#emhyr/Geralt

[laurikarauchscat]

Thou shalt not approach the Emperor's Witcher with either a doublet, nor a razor.

This is known.

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

I just died and went to heaven, and this is what I saw: a commission I had the chance to place with @johix. Who has the most beautiful Gerlion art you'll ever see and still agreed to do this wonderful Emhyr/Geralt thingy for me. If I could, I would eat that picture. I'm not licking the screen! Thanks again for this one, it's my personal Christmas gift for myself ❤️ Happy Holidays!

[valandhirwriter]

Story game

do-androids-dream-ao3acc hat gefragt: Ha ... you shoveled your own grave, miss "I am not good at writing Emralt"... now I want one. What-if. Go crazy. 😂

@do-androids-dream-ao3acc send me her wish - and here we go.

What if...

“No troops,” Geralt of Rivia said, his normally gravelly voice becoming stern as he spoke. Arms crossed in front of his chest, he was entirely unimpressed by the Emperor of Nilfgaard and entirely unmoved by their common history.

Emhyr var Emreis, Emperor of Nilfgaard and conqueror of a good portion of the north, was not a man who usually tolerated insults. And yet, he had to struggle to hide a smile at Geralt’s attitude. The man was magnificent and stubborn all the same. “You will need more than the last few witchers to fend off the Wild Hunt,” the Emperor replied, his voice a study in tight control. “You will need soldiers, the best there are in this world. And you are not qualified to command them.”

Geralt’s frown deepened, and his white eyebrows formed a steep V on his forehead. “I will not have troops under the command of some Nilfgaardian General in Kaer Morhen,” he repeated, and there was that stubborn glint in his eyes that told Emhyr Geralt would not budge. 

He never did. If anyone knew what had truly happened between them in Stygga… No, Emhyr did not allow himself to think of that terrible, wonderful, embarrassing day. If the truth ever came to light, the bards would have a field day with it, and the salacious tales would cost Emhyr his hard-earned reputation as an iron-fisted ruler. But if there was one lesson he had learned that day, it was that Geralt could be manipulated if he would not budge. “So your objection is a General leading the troops?” he inquired.

“Yes,” Geralt replied, “he won’t know what to do and not listen to sense. We don’t need that when the battle begins.” 

“I agree,” Emhyr replied, hiding even the hint of a smile that wanted to creep onto his face. “So the General would not be the person to give the final orders. That would be agreeable to you?”

He could see the startled glance of the Witcher. Geralt was a smart man, a very smart man even, but he was not good at manoeuvring. “Yes,” he said after a moment, then frowned again. “But who would be in command?”

“I will be,” Emhyr replied, and his heart leapt in a small triumph when he saw the sheer expression of shock on Geralt’s face. “That should alleviate your worry about a commander having no clue what monsters truly mean, would it not?”

He could see Geralt’s shoulders stiffen. “Yes, but… you cannot. It is too dangerous,” suddenly, a very defensive tone slipped into his voice. “We all will be risking our lives there, death will be certainty…”

“I am the Emperor of Nilfgaard; death is the one certainty I have daily on my throne,” Emhyr replied, “and if you agree that me being in command is acceptable to you…”

Geralt cast him a scowl, but before the Witcher could marshall his thoughts and argue, Emhyr had already turned his head to the man standing by the door, awaiting orders. “General, ready Impera Brigade to march come morning, being faced with a battle in an ill-maintained fortification, you are free to recruit whatever additional auxiliaries you deem useful from our forces assembled here in Vizima.” 

The tall soldier saluted without talking back. Emhyr knew General Aeron Cadfael was unhappy with the choice but had known what Emhyr had decided on, and seen where this conversation was going. 

Geralt harumphed, ready to speak up, but Emhyr ignored him for the moment and gestured to one of the soldiers standing guard at the other end of the room. “Captain, fall out,” the soldier stepping forward wasn’t as tall and muscular as the General; where the General was a formidable field fighter, the Captain was a fast rattlesnake. “Captain, assist the General in the preparations, you are free to find auxiliaries of your ilk if they can be useful.” 

The Captain was about to protest Emhyr risking his life in a grandiose fashion. He was never shy to stand up to Emhyr, but Emhyr didn’t give him a chance. “General, Captain… this is it. What I told you, you were preparing for. You had ten years. Now prove you were worth it.” Emhyr kept his voice stern and aloof. He had to. They expected him to. Both saluted and left. 

As they walked out of the audience room, Emhyr turned to Geralt. “You were saying…?”

***

The walls of Kaer Morhen were more impressive than Emhyr had expected. He had made a point of gathering any scrap of useful information about the school of the wolf, and the descriptions of the sacking of Kaer Morhen had made Emhyr assume that most of the fortress had been razed. Now, he saw that this was a misconception. The enemy troops may have slain the Witchers, but their fortress still stood. The towering walls had taken more damage from the ravages of time since than from the soldiers who had slaughtered the inhabitants. Emhyr’s lips twisted derisively; the Kings of Kaedwen had been fools like all northern Kings were. 

Turning his head, he could see the long marching column of the Nilfgaardian forces making their way up the mountain. The terrain was rough, and the pass was ill-maintained, but they moved ahead steadily. Emhyr could see Geralt’s frown - the Witcher had taken to frowning a lot while they marched for Kaer Morhen. He had taken to all kinds of protests since they had marched from Vizima, beginning with the claim that the Nilfgaardian soldiers were not good enough to be of any use. A little duel between him and the General had put paid to that argument. 

It had not been something Emhyr had enjoyed. While he knew Geralt was stronger and more robust than the General, who was fifty-six after all, he had also known General Aeron yet beat any of his younger officers on the training fields. What was worse, Aeron knew he was fighting a stronger opponent. Their duel had been a sight to behold, and deep down, Emhyr still hated seeing Geralt going toe to toe with danger. He could not bear it, not since Cintra, not since Stygga… not since knowing that nothing in their hearts had changed. Geralt had emerged unscathed but grudgingly admitted that Emhyr’s Impera Brigade was better than he had expected. He had sulked for two days after, and Emhyr had quietly enjoyed needling him a bit. 

Other arguments had followed, until they finally reached the foot of Killer trail and Geralt had pointed out that the pass road was impassable for an army. Emhyr had expected that one, and coolly pointed the General towards the sloping path that had been used by the attacking army of Kaedwen decades prior. 

“You had to insist on this, did you?” Geralt growled as their horses approached the stone arch that was the gate of the castle. 

