#geralt hurt/comfort fic

[podcastenthusiast]

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

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

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

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

"Jaskier."

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

"Just do it, Jaskier."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He just— like as a test— what—?"

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

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

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

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

"Stop it," the witcher snaps.

"What?"

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

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

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

"Geralt..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hm."

The fire crackles.

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

"What? You're joking!"

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

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

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

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

"No."

"Forgive me, but that's adorable."

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

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

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

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

"Of course you did."

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

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

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

[viking-raider]

A Witcher's Soul

Summary: When tragedy strikes, Geralt of Rivia seeks comfort in the arms of one woman.

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia/Reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Warning: PG - Abandonment Issues, Child Abandonment, Fluff Parental Loss, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Memories, Bathing, Love Confession, Soft!Geralt, Character's Death

Inspiration: This scene from Season Three of the Witcher! 😭

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoy this! Line divider by @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS!

If you would like to get notifications for my writing! Just follow my Tag List blog, @VIKING-RAIDER-TAGLIST and turn on the notifications for it! It’s that easy!

Geralt rode Roach hard, only deviating from his path to guide the powerful black horse around a tree or rock. He gripped the worn brown reins tightly, feeling them cut into the top of his bare hands as he urged Roach to move faster, foam already starting to gather around his bit. The Witcher's mind raced, desperately trying to push down the power of the news he received from a good friend, while trying to help someone he'd found on the job. He struggled for a few days, trying to push it down, telling himself it didn't hurt.

She had left him almost a century ago, at this point.

Witchers had no emotions, he told himself, as a means to drive them back. It didn't work however, the emotions continued to smash into him.

So, he left in the dead of night, not a word to Anika, Otto, or even Jaskier, of where he was going or why. Though, he was sure Anika would know why. Geralt covered almost a whole league by the end of morning, cutting through the forest outside of Murivel, until he reached a modest clearing and an even more modest, three-room hut constructed in the middle of it, a stone and clay well on the left side, the bucket swaying softly in the breeze.

Roach came to a hard stop, hooves cutting deep grooves in the grassy earth, with Geralt wasting no time in dismounting the stallion and stomping across the yard to the front door. His sore and broken heart rose up with hope that it would swing open and the face of the one he was seeking would appear, to greet him. But, the door didn't open to him, instead he was greeted another way.

“Geralt!” A soft and confused voice called out.

He swung around on his boot heels, his golden eyes zeroing in on you as you stood just passed the tree-line, a basket of herbs and mushrooms balanced on your hip, as you regarded the Witcher. You hadn't seen Geralt in over a year, since he decided he needed to go to Cintra to make sure Ciri was safe from the sea of black and gold he'd seen on the Amell Pass. After the Dragon Hunt. You had heard the thunder of the new Roach's hooves coming up the path to your home, while you were gathering in the forest, and came to see who it was. You were surprised to see Geralt in general, but you were worried by how rushed he seemed.

“Geralt, what's amiss?” You asked, coming to close the gap between you. “Are you well?” You inquired, seeing the unusually deep crease between his brow and across his forehead, and how his complexion was paler, almost matching his hair.

Geralt took a deep breath through his nose, lips pressed together for a moment, working up the strength to speak. “I need you.” He finally rasped, his expression breaking into something soft and vulnerable.

“You rode all the way from wherever, just for time with me?” You smirked, tisking.

“Please.” Geralt replied, reaching out to grasp your free hand and squeezing it, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles, his expression breaking even more.

You frowned at him, all jest dying inside of you, seeing his wall fall before you and the pain he was being crushed underneath. “Let's go inside.” You whispered softly, tilting your head towards your door.

Nodding, Geralt reached out for your basket, but shaking your head and swatting it away gently, you pushed the front door open and put your hand on his arm, guiding him inside. You set your basket on a large table and turned towards the just as large fireplace, grabbing wood from the dog grate and tossed it in. Building it back up, sparks flying up the chimney. You moved to Geralt, who stood motionless beside the table, taking his hand and guided him over to the chair at the head of the table, gently coaxing him to sit down, then knelt before him. Grabbing the heel of his boot and his calf, you tugged the muddy, black leather off and set it underneath the table, followed by its twin. There was dust and mud covering his black clothing. You brushed your palm over his knee and thigh, casting some of it off, before standing up again and starting for the next room, only to have Geralt grasp your wrist and pull you into his lap. His arms wrapped around your shoulders as he buried his face into your chest, and breathed deep.

You frowned at him, sympathetically brushing your fingers through his hair and pulling it free of its usual tie, his white strands cascading over his shoulders. You nosed the top of his head, caressing the back of his hair and squeezing his bicep, still confused as to why he was there and what was ailing him so much.

“Geralt.” You whispered into his strands. “Tell me, what's happened?” You asked, your fingertips brushing the back of his neck. “Did you not make it to Ciri in time? Has something happened to her or Jaskier?” You inquired, licking your lips as your heart thundered against his forehead. “I noticed that isn't the Roach you had the last time you were here.” You pointed out, remembering the sweet Chestnut you used to feed and brush, when Geralt stayed with you, but now there was a sturdy black stallion standing in your dooryard.

He shook his head and cleared his throat. “No, they're both fine.” He rasped, turning his head to rest his temple against your collarbone. “As for the last Roach, she was killed by a Chernobog, a few months ago.” He added, softly.

“Oh, I'm so sorry.” You cooed, tucking his hair behind his ear. “Then, what's the matter with my Wolf?”

He was still and quiet again, for a long time, his fingers restlessly toying with the strings at the back of your bodice, before suddenly standing with you still in his arms, and turning to sit you on the chair in his place. He went out the door, rounding the house to the well and dropped the bucket to the bottom. You watched Geralt come back inside with each bucket, holding it in one hand, like it was the weight of one of his swords. Pausing in the open doorway and giving you a hard stare every time, as if he expected to find you moved off the chair or vanished completely. Only then, did he go to your large cauldron, dumping the full bucket in and returning back outside for another.

“Are you going to tell me, what's the matter, Geralt?” You asked, your concern only mounting with his bizarre behavior and irregular moodiness.

“Nothing.” He grunted harshly, setting the cauldron over the fire to boil.

“That's a lie.” You answered, just as sharply, being one of the few people on the Continent brave enough to talk back to the White Wolf in such a manner; other than Jaskier and Ciri. “You wouldn't have come from the bum fuck of Nilfgaard to see me, if something wasn't bothering you.” You insisted, glaring at his back.

Geralt ignored you, heading towards the back rooms of your home and leaving you more worried and annoyed at his behavior. He came back a few minutes later with no shirt on, and your suspicions on his task were answered. Despite what the people of the great Continent thought of Geralt of Rivia, he did not in fact like smelling of death, blood and horse. When he stopped for the winter at Kaer Morhen or with you, he bathed regularly. He just found it more a nuisance to do so while on the Trail, since the next Contract or sleeping rough would only dirty him up again.

Pulling the roiling cauldron off the fire, Geralt carried it to the large, soaking tub you boosted in your bathroom. He filled it almost to the brim, before adding in Lavender and Sage bath salts to the steaming water. A fragrant haze filled the room as he tugged his pants off and tossed them over a chair in the corner. He strode out of the bathroom, returning to you, still sitting where he'd left you. He took your hand and helped you stand, untying the strings of your bodice and tugging down your dress, so it pooled around your feet, before slipping his arm under your knees and an arm around your shoulders, scooping you up against his chest.

You sighed softly, wrapping your arms around his neck, while he carried you to the bathroom. “I missed you.” You whispered into his ear, as he stepped into the tub, lowering you both into it.

“And I, you.” Geralt replied, holding you in his lap and resting back. “Ciri and Jaskier are well, by the way.” He said, his fingertips stroking the skin of your side, beneath the water. “Ciri is being watched over by Yennefer, who's helping her try and control her magic and Jaskier was with Anika, last I left him.”

“Anika?” You frowned, tilting your head back against his shoulder. “Why is Julian with Anika? If he's well.”

Geralt's thick, scarred arms squeezed around you, almost painfully, making you squirm in his lap. “You remember my mother.” He mumbled, barely audible. “Visenna.” He said so quietly, you had to strain to hear it.

“Yes, I recall you telling me of her, a few years after we met.” You murmured, seeing the strained expression on his face. “And that you'd seen her at Sodden Hill. She healed you, after the ghoul bite.”

“I remember bits of my life with my Ma.” He rasped, his grasp on you loosening, but he still held you close to him. “She smelled like embers, from keeping our measly fires alive during the long nights.” He told you, the crease between his golden eyes slowly vanishing as he went back to that time, tapping into that abandoned little boy, he had never grown out of, but skillfully concealed from those he didn't cherish. “We were quite poor, even though she was skilled as a healer. So, she-” He paused, his voice thickening and his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

You looked up at him, seeing the redness in the whites of his eyes and the unshed tears threatening on his lashes. It frightened you to see the Witcher like this. In the fifteen years you'd known him, you'd seen him in many states, but you had never seen Geralt cry. Reaching up, you cupped his scruffy cheek in your hand and thumbed a droplet away, pressing your lips to his jawline.

“She would use her magic to create the most elaborate meals that we couldn't afford.” He continued, tilting his head into your hand. “There was—I would have done anything to make her smile. And yet,” He voice broke again, this time with more than just hurt and abandonment, but with resentment. “The day she left me, she was sick. She needed some water, so I went to get her some, and when I came back to the road...she was gone.” He croaked, pushing his jaw forward and shaking his head, trying to deny the burn of more tears.

His fingertips pressed into the skin of your side and back. “I called for her.” He said weakly, his golden eyes off in the distance. “But she was gone.” He whimpered, the tears finally winning out, dripping off his jaw and into your hair and the bath water.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your forehead to his neck and hugging your arms around his torso. You had known Visenna had abandoned Geralt. He had told you that bluntly not long after you had met. The torture of her leaving him there, to be taken away to Kaer Morhen, where he'd suffered such agony in his transformation into a Witcher, at just five years old, coupled with the pain he never got over with his mother.

You wondered how Geralt had survived at all.

But no, Geralt was strong, even from a young age.

“She's dead.”

You pulled out of your thoughts, shocked. “She's dead?”

“She was giving aid to some villager and was mistaken as an Elf.” Geralt told you, bringing a hand out of the water to wipe it over his face. “They beat her severely and she later died, at the Temple of Mourning, where Anika was. Which is how I found out.”

“I'm so sorry, Geralt.” You cooed, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, connecting the dots to his arrival. “I hope the two of you were able to make some sort of easement between you, when you last met.”

Geralt pressed his lips together and buried his face into your hair, his throat too tight to speak in the moment. He considered how he and Visenna last met, in the forest outside of Sodden Hill, as he laid feverish and hallucinating from a Ghoul bite to the leg. After saving a poor Merchant, who was trying to bury the dead from a camp Nilfgaard had attacked. At first, she had tried to conceal her identity from him, pretending to be Renfri, Yennefer and finally, you, before he managed to discover who it really was. Triggered by her belief that, People linked by Destiny, will always find each other.

He asked her what she thought of his eyes. Demanding to know, if she knew what they did to improve a Witcher's eyes. Telling her that it didn't always work. She had begged him to stop. Calling him by his name, only for Geralt to reject her right to do so, like she had rejected him. He had begged to know if she knew how many boys actually made it through the Trials. Tears filled both of their eyes as they stared at each other in the darkness.

In the end, his Ma had left him, again, fading into the night, trying to convince him she was just a dream and he would never get the answer he wanted.

So, had he made peace with his mother abandoning him, forcing him on the Path of the Witcher?

No. Geralt decided in the end, he had not.

The only thing Geralt did know was he wanted you. You were the first person he had thought of, upon finding out about his mother's death. Wanting to feel you against him and needing the comfort only you were able to provide. You shifted out of Geralt's lap, moving around him, while reaching over the side of the tub, grabbing the small cup that sat on the foot board there. Dipping it into the water and gently pouring it over Geralt's silvery-white strands, you set aside and took up a round, solid bar of honey and chamomile scented soap, using it to work his hair into a rich lather. Geralt moaned, feeling your fingers massage his scalp, resting forward to prop his elbows on his bent knees, eyes falling shut.

“I love you.” He murmured, quietly.

You stopped, resting your hands on his broad shoulders. “You've never said that before.” You said, looking around at him, mouth softly agape.

“No?” Geralt rasped, cocking a brow over his shoulder at you.

“Not once, in all these years.” You assured him, your hand gently massaging the scarred muscle of his neck.

He turned to you, causing the cooling water to slosh over the edge. “Then, I have a great deal of making up to do.” He cooed, reaching out to cup your face in his rough palm. “Because I do. I love you. Out of everyone, besides perhaps Jaskier and Vesemir, you know me better than anyone, and no one has ever taken better care of me than you have.” He told you, his face betraying the emotions a Witcher truly had, but guarded for their most treasured person, and not those of an abandoned child, rather those of a man in love.

“I love you too, Geralt.” You assured him, turning your head to kiss his hand. “And I will always care for you, me bleidd.” You whispered, picking up the cup to continue washing his hair.

[thewritersaddictions]

Requests: The Witcher: Geralt of Rivia- Spellbound

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Fem!Reader & Ciri x Platonic!Fem!Reader

Pov: Geralt Of Rivia/ Ciri

Warnings: Mages, magic, fighting, Kaer Morhen, Angst, Fluff, memorial statues, death/revival, female witcher!Reader, falling back into love, happy family vibes.

Summary: The only female witcher is frozen in time at Kaer Morhen, but when Geralt brings Ciri there, something magical and extraordinary happens. Reuniting two past lovers.

A/n- @ firefly-graphics for dividers; this is a request.

