#hi hello yes hmu to talk about anything the witcher related or send me prompts if you want to

[heartbreakheroics]

sometimes playing the witcher 3 makes me worry for geralt’s (and my own) mental health (seriously, the people you help in the game fucking SUCK???), so i wrote about it: It’s raining when Geralt stumbles away from the campsite, a strange feeling lodged in his throat. This is why he never sits down with strangers, with anyone. He knows this, and yet – he’d been on the road by himself for months, and that’s fine – it is, this is the Path, it’s what he does – but somehow the many wry endings that his latest contracts had found had started to wear on him. Being forced to kill a werewolf to protect the man’s own fiancée, her screaming and crying as she refused to meet his eyes; helping a baron to find his wife and child only to find out he was the reason they had fled; running into wraith upon wraith and finding their letters filled with despair… 

So tonight, when a small group of men had called him over to where they were warming their hands over a campfire, offering him some ale, Geralt had accepted. He would never have normally, but he’d been so frayed, so hollow. Conversation had been fine, after he’d grudgingly told them his name and they had all cast their individual judgement on it, and the atmosphere had almost become pleasant. Until one of the men had known a little too much about politics and Nilfgaardian plans for one of the others’ liking. He’d jumped up, yelling about how the man was a Nilfgaardian spy and ordering Geralt to hold him down. Geralt had tried to calm them down, to keep them apart, to use axii – all in vain. As he’d been focused on the first two, the third man had turned against the supposed spy as well, had stabbed him sloppily, and soaked his hands in blood. 

Not for the first time, Geralt wonders if he should be protecting those humanity calls monsters instead. 

Well past midnight, he walks into Oxenfurt, 

Roach stepping along behind him. The last thing he wants right now is more people, but he is low on supplies, and Roach deserves a roof over her head for a change. At least, that’s what he tells himself as he makes his way over cobblestones and patches of sand towards the university buildings. There’s an odd tug in his chest as he catches the familiar smell of cedarwood and jasmine, and glimpses candlelight coming from the window he’s looking for. Jaskier is home. 

Discomfort creeps up his spine as he realises he can no longer deny what he’s doing. What is he thinking? He stops dead in his tracks, Roach’s nose bumping his shoulder as she comes to a halt behind him. She snorts, ruffling his hair. When he turns to look at her, her ears are pricked forward, her nostrils flared.

‘You smell him too, girl?’ Geralt asks softly, rubbing her cheek. She headbutts him in answer. 

He flicks his gaze back at the row of buildings and makes a decision. ‘Come on, then.’

The stables are quiet, a sole sleepy guard keeping watch in front of them. Geralt vaguely recognises him as a young lad from one of Jaskier’s classes. John? Jord? Geoffrey? 

The boy straightens, his movements stiff. ‘Mr. Geralt, sir!’ he says, squinting in the light of a single torch. ‘Mr. Witcher of Rivia. How are you, sir? Are you visiting Jas- professor de Lettenhove?’

The question – assumption, really – catches Geralt off-guard. He nods curtly. ‘I need a stable for Roach here.’ There’s a beat. ‘Please.’ 

The boy – Yason? – smiles broadly. ‘I can take care of that, sir, you go on and catch professor de Lettenhove before he goes to bed. Not that he seems to go to sleep early, mind, the other day a mate of mine said that she saw his light on hours after midnight –’

‘Thank you, Yann,’ Geralt says, glad to remember the lad’s name at last, and effectively shutting him up. Yann’s face lights up at that, and honestly, what has Jaskier told these kids? The look of awed reverence is unsettling. Fucking bard and his stories.

With a last pat on her neck, he hands Roach over. He usually prefers taking care of her himself, but he knows he can trust the kid to do it well. That, and some part of him is heeding Yann’s words, wanting to catch Jaskier before the man goes to sleep.

He doesn’t let himself think before he knocks on Jaskier’s door. The wood is a clear blue under his knuckles, standing out from the plain doors of the surrounding houses. Of course. He can hear Jaskier get up, stretching and cracking his back – Geralt decidedly doesn’t flinch at that – and make his way over to the door.

Bleary, glazed-over eyes meet his own and widen. ‘Geralt!’ Jaskier says, sounding pleased even when no human should at this hour. He is in a long, white shirt, and his hair is mussed, looking rumpled. A small wrinkle forms between his brows as he looks Geralt over.

The next thing he knows, the bard has thrown his arms around him, holding him tight. And Geralt is disgusting, surely, covered in dust and mud and blood, and he doesn’t normally do this, they don’t – but gods, he doesn’t have the energy to protest. He leans into Jaskier’s solid weight, just a little. Brings his arms up to awkwardly rest on his back, and breathes him in. It settles something deep inside him, makes his breath come out in a shudder and his shoulders drop. 

‘There you go,’ Jaskier says softly, rubbing circles into his back. It’s – new, but it feels good against his tense muscles. Geralt steps back.

‘I -’

‘Come on in,’ Jaskier interrupts him, turning around and walking inside without looking back.

Geralt sighs. Maybe he can stay. Just for a little while.