“I did, I do,” Emhyr replied, his eyes still surveying the mighty walls and shattered towers. They were in better shape than he had feared, which would be useful. His eyes went to Geralt, and like always, Emhyr had to try to hide a softer expression that threatened to slip onto his features. “Contrary to others, I have known since the night of Cirilla’s birth that this confrontation was coming. All I ever did, all my deeds, as dark as they were, was to prepare for that day.” He had hoped for more time, for another decade, before the inevitable was upon them, but Cirilla’s escape and her incessant hopping between realities had created a trail on which doom was following. 

“Nilfgaardians,” Geralt shook his head, “I will never get you. You did away with all the trappings of the old world, the superstitions and false beliefs… and then you turn around and believe in prophecy.” 

“All things happen but once, but one time, they have to come to pass,” Emhyr availed himself of a quote that he had picked up from another man. He did not feel ready to fully tell Geralt was driving him. Having lived with the full reality of the prophecy over his head ever since Emhyr had held his daughter for the first time, knowing what was to come was frighteningly real had reshaped the way Emhyr thought, the way he planned. Maybe one day, one day when all this was over, he could tell Geralt, tell him of the icy burden on his shoulders and of the harrowing fear that gnawed at Emhyr. Would his preparations ever be enough? 

Luckily they were saved from further conversation by an old Witcher appearing in the gates of Kaer Morhen. He was almost as tall as Geralt, with steel grey hair and he walked like a man who knew no pangs of age. “When I said: bring allies, I did not say: bring the entire northern armies of Nilfgaard,” the older Witcher grumbled, his voice was as rough and gravelly as Geralt’s was, but he spoke with the firmness of command. 

Vesemir. Emhyr concluded. This had to be the Master of Wolf school. Vesemir the Grimwolf. “Sir Geralt of Rivia asked for too little when he sought allies,” Emhyr answered, cutting into the conversation. He would not stand by and be ignored like an unwanted guest. “He asked for a few fighters, where even an army would hardly suffice. If I am to commit Nilfgaard to war with the unnatural, I will not do so on half-assed terms.” 

The older Witcher turned around; his eyes were not golden like Geralt’s but a pale yellow, like a hawk’s. “Emhyr var Emreis of Nilfgaard, I take it?” he asked, his tone not leaving any doubt that he had recognised Emhyr at once, not a surprise; the armour Emhyr wore screamed the truth. And it did not intimidate Vesemir in the least. “If you are half the man your grandfather Torres was on the battlefield, you’ll do,” he announced before turning seamlessly towards General Aeron. “General, take your men around the castle, towards the east side, and enter by the shattered main gate. You will want to man those walls if I am to guess your plans…”

Emhyr had a hard time not gawking as the old Witcher approached a General of Impera and said something that indicated he knew not only Impera’s preferred strategies but also had read their lesser-known cookbook. 

***

“What are they doing here?” Vernon Roche spluttered, shock twisting his face, eyes darting between Emhyr as he was standing in the Eastern courtyard of Kaer Morhen and another man as if trying to decide whose presence was the greater offence.

The other man, none other than Letho of Gullet, grinned broadly at Roche, clearly waiting for the man to lose it and attack. “You didn’t think that the Wolf wouldn’t bring my honourable employer to this little dance?” the Viper Witcher asked, adding a mock bow towards Emhyr. “I cannot serve with a satisfyingly slow end, your always-cantankerous majesty.”

In most situations, Emhyr would have barked a sharp answer, but seeing the Bluestripes Commander go red as a beet was way more satisfactory. “I expected Sir Geralt to bring all surviving Witchers,” Emhyr replied, like he had always known Letho yet lived, “it will be fascinating to compare your numbers to my list, to see whether he missed someone.” 

Letho barked a laugh, his eyes betraying venomous amusement. “They are here, Emperor; if I were you, I��d not get into debates with the bears.” 

Their barbed conversation was interrupted by Roche’s voice rising as he talked to Geralt. “You cannot let them stay. They smashed Temeria, enslaved Temeria… they are the ones behind those accursed elves…” 

Emhyr studied the man coolly, his eyes hardening. “Either make yourself useful and show some of your vaunted military skill, Roche, or turn tail and run down these hills. Maybe you’ll find a hidey-hole with some squirrels in it.” 

Geralt’s annoyed glare at Emhyr was worth it, Emhyr decided. There was nothing more formidable than a certain Witcher getting truly pissed and barking orders at people. Did Geralt even know that he had all the command a knight in the armies needed in him? Emhyr wondered. He could see Geralt easily leading men into battle and being formidable at it; he could be so much more than just a wandering monster hunter. Not that Emhyr would give up on that monster hunter any time soon. 

Unfortunately, Vesemir came down from the wall where he had been plotting with General Aeron, and one glance of the old Witcher silenced all parties involved. “If you are quite done holding court with your freshly broken-in subjects, your Majesty, the General, and I have a plan on how to make use of all that liquid fire your armies brought along.” 

***

Emhyr stood on the west wall of the castle as the night fell, a freezing chill had been creeping into the air during the last two hours, and there was something… something dreadful in the air, something he had not felt since his days as a cursed monster. A dread of something creeping closer and closer. He had to exercise all his discipline to appear quiet and collected, at least on the outside. 

Along the battlements were crates with bottles of liquid fire stacked up for easy use. The green liquid inside the bottles shimmering like poison into the darkness. 

Down in the main yard, he could hear Aeron address the troops; his powerful voice carried easily up to the main walls. They have told you that man cannot stand against the unnatural; they have told you we never had a chance, that we all are dead. Here’s your truth: we all will be dead. But until then, we stand! When the conjunction spit your forefathers out on these dark shores, they were faced with monsters tearing them apart. Until the Sun Knights drove them back, but until that day, our forefathers stood! When the mages brought the monsters back, our ancestors were bloodied until the Witchers came to put an end to the monsters again. But until that day, we stood on our own! And after all, they threw at us, we are still here! We stand!

Emhyr bit down on his lip, preventing himself from making a face, as a thousand voices answered from the battlements.

We stand!

The Emperor did not know where Aeron had to go in his mind to find another gutsy speech for the men he was to lead into another hopeless situation. He somehow always found the words and then some way to get them through the nightmare. He made it look easy. Emhyr knew the speech should have been his; he should have addressed Impera. Only he never had found the words to get them to that point: ready to tear apart any enemy that came at them, forgetting fear and pain, acting on sheer courage and desperation. It was not the man that Emhyr was - he was a thinker, not a fighter, and the only reason he was here, was to make Geralt accept the help that the Witcher so clearly needed.

Emhyr could not admit it to anyone: he was not here for his daughter, for the girl he had lost a long time ago. He was here for a certain white haired Witcher, wo stood ready between his brothers down in the east yard.

One of the Witchers - the grey haired Griffin - suddenly looked up to the skies. “The moon casts no glow…” the words made no sense, until suddenly a gust of freezing cold swept over the yard. Emhyr felt the cold coming, an icy chill that enveloped him, his blood freezing, as the ice encased him, freezing him on the spot. 