WC- 2.4k

Requests Master List // The Witcher Master List // The Heros Master List

The first and last female witcher statue stands in the middle of Kaer Morhen. It’s a daily reminder of my failure to protect her and that I must try to be better for her sake. Vesmir had been a helping hand when I lost her. He was the only father figure I had, and I was more than grateful when he chose to have the stone figure of her placed in Kaer Morhen. It was a reminder of how little there were of Witchers like us, but also that love was forever. 

It just stung too much, and I needed to leave Kaer Morhen. Spring was starting a new, and with that, paths and plans were already ready to be brought to action. I packed my little things and took Roach back on the dirty trails that were now not covered in inches of snow. Yet, this path led to a world I’d instead have never been a part of. A law of surprise that leads to a child. A child born to be the princess of Cintra. 

Many more happened before I knew the law of surprise would put her and me on the same path. I’m more than surprised when it leads me straight to her. In an effort to firstly protect the princess and secondly help her because the duty has sadly fallen to me due to the war. I bring her to Kaer Morhen. I get her there to learn and to be supported by Vesmir; then again, I’m reminded of a promise that I must protect Ciri in every possible way, as I couldn’t do so for Y/n. 

Y/n statue stares at me. Her frozen, hurt face, I can hear the echo of screams and how quickly they were cut off before I could make it to the fight. Her beauty hasn’t left her face. A smile that is in the back of my head, but her voice. That beautiful voice. The only thing that could lull me to sleep and keep my spirits high was fading ever so quickly in my mind. All I had left of her were the memories and the statue. Her dress flew in the wind as she was frozen head to toe. 

It had been a mage, an unhappy mage, that had followed us to the mountainside. I remember it now being about me. The memorial was about many things. Y/n had been the only female witcher, so for one, it was a remembrance of that fact alone. Y/n had also said that if she ever died, in battle or at home, she would love to be able to gaze at the morning sunrise and sunset setting. 

I hadn’t realized how long it had been until I arrived at Kear Morhen. Years had passed, and I had gained the child princess and a few friends in those years. Yet even with the people around me, there was still an ache in my chest, so looking at her frozen staring with that scared expression only caused the hurt to grow. 

I introduced Ciri to everyone. Vesmir understood that this was a unique matter at hand. He helped me in any way I needed. I wake Ciri every morning before the morning rose above the mountain tops. “Come, let’s go practice.” At first, it was with swords and then with combat. And every day, Y/n watched us, unmoving and silent. Every day, like clockwork, Ciri would get distracted as she wandered off the battle arena and towards Y/n’s statue. “Who is this?” There was a tiny plaque at the bottom of her lonely statute—Y/n’s name written in a language known to only a few witchers, one of which was Y/n. 

On the plaque, it reads: 

Y/n, L/n 

The First and Only Female Witcher 

We miss you. 

“Someone important,” I tell Ciri, and that’s where I leave it, but I feel I should know better. Ciri will go on an adventure to figure it out herself, regardless of what I want her to know about it. “Let’s return to practice before you get distracted even further,” I tell Ciri, and she follows me obediently, but there is something, and I can feel it as if Ciri is drawn to Y/n. 

–

Geralt doesn’t talk much about his past, and I know he’s got secrets he’s unwilling to share with me right now. There is just something about that statute. I can’t read the plaque below it, yet I do not care. There is a beauty around her, so everyone had to go to bed to rest every night after I sneak out of the room and walk down to the statue. 

I sneak out to talk to her. Unlike Geralt, she couldn’t give me a look of not understanding or dismissing me when he’d heard enough about my thoughts. I just want and need someone to understand me. I would walk out and talk to her for nights in a row. About anything and everything. How training was going, how much I missed my grandmother, the war, and the magic I felt pumping through my veins. Anything that scared me I talked to her about. 

One night, I thought I got caught. I had snuck out after a late dinner. Geralt had said I needed to do more training than when we first arrived here, yet we had already been here for ages. His words and his calm demeanor pissed me off. “You don’t think I can do it, do you?” I yelled at Geralt. I was standing up from the table. The chair slid and scratched the floor in the process. “I never said that,” Geralt said calmly. “Yet you never say I’m doing good; you just grunt and walk away. You don’t even talk to me about anything. Everything is a damn secret, I just want to understand, yet that was the most difficult thing here.” I screamed before stomping to my room, leaving half-uneaten food on my plate. The sound of echoing feet happened hours later, and when I peeked my head out of the room, there was nobody in the living space. 

“I just don’t understand why he doesn’t talk about things. I just want him to teach me and not just grunt at me and then tell me to repeat what I was just doing.” I fuss at the beautiful statue. She’s cleaned every day, and she almost looks real. If I just climbed up and touched her, she would come to life before me. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m not cut out for this stuff,” I mumble as I look down at the ground before me. I must be too into my thoughts because I don’t hear when Vesmir comes behind me. 

“I see you’re out here talking to our beautiful Y/n.” Vesmir said, “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me, Vesmir.” I said, grabbing onto my chest and holding my fast-beating heart. “Wait, did you just say her name?” I asked, whipping around and asking Vesmir. He smiles down gently at me. “Of course, this is the only female witcher ever. She was the best of the best and a loving woman.” Vesmir adds before stepping further next to me. “I’m assuming from your reaction that Geralt hasn’t told you of the story about our dead Y/n.” I shake my head, “Hmm, I wonder, I must tell you now.” 

“So the story goes as follows. Y/n, the only female witcher, was with Geralt. God, they were in love with each other. They thought a hell of a lot of monsters together, but of course, a love story must always have a villain to it. There was a mage, according to Geralt. That had not taken his various forms of saying no to heart.  The mage had dragged Y/n into the fight that unfortunately put her in this frozen state.” Vesmir says, and as he continues to talk, he looks fondly at her.  

“So Geralt and her were together; no wonder he’s so tightlipped about her. He wouldn’t even tell me her name.” I say sadly, looking back up at her. “She is beautiful.” I say in a low, sadden voice, “Y/n is beautiful, I bet she was a great listener.” I say I hear a chuckle from behind “I wish I could have met her.” I say out loud, clearly. My hand sits on the stone base of her boot. “I figure she would have loved to have met you. You are much like her Ciri.” Vesmir adds. 

Just then there’s this moment of consuming silence. My hand still wrapped around her boot. “Ciri?” I hear Vesmir behind me. “What are you doing?” He asks, there’s shock in his voice, and a bit of terror. “I don’t… what are you talking about?” I ask looking up from the gravel beneath my feet. 

Her statue is lite up with a light blue hue. “I wasn’t�� I was just holding her foot that was all I promise you.” The blue hue grows with strength until finally it echos into the sky, streaming onto every single surface it can touch. 

– 

I can sleep here, regardless of the anger that Ciri is pushing towards me. I can only ever sleep here at Kaer Morhen. It brings the past memeoties to the brim of my mind. Y/n fliters through my thoughts. Her voice echoing through my head, the sound of her laugh, the spring scent that followed her around. She was nothing like a witcher, her emotions open and willing to be connected with someone else. I ache in the best and worst ways for her. Yet I don;t dare tell Ciri about her. I can see it now, if Y/n was around she’d just love Ciri. Y/n would be so happy to be acting like her mother. As much as Y/n understood that she was the only female witcher, she also wished to be normal. She wished that she could have kids. It was a sad conversation that the both of us had to have. 

My eyes open with haste. A blue bright light pulling me from my dreams of my perfect family. There’s this searing blue light that is filtering through the walls of Kaer Morhen, and my thought flutter over to Ciri. I hope Ciri is alright. I jump up from the uncomfortable bed. I run through the halls, Ciri’s door is left open. Panic starts to set into my bones. I run around the others coming out of there rooms. The blue hue is fading away, and for a moment I swear I can hear Y/n’s voice. I push that away from my thoughts, as I frantly look for Ciri. I find that the front door is open wide, and when I look out there’s nothing but crumble stone all over the ground. 

“Geralt?” I hear Vesmir say. I look up front he ground swallow hard, bearing for the worst. Instead it’s not the worst. “I need you to believe what I’m about to say.” He says steadily. “Vesmir what are you talking about?” “Just let me finish alright, Ciri has awoken Y/n.” I stand there, my heart beats and my jaw leaps down to the ground in shock. We had tried everything, spells, magic, ruins to fix her condition. “Geralt?” A sweet voice calls from the dust before it all clears. 

There she is, standing in all of her glory. Grey hair that flows in the night wind. Y/n hasn’t aged a single day in the many years that she’s been frozen in her stone state. My hands shake my heart beats so fast I can hear it in my ears. I’ve never fetl a source of panic and relief all in one little moment. “Is that really you?” My voice is shattered and my heart feels as if it’s been broken and put back together all over again. “Oh my dear Geralt. I think you and I both know that it’s me.” Y/n says as her eyes flicker over tot heston slab we put her on, and then to Ciri. My eyes widden with shock. Y/n is most defintly not up there anymore, and the expression on Ciri’s face is easy to read. “Let’s take this inside, is that alright Vesmir?” Y/n asksher voice floating into my ears. It calms my racing heart. 

The walk inside is odd, and perfect all at the same time. We all sit at the same table that Ciri had just recently yelled at me. “Who may this be, Geralt?” She asks me, and it pulls me away from just staring at her. I use to stare at her all the time. Her beauty was always hard to not get distracted by. “This is um… this is Ciri.” I introduce her to Y/n. Y/n smiles sweetly over at her. “It’s a pleasure to met the person who fixed my rather unforotunate situation.” I forget how eloquent Y/n spoke most of the time. “I didn’t know that was going to happen.” Ciri speaks for the first time. “I told Ciri about what happened. Maybe that has something to do with this miracle.” Vesmir says looking over at me. I want to be anger with him and Ciri but the soft, and gentle hand that settles on my arm brings me back to earth. I can’t dare to be mad at either of them.

“I think we should thank them Geralt. As for without their efforts I would not have come back to you.” Y/n says looking over at me. I nod simply. “Thank you for bringing her back to me, Ciri. I owe you a lot more now.” Ciri looks at me notching her head to the side. “Geralt you don’t owe me anything. I just wanted to know moe about Y/n.” Ciri says look at he pair of us. “I would love to tell you more about me in the morning I’m rather tired.” Y/n says it like there’s nothing wrong with that fact. “Will you take me to bed, Geralt?” Y/n asks me, her grasps holding me tight. I shake my head not able to talk just yet. “I missed you.” Y/n says as we walk towards the room we used to share. 

Completed on: 08/27/23

Posted on: 08/28/23

The Heros-

[magdelanesingerin]

Throwing Stones

It’s nearly 11 when Jaskier finally comes floating through the front door of their apartment, tipsy and content and already dreaming of slipping into bed with his boyfriend and drifting off to sleep as he kicks off his shoes and slings his jacket to the floor before picking it up and hanging it dutifully from it’s hook. 

“I’m home, love! Sorry, we got a little carried away, ughhh, I think I drank toooooo many mojitos. They’re just so damn good, that place sticks a whole stick of sugar cane in there as a garnish, you know? I fucking love them, makes me feel like a, a goat or a happy chipmunk or something, just chomping on sugar cane, arng arng arng,” he says playfully biting at nothing as he rounds the corner into the kitchen to see Geralt standing over the sink rinsing dishes and loading the dishwasher. He doesn’t turn, and it takes Jaskier a moment to take in the tension along the line of his shoulders. 

“You didn’t need to wait up, Ger. Victoria says hello, by the way!” he says, and sidles up behind his boyfriend to wrap his arms around his waist and bury his face in the man’s broad back. “Alright, love?” he mumbles into the soft weave of Geralt’s t-shirt. Geralt makes a gruff, vague noise and doesn’t relax into his hold. Jaskier continues to cling like a burr as Geralt bends to put the last of the plates in the dishwasher, then straightens with a sigh to flatten his palms on the counter and hang his head. 

“I called you. Texted.”

“Hmm? Ahh, shit, my phone was on silent…ohh look at that, you sure did,” Jaskier says pulling his phone out of his pocket and blinking at the missed messages owlishly. Oops. “I was just across the street, my love, you could hit the bar with a rock from here. I’m sorry I made you worry.”

“It’s fine,” Geralt says shortly, and pulls away to head toward the bathroom. Jaskier frowns, feeling cold and off balance for a moment before he shuffles after Geralt to lean against the wall next to the closed door. 

“I get the feeling that it isn’t fine,” he calls over the sound of running water and the swish of a toothbrush. “Love?” Geralt doesn’t answer, brushing by him on the way to the bedroom. Jaskier huffs in frustration, letting his head fall back into the wall dramatically. The moment feels precarious, wobbling on the edge of a fight. He could let it go, could let Geralt clam up and go to bed and not push it and…who the fuck is he kidding? He can’t do that. 

“Geralt?” he asks expectantly, trailing along behind. 

“It’s fine, Jask, just drop it,” Geralt mutters and climbs into bed. 

Jaskier snorts and jumps onto the mattress spread-eagled with his face right next to Geralt’s. 

“Yeah, no, that’s not happening,” he says to Geralt’s stubborn glower, smoothing his fingers over his boyfriend’s furrowed brow. “You’re upset, and I’m not going to just ignore it.” 

Geralt grimaces and rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling in silence. Jaskier rests his palm over Geralt’s chest, running the worn fabric between his fingers and humming softly, waiting with as much patience as he can muster and trying to keep his mind from spiraling. The silence stretches on before he feels Geralt’s ribs expand under his hand like a bellows as he finally opens his mouth to speak. 

“It’s stupid.” 

“Alright. Tell me anyway.”

