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aramblingjay · 1 year ago

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After summers of fasting I feel hunger at last Geraskier, touch-starved, bed sharing (2K)

They meet that spring. And the one after, and the one after, and the one after, until it’s six winters later and Geralt leads Roach down the trail from Kaer Morhen with his saddlebags stocked full of human-safe potions and spare lute strings and a bright maroon doublet too small to have the faintest hope of fitting him.

ao3

The first winter he returns to Kaer Morhen, Geralt is asked to describe Jaskier.

“We hear you’ve started traveling with a companion,” Eskel says over dinner. Lambert and Coën go a little too still in the corner to not be listening, and even Vesemir subtly turns his head in their direction—everyone’s been wondering, evidently, and Eskel has been chosen as the best person to pose the question.

“Yes,” he agrees, taking another bite of whatever it is Lambert has decided to pass off as dinner. Some kind of meat, perhaps? It powders in his mouth like chalk.

To his credit, Eskel doesn’t ask who the companion is. “What are they like?” he asks instead, and Geralt doesn’t miss the they. It protects him implicitly the way Eskel always has, assuming nothing, allowing him to reveal exactly as much or as little as he wants, and Geralt is reminded all over again why he’s never been able to deny Eskel anything.

Including this, so he tries to find the right words. It was never his strength, even back when he still had red hair and brown eyes and knew of Witchers only as a fiction told to scare disobedient kids, but it’s even harder now.

“He’s—”

The first description which comes to mind is loud, but that isn’t quite right. Jaskier is loud only in the sense that Geralt is always aware of his presence, a whisper of citrus and jasmine beside him. And he hums incessantly, sometimes accompanied by the twang of his lute, sometimes not—but it isn’t the kind of overbearing, obtrusive singing that loud would suggest. Jaskier’s music is just there, a constant background, as familiar to him now as the chirping of birds and rustling of leaves in the wind.

He’s a bard, Geralt considers saying, but that doesn’t capture the essence of Jaskier, almost suggests he’s nothing without a tune on his lips.

He’s brave. Certainly, he’s the first human Geralt’s met that has never, not once, smelled like fear around him, even when Geralt’s eyes are inky black and he’s more monster than man. But Geralt doesn’t know if that’s bravery or foolhardy, and besides, true bravery is to run toward that which you fear. To not feel the fear at all—that’s something else entirely.

He’s different. True. Not nearly enough to explain.

“He’s kind,” Geralt says finally, and it feels right. There is no kindness to be found here at Kaer Morhen—even Eskel, for all his protectiveness, is not kind. No Witchers are, no Witchers are allowed to be. But Jaskier is the opposite of a Witcher, vivacious like no one Geralt has ever known before, impulsive and free-spirited and wholly kind.

Eskel’s eyes go strangely soft. “Oh, Wolf,” he murmurs, so low only a Witcher could hear.

Geralt looks away. “Anyway, I doubt I will see him again come spring.”

It’s not a lie. Jaskier has undoubtedly moved on to pastures new, wintering in Oxenfurt or Lettenhove or some other place that Witchers wouldn’t set foot, somewhere bright and lively to keep the chill at bay. The chance that their paths will randomly cross again once Geralt comes down the trail in a few months’ time is slim, and he doesn’t expect Jaskier to wait for him either. Jaskier is kind, but not infinitely so, and surely spending another year on the Path beside a Witcher who grunts more than speaks is the last thing he wants.

It’s not a lie, but the words taste bitter on his tongue anyway.

They do meet that spring. And the one after, and the one after, and the one after, until it’s six winters later and Geralt leads Roach down the trail from Kaer Morhen with his saddlebags stocked full of human-safe potions and spare lute strings and a bright maroon doublet too small to have the faintest hope of fitting him.

Geralt dismounts Roach outside The Wolf’s Snout, a grimy-looking inn with a half-broken fence surrounding it, five days’ trek from the bottom of the trail. It is further than he usually travels before stopping—the Kaedweni innkeepers closer to Kaer Morhen are more used to Witchers popping in than those this far out.

(But Jaskier mentioned this inn to him last year, so. Here he is)

He has yet to meet Jaskier in the same inn twice, but somehow they always find each other in one establishment or another on the outskirts of Kaedwen. Geralt no longer doubts whether their paths will cross, the question is only when.

Though he knows Jaskier tends to winter close to the coast, he does not ask how or why Jaskier ends up in Kaedwen every spring. Such a gift is too precious to jeopardize, either by his clumsy questioning or his even clumsier acknowledgment.

Geralt steps inside the inn to a raucous dining area, every available table surrounded by men with red cheeks and loud voices, clearly well on the ale. A good bard would make a pretty coin or two here, he thinks idly, and wonders if that’s why Jaskier mentioned it.

The innkeeper is a short, wiry woman with sharp eyes that rake him from top to bottom as he approaches her.

“Room for the night?” he asks, careful to speak just loud enough to be heard over the din. The innkeeper will know, of course, but nobody else seems to have clocked that he’s a Witcher, and the longer he keeps it that way the smoother his stay will be.

“I won’t be having any trouble here tonight,” she says, but her voice isn’t hostile.

“I won’t give you any.”

A corner of her mouth lifts. “And payment up front. How many nights you staying?”

Several coppers lighter, Geralt ends up in a rather spacious room at the very end of the hall, complete with a bed large enough for two (or one broad Witcher), a second small bed pushed up against a window, a fireplace, and a round tub. The main bed even comes with a feather-padded blanket for warmth. Compared to his usual accommodations, it’s a veritable palace.

He scowls, and dumps his saddlebags in a corner. All this luxury is largely wasted on him, and does little to fill the hollow in his chest that has only grown with every step away from Kaer Morhen.

There’s not much to do here besides take in the finery and rest, so he casts Igni to light a fire and settles into the bed rather quickly. Some dinner would be nice, perhaps, but everything smelled a little too salted and seasoned downstairs—normally he can stomach just about anything, but several months of pampering over winter have narrowed his palette considerably, and it’ll take at least a few weeks time to remember how not to give a fuck again.

Sleep finds him almost immediately after that. It should be one of the most comfortable nights he’s had outside the keep in recent memory, but the emptiness of the room aches in his chest like a physical, tangible thing.

He wakes to citrus and jasmine and a voice he would know anywhere.

“She told me you were in—ah, Geralt. Here you are. Lovely to see you again after a long winter.” Jaskier steps further into the room until he’s fully illuminated by the firelight. He looks good, Geralt surmises, well-fed and looked-after. “Don’t mind me. Coin is short and this room is entirely paid for, so I’ll be here for the night.”

It’s phrased as a statement but intended as a question.

Geralt just grunts his assent and drifts back to sleep smiling.

They fall into the familiar routine just as they have every year before. It’s comfortable, safe, easy.

Geralt kills monsters and Jaskier sings about it.

Jaskier sleeps with fine ladies (and more than one fine lord), and Geralt scares away their angry spouses with a well-placed intimidating look.

Geralt keeps them safe, and Jaskier keeps them fed, the coin he earns from one night of performing usually triple what Geralt could even hope to earn from a single contract.

Jaskier smiles at him and worries after him and touches him with a care no one’s taken since he was a boy, and Geralt tries to understand what it all means.

The ache in his chest is an old, forgotten thing.

Their seventh spring, he once again stops at The Wolf’s Snout.

(He’s never waited in the same inn twice before, until now, but he refuses to consider what that might mean)

This time, he’s awake. Waiting up, one could call it, though the very idea is preposterous—Witchers don’t have anyone worth waiting up for, and the chance to sleep in a bed is a precious commodity on the Path. No one is coming home to a Witcher.

But then there’s a lyrical knock at the door—two taps, and then a faster three, the beat of a song he doesn’t know—and Jaskier is there. Framed in the doorway, dressed from head to toe in bright blue and green that should irritate his eyes but doesn’t, not in the slightest, only makes something loosen in his chest that’s been taut for too long.

Jaskier is there. Here. With him, again, for the seventh spring in a row, despite it all.

“You’re awake,” Jaskier says, and his voice is missing some of its usual brightness, its usual whimsical nonchalance, but it’s so good to hear all the same.

“Hmm.”

And Jaskier shouldn’t be able to read what that means, just like he shouldn’t be here in a beaten-down inn along the forgotten backwater of Kaedwen about to step into a room already occupied by a Witcher, but Jaskier is brave and different and kind and entirely incapable of ever doing what he should.

So of course, Jaskier only says, “Yeah, me too,” like he hears the words Geralt doesn’t even know how to form in the privacy of his own mind, and steps over the threshold.

It feels significant, somehow. A bigger step than across a single plank of wood.

He stays silent, watching as Jaskier drops his bags in a heap by the door and undresses down to his smalls in the half-darkness.

There’s only one bed in this room. Geralt asked for a room and the innkeeper offered this one and he didn’t spend more than a second thinking about it before accepting. Witchers can’t be picky, and Jaskier has slept on the floor many a time—they both have, on cold and dirty forest floors far more uncomfortable than anything this inn could offer.

But.

“What are we doing here, Geralt?” Jaskier asks softly, hovering by the edge of the bed but making no move to come closer.

Geralt doesn’t have an answer. But he shifts just slightly on the bed, an invitation—and Jaskier lies down in the open space next to him, no trace of fear anywhere in his scent even now—and for the first time since the mutagens burned away every part of the boy he used to be, Geralt wants.

The next year, Jaskier doesn’t come.

Geralt waits at The Wolf’s Snout for a fortnight, until he can’t delay going back on the Path any longer, and then another day just to be totally, completely sure.

Jaskier never comes.

He packs up his things, never considers leaving behind the human-safe potions or the lute strings or the too-small doublet even though they add weight to Roach’s pack—just shoves it all into the bottom of his satchel along with his emotions and his hopes and the weird sense of betrayal he has no right to feel, and walks the Path.

Alone, as he was meant to.

The ache is back, a monster under his skin. He feels cold and tired and empty, but a Witcher isn’t made to break, so he puts one foot in front of the other in front of the other until it’s winter again.

He collapses into Eskel’s arms the moment he’s back in the keep, grateful to still have one person who hasn’t left, and his eyes burn.

If he could cry—he can’t, so it doesn’t matter. But if he could, he would probably drown.

It’s foolishness, to go back to the same inn. It’s foolishness, and Geralt is not a fool, but he can’t help himself.

Just to be sure. Just to be absolutely certain Jaskier has left this life, left him, and then he’ll walk the Path and never ever return here again.

But he opens the door to his preferred room, an extra three coppers per night now but worth it just for the memory of having slept beside Jaskier in this bed, and it isn’t empty.

Jaskier is there.

His hair is longer. He’s dressed in deep maroon, and there are bags under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in days, and he smells like he hasn’t showered since he left wherever he’s been for so long—and he’s the most beautiful thing Geralt has ever seen.

“Hi,” Jaskier says, tentatively, like he’s not sure if he’ll be welcome. Like Geralt hasn’t spent the last year withering away at the prospect of never seeing him again.

“Jaskier.” He can’t find any other words. He can’t think of any that matter more than this, saying a name he thought he’d have to bury in the deepest corner of his mind forever, lest the mere memory of it reduce him to dust.

“Sorry I wasn’t here last year. It’s a long story involving—”

“Come here,” Geralt whispers, cutting him off. His voice breaks, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, all that matters is Jaskier standing on the other side of the room. “Please.” Witchers don’t beg but he isn’t a Witcher in this moment, just a man, old and weary and aching. “Please.”

“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier is front of him in a flash. “Darling, I’m right here. I’m right here, I promise.”

That familiar hand reaches out and rests on his chest—he feels it, the slightest pressure when those long fingers brush against his tunic, the searing warmth of Jaskier’s skin on his own even with two layers of cotton in between.

Citrus and jasmine, the jackrabbit beat of Jaskier’s heart, and that soft, gentle warmth—Geralt closes his eyes and comes home.

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier fic #geralt of rivia #jaskier #*fic #*writing #apparently the trailer inspired me and now i’m doing a bunch of geraskier writing?

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annmarcus63 · 1 year ago

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Buckle up, long reading ahead

"I'm not hungry"

"You need to eat anyway" Jaskier makes a face full of distaste, his belly just woke up and the last thing he wants is stew, more so if Lambert cooked it. "I cooked" Geralt adds as if reading Jaskier's mind "try a couple of spoonfuls" Jaskier takes the bowl eager to get on with it. He swallows precisely two spoonfuls without meat or carrots, only broth.

"For you" says Geralt and places the yellow flower on the nightstand. He takes the chair next to the bed Jaskier is lying on. "I'm definitely not going to eat that" Geralt huffs a gentle laugh and says "It's a present. Ciri helped me to find it. Started snowing a night ago, that's all we could find" He looks at the dying flower a reflection of his own battered body, he's amazed with the gentleness in which Geralt holded it.