From afar he heard noise, battle noise, voices, screams, explosions ripping through the air, the battle was erupting… and not reaching him. He was still frozen, the ice forming a barrier between him and the events. An explosion shook the west wall and shrieks rose, as green flame engulfed attackers, burning them in hot green fire. It all echoed past Emhyr. 

Then, his eyes, still under the ice, saw a familiar figure down in the yard. Geralt. Faced with two… no, four, attackers, the Witcher had retreated into the yard below, his blade a silver arch, as he pushed back one opponent, ducking deftly under another hit, and coming up, he beheaded one of the Aen Elle attacking him. Another went down, Geralt’s blade in his chest. 

But then it happened: as Geralt was yanking his sword free from the falling opponent, he was impaled from behind by one of the two remaining foes. The Witchers’ graceful movements suddenly broke, the power holding them cut like the strings of a puppet, as he crashed to his knees, his enemy���s blade in his back.

Emhyr wanted to scream, to reach out and pull Geralt away from the hunters, but the ice still held Emhyr in place, and so he saw Geralt on his knees and the Elle circling him leacherously. They wanted to play with their prey before allowing him to die. White hot anger rose inside of Emhyr, a bloom so hot he could not believe the ice around him still lasted. Those bastards wanted their pound of flesh, he could see that.

Reaching deep inside Emhyr found the dark spot in the recesses of his mind, that dark coil of fear and hatred that had laced his monstrous existence, the spark of despicable darkness that was his true self. Pulling on it, like he had not since his days as Duny, he brought it forth, feeling the pain surge through his body as the ice shattered, freeing his body from the cold encasement. Losing no time, Emhyr raced along the wall to the crate still holding some bottles of green fire. Taking them, he threw the first at Geralt’s attacker, ready to impale him again. Emhyr might not be a good fighter, but his aim was true - the bottle shattered on the shoulder of the Elle and exploded, green flame engulfing the warrior, who tumbled away screaming.

Emhyr threw the next bottle, hitting the second Elle in the yard, scorching him as well. Hastily he looked around, flames were engulfing most of the gate and the east wall, but the fighting clearly had moved towards the front gate, the attackers were being pushed back. Losing no further time Emhyr raced down into the yard, towards Geralt who had sunk in on himself, breathing shallow and erratic. 

Hastening to him, Emhyr knelt down beside him, carefully cradling the wounded Witcher in his arms. Geralt’s breathing was laboured and painful, his skin had taken an unnatural pale tone and his eyes were glazed over. “Do you have any swallow left?” Emhyr asked hastily, he knew the Witchers had a draught that could get them back to their feet from almost anything.

“All gone,” Geralt rasped. “Shattered… you must let me go, ‘Mhyr,...”

The nickname sent a surge of pain through Emhyr’s heart. It was one of the few endearments Geralt had ever used, one that felt sweeter to him than any other. “You cannot give up, Geralt… not when…”

The words died on his lips. Not when what?

The story of their love had been nothing but chaos. Geralt had saved him in Cintra, and that night Emhyr had not wanted his newlywed wife but the Witcher who had saved him. If anything had made Calanthe hate Emhyr, it was his affair with Geralt. And when they had been pulled apart, Geralt taking on the father role for Emhyr’s daughter when they found each other again in Stygga… Emhyr had realised that after all these years, he still loved Geralt, and miraculously, Geralt loved him still. But again, fate, a pogrom, and death had torn them apart.

“I cannot let you die again,” Emhyr’s voice was rough as he tried to move Geralt into a more comfortable position. “I cannot. I mourned you once; I was ready to burn the entire North in punishment… I just… I can’t do it again.”

A small voice inside his head reminded him that he still was a monster, a worse monster even than Duny had been. He was cold, the blood on his hands was the blood of nations, and his love was all dark, tainted, poisonous. Geralt’s death, then and now, would be caused by Emhyr’s darkness. 

A movement at the entrance of the yard made Emhyr startle. Another Elle had appeared there, sword in hand, and Emhyr didn’t need to see his face to know the wolfish smile on his face. He had no green fire left to fight the Elle off, either.

He let Geralt go and scramble to his feet, drawing his blade. His heart was racing against his chest. Emhyr had made a point of re-learning sword skills after he became the Emperor, it was expected of him. Aeron had been a patient teacher, trying his best to give Emhyr a good basis to defend himself. And Emhyr had hated every moment of it.

The Elle rushed him, the attack wild, powerful. Emhyr evaded, sidestepping him, blade raised before him, ready to block. The Elle came about, and a quick series of attacks followed. Emhyr parried, ducking under one, parrying the next. Steel crashing on steel, in the old song of war. He followed the Elle’s movements, blocking the next advance; his blade slid down his opponent’s, hitting the crossguard; he felt the pressure against his hands as the Elle broke free his blade in one powerful movement, sending Emhyr’s blade flying across the yard. 

Emhyr panted; he could not even be shocked or afraid. This was it. The End. He would die here. And maybe… maybe if Geralt was free of Emhyr’s taint, he could live, be better for it. He raised his chin, daring the Elle to do his worst when a movement behind the Elle alerted him that they were not alone, and a huge blade cleaved through the Aen Elle, sending him down to the ground in two halves.

A huge witcher stood there, seven feet tall, with a grey mane of hair. “You injured?” he asked in a growling voice.

“No, but Geralt…”

“He’ll make it. I hear his heartbeat, and he is breathing alright - he’ll come around.” The Witcher replied. “Stay with him; we’ll clear the stragglers.”

Stragglers… did that mean the battle was done? Had they… had they somehow, impossibly somehow… won? Emhyr stumbled back to Geralt, who was trying to get up and stand. Knowing how useless it would be to tell him not to, Emhyr extended a hand and helped Geralt get to his feet and lean on him. The Witcher coughed, finding his footing. “Are you crazy going toe to toe with them?” he asked, rasping. 

Emhyr cast him a glare as he guided him to sit down on the stairs of the battlements. “Should I have left them to you?” he asked tersely. He hated swordplay when he had to fight himself, but having protected Geralt made it worth the countless hours he had spent sweating in the training yard.

“Oh, shut up,” Geralt grumbled. Suddenly, Emhyr found a familiar warm hand at his neck and was pulled into a fierce kiss. 

Wrapping his arms around Geralt, Emhyr let himself sink into the kiss, claiming the next when one ended. From somewhere behind him, he heard voices; orders barked as the troops moved across the fortress to clean up. Settling beside Geralt, Emhyr snatched a third kiss, not letting go of his Witcher. He spotted Aeron’s voice among the others. He lived. Good. He could handle clean-up and then come up with the next strategic steps along with the old Wolf Master - Emhyr did not intend to leave Geralt’s side anytime soon. Death had failed to tear them apart and Emhyr would not give it another chance. 

