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#geralt of rivia fic
in the season 3 finale geralt gets beaten up so bad he becomes australian
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nesillia · 10 months
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What You Don’t Know
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-> Summary: You don’t know that Geralt had been searching for you ever since Jaskier returned to him without you. You don’t know that he’d been praying to Melitele to make things right. You don’t know that he said he loves you, every night you weren’t there.
-> Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x F!Reader
-> Rating: 18+
-> WC: 3k
-> Warnings: very light angst, fluff, most of this is smut ill be honest lol, smut in the forms of: missionary, fingering (f receiving), oral (f), pet names: (my love, love, baby), kissing, biting, marking, panty sniffing (geralt is feral okay), mdni, geralt has feelings and deep regrets (as he should), happy ending!!
-> Notes: this is part two of Tragically, Meant to Be. Please read that first to understand what’s happening here. I didn't want to focus on the angst too much here, so I hope you enjoy this fluffiness/smuttiness and happy ending!
Also, I know the location of Rivia was lost to time in the 13th century (according to the wiki) let’s just ignore that. For plot reasons.
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It’s been months since you and Jaskier walked out of Geralt’s life. Months since he laid eyes on you, held you in his arms, tasted you. And try as he might to convince himself that he hasn’t missed you, or the bard, he knows he’s a liar. 
Geralt missed your scent, your taste, the secret smile you’d give him when you thought he wasn’t aware, the way your dewy skin seemed to glow in the sunlight. 
Most of all, he missed the way you genuinely cared for him. The way you’d make tea from herbs in a bid to soothe his restlessness at night, the way you’d cook the meat of his hunt in a way he liked, or the way you’d massage his tense shoulders after a long excursion. 
And as he lays awake now, body mere inches from the bard who had sought Geralt out, without you by his side, he realizes that due to a stupid mistake, he may never get to have these moments with you again. 
And it’s this realization that makes Geralt promise himself that he’ll search to the ends of the Continent if he has to, to find you. 
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At first, after Geralt leaves Jaskier in the nearby town of Velen, he goes back to Redania and searches the wilderness surrounding Oxenfurt. 
In the months that Geralt had been away from you, Jaskier said you and he never left the big city. Until, one day, you just vanished. 
Geralt spends weeks in the woods near Oxenfurt, to no avail. Next, he searches Temeria and Cintra. Although these yield an abundance of contracts for the Witcher, he turns them down one by one in his hunt for you. Each night he doesn’t find you, his hope slowly diminishes.
But then, when Geralt is about to come to terms with the fact that perhaps he will never find you, you pop up in the unlikeliest town. 
Geralt has just made his way to his oldest home, his first home: Rivia. As he walks through the wooden gates, he finds that although it’s been more than ninety years since he’s been here, it hasn’t changed much. The people he used to know are long dead, but their children and grandchildren now live on here. His old house is still there, a new family living in it. 
The people of Rivia stare, taking in Geralt’s hulking figure and odd appearance. It doesn’t bother him like it used to, when he was a new Witcher. Still, it doesn’t feel great to have the people you save glare and call you the monster. 
Geralt keeps his head down as he hitches Roach to a pole, before he struts into the local tavern. He’s greeted with something that happens every time he walks into an inn — the music suddenly dies, the lively chatter stops, and all eyes turn to him. He lowers his hood as he takes a seat in the far back, and then something peculiar happens. Geralt can suddenly smell your scent, getting closer and closer until — by Melitele, there you are. Standing in front of him, head down as you fuss with the apron tied to your waist. You haven’t noticed it’s him, and Geralt takes this moment to rake his yellow eyes over your form. 
You look the same, if a bit run down. Your hair is longer, pulled away from your face in a style that he knows you love. He can hear the steady thump thump thump of your heart, and it relaxes him to no end. You’re here, in his hometown — looking beautiful and alive and safe. And suddenly Geralt is overcome with the need to pull you into his arms, and so he does just that. 
You’re in his arms, struggling a bit because you still haven’t realized who he is. But he doesn’t care because you’re in his hold, healthy and alive and heart beating so rapidly against his own. 
“Let g-go!” You huff, wriggling out of his strong hold. Geralt pulls you away, big hands plastered to your shoulders. And then your eyes finally rove over him, stopping at the medallion before flicking up to his face. 
“Geralt?” 