"How's the pain?" Jaskier's eyes travels up to Geralt's, a soft look on the golden ones, like sunset autumn, Jaskier shivers but he's not sure why.

"Painful. I must say I didn't know chest hair could hurt"

"So much fucking hair…"

“...Like a dog died in there” They laugh, one of those rare laughs that holds years and years of sharing experiences, of sharing a life on the road, whether or not it's a friendship or merely a companionship. Jaskier regrets it immediately when a sharp pain emerges from his chest, he gasps and goes still. Melitele's magnificent tits, it hurts.

A warm hand settles over the bandages, a fluttering touch. Touching but not quite. Jaskier opens his eyes, Geralt is there, close very close. "Breathe, slowly" Jaskier follows his instructions, the witcher's hand rising with every breath. Minutes pass, Geralt waits patiently until he regains strength, and then takes his hand away. Jaskier mourns the loss of contact right away.

"How is Ciri?" he asks to break the silence and grimaces at his own trembling voice. He has already asked Triss about her, but he wanted to hear it from Geralt, her father of surprise so to speak. He's seeking some kind of attention or recognition, he guesses, he's always seeking for self meaning in others, specially in Geralt.

"She's fine. She's got a bruised confidence, that's all." Geralt reluctantly takes the bowl from Jaskier's hands and places it on the nightstand, next to the withering flower. "She's safe thanks to you" Jaskier makes a noncommittal sound "We're outnumbered and you... you save her and I ... don't... don't fucking do that again." Jaskier blinks stunned, maybe is the pain or his medicine muddle mind but the harshness in Geralt's voice hits in the wrong places for the wrong reasons.

"I had to, Geralt. That thing was about to mashed her like a potato against the rock, Geralt. A po-ta-to."

"You should've stayed back and let us handle it."

"Well, too late for that!" said Jaskier looking at his mended body and his severed hands. Geralt sweeps his gaze over Jaskier's body, taking in all the bruises and the bandages a miserable expression settles on his handsome face. "The chort threw you across the field. You aren't built for that, we are. You can't do something like that again"

Jaskier could sense something in there, something the witcher wanted to say but he didn't want to give it to Jaskier. And the bard is tired of starving from Geralt. "Oh, I'm sorry" he feels his inner snappish child break to the surface "I didn't know I needed your permission to help..."

"You're human, Jaskier..." And now he's talking like Jaskier is a child who doesn't know better. He's almost forty three!

"Oh, believe me I KNOW"

"It's a witcher's work not yours"

"It worked, didn't it!? so why don't you stick your opinion up your arse and be grateful for just fucking once"

"You died, Jaskier!" Geralt shouts, the words crashing to the walls and bumping back to Jaskier in a punch that cools him down instantly. “You died and I couldn't do fucking anything." Geralt slumps on the chair like all the weight of the world has finally left his shoulders, his hands that were clenched a second ago now open on his thighs. Jaskier's snappish inner child quiets down. "I... when I got to you, you're already gone." Geralt lets out a shuddering breath and then turns on the chair to face Jaskier. "You were gone." he repeats and Jaskier averts his eyes, suddenly ashamed. “Jask…” Geralt has never said his name like it's worth naming him, like it's worth the sentiment. The bard feels like crying. "You don't have to say anything, Geralt. I get it... I..."

"Don't. Don't give me a way out, not this time, bard. I owe you, yeah, don't interrupt me for once and listen.” Even if he wanted to interrupt, Jaskier is utterly stunned. He has heard Geralt talking that much only when he's with Yennefer or Roach, never to him. It’s a nice change. A callous hand lands on Jaskier's wrist, just above the bandages, a careful but intended touch that sends Jaskier's heart on full speed. "I couldn't feel you. You weren't… here anymore" with his other hand Geralt points at his own chest and isn't that poetic? the bard thinks. "I wasn't prepared to lose you, and I'm sorry, Jaskier, I'm fucking sorry. You've been by my side unconditionally even... even when I hurt you, even when I made sure to look the other way.” Geralt's thumb caresses the soft skin on his under wrist, right on his soulmark, and it's so wrong ,so unexpected that Jaskier can't take it anymore. He lets the salt water flow in a river down his stubble. "And I hate myself for making you believe that you're nothing but a travel companion. You're wrong, Jask, I wouldn't be fine if you died, I wouldn't survive losing you." Jaskier lets out an ugly sob. The pain in every inch of his body is nothing compared to this gaping wound with Geralt's name on it, his soulmate. Geralt wipes his tears with the back of his hand, despite being a tender touch the contact feels like a fire setting his skin. "You're my friend, the best I had. But you're much more than that, you're my s..."

"STOP!" Geralt drives away like he's burning. A desperate expression settles on his face.

Even when he's so sure that this must be very difficult for the witcher as is the first time he lets himself be vulnerable for Jaskier, he doesn't want to hear it.

"Stop, please" Jaskier pleads in a broken whisper that rattles up his uneven soul "You have no idea how long I've wait for this, you've no idea" a tired laugh bubbles from his chest sending spikes of pain all over his body, but before Geralt can act, Jaskier raises his hand to make him stay put.

"It's not fair. Not after I lost all hope, not after I died and you lost the part of me that has always belonged to you but you haven't wanted it."

"I was a coward…" Jaskier cleans the tears with the side of his hand feeling like a lost child.

"I don't know if you were a coward or afraid or it's because of me..."

"...Never, Jaskier, I… I’m sorry. It’s my fault…"

"I've only wanted to belong, to be important to you"

"You are, Jask. I care about you.."

"I know, Geralt. What I said to Triss was born out of my stupid self-pitying side. I know you've cared about me all these years in so many ways. You've been careful with my feelings, not wanting to compromise more than you can give.” That's the reason he has stayed for so long. He hoped, longed and starved for something more, yeah maybe love, but he never expected it. Geralt never gave him false hope. "But, you have also been unkind and selfless at times. You have denied me the slightest recognition, making me feel small and unimportant, like a thumbed page in your history." The witcher made a wounded noise, and Jaskier hated himself a little for it, but he needed to say it and Geralt needed to hear it.

“I don't want this, not because I died."

"I'm sorry" Geralt whispers with so much sorrow and reverence, like a defeated man amongst an army of creatures ready to take him apart. And people said witchers were incapable of emotion. Maybe Jaskier is one of those creatures, and he hates it, it won't help to poke at the witcher's gaping wound, and it wouldn't be fair either, not after Geralt allowed himself to feel it.

"Come here, Geralt" Jaskier groans when he pulls a little too hard after trying to stretch his arms towards Geralt, who rushes forward and moves the chair closer to take Jaskier by the wrist. "Careful" he says.

"I wish I could touch you." Damn bandages constricting his hands.

"You'd hurt yourself" as if by compensating Geralt holds him tighter by the wrists, not to hurt but to anchor. They're so very close to one another, breath mingling together, until Jaskier rests his forehead on Geralt's and says in a whisper, only meant for them. "Thank you, darling, for letting me see you. But you must understand..."

"I do" One of Geralt's hands travels up to his neck and stays there.

"I want this to be real" more tears escape and Geralt wipes them away.

"It's real."

"I don't want to get hurt. Not again" Geralt takes his face between his hands and makes him look at him. This close Jaskier can see the tiny pale scars decorating the witcher's skin. "I won't take anything from you, Jask, not anymore. Let me prove this is real. Let me prove how important you are to me." Maybe it's selfish from Geralt for wanting to keep him after he lost him, and maybe it's selfish of Jaskier for wanting Geralt to need him.

Jaskier nods against Geralt's palms making the witcher smile before letting him go "I’ve kept you awake long enough, you need to rest." Yeah, he’s really tired.

Jaskier lays down with Geralt's help, every movement is agony but at least he has a pair of strong hands to support the worst. "I'll be back tomorrow." Geralt says standing next to the bed, suddenly awkward which makes Jaskier snort. Only moments ago he couldn't stop touching Jaskier. "You better."

Geralt looks down to him, a warm smile spreading on his lips "Goodnight, Jaskier."

Jaskier recovery is slow and well… painful. Geralt goes every day with food and a single flower, sometimes when the layers of snow are thick, a twig.

Jaskier thinks it's adorable, he reminds him of a cat but he doesn't tell Geralt that, of course.

Ciri comes to visit, she is embarrassed and angry with herself for losing her sword, but before she starts blaming herself -like father like daughter- he throws a piece of stale bread from the morning at her head.

"Ten points!" he exclaims with a punch in the air.

"You wish! Those are five. Ten is between the eyes." Geralt huffs from the window by the corner

"Excuse me ", Ciri says in a very dignified tone.

"No, five are from the neck below, ten on the head."

"No, ten between the eyes, five on the head and below you lose."

"Hey! I'm right here"

"Yeah? Well, here's a hundred points to you!" With all his strength and with exceptional care, Jaskier throws at Geralt the first object he finds on the nightstand, a candle. It barely reaches the middle of the room.

Geralt chuckles followed by Ciri. "It's not funny" Jaskier pouts, he'd cross his arms if it weren't for the broken ribs that is. A moment later, before they stop laughing, Geralt is looking at him intently, like a cat no less. Jaskier is defenseless under the sun in the witcher's eyes, and he likes it so much that he’s falling addicted with that one look.

"Jaskier is a brave fool. With or without a sword, he'd have thrown himself in front of the chort to save you." Jaskier's heart is fluttering inside his chest, like a moth trying to reach the sun. "He does whatever he wants" Jaskier huffs, blue eyes still on the suns "And I'm grateful for that." somehow Jaskier knows they're not just talking about the chort and Jaskier doesn't know what to do with those feelings, a lot of them, too afraid to grow, too afraid to hope. Oh, but he's a weak man for hope. I'm weak my love and I'm wanting.

"I avoided villages as much as I could when we had enough money."

"Geralt, are you confessing that you are stingy?"

"I wanted you to sing for me at night, after a hunt."

"Wait, what?"

"I like your voice when you don't have an audience, it's… softer. It helped me lessen the pain from the toxins of the potions"

"Then why did you always say my voice sounded like a cock with the flu in the open?"

"I like the fishy face you do every time I say something negative about your voice."

"WHAT? I…I don't, no, I...I..."

"Exactly that face, yeah"

It's past midnight and the keep it's quiet, everyone already sleeping, everyone except for him. He's having one of those nights where the throbbing pain it's becoming a little bit too much. His legs are numb and yet oddly present. He's afraid of breathing normally because the last inhale hurt like a bitch. He feels an irritating pressure in the head that won't let him sleep and…

"Jask?" Geralt it's at the door, but before he can ask what he is doing here so late the witcher is already at his side "Where does it hurt?"

"Everywhere"

"Mmmh"

Geralt purses his lips in that adorable way he does when he's satisfied. "Don't you worry, my dear. Tomorrow morning I'd be as fresh as a daisy"

Geralt rushes to the wardrobe to open it. Jaskier can hear him searching among the vials. "Daisies are usually quiet."

"Oh I'm sorry am I bothering you with my pain?" And then Geralt walks back to take the usual chair next to Jaskier's bed. He's holding the vial with the numbing salve that Triss brews for him every now and then.

“The usual." Jaskier huffs and lofty laugh. Geralt puts the vial on the nightstand and reaches for the bandages on the bard's chest. Jaskier whacks at the hand "Hey, no, Triss already changed them.”

"We have plenty."

"Geralt..."

"Jaskier..." and he surrenders under that worried look. Carefully and attentive of every move, the witcher hovers over Jaskier to unwrap the bandages on his chest. The back of his knuckles grazes Jaskier skin every turn. He shivers in delight for that small contact, the pain is now a minor inconvenience. With the bandages gone Geralt can see the palette of colors on the bard skin, black, purple, green, red and yellow in some places, it's not pleasant to the sight so to speak.

Jaskier suddenly feels self conscious of his body, he has lost weight too, a shadow of his former sexy self. But Geralt doesn't seem to care. "This will help" Geralt deeps two fingers on the vial and Jaskier braces himself for the cold. Geralt has always been methodical and efficient in every task, but this time he's taking his time, applying the salve in small circles on his chest. Jaskier groans, the cold sensation is a relief but the contact hurts all the same. Geralt responds by placing one hand on the back of his head to guide him forward.

Jaskier rests his forehead on the witcher's shoulder and stays still throughout the process. Geralt smells clean, like lemon soap. Jaskier breathes the scent of his favorite person in all the continent. Like earth and pines, no trace of Roach or onions.

"Destiny is never wrong. I thought so too, but it has proven me wrong over and over again." Says Geralt above him, now making circles on his left side. "The dandelion on my arm kept me going after...after Renfri." Jaskier is shaking in pain and something more that hurts deeper. He never knew what really happened with Renfri, but he knew she was important to Geralt; he sometimes woke up imploring her name. "I killed her."

“Geralt” Jaskier whispers, placing a hand behind the witcher's back, to hold him as much as he can. Geralt is not applying the balm on his back.

