaning that witcher’s were not meant for love and family, whereas Dandelion’s wanderlust seemed to bleed through into matters of the heart. How anyone could be happy with just one lover, he would never understand. There were so many beautiful people out there just waiting to be adored, it would be a bloody shame to deny them the opportunity.

Dandelion tried not to think about how he always returned to Geralt, be it in the mornings or evenings. He tried not to think of how, despite his wishes for freedom, he had essentially tethered himself to the witcher.

He tried not to think of how easy it would be to fall in love with him.

It was easier not to think about it.

“Geralt?” he called to the witcher.

Geralt looked across from where he was riding Roach. Dandelion’s own gelding was shorter than the mare, a chestnut horse that had nothing on Roach but it was better than walking everywhere. Geralt had been good at not riding too fast, but Dandelion’s feet were constantly sore and blistered by the end of the day. At least this way he could switch between riding and walking.

Gods, by the end of the year his thighs would be like tree trunks. He’d never exercised so much in his life before. The life of a viscount in training had been cushy, and his life as a student hadn’t been much harder. It was all desks and fancy chairs, the occasional lecture room with firm wooden benches.

In fact, the most exercise he’d had before had probably been in the bedroom.

Oh, how things had changed.

“We should visit a brothel in the next town, my friend,” Dandelion suggested.

To his surprise, Geralt shook his head. Dandelion pouted, ready to launch into a sonnet about the carnal delights that could be found waiting for them in the bed of a whore… or even two, but Geralt cut him off. “I need to stock up on potion ingredients, and the last contract didn’t pay well thanks to a certain bard.”

Dandelion flushed, averting his gaze. It hadn’t been his fault. He didn’t know that the gorgeous lady he’d been flirting with had been the Alderman’s wife. Was he supposed to be psychic? Not everyone had Geralt’s keen witcher’s senses, he hadn’t exactly been able to smell the mingling of their scents, as Geralt had described it. Dandelion was half convinced the witcher was making that up. There was no way he’d been able to smell that.

Although….

Geralt had mentioned he could smell when someone had orgasmed.

“I’ll have you know, that I am not to blame, dear witcher! If she was happily taken then she should have refused my advances. How the bloody hell was I supposed to know that she was married? She kept looking at me with those eyes, the colour of forget-me-nots, and cheeks like roses. She was practically begging me to take her to bed.”

Geralt snorted. “You can go to a brothel, I won’t stop you, my friend, but I don’t have the coin. I’ll stay in the woods outside of town and you can meet me at dawn. Don’t be late.”

Dandelion rolled his eyes and sniffed haughtily as he adjusted his hat with one hand. “Nonsense! We’ll just have to share.”

“Share?”

“A whore, obviously Geralt, do try to keep up.”

Geralt pulled Roach to a halt and Dandelion had to circle round as he trotted ahead. He peered at the witcher, quirking his eyebrow. “What?”

“You want to share a whore?”

Dandelion sighed dramatically, holding the reins in one hand as he flicked out a wrist in a flourish. “It’s cheaper and that way neither of us will need to camp out. It’s a practical and pleasurable solution. Come on, Geralt, when was the last time you had the soft flesh of a woman’s thighs around your waist, the feel of her breasts in your hands.”

“Shut up, Dandelion,” Geralt growled and spurred Roach onwards.

Dandelion chimed a laugh, and followed after his witcher. “So is that a yes? Geralt! Geralt come back!”

____________

It was a yes, even though Geralt never said the word. He never enjoyed the way Dandelion waxed poetry about women, as if they were a rose to be viewed purely for their beauty. He never admired the male figure in quite the same way. Whilst the poet wasn’t ashamed of his love of men, he only openly spoke of women as his lovers, occasionally omitting the gender altogether if he deemed it necessary.

Geralt had never really understood the need to hide. He didn’t exactly advertise his attraction to men, it was easier, not to mention cheaper, to hire a female whore after all, but he didn’t make the same effort that Dandelion did to hide it. Although, the bard in all his flamboyant gestures and colourful silk clothes did portray the more stereotypical dandy type.

And arseholes were less likely to actually try and attack a witcher, unless they were drunk or downright idiotic. Some thought that besting a witcher would impress whatever girl they had their eyes on, but Geralt was fairly good at discreetly using Axii to convince them that it wasn’t worth the fight.

Although, he had to admit, he did enjoy a good brawl, and the fighting rings were a good source of extra income when they were running low.