“I…got into my own head. I know you and Victoria used to…it’s… fuck,” he grumbles in obvious frustration, rubbing at his eyes with a hand that trembles slightly. Jaskier sits up on one elbow and looks down at his boyfriend, alarmed. 

“Geralt,” he breathes. “It was just a few drinks. We haven’t seen each other in years, we were just catching up. I would never –”

“I know that. I know,” Geralt growls shortly. “I told you, it’s stupid. I know you wouldn’t cheat, I trust you, I just…”

Jaskier scoffs, shaking his head and trying to ignore the surge of hurt in his chest. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard from his lovers before, of course. The accusation, the judgement, the assumptions, it’s all very familiar. He just never thought he’d hear it from Geralt, and the pain of it makes him angry.

“So, I didn’t answer my phone and you just assumed…fuck, Geralt. You know I’m in this with you. Only you.” His voice is louder than he intends, frustrated and sharp. Fuck, he’s tipsy and he’s fucking this up.

“But it’s not like you never—I know you’ve– fuck , Jaskier, can we just drop it?” Geralt bites out, halting and harsh. 

Jaskier hisses and rolls over to sit on the edge of the bed facing away, fists clenched on the quilt. He tries to bludgeon his brain into coherence as he speaks, jaw clenched and aching.

“Oh, I’m a known slut and slept with married people in my twenties, so obviously I’d go fuck an old friend in a bar bathroom fifty feet away from the apartment I share with my boyfriend, the love of my life, the man that I’ve committed myself to,” Jaskier cries scornfully, then forces himself to take a slow breath, releasing is slowly and counting to center himself before he speaks again. He knows he’s being unfair, but the idea of Geralt doubting him, after all they’ve been through, burns.

“I know she cheated on you, Geralt. I know it hurt you, that infidelity like that really fucks you up,” he says carefully, trying to lower his voice, soften his tone, imagining the neighbors on the other side of their thin apartment walls hearing every word. He’s not sure how successful he is. “I like sex, and I won’t apologize for that. And I haven’t always been particularly thoughtful about who I fuck. I probably should have been, but I don’t regret who I am, who I was. But that was a long time ago, Geralt, and I’m not Yen . Your trust means everything to me and I just… fuck .”

The tears that he finds himself choking on are a surprise. This is not at all how he pictured this night going. He glances back to see Geralt sitting curled up over his knees with his hands buried in his hair, looking miserable. 

“I know . I, I…this is why I didn’t want to say anything. I know it’s fucked up, it’s stupid, that you would never…” There’s a long silence broken only by the sound of Jaskier’s sniffles and Geralt’s wheezing, panicked breaths. 

“You deserve better than this. I don’t know how to be with someone, how to trust again. You’ve given me no reason to doubt you, and–fucking shit. I’ll go, if you want me to,” Geralt says, and he sounds so forlorn, so anguished that Jaskier can’t help but roll back toward him, pulling his hands gently away from where they clutch at his hair and wrapping him up close to his chest as they fall back to the bed in a pathetic huddle. 

“Not a chance,” he murmurs, rubbing soothing circles into Geralt’s back. “I’m keeping you, you ass.”

“Are you sure? I should probably just run off into the woods and be a hermit. I’d be better at that,” Geralt mumbles weakly into his neck, wry and dark.

Jaskier chuckles into Geralt’s hair, a wet and helpless sound.

“God, we’re a mess, aren’t we,” he sighs. 

“Yeah.” 

They lay curled up in each other, breathing and taking comfort in each other’s warmth, muscles slowly relaxing.

“Not nearly as messy as Victoria and her boyfriend, though,” Jaskier smirks eventually, breaking the quiet. “You would not believe the drama, Geralt. Woof. He stole her TV when they broke up. And her couch. And half of her spice cabinet, of all things. He apparently always does this , hardly buys anything for himself. Just…furnishes his whole life with the stuff he takes from his exes, can you imagine?” Geralt snorts. “She said they were moving back in together, but that she’s going to put her name on all her favorite stuff first,” he says, giggling. Geralt’s shoulders shake with repressed laughter, and Jaskier pulls him closer, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Makes me feel extremely well adjusted.” 

“We’re doing great.” 

“We really are,” Jaskier grins and pulls Geralt’s face up to kiss him, long and soft. “Well. We’ve already scandalized the neighbors by shouting at each other. Want to lean into it?” he asks with a suggestive waggle to his eyebrows. Geralt groans and rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, and the way he rolls over to press Jaskier into the bed suggests that he’s not nearly as reluctant as he pretends. 

The neighbors probably hate them, but who cares. Jaskier has more important things to worry about. 

(also on Ao3)

Thank you to @dapandapod for being my favorite beta who refuses to believe she's good at it! <3 <3 <3

[cherryjuicegf]

the kindest thing

It's only like this. Geralt, despite all, will never be alone and Jaskier, despite all, will stay.

for my dear @moonysrz i wish you the happiest of birthdays and all good things in life ♡ || 1.1k, G, emotional hurt/comfort [ao3]

Jaskier is lingering in front of the room's door before he knows it.

Habit, it's a cunning thing. For habit it is. What else, he thinks, lying to himself, what else could lead him up the stairs now, when Geralt barely spared him a look as he entered the inn and walked past him to the room. What else, for he doesn't know if he can bear it anymore, admitting the love.

It is always lacking anyway.

Only, the habit. The way Geralt's eyes, in their momentary glance, were full blown black and his face pale and his hands, no matter how he tried to hide them, were trembling. Jaskier knew better. He knew it was too loud, staying around people, and he knew the shoulders Geralt brushed with a patron almost had him breaking down.

He knew all that because once he used to hold him while the potions faded out, and sometimes he can still feel Geralt's body flinching in his arms, and what a painful comfort, what a loving pain that was.

Now he is touching the door knob and thinks it is the closest he has gotten to touching Geralt the past weeks, after everything.

He closes his eyes, breathes shakily. He can almost hear Geralt's strained breathing on the other side of the door. And his heart clenches, wails, what about it, it won't be like then again, not in the way you want, but oh well, he was never one to walk away, damn his loyalty. He was never one to hide the love.

Slowly, silently, he opens the door.

He knows the sight. Has seen it a thousand times before. Geralt hunched at the side of the bed, shoulders tense so as not to betray their shaking, back turned so as not to betray the pain. Only he never managed to hide from Jaskier.

And now Jaskier doesn't know if he wants to remind him that. Still. He enters the room, and closes the door behind him.

One. Two steps. Ever silent, ever careful.

A whisper. "Geralt?" And oh, what an ache it leaves on his tongue, calling his name in silence, what a sweet compromise. Still, no answer. He stands beside him, raises his hand just right over his shoulder, and lets it hover. Burning almost. "Can I get you anything?" Slowly. A brush of fingers, just to reassure.

"No," Geralt flinches at once and he steps back like a scared animal. Hand still raised with no place to rest.

He knows. The gruff tone, the strained voice. The abrupt tone. It's the potions. Only now Geralt's voice is just a little more sharp, as though he is afraid of letting out too much of himself. Only now it hurts just a little more deeply, and just a little too personal.

He watches as Geralt's fists curl on his lap and, defeated, he nods with a small smile. "If you want anything, you can..."

Call me, he would say. Ask me anything. Ask me to stay by your side forever, and I will. I will do it even if you don't ask. He would say. But he stays silent. For better or for worse, even now, Geralt already knows, and it's still not enough.

Thus he turns around.

"Jaskier."

Nothing. A breath of a voice, as though it doesn't want to be heard. Or just wants to be heard by Jaskier alone, because Jaskier always hears. Heart digging its way out, he looks at Geralt again and, oh, Geralt looks back. And it's nothing like he thought.

It's exactly as he knows, and selfishly pretends to have forgotten. Geralt looks at him still slumped, eyes still half black and sunken in their sockets and drowning in what feels like regret. Like a plea.

Sometimes Jaskier thinks maybe it's also his fault, just a little. Maybe he doesn't reach out enough, or has to reach out too much, because the deeper the wound, the stronger the cure must be.

A plea indeed. Geralt suddenly looks like the shell of who he is, shaking and wanting, exhausted, and in the shadow of his gaze Jaskier discerns the same need, no, want, that tortures his empty hands, his gaping embrace. And what a fool he is, he who was never hesitant in love, holding back from the one who needs it the most.

He holds his breath, smile ever present, and gentle. "Perhaps if..." Clears his throat. "Do you want me to--"

Hold you. Do you want me to hold you. He doesn't need to say, because Geralt almost sobs with longing, and something breaks in his face, and leaves him crumpled and bare. "Please." Then, as though remembering, he lowers his look. Shakes his head. "If you want." Begging, desperate. "Just for a bit."

Gods. Gods, and poets and lovers and damned verses, they matter not as his heart weeps inside his chest and Jaskier lets out the breath he was holding, a huff, relieved and almost incredulous. Of course he wants. Lacking, he only ever wants.

Slowly, silently, almost shaking, he sits on the bed and leans back on the pillows, and bares the screaming hole of his arms with hope at last to complete it.

And oh, how gently Geralt fits in his hug, how perfectly. Just like he always did. Hesitant, at first, until he buries his face in his chest and Jaskier feels trembling hands crawling behind his back, limbs tangled in a desperate attempt to be hidden, tucked away in familiar warmth, and safe.

And suddenly all that remains unspoken doesn't matter anymore. Suddenly nothing matters, only this, here, Jaskier wrapping his arms tight around Geralt's body, tighter still so that he never loses him again, only this, the beat of their hearts filling the silence between them as one slows at last, and the other beats faster, and Jaskier hides his face in white hair, and lets the burning flood in his eyes flow down.

"I miss you." A whisper. Only that, and Geralt hides deeper, as though to disappear in the most welcoming absence.

Jaskier feels his shirt suddenly damp, and closes his eyes, breath shaky. "Oh, Geralt." And unspoken everything will remain, for no words can fill the void better than this, holding him at last. He presses a kiss on his hair, ever so soft, and rests his cheek there, voice quivering. "Oh, darling. I'm so sorry."

Geralt doesn't speak. Only, he clings on him tighter, and cries silently.

Maybe it's nobody's fault, after all. It's only like this. Geralt, despite all, will never be alone, and Jaskier, despite all, will stay. As he does now.

He stays until Geralt's heartbeat is slow and faint, and his eyes have closed.

[kikidoesfanfic]

What we found in the fire

KikiDoesFanfic on ao3

Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, The Witcher (TV) Rating: E Graphic Depictions Of Violence Words: 27,281 Chapters: 11/11 On Ao3

Summary:

Jaskier is captured and tortured by Nilfgard for information on where Geralt would take and hide the Lion Cub of Cintra, and of course it doesn't matter to them that Geralt discarded him on that mountain top.