[consistentsquash]

lato weekend update!!!! we are eating well tonight <3

[ladycibia]

The first time I played The Witcher 3 it took me ages to choose a Nilfgaardian doublet (why? good question) and then I got mad because you immediately bump into a NPC with (basically) the same outfit XD

[angelellipsis-devilofdots]

we got it guys

[endiness]

GERALT and EMHYR + facial scars

[revoevokukil]

TW3 Story Leaks

It's Saturday, and I bring you some cold, hard rumour.

It seems somebody on reddit is working through the leaks of The Witcher 3, claiming approximately 300k of lines relating to the previous story iterations also leaked in 2023. Much of what they are claiming matches with the leaked files from 2014, which I have also worked through. There is completely new information too, though, and they plan on publishing their work-through early 2025.

So far, this is the information I've gathered from their posts:

Iorveth's daughter was Vernossiel. Her quest had her involved with a cult of the Bloody Mother; spores from a particular "flower" affected her thinking so she got brainwahsed into being sacrificed in a ritual killing in order to rise as the Bloody Mother herself.

Cerys was fake-Ciri.

The Baron (or Baron’s men?) was originally a rapist.

The Big 4 was originally Big 5, including Isengrim. Isengrim and Iorveth had houses in Novigrad.

Vincent Meis' model existed.

There was a quest with “thralls” (most likely Following the Thread involving Jad Karadin and the Faroe island) where Geralt would temporarily get married to a chieftain’s daughter.

We’d lock Yennefer in dimeritium handcuffs at one point to prevent her from interfering with the King’s Gambit questline.

Avallac’h provided Geralt with the means to warg as a rat in order to eavesdrop on the meeting of the Big 5 (including Isengrim) on Dijkstra’s ship. (Iorveth was planning on blowing the ship up.)

The Catriona Plague questline. It had a Nilfgaardian general Martin running a krankenhaus, where was infecting his countrymen with the plague and stealing their valuables. He made deals with Gaunter O’Dimm (his involvement in HOS is as a leftover from here) to get a cure for the Catriona, then with Gaunter’s archnemesis to get to keep the cure. Geralt had to figure it all out as Catriona was becoming more and more rampant and the faction with the cure would have huge leverage in how the war questline would resolve. Geralt would get the chance to hand the cure back to Gaunter, to Radovid, or Emhyr.

Iorveth got infected with Catriona, then infected Thaler to improve his morale on getting a cure (Thaler promised Iorveth a cure for assassinating Emhyr or some such.)

The war quest lines were somehow related to the dreamer Corinne Tilly who was a Nilfgaardian spy.

Voorhis laid siege to Crow’s Perch because Temerian rebels took it over.

The Sabbath originally had slave markets, an orgy meadow, and ritual suicides. Changed after 2014.

There was an option to assassinate Radovid after taking out Roche, so Dijkstra's rule was always an option.

Roche originally preferred fighting for Temeria no matter what. Reason of State had Roche vs Thaler and Dijkstra.

Radovid was more like his W2 self. Emhyr "more like Stalin."

Radovid took over the Temple Isle.

Emhyr was supposed to appear in the army camp center.

If Emhyr lost, Voorhis would overthrow him.

All the content showcasing Nilfgaardian war crimes was cut: a Nilfgaardian general was spreading the Catriona plague, robbing his dying countrymen; Voorhis' cruelty during the siege of the Crow's Perch, Nilfgaardians' direct attack on Kaer Trolde.

Crach died during the battle for Undvik and Voorhis negotiated over his body; the corpse was returned and Nilfgaard respect local burial traditions.

Melusine quest line had more content related to blood shrines.

There was an opportunity to try and convince Caranthir to betray Eredin, after which he'd get replaced by some elven lady (Isilira?). (Conflicted about this, as in 2013 leaks it seemed Caranthir knocks Avallac’h out on Naglfar when Geralt and him try to infiltrate it.)(Isilira is the lady you meet in Avallac’h’s lab in the released version.)

There was a sequence in White Orchard in the Empress ending where Voorhis had announced he'd arrive and propose to Ciri in few days, but Ciri lost Emhyr's signet ring to prove his approval of the marriage. Then some kind of gamble ensued under the influence of a Korred, and Ciri decided if she'd win she'd marry and if not she'd run away (not sure if this shouldn't it be the other way around).

Gameplay-wise:

There was a 'vital spot' system, where you gained points by performing various actions and could then use those points to perform combat moves that would either weaken of 1-shot an enemy.

Manticores were cut.

Players could buy boats and horses; rowboat for rivers and lakes.

Wind tunnels and proper storms in which a boat could tilt over.

Water combat was cut.

Focus mode in combat was cut.

[kashuan]

recent assorted witcher sketches :,)

[old-deerstalker-hat]

New Stills from season 3

[laurikarauchscat]

Hiii there! I saw on one of your posts that Emralt was a woah-tp of yours and I was wondering if you had any recs 🥹👉👈. I’ve only read astolat’s stuff and I’ve been dying to find more. I hope you have a wonderful week! ❤️

Bruh you just made my day!

So: Since Emralt is a ship burdened by being rather niche, and had in the past fallen prey to the scorn of fandom morallists, the universe had decided to reward us for our patience and dedication by giving us some of the best writers in fandom.

You can literally just go into the Emhyr/Geralt tag on Ao3 and move from last page (27) foreward. I swear you will find gold on nearly every page. Please please please do that 🙏. I am about to share some of what you have to look forward to, but there are going to be some great works that I miss. Here goes:

Category 1: Bottom Geralt I have a strong preference for subby Emhyr, so the rest of the list is going to be very much that. Nonetheless, these works I loved so much!

The ride into obsession series by @do-androids-dream-ao3acc this author has many works in the fandom - all worth a read. I have been wounded, I have been healed being my favourite.

Dark Mettinna - by Crunad. More Geralt!wump. Very very sweet.

Category 2: fluffy and sweet

Anything by @xpityx (and there are many, bless this writer 🙌) - this one in particular tho. Oohh and this one !!

@traumschwinge has smutty works, and they are veeery hot, but by God, the tenderness is what they do best. This one is my favourite. They also have some wonderful modern Au's 😁. [This one is smutty so should be Cat 3, but again - the sweetness is the draw]

In the footsteps of the Sun - a classic. Oh my god.

what is my body [if it is not a blade] - Geralt accidentally hurts Emhyr. Angst ensues.

Not for Amateurs - old men being stupid.