"She gave me no choice.” Jaskier nuzzles his face onto the witcher to offer comfort to both of them. "Your mark appeared a day before her death. I thought destiny was mocking me. A soulmate for a witcher? Come on. But it kept me going, you kept me going regardless of what I thought." Jaskier hisses when Geralt travels to his right side, it hurts the most there. He uses it as an excuse to press closer to the strong body holding him, or is it the other way around? "You've been traveling with me since then."

"I bet it was quieter," Jaskier says, the fingers of his hand on Geralt's back twitching, caressing through the fabric.

"Lonelier. Intolerable. A burden. But, yes, quieter" Jaskier hits him lightly on the back.

Geralt untangle themselves to put Jaskier on the fresh bandages. He starts under Jaskier's armpit.. It's really not necessary but Jaskier presses again against the chest next to him, and Geralt lets him, even if it makes the wrapping a difficult task.

"You are my destiny, Jaskier." and suddenly he's crying, struggling not to sob to avoid the pain, at least physically. Geralt holds him even after he finishes with the bandages and surprises Jaskier by placing a quick kiss on the top of his head.

"It's late, you need to rest." Geralt steps aside to put the vial back in the wardrobe. Then he goes back to Jaskier to help him lay down. "Need anything else, water? to pee?" Jaskier smiles and shakes his head "Come here" he says instead "Closer…. Closer!" When Geralt is close enough Jaskier surges forward as much as he can and places a kiss on the witcher's cheek, right below the eye. "You belong to me too, you know?" Geralt blinks fast "And now who has a fishy face?" It's funny how quickly he leaves the room. Jaskier sleeps with a smile on his face.

"I've never seen Geralt like that. He's making an effort, for once."

"Yenn, I..."

"Save it, bard. Believe it or not, I'm weirdly ok with whatever you two idiots have."

"We are not..."

"There is no a not between you. Was about damn time if you ask me"

"Yen, I'm sorry..."

"Don't be. What we had was not real. You two are. Do yourself a favor and don't make this easy for him."

The day he is able to get up, with a lot of help, he asks Geralt if he can go down for dinner.

Geralt grabs him by the waist to support his weight all the way down the stairs. Halfway through he starts to regret his decision, with every step the pain grows until he's sweating all over. He hates sweating. The other witchers are already seated on the tables of the main hall, eating and drinking. As soon as he enters everyone grows quiet. He's heaving and groaning which makes him feel embarrassed. In a keep full of strong majestuous Witchers, a weak bard with a few broken ribs it's a nuisance. Geralt helps him sit on the closest table and then goes to the kitchen to fetch them their meal. "Good evening" Jaskier says as loud as he can muster. No one answers. Maybe it will be better if he goes back to his room. And then, Lambert stands up from his seat on another table and goes to sit across from him. Soon after the other witchers follows him, taking their bowls and beers with them. He's suddenly surrounded by handsome and fearsome witchers, Ciri too sits next to him. "We, uhmm, we wanted to, you know?" Lambert makes a complicated gesture with his hands that Jaskier absolutely doesn't understand. “Yeah, so…”

Cöen slaps him on the head and adds "We wanted to thank you, for saving our cub. For putting your life on the line for her, for us."

"You don't have to."

"Oh but we do." Says Vesemir who's entering the hall with Geralt on his back. Geralt reaches his side and offers him a bowl of stew and a piece of fresh bread. "Lambert" Vesemir calls for the younger wolf.

"Yeah and we are sorry too for not welcoming you properly. We're idiots."

"We?" says someone in a mocking tone.

But before Lambert can answer Vesemir interferes "This is a safe place for you, bard." and Jaskier hears this is your home and feels himself crying, but refrains from it. “You’re welcome here anytime”.

"You need shaving," Geralt offers one evening. Which leads Jaskier to be sitting in front of the window with a generous amount of foam on half of his face.

Geralt is hovering over him with a very dangerous dagger on his hand "You sure this is safe?"

"You better be still."

"Oh, come on!" Geralt rumbles a laugh and begins to slide the blade with utmost care on the bard's throat. Jaskier watches him mesmerized, completely at his mercy. He could die here, under the eyes like suns warming his skin. He likes this Geralt who's not afraid of touching and caring. He likes to feel loved by his soulmate. "The Djinn taught me that I could lose you." He also likes this Geralt who talks about the past and his feelings, he's nice. "When I looked at you on Yenn's bed I thought about Renfri. I wanted to wish for destiny to free you and Ciri from me. But I fucked up. I took away Yennefer's choice in the process. Of wanting nothing and wanting no one to need me, I ended up hurting you, all of you." Geralt cleans the excess of foam with a clean cloth, he has finished shaving him but he hasn't stepped aside. Instead he lingers with the cloth on Jaskier's mouth "If only I hadn't made that third wish, not the way I did."

"It's done, darling, don't beat yourself over it anymore." Geralt's fingers twitch against his bottom lip, the cloth suddenly forgotten. "Maybe I wouldn't have wasted as much time as I did."

Jaskier raises his hand, withholding the pain, to take Geralt's hand to place kisses on the fingers. "There's still time"

Geralt laces their fingers together and leans down to kiss the back of Jaskier's hand. They are so close, but still too scared.

"How do I look?" Jaskier asks, "Good." Geralt lets go of his hand with a growing smile on his face.

"Oh, come one, I'm sure you have a better review on my looks..."

"You look beautiful".

"I can finally raise my arms to reach for things, it doesn't hurt as much anymore."

"You're still a duck" Says Lambert while chewing on a bone, these witchers don't have an ounce of decency.

"A sexy duck though."

“Sure.”

"Geralt, would you mind passing me that tankard? I want to throw it at Lambert."

"Yes, love." Geralt answers without thinking and they all stiffen.

"What did you call him?"

"Yes, what did you call me?"

"I knew it!" Cries Ciri from the other side of the room. If witchers could blush, Geralt would be the color of a ripe tomato. Triss is giggling and Vesemir is so done with his wolves.

"I'm going to call my soulmate whatever I want." Geralt finally emerges from his embarrassment, taking the tankard and passing it to Jaskier.

"Yeah, he's calling me whatever he wants" Says Jaskier just before throwing the tankard at Lambert's head.

"Ten points!" Ciri yells

"Five!" yells Geralt back from somewhere.

"Love, uh?" Jaskier teases him.

"I'm sorry." Geralt sighs "I didn't want to make you uncomfortable"

"Me? Puff! no, not at all. On the contrary" By this point Jaskier has reached the witcher by the wardrobe, he takes the clothes that he is folding and places it inside without care.

"Surprised? yes. Uncomfortable? no." Geralt groans and Jaskier identifies it as embarrassed. Aren't they domestic? Ugh, Jaskier could throw up and probably Geralt too.

Jaskier grabs him by the waistline of his trousers to pull him towards him. In another time that gesture would have been too flirty for Geralt, now he welcomes it.

"Why now, Geralt?" the witcher in question who was distracted by the bard's proximity until now replies. "What?"

"I told you, I don't want this just because I died." And just like that the conversation shifts to one that could leave them both hurt.

"No."

"No? Then it's because you're no longer with Yen?" oh, that does hurt like shit. But they have to have this conversation, Jaskier has to make sure.

"What? No. I'm not with her because it wasn't real"

"It seemed pretty real to me," says Jaskier petulantly. Geralt took him by the elbows bringing him impossibly closer. His hands travel down to Jaskier's forearm leaving a trace of embers behind.

"This is real." Geralt whispers and caresses the mark on Jaskier's wrist. His mark.

"Since when?"

"Since the beginning."

"That's not true, Geralt. Don't lie to me." the bard's voice brakes but doesn't falter.

"I'm not." Jaskier tries to get away but Geralt holds him. "I've always wanted you. That's the reason I wanted so desperately be away from you."

"How reassuring."

"You're perfect for me, Jask. No one else is. A bard who talks and talks to compensate for what I won't say. A noble who left behind everything to follow a witcher and follow his dreams. A poet, the occasional thief and mediator. Many of my hunts could have gone wrong without you, especially the payment.” They laughed in unison. And then Geralt took him by the chin and looked into his eyes. "These eyes..." says Geralt like a prayer "Beautiful," Jaskier felt like a teenager all over again, that eighteen year old boy who found his soulmate in a shitty tavern and didn't know what to do with his beating blushing heart.

"Why now?" Jaskier asks again, looking into the witcher's eyes, he finds something he has always wanted but never dared to expect.

"I was a coward, and I was afraid. I don't want to be afraid anymore" There's so much emotion inside Geralt right now, he doesn't know what to do with them. He's been afraid of them all this time. He rests his forehead against Jaskier and breathes in his scent. He smells like orange blossom and rain.

"Then don't be."

"Jaskier," Jaskier's heart breaks a little.

"My soulmate." whispers Jaskier against his ear "Let it go."

"Would you let me?" Geralt asks, now buried on Jaskier's shoulder. "I understand if you don't, I don't deserve you after what I did..."

"Let it go, darling. I've got you."

Geralt nuzzles the tender skin where shoulder meets neck, and plants a kiss there. "My soulmate."

Something shifts in Geralt, he grabs Jaskier by the hips and surges forward, their lips colliding. They kiss like drowning people, and maybe they were. It's everything a kiss with your soulmate should be, full of longing, love and devotion. Their tongues dancing, savoring each other. Geralt groans, his soulmate tastes wonderful. Jaskier tries to lift his hands to guide Geralt's kisses, a fucking mistake, he doubles over in pain breaking the moment, in the only way he can. By being stupid.

Geralt's worried expression appears in his line of vision "Did I hurt you?" Jaskier laughs but that brings even more pain.

"No dear. It's my fault. Why don't we take this kissing session to my bed so I can't hurt myself anymore."

"We're not fucking, Jaskier." Adds Geralt exasperated.

"Now, that's a thought."

"Jaskier." warns Geralt.

"No, truly I need to lay down, I think something broke."

On the bed, Geralt lays next to him. They kiss and caress under clothes carefully. Jaskier loves him so much. His soulmate, his witcher, his Geralt.

"You know people say that sex with your soulmate is amazing."

"Jaskier, no."

"Jaskier, yes!"

This is it, folks! As usual sorry for the mistakes, bla bla bla.

Hope you like it. I don't have the time to edit it :( I'm an adult.

@mordoriscalling @dustbunnyprophet @fintenciate @kore888 @geekymagicalpotato @gregre369 @theshapeofcool @janjan-the-ninth @zarakem @j-u-s-tmyself @life-as-a-gamergirl @melodymeddler @lawrites07 @youknowwhoiam3490-blog @help-help-i-need-an-adultlt @janjan-the-ninth @strangerzaiah @everything-but-the-not-natural /

Sorry if I forgot to tag someone, love you <3 stay safe and drink water

NOW ON AO3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/47665261

#the witcher #geraskier #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geralt x jaskier #the witcher netflix #The amazing devil references #blink and you miss it #jaskier x geralt #soulmate geraskier #soulmates #true love #soul connection #Geralt is an idiot but is our idiot #Jaskier's idiot

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friendlyreaderandco · 4 months ago

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Ah! I lost another fic! I need to be better at bookmarking the ones I like! I’m 90% sure this one is a completed multi chapter on Ao3.

In this one Jaskier winters in Kaer Morhen. He ends up being very cuddly with all the Witchers (Lambert, Eskel, and Geralt). They all share a bed and really love Jaskier. I remember that lambert makes a comment at one point about how Jaskier will die soon and so they all stop touching him and Jaskier starts to get sad and insecure. Then vesemir goes to bed early since the room smells so sad at dinner. Jaskier all but yells at them asking why they seem to think he is a monster before he admits that he isn’t fully human and freaks out a bit before they all hug him and tell them it doesn’t make a difference.

I can’t remember who Jaskier is in love with. It’s either Geralt or all three of them! Also pretty sure Jaskier is part wood elf and he doesn’t age and flowers live a bit longer than they should. Geralt also makes a comment about how the flowers braided into his hair never wilt and lambert tries to tease Geralt about letting Jaskier braid them into his hair and he shoots back with something like, “shut up, you would let him braid them into your hair too!”

Thank you for any help!

@the-nettle-knight Saved my sanity! Thank you.

Fic found! If I Must Starve- Igneum807. A great sweet read!

#ao3 #fic finder #the witcher #please help #jaskier #geralt of rivia #gerskier #thank you

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kikidoesfanfic · 2 months ago

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More than a chill in the air

KikiDoesFanfic on ao3

Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, The Witcher (TV) Mutual Pining, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Touch-Starved Jaskier | Dandelion, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Siren Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Near Death Experiences, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Yennefer has the braincell, Canon-Typical Violence, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Jaskier | Dandelion, Hopeful Ending Rating: T No Archive Warnings Apply Words: 9,743 Chapters: 5/5 On Ao3

Summary: Jaskier has been different since the mountain, distant, and Geralt finds that he misses how things used to be. Things come to a head when a contract goes wrong, long kept secrets are revealed, and Geralt desperately tries to talk. Unfortunately talking has never been his strong suit.