He sighed, pressing his fingers to his forehead. Perhaps he should have sought out the local fighting ring instead of going along with Dandelion’s ridiculous plan of sharing a whore, but there was no denying that he could use a good fuck. He was half-tempted to push the poet up against the nearest tree and fuck the living daylights out of him, but they didn’t do that. Quick hand jobs in the forest were a far cry from getting fucked against a tree.

But Dandelion was growing ever more tempting with every day that passed. Geralt knew the way the poet’s breathing hitched in his throat just before he came. He knew the way he would bite his lips in a fruitless effort to keep quiet, the obscene sounds of his moans that rang out in the night. Geralt knew how those cornflower blue eyes looked when he was hungry with lust, the scent of his arousal permeating the air until it was all that Geralt could smell. He knew how the bard’s cock felt in his hands, as Dandelion cried out, Geralt’s name falling from his lips like a prayer.

But he didn’t know how his lips tasted. He didn’t know whether Dandelion’s swan-like neck was as sensitive as he imagined. He could only guess at how beautiful it would look with an array of bruises and bite-marks left behind by Geralt’s mouth. He didn’t know how Dandelion’s cock would feel in his mouth, a taste of his cum.

And he wanted to know.

Fuck, he wanted to know everything.

If he hadn’t been taught from such a young age that witchers didn’t feel, he might have begun to think that he was falling in love with the poet.

But that was off the cards. It was just sex, hell, it wasn’t even that. They were friends, companions on the road.

And it was cheaper to share a whore.

“Greetings!” Dandelion trilled, giving the madame his most charming smile. The poet winked as he slid some coin across the bar. “We’d like to share, if that’s acceptable?”

The madame glanced between Geralt and his poet, looking decidedly unimpressed. He supposed they made a strange sight. The two of them couldn’t be more different in looks. Geralt with his dull black armour, two swords, and harsh demeanour, versus the colourful bard with hair the colour of golden corn, shiny burgundy silk clothes, and a lute strapped to his back.

They were the moon and the sun.

But, as the saying went, opposites attract.

And fuck, Geralt was attracted to the bard, too attracted. Dandelion would only get hurt by his side but Geralt was too weak to let him go, not whilst he wanted to stay, and Geralt hoped he would stay for a long time yet. The path had been so cold before Dandelion. He steadfastly ignored Vesemir’s warnings about getting attached to humans. A witcher’s lifespan far exceeded that of a human, if they survived the monsters of course.

It was better to settle for whores and one night stands. Geralt had never had a problem before, but being the Butcher of Blaviken was enough to put most humans off. No one had even attempted to befriend him since Renfri.

His friends were dwarves, druids and sorceresses. Although, that last one was still to be determined. The graduates of Aretuza were as prickly as they were powerful, manipulating the world and its people more skilfully than any politician, spy or monarch.

“You want to share with the witcher?” the madame asked, doubt ringing clear in her voice.

“I want to share with my friend, but we’d be happy to take our business elsewhere. A town like this must have more than one brothel,” Dandelion snapped, putting both hands on his hips, his charming air vanishing in an instant.

“No need, I have just the girl for you.”

Dandelion’s shiny smile was back, brighter than before, blinding Geralt and making his stomach twist in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

“Excellent!” the poet cheered with a clap of his hands, “Show us the way!”

Dandelion’s hair shone in the candlelight, bouncing as he quickly turned around to wink at Geralt. There was a sparkle in his eyes that seemed to light up the entire room. The poet’s tongue flicked out between his lips, and, not for the first time, Geralt wondered what it would be like to kiss him.

“Isn’t this a lovely establishment, my dear friend?” Dandelion wittered on, and Geralt ignored the weird stab of pain in his heart at the word friend. They were friends, just friends.

Friends.

Maybe if he repeated it enough then he would begin to believe it.

“It’s a brothel,” he said, his voice sounding dull compared to the warm tenor of his friend.

“Yes, yes, and it’s a rather lovely brothel. If you ignore the smell of sweat. Oh, but that must be even worse for you!” Dandelion exclaimed, looking horrified. Geralt shrugged. It did stink, but he was used to focussing on the nicer smells in places like this. They tended to burn incense, and here was no exception. The floral scent of freesia masked the worst of the sweat and sex, but Geralt focused on the pretty poet next to him. Dandelion still preferred the scented lavender oil in his hair. Before Dandelion, for Geralt’s life now existed as before and after Dandelion, lavender had not been a scent that he enjoyed. It was too strong, and reminded him of the sleeping drafts they used at Kaer Morhen before the mutagens…

But now it was the scent of Dandelion.

Mixed with chamomile and the poet’s natural musk, Geralt had grown rather fond of lavender.