His name on your lips sounds like heaven to him, and his eyes flutter close before he opens them to look at you. 
“Can we talk privately?” Geralt asks. After a moment, you nod, and lead him towards the back of the inn towards the kitchen. The owner gruffly nods at the both of you. The kitchen is warm, the fireplace gushing out heat. 
“Mary, the cook, shouldn’t be back for another ten minutes. What do you want, Geralt?” 
Geralt is, for once, at a loss of words. 
“I…” 
“How did you find me?”
Geralt doesn’t reply. He’s not sure what to say, once again. You huff in annoyance, crossing your arms. 
“I’m sorry,” he finally gets out.
“Pardon?” 
He sighs, pursing his lips while running his fingers over the stubble on his chin in thought. Geralt has never been good with words, but for you, he needs to — wants to — try. 
“What happened with Yennefer. I’m sorry, Y/N.” 
Geralt knows the moment he speaks her name it’s a mistake. He can hear it in the way your heart falters, breath hitches. See it in the way little tears start filling your beautiful eyes. In a flash, he is standing inches in front of you, grasping your hands and pressing them into the shirt that covers his chest, right where his heart is. 
“Feel that?” He asks, bringing a hand to wipe away the tears that fall down your cheeks. You bite your lip, worrying the flesh before nodding hesitantly. 
Geralt isn’t sure what he can say to make you understand, so he’ll just show you. 
“My heart is racing, isn’t it?” 
Another nod. Your fingers flex over the plane of his pectoral muscle. 
“That’s for you, only for you.”
Your eyes race to meet his, and a little gasp leaves your teeth bitten lips. You tear away from him, barreling to the opposite side of the small kitchen with a snarl on your face. 
“Don’t fucking play with me, Geralt!” 
Geralt has never heard you curse like that in the years he’s known you. Sure, in the throes of passion you have cursed, but never like this. Not even on the night everything came crashing down. 
“I’m not, I swear. I haven’t even seen Y — her since that night. And even if I did, she’s not the one I want,” Geralt begs. “I want you.” 
“And would you tell her that, should she show up?” You demand, squaring your shoulders and seemingly ready for him to say n —. 
“Yes.”
He can see that you’re thinking deeply on his words, and after you don’t say anything for minutes, Geralt knows it’s time to leave. 
“I’ll go,” he whispers, shoulders dropped in defeat. He takes a step to leave the cramped kitchen, when you speak timidly. 
“Geralt… I’m willing to try again, but I want to properly be lovers. Call me selfish, but… I want you to be mine. Only mine,” you say, and Geralt, as he turns, can see the tears already dripping from your eyes. 
“If what happened back at that inn happens again, I will leave. And this time, you will never find me.” 
Geralt nods his head resolutely, walking towards you and pulling you into his arms. He wants to tell you that he would rather be slain by a Striga than make that mistake again. He wants you to know everything that happened in the past months.
Geralt knows that you don’t know that he had been searching for you ever since Jaskier returned to him without you. You don’t know that he’d been praying to Melitele to make things right. You don’t know that he says he loves you, every night. 
Geralt desperately wants to tell you all of this, to make you aware of the pain he’s been in, but as he holds your face in his hands, he realizes that he’s just content to be with you again. To hold you like this. To smell the lavender scent in your hair. And as his lips fuse with yours, to taste you again. 
“Let me go tell Edmund I’ll be taking the rest of the day off,” you mumble against his lips, a shy smile on your face. Geralt isn’t exactly sure why you seem embarrassed, but then he breathes deeply and — oh. The air is heavily permeated by a thick cloud of your arousal, smelling of lavender fields and bergamot. Geralt smirks, and soon — after getting the go ahead from a grumpy Edmund — you’re leading him out of the tavern and down the mottled streets, towards the edge of town. 
The walk is silent, but your arousal isn’t. It’s a loud song drumming against Geralt’s senses, enticing him and making him ache. You quickly open the door to your small house, dragging Geralt in and slamming it shut. You don’t waste any time, locking your lips to his. You taste of the sweetest of wines, and Geralt is sure he will never get tired of kissing you. 
“Wait,” he grumbles, pushing you away as gently as he can. He can see the bubbling rejection layering in your eyes, and he’s quick to shut that down with a swift peck to your saliva coated lips. 