My fair witcher - fucking hilarious

Category 3: Bottom Emhyr

Is it the blood - emhyr has a gore kink 😁

Royal Grade Secret - features Emhyr who shuts up and does what he is told for once.

Prickly - Emhyr gets turned into a literal hedgehog. It's adorable🤩. Smut in the last chapters (with Human Emhyr!!)

touching the sun - this is part of a slow burn series. Beautiful 😍

wiosna - first part of a recent series that ruled my life for a couple of weeks (holy shit the smut🔥🔥🔥🔥. Holy shit the angst 😭😭😭)

@queenofyumcha has very many smutty wonders. This one is my favourite. Features Omega!Emhyr.

Category 4: In defiance of Category

The Surprise - mpreg!Emhyr. I hope people make this man be pregnant more often in the future 👀

State of mind by @bittersweetbark - this autor also has many works in the fandom, but this one is my favourite. fluffy mystery. Features smut and both Emhyr!wump and Geralt!wump 😈😈😈

--------

I left off soooo many beautiful works 😭😭😭 but I have to go study now!

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

Lass es Liebe sein (Let it be love)

"Witcher," the Emperor says, and after this - nothing, for a while. He looks almost hesitant. But Emhyr var Emreis is not a hesitant man. So, him obviously pondering his next words is as strange as the fact that Geralt was summoned by the man to begin with. Geralt stands patiently beneath one of the black flags that adorn the palace walls, because patience is one of the essential qualities of a witcher. From this point of view, it doesn't matter to him whether he waits for the beast to come and take his bait after hours of hunting, or whether it’s Emhyr var Emreis. The only question is, what’s the bait. Perhaps it’s himself, which is not a very pleasant thought. The emperor sits behind his desk, legs apart, he looks way too tall to be comfortable in such a narrow space. Maybe that’s the reason he now tosses the quill on the tabletop, or it’s just Emhyr being Emhyr. The man has always been impatient, erratic even. "I want my daughter to get married," he now says.

Geralt, who’s started counting the rays of all the suns on all the flags, jerks his head around so hard, there’s a cracking sound from his neck. He’s getting old. Really, he’s getting too old for this shit. Emhyr, as if sensing impending trouble, continues speaking quickly. "The fact that you brought her back to me was a commendable achievement, despite certain… difficulties. You've always proven to be very skilled in dealing with Cirilla." This is astonishing praise, especially since it means, in a way, that Emhyr admits the difficult relationship with his own daughter. Not that Geralt didn't already know that from Ciri herself.

"You… don't want me to pick out a suitable marriage candidate, do you?" asks Geralt.

"What? Why?"

"Well," Geralt sheepishly remarks, "considering your own ideas about marriage, you might be looking for advice…"

"From you?" Emhyr's eyes seem to bulge out of their sockets.

Geralt shrugs, "Maybe that's none of my business, because it's her decision, right? Who is she to marry?"

"That's not just her decision," Emhyr reprimands him. "And it's about Morvran Voorhis."

"Why?" Geralt tilts his head.

"Why? Well, his family..."

Emhyr launches into a long-winded explanation about Voorhis' military successes and the strategic importance of this marriage, but Geralt interrupts him, "No, why do you think she would agree to marry the guy?" Emhyr leans back in his chair to regard Geralt with a look the witcher can’t interpret. Geralt ponders whether he should get angry. It would probably not be particularly advisable to get angry in the imperial palace right in front of the emperor, and not just because of the inevitable guards standing in front of and behind the only exit. But they're talking about Ciri, her future. Perhaps Geralt doesn't have too much say in the matter, and that's his own fault: after all, he persuaded her to talk to her father. If he hadn't, what would have happened? It's pointless to think about it. A witcher is committed to neutrality. Isn’t he?

"You see," Emhyr continues, "that's the entire point of this conversation. I do not, in fact, believe that she will agree to marry him, and only because out of spite."

"Of spite." Well, this certainly sounds like the mischievous girl he helped raising, Geralt thinks. But he also thinks that she knew, she fucking knew what she was getting into when she agreed to take on her heir. It’s not just saving the world, oh no. It’s being the empress-to-be with all that comes with it. Strangely enough, Geralt can see her marrying whoever for the sake of everybody else. She was ready to sacrifice way more, and any man daring enough to wed her would have a hard time, she’s just too much like her grandmother in that respect. The real question, he thinks, is why she would oppose against Morvran of all people. He’s only met the man briefly, but he likes horses and seems decently friendly enough, even to people that don’t fit society's crazy rules.

"Hold on. You want me to convince her to marry the guy, is that it? Very funny, Emhyr, really."

"Is it?“ Emhyr's voice is calm, his gaze serene, but his fingers pluck at the threads of his immaculate robe.

"Yes," Geralt replies heatedly, and then he says something rash, "yes, because... because she loves someone else."

Emhyr cocks his head, as he always does when information seems particularly interesting, "Who?" he demands to know.

"Well, if she didn't tell you about it, there’ll be a reason for that."

"That means she hasn't told you either, has she, Geralt?"

Geralt is probably in trouble now, because Emhyr has never called him by his name before. So far, he's always called him witcher. His teasing tone almost sounds amused, and he adds, "But I'll find out. You're coming to the ball tomorrow night. No arguments."

Geralt gasps for air like a fish that has just been pulled out of the water, and he feels like he’s just been found to be too small and thrown back in.

But there is no alternative, no escape, and in the end a ball is the lesser evil compared to open rebellion or becoming a kingslayer. If he just keeps telling himself that long enough, Geralt thinks, pulling at his doublet in disgust, it might become truth. He wanders around, carefully avoiding the tables of ladies looking for dance partners, clutching his empty plate, as a voice rings out next to him, "You seem to have a penchant for the shrimp." Geralt turns around and can't suppress a grin, "Think no one recognizes you when you're wearing a wolf mask? Subtle."

Many people are wearing masks tonight, because apparently every ball is a fancy masquerade. The truth is, of course, that every ball is a dating ball, and not everyone is blessed with a beautiful face. Emhyr's disguise with the wolf mask is probably just a mockery. In any case, the doublet cut to fit his muscular body is embroidered with real gold thread, and his sheer size makes him tower over the ordinary nobles. The unmistakable Impera are standing at the door, staring over with little subtlety, and out of the corner of his eye Geralt sees the familiar face of Vattier de Rideaux. Well, Emhyr may think he's diving into the crowd, but none of this is left to chance.

"People see what they want to see, and I hope the same applies to me. You will help me find out which of these vain peacocks my daughter prefers over Morvran Voorhis." His faint nod encompasses both the dancers and the men standing indecisively at the edge of the dance floor. "Cirilla has danced with almost every one of them except for Morvran."