Instead of saying all of this, he just muttered “I manage.”

Dandelion just wrinkled his nose, seemingly disgusted with the whole idea. Geralt couldn’t help the faint smile. It warmed his heart to know how much his friend cared about him, about the whole world in which they lived. Dandelion loved the world and in turn the world loved him back.

It was how it should be.

They were led through to one of the rooms on the second floor. It was cramped but nicely decorated. A pretty young blonde was lying on the bed, her fingers in the middle of braiding her long hair. She glanced up when she saw them, dark blue eyes looking up through thick black lashes.

And all Geralt could think of was that the colour was wrong.

Too dark.

The colour of a stormy ocean instead of the cornflower blue he’d grown used to.

There were freckles dusting her cheeks, and scattering down her neck below the bodice of her dress. She was slender, like Dandelion, but she lacked the muscles his poet had gained over the year…

Geralt cursed.

Winter was fast approaching and he’d been heading north soon, towards Kaer Morhen… towards home. He wondered where the poet would go for winter, perhaps to Oxenfurt. He always spoke of the city fondly.

“Geralt?” a strong hand on his arm snapped him out of his thoughts.

He blinked, the girl was still on the bed, looking more than displeased. He mumbled an apology for his rudeness.

“Can’t say that’s the best welcome I’ve had,” she muttered “I can get another girl if you’d prefer.”

“Nonsense!” Dandelion exclaimed. “He’s just tired, isn’t that right, my dear?”

Geralt nodded.

“See, nothing to worry about!” the poet trilled. “Now, how do you want us?”

“You shared before?”

They both shook their heads.

“I thought so, you can always tell,” she said, swiftly untangling the braid in her hair until it fell loosely down her back. “Are you taking turns or sharing?”

Geralt looked at Dandelion, it had been the poet’s idea and so the decision fell to him. Dandelion hummed, his tongue sticking between his lips as he considered, then he turned back to look at Geralt, tilting his head, one hand on his hip. “What do you think, darling? Would you be happy to watch?”

Geralt swallowed, the thought of watching his bard fuck another person should have bothered him… but instead he found himself growing hard in his trousers. He could already imagine the sinful things that Dandelion would say, the dirty poems and rhymes he would wax as he bedded the beautiful whore in front of them.

The bard was rumoured to be an unparalleled lover, and Geralt wanted to know, wanted to see why.

He nodded, barely looking at the girl, unable to tear his gaze from his friend as the pair of them stripped out of their clothes. Travelling together meant that Geralt had seen Dandelion naked many a time, but never like this. When they touched each other, they never took off more than necessary.

Marie, as the girl told them, pulled Dandelion to the bed, running her hands down his chest as she straddled his hips. Dandelion gazed up at her like she was a gift from the gods. He looked at her like he’d seen the sun for the first time. It made Geralt feel sick. He knew what it felt like to be caught under the poet’s gaze, how it felt to bask under the warmth of his affection.

Geralt should have realised that it wasn’t meant for just him.

“Oh, you are just stunning, darling, radiant as spring,” Dandelion cooed, fingers trailing down Marie’s spine. Geralt saw her shiver. He knew that whore’s often pretended to enjoy the company of their clients but Geralt could smell her genuine arousal mixing with the bard’s. Dandelion’s long fingers danced across her skin as she rolled her hips forward, making the poet sigh happily. Geralt could hear the spike in Dandelion’s pulse, as his breath hitched in his throat. Marie gasped as Dandelion cupped her breast.

Geralt was growing achingly hard in his trousers. He knew his turn was next.. but… he was also a witcher. His stamina was… a lot and if he wanted to cum without exhausting Marie then he really should start.

“Do you want me to ride you, poet?” Marie purred, her hands splayed on Dandelion’s chest.

Geralt hoped his bard would say yes. The way he was lying back on the bed with his hair fanned out behind him was enticing. Geralt could easily imagine Dandelion pinned underneath him as he fucked the bard.

Or maybe even fucked himself on Dandelion’s cock.

He hadn’t bottomed very often, most men assumed the witcher would top and Geralt didn’t really care enough to correct them, but suddenly the idea of Dandelion fucking him became the only thing he could think about. The poet’s long, clever fingers opening him up, brushing against his prostate. He growled, palming himself through his trousers. The sound drew Dandelion’s attention, and the poet fucking winked at him.

“What would you prefer, darling?” Dandelion asked, his voice hoarse, losing its usual smooth musical timbre.

Geralt felt too hot under Dandelion’s burning gaze. It was everything he wanted and yet not enough. “Ride him,” he choked out.