With the way things are playing out Geralt may have his blessing after all.

~~~

They return to him on the 13th day, clearly fed up with his refusal to answer their questions, two guards carrying a brazier and a bucket of water in behind them. From where he was strung up he could see as they loaded it with wood and kindling starting a fire. Not good.

He flinched as the man grabbed his chin softly to tilt his face towards him, it had been confusing at first, him being kind, but as his first days with them passed he realised the manipulation of it. The woman was harsh with him, brutal in her methods, then Fergus would return after, with soft words and crooning comfort, apologising and asking Jaskier to answer so they didn't have to hurt him more. Jaskier did not want his comfort.

Fergus had been the one to approach him in the beginning, he'd been at a tavern performing as usual, receiving flirtatious winks and keeping eye contact. He was approached during his break by Fergus carrying a tankard of ale for him, introducing himself and complimenting his performance, eventually he'd asked after Geralt. Jaskier hadn't seen him for almost a month by that point, since the mountain where they parted ways, and he'd said as much.

Once he'd returned to his songs the man had kept staring at him with rapt attention throughout, at the time Jaskier had assumed he was looking to go to bed with him, not that he was opposed per se, the man was not hard on the eyes, but he just...well his heart wasn't in it as of late. After he'd finished for the night, locking his lute away into it's case, the man came over again, a second mug of ale in his hand and flirting heavily, hand on Jaskier's arm as they drank and asking about his songs and inspirations. Jaskier stayed polite but discouraged the contact, trying to excuse himself. A few moments after he was through his ale his vision had begun to blur, and he swayed as he stood to put some distance between them.

That was the last thing he remembered before waking up in this cold stone room, wrists shackled together.

The chain was let loose from the hook on the wall, his legs buckled under him collapsing to the stone below, it jarred his knees and he was momentarily stunned by the pain of it. When he blinked to clear away the tears welled in his eyes he saw Fergus crouching in front of him with the key to his cuffs.

"Come on little bard it's the last chance I'm allowed to give you" he placed a palm on Jaskier's cheek, and he was too exhausted, everything hurt, he leaned into it.

"Please, I can't" his voice croaked with the effort, he could see the flames flickering across the walls, they would be welcomed with how damp and cold his cell is, if the way his body is trembling now were caused at all by the chill in the air and not his rising panic.

"Oh but you can sweetheart" Fergus cooed, moving his thumb back and forth on Jaskier's cheekbone "all you have to do is tell us where he is, where he has the girl hidden, and this will all stop, you just have to let it."

"I don't know where he is, he could be anywhere, please" he's crying now, and it's almost a relief to just let it go.

Fergus pulled one of his wrists toward him to undo the cuff, his hands were numb from hanging overnight, so he didn't feel much, and really that might be a small mercy if they were going to go through with their threats.

Continue Reading On Ao3

[heytheredeann]

Yenralt Appreciation, Vol. 1: LATE NIGHTS Set post s2, no s3 spoilers.

EDIT: crossposted on Ao3 now!

If she were more present to herself, she might appreciate the dramatics of it all, how appropriate it is, to be struggling for breath and heaving out sobs as a thunderstorm rages outside and flashes of light keep bursting in the room.

Unfortunately, she is rather busy keeping quiet, trying to reign in her terror as best as she can in spite of everything within her refusing to settle down. The feeling of emptiness, of helplessness, is still awfully vivid in her mind, and she almost tries to summon her magic, to do any little trick that could reassure her somewhat, but she’s too terrified at the thought of finding that she can’t.

Instead, she clenches her fists around the sheets and breathes, breathes, breathes.

“Yen?”

She jolts, turning around without thinking and fixating him with a look that’s probably as wild as they come, if the deeply worried expression on his face, briefly illuminated by a lightning strike, is anything to go by.

“I’m fine,” she gets out, but it’s so quiet and strangled that if she had been talking to a regular human they probably wouldn’t have heard.

Geralt might as well not have heard it either, for what good it does.

He doesn’t make a move to get up, because Ciri is tucked under his arm, nested between him and the wall, but he keeps staring, for long enough that Yennefer wishes she had the will to snap at him right now.

As it is, an eternity of stifled sobbing goes by before anybody speaks again, and it’s not her.

“Yen,” he calls, quietly, and she’s attracted to it like a moth to the flame in spite of herself. “Get in,” he adds, when her eyes are on him. It sounds a bit like a question, and the way he raises the covers is an open invitation.

She should say no. She should spit at him, turn her back, and spend the rest of the night terrified if she has to.

But it’s late, she’s tired, she’s cold, and her stupid, stupid instincts always seem to settle when she’s at his side, something in her trusting him completely no matter how much she yells at him, no matter how rocky their relationship may be.

Pitifully dejected, she shuffles out of her bed and accepts the invitation, settling under his free arm and sealing her eyes shut, cheek pressed against his shoulder.

He pulls the covers back up for her to hide under, and he doesn’t say anything, the way he wouldn’t over the years when her dreams would wake him up in the middle of the night and she’d press tighter against him, trying to hide her tears.

Her breaths slowly even, her sobs subduing, and when she eventually falls asleep it’s to the feeling of his hand squeezing hers.

(In the morning, when the awkwardness between them isn’t yet gone, it all feels like a dream.)

[dftea]

Give all you have been or could be

Accidental Warlord AU (@inexplicifics). Aiden/Sasha, Lambert/Milena, Livi/Dragonfly, Eskel/Geralt/Jaskier - All Is Not As It Seems

or

Duke Aleksander of Velen, Lady Milena de Roggeven, Lady Oliwia Bartol, and Viscount Julian de Lettenhove are plagued by strange visitors to their noble houses.

Who are these black-clad intruders and why are they so determined to disturb their isolated perfect lives?

But all is not as it seems.

[read on ao3]

[sipsthytea]

ajar practice rooms

Pairings: Geralt X Jaskier Warnings: Mentions of Su!cide/su!cidal thoughts, hurt/comfort, fluff Wordcount: 5,665 Status: Complete

It was an accident really. 

If it hadn’t been for Geralt’s art teacher moving their scheduled meeting halfway across the school. Past the gym and in the B building, it was a layout Geralt wasn’t familiar with, one he doesn’t think he ever will be. 

This was the performing arts section of the school, not the Arts. In this wing of the school, surrounded in bright posters telling of the upcoming open mic glittered even in the dim lighting. The sun cresting the horizon outside, peeking through the few windows that lined the corridors.  

Glancing down at the paper in his hands he sighed out. 

“Shit,” he muttered aloud. He’d taken a wrong turn, slipping into the band corridor, when his teacher was supposed to be by the orchestra’s corridor. 

With a roll of his eyes, he spun on his heel, hauling his backpack closer to his back. Pocketing the sticky note, he began to walk back down the hall. Passing by the slightly ajar doors of empty practice rooms. Peeking his head around, wondering what kind of people went in there. What instrument did they play? What was their favorite piece? Were they doing this for themselves or because of outside pressure? When did-

“Take me to the rooftop, I want to see the world when I stop breathing, turning blue…”

A voice arose from one of the practice rooms. Soft and melodic, soothing across the silence of the empty corridor, followed by strums of a guitar. Sunlight danced on the floor of the room, highlighting the shadow of the stranger. It made Geralt hold his breath and lean against the wall.

The door was cracked open, wide enough for a large ray of light to spill onto the floor, but not enough for a person to enter through. 

“Tell me love is endless, don’t be so pretentious, leave me...like you do…”

It was the room Geralt had just passed, the voice nipping at his heels, pressing him against the wall. Careful not to let his shadow appear on, pressing a cheek to the metal frame of the door. Doing his best to glance in inconspicuously. 

“If you need me, wanna see me, you better hurry, ‘cause I’m leaving soon…”

The person sang, the voice was sweet, but it was so sad. Somber tinting of a relatively chipper voice. Their tone was blue - no, not quite blue, but dark. Like a shaded ray of sun, one darkened and hurt. 

It made Geralt’s fingers twitch, aching to reach for his sketchbook, but he clasped around his jeans, holding in the urge. 

“Sorry can't save me now. Sorry, I don't know how. Sorry, there's no way out, but down...Hmm, down…”

Quietly sliding to the bottom of the wall, Geralt sat. A leg propped up with his forearm resting against it. Drawing phantom lines across his thigh. Picturing the voice behind the song, the person behind the voice, the story behind the hurt. 

There were a million things that Geralt wanted to know, but all he had was this song. All he had was a few lyrics and a shadowy figure. 

And for once in his life, it was enough.

“Taste me, these salty tears on my cheeks. That's what a year-long headache does to you...”

Geralt almost wanted to scoff. The sound of a year-long headache wasn’t something foreign to him. Being so heavy, so tired, that the pounding in your head never does go away. Plus, he lives and deals with Eskel and Lambert on a daily basis.

 “I'm not okay, I feel so scattered. Don't say I'm all that matters. Leave me, déjà vu…”

That caught his attention, snapping his head towards the door. Concern filling his being, draining through his fingers and making his foot twitch. He wanted to ask, the questions rested on in his throat, but he couldn’t find it in him to speak. 

“If you need me, wanna see me, you better hurry, I'm leaving soon…”

Geralt sat silently, or about as silently as he could be. His heart racing in his chest. This person, this stranger, had a beautiful voice. Gorgeous tone, perfect phrasing, but the beauty was overshadowed by the raw emotion in his voice. Drowned out by the sadness, the intimacy that made Geralt feel like an intruder. Like he was listening in on a private moment, a moment that isn’t meant to be shared. 

“ ‘Sorry’ can't save me now. Sorry, I don't know how. Sorry, there's no way out, but down. Hmm, down…”

The voice began to waver, words bobbing with emotion, growing thick. However, despite that, the voice remained steady, focused. It made Geralt’s head spin. This person was hurting so badly and no - one had noticed. He sounded as if he was dying. As if the world was caving in on him and his only way out was - was by offing himself. 

“Call my friends and tell them that I love them and I'll miss them, but I'm not sorry. Call my friends and tell them that I love them, and I'll miss them...Sorry…”

He finished with a choked off sob, a ragged sound followed by heavy breathing and the clatter of what Geralt can assume to be his guitar. Slight wheezing as they tried to gulp down the air through cries, cries of anguish. 

The meeting be damned, Geralt couldn’t leave him here.

He made a move to slide up the wall, knocking his backpack against the fire-alarm. The collision wasn’t enough to set it off, but enough to knock away the box of charcoal and color pencils from Geralt’s side pocket. The colors scattered across the floor, slashing through the new-found silence. 

He flinched at the crackling sound they made, colors spilling into the pool of warm light. It seemed to alert the person in the room of a presence. A loud scraping was heard followed by a jerky movement in their shadow, “Who’s there!?”

“Fuck,” Geralt seethed, closing his eyes, willing for the stranger to just go back to singing. 

“I know you’re there! Don’t come any closer!” They warned, voice still a bit shaky and heavy, the smallest sniff of their nose. 

Geralt gave them no answer, resting on the balls of his feet, back pressed firmly against the wall of the corridor, hands held high. 

“Answer me!”

“Ok,” He said, casting his hand into the view of the doorway, “You see, that’s me. Ok? Look, I’m sorry.”

“Why are you here?” The stranger questioned, some shuffling followed his words.

Geralt let out a soft chuckle, rocking back on his heels, feeling the sticky note shift in his jeans, “I got lost.”

They let out a dry laugh, one thick with tears, “Ha! Lost? You expect me to believe that? My parents sent you, didn't they.”

Geralt raised his eyebrows, snapping his head towards the door, “Wh-What? No.”

“I knew it,” they continued, heaving as sobs filled the air once more, “I - I fucking knew it.”

Geralt let out a slow breath, sliding a hand through his hair, pushing it from his eyes, “Look, I don’t know who you are. I swear I got lost, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

His apology was sincere, but he had no intention of leaving, not without knowing the reason why this voice, this stranger, was in tears, in taters. 

“Y-You heard me sing?” They gasped, voice dropping into colors of fear. A fear that made something in Geralt’s stomach lurch. 

“Yeah,” He sighed, “Look, I didn’t mean to - I’m sorry.”

The voice was quiet, soft sniffles the only sound that resonated through the halls. 

It was a silence that weighed on Geralt’s shoulders. The questions built in his throat pressing warningly against his tongue, they wanted to slip, they wanted to know. 

And one did.

“That song,” he began, voice steady, echoing slightly, “It’s a suicide note, isn’t it.”

It wasn’t a question. It was the truth, carving through the raw emotion that lingered heavily in the air. He clenched his eyes again, leaning his head back against the wall with a thud, ‘Fucking idiot,‘ he thought.

To his surprise, the voice answered, “What’s it to you?”

His words were small. As if irking Geralt to explain something he already knew. 

“Well,” Geralt said, adjusting his legs, “It matters because you shouldn’t do it.”

“I shouldn’t? Ha!” The voice proclaimed, “No one would even notice. I’d disappear into thin air.”

“You wouldn’t,” Geralt deadpanned, thinking back to thoughts he had. Thoughts that pounded against his mind, growing painful as he clenched his trembling fingers around a paintbrush. Those were dark times, and while they weren’t over, they weren’t as loud. 

“I-I’m sorry?”

“You wouldn’t disappear into thin air. And I would notice, I would know,” He continued, lulling his head to rest on his shoulder. The skin of his cheeks pressing against the leather on his shoulders. 

The voice went silent again as if they were contemplating what Geralt said. 

“Why do you care?” they finally asked. It wasn’t condescending, it wasn’t sarcastic. No, this question was a plea for help. It was a cry to live. 

“Because you shouldn’t die,” He tired, gulping down the layers of emotion that dared to tremble behind the surface, “Because you should live.”

“Because I want you to live...I need you to live.”

The silence grew heavy again. Growing over the ever dimming light outside, pooling over the spilled colored pencils that were still scattered. But the air wasn’t dense, it wasn’t suffocating. The colors around him were still blue, they were still faded, but the lighter tones and shades began to peek through.

“You-” The voice was cut off by a loud sob, “Y-You want me to l-live?”

“Yes, I do,” He answered immediately.

The silence was shattered, filled to the brim with gasping breaths and relieved sighs. Choked off sobs, questions of ‘you do?’ and quick answers of ‘yes, I do.’ Time passed slowly, echoing in the dim hallway of the Performing Arts Wing. 

“I-I don’t want you to see me,” They said after some time, the sounds of ruffling running alongside their words. 

“I won’t,” Geralt smiled, leaning his head back once more, “I’ll cover my eyes.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