#kikidoesfanfic #my fic #Geraskier #creature jaskier #geralt/jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt z rivii #jaskier #the witcher

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vesemirsexual · 2 years ago

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i respect the headcanon that Geralt is bad at sex so heavily. the man is touch starved and has terrible shitty self esteem. you do the nervous giggle and he probably takes that as you laughing at him and goes on a 5 year self imposed exile to the wilderness.

#yennefer had to teach this man as far as im concerned #katie txt

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haveyoureadthisfanfic · 7 months ago

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Summary: The witchers of Kaer Morhen have never been comfortable with gentle touches. It just isn't who they are. But when Geralt arrives to spend the winter with his brothers looking more relaxed than any of them have felt in years, all due to the affection of a human bard, Lambert and Eskel grow curious. They wonder what it would be like to be touched or held without fear. When Lambert runs into Jaskier in a small town in Redania, it's the safest he's felt in years. He and his brothers need touch and kindness more than they're willing to admit, and all Jaskier wants it to help, if only the witchers would let him. Geralt and Jaskier are together, all the other relationships are platonic with a good helping of touch-starvation on the side.

Author: Igneum807

#official fic poll #haveyoureadthisfic #pollblr #fanfiction #fandom culture #internet culture #fanfic #tumblr polls #fandom poll #If I Must Starve #the witcher #witcher #twn #geraskier #authorless #ao3

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bigfan-fanfic · 9 months ago

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Geralts favorite thing about dating his new boyfriend, are the long sessions they have where bf washes his hair. It’s always an issue intimate affair. A long thorough scrub that often involves head scratching and and scalp massage. And some very gentle and tender brushing and even some braiding sometimes

Geralt has very little experience with intimacy. Most of his experiences with romance and sex have been transactional at best and one-sided at worst. I definitely feel also that his enhanced senses make physical touch even more overwhelming than normal for someone whose touch-starved.

The only thing more intimate and enjoyable would likely be bathing together. As it stands, Geralt never can bring himself to ask for this treatment, but when you give it, he is completely under your spell. If he falls asleep, take it as a compliment - he rarely finds someone he feels so safe and comfortable with.

#geralt x male reader #witcher headcanons #headcanons

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ellethespaceunicorn · 11 months ago

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2023 Character Wrapped

@geralts-yenn and @raccoon-eyed-rebel tagged me to talk about my favorite characters. And well, this is just too good not to pass up. So, join me, won't you?

Let's rank my favorite characters! (Based on # of times I have written them).

Under the cut to keep my ramblings off your dashboard...but you just know there are bunch of Henry Cavill-shaped bitches under this cut.

But, in what order??

Alright, let's get this party started with...

Walter Marshall - Night Hunter

I feel like this is absolutely no surprise that I've written the most for this grumpy bear. But, I just call him Daddy. Whether he be touch-starved, an enemy turned lover, falling in love like a love-sick puppy, taking a little "me time" for himself, or being the goodest boy as werewolf Wolfie. Even wrote a headcanon about his hobbies.

2. Clark Kent - Man of Steel, BvS, Justice League

I have loved the character of Clark Kent since I was a little thing, I'm obsessed with curly-haired nerds. Clark also is the only character I have written "fluff" for, be it praising what you think are flaws or surprising you for your birthday. I have written him as a Sub and as a Dom (in my only work that has surpassed 1k notes).

3. August Walker - Mission: Impossible - Fallout

I've never written August as the good guy, and there is a reason for that. In my head, he's the life-ruiner. He can be sweet (to you), but odds are he just killed a guy because the guy looked at you for longer than a second. I've written August as a pissed-off Dom who was sick of being interrupted, a very bad Daddy, and an Uncle who takes advantage of his nephew's girlfriend here(original) and here(director's cut).

4. Captain Syverson - Sand Castle

Oh, Syverson. My baby don't even got a dayum first name and he's popular. I've written him confronting a lover during a post-apocalyptic pregnancy realization, and as a married father-to be getting his beard trimmed and talking to his unborn daughter. He's also featured in my Werewolf!Walter Marshall story, and that's all I'll say about that. (Also, I've been referring to him as James Syverson in every iteration of the character that I have written for - I think.)

5. Mike - Hellraiser: Hellworld

My sweet baby boy. He is a guilty pleasure. I gave him a full series where he finds love and has quite the cast of characters as his family. But, technically, I only wrote the series because of what happened here and here, when his naughty Uncle slept with his girlfriend.

6. Napoleon Solo - The Man from U.N.C.L.E.

He's just so fucking sexy. I love him, your honor. He's been a suave and sexy older man wooing a young student over a good meal, and also started a series where he was falling hard for a woman in his apartment building (still in the early stages and I promise @deandoesthingstome that I will get back to this series).

7. Sherlock Holmes - Enola Holmes series

I have also loved Sherlock Holmes since I was a little kid. I thought he was the coolest person ever, but he's a curly-haired nerd so of course I loved him. I love when Sherlock is in love, whether he is ignoring his bratty wife until he takes matters into his own hands, or if he is having trouble coming to terms with new love.

8. Charles Brandon - The Tudors

This little shit. This redeeemable, sexy, fucking slut. I love him. I've only written him once, and it was a request! But, I enjoyed it. I loved writing him getting teased sexually and then taking control of the situation. So hot.

9. Humphrey - Stardust

Ok, not actually a fan of Humphrey, I've just written him. And that was all thanks to @sillyrabbit81's milestone celebration at the beginning of this year. This fic is kind of a weird egg, just, go with me though. The plot is: you and Humphrey are step-siblings who end up getting a little...involved. I'm not sorry for the title of this fic.

And to our last entry, the only non-HC character...

10. Lloyd Hansen - The Gray Man

What can I say? If I had the means, and I guess I really do but whatever, I would rank this man at #2 above Clark Kent. Because Lloyd-excuse me...Sir is one of my all-time favorites. I've included him inside larger stories as a bit player, see Bright Like the Moon (where he plays a bad man later in the series). But, I also wanted him to have his own show where he was the star, so I had him stalk and kidnap a girl and tie her up in the basement and call her Sunshine. I also wrote a little headcanon about his family, quirks, hobbies and his sleeping habits.

TL;DR: Walter Marshall is Daddy, Lloyd Hansen is Sir. And I need to finish one series before starting another. Maybe I will work on that. *snort*

I have written for a lot of characters, and I'm not gonna stop. I really wanna write so much more and my WIP folder is literally overflowing with things. I just started a new fic like the day I posted the most recent chapter of THiCC. What am I doing??

No pressure tags: @cardierreh15 @milknhonies @halfofmysoulsblog @xblackreader @xsapphirescrollsx

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thedreamlessnights · 2 years ago

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Accismus - pt. 3

{previous chapter} || {next chapter}

Geralt of Rivia x gn!reader (Eventual NSFW)

Synopsis: The path to Novigrad proves dangerous as you and Geralt are forced to shelter in a cave. You learn more about the man behind the ballads.

Warnings: Mentions of blood, corpses and death, and retching. Graphic descriptions of a monster death, fire and smoke, and being choked (not in a sexual way). Lots of sexual tension, though.

Word Count: 11.8k

A/N: Sorry for the long wait in between chapters, this bastard chapter simply would not end. Apparently, this fic has also decided to be really long, seeing as it's now over 20k and barely into the story. Anyway, hope you enjoy. Comments and reblogs are incredibly appreciated!

You don’t remember how you got here - this decaying old house.

You don’t recognize it. It’s drafty and creaking and smells of rot, and yet… you know it, somehow. There’s an old fireplace in the kitchen. Molding food sits on the table. Something at the back of your mind is screaming for you to leave, but where will you go? It’s snowing, after all. Can it really be winter already?

Your knees bend of their own accord to tend to the flame, the way you have for years. In this place, your body has a mind of its own, seeking your survival.

Warmth, that’s what you need. A full belly and a warm place to sleep. But there’s no kindling in the fireplace - only a long, heavy knife resting in the old, grey ash. You stow the knife on your belt. It’s bound to come in handy later.

A shame about the fire, though. Any wood from the snow will be soaked through. Your knees creak as you rise. It seems you haven’t stood in years.

You open the door to find that everything outside is covered in a layer of white, but the smell of it is all wrong. Snow is crisp and clean and good. This is… bitter. Fermented. Putrefied.

The substance crunches under your feet, but the sound is wrong, too. It crackles - akin to dead leaves at the end of autumn. The thick heaviness of snow, trodden into the soles of boots - it is simply not there.

On impulse and nothing else, you reach down and brush the tips of your fingers to it. It’s hot to the touch.

Something is so very wrong about this place, but you can’t decipher exactly what it is. Everything is off and crooked and distorted from where it should be, but your memory is a fuzz and you can’t remember what things are right.

You really should get back inside now.

Which way did you come from again? You can’t recall. Nothing looks familiar. Everything is just white. You close your eyes for a moment and breathe. The bitter fragrance of the false snow is still there, coating the inside of your mouth like soot.

There’s no wind. No sound. Stillness, emptiness - that’s all this place is. You open your eyes again ever-so-slowly, as if what you might see is better left unseen. But there’s nothing.

Nothing but a house directly behind you - how could possibly you have missed it? It’s not the one you just came from, though. This is your house, with the warm sheets you’d saved up so long for, and warm, fresh bread on the table, and smoke so thick it chokes your breath.

This is your house, and it’s on fire. Your hands are burning, but you don’t know how. You’ve kept them close to you all this time, haven’t you? Haven’t you?

An answer never comes. Smoke is now your world, and it’s starved. Smoke eats away the air, and your lungs, and your flesh. It takes your bones, your body, your still-pounding heart. It chokes you, scalds your throat, chars your esophagus all the way down to your stomach.

Smoke is indigestible. Your stomach won’t take it. It retches it back out and you choke up bile alone. Tears burn at your eyes.

You can’t see, and you can barely hear. The world is just heat and smoke and hunger and gasping breaths and your damaged airway, and the smoke can only do what it knows how to do: consume.

Hands are around your neck, cold and cruel. A knife is heavy in your hand. A man is choking on his blood. A woman is still in your arms, and it’s your fault. You loved her, but you can’t remember her name.

And all of the world is just smoke. You’ll join it, soon. You’ve spent so long trying to get out, but you’re so tired now. Your muscles have gone to dust. Your bones have crumbled. Everything is so dark…

Your hands. Your hands are burning.

Your eyes shoot open with a start, and you inhale clean, good air through working lungs. When the blur of sleep fades, you find nothing but the golden glow of soft light through cracks in the wood.

No smoke. No fire. No snow, even. Just a dream, like all the others.

Another terrible fucking dream.

The memories seem cursed to follow you forever. They give you no mercy in your sleep. Your hands are stinging again - it must have been what woke you up.

Little by little, the fears and pain begin to dull.

The inn. Slowly, it becomes a silent mantra for yourself. You’re at the inn. You’d slept here, and now you’re awake again, and there was no fire, or smoke, or ash. Even the flame that once roared in the fireplace last night is gone, orange embers flickering in its absence. The room is still warm, though.

You turn to look for Geralt’s sleeping form, but find nothing in his place. The bed next to you is empty. Geralt is nowhere to be found.

Panic jolts through you like ice through your veins. No, no, no, you think. Your eyes dart around the room over and over, as if he might appear out of nowhere. But he’s not sitting at the table. He’s not in the bath. He’s not in the bed. Even his things are gone.

You don’t know what to do. You numbly sit up and stare blankly around the room, pondering whether or not you’re still dreaming. But no, this is no dream. Your skin stings when you pinch it, and your mind is alert and responsive - this is all much too real.

How’d he gotten past the djinn’s protective field? Had he found something on djinns in his reading, and somehow managed to break the wish? But why wouldn’t he have woken you? That’s the thing you can’t get past. Why had he left you sleeping and alone? Even after a day, it doesn’t seem like him.

Gods, what now?

Should you stay in town, attempt to make a living somehow? That money won’t last forever. You could take your horse and look for someplace to go, but where? You have no home to return to. No friends, no family. All your possessions are with you - coin, some clothes, and food.

No, something must be wrong. Surely Geralt would have told you he was leaving. He hadn’t even said goodbye. Did something happen? Was there a struggle? Is he—

You suddenly bolt to your feet, bracing yourself for the sight of blood, or worse - but find something else entirely: Geralt.

Alive and well, from what you can see, and asleep on the floor.

Your breath escapes you in a burst of sheer relief. Of course. It should have been your first guess, but… well, your mind isn’t fully awake yet, and you’re far more accustomed to things going wrong than them going right. Why’s he on the floor, anyway? Had he fallen off?

You can really only see his legs from where you’re standing: his trousers, instantly recognizable. But despite everything logically telling you otherwise, you’re still scared he’s somehow gone - so you risk a careful step further to take in his sleeping form.