Emhyr sounds disapproving, but strangely proud at the same time. Geralt thinks he can be: the black dress Ciri is wearing makes her green eyes shine, and a clever hairstyle ensures that her scar looks interesting, at best. Not that this detail would repel any suitors, on the contrary. Emhyr knows this, of course, and perhaps his strange behavior is actually motivated by paternal concern.

"What makes you think it's a man she's looking for?" asks Geralt, suddenly uncomfortable with the fact that he can't see Emhyr's reaction.

"Is she... interested in something else?"

It’s a strange wording, Geralt thinks, and even stranger is the fact that Emhyr sounds curious, above all. He replies, "And if so, Your Highness?"

"It’s Majesty, but I suppose you know that very well, Geralt. Well, that would be... unpleasant, I shall think."

Geralt thinks he must have misheard, but you never know. He walks on, his plate still firmly in his hand, because yes, he has a fondness for shrimp, and if Emhyr really cared about this conversation, he would follow him.

He follows him.

"Don't you think?" he asks as if he’s actually interested, watching Geralt fill his plate, and Geralt snorts, "Why exactly would that be unpleasant?"

"Apart from reasons of state," Emhyr begins, but then lowers his voice, because of course they’re not alone. The buffet has ears, so to speak. Lots of them. "Apart from that, you realize that this marriage must serve various purposes. It must satisfy the people, mean a visible gain for Nilfgaard..."

"But doesn't it matter what satisfies Ciri?" Geralt asks quietly, pointing to the dance floor, where she’s just pushing a young man across. She leads, she knows no other way. And Geralt thinks that it should be this way. That every woman should have the right to decide for herself. He knows Ciri will eventually learn and adapt the court’s subtle ways, as has her grandmother. She can’t change the world, and that’s sad. But maybe it should start at some point. It should start with her deciding whom she wants to marry, right? "Look, now she's dancing with Cerys. A connection with Skellige would certainly have some advantages, Emhyr."

In fact, the man should reprimand him now for addressing Geralt by his first name. But his usual sternness is hidden behind the wolf mask. Maybe even more than that.

"Skellige," the emperor replies quietly, "would laugh theirselves silly. Or go to war. I don't think Cirilla would risk it."

"That's your only concern?" asks Geralt in surprise, albeit a bit muffled, this buffet has good shrimp. "Proposed with the idea that your daughter could marry a woman, all you can think about is the political implications?"

"Everything has political implications, whether you like it or not."

"Really? That's your answer? Not oh no, my daughter can never marry a woman?"

"Are you shocked, Geralt? Then I guess there's more Nordling in you than I thought."

With these words, Emhyr leaves him, and the evening passes without a single scandal.

However, Geralt is preoccupied with the question for much longer than he would like to admit to himself. It's one of those moments when he deeply regrets how things turned out after Yennefer summoned the djinn. Because although it had made him painfully aware that he had been clinging to a lie for years, he had also lost his friend in the process. And although there have been many years in which he and Yen were not on speaking terms, it’s unfavorable now. But maybe it's just as well, because there may be another reason why Emhyr's words are bothering him, and it's buried so deep that it's better not to shake it. Telling Emhyr about Cerys was kind of a dry run for something Geralt hasn’t even admitted to himself. And maybe there actually is only one person to talk about this topic, and it’s not Dandelion, mind you. It’s Ciri herself.

She thinks it's hilarious.

"You told Emhyr what?" she repeats for the third time.

Geralt sighs and says, "Thought I was doing you a favor. You don't seem to like this Morvran guy very much."

"Oh yeah?" Ciri's eyes flash cockily. "And you couldn't think of anything better than Cerys an Craite, my childhood playmate. Whereupon he wrinkled his nose and told you that it would be better for the realm if it were at least another Nilfgaardian noblewoman."

"He was wearing a mask, no idea what he wrinkled," Geralt returns sourly, "and... wait, you'd be interested in, uh, noblewomen?"

"Good heavens, Geralt. Don’t you think it’s a little late for that kind of conversation?" Ciri laughs so loudly that the few walkers in the meagre palace garden turn to look at her. "But if you must know, I'm quite open-minded. Be it men or women."

"But…" Geralt feels at loss of words, and if he could blush he might just now. Strangely enough, this feels… liberating, for whatever reason.

"No buts," she says now, much more seriously. "When I decided to take this path, I was aware of the consequences. A strategic marriage is the best thing for Nilfgaard. Still, Geralt, one thing I've learned from you is that love should come first. And I’m convinced that both is possible, even if Emhyr may see it differently."

"Love hasn't really taken me very far," Geralt replies quietly.

"You've got that wrong. It’s actually taken you and me a long way." Ciri pats his back, ready to leave Geralt in quite the confused state although he couldn’t say why, exactly, but she turns one more time to add, "Oh, and it’s not Cerys, by the way."

"Hm?"

"About your talk with Emhyr. You basically wanted to get him to admit that he’s fine with me marrying whoever I love, right? I will, don’t you worry. It’s just not Cerys."

If that's even possible, Geralt is only more bewildered after this conversation. It's as if Ciri has triggered something inside him that he had last thought about decades ago, something he’d dismissed as one of those things that stood in the way of a need to appear more human. Humanity, however, has proven that it never believed he could have anything in common with it. So, why should he even bother if he harbored feelings that weren’t exactly in line with society?

Geralt hasn’t much time to think about it. A man has to earn money, so he’s dealing with everyday's monsters, some of which happen to be human, and then there’s also Emhyr. Ever since the ball, Geralt has had the feeling that shadows are following him in the form of Nilfgaardian soldiers, and every few weeks the man finds another opportunity to summon him to the palace. He keeps him busy with trifles that Geralt cannot refuse for Ciri's sake – and because he is the Emperor, damnit. Again and again, he engages him in conversation, alone in his study room. Well, he is never alone, of course. The Impera at the door, however, are chosen on the basis of loyalty and discretion, which may not apply to every member of the court, as Geralt soon learns.

"If it's not Cerys, who is it?"

It is clear that this is not just musing, but a clear question, almost an order to Geralt to finally reveal the answer.

"Do you have eavesdroppers in the palace garden?"

"Does that surprise you?"

"What surprises me," Geralt says thin-lipped, "is that it doesn't seem to bother you."

Emhyr regards him almost startled. "Geralt, you've been here how many times since Ciri moved in?" he returns, "You still haven't learned anything about Nilfgaard in all this time? All those conversations with Henry var Attre and his daughter… don't give me that look, of course I know about your supposed fencing lessons."