Marie laughed, and then reached between her thighs to coat her fingers before stroking the poet’s cock. Dandelion’s wanton moan echoed in the room, the sound going straight to Geralt’s aching cock. He growled and rushed to unlace his trousers, a hiss escaping his lips as he took himself in hand. Dandelion swore as Marie lowered herself onto him, both whore and poet gasping at the feeling. The scent of their joined arousal was almost too much.

She rode Dandelion with the enthusiasm that only a whore could have, moaning and whining and gasping as she fucked herself. Dandelion’s fingers gripped into the soft muscles of her thighs, thrusting into her, a string of poetic nonsense falling from his lips.

Geralt couldn’t look away.

He fisted his cock in time to their movements, imagining it was him that made Dandelion moan so sinfully.

It had been before, but fuck… this was a whole new level.

The way their bodies moved as one, the sounds of flesh slapping together, sweat glistening on the poet’s skin. Geralt’s eyes caught a bead of sweat trickling down Dandelion’s neck and he was hypnotised. He wanted to lick the droplet from the poet’s skin, taste the salt on his tongue, bite down on the muscles of Dandelion’s neck as he keened, his orgasm shuddering through his body.

Marie must have noticed where Geralt was looking because she leaned forward to kiss Dandelion’s neck. The poet’s breath caught, and he cried out, thrusts losing their rhythm as he came.

“Fuck, Geralt…” he moaned, just as he would when they touched each other in the woods.

Marie gasped wordlessly, fingers gripping into the sheets, but Geralt was too focussed on his bard.

His bard.

His poet.

His Dandelion.

For Dandelion was his, there was no denying it now. It was one thing for the poet to say Geralt’s name when he was the cause of his orgasm, but that had not been the case.

Geralt almost pitied Marie.

She hadn’t deserved it.

“Oh fuck,” Dandelion whined as his head hit the pillow. He was breathing heavily, his fingers tracing patterns into Marie’s thighs, and Geralt was reminded of the way that Dandelion’s fingers would dance over the strings of his lute when he played in the taverns.

He closed his eyes, gripping his cock tighter in his hand. His pleasure was still building slowly, as it always did, but his mind was spiralling and he felt unable to relax. His muscles were tense and he gritted his teeth.

“Your turn, witcher,” Marie called from the bed, “unless you’d rather fuck the poet. He won’t mind.”

“I’m fine,” he growled.

“But Geralt,” Dandelion pouted as he turned to face Geralt, cheeks still flush and rosy.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Geralt muttered, doing up his trousers and stalking from the room. “Dawn, Dandelion.”

“Dawn, yes, of course. I’ll be there.”

Geralt sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, jealousy was raging through him like poison. He knew that Dandelion had thought of him, and yet suddenly he felt sick to his stomach. Why hadn’t Dandelion said something? Geralt had been right there, every damn day for months, and yet the poet, famous for his inability to shut up, never said a fucking word.

It had taken a whore to make the truth spill from his lips.

And Geralt wasn’t even sure whether Dandelion had meant to tell him. What did he expect from Geralt? Was Geralt supposed to forget it, pretend it never happened? Or maybe Dandelion had been expecting Geralt to take up Marie’s offer…

And he’d run away.

“Fuck!” he yelled, startling a nearby cat as it was washing itself. The creature hissed and spat at him, clawing at the air. Geralt paid it no attention and carried on walking towards the stables to fetch Roach. He would make camp in the woods, and hopefully Dandelion would be there in the morning.

Geralt wasn’t sure what he’d do if the poet decided not to show.

[mantra4ia]

The Doctor meets The Witcher

The Doctor: I never interfere in the affairs of other people or planets.

Geralt, The Witcher: I don't get involved in the petty squabbles of men.

Amelia Pond: Unless there are children crying?

Jaskier: Yes, you never get. involved...except you do, all the time.

Geralt: I don't uphold the law.

The 10th Doctor: It is defended!

The 12th Doctor: I had a duty of care.

Geralt: Do not touch her. If you touch one hair on her head, yours will be next on the ground.

Rose: Would it kill you to give me some Spock?

Geralt: I don't show off.

Yennefer: The famous White Wolf...

Ashildr: The Hybrid who will stand in the ruins of Gallifrey...

Jaskier: The Butcher of Blaviken....

Ashildr: Destroying a billion hearts to heal its own...

Mousesack: The Mighty Witcher!

The Family Blood: Like fire and ice and rage...the Oncoming Storm!

Renfri: Mutant?

Amelia Pond: Space Gandalf?

Geralt: sighs* Witcher.