The voice shuffled, their shadow murky and black, and became bigger, drowning out the hallway in darkness.

Geralt let his eyes fall shut, resting his forearm over it, he sighed. It wasn’t an impatient one, or even an annoyed one, it just felt right.

“You’re not looking?”

“No, I’m not.”

Footsteps tapped against the floor, the sounds of a case being held filled his ears. Gliding the floor at his feet, looming over him. 

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

They continued walking, echoes of their shoes following behind, before they came to a halt, “Thank you for telling me to stay.”

__________

Geralt went back. 

He went back to the Performing Arts Wing, took the wrong turn down the Band hallways, and trailed across the practice rooms. The posters a little peeled at their edges, worn, just a bit. He leaned over, smoothing them back down against the wall. 

‘He might not even be here, you know,’ A voice prompted, sharp and shrill in Geralt’s mind. Poking fun at his need to see - or rather hear this stranger again. Why? Geralt didn’t know yet. 

Half of him wanted to chalk it up to him being a concerned stranger, wanting to make sure the singer, whoever they are, is still breathing. But the small, selfish part of Geralt’s mind wondered if this singer was there for a reason. If this singer would be as beautiful as their voice. 

Carefully sliding down the wall, pulling his backpack to his chest. Quietly sliding his art equipment from the bag, his sketchbook, his charcoal pencils. He would forgo the colorings, at least until he could learn more about this singer. 

Silence radiated throughout the hallway, bouncing across the walls. The sun dampening the darkness, floating against Geralt’s knee, brushing against him, like fingers ghosting along his legs. 

Anxiety began to pour through him, thrumming quietly behind his fingertips, pushing against his chest. What if they really were gone? What if they hadn’t listened to Geralt yesterday? What if that song was the last thing that he whispered into the world? What if Geralt let him walk away when he could have saved him? What if there -?

“When will I feel this, as vivid as it truly is…”

And there he was, the stranger singer. The mystery man that was nothing more to Geralt than a voice, a guitar, and a shadow. One that loomed across the floor, sliding into the fingers across Geralt’s leg. But Geralt couldn’t help but sigh in relief, blowing out quietly, letting a hand fall against his chest. He was alive. He lived. 

“Fall in love in a single touch and fall apart when it hurts too much...?”

The voice was still sad, still full of raw emotion and it still felt exceedingly intimate. But there was no looming sense of - of...gone.

There was no dark shadow looming in the stranger’s voice. Yes, it was sad, yes it did still sound broken, but it no longer sounded like defeat. It no longer went brittle with so much brokenness that the glamors of bright timber couldn’t shine through. 

“Can we skip past near-death clichés where my heart restarts as my life replays? All I want is to flip a switch before something breaks that cannot be fixed…”

Their guitar was quiet, second to their voice, almost as if it was nothing more than a formality. But this voice, this stranger, didn’t need such trivial things. Their voice held emotion, it held the quality to sing on its own. By itself. 

“I know, I know the sirens sound, just before the walls come down. Pain is a well-intentioned weatherman, predicting God as best he can, but God I want to feel again...” 

To feel? From what Geralt could hear, this voice felt plenty, they knew plenty, but perhaps they wanted to feel the light, the warmth. They wanted to feel the sun graze upon them, they wanted to splash over their colors of not-quite-blue to colors of yellow, of white, of brightness. Geralt turned to his paper. Drawing the first line, letting his head lull back against the wall. He wouldn’t look, he would let the voice carry his hand. 

“Rain or shine, I don't feel a thing, just some information upon my skin. I miss the subtle aches when the weather changed. The barometric pressure we always blamed...All I want is to flip a switch before something breaks that cannot be fixed…”

Geralt had no direct visuals, he had no colors. He had only the sounds of a guitar, a voice, a shadow. He only had the lyrics. Lyrics that told stories of someone reaching out, someone wanting more, of someone wanting to feel. They wanted to feel again. An idea pulled at Geralt’s fingertips, drawing the lead across the sheet of paper. 

“Invisible machinery, these moving parts inside of me. Well, they've been shutting down for quite some time, leaving only rust behind...Well, I know, I know the sirens sound, just before the walls come down. Pain is a well-intentioned weatherman, predicting God as best he can. But God I want to feel again...Oh, God, I want to feel again…”

The voice began to waver, words growing thick. Some shaky breaths followed their words, silence draping across the hallway. Their shadow shifted just a bit. And just as Geralt began to rise, gathering his things, he heard the voice whisper, almost like a confession:

“Down my arms, a thousand satellites suddenly discover signs of life…”

Geralt can only smile, dragging his fingers across the paper, shading the darker colors. Re-tracing over the rough lines, adding smaller details. His smile never wavered, how could it, the stranger decided to stay. He decided to live. 

“That was beautiful,” He tried, waving his hand into the door. Watching as he cast a shadow across his legs and sighing when the stranger let out a loud gasp. 

“What are you doing here?!” He screeched, shadow jerking, the loud clatter following his movements. 

“I’m sorry,” Geralt replied, dragging a  hand through his hair, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“So what is it this time? Did you get lost again?” They uttered. Their shadow draining of tension, the straight line of their spine easing into a small curve. 

“It is you right…?” He questions, voice small, worried, “They g-guy from yesterday?”

“Yeah,” Geralt chuckles, propping his forearm on his knee, “I’m the guy from yesterday. It’s you right? The singer from yesterday?”

His heart warms when he hears the smallest huff of amused air, “Yeah...I’m the - the singer from yesterday.”

Geralt just nods, running his fingers across the paper between his thighs. Rolling his pencil across his knuckles, drumming it lightly against the floor. 

Silence begins to drift between them, nothing heavy or uncomfortable, but a silence that comes with not knowing what to say. Once again, those questions press against Geralt’s throat, thrumming against his chest, threatening to break free. 

“So you lived?” He asks, turning his cheek to lean against the metal door frame, catching the smallest glimpse of shoes. They’re regular sneakers, but they have hand-written words across the midsole. Dark, chunky writing spelling out small words, tiny drawing of stars and flowers running along the seams. 

“Yeah,” They finally answer, “ I did.”

Geralt smiles, “I’m glad you did.”

A small chuckle comes from inside the room, the heads of chuck taylors coming into view, but Geralt doesn’t look up. He doesn’t look for the person attached to the shoes because it doesn’t matter, it won’t change a thing if he looks. 

“You’re not going to look?”

“No, not until you want me to,” He whispers, eyes trailing across the black double stitch, the heavy layers of leather, and the chunky permanent marker art. 

The shoes don’t move, the stranger doesn’t move, he only whispers, “You draw?”

Geralt looks down between his thighs, the paper lying patently. Charcoal pencil rolled a few inches away from his open hand, “Yeah, I do. I’m actually a part of the Arts program here.”

“It’s beautiful,” the stranger says, a small twinge of surprise in their voice. 

“What?”

“N-Nothing,” they utter, but there’s obviously something, something they won’t tell Geralt.

“Well,” He urges, gesturing a hand toward the drawing, “Spit it out.”

The singer chuckles softly, their shadow standing tall against Geralt’s leg, only a few rays of sunlight spilling onto the floor, “Why’d you draw it?”

“Because I heard you singing,” He answers, ghosting his finger along the outline of the silhouette he drew, a darkened finger reaching out to touch a bright bird. The bird sat patiently on a pedestal, it’s brilliant colors flourished and sunny, “You were saying you wanted to feel, but I think you felt plenty. You’re just scared of letting it come through you. I think you feel too much of the bad colors and not enough bright colors.”

“Bright colors?”

“Yeah,” he begins, resisting the twitch in his neck that almost makes him face the stranger, “You feel bright, like spring. That’s happiness, or joyous or adventurous.”

Geralt hears some rustling, the shifting of clothes and the silent thud of a case, the stranger is sitting. 

“What do you feel?”

With a soft chuckle, Geralt looks to the floor, scanning his eyes over the variety of colored pencils he’s spilled out, “I feel...blue and red and purple, I feel aqua and cornflower blue, magenta, I feel plenty, but I also feel gray.”

“Gray?”

“Yeah,” he utters, but he’s forgotten that he’s speaking to someone who doesn’t understand the colors as well as he does. He forgets that he isn’t speaking to someone who brings drawings to life, “The mixture of darkness and light, happiness and depression.”

“I feel gray sometimes too,” The stranger admits, a hand comes into Geralt’s view. It’s the voice. HIs hands are strong, some calluses along his fingertips, rings adorning the fingers. Shining even in the dim lighting of the hallway. It makes something in Geralt jump, something leap. 

He wants to draw these hands. 

“I feel grey a lot, but sometimes I feel black,” He whispers, drawing phantom circles across the sketch, “I used to be yellow all the time, but I suppose times change.”

“Why’d they change for you?” Geralt manages, biting back the sudden lurch of his heart. 

The stranger with the hand full of rings sighs, “My family wanted me to be someone I’m not. They wanted me to be like them, but I’m not…”

“Well,” Geralt gulps, “You don’t have to be,” His voice sounds forgin to his own ears. This feels strange, he’s never been much of a talker, let along an advice giver. 

A dry laugh is heard, echoing slightly in the vacant hallway, “Yeah, I guess you’re right...what’s your name?”

“My name is Geralt,” He sticks his hand out, wincing as it passes his line of sight and he catches a glimpse at the various paint stains on his palm. The stranger takes his hand with a firm shake. 

“Well,” The stranger says, “It’s nice to meet you Geralt. My name is J...Olly. Yeah, my name is Olly.”

Geralt knows that’s not his name, he knows that’s not the real name his parents gave him, but it fits. It suits the stranger in the abandoned practice room, the stranger with a knack for rings. 

“It’s nice to meet you too, Olly.”

__________

The next time Geralt went to that hallway, he learned about Olly.

He learned that Olly was afraid of many things.

“I’ve just been hurt a lot, I guess,” the singer uttered, legs dangling just out of Geralt’s sight, “I’m scared of love.”

Geralt doesn’t answer, onl offering him a small nod, not that he could see.

“I guess I am too.”

__________

It became an everyday thing. 

Geralt would take the wrong turn down the Band hallway instead of the orchestra hallway, he’d let his hands graze along the walls until it reached a peeling poster. He’d fix it and make his way to that slightly ajar classroom with Olly. The ring obsessed, chuck taylor wearing singer, would always be there. Always. His shadow would always pool against the sunlight. 

Always. 

Everyday, Geralt would slide down the wall and pull his sketchbook. It had begun to bulge a bit, growing heavier, but Geralt would always draw if Olly would always sing. 

And these feelings, feelings of yellow and pink, grew darker, more prominent. He was falling in love with a shadow on the floor, rings on a hand, drawings on shoes, a voice from a practice room. 

Yennefer thought he was an idiot, giving him raised eyebrows from across the room of their Psyche class. Lambert and Eskel thoroughly made fun of him, but it didn’t matter. It all felt so heavy against his ribs, it felt too quick. 

But he didn’t know what else to do. 

He didn’t know how to un-love Olly. 

He didn’t know how and it felt horrible. Loving someone felt horrible. 

The thoughts raced in his mind, pressing against his throat. He needed more than a shadow, he needed to see. There’s so much he wants but he doesn’t know how to ask. Art has always been his translator, but it seems just as lost as he does.

“Geralt?” Jaskeir prompts, voice concerned and light, “You there?”

Geralt wants to face palm, Olly sings and Geralt misses it. He missed the intimita story telling, like a dumbass. 

“Fuck.”

Quickly he shuffles his things together, doing his best before Olly approaches the door frame.

“So, no drawing today?”

“Fuck,” He utters again, going lax against the wall. Dropping his head to his chest with a loud sigh, “I’m sorry, Olly.”

There’s a bright chuckle, Olly dropping into a squat beside him, still out of his vision, letting a comforting hand rest against Geralt’s shoulder. 

“Was my singing that bad?” He jokes, but that is the farthest thing from the truth.

“No! No, I - I just don’t feel,” He cuts himself off, he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to say it.

But he doesn’t have to.

“Grey?”

“Yeah,” He scoffs, angry that Olly can read him so well. Anxious at the fact that Olly can read him so well. 

Olly lets out a hum, his hand tightening a bit, “I know what will cheer you up…”

The sounds of his footsteps retreating cause Geralt’s neck to twitch, curiosity building within his body, but he manages to keep from looking. But soon enough, there’s a rustling, and a thud of a guitar case. 

“You’re going to play something for me?”

“Not just something,” Olly gasps, giving his guitar a quick strum, “A special something.”

Silence falls on them briefly, Olly breathing in deeply.

“You with the sad eyes, don’t be discouraged. Oh, I realize it’s hard to take courage in a world full of people, you can lose sight of it all. The darkness inside you can make you feel so small…”

The words built behind Geralt’s body, pressing against his resistance. They shattered the walls and came pouring out, “I love you, Olly.”

Those words are light weight being shattered upon Geralt’s shoulders, shoved away. He feels lighter, he feels better. He can see a color, it’s yellow, and it’s blazing, it’s bright. 

But it turns grey.

Then black.

Geralt flinches when he hears Olly suck in a sharp breath, it’s ear shattering. The body beside him suddenly went cold, going ridgid. 

“Jask-”

“Stop,” He gasps, feet shuffling away, rising off the floor, colliding with the wooden frame behind them, “Stop!”

Geralt feels as if his world is breaking, he feels as if his hands, his words have gripped him at the throat and are shoving the bitter taste of rejection down his body. 

“O-Olly...please…” He tries, rising as well, neck twitching as he turns. Eyes glazing over the shoes with chunky permanent marker, up to cuffed blue jeans, up to the ringed fingers, up to the stripped shirt he wears beneath his denim jacket, up to-

“DON’T LOOK AT ME!” Olly screeches, the unruly sounds of him staggering backward, his sneakers striking against the ground. The clatter of his guitar case, “Please,” he cries, voice thick and emotional, “Please, don’t look at me, Geralt.”

And so he doesn’t.

Geralt’s eyes stayed fixated on the medallion that swayed on his neck. They way it’s been hand-crafted, a gift from Geralt. The emblem of a wolf, snarling into the darkness, “Protection,” He said, “Protection.”

But now it just serves to taunt him, reminding him of the line he will never cross. The scuffed threads of Olly’s jean jacket. 

He watches as Olly runs away. Sobbing and gripping his case tight, shoes rattling the world that threatened to cave in beneathe Geralt. 

The world is grey, but he doesn’t want it to be. 

The practice room that’s always slightly ajar, the wrong turn down the band hall in the Performing Arts wing, in front of the poster whose left corner is always peeling, is so cold. 

So grey. 

__________

Geralt still goes back. 