Geralt’s eyes are closed and he’s laying on his side, left arm tucked underneath his head. Some of his hair is loose around his face, stray strands disrupted by his sleep. The rise and fall of his chest is soft and even, and he looks much younger while asleep, more relaxed. You’d wager that most people do. Maybe even you.

He’s next to a scattering of papers and his armor. His boots sit on the floor at the front of the bed, along with the rest of his things.

You can’t help watching him for a moment, taking in his features in a way you’d never be able to do when he’s awake.

There are some scars on his right arm, lines of raised skin that aren’t covered by his shirt. He must have more. How many?

You picture what it would be like to run your fingers over them, lazily tracing along each line. Your cheeks slowly heat with guilt, but his skin looks so very soft. You know from the experience of his touch that his hands are callused, but the rest of his skin looks velvety and smooth.

His hair, too. In the wake of last night’s bath, it’s clean and shiny. You’d like to run your hands through it. You’d like to trace down, over his cheeks, following the scar above his brow. The small one on his nose.

You’d… you’d like him to touch you, too. To study the feel of your skin, and gently graze his knuckles against your cheek. To lean in, and cup your jaw, and –

Enough. You shouldn’t want that. You shouldn’t be thinking about that. Why is Geralt on the floor?

Another glance at him reveals the sight of a blanket tossed over his lower half - one of the soft, fur blankets from the inn’s bed.

He hadn’t fallen off, you realize with a sudden pang in your chest. He’d slept on the floor on purpose.

The familiar feeling of guilt returns, clenching in your chest. Had you talked in your sleep? Kicked him? As far as you know, you don’t do either of those things. Or… you haven’t done it before, at least. Had he simply felt uncomfortable sharing the bed? In that case, you would have gladly taken the floor, and wouldn’t have minded it a single bit.

As quietly as you can, you sneak back into the bed, lay down, and close your eyes.

Sleep doesn’t come again, and you don’t search for it. Time passes - an hour, maybe more? Your mind races over and over, wishing that you could go back in time, that Geralt hadn’t slept on the floor, that you’d offered to do so first. Your hands are stinging something fierce.

When he finally stirs: the sound of a long inhale, the shifting of the blanket - you stay where you are, eyes closed, rolled onto your side with your back toward him. He sits down on the bed and starts putting his armor on again. You can tell he’s trying to be quiet.

So a moment later, you let yourself move, faking the dregs of sleep, and Geralt pauses for a moment.

“Morning,” he says. His voice is hoarse with drowsiness, making heat flutter under your skin. He resumes the donning of his armor, slightly turning his head toward you as he speaks. “How’d you sleep?”

“Fine,” you murmur. “You?”

“Can’t complain,” he says.

Liar, you think, almost smugly. Really, you’re glad you aren’t the only one.

“Better head out soon if we want to get you those gloves,” he continues. “Market’ll start crowding up before long.” His voice is soft, and the remnants of sleep have faded from it. Once he’s got his chest armor on, he stands, moving to the front of the bed for his boots.

You watch him for a moment, then give a nod he doesn’t see. “Alright.”

It doesn’t take you very long to get ready. You don’t have much. A little food in your satchel, your clean and dirty clothes, your coin. You’re ready to go before he is.

When he’s finished, you swing your satchel over your shoulder and the two of you head out. You can only hope it won’t be as bad as it was yesterday.

The market is crowded, even this early, and you’re downright elated to leave this town - though you’ll surely miss the comforts of the inn. People won’t stop giving Geralt strange looks and jabbering out insults they don’t even bother to soften. Some of them look downright hostile at the very sight of him being there. He pays them no mind, but you find yourself antsy and scrambling from place to place in an effort to get out sooner. More food, more drink, and better gloves - they’re not hard to find.

Then comes more riding.

The pain is less than yesterday, and the pace is slower. You feel much more comfortable around Geralt than you had - knowing him more, knowing he’s patient. All of that is better.

But it’s hot, even more than it had been. There’s a mugginess to the air, brought on by dark clouds that seem to endlessly border the sky, blocking out the sun but not the heat.

Sweat trickles down your neck and forehead and back, and you have to fight to avoid giving a groan - at this rate, your clothes will be just as filthy as they were yesterday.

The riding gloves you’d bought at the market bring huge amounts of relief from the torture that was yesterday’s ride, and it’s much better to give your horse more rein like Geralt had suggested - but the wounds still hurt. The bandages make your hands stiff, too, and it’s harder to grip anything.

Then it starts to rain.

It comes on slowly at first, a soft drizzle, barely noticeable. It’s even pleasant as it continues, cool and sweet on your skin against the terrible heat of the sun. You start to hope it’ll rain for the rest of the day.

Your wish unfortunately seems to be granted, because it gradually begins to pour. Droplets hit your head and slowly dampen your clothes. Water starts to trickle down your face. It doesn’t stop, and it doesn’t slow - it continues until it’s soaked you and Geralt through, down to the very bone. Your thighs begin to chafe against the saddle, painful friction from the wet fabric of your clothes against leather.

The sky darkens until everything is grey. The combination of the wind and rain becomes painful, stinging against your skin as it hits. The dirt beneath Mead’s hooves becomes mud, slick enough that she’s slipping, and Roach is, too. Geralt mutters soft words of comfort to keep her calm. You don’t trust yourself to speak. You just pat Mead’s neck and hope she won’t buck you off.

As the rain relentlessly comes down, Geralt’s pace - and subsequently, yours - becomes nothing more than a canter, then a light trot. Any faster, and you’ll both end up in six inches of mud.

You can’t stop shivering, teeth clenched as you ride. But there’s nowhere around here to stop, nowhere for shelter, so the two of you are forced to go on.

Geralt checks in on you every so often, asking if you’re alright. If you weren’t feeling the need to lie through your teeth, you might appreciate it. You aren’t alright, but there really is nothing Geralt can do about that. He’s undoubtedly in the same boat that you are: drenched, miserable, and hungry.

Just as it’s starting to thunder and spook the horses, the two of you come upon a cave. The sight of it seems like a miracle. The sky is only getting darker, Roach and Mead are only getting more anxious, and the rain is so thick you can barely see Geralt in front of you. But you know what he’s thinking when he stops, eyes raking over the cave, hesitantly stalling his hands on the reins.

The two of you have no idea what’s in that place. If any danger comes, you’ll have to be within ten paces of him. You’re no witcher, you’re unarmed, and in there, there could be bandits, trolls, drowners - or worse.

“Gotta get out of this rain,” Geralt finally decides. “The horses won’t take much more.”

And so, the two of you head off the road.

The ground at the entrance is flat, making for a good place to bring Mead and Roach in for shelter. The cave’s beginning consists of a large, open cavern, and nothing inside seems to be alive, aside from a few patches of puffballs. Some animal skeletons lay on the ground, but they look well-aged. Nothing recent. No rotting carcasses.

Somehow, that fact doesn’t comfort you.

Further in is a tunnel - one neither you nor Geralt seems particularly eager to go near. Instead, you make camp where you are.

There’s no wood in here, and the pieces you’ve brought in from outside are soaked through. You gather some loose moss for kindling, but all it’ll do is smoke.

For a moment, your dream flashes in front of your eyes. You shut them and shake your head, willing the image to vanish. After all that’s happened, it isn’t the flame that scares you. It’s the thick, heavy smoke that once choked your lungs. That seared from the inside out.

Ignoring the echoes of memories, you stack some wet logs and attempt to light them. They don’t take. Fuck, you think. No fire. A damp, freezing cave, no bed or blankets, and no fire. At least you’re alive.

But Geralt comes up from behind you, simply flicks his fingers in the direction of the logs, and a roaring orange flame starts in the small pit you’d made.

You can’t help staring at him in awe. Magic. It has to be. You weren’t aware witchers used magic. Or maybe they don’t, and it’s just him? In any case, you cozy up to the warmth, and Geralt does too, taking a seat across from you and resting his hands on his thighs.

The shadows of the flame paint him with harshness and distortion - hollowing out the bones under his eyes, under his nose and cheeks, sharpening and accentuating his features. It only makes you want to stare at him more.

Everything does. Every small detail.

You look away, but there’s not much to look at in here, and your eyes eventually roam back to him. He seems lost in thought, gaze intently focused on absolutely nothing. Hesitantly, you allow yourself to take in a little more.

He’s soaked to the bone. Stray strands of his hair cling against his forehead. In the light, his eyes are almost molten - even more gold than usual, reflecting the dancing flames in front of him. They stay solely aimed at the fire, at first.

Then they slowly move up to your face.

You’re staring.

With a jolt, you look away and start rummaging through your bag for some food. Geralt doesn’t move, doesn’t even look away. He just stares at you, waiting. You can feel his gaze scanning over your features.

When your resolve finally breaks and you meet his eyes again, he lifts a brow. Does he know? Does your face give that much away?

“I didn’t know witchers could start fires,” you say. A feeble attempt to cover for your actions.

“Igni,” he says. “Basic magic. Every young witcher is taught to use it.”

“Handy.”

He hums in agreement, and his eyes finally leave your face as he turns toward his things.

It’s not cold enough for hypothermia, but it is cold enough to be very uncomfortable, and you’d be a fool not to appreciate Geralt’s fire. You take off your gloves and wet boots and socks, try to rub warmth into your feet, then try to warm your clothes by sitting in front of the flame. Your shivering lessens. Your clothes become damp instead of soaked through.

Geralt, meanwhile, pulls out some supplies and starts to make some sort of potion over the fire. You don’t recognize it. An unidentified spirit, some berbercane fruit, and mysterious bits of some form of tissue. From what you can see, you’d guess it’s a tongue, but it definitely isn’t human. Too long. Differently colored. From what species, then?

You decide halfway through watching him that you don’t want to know.

When he’s finished, he pours the liquid into a vial and hooks it onto his belt. Is it you, or is it getting colder?

“Better get some sleep while you can,” Geralt says. “I’ll keep watch.”

But you don’t want to sleep. You’re sore and wet and cold, and you know what you’ll see and what you’ll feel. You’re exhausted to the bone and ache from head to toe, but you’d still rather drag yourself around like a heavy sack than go through those nightmares again.

“I’m not tired,” you murmur. “You can sleep, though. I’ll keep watch, wake you if anything-”

Your words cut off as Geralt suddenly goes tense, muscles drawing tight as he freezes in place. His eyes focus on a point behind you, and his head turns the slightest bit to the side, as if he’s honing his hearing in on a distant sound.

After a long, anxious moment on your part, he moves. His hand slowly reaches behind him - fuck, he’s grabbing for his blade, should you start moving? But instead of drawing it, he keeps his hand still on the handle, eyes darkened and narrowed.

When you muster up the courage to turn around, heart thumping so much it seems to crash against your ribs, you see nothing. Just the cave, and the long, dark tunnel.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, voice barely over a whisper.

“Something’s coming.”

He stays still a moment longer. Then his sword slides out of its sheath with a hiss of metal - a fluid motion, faster than you can blink.

You’re on your feet immediately, still barefoot, hands empty. Anxious to do something, anything. You find yourself moving behind Geralt, feeling frustrated and antsy, hair standing up from the nape of your neck down to the skin on your arms.

“Know how to use a crossbow?” he asks.

“No.”

His brows rise - more for himself than you. “Huh. Hope you’re a fast learner. Should’ve taught you sooner, really.”

Surely he must be joking, he can’t really want you to shoot, but - no, he’s serious: pulling the bow off his back, loading it up in a flash, and shoving it in your hands. They’re better than yesterday, but they still hurt.

“Trigger’s here, at the bottom,” Geralt says. “Only use it if you have no other choice. Aim first, then press the trigger.”

You gawk at him, but he’s already turned away from you. “Any other useful tips?”

“Sure. Don’t point it at me.”

“Thanks. Very helpful.”

He hums in response, but the sound is distracted. His fingers tighten around the hilt of his sword as he rolls his shoulders.

It’s definitely colder now. You’ve started shivering again. The horses buck and whinny as fog starts to roll into the cave. Thunder crashes overhead, shaking the ground, and the crossbow feels slick in your hands.

“Geralt?”

“Yeah?”

His voice is tense and distant: distracted.

“Don’t die.”

He huffs, smiling a little. “Not planning on it.”

More fog is rolling into the cave - a grey, dirty fog accompanied by a terrible, inhuman snarling.

“Shit,” Geralt says. “A foglet. Stay back as much as you can.”

You back away from him in horror. That fucking djinn couldn’t have allowed you twenty steps instead of ten? What kind of shitty protection puts you in more danger?

The snarling finally comes closer, and Geralt makes a movement with his fingers. A purple circle of light forms on the ground beneath him. More magic.

Your heart pounds so fiercely that you feel it might take a year off your life.

Then, to your left, comes a vicious growl as a creature appears out of the mist. It moves too fast for you to get a good look, but it’s clearly not there to have a friendly chat. It creeps toward Geralt, hops behind him, and swipes.