The Doctor: sighs* Time Lord.

Yennefer: I thought you'd have fangs or horns.

Geralt: I filed them down.

Rose: If you're alien, how come it sounds like you're from the north?

The Doctor: Lots of planets have a north!

Yennefer: I'd like to see what little spells you can cast with those hands. Call it professional curiosity.

Geralt: Indulge me, and I'll show you for the rest of the night.

The Doctor: Did I mention it also travels in time?

Yennefer: I dreamed of becoming important to someone.

The Doctor: 900 years of time and space, I've never met anyone who wasn't important.

Geralt: You're important to me.

Clara: Clever boy. Now that’s just showing off.

Geralt: My plan worked all along.

The Doctor: Hold tight and pretend it’s a plan.

Yennefer: You had no plan, any fool could see.

The Doctor: Never ignore coincidence. Unless you’re busy. In which case, always ignore coincidence.

Geralt: Destiny helps people believe there's an order...

Tissaia: Chaos. Balance. Control.

Geralt: ...There isn't. Destiny can go f--- all. I need no one, and the last thing I want is someone needing me.

The Doctor: You need a lot of things to get across this universe. The thing you need most of all...a hand to hold.

Jaskier: Yet here we are.

Amelia Pond: Don't be alone.

Queen Calanthe: We have a renowned guest tonight. Perhaps he can entertain us with tales from the edge of the world.

The 12th Doctor: Once upon a time...

Ashildr: At the end of the universe...

The Doctor: I'm the last of the Time Lords. Gallifrey is gone.

Queen Calanthe: Tell me, why are there so few of you left?

Geralt: It's no longer possible to create more of us since the sacking of Kaer Morhen.

The 10th Doctor: I've been a father before.

The 12th Doctor: ...The end. Dad skills.

Geralt: I would rather use my Child Surprise as Bruxa bait than subject it to this life. Witchers shouldn't play at being white knights.

The Doctor: I have no sword. I don't need a sword. I am the Doctor.

Clara: Robin Hood, I've loved that story since I was a kid.

The Doctor: The heroic outlaw...he's made up, there's no such thing...Old-fashioned heroes only exist in old-fashioned storybooks, Clara.

Clara: What about you?

Cintran noble: What of the song, Witcher?

Clara: You stop bad things happening every minute of every day.

The Doctor: When did you start believing in impossible heroes?

Geralt: None of it's true. At least when Filavandrel's blade kissed my throat, I didn't s--- myself. Which is all I can hope for you lords at your final breath. Though I doubt it.

Robin Hood: You are her hero, I think.

Borsh: Perhaps you should become a knight...sir Witcher.

The Doctor: I am not a hero.

Geralt: I'm not better.

Robin Hood: Well neither am I. But if we both keep pretending to be— perhaps others will be heroes in our name.

The Doctor: We're all stories in the end. Just make it a good one, eh?

Geralt: A fitting end, eh Roach?

Robin Hood: And may those stories never end.

The Doctor: Just this once...everybody lives!

Geralt: ...F---!

[the-third-bard]

Story summary of "the lesser evil"

Aka the first episode of the show aka the renfri ep

Content warning: r*pe mention. This one is a lot, if you have trouble with reading about that, maybe skip this one!

As in the episode, Geralt's killed a kikimora, and is looking for a contract for it in Blaviken. He meets with the alderman, Caldemeyn, who seems to be an old friend of Geralt. They talk for a while, Caldemeyn makes sexist comments - probably why they replaced him with Marilka in the show.

They go to The Bastard Man Himself Stregebor to maybe sell the kikimora to him but he doesn't want it and this amazing line is said

Stregebor has Wizard Robes and a staff with a crystal in the top of it and Wizard EyebrowsTM. Netflix keep up.

Stregebor and Geralt talk in his magican tower of illusion (there's one naked illusion-lady instead of like 6 + one dude like in the show), it looks way different on the inside, it's like a garden w a lil house with a porch?

Stregebor talks about the evil eclipse and Renfri and everything he says makes me want to punch him (and at some points also Geralt).

The girls with Evil Eclipse Syndrome are described to do horrible things that aren't really touched on at all in the show, like psychopath shit. From torturing animals when they were kids to mass murder. Renfri lives up the the shrike nickname.

Geralt makes a great point that many people have been cruel and evil w/o Evil Eclipse Syndrome

This is fascinating cus like, they chose to kill and imprison these girls out of fear for what they'd do, which proves to be a terrible idea because that just makes the girls hateful and traumatized. They could've nurtured these girls to control their power and do good with it but they didn't. They fucked up and now they have to pay for it at the hands of these girls they hurt.