“I need you to know that you owe me nothing. I didn’t come here just to fuck you, my love.” 
“I know, but… it’s been months, and I’ve missed you so much, Geralt. I want to, please?”
Your timid reply is more than enough for the man, and he easily picks you up and stumbles his way into what he can only assume is your bedroom. He has no time to look around, take in the room you sleep in every night, but he makes a mental note to do that later. 
Geralt releases you on the bed, before he’s kneeling between your spread thighs. He can hear your breath hitch, and he smiles reassuringly at you. 
“May I?” He asks, to which you hesitantly nod. Geralt has never done this with you, and he’s determined to make it a lasting memory for you. 
Geralt’s fingers are featherlight as he shucks off your slippers, as he ghosts over the skin of your ankle and calves. He keeps in tune with your breathing, listening to every stutter the higher he trails his hands. When he gets to the newly healed and jagged scar the Leshy gave you, he can’t help but lean down and press his lips to each line of tissue. 
“Geralt…,” you sigh quietly, and he can only imagine how much anticipation is coursing through you. 
“Patience. Need to show you how much I missed you,” he gruffly says into the skin of your scars. He laves his tongue over the flesh, savoring the taste of your body. He’s so close to where he desperately wants to be. 
Geralt works his hands up the meat of your hips under your dress, shimmying your smallclothes down your plush thighs. He can see that they’re coated in your slick, and in a moment of weakness, he brings them to his nose and inhales while he keeps his amber eyes glued to yours. It’s depraved, but the Witcher can see and hear the effect it has on you. Your breathing short circuits, thighs press as close together as they can with him in between, and a quiet moan slips out from your precious lips.
“Fuck, love…” Geralt mumbles, before throwing your smalls behind his shoulders and hitching both of your legs on top of his shoulders, spread wide for him. 
“I have to taste you properly.” 
That’s all the warning be gives you before he dives in, pressing his lips to your opening. He collects the slick there, sucking softly on the flesh before he brings his mouth up to suckle your clit. You moan loud, and then he feels your hands slither their way into his hair. 
“That’s it, baby,” he mumbles into your clit, vibrations rumbling up through your body at the action. Geralt brings his hand to thumb at your entrance, rubbing the slick around and coating your outer labia. His cock is pressing painfully against his trousers, and he ruts into the creaky bed frame for some relief. Geralt feels drunk off your scent, and your moans, and your taste. It’s almost too much for him, and yet he can’t get enough. 
Your hips are bucking against his mouth, thighs pressed tightly against his head and by Melitele if Geralt doesn’t love it. You taste of the beautifullest lavender fields, bergamot, and like him. Geralt pushes his forefinger and middle finger inside you, rubbing at your gummy walls and pressing deep deep deep. 
“Pleaseplease!” You whine, and Geralt opens his eyes to look into yours, love and admiration and lust all melting and shaping to make his amber ones. 
“Please, what?” Geralt says, thrusting his fingers in and out, smearing the slick, before repeating the motions. 
“M-More!” 
The moans falling from your lips cause Geralt’s cock to swell and pulse and leak. And Geralt can’t take it, ripping his mouth off of you and pushing his tight pants down his thighs. You watch his every movement like a hawk, before you’re bringing your hands low and pulling up your simple dress and tossing it somewhere, exposing your entire body to him. 
“Fuck, I missed you,” Geralt says reverently, watching as your nipples peak into hard buds. He immediately goes back to your pussy, sucking and slurping and pulling until you’re once again a moaning, writhing mess underneath him. You cum hard when Geralt pushes his tongue into your cunt, curling and thick inside you. 
He groans when your arousal rushes over his tongue, some dribbling down his chin when he presses himself deeper, nose bumping into your clit. Your body stills after what feels like forever, and Geralt audibly swallows the liquid in his mouth, before he’s pressing his lips to your clit just to taste you again. He inhales deeply, and if that isn’t almost enough for him to combust. Before Geralt can get too overzealous, you tug hard on his hair, getting him to – begrudgingly – look up at you. 
“‘S too much,” you slur, eyes glazed and cloudy with lust. 
“Think you can take me, love?” He asks, rising on his legs and shucking off all of his clothes, to the appreciative eyes of you. 
“Yes, Geralt. Please, I need you.”