Still traces his fingers along the brightly papered walls, straightening out the kinks in the posters. The floor below him is scuffed, used from a long day of school, but the practice room is closed. It’s always closed. There’s no pooling of rich sun to light the dark hallway, there is no strum of a guitar and the singing of-

It doesn’t matter.

He sighs, his shoulders slumping. This is unlike him, he’s never been hung up on someone, let alone someone who left him. But he finds himself there again. 

Adjusting the leather jacket on his shoulders and the backpack slinged around his arm, and walked down the dimmed hallway. Ghosting his fingers over the bright walls, feet coming to a halt when he finds an empty space. 

That open-mic poster is gone. 

He huffs out a bitter laugh. They’d left it up for months after it had passed, why take it down now? 

But he fakes it, straightening down air, pulling his fingertips across the ghosted tacks and breathing out heavily. Everything is still so black, so dark. The light blue seedlings of Olly have begun to fade away. There seems to be nothing left. 

And when he approaches the music room, he finds the door shut, the way it always is. 

The dried out pool of sunlight leaves only dust, specks of a day Geralt wishes to forget. A day he wishes to shove away, but he can’t.

He can’t because he can still feel the ear shattering clatter of Olly leaving him, rejecting him. The door seems to be looming, metal handle gleamin even in the dim hallway. 

“Fuck,” he utters, something buildign in his thrat.

“Just once,” Geralt pulls the door open. Revealing the marveling gaze of the sunlight, dancing warmly across hsi skin. Embellishing him in old memories, in old feelings. There’s an Upright piano in the corner and a few chairs, along with a few music stands. The walls are insulated and prove for the best acoustics. 

It’s empty.

There’s nothing in here except air.

Space.

“Dammit, Olly,” He rasps, swiping a palm harshly at his eyes, to stop whatever tear threatens to fall.

He won’t cry, he refuses to.

Why would he cry over spilled milk? A love that was never really love? Someone who he’s never seen? Someone who didn’t love him, why is he crying? How could-?

“It's not true, tell me I've been lied to, crying isn't like you…”

Geralt goes rigid, body freezing at the sound of that acoustic guitar, at the sight of those sneakers with chunky permanent marker. The breath from his body stops, exiting in a swift gasp. Because of that voice, that voice that’s so sweet and sad, so scared and tired, that voice makes him shake. It makes him collapse into the dinky chairs. It makes him listen.

“What the hell did I do? Never been the type to let someone see right through…”

Geralt wants to laugh, he wants to laugh because of the irony. THe irony that floods through him. He can’t help but grip onto the bottom of the chair until the edges dig into his palms. But Olly’s right, he’s never been one to let anyone in. He’s never been the one to let someone see who he really is, which is why he sings. It’s his way of telling without telling, the way Geralt’s art is his talking without talking.

He understands.

“Maybe... won't you take it back, say you were tryna make me laugh and nothing has to change today. You didn't mean to say "I love you". I love you and I don't want to…”

Oh, how he wishes that were true. He wishes that he were able to play the most important sentence in his life off as a joke. He wishes he would have laughed, couldn’ve doubled over while he held his stomach, waited for Olly to believe him then, cry. If he’d done that, they wouldn’t be in this situation.

Geralt wouldn’t be sitting in the practice room listening to Olly in the hallway

Maybe if he hadn’t said it, they wouldn’t be so far apart in this grey world.

“Up all night on another red eye, I wish we never learned to fly. Maybe we should just try to tell ourselves a good lie, I didn't mean to make you cry…”

Geralt sighs out, Olly wants to forgive him. He wants to start over. The sounds of his vice lull Geralt into closing his eyes, slipping into the strum of his acoustic guitar, the grey world slipping away from him. They would lie, they would lie and act like it never happened. They would lie and Geralt would get Olly back. 

The would would be yellow again.

But Olly’s voice waver, growing thick. HIs words come to an abrupt halt, hsi playing stunted. There is the screech of cords and the clatter of his guitar. But before Geralt can open his eyes or call out, he hears the door creak open. 

Slowly exposing the droughted hallway to the se of sunlight. 

There’s a warm presence that walks towards Geralt, hands shaking, but steady. Hands that have rings on them, too many. Hands that have calluses on their fingertips, hands that cradle his face gently. 

“We fall apart as it gets dark, I'm in your arms in Central Park. There's nothing you could do or say, I can't escape the way, I love you…”

The hands have a voice. And this voice is sad, but it’s bright. It has a warm tiber hardened by years of being unloved, he has a heart that’s afraid. But he’s beautiful.

“I don't want to, but I love you.”

The hand’s voice shakes. It shakes and sobs and falls forward. Into Geralt's chest with a cry, fingers clutching at Geralt’s leather jacket. 

“I-I love - love y-you…”

And Geralt’s world shudders to a halt. Slowly rotating around to face the sun again, to become yellow again. He wraps his arms around Olly, pulling him closer and burying his face into the crook of his neck. 

Sandalwood and mint.

Olly smells of sandalwood and mint. He’s shorter than Geralt, a trim waist and strong shoulders. His fingers dance along Geralt's collar, gently tugging at the dyed locks of hair. 

“I love you,” he repeats, “I love you.”

The warmth pulls away and stands in the light, guiding Geralt to look at him. 

“I love you,” he says, bright blue eyes shining with tears. Brown hair pushed back on his head, the sharp cheekbones damp with tears.

He can see.

Geralt can see.

“I love you too.”

_______________

found on both wattpad and AO3 under the same name :)

[unknownmusing]

The Witcher Fanstory - Ioroche Fic: 'Fate Never Comes by Accident' - (Part 1 of ?)

-------------------------------------

Notes:

Iorveth/Vernon relationship

Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics

Alpha Iorveth and Omega Vernon

1 of ? parts

For @chamotea, @apastandfuturenerd and other Ioroche Shippers out there

------------------------------------

Summary:

For a long time, Vernon Roche - Temerian Commander of the Blue Stripes, Foltest's Hound and right-hand man - has been hiding his status as Un-mated Omega, even though in the past King Foltest ordered for his Scent-gland to be 'Cut' and his Crest Fronds on the nape of his neck to be 'Scarred' so that he didn't send Foltest's men into a rut-filled frenzy - until one day he returns to a place where he first met his long-term enemy - Iorveth.

Complicated issues arise though when Vernon, experiences Heat-sickness; rumours spread that Nilfgaard is spreading it's way across the map and plan to attack Vergen next and Aen Seidhe Alpha finds himself falling for his long-term enemy.

-------------------------------------

PART 1 - Prologue - 'Returning to a Place where One First met their Enemy'

"Water's cold as hell. Come on, witcher!" Vernon Roche - Temeria Commander of the Blue Stripes, hidden Omega and Un-Mated - shouts up at the white-haired Witcher, who is taking his sweet time in the large boat bearing on the large sail the crest of the Temerian lilies busy making sure everything is sorted - before joins him and Triss - the female Sorceress, who had decided to accompany them both.

It meant to just be him and Geralt doing some 'Reconnaissance' only for Triss Merigold - a Beta, thankfully and not an Alpha as he didn't need two on the ship it would just cause problems even though he never gone into Heat for quite some ever since Foltest had turn the 'Scent-Gland Cutting' process do him not wanting an Un-Mated Omega sending his men into a Rut-filled frenzy - to decide she was coming with them and she want take them saying 'No' to her about it.

" Your witcher's arse is going to have to get wet. Jump." He shouts up, seeing Geralt looking down at them then swing himself effortlessly over the side of the boat to splash right beside him with his Alpha scent less dulled - which meant the wee flask he seen the Witcher taking was Pheromone Nuller, to help null the scent of an Alpha or Omega - where soon the three of them head wade out of the water to the riverbank.

------------------------------------------------------

Following the riverbank, the group of three make their way to Flotsam - a small village surrounded by a large tall forest which according to Roche's secret informer was overrun by a group of Scoiateal with very strong Alpha Leader who lead them - with Merigold starting to ask him questions, while the Witcher walks behind them checking stuff on the way - plants, tracks and occasionally placing some in his satchel.

"Any news from your secret informer?" She asks him, forcing him to sigh heavily because what can he tell her - most of it so poetically written it given him countless headaches to figure what his informer was talking about, he blames Thaler for choosing a Bard to be his secret informer for information.

"The port's blocked. Some merchants have been hold up for months…" Roche replies, pinching the bridge of his nose when feels another headache coming on and slight sickness in the stomach - something which even Ves, his second-in-command who felt more like his daughter had noticed commenting he should see a Special Doctor about it in case it were something affecting him - quickly turning to look over his shoulder to see where their wayward Witcher is.

Geralt, looks like he's choosing not to get too close to him but indicates he's alright and that they should keep on moving.

"What about roads through the forest...? Merigold asks him, making him turn his face back to her when the trio continue to walk along the river-bank, shafts of sunlight shining down through the towering canopy of trees above their heads.

Vernon, tries not to think of his first mission to Flotsam, where him and Ves along with the rest of the Blue Stripes had attacked on the road they took to get to the place by Scoia'tael resulting in such a clash he been glad to get away by the fabric of his gambeson seeing the leader - Iorveth - being held back by his men, holding a scrap of it in one gloved hand, mouth bloodied and smirking at him.

"Iorveth rules the forest...." He states in reply, cheeks flooding with heat at the memory of that annoying Scoia'tael grabbing him mid-way through their fight to lick his cheek where he ascertained a cut followed by stealing a kiss from his lips that afterwards he punched his enemy for good measure due to the un-wanted kiss.

"Where are we?" Roche asks suddenly, confused because they way their coming he doesn't remember - had Flotsam outskirts changed so much, he literally couldn't remember his way or was this a different route from the one he first taken during his first mission to the place hearing the Sorcress beside chuckling at his question. That didn't help him at all in hearing it.

"In a forest, Roche. I thought you've been to Flotsam before." She says, seeing how he looks at her with slightly widened eyes then giving shrewd glare - because how would she knew that unless one of his Blue Stripes had let it slip out - at her, finding himself that he's going have to talk to his men about what they say to the female sorceress.

The three of them are just about to go around a corner when a hand touches his arm, stopping him from going further that flicks his gaze to Geralt, who's come up to him tilting his head slightly like he can hear something Roche can't hear at the moment.

"Hear that?"

Listening, Roche, quickly catches only the brief rustling before it moves on than a sudden scent wafts it way towards to wrap around him - his internal ovaries of his Omega body choose at the sametime at the moment to cramp painfully - that he immediately recognises the scent.

There was no mistake on who it was.

"I....smell....an elf..." Roche grits out, forcing himself to concentrate when he makes his way around the corner of the riverbank, his ears picking up the sound of the flute starting to be played that tries to rid himself of the haze which is starting to settle in.

Something which been happening quite a lot when a Alpha with intense scent confronted him or released their scent into the air - to ascertain where it's coming from.

A short distance down the riverbank, the trio finds the player of the flute - an elf, wearing the colours of forest emerald-green with badges stolen from mutiple factions playing a ornately carved wooden flute, the red badanna covering one of their eyes - that Vernon Roche, chokes out "That's......." when recognises precisely who it is.

Iorveth - his long-term enemy, an Elf and also an Alpha - who sensing he's being watched lowers his flute to get up turning on the fallen log he been sitting on - waiting it seems for them to arrive, so had that been what had been watching them from the cliff-face above hidden by the foliage above as him, Geralt and Merigold stood on the riverbank discussing their best course of action - to face them, confronting Roche straight away.

"Vernon Roche! Special Forces Commander for the last four years. Servant of the Temerian king. Responsible for the pacification of the Mahakaman foothills. Hunter of elves, murderer of women and children. Twice decorated for valor on the field of battle.."

Irked so much by hearing this, Roche, lets out snarl baring his Omegan fangs as he tries to shake off the cloying scent wrapping more strongly around now he was in front of the very source of it, he hits back not caring whether it offends or doesn't offend the Alpha elf in front of him.

"Iorveth - a regular son of an Alpha whore." He spits out, seeing Iorveth bristling at the comment his Alpha scent increasing ten-fold that Roche, wonders how's he still trying to stand even as his internal Omegan Ovaries cramp painfully within his body and sweat begins to form on his body.

"I've long awaited our next meeting. You left me with this parting gift, last time, you came here." Iorveth smirks out, bringing up the piece of gambeson - Temerian blue-coloured, even though faded - to show off to Roche, who balks at the sight of it feeling behind Merigold and Geralt stepping closer to him . "Laid down plans, set many traps... And now you appear in my forest of your own volition."

"SHUT UP!!" Roche shouts, stepping closer to the where Iorveth, stands looking down at them so irked and annoyed that he's just gonna to bear the Alpha scent wrapping around it's way around - like a caress slipping all over him and getting under his skin to saturate him in it. "You aided the man who slew my King....."

"Alpha or Beta King or Beggar - What's the difference? One dhi'one less." Iorveth barks back at him, baring his own Alphan fangs down at Roche - part of his mind wondering what would like biting down into his Crest Fronds on the back of his nape and Scent glands on the side of his neck if had them - who wills himself not rush into literally attacking the elf, he needed to make time for Merigold and Geralt do their thing so continues in berating his long-term enemy.

"Triss, we need to take him alive. Know any useful spells?" Geralt whispers over to Triss.

Seeing how the situation between Vernon Roche and the very tall, Alpha elf called Iorveth is going.

One who's scent was definately potent, Iorveth, would have to be what was called an Aen Siedhe Alpha, one who was more powerful than any Alpha elf or even Human Alpha that he's glad he took his Omega Nuller because Geralt, wasn't Alpha at all but an Omega Witcher and the only one who was as far as knew of.

"Get his attention. Divert it from Roche." Triss whispers back in reply, her hands crackling with magical energy that it makes the hairs on the back of his neck prickle - 'Fuck' he thinks 'She's serious with it' - up and down due to the atmosphere becoming electrified around them slightly as she calls on the source of her Powers to use it.

"I'll try." He cracks out, shaking of the static shock he's getting to move over to Roche, who's nearly at breaking point that this makes Iorveth, flick a single emerald-green gaze over to him with a look 'Who are you to be interrupting us?'