(It's important to note that they actually did try to cure them, but ultimately failed. This is Stregerbor saying that, though, so idk if he's like, lying or embellishing to make Geralt feel like helping him out or not, but he does say it.)

Renfri born to some prince, and the dude's wife (Renfri's step-mother) used a magic mirror (snow shite reference) to forsee their land's future, the magic mirror revealed Renfri was gonna kill her and a shit ton of other people so she sent Renfri out into the woods and sent a thug after her (snow white reference).

The thug r*ped her and Renfri killed him.

She was 13 at the time.

(snow white reference)

Geralt tells Stregebor he doesn't feel sorry for the thug, which great. I need more comments like these from Geralt, cus at this point he's said more sexist shit than good.

(stregebor also turns her into stone at some point which is probably also a snow white reference)

Geralt aslo does his "evil is evil, Stregebor" speech.

Somehow Stregebor convinces Geralt to talk to Renfri, he doesn't want to kill her

Renfri and Geralt meet in a bar and i simp for a bit. They talk shit about Stregebor.

Later when Geralt goes to the room in thr attic Caldemeyn has lent hik for the night, Renfri is there.

They talk for a bit, about what will happen. Renfri want Stregebor dead, she wants to avoid bloodshed of the townsfolk but will kill if it means Stregebor dies.

Renfri talks about her life, how good her life was at the castle, and then after that.

Geralt as usual says the wrong things

And then she says she had to prostitute herself to survive on the streets. Let me remind you, 13 years old.

Picture if you wan't the details

"I'll tear his head off, royally, first."

Geralt refuses to help her, and promises to try to stop her if she tries to kill Stregebor

Renfri makes me cry

How can you make a character experience this and not give them a happy ending? Not give them revenge? My heart hurts for her. Renfri deserved better.

Renfri makes a show of being convinced by Geralt, tells him she isn't going through with it.

They have off-screen sex, I think as a way to distract Geralt. It's kind of disgusting of Geralt that he can sit and listen to her talk about her horrible past sexual encounters and then still want to have sex with her.

The next day, oops, turns out Renfri tricked him and she's actually gonna fuck some shit up. Geralt, now faced with this, is all totally cool with choosing the lesser evil and stopping, probably killing, Renfri to save the townsfolk.

(Renfri is protected under some king, and if the alderman attacks her the king is allowed to kill the alderman? Or arrest him? Bc laws are weird?)

That's ironic.

Renfri's left her party in the market to keep Geralt occupied while she tries to get Stegebor out of his tower. It's implied she threatened to kill civilians if he didnvt surrender but he was like I could Literally Not Care Less.

Geralt kills the dudes and then Renfri shows up.

By the way she talks i get the feeling that she doesn't want to do this. I think she's made killing Stregebor such a big part of her, that it was inevitable that she'd kill him, that she never considered, before now, that she might die trying. And she's scared, but she doesn't know how to stop. Because what will become of her then? If she failed? That'd be like losing an integral part of her being. Like how people who have been depressed for a long time might reject help because it feels like they're trying to take that part away from you.

It feels like a lot of the story is an allegory to mental health. How mentally ill people are shunned and, in this time period especially, deemed evil and wrong and deserve to die. Perhaps the Evil Eclipse Mutations are supposed to represent, say, schizophrenia, then being told you're wrong and evil and destined for cruelty and constantly being tortured and hunted would probably mold you into a violent person. Because that is what you've been taught that you are.

(I haven't read any, like, metas or articles or watched theory videos or anything so I might be completely wrong with this, but it's the interpretation I got. Tell me what you think in the notes if you want.)

Anyway.

Renfri dies, cold, on the ground. Geralt isn't holding her as she dies like in the show. He can't move as she begs him to hold her.

Stregebor comes running and thanks Geralt, he did what he wanted, after all.

Stregebor wants to bring her body to the tower and perform an autopsy, but Geralt threatens to kill him if he so much as touches a hair on her head.

Stregebor pisses off and the townsfolk start throwing stones at Geralt. Caldemeyn gets them to stop.

Caldemeyn asks Geralt if this is what the lesser evil was, and Geralt says yes, but doesn't really believe it. Caldemeyn banishes Geralt from the town.

So this story is a very clear allegory on why centrist ideology doesn't work, I talked about it before but I'll say it again. When he needs to choose between a lesser and a greater evil, Geralt chooses neither, which will always benefit the greater evil. I know some people take Geralt's "I'd rather not choose at all" speech to heart and like, genuinely believe that that was the point of this story but it ISN'T! It's the complete opposite! Geralt CONSTANTLY gets into bad situations because by choosing ignorance he aids the worse side.