Geralt smoothly dodges the attack, disrupting the fog as he takes a defensive stance with his blade, circling around the foglet. It swipes at him again, and again, he dodges. Your vision fuzzes. He’s too far. You take a couple steps closer, and the feeling fades.

Geralt is fast: ridiculously so. Faster than your mind can truly take in, darting from one place to the next. Each step the foglet takes, Geralt is with it - jumping out of the way, calculated, graceful movements that you can barely follow. Every so often, the wish pulls at you and you’re forced to follow, tense but fascinated.

The foglet snarls, striking out and missing as Geralt dodges then counter-attacks, flitting in close. His sword comes down in a glint of silver and strikes the creature’s shoulder. Blood splatters near your feet.

The creature howls in pain, then it’s… it’s gone.

Wait, - no, not gone. Invisible. There’s still movement. The fog follows where it goes, and Geralt is tracking its actions with his eyes, waiting. A predator, tensing for his prey.

Then, just as the foglet reappears, Geralt dodges. It’s jumped at him again, but in missing, made a misstep and landed straight in the middle of the purple circle Geralt made earlier.

Lavender light wraps around the monster like a cocoon, trapping it in place. It snarls and hollers and lashes out in vain, but doesn’t seem able to leave the circle.

Thank Melitele.

Geralt goes to hit it again. Your whole body goes tense. Half of you wants to turn away and the other half of you is completely unable to do so. You’re frozen.

But in terrible luck, the circle dissolves just as Geralt moves, fading away into dust. The creature instantly goes invisible again.

“Shit,” Geralt says, slightly panting.

The hair on your neck stands up. A cloud of fog is spreading again, and this time it’s not coming toward Geralt. This time, it’s headed for you.

Your instincts kick in like you’ve been struck; your feet start moving, skidding away from that thing as fast as you possibly can and toward Geralt, careful not to press down on the crossbow’s trigger because Melitele forbid you accidentally shoot him right now.

The foglet reappears in a flash and follows behind you with surprising speed, but it’s wounded and bleeding and just barely slower than you are, hissing in either anger or pain.

The moment you’re behind him, Geralt’s fingers thrust out toward the foglet, this time in the shape of a different sign - one that shoves the creature backward like it’s been hit with an invisible force. Ripples of leftover air carry over to you, and the magic disturbs the fog enough for you to see the foglet knocked to the floor.

Geralt stalks over to where it lays and strikes down without hesitation - a single, powerful jab into the abdomen. It lets out a last growl, then goes still.

The fog slowly begins to dissipate. Your heart rate returns to normal. You let the crossbow point down toward the ground, panting.

There’s foglet blood splattered on your feet. It doesn’t even phase you.

As you catch your breath, you watch with a muted fascination as Geralt removes his sword from the foglet and wipes it down, sliding it back into his sheathe. Then, you step closer to the corpse.

As it turns out, monsters bleed like anything else.

Dark liquid pools out from the deep gashes Geralt left, diffusing a metallic note into the air. When you inch closer, wrinkling your nose at the putrid stench of it, you find a gaping maw in the foglet’s chest - and not one put there by a sword.

The rib cage is open and exposed. The abdomen is hollowed out all the way to the sacral vertebrae.

The thing is, it’s not bleeding. The two sword wounds are, but not the exposed inner tissue - which should be bleeding. A lot.

No, you realize, recalling how it’d looked as it ran toward you, the rib cage was open the whole time - as if it wasn’t an injury, but designed to be open.

Medically speaking, having the entire spinal column exposed is asking for all kinds of trouble. But then again, the thing has no visceral organs and had sprinted around even with a large, bleeding hole in its shoulder, so… clearly, it has different capabilities than a human.

Gods, what are you doing? Trying to judge a monster’s design on the basis of human anatomy - you’re wasting your time.

Making your way back to your things, you gently set the crossbow down with the bolt pointed away from anything but rock, and wipe the blood off your feet with a loose rag from your belongings.

Geralt is watching you. You can feel those eyes on the back of your neck, as hot as the memory of his touch. When you turn to look at him, he’s staring at you - an unreadable expression on his face.

“What?” you ask

“Dunno,” he says with a shrug, shaking his head. “People aren’t usually this calm after being chased by a monster. Or eager to analyze them.”

A chill runs down your back, and you shiver.

“I’ve met a lot of monsters out there,” you say, settling next to the fire again - away from Geralt’s burning gaze, which seems to be endlessly fixed on you. You squeeze your eyes closed, then give a small shake of your head. “That thing wasn’t so bad.”

With agonizingly slow steps, Geralt approaches from behind and sits down right next to you, resting his hands on his knees as he looks at you expectantly.

“Ever gonna tell me how you got that djinn?” he asks.

He’s too close. Too close to you. You can practically feel the heat radiating off his skin from where his knee almost brushes yours.

And you can smell the forest on him. Earthy, sharp, fragrant… bark from the trees, the tang of leather, mud and rain. A hint of the herbal soap from the inn last night. It makes you want to bury your face in his shirt and breathe him in. Damn him.

You used to be a good liar. A great one, actually - habitually mixing half-truths into conversations to avoid what you didn’t want to discuss. It was rare for you to ever have the lower hand in a conversation.

If you wanted people to tire of you and leave, they would. If you wanted people to notice you, you’d flash a smile their way and draw them in with a charismatic hook. If you wanted them to lose their round of Gwent, you’d twist your face to look like you were nervous, get them to waste their cards - then, afterward, lay out your winning hand with a shocked, almost guilty face.

I won? Really? I was so sure I’d lose!

And maybe… maybe you’re still able to do all those things. Maybe, if you went out into that rain and found someone else to talk to, you’d be able to lie as easily as you breathe.

The problem is Geralt.

Geralt - with his deep, endearing voice, his ridiculously attractive face, and bright, attentive eyes that don’t miss even the smallest of details. The problem is that he has heightened senses, while around him you seem to have only a weakened disposition.

You hate handsome men. Not the random pretty face on the street, but someone truly handsome, someone like Geralt, whom you can barely look away from. Someone who fills your thoughts with foolish scenarios that you know will never come true but never get driven away by any amount of logic or reasoning.

Handsome men drive you weak in the knees, dull the sharpness of your wit, exploit every chink in the armor you’ve so painstakingly put up.

If he were anyone else, and if you didn’t want him the way you do: if he didn’t crowd up your mind with thoughts of the way it’d feel to touch him, to lean forward now and kiss him… well, you’d bet all your coin that you’d be able to lie circles around him, and he’d never even know.

But he knows now; sees right through you and your excuses, and doesn’t seem to have any issue with calling you on it.

Ever gonna tell me how you got that djinn?

His expression is so damn smug that it makes you angry - makes you want to make him angry, too, or at the very least, frustrated. You might be a bad liar around him, but your resolve remains solid as steel.

“I already told you how I got the djinn,” you reply. “Don’t you remember?” You cross your arms and wait to see how much he’ll press you. Maybe he doesn’t even remember your words.

“Yeah,” he replies gruffly. “Said it was given to you.” He raises a brow - gazes at you pointedly. “Not exactly a common gift. Never, actually. Don’t know anyone willing to give up three wishes of their own accord.”

Your heart starts pounding. “Are you asking me if I stole it?”

“Can’t say I’m not.”

His eyes aren’t accusatory. They’re warm and curious, fixed on your every move. You hesitate in your response, fingers stiffly curling into loose fists, then releasing. A nervous habit, hindered by the bandages on your fingers.

Gods, he smells good. He’s so close. You can barely think, much less decide what to say.

“I took from someone who took from me,” you finally answer. “But - I’m not a thief.”

Your words turn his curiosity into mirth - the barest hint of a smile, the crinkling of his eyes. “Worried I’ll report you to the guards?” he asks.

“Not unless you intend on serving the sentence, too,” comes your retort. “Can’t exactly get away from me, can you? And I imagine you don’t want to go to prison.”

Geralt shakes his head. “Not really.”

“So, no,” you say with a shrug. “I’m not worried about you reporting me. I guess….” You pause, weighing the words of your thoughts on your tongue, then finally letting them fall. “I guess I just didn’t want you to read me the wrong way. You don’t know me very well, and I think we both know you don't exactly have the best things to go on.”

It’s become hard to meet his gaze again.

“Pretty harsh on yourself,” he says softly.

“I have to be. I’m the whole reason you’re here, aren’t I? I - I can’t act like it didn’t just put both of us in danger. It keeps you from contracts, and your friends, and...”

You almost bite off your tongue trying not to say Yennefer.

“Everything,” you finally manage. “You’re wet and trapped in a cave in the middle of Velen, and it’s my fault.”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t mean you have to punish yourself, though. You’re stuck here, too.”

You give a lighthearted scoff. “This conversation is hardly punishment, Geralt.”

“Not what I meant,” Geralt says. His eyes trail down to the bandages on your hands. Your cheeks go hot in shame.

“That wasn’t punishment,” you immediately insist. “It was just…” You can’t find the word, and it doesn’t help that Geralt is waiting for your answer. “It was rationality,” you finally decide on. “I knew we needed to ride, and I knew there was nothing you could do to change the situation. Any breaks only would have prolonged the pain. I was just being rational.”

There’s a long pause where Geralt just sits and stares at you, and you attempt to meet his eyes but quickly fail. Your gaze turns over to a nearby patch of mushrooms.

Useful things, puffballs. You’d once used them to dye your clothes. More often than not, though, they were used to supplement meals. At least Oxenfurt taught you something useful - edible plants.

“Do something for me,” Geralt asks, finally breaking the silence.

When he doesn’t continue, you hesitantly glance up at him. “What?”

“Act as if I’m on a contract. You’re paying me to be here. I’m here of my own free will.”

“I can work with that,” you say, fumbling for your bag. “How much would you charge for something like this? Finding a djinn?”

“Hold on,” he says, holding up a hand. “Not gonna take any more of your money.”

“No,” you say instantly. “I won’t accept it, then.”

“Can’t force me.”

You stare at him then, in a blinded sort of defiance - trying to think of some way he’s wrong. But you can’t. He’s stronger and faster and almost certainly smarter than you, and he’s right. You can’t force him.

So, after a long moment, you turn to another method - your best attempt at a pleading moue.

“C’mon. Don’t give me that look,” he says, but his expression is pained. “Won’t change my mind. Listen - already told you, you aren’t forcing me to be here. Don’t blame you for that, so stop blaming yourself. Don’t need to impress me, either.”

“Impress you? I’m not trying to.”

He gives you a look.

“I’m serious. You’d know if I was.”

“Let me guess,” he says dryly. “You’d steal a djinn from me.”

You shoot him a glare, anger and attraction flaring in your chest and mixing so much you can barely tell them apart. This damned wish is suffocating you. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t relax. Can’t even decide what you want.

You want him to stop looking at you like that, but you also want him to keep doing it so much that your chest aches. You want to make him angry, but you also want to press your lips against his - see if those stories about him and his vicious appetite are true.

“Funny,” you snap. “Very funny. You should tell your bard friend that he forgot to put your sense of humor into his famous ballads.”

“Already tried. Dandelion has a flair for the dramatic.”

You ignore his words and continue staring pointedly at a rock near the cave’s entrance.

Geralt shifts. “Sorry,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Wasn’t serious. Didn’t mean to upset you.”

To his credit, he does sound genuinely remorseful. Unfortunately, that just makes you feel worse. It’s not his fault you’re feeling like this - even you don’t know why you’re really upset.

Maybe it’s the mention of the djinn. You can barely think about that djinn without feeling nauseous, much less laugh about taking it.

“It’s fine,” you murmur. “Don’t worry about it.”

When you look back at him, his expression has gone solemn. He’s studying you.

“Djinns are pretty valuable,” he says. “The person you stole from - are they after you? That why you wished for protection?”

“No.” The word is harsh and pained, tearing through your throat without a second’s thought. You swallow hard, turning your face away. “I… I didn’t - it wasn’t… No. Who I stole from, he won’t be coming after me. Ever.”

You’ve said too much. Your chest heaves with emotion before you exhale it out, trying your best to mask your expression. There’s a pause as Geralt observes you. He’s searching your face again. His gaze suddenly sharpens.

“You were pretty damn calm seeing that blood,” he murmurs. His words are slow and careful - bordering on hesitant.

The weight of his statement sits heavy in the air. Your hands begin to shake.

“If you don’t mind,” you say curtly, reaching for your bag, “I think I’ll take that sleep after all.”

“Hey,” he says. His tone has turned soft, reassuring. “Don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Not judging you. Just curious.”

You swallow hard, closing your eyes. Your voice is shaky when you speak.

“Does it make a difference if I tell you he deserved it? That he didn’t give me much of a choice?”

“Yeah. Figured as much,” he replies, leaning forward and resting a hand on his thigh.

You try very hard not to stare at that hand. His gaze hasn’t let up on your face.