Well, the fencing lessons. Geralt could have guessed that there were holes in the cloak of this secrecy. Because he had, in fact, spent some time with Rosa and her father to find out more about Nilfgaard. Some kind of further training to be able to support Ciri later on. That’s what he claimed to them, at least. And perhaps that was partly true. But there was also another part, a hidden part, which had been a strange motivation to be babbled at by two not particularly fascinating people.

"I don't get it," Geralt admits grudgingly, "though I’m well aware of the political dimensions of a marriage with Skellige, but..."

"I have my doubts about that," Emhyr replies with a ... a wink? Perhaps he has a speck of dust in his eye. "But that's not the point. Geralt, some things Nilfgaardians simply see differently from the people of the North. Especially, well, the common folk."

"Sure, the peasants probably wouldn't understand," Geralt muses, unamused. "Wait. Do you mean ... same-sex marriage? In Nilfgaard?"

"Not very often, but not unusual either. Quite common among knights, in fact, in order not to lose the claim to a fief. Occasionally also occurs among kings, for similar reasons. And... well. It’s said my great-great-grandfather..."

Emhyr breaks off and looks away, as if this is really not a topic to discuss with a witcher. Geralt swallows. His palms feel strangely damp. "If that were the case," he replies boldly, "you wouldn't be here today."

"Hm. The concept that Ciri tried to explain to you seems to have passed you by. Would that really be so bad, Geralt? Is love actually one of the feelings that has been completely driven out of witchers?"

"I don't know."

"But you spent many years with the sorceress from Vengerberg."

"Decades," Geralt sighs. "Doesn’t mean I understand love. Or even… know it."

"And because you claim to not know it," Emhyr replies pointedly, „you can’t imagine there’s more to love than what our parents told us?"

"Haven’t really had parents."

"You’re evading my question, Geralt."

Geralt shrugs. Suddenly, he feels so small beneath Emhyr’s gaze. And the question is quite simple. Is it bad to love men and women? Is it bad to love differently, be differently, like the blacksmith he met in Novigrad or the hunter he met in Velen or…

"I simply want Ciri to be happy," he finally says.

Emhyr shrugs. "Happiness is even more complex to a ruler, I’m afraid. Don’t you think I would want that, too? Nobody can undo their past. We only have the future to look forward to. I want Nilfgaard to have a future, and it has my daughter to ensure this. If it is with a woman, so be it. She can still have an heir. So no, I’m not bothered. I would be, though, if it was not somebody that’s valuable for both her and the realm."

He laughs. It’s a quiet, almost restrained laugh, and a sound rarely heard in this palace. It’s also a pleasant sound, Geralt realizes with surprise, because he likes it.

"Does that apply to you, too?" he asks without thinking. Emhyr tilts his head. "To me?"

"Do you have to ... be with someone who gives you an advantage? Someone sufficient for Nilfgaard? That can’t be too hard, there’ve been many noble women eying you at the ball. Yet you haven’t announced your wedding. You also were never seen with any women in the palace besides your own court sorceress, and given your suspicion around magic, she’s probably not it, and…"

"Geralt, you’re babbling," says Emhyr in a strangely soft voice.

Geralt looks at him, and he notices quite a few things. Emhyr has very brown eyes with tiny speckles in them. He can speak softly with those sensual lips. He’s fascinating in his own way. It’s… odd. Confusing. It’s also nice. And it ges even nicer, because now this face and these eyes come closer. Maybe there’s a hint of insecurity in them, for the fraction of a second. But this is the Emperor. He’s not an insecure man, and his lips touch Geralt’s, and for a while, his mind goes blank.

"What do you think," he says after a while, even if Geralt is still processing the kiss, "is one of the advantages for me that Cirilla was willing to accept her inheritance? I can do what I want. Love whoever I want."

"How did you know?" asks Geralt, running a finger over his lips in bewilderment. Did that really happen? "That I wanted that too, I mean."

"Intuition," Emhyr says, tapping his temples in a strangely ridiculous gesture, "and a lot of spies who are a burden on the state treasury, I'm afraid."

Their hands find each other almost automatically, intertwining fingers. Geralt has almost forgotten that the Impera are still at the door, but they're basically like living statues, and he doesn't even care if he becomes the number one topic of conversation in the palace’s rumor mill today. There's a knock at the door, the moment when the Impera become a little livelier again, but it's actually Ciri. A strange coincidence, and yet Emhyr does not pull his hands away, not even when they see Morvran is with her. Ciri just looks briefly at their interlaced fingers and smiles.

"Father," she says, "or shall I say fathers since you’re both here, I have an announcement to make."

Morvran Voorhis' cheeks turn red. Geralt looks at him with fascination, suddenly struck by a premonition.

Ciri takes Morvran's hand, beams at Emhyr and says, "Morvran and I are getting married."

"W... What?" For a moment, Emhyr's facial features slip, but he quickly catches himself and clears his throat. "Well, it's good that you've come to your senses, child."

"Wait, hang on," Geralt interjects, confused, "why Morvran now?"

Ciri laughs out loud. Too loud for the palace, really, but Geralt can see that Voorhis is almost glued to watching her. And now he gets it. This is Ciri, the girl who tricked Vesemir when she didn't want to train, who got Eskel to do Lambert's chores in the kitchen and taught Geralt what a soft heart is. She winks at him.

"Morvran just needed some impetus," she says, and Morvran is really blushing now. "He seemed to think I was a trophy that belonged to him, so I had to take away his illusions. We've been dating for a while, you know? I like him, I really do. But he shouldn't think he can have me so easily. Love, you two. Love is the key. I think he's realized it now."

She grins, and Morvran smiles at her like a lovesick fool. Apparently, he has, thinks Geralt. His heart is light as he looks at Emhyr.

A year later, a double wedding takes place, and it's the most beautiful celebration Nilfgaard has ever seen.

(Why the title, you ask? Because I'm in an absolute brainrot for this song)

[thespoonhasreturn]

I read quid pro quo by @dsudis again and had to do this, I'm failing miserably at drawing something for the second story part but i have many ideas for part 3 and 4

[consistentsquash]

Witcher Slash Fic Rec - Wiosna

Wiosna by eldritcher

Pairing - Geralt/Emhyr. Rating - M. 50000 words.

Canon blind reading - I don't feel this is going to make sense without canon understanding.

Rec because - If you are done with winter already and need some spring in your life this is for you! I don't know how a fic can feel like a season. But this one definitely has that. It's got a joyful happy ending. It's a really joyful fic. Not fluffy, pretty dark and intense. But really joyful. Ends with a kiteflying competition! <3

Something really unique in my opinion is the cultural vibe. It feels grounded in the same cultural vibe of the canon. Even the prose feels like it's got that vibe. Dark, melancholy, evocative, hopeful.