Geralt smile count: 2

[suffering-and-happy-about-it]

A Story You Won’t Believe (Geralt x fem!witcher, Part 5.)

Series description: The Butcher of Blaviken has a long and famous past, thanks to his friend Jaskier. Yet, neither of those dies easily and it still lurks behind Geralt like a shadow after all those years. History, neither unfriendly relationships, doesn't die easily.

Part Summary: Your arrival to villages of Borin and Corin were more or less accepted by the folk living there. Yet with uncovering the mystery risen up around Mahakam mountains, there were more questions than aswer.

A/N: Why did I fell so hard so the Witcher politics? It was almost not mentioned in the series at all, but I am all about Temeria this and Redania that.

Tagging:  @osgon-azure​ @davnwillcome @missdictatorme​ @nemodoren​

Word count: 1.9K

Master list: H E R E

Talking with the survivors was the worst part of your journey, you would most likely say. You had to wake up the pain inside these people, which wasn’t making you happy at all. You had to keep the whole emotionless mascarade on your face while they were crying their eyes out. All the things they told you and Geralt over the next three days were practically identical - something about the size of a sty was crossing the villages, rampaging them with footsteps shaking the land, each of them being as loud as a thunder.

No wonder why you wanted to drink your ass off that night. Soon, you were supposed to leave for Corin to ask the refugees there, but you just felt as your heart sunk deeper and deeper. Mostly, when the contractors wanted you to slay some nekkers, foglets, or vampires, it was okay - but this was a giant. And not just one giant. There were more of them.

How in the world were you supposed to slay these fuckers? Two witchers against a whole tribe? You didn't stand a chance. At least you hoped that Jaskier will escape and that he'll make your funeral nice. Whoever said that witchers and witchresses can’t feel emotions was wrong. You were scared to death and that was why you were drinking a fourth ale.

“Is there someone who can play Gwent? Huh?” - You yelled on the whole inn, raising your deck in the air. - “I’m one of the last witchresses of the Kaer Morhen and whoever will pay my next drink will get to listen to my stories all fucking night long.” - Then you dragged Jaskier by his jacket so he was standing next to you. - “And I have this jester with me who is known as the bard Jaskier. He can play you some royal banger if you wish him to.”

To Geralt’s surprise, few men got up and brought you beer and ale. They were taking turns in playing Gwent with you while you told them the craziest stories you had. There was the Nightmare of the Mire West, Golden mist on the coast of Temeria, the Fake Witcher of Lyria... You had a lot of stories. The drunker you got, the more fun you were telling them with a burst of man-like laughter, having some wrinkles on your forehead. Curse words were falling out of your lips. It was rare to see someone like you behave so... Human.

No matter which story you were telling, you were still concentrated on playing Gwent, knowing what your opponents are about to do. You couldn’t understand a shit the dwarves and gnomes were telling you, yet you laughed like crazy at their words which certainly made them contained.

“Oy, really, ’ere, not too far is a camp of some Temerians.” - One of the human men told you, which made you giggle again. As you drank more and more, it was hard to exactly tell which one of the three men was speaking to you. Understanding the language was a completely next level shit for at that moment. You were just glad that you had enough food, alcohol, and someone to play cards with.

“Not too strange when we are in Temeria, good lord. And to your information, I won the round, didn't eye?” - You rose your eyebrows and put another card on the table, looking at the sober gnome who was counting the points. He nodded back at you so you knew that you're still winning. His small hands prepared the table for another round while other gnome started to mix the cards. Both of them made sure you or the man sitting in front of you weren't cheating.

“No, lady, these Temerians are the ones who ran away from the castle. Or that’s what I’ve heard. Sometimes we see ’em sneaking up in the woods, sometimes ya can hear a horse driving by at night.” - The man told you again and you took a frustrated breath when the dwarf put the nekker card on the table, putting another three of them on the table since this was the skill the card had. You hand banged the table, making the pints on it shake.

Geralt watched you turn the match around, still thinking about the Temerians. He heard that some of them had run away - but not because they wanted to betray King Foltest. They were sent to spy on the Mahakam to inspect the situation and to try to put an end to all of the horrors. Could his old friend, Vernon Roche, be there, probably leading the spy group?

“Another row for everyone, good man!” - You yelled at the innkeeper, punching Jaskier’s shoulder to make him play the lute. Normally, you had better manners than Geralt - but when you got drunk, you were worse than a sailor, punching around you, cursing, being overall pain in the ass. Jaskier didn't say a word, his palm just gently massaged his shoulder before he played the first chords.