He’s not sure who moves first, but then his lips are on yours and it’s messy. Your arousal is still on his tongue, pushing into yours and mixing saliva and cum into a taste almost as delicious as your pussy. Geralt brings a hand to his cock, pumping the shaft once before he’s lining up with your entrance and – at the whimper of you – thrusting all the way inside. It’s like your body is made for him, giving way and simultaneously pressing tight against his cock. Geralt’s balls slap against your ass, and he stills to give you a breather. 
“Geralt!” You cry, and suddenly your arms are wrapped around his neck, legs up on his hips, and you’re begging for him not to stop and to give you what you want. 
And Geralt obliges, pulling his hips until his cock is almost entirely out of your cunt, and then he’s thrusting back in rhythmically. Your body twists and tightens around his, breasts bouncing with every stab of his hips. He presses his lips to your ears, pressing a gentle kiss before he’s grunting low. 
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he grunts, the squelching of your pussy music to his ears. 
Geralt can feel your pussy tightening against his cock, and he feels that familiar coil of pleasure build so greatly in his abdomen – he isn’t going to last long. 
“Geralt, Geralt, Geralt,” you whine, like it’s all you know, like it’s a mantra that’s the only thing keeping you sane. 
“I know, baby, I know,” he huffs, bringing his mouth to the junction where your shoulder meets your throat, and then he’s biting the skin and crying out your name at the same time your pussy tightens, and gushes over his softening cock. Geralt is heaving like he’s run a marathon, and he gingerly pulls his flaccid cock out of your sopping pussy before collapsing on his back, beside you. 
“I love you,” he whispers, and he feels you turn on your side to nestle right next to him. His eyes are closed, but he feels you when you gently bring up a hand and card through his drenched hair, slicking them back from his face. 
“I love you, too.”
Geralt opens his marigold eyes, bringing a hand to cradle your cheek. 
“I’m never gonna let you go, my love.”
You smile at him, a blinding thing that causes his slow-beating heart to pulse in love. If you give him that smile for the rest of his life, he’ll never get tired of it. He leans forward and presses a chaste – almost too chaste for the unholy things that had been happening, moments earlier – kiss to your cheek. 
“I’m holding you to that, Geralt,” you murmur, eyes droopy.
After a moment, you speak again, “How did you find me?” 
Geralt thinks of what he’ll say. He’s not ready to tell you everything he went through and how he didn’t intend to even find you here, he doesn’t want to ruin this moment. So for now, he’ll tell you what he genuinely thinks, not what he knows. 
“Must have been destiny, my love.”
It seems to placate you, for you give him another megawatt smile before tenderly getting up. He grunts, about to get up with you, but you glance back at him and give him a chiding look.
“Rest, my love, let me take care of you.”
And so, for the first time in almost a year, Geralt relaxes and watches you get up. As you walk through the bedroom door, Geralt knows two things. 
One, that he will always love you. 
And two, that he will always follow you.
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mayloma · 3 months
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Where You Are - Part 1
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Pairing: AU Viking!Geralt x female reader
Series masterlist
Summary: It's the morning Geralt and the other men of the village set off to go into battle.
Word count: 3.7k
Warnings: 18+, NSFW, melancholy, a goodbye, a little angst, fluff, smut, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, body fluids. 
Author’s note: To be honest, there’s a lot I don’t know about this fic yet. Among other things, I don’t know if the journey will begin and end at this point or if there’ll be more to tell. However, I’d like to share this part of the story with you while I’ll try to figure it out.  💕
Pictures: from Canva and Pinterest. Full credit to the owners.
Dividers: by saradika
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It is still dark outside. And it will stay dark. 
It is one of those days when the sun fails to burst through the heavy blanket of clouds darkening the sky. Withal, countless tiny snowflakes, each barely bigger than a grain kernel, have begun to sail down on the ground. And they cover the village in a delicate veil, white and cold as ice.
It is not the time to go into battle. (Has there ever been such time?) But this war doesn’t care about the winter descending on the land, and for a certainty, it doesn’t care about the winter it leaves in the hearts of those who stay behind. 
And so you got up long before dawn this morning to prepare breakfast for your husband. While he sits at the table, digging in the fresh bread and last night’s leftover stew, you wrap bread and fruits for him to eat on the way, as much as you can spare. 
His bundle is already packed, leaning against the wall of your hut, next to his swords that gleam in the light of the fireplace. 