Beautiful hurt/comfort old school slash fic. Midlife crisis emotionally messed up dudes. No big plot. 100% characterization and interiority focus. The pacing is gentle and it gets the feelings to soak. Like slowcooker chicken soup if slowcooker chicken soup has got lots and lots of smut.

The smut is really hot and also we get a lot of it. Complicated power dynamics. The relationship arc is beautiful.

Not really bombastic. No high drama or big moments. But it's got a sneaky undercurrent with really dark folklore which gets resolved and feels like the winter to spring transition.

Geralt's characterization feels true to Canon Geralt. Really other, really jaded, really cautious but also hopeful. Same for Ciri. Emhyr's characterization is brilliant. He is messed up and messy is fun in fic.

Two big relationship arcs. Geralt/Emhyr is the romance. Ciri's reconcilation with Emhyr is the platonic side. It's not really a fixit because nothing gets fixed which makes sense for this canon. I don't know how to explain. But I feel the intricacy/nuance made the relationship arcs more beautiful in this case.

It gets the twisted Rumpelstiltskin type canon vibe with a happy ending.

Getting a Vibe Quote is super hard because it's a flowing fic and hard to excerpt. But it's great. Trust me! <3

art source Mazur by Zofia Stryjenska, Joys of Spring by Rene Lelong

[dsudis]

Who wants some sleepy domestic Emhyr/Geralt?

Got a kind of bewildering ask yesterday that I won't bother answering directly as it didn't seem particularly relevant to me, but it did remind me how much I enjoyed writing Witcher fic, and that I still have some bits of Emhyr/Geralt(/Eskel) fic I was working on that I've never shared, and I am in a sharing mood today!

This is from what would have been Urbe Aureā #5, in which Emhyr begins his courtship of Eskel by offering him any witcher's favorite thing: a job in Toussaint. Geralt, naturally, goes along with him, and then they come home to the palace in Nilfgaard, mostly unscathed...

Geralt knew just what to do this time, returning to Nilfgaard in the middle of the night. He parted from Eskel with a mumbled agreement to meet again in the morning, shed his weapons and everything else he could without scandalizing any servants he met, and went directly to Emhyr's rooms. 

He reached up to run a hand over the stubble that was all the hair left on the lower part of his head now. It was two days' growth, because that was how long it had taken him, Eskel, and occasionally Lambert, to deal with every other little problem someone had brought to their attention after the wraiths were dealt with.  

He hadn't been dawdling this time--not like the days he'd spent in Tretogor chasing down stray bandits and necrophages. He just... couldn't go off and leave the place knowing there was a problem with giant centipedes popping out of somebody's vineyard, and a nasty ghost haunting somebody else's well--and then he'd had to make a few patrols to check for signs of any vampires who'd started making nuisances of themselves since he left. Those always turned up again when there had been a lot of them in one place, like seeds germinated by a forest fire. 

But now, at last, he was done and back again. He and Eskel had availed themselves of the baths B.-B. had had waiting for them after they got back from sorting out those fleders, and then they'd agreed with barely a word to head back through the portal. They'd left Lambert asleep under his workbench, knowing well that he'd be happier to bitch about them leaving without a goodbye than to actually suffer through any parting scene. 

And, after all, he knew exactly where to find them if he wanted them. 

Geralt let himself into Emhyr's rooms and hesitated, listening out for a moment, but Emhyr didn't rush out to meet him as he had that time before. Maybe he'd slept a little easier, knowing Geralt had left on Emhyr's own errand, and with backup to boot. Maybe he just didn't expect Geralt to have returned after only a few days. 

Either way, there was no point lingering in the sitting room. Geralt let himself into the bedchamber, and his heart did something painful and fond at the sight of Emhyr sleeping. He tried to ignore it, willed it away, even as he was walking over. He was at the side of the bed when he remembered: he loved Emhyr, and he knew that, and Eskel knew that, and Emhyr probably knew that, and as yet that hadn't brought about any more than the usual amount of destruction.  

He could just... feel it. He could look at Emhyr sleeping, with his head on one pillow and another tucked under his arm like he'd lost the knack of sleeping without another body to lean against, and feel like he belonged there. In Emhyr's bed, in his arms, in his life, because that was a role he could fill, a job he could do. He could be the Emperor's Witcher and like it.  

Emhyr didn't move--didn't give himself away, if the lurker in his bedchamber had been anyone less astute--but Geralt knew the moment he woke.  

"Not an assassin," Geralt said softly. "Just--" 

Emhyr pushed himself up to sit, a wash of delight turning his craggy features almost young, in the little light that reached Geralt's eyes. Mindful that Emhyr could see even less than he could in this dark, he stepped forward, holding his hands out, saving Emhyr the trouble of disentangling himself from the bedcovers.  

"My dear witcher," Emhyr murmured, catching his hands and tugging him closer still, then catching his mouth in a kiss. "Where is your partner?" 

Geralt laughed a little against Emhyr's mouth. "Not so quickly won over as that, dear majesty. But he did come back with me, safe and sound. He's in his own room, probably already asleep." 

"Excellent," Emhyr said, and he genuinely did sound pleased. And he'd asked about Eskel first thing, when he might have ignored the whole matter of him until morning, and that, too, made Geralt's heart squeeze.  

"And yourself?" Emhyr went on, his hands releasing Geralt's and sliding up his arms. "You smell clean enough, but you know I am not as keen as one of you. Any injuries? Any trouble?" 

"Not as such," Geralt said, climbing onto the edge of the bed so Emhyr could reach more of him, and taking Emhyr's hand to guide it up to the base of his skull. "Lost some hair." 

"A pity," Emhyr murmured, running warm fingers over the shorn part of Geralt's scalp before he settled his hand on the nape of Geralt's neck and tugged him into a deeper kiss.  

Geralt leaned into Emhyr's firm grip, his whole body easing, muscles relaxing that had been faintly tensed for days on end. That human-strong hold on him and Emhyr's mint-clean mouth coaxing his open meant that he was home safe, done with the job, and it was finally time to let his guard down. He let himself sway into Emhyr, trusting his weight to the solid warmth of Emhyr's body. 

Emhyr let out a little grunt, though his body betrayed no great evidence of straining under the pressure. He closed his other arm around Geralt and eased them both down, not bothering to sort out the covers or get Geralt naked--as though all that mattered was both of them here, at their ease. As though he needed nothing more than that. 

Geralt sighed, nuzzling at Emhyr's chest, and went out like a blown candle. 

[stophatevernonciri]

To your stupid iornon, the whole toxic fandom is being drawn by art, fan fiction is being written, a ton of admiration is being written. Why doesn't Roche/Ciri deserve at least a little of the same? Why did you kill him? Because I was trying to protect him from you and your friends? And you killed him anyway.