“What you said at Crow’s Perch,” he continues. “Just doesn’t seem like the words of a cold-blooded killer.”

You don’t know what to think about that. You want to take his reassurance, bask in it, tell yourself you aren’t awful. But Geralt doesn’t know the whole story. Surely he’d hate you if he did.

The two of you sit in silence for a long while, listening to the patter of the rain outside. After you’ve tired yourself out with your own thoughts, your gaze flicks back to the foglet corpse. It’ll start stinking soon. What if there are more of them?

“What you said about the crossbow…” you say.

Geralt’s attention perks up, and you continue.

“Did you mean it? Are you really going to teach me?”

“I should,” he replies. “Be safer if you learn.”

He stands, stretching, then nods for you to join him.

“Not so sure about that being safer,” you mutter under your breath. Your mind won’t stop supplying you with visions of you accidentally shooting Geralt in the back. Then again, maybe he’d take pity on you if you shot him and finally let you pay him.

“Heard that. C’mon, up.”

Getting to your feet, you flex your fingers and wince. The effect of the celandine has long since faded, and your hands feel raw and painful.

“Hang on,” Geralt says, taking a step closer. “Better change your bandages before we start.”

The thought of his hands gently tending to you again is far too much to take. You want it so badly that you can’t possibly let yourself accept it.

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “They don’t hurt.”

He stares at you, unimpressed. “Pretty bad liar, you know that?”

Only around you, you think.

“No, I’m not.”

He takes a step closer. “Heartbeat gets faster when you lie,” he says. “Dead giveaway.”

The blood drains from your face.

“You - you can hear my heart?”

“Yep.”

Your heart, already pounding, speeds up. Geralt raises a brow as if to emphasize his point. “Part of the witcher mutations,” he says. “Heightened senses.”

You know that. He’d heard the foglet coming when you hadn’t heard a thing, and you’d known then that it was because of his mutations - but what your brain had failed to consider was the fact that he could hear more than monsters: he could hear you.

Melitele, your heart speeds up every time he touches you. No wonder he seems to see straight through you. You don’t trust yourself to get any closer to him when he’s looking at you like that.

“You couldn’t have told me that sooner, or - I don’t know, given me a warning?” you ask.

He gives a light shrug. “Sorry. Thought you already knew. Wasn’t expecting you to be a compulsive liar, either.”

The ghost of a smile he wears tells you that he’s teasing you, but you shoot him another glare.

You start to think of - well, everything, and dread pools in your lungs. Every moment you’d thought you had some sort of shield for your emotions, your heart had given you away. Hiding your face hadn’t even helped, not even a little, not when he could hear your heart pounding in your chest like an admission of guilt.

“Alright,” you mutter, swallowing hard. “I’m a bad liar. My hands do hurt. How’s that?”

“Real enthusiastic, aren’t you?” His tone is practically dripping with sardonicism. “Now sit down.”

He gestures toward a nearby rock that’s about half your height. You hesitate, trying to think of some way to get out of this, but when nothing comes to mind, you give in and take a seat. As you watch him prepare the bandages again, you try your best to keep your heart rate slow.

Deep breaths, that’s all it is. And he’ll just think you’re breathing like that because it hurts.

But his touch is as gentle and warm as you remember. He carefully peels the old bandages away, pausing for a moment when you wince, then continuing on. Your heart rate wanes and rises over and over like a wave, and all you can do is breathe through your nose and try not to think.

Most of the blisters have popped now. All that’s left is of them itchy, dead skin and the seeping rawness of the healing wounds below. Your hands jerk when Geralt touches them - an automatic spasm, more itch than pain - and he simply holds them still and continues on.

That hold is so firm you couldn’t squeeze out of it if you tried, and he’s barely applying any pressure. Is this the work of mutations, or is it a developed strength from years of swordwork? Perhaps a mix of both?

How ironic that someone called the Butcher of Blaviken is bandaging your hands so delicately. How strange that it was him assigned to you, and not someone else - someone that might have been crueler, might have been impatient. Another witcher. Another being. Why Geralt, of all people? Why is he here with you?

Despite your best efforts, the erratic rhythm of your pulse won’t soothe. Heat builds in your skin and spreads lower and lower. You desperately try to push the image of Geralt away. His scars. The way he looked when he was asleep. The way he’s kneeling in front of you now, brows furrowed as he concentrates. Oh, gods…

Trying to find any way out of your current train of thought - anywhere but here and now - your mind frantically turns back to the ballads. To his dozens of names. Anywhere but here and now. Dandelion. Roach. Yennefer.

That’s right, Yennefer. The thought of her takes you out of danger for the present moment. You think of her with fierce intent. You mull over The Last Wish.

Dandelion’s tales have always been a sort of guilty pleasure for you - ways to pass the time in between everything else. Some of them seemed too far-fetched to ever be possible, but others rang with an element of truth that seemed hard to deny.

But Geralt isn’t like you’d pictured him. The Butcher of Blaviken hardly seems appropriate for a man so… morally bound. Everything about him reflects someone with real emotions, someone who’s known real consequences - the kind that weighs down on his shoulders in quiet moments.

Not that you don’t know the story of Blaviken: how he’d apparently massacred innocents in the street and fled. But you can’t imagine him doing a thing like that. Ever. Maybe it was just as fanciful of a tale as every other falsity.

You ache to ask him about it, but a certain fact halts your tongue: despite everything, aside from his mention of killing the guards at Crow’s Perch, Geralt’s hardly told you anything about himself. His words are never focused on personal matters.

You, on the other hand, have told him far too much, and not wanted to.

But would he tell you if you asked? You want to know - not only about Blaviken, but about why he calls his horse Roach, and whether all those ballads are true. You want to know about Dandelion, and Yennefer, and if Geralt really bound himself to her on the first day they’d met.

You want to know why he was in Skellige, if it’s true that he killed Foltest, and if he also had a hand in killing Radovid like they’ve been saying on the street.

You want to know all of these things and a hundred more, but by the time the courage starts to come to ask him, Geralt’s already done bandaging your hands.

“There,” he says. “Ready? Not hiding anything else?”

You shoot him a glare. “For example?”

“Dunno. Blisters in your boots, maybe?”

You rise to your feet and pray you won’t shoot him - accidentally or on purpose.

“No.”

“Good. C’mere.” He grabs the crossbow off the ground where you’d left it, still cocked. “That patch of moss on the rock. See it?”

You do. It’s almost a perfect circle.

With practiced hands, Geralt aims the bow forward and shoots. It hits the moss dead center.

Showoff, you think.

“Your turn. Show me what you’ve got.”

He hands you back the bow, then steps behind you - placing a bolt in your empty hand.

He’s close. Close enough you can feel the warmth of his chest brushing against your back. The smell of him is driving you mad. Leather, bergamot, sandalwood. A hint of herbs. Resinous. Addictive. Dangerous. You’re in so much danger from your own actions that you’re trembling.

“Gotta hold it away from you, always,” he starts. “Don’t load it until you need to.”

You can feel the warmth of his breath against your neck. You shiver and grip the bow and try not to think at all.

Geralt pauses. “You’re shivering. Heart’s pounding. Sure you’re alright?”

“Just… cold and nervous. I’ve never shot a crossbow before. I’ll be fine - keep going.”

It’s a miracle your words come out sounding believable, even if they have truth mixed into them.

“Alright,” he says. “Pull the string back until it’s locked on the catch.”

Your bandaged fingers don’t have much dexterity, but you manage to do as he says. Your heart is still pounding, but Geralt doesn’t mention it.

“Bolt goes in the groove, there,” he says, coaxing your hand into the right place. Your lungs run out of oxygen. You can’t seem to breathe.

“Now,” he continues, “raise it and aim. Don’t rush, though. When you’re ready, press the trigger.”

Your hands are still shaking. Your mind is too polluted with Geralt to concentrate - the heady smell of him, the pleasant heat of his body, the sharp handsomeness of his face, his rough, callused hands, his gentle, burning touch. You raise the crossbow to your eye, aim, hold your breath, and shoot, and—

Well… completely miss the target. The bolt strikes the rock wall and pitifully clatters to the ground.

“Not bad for a first shot,” Geralt praises. “Try again. Remember to breathe. Make the shot while you’re breathing out - you’ll think clearly that way.”

Not bad? you think. He really is just as much of a liar as you are. Who would’ve thought the White Wolf had such a bleeding heart? You’d taken forever to load up the bolt, taken even longer to aim, and still hadn’t even gotten close to the target.

Practice makes perfect, though. You hadn’t been expecting to hit it anyway. This time, you really do want to make the shot - not only because it’s humiliating to miss, but because knowing how to use a crossbow is a pretty damn useful skill.

At this point, it’s almost a guarantee that the two of you will come across something dangerous again - and next time, it might not go as smoothly as the foglet had. You need to learn to shoot.

You breathe steadily and stare at the patch of moss - the one that still has Geralt’s arrow in it. You can do this.

Hands a little steadier than before, you tug the string back into the catch. Then, trying to keep your mind on nothing but the weight of the bow in your hands, you slide a bolt into the groove.

Geralt is silent behind you, but if you know him in any way, shape, or form, you know he’s watching you. Catching every detail.

It feels more natural to raise the bow to eye level this time. You breathe in. Focus on the target. Carefully, you ready your hand on the trigger. Exhale.

Shoot.

The arrow pierces the target - not quite in the center like Geralt’s, but you’ll take it.

“Good,” Geralt says. “Try it again.”

Don’t get cocky, you instruct yourself. You aim as carefully as you had before, breathing in deeply. Something inside you seems to click. The hair on your arms rises in anticipation, and there’s a sudden stillness to your thoughts that feels almost like you’re underwater. You keep that feeling in your lungs, your hands, your every move. Then, you press the trigger again.

The bolt pierces straight through Geralt’s arrow.

You stare at it in complete and utter shock, so stunned you’re unable to move. Then you blink, thinking your eyes are playing tricks on you. Was that… some kind of freakish beginner’s luck?

Biting back a smile, you turn to look at Geralt. There’s something in his face you can’t identify, something quizzical and… warm. He studies you for a long moment, the way he seems to do constantly these days, then raises his brows.

“Again,” he instructs.

Your next shot misses the center arrow by a mere inch. Not bad for your third try. Your parents had always talked about finding things, hidden talents that just came naturally to them, and you’ve had a few things like that yourself. Maybe this is another one of yours.

“Don’t go celebrating just yet,” Geralt says, interrupting your thoughts. “Moss is one thing - a moving target is another.”

He’s right, of course. No sentient creature is going to stand unmoving while a crossbow is being aimed at them.

“Alright,” you say with a shrug. “What are you going to do about that, then? Throw a piece of wood and get me to hit it mid-air?”

“Not a bad idea,” Geralt says. “Get ready.”

“You have to be joking,” you say quickly. “You can’t - you can’t think I’ll hit that?”

Geralt, who is squatting down to grab a piece of wood, tilts his head. “Got a better plan?”

“Yes, I do. Don’t die or pass out. Then I won’t have to use the crossbow.”

He rises to his feet, lightly tossing the wood into the air. His hand comes up in a graceful flash to catch it again. Somehow, he manages to make all of this look effortless.

“I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to defend you at all times,” he says softly. “That’s the preferred scenario, sure, but I can’t guarantee it. Besides - thought you wanted me to teach you.”

“I do,” you sigh. “But not - like this. Not by throwing pieces of wood and having me shoot at them.”

“This isn’t Kaer Morhen,” he chides. “Wish it was, but it isn’t. Gotta use what we have. Don’t trust me?”

“I do trust you, but… I - oh, Geralt! I’ll look ridiculous.”

He smiles impishly. “Got something better to do?”

“Yes. Sleep.”

“Funny. You told me you weren’t tired,” he reminds you. “I know you’re stalling. C’mon. Get ready to shoot.”

“Unbelievable,” you grumble, but you pull back the string and ready another arrow. Geralt waits for your signal, then throws.

The wood passes and hits the ground before you’ve even pulled the trigger.

“That was too fast,” you protest. “How am I supposed to hit that?”

“Think a drowner is gonna stand still to let you shoot it? A bandit? A ghoul? Try again.”

Another block of wood flies past. Your arrow is much, much too late.

Geralt must throw those blocks of wood fifty times, and you still don’t even come close to hitting any of them. So much for a hidden talent of yours.

Halfway through, you have to start reusing bolts. Luckily, a large majority of the ones you used are undamaged, but even then, you continue to hit nothing. Your patience begins to wear thin.

“This isn’t doing me any good,” you eventually insist, letting the bow go slack in your hand. “Any monster or human is a much bigger target than a piece of wood.”

Geralt squats down to grab one of the fallen blocks. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we haven’t got any practice dummies here. You’re learning to follow the movement, anticipating where it’ll end up. Useful skill.”

You give him an exasperated look.

“What? Doubting my training?” he asks.

“Have you actually trained anyone before, Geralt?”