"Climb down and we'll finish this. I await....." Vernon shouts, before moving to lean against boulder with one hand on it looking like he's going collapse at any moment leaving Geralt to hear Iorveth chuck back a response of. "Hah! You're a man without honor, Vernon Roche. An insect I'll not duel, but one that I will crush after I deal with Vhatt'gern here..."

The glare he receives, forcing him to raise any eyebrow in response, crossing his arms over his chest choosing to say his next words carefully or not too carefully if he actually thought about them.

"Seems you spout the same old Elven drivel." Geralt states up to Iorveth, hearing an indignant splutter in Elvish come from the Alpha elf with the bows of the Elvish archers hiding in the shrubbery tightening coming back to him with a question.

"What do you mean, Vhatt'gern? One who hides his true status. You should be ashamed as Omega for hiding it..." Iorveth argues down at him, outing him straight-away that Roche, who's been listening looks at him with confusion and bewilderment that Geralt, knows there is no use hiding it now he been outed by the Alpha elf who smirks at him because both know he's right about him.

"I have my reasons. But that's not why I'm here or my companions." Geralt reasons out, avoiding even looking at Iorveth, who gives a shrewd glare down at him - whether in disgust he doesn't know as of yet.

"Speak then. Tell me you're reason...I'm waiting." Iorveth says, sitting back down again on the fallen log with Geralt, flicking his gaze over to Roche, who's breathing is slightly laboured and looking like he's been drugged up to eyeballs with fisstech when he knows it's Iorveth's Alpha pheromones affecting the other man - though in a way which is very concerning, so would have to make it quick.

"Fine. Since your so piqued to listen, Squirrel." Geralt grits out, gleefully smirking when Iorveth tenses at being named something which the Scoiateal hating being called giving him a look of pure loathing then continues. "The Kingslayer's among you. We've come for him and only him."

"Are you sure? You do know he's an Alpha, don't you, Vhatt'ghern?" Iorveth asks him, smirking when Geralt curses so loudly in his native langauge associated with where he came from Triss, admonishes him for it by sending static electricity increasing one of the Elvish archers says something oddly like 'Damm, Mosquitos!!?" leaving Iorveth, to look at them both with suspicision.

"Then our interests collide... The Alpha Kingslayer is under my protection and I'll not hand over a guest." the elf continues, when Geralt, is not quick to come back with anything or manage to having been stunned into silence at the new information - the Kingslayer of Foltest was an Alpha, which meant getting close to them was going be very difficult.

"Enough of this!!" Iorveth shouts, startling all three of them at the tone - because it not been shouted normally, but in a Alpha command - forcing Geralt to resist kneeling down on both knees due to it - the last time he did, it been something he never wanted to be forced to do again - with Roche, trying to the same even though his knees are nearly buckling and his body wanting to obey the Alpha above him.

"TRISS NOW!!!" Roche hears Geralt shouting - voice muffled though like he's just submerged underwater - hearing some Elvish being shouted, followed by series of spitting curses and hisses.

Managging to turn his face to look, Vernon sees Iorveth - his long-term enemy - is lying on the ground bound by electric coils which are wrapped tightly around the elf Alpha, who struggles only to give up when he realises he's been caught.

"Bloedhe.....Vhatt'ghern......I'lll.....Gaaa.....kill that Sorceress......Urghhh...." Iorveth snarls out, followed by slumping in exhaustion with a silent command to Ciaran, who's looking down from the hiding spot above to get back to Base.

There is nothing at the moment he could do, seeing Letho, the large Alpha Witcher behind his second-in-command looking at white-haired Vhatt'gern with something like sadness he couldn't tell because soon he's hauled up by the Sorceress, using one of the tendrils of magical coils like a leash or rope.

-----------------------

[eggcompany]

Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Additional Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alpha Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Omega Jaskier | Dandelion, Omega Verse, Medical Trauma, Medical Conditions, Stitches, Sick Character, Sick Jaskier | Dandelion, Anal Sex, Caretaking, Nurse Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Kiss, Love Confessions, Sex Toys, Large Cock, Knotting, Knotting Dildos Summary:

Jaskier's always been a poorly omega, often need the Omegan Services to send someone out to help him. Geralt's known the omega for a bit, through Yennefer, but had been the only one to offer to work in the omega's neighborhood. He's gotten to know the omega much better since. However when he gets called out and Jaskier's and the younger man is sick? Well Geralt's always been a bit of a service alpha anyway. He'll chalk the way his heart flutters and his mind get all those good alphan hormones to that. But not for long.

(Tw stitches, medical, smut in the beginning)

[podcastenthusiast]

It's perfect, for a while.

They have a home at Corvo Bianco, far away from politics and ghosts. A garden, too, because Geralt still likes to keep his potion-brewing skills sharp and Yennefer has found she enjoys making her own perfume. They have room for a few horses in the stables—retired racers and warhorses. Roach pretends to dislike their company, but Yennefer can tell it's just an act.

Yennefer finds a quiet life suits her more than she ever expected. They drink excellent wine. Take walks together, in the fields or by the stream, and she listens as Geralt talks at length about various plants and creatures. They hold each other at night. They read in bed. Eat breakfast in bed. They do many things in bed.

Winter, though... winter is hard. At times, Yennefer has to remind herself that this isn't Aedd Gynvael.

Geralt starts sleeping in late. Not the gentle, lazy rhythm of unspooling days they enjoyed together in the seasons before. He stays in bed like he can't bring himself to face the day. Sleeps like he's running from something. Barely speaks. He doesn't eat enough, especially for a witcher—even an idle one; Marlene frets over it constantly.

When he does rise, he works himself beyond exhaustion for no reason she can understand. The winter chill is mild here in Toussaint, and they have staff now, yet still he chops firewood himself until they've run out of room to store it all, as if he's preparing to heat a whole castle—

Oh.

It is about a castle, isn't it. She suspects he misses Kaer Morhen. His family.

"Talk to me," she says one night. One could almost call it pleading were she a different woman.

"Just read my thoughts, if you're so insistent."

"I know that isn't your preferred method of communication, nor mine."

Not to mention she's a little afraid of what she might find in that poor tormented mind of his. Yennefer rakes her fingers through his long hair. Geralt, head resting against her breasts, says nothing at all.

"We're too old for this. We agreed to stop running from things. Talk to me, Geralt."

"I'm tired, Yen." He speaks like each word pains him. "I don't know what's wrong with me. You're happy. Roach is happy."

"Roach is a horse, love. She would be content anywhere as long as there are apples in it for her."

"I love it here with you. Really, I do. It's better than I deserve. Thought I might even be the first witcher ever to die in his bed. Imagine that."

"I'd rather not," she mutters.

"I was—I thought I could be happy. But maybe I don't know how. Maybe I'm not capable of it anymore, only able to feel a brief shadow of contentment. All they left me with is anger and sadness. I'm sorry."

Yennefer cannot bear to hear this. She hates when Geralt talks about himself like a thing, and a broken one at that.

She takes his face in her hands.

"Now you listen to me, Geralt of Rivia. Never apologize for what you feel. Your feelings are as real and important as mine or anyone else's."

"But—"

"Listen, I said! If you're sad, then be sad for as long as you need to. I am not leaving. And neither are you. We're done with all that nonsense. Aren't we?"

"...Yeah."

She pulls him close.

While the witcher sleeps in her arms, Yennefer devises a plan.

--

Jaskier and Zoltan are the easiest to find, of course. The bard doesn't take much convincing at all either. She need only say that Geralt needs him.

Ciri is much the same, immediately willing to help and (ironically) easy to locate; the imprint of magic she leaves in her wake still shines bright as a beacon.

She tracks Lambert down to an inn at the foothills of the Blue Mountains. It's easy enough; he never has been quiet or subtle a day in his life.

"You're here and Geralt isn't," he says, white-knuckled grip on his mug of beer. "So is he...dead, or—"

"He's alive," Yennefer says before the witcher can spiral any further. "He's safe. Unharmed."

"Then what the fuck are you doing here?"

"I could ask the same of you. Heading to Kaer Morhen for the winter?"

"No, I'm fucking not," Lambert snaps. "Wouldn't be any point."

"Yet here you are in Kaedwen."

"Yeah. Old habits. I don't know."

"Come to Toussaint."

"Why the fuck—"

"Because I'm starting a new tradition, one that requires all the remaining witchers of the Wolf school to gather at Corvo Bianco immediately. And because I asked nicely."

"Gonna turn me into a frog if I refuse?"

She smiles dangerously. "We shall see."

Eskel is a little more difficult to find because he isn't slowing down for the winter. In the end, she follows a trail of dead monsters from town to town, inquiring about the witcher who slew them. At least his scar is distinctive.

"Geralt is fine," she says this time instead of a greeting, and the witcher's tense shoulders relax slightly. "Alive and uninjured, anyway. But it would do him good to see his brothers."

"Sentimental old wolf," Eskel says with unrestrained fondness. He pats his horse's neck and does not look at Yennefer. "He asked me to stay. After... after Vesemir's funeral. But I just. I couldn't go back there, y'know? It'd be too quiet."

"It's too quiet," Geralt had whispered one cold night when she was drifting off to sleep beside him.

"Been worried about him," Eskel continues. "Hoping he isn't in the keep, all alone. Or out on the Path taking stupid risks."

"Is that what you're doing?" she asks.

Eskel shrugs. "Didn't know where else to go, I guess."

"He's not alone," she says. "But I think he also needs more than I can give."

"...Are you all right?" Eskel asks, and Yennefer realizes she'd begun to sway somewhat alarmingly.

"Fine. Just tired. I've simply...expended too much magical energy in a short time. Portals, and such."

"You're really doing a lot for him."

"Surprised?"

"Well...no." Eskel apparently is the only tactful witcher the Wolves have, but he's a shit liar.

"Perhaps I find his moping dreadfully irritating. Let that suffice if it pleases you all to think of me as a selfish witch who ensnared your brother."

"What's the truth, though?"

"I love him," Yennefer says. "And he would walk through a hundred portals for me, I'm certain. This is the least I can do."

--

Upon seeing Yennefer, Jaskier, Zoltan, Ciri, Lambert, Eskel, and Regis—the vampire having appeared out of thin air—all gathered together at Corvo Bianco, Geralt's immediate response is: "Damn. Am I dying?"

"Of course not," Ciri says, embracing him.

"It's about your Gwent addiction," Jaskier quips.

"I can stop whenever I want."

"You sound like Lambert when Vesemir locked the wine cellar," Eskel says.

"Hey, it worked, didn't it?"

"You started mixing up White Gull with random herbs and any half-empty bottles you could find."

"A lesson in creativity," Lambert says.

"Seriously, what are you all doing here?" Geralt asks.

"It was my doing. I invited them."

"Why? Is it Ciri? Is--"

"There's no danger. Everyone is all right," Yennefer assures him. "It's winter. Time for rest. And to be with your family."

They all stay until the pull of their own lives becomes too great to resist. For a while, their home is filled with life and laughter and music.

"Thanks, Yen," Geralt murmurs into her hair later that evening.

It doesn't fix everything. There are still those who should be here but cannot be, whether due to death or simply life's demands. There are still days when the icy tendrils of grief and pain seize Geralt's heart, and even the warmth of everyone who loves him isn't enough to break its hold.

But Yennefer knows it helped when she sees Geralt smile more. She can almost feel the ice in him beginning to melt.

[viking-raider]

Soothing A Wolf

Summary: Geralt recalls the memories of a troubled time in his life, while visiting a place that always brought him peace.

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia/Reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Warning: PG - Fluff, Language, Loss, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Memories, Soft!Geralt, Character Death, Projecting, Farm Life, Light Domestic Bliss, Anxiety

Inspiration: This scene from Season Three of the Witcher! 😭

Author’s Note: I know I've already written this subject, with A Witcher's Soul, but I've become unhappy with it and decided to give it another try. I'm by far happier with this one. Hope you enjoy!

Line divider by @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS!

If you would like to get notifications for my writing! Just follow my Tag List blog, @VIKING-RAIDER-TAGLIST and turn on the notifications for it! It’s that easy!

I do remember bits of my life with her.

You had curled up for a late morning nap, after completing all of your morning chores. The sun filtering through the large window above your headboard. It was warm and pleasant, as you drew to the surface of the waking world. You tried fighting it, wishing for a few more moments of rest, before you had to rise and begin the task of the afternoon chores around your quiet, little farm. However, you were drawn out of your slumber, at the sound of someone's approach into your dooryard.

Sighing, you sat up, taking a moment to fix your hair and smooth your skirts, before standing and going out to find who had decided to visit you. You froze on the porch, watching a huge, black Friesian horse come charging up the well-worn path to your cottage. A muscular, broad shouldered man clad in all black clothing in its saddle, his silvery-white hair tied back in a Rivian style flowing in the breeze created by his haste.

“Geralt!” You called out, as the Witcher dismounted from the horse, Roach. “What are you doing here?” You asked, as he stamped through the drying mud towards you, his pale face pinched and set in an expression more agitated than usual, with a tint of something more you couldn't quite put your finger on yet.

The two of you had met nearly fifteen years prior, when you had heard of the White Wolf being in the area and enlisted his help to rid your property of a Graveir that had been threatening it. Not wishing for the alternative, which was moving off the property. You had little to pay him with, offering him the small amount of gold you had. Instead, Geralt had simply asked for a hot meal and permission to camp on your land for the night and use the water from your well, to bathe with after the bloody business of killing the monster.

Naturally, you agreed.

However, after he had killed the creature and washed up to join you for supper, a tension grew between you that popped before the meal ended. Leading to the pair of you being intimate. Ever since, when Geralt was in the area or was taking time off the Trail, he would come to spend time with you. But, you were surprised to see him now, knowing that he should be with Ciri, keeping her safe from Nilfgaard and the Wild Hunt that dogged their heels at every turn.

Instead, he mounted the porch steps towards you, catching you up into his arms.

She smelled like embers.

Geralt buried his face into your neck, taking a deep breath of your skin as he did, drawing in your scent. Your skin had a natural earthiness to it, accompanied by the fresh and calming, citrus-y snap of lemon balm and sweetness of licorice root. He wished many times on many occasions that he could bottle it and take it with him. Always finding comfort, calm and desire in your scent.