“And now, I will tell you the story of how my friend Geralt visited the great Cintral ball.” - You yelled with your hands above your head, smiling. Everyone cheered and so you started telling the story.

It was a while after midnight when the fight came around. The fights weren't the aggressive, provoked ones - the inns had usually a tournament and a list of fighters that usually came there to fight. The best one usually won the prize.

"Oy! I want to fight too!" - You cried, standing up with supporting your weight by Geralt's shoulder. The white-haired man rose the pint, grinning into its bottom as he watched walking you to the corner.

"Ye a woman, and I ain't about to hurt you. Ye shall go continue drinking for now." - A dwarf answered you and you shifted your weight as you tried not to spin around. You leaned one of your palms into the wall, supporting yourself as you watched the men around you.

"Geralt tell 'em that I can't fight!" - You yelled through the whole inn, making everyone turn at the white-haired witcher. Jaskier also concentrated on the dialogue there since the comment itself was highly captivating.

"I saw her cutting a head off of a werewolf which she killed just minutes prior. No offense gentlemen, you'd shit yourself and ran as soon as you'd hear it." - Geralt praised you without a single problem, making a toast to you. Your finger pointed at him as you nodded.

"See? Now stop fucking with me and let me fight." - A drunk exhale came out of you again when you put your hair off your face, yet the men laughed again. They pointed at your clothes and so you did just what they wanted you to do. With two quick moves, the chest piece fell on the ground, followed by your gloves and shirt. After taking off all the clothes you weren't supposed to have on you, you kicked in the direction of Geralt's table. Only bandages were now covering your chest as you stood in front of the huge and tall fisherman.

Geralt nor Jaskier hadn't seen what was hiding underneath the chest piece - long, deep scars, bruises, and cuts; which were way worse than Geralt ever had. Some of the wounds weren't even properly healed until this very day. No matter if you'd be speaking of the old ones or new ones, some of them still appeared to be open, or at least fragile. You still had the wound from the Nightmare of the Mire West next to your stomach. It was badly sewed and the scar was puffy and completely reddened around. It was a miracle that you hadn't got an infection. Your face was perfect, your arms were also without a scar... But your torso... That sight was horrendous, making most of the men shut up and watch you.

You started the fight without anyone excepting you to. Your fist was blatantly thrown into the tall man's face, making him step away. You didn't exactly hit the bull's eye, but you didn't miss either. In that courageous drunkard state, you hadn't even the need to cover your face, you just stood there and grinned at the punched man. It could be seen that you're drunk as fuck, but you still moved out of the way elegantly when the man wanted to punch you back.

At that moment, you kicked his stomach with your knee, catching his forearm before he could hit you, still keeping him bowed. It would be easy to just luxate his shoulder completely. You felt the gristles and bones play under your touch, tensing and relaxing with the muscles. Numbly, you could hear the beat of his heart and his breathing. He wasnt screaming, no, but this particular position was hurting him. You got to know that since the pulse inside his veins was off the charts.

After realizing that it's not fair to win with such an advantage, you let go to let him take a breath in, pushing him away like a little girl. Without you expecting the fisherman to, he punched your face.

Your nose cracked directly on to the top, making blood drip on your upper lip and your teeth. The men never saw anything as scary as that - a witchress with blood dripping from her nose, with white hair; bruised, scarred body and glowing golden eyes.

"That's all you can do?" - You asked before punching him into the stomach and giving him an elbow into his spine. After that, he fell flat on his back, coughing blood as well. He didn't lose his consciousness, but it was obvious that you won this round.

Everyone watched you standing above that man before you looked at the innkeeper. - "Well, you have a list here, don't you? Who's next?" - You looked around clapping your hands while the other two men helped the fisherman away.

You beat six various men until they couldn't pick themselves off the ground, still having only your nose cracked. To put it nicely, you were a monster when you got drunk - suddenly, the hidden aggression and rage needed to leave your body at once. It didn't matter how many men you had to fight, you wouldn't stop until you'd win the prize, which happened.

To end it quickly, you had ended up around two in the morning when you fell asleep on the table, having the Gwent cards waved into your hair and blood all over your face. Your armor was somehow put on your body, your swords were put next to you on the bench along with your pouch.

When it has woken you up, you first thought that you’re dreaming. The pints on the table were shaking and loud sounds were coming from behind the walls. Your head hurt like living fuck, you wanted to curse, you barely stood up on your own feet. You understood that you’re not dreaming when you heard screaming and smelled fire.