Your words are meant as a joke, but something deepens in his gaze - the slightest shift in expression, the faintest falter in his composure. Not anger. Something else: maybe some kind of aching, or regret, or grief.

The look on his face: it’s how you feel every time you think about home.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I have. Had a little help, but… yeah.”

You open your mouth, to apologize, maybe - but with a small shake of his head, your mistake is gone. Geralt is smiling.

Completely lost in thought, but smiling. Not a faint smile, either, like the ones he gives for your jokes, but a full, fond smile as he thinks about something, or… someone.

“Can’t take much credit, though,” he says. “She always wanted to learn. Couldn’t have stopped her from training if I tried.”

He clearly isn’t talking about Yennefer.

You watch him for a moment and decide you’ve told him enough about you that you can finally press just a little, a single word that slips from your lips before you can regret it.

“Who?”

Geralt finally looks up at you, brows furrowed. His lips part and he hesitates, clearly trying to think of what to say.

Shit. You shouldn’t have asked.

“Sorry,” you blurt. “None of my business, you don’t have to -”

He gently cuts you off with another shake of his head. “Her name’s Ciri. She’s my…” He pauses for a moment. “She’s like a daughter to me. I raised her by choice, trained her at Kaer Morhen.”

Geralt has a daughter?

That’s news to you. The fondness in his gaze when he’d thought of her - he clearly cares about her, clearly misses her. Was that what he was doing in Skellige? Had you ripped him away from her?

Gods, you very well might have separated him from his family, and… you’re sitting in a cave, complaining about the way he’s training you - something you’d asked for. Trying to keep the both of you safe.

For a terrible moment, emotion almost overwhelms you. You swallow it down and breathe. Geralt might be able to hear your heart, but he can’t read your mind.

“Thank you,” you say, taking a seat on a rock a few feet across from him and setting the bow down next to you.

Your words seem to catch him off guard. His expression flashes with quizzicality, then settles on a slight sort of trepidation. “For what?” he asks.

“For… telling me about Ciri, and bandaging my hands. And the crossbow training, of course.”

The wariness in his face melts away. “Don’t need to thank me for any of that.”

“Well, I am. Can’t force me not to.”

He huffs, letting out a low, grumbling noise deep in his chest. You give him a small smile in response. A brief, comfortable sort of silence falls over the two of you, and you bask in it for a moment.

The rain is still pattering outside, but it sounds a little lighter. Hopefully, by tomorrow the two of you will be out of here. It must be nightfall by now - it seems even darker out there.

“Out of curiosity,” you say suddenly, “can Ciri shoot a piece of wood mid-air with a crossbow?”

Geralt’s brows pinch as he thinks about it. “Don’t know, actually. Witchers - not really ones for crossbows, usually prefer swords. Didn’t exactly teach her.”

“Is it even possible?”

His gaze falls to the bow. “Huh. Asking to see me do it?”

You give a shrug, feigning indifference. “Well, if you can’t, I definitely can’t.”

He rises and takes the bow from you. “Gotta throw a piece of wood for me, though. High and straight, no cheating.”

“Me, cheat?” you ask. “Never.”

You briefly consider giving him an awful throw, but ultimately decide against it. You want to see if he can actually do something like this.

Grabbing a block, you carefully step out of the way of the bow and prepare to throw. When he nods that he’s ready, you give it your best toss.

You almost can’t believe it after all of your failed attempts, but Geralt hits it. The arrow pierces the block in a flash of silver and it roughly impacts against the wall, splintering into pieces.

In one try. Lightning-fast.

You stare at him, stunned. “That’s… impressive,” you manage to say. “Have you ever done anything like that before?”

Even after pulling off something like that, he somehow manages to look humble. “Shot a lot of drowners underwater,” he says, setting the bow down. “Sirens, too. Once, uh, shot apples off someone.”

“Shot - what do you mean, off someone?”

Geralt rubs the back of his neck, suddenly looking extremely bashful. “Well…”

The sight of this famous witcher, looking so incredibly embarrassed about this apple-shooting event, draws a sharp, surprised laugh from your chest.

Geralt’s face softens. “You laughing at me?”

“Only with good reason,” you tease. “You should see your face. Let me take a guess: you were drunk?”

“Nope.”

“Then… you did it as a dare?”

He shakes his head.

You take a seat a few feet away from him and give him an expectant look. “Alright, I’m intrigued.”

“Not much of a story, honestly,” he says. “Probably disappointing.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Geralt huffs again, seeming to mull it over before he gives a light shrug. “Can’t hurt.”

Bringing your knees to your chest, you lean in closer, and you don’t miss the brief, lovely flash of a smile that crosses his face. Then he hesitates, brows furrowing.

“Don’t even know where to start.” He thinks for a moment, sitting forward and propping his hand on his thigh. “Was, uh… recruiting people… had to get into this - place. Needed people with certain skills.”

You scowl at him. “You know, you can just say you were planning a heist, Geralt.”

His shoulders slump in defeat. “Astute of you,” he says. His brows lift. “Sure you aren’t a thief?”

You narrow your eyes. “And here I thought you could tell when I was lying. What’s my heartbeat saying, master witcher? As I’ve already told you - I’m no thief. The djinn was a special circumstance. Go on?”

His expression turns sullen. “Gonna have to stop talking if you’re gonna keep using my words against me.”

“Why? You’ve done the same thing to me. Fair’s fair.”

The two of you stare at each other for a long moment. You cross your arms. He does the same.

“Pretty stubborn, aren’t you?” he finally says. “Figures. Yeah, it was a heist. Sounds stupid, but I didn’t have a choice - needed something that was locked up in an auction house. Long story short, I found someone who had a plan to get in, but we needed some extra help to execute it. I went out to recruit a girl named Eveline - a circus performer. She agreed to help. Needed me to help her first.”

He glances at you to see that you’re following, then continues.

“Turned out, the man who was the last act in her show had gone blind. Already spent all the money from the tickets, though - couldn’t refund them - so she asked me to stand in for him. Her business partner balanced apples on his head, a leg, and his arms. I, uh, shot them off of him. Surprised I didn’t hit him, actually. I wasn’t sure if he’d come out alright.”

The thought of Geralt using his crossbow to shoot apples off a stranger is so entirely bizarre and ridiculous that you find yourself laughing again.

“A very good story,” you tell him. “I see now why Dandelion uses you for his ballads.”

He tilts his head. “Why’s that?”

“Well,” you drawl, “from what I hear, you seem to find yourself in very interesting situations. Frequently.”

He huffs. “That’s one way to put it.”

“What would you call it, then?”

His gaze stalls on a point behind you. All at once, he looks a thousand miles away. Run-down. Exhausted.

“Guess I’d say I’ve never been drawn to things that are comfortable,” he murmurs. He shifts, looking down at a rock near his boots. “Got a tendency for getting into trouble. Following people into it, too.”

“Like Dandelion?”

His eyes crinkle. “Yeah, gotten into a fair amount with him. The stories are exaggerated, though.”

“I figured they might be,” you admit. “Some were… a little outlandish.”

He nods. “Like I said, Dandelion’s got a flair for the dramatic. Changes details, shifts things around to make himself look better, or….” He pauses, letting out a slow breath. “He makes things sound simple, easy. They’re never that way. Not for a witcher.”

His tone is pensive and somber. You wonder which one of the stories he’s thinking about.

“I see what you mean,” you tell him. “You don’t like Dandelion’s ballads, then?”

“Wouldn’t say that, exactly,” he responds. “It’s… strange, having people recognize you, know things about you that are better left private. If it were up to me - I’d rather not have everyone know the intimate details.”

You can’t imagine what it would be like to be recognized by people you don’t even know. To have them hear about your relationships, your experiences. To have them be shifted for the sake of a better lyric.

A part of you feels guilty for having read those ballads so eagerly. You’ve spent hours with him in silence, wondering about things and people and details of his life he hadn’t even mentioned to you. You’d always assumed the stories were told with complete permission, but looking at it now, it feels, well… like an invasion of his privacy.

Not to mention, not everyone views him as positively as you do now. You’d thought him a brute before you met him. People at the inn spat at his feet. Called him a freak, a mutant. People at the market had made a point to show he was unwelcome there, loudly blathering about how witchers are a curse of nature.

All of that must be incredibly exhausting.

“I’m sorry, Geralt,” you eventually tell him.

“Gotta stop saying that,” he says. “It’s not your fault.”

His words don’t stop the twisting sensation that’s coiling in your gut. Silence falls again, and you wring your hands in your shirt as you try to think of something to say. Nothing comes.

After a long while, Geralt straightens up.

“Rain’s stopped.”

Sure enough, the patter of the rain on the mouth of the cave has gone quiet. Does he plan on riding again? You wouldn’t be opposed to starting off now - in fact, you hope for it. No sun to scorch your skin. Cool wind against your cheeks. Stars as your view.

You’re both exhausted, but… still. You could rest at the next inn, get away from the heat of the day.

“How far are we from another town, do you think?” you ask.

“Couple hours, maybe,” he says. “Can’t ride tonight, though. Too much mud.”

You swallow hard. “Oh.”

“Don’t worry,” he says. He leans back against the rock wall of the cave, settling his hands behind his head. “It’s not much longer to Novigrad. Hopefully, we’ll find a good lead, but… odds are, we’ll spend a few days there at the least, get some rest.”

You give a sharp nod. “And you’re sure this friend of yours won’t mind having us?”

“This friend of mine happens to be Dandelion,” Geralt ruefully informs you. “Saved him more times than I can count. Doubt he’ll begrudge us a room.”

“Wait - we’re… we’re meeting with Dandelion?”

Geralt smiles wryly. “Starstruck?”

“No, no,” you say quickly. “Just surprised.”

“That’s good. His ego’s big enough as it is.”

You hum softly in response, distracted by your thoughts.

Every time you think of Novigrad, you get a pit in your stomach - and for good reason. It’ll be the determinator for a number of things; questions you haven’t dared asked, questions even Geralt doesn’t know the answer to.

Neither of you have brought it up, but surely he must be thinking about it - the odds of you two finding another djinn are simply not in your favor. Djinns are incredibly rare and incredibly valuable. Who knows if you’ll be able to find one, much less make it there safely.

And if you don’t find one…

You try to brush away the thought. There must be some way.

Giving a glance to Geralt, you find him still in his laid-back position, eyes closed now. Good - hopefully he’ll sleep for a while. It’ll give you some time to think in peace.

You’ve never been to Novigrad before - never strayed very far from the university when you were attending. In the remnants of the war, you’re hesitant to enter the city. You’ve heard that the witch hunters were burning mages and non-humans, and you’re not very keen to see what’s left of that in the aftermath.

Maybe it won’t be all terrible, though. Soon you’ll sleep in a warm bed. Not to mention, you’ll be meeting one of Geralt’s best friends (or at least, you think he’s one of Geralt’s best friends). You aren’t quite sure what to make of Dandelion from what you’ve heard, and you haven’t the slightest clue how he’ll view you.

Oh, gods - how will you ever explain the situation to him? Traveling with just the two of you isn’t so bad, but what will Dandelion say when you and Geralt have to share a room? And what about Yennefer, will she be in Novigrad as well?

The more you think about Geralt’s friends and family, the uneasier you feel. You’ll be so incredibly out of place among them. These are the kind of people who end up in ballads and on Gwent cards. You hadn’t even managed to graduate from Oxenfurt.

And once it’s over, you’ll likely never see Geralt again.

A familiar ache settles in your chest. In between everything that’s happened lately, you’ve grown completely careless. You’ve allowed yourself to make too many mistakes, to grow too relaxed here. You’ve told Geralt too much about you - enough that he was able to derive one of your biggest secrets in the span of just two days. Once this djinn business is done, you’ll go your separate ways.

No more, you tell yourself. You’ll be friendly with him, but no more soul-baring. No more asking him questions. No more facts about yourself.

“Hey,” Geralt says suddenly. You’re so startled by the sound of his voice that you jump, heart racing as you turn to look at him. His eyes are open again, and he’s sitting forward with his hand placed on his thigh.

“Sorry,” he says. “Just realized - I don’t know something about you. Something pretty important.”

I can’t tell you, you think, but you don’t know how to word that in any decent way. You swallow hard and stare at him instead.

“How important?”

“Very.”

Is he going to ask you about the djinn again? Oxenfurt? You can’t tell him about those - you won’t.

“What is it?” Your heart is racing again.

He raises a brow. “Your name,” he says. “Never told me your name.”

His gaze is warm and expectant on your face, and a strange sort of heat flutters in your gut. He gives you a small smile.

Your name.

Well, you think. Maybe you’ll tell him just this one thing.

tags: @henryownsme @madamemelancholysstuff @fullmoonshadowwrites @darkscrossfire @beforethepen

#geralt x reader #geralt of rivia x reader #game!geralt #geralt x you #geralt/reader #geralt of rivia x you #mywriting

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