Like he had in almost no one else.

“What are you doing here, Geralt? I thought you were with Ciri.” You asked, breaking the silence as you embraced him, pressing yourself against his solid body, feeling the dampness of his clothing, from the sparse rains that had been occurring off and on all week.

“She's safe enough for now.” He mumbled into your neck, his strong arms wrapped tightly around you. “But, I needed to see you.” He said, pulling away from you, his hands grasping your shoulders.

“Well, here I am, my wolf.” You cooed at him, resting your hands on his sides and staring up into his face. “I didn't know seeing me was such an urgent thing.” You teased, pushing up on your toes to kiss him, knowing there was something deeper bothering him, but knew better than to press the Witcher for information.

Especially in the matter of his thoughts and emotions. He would tell you in his own time.

“Are you staying or are you riding back off again?” You inquired, looking towards Roach, who was grazing in the damp grass of your dooryard.

“I want to stay the night.” He told you, squeezing your shoulders. “If that's all right with you?” He added, softly.

“Nonsense!” You chuckled, slapping him on the chest. “You know you don't have to ask, Geralt.” You assured him, clicking your tongue. “Are you hungry? I was just about to make lunch for myself. I can add a plate for you.” You said, moving away from him, to go back inside.

She used her magic to create elaborate meals that we couldn't afford.

“I could eat.” Geralt replied, following you inside the cozy home, that always brought him peace. “Especially if it comes with a slice of one of your home-made sweets.” He added, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched you move towards the kitchen.

You looked at him over your shoulder, an impish sparkle in your eye. “I don't have any made.” You told him, coyly. “But, if you behave yourself, perhaps there'll be something after dinner.” You teased with a wink, before rounding the corner into the kitchen.

Going into the pantry, you grabbed a large, earthenware jug, carrying it out and set it on your counter, removing the cork. Taking a whiff of the contents that were inside, your nose was greeted by the sweet aroma of honey and blood-orange mead. You had brewed it yourself. You took down a cup and filled it, taking a wee nip for yourself, before taking it out to Geralt, who had made himself at home. He'd taken his shoes off, but stood before the fire, tossing a log into it.

“You don't need to do that, Geralt.” You frowned, holding the cup out to him. “I could have done it.”

“I know.” He answered, watching the strong flames catch the edges of the wood, before he took the cup from you, taking a deep gulp. “You really should sell your own spirits.” He commented, licking his lips and looking into golden liquid.

“Ha.” You chuckled, shaking your head at him. “I have enough to do around the farm, Witcher.” You quipped, going back into the kitchen.

Geralt chuckled at you, taking a seat before the fire, flexing his sore toes in the glowing warmth with a soft and tired sigh, while sipping his mead. He listened to you bump about in the kitchen. The opening and closing of the pantry, the thud of cabinet doors shutting, after you searched through their contents. He finished off his mead and set it on the table beside him, before standing and going to the threshold of the kitchen, knowing better than to go into your kitchen, while you were active in it.

You'd chased the Witcher out more than once, with either the rolling pin or a dish towel.

I would have done anything to make her smile.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” He asked, cocking his head around the corner to look at you, seeing you wielding a large knife to cut into a small wheel of cheese. “Do you need anything?”

“I need you to sit your butt down.” You answered, turning to look back at him. “You rode, god knows how far, to here. So, you need to relax.” You told him, adamantly.

And yet, the day she left me, she was sick. She needed water, so I went to get her some.

“But, I want to help.” Geralt insisted, crossing his arms over his chest.

You sighed softly, giving him a gentle smile. “All right, Geralt.” You conceded, nodding. “My other big brute needs to be fed. So, why don't you go out and do that for me, while I finish getting our lunch done.”

“I can do that.” He nodded, daring to step into the kitchen to kiss you on the cheek, chuckling as you popped him on the bum on his way out.

“That, man.” You giggled, smiling to yourself as you turned back to your task.

Geralt tugged his boots back on and went out, heading towards the small fenced off area to the right of your property, where the few farm animals you had lived. He found the bucket beside one of the fence posts and snagged it up by the rope handle, heading towards the grain storage that was around the other side, filling the bucket.

“Hey, Martigan.” He called out to the brown and white dairy cow, standing in the center of the pen, nibbling on a bale of hay with an expression of no care on his face, but twitched his ears to the sound of Geralt's voice. “And you.” Geralt huffed at the animal you had dubbed your other brute, a solid white goat with horns that nearly curved in on themselves, they were so long. “I see you, Goat-Bert.”

The Witcher called to the Goat, who stood clear on the other side of the pen, as he opened the latch to the gate. But that meant nothing, and Geralt knew it. He had dealt with this Goat-Devil before on your behalf. He had even considered taking one of his potions to increase his odds in dodging that swift, easy to anger, creature. Not even Little Bleater was a match for this fiend. So, keeping one golden eye on the Goat, Geralt moved towards the feeding trough and dumped the bucket of grain into it. It wasn't a split second later that Martigan let out a loud, agitated moo and Goat-Bert bleated with his evil intent, setting his head downward as he charged across the muddy pen towards Geralt's shins.

“Fuck!” Geralt barked under his breath, tossing the bucket over the fence and himself with it. “You damned Goat!” He cursed at him, fuming at Goat-Bert rammed his head into the trough, at full steam. But it was your howls of laughter from the porch that drew Geralt out of his choice words for the farm animal. “You find that funny?” He asked, picking up the bucket and moving towards you, as you grinned and giggled.

“I find it hilarious!” You wheezed, wiping tears from your face. “Watching a Witcher jump a fence to get away from a little goat!”

“Now, you know damn well, what mischief that demon can cause.” Geralt told you, but smirked at your amusement. “I don't need Lambert or Eskel busting my ribs, because I got a broken leg because of a wee goat.”

“Well, no harm done.” You said, catching your breath. “And lunch is ready and waiting for us on the table.” You told him, turning to go back inside.

Following you, Geralt was greeted by a laid out table, containing a round and fluffy loaf of bread with a blossom score on the top of its beautiful, caramel-brown crust. Beside the loaf, was a glass decanter of the mead you'd served him earlier, half a roasted and glazed ham hock, that glistened in the light of the fireplace, and a plate of the cheese slices you'd cut. There were other tidbits, to make lunch more pleasant and filling, as well.

“It looks delicious.” He commented, pulling a chair out and sat down.

You looked at him with soft surprise, cocking a brow as you sat beside him. “Ciri and Jaskier must really be leaning hard on your lessons.” You chuckled, picking up a knife and cut a slice out of the bread, laying it on Geralt's plate, before cutting another and putting it on your own. “Would you like a second piece?” You asked him, knife hovering above the loaf.

“Yes.” Geralt nodded, popping a cherry tomato into his mouth, before reaching for the decanter, pouring you both a tankard. “I appreciate this.” He said, watching you cut thick slices of juicy ham from the hock and set them on the edge of his plate, allowing him to build his own sandwich.

“Of course.” You answered, brow creasing as you placed the ham and cheese on your bread, closing it with the second piece, using your knife to cut it in half. “I can't let you starve, now can I? Silly Witcher.” You chuckled, taking a bite.

Geralt hummed, putting together his own meal and allowing the table to fall into a comfortable silence as the two of you ate. Nothing, but the pop and crackle of the fire with the occasional moo or baa of the farm animals outside filled the space. Neither of you moved, once you had your fill, but you watched Geralt, smirking as you saw his lids struggle to stay open and his chin from falling against his chest. You stood, causing Geralt to start and look up at you with wide molten-gold orbs, but you just offered him a sweet smile, as you started to clear away the table, putting things in the pantry, sink or scrap barrel.

Once you were finished, you moved to your bedroom, fluffing your pillows, fixing and folding back the blankets, then pulled shut the curtains, plunging the room into darkness. Satisfied, you returned to Geralt, smirking as you found he had lost the battle with his sleepiness. His breathing was slow, coming out in gentle huffs, arms crossed and chin resting on his chest. He looked so peaceful and relaxed, the muscles under the loose black material of his tunic were slack, making the various scars pull taut. Biting your lip, you moved around him and knelt, taking one of his booted feet in your hands, eyes still trained on his face. In case you startled him, knowing it could cause him to burst into defending himself, when startled awake.

But Geralt didn't stir, as you carefully pulled his muddy boots off, setting them in front of the fireplace. You stood, moving around him to open the knot of the string that held his silvery-white hair tied back out of his face.

“Geralt.” You whispered into his ear, resting your hands lightly on his shoulders. “Geralt.” You said, a little bit louder.

“Hm?” He hummed back, taking a deep breath and shaking his head, causing his loose hair to fall forward.

“Why don't you come lay down?” You suggested, patting his shoulders and kissing the back of his head. “You'll be so much more comfortable in bed.” You persuaded him, gently.

Geralt sighed, licking his lips and stretching his legs for a moment, before standing up and allowing you to guide him to your bed. He pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it into a chair in the corner and dropped into the bed, looking up at you, as you stood before him.

“Lay with me.” He cooed, resting his hands on your hips.

“I have chores to do, Wolf.” You smirked at him, cupping his neck and caressing his stubbly jawline with your thumbs.

“They can wait until tomorrow.” Geralt said, pulling you between his legs. “I'll do them for you.” He smiled, making you sit in his lap as he wrapped his arms around your waist. “Before, I go.” He promised, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss.

“Very well.” You conceded, breaking the kiss and rubbing noses with him.

“Good.” He rasped, laying down and pulling you against his chest.

And when I came back... she was gone.

Geralt woke up sometime later, feeling refreshed. He hadn't slept well or very long in the weeks since he and Ciri left Kaer Morhen, with the Wild Hunt and Nilfgaard after them, worried that every moment his eyes were shut, was a moment they'd come and take Cirilla from him. He reached out for you, wanting to feel you against him, but you weren't in bed any longer.

I called for her.

He got out of bed, calling your name, as he searched the house for you. The fireplace was still roaring, telling him you hadn't been gone long. But where could you be, that you wouldn't hear him calling. He yanked the front door open and stormed into the yard, uncaring that he had no boots on, yelling your name even louder, as he turned in circles. His only answer was the breeze through the trees, Goat-Bert, Martigan and Roach.

Not a peep or appearance from you.

But she was gone.

Geralt felt his chest grow tight and his slow heart skip a beat, then another. The dooryard started to spin and blur, a rock-like lump formed in his throat. He flexed his hands and shook his head, trying to get a handle on himself. He wasn't supposed to act like this. He wasn't supposed to show his emotions, let alone allow them to take control over him.

“Geralt!” You frowned, coming out of the treeline, a basket resting on your hip as you found him standing barefoot in the muddy dooryard. “What's going on?” You asked, setting the basket down and hurrying over to him, as you watched tears drip from his sharp jaw. “What's happened? Are you hurt?” You asked, looking him over, searching for a wound you felt you had failed to notice before.

“Where is it? Show me!”

“I'm not--” He rasped, swallowing at the lump and shaking his head. “You were gone.” He said, pressing his lips together and pushing his jaw forward, trying to bring up his walls against the raw feelings he was being crushed under. “I woke up and you were gone. I called for you.” He said, failing miserably. “But you didn't answer. I thought--” He choked, looking away from you.

You blinked up at him, confused and afraid, never seeing this side of Geralt before. “You thought what?”

He chewed on his lip, his face hardening as he slowly started to gain control of himself again. “I thought you left me.” He admitted, deciding not to shut you out.

“Left you?” You echoed softly, blinking up at him with surprise. “No, Geralt. I'd never leave you. I didn't leave you.” You told him, taking his hand in both of yours. “I just woke up from our nap before you did, and you seemed so tired that I didn't have the heart to wake you. So, I went out to pick some blueberries.” You explained to him, half turning back to where you'd set your basket, full of plump, indigo orbs. “I plan on using them to bake you a pie.” You said quietly, looking back up at him.

Neither of you said anything for a long while, before Geralt looked down at you, a sad look in his eyes.

“I'm sorry.” He whispered, bending his head to rest his forehead against yours.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” You assured him, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles.

Nodding, Geralt pressed his lips to your forehead and sighed, looking down at his muddy feet. “I'll rinse my feet off.” He said, moving away from you and towards the well.

Watching him go and drop the bucket into the well, you knew the Witcher didn't have the easiest of lives, that he had a lot of trauma in it. But, he would tell you what was bothering him, when he was ready. It seemed too raw, at the moment. So, you went back for your blueberries and carried them inside to the sink, so you could rinse them off, prepping them for the pie.

Deciding to be there for Geralt, when he was ready.

[somethingaboutnoodles]

How It Burned

Chapter 1/6 Fandom: The Witcher Primary Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Post Season 2, Geralt/Yen, Geralt/Jaskier with assumptions of unrequited feelings, Geralt/Yen/Jaskier is the goal but might not get there in this fic, Jaskier is much more hurt by Rience than in canon, Snowed in at Kaer Morhen over winter

Summary:

After the Deathless Mother's attack on Kaer Morhen, there are more than a few pieces to pick up. While the other witchers are mourning, Geralt is torn between his duty to Ciri, his attachment to Yennefer, and the danger he's brought upon his home. All Jaskier has to do is not get in the way.

When Ciri runs away because Jaskier can't help but be a loudmouth and Yennefer realizes Jaskier's secret, his worst fears are confirmed. He doesn't belong here.

Too bad Jaskier is stuck at Kaer Morhen with a desperate Geralt, a far-too-tender Yennefer, and not a single lute string to save him.

I’ve been sitting on this for almost two years because I wasn’t happy with it, and then I re-read it and was like “whoa, this is good!”. Please enjoy the results of me having a little distance from my writing.

[fandom-happy]

Sicktember 2023 - Day 29: Side effect/adverse reaction

Summary: Jaskier’s luck with putting random stuff in his mouth runs out and scares the hell out of Geralt.

[dreamingbrownie]

Chapter 5: Inkpot Gods

A ship at night, the silent cries and the heaving relief, and the beginning of their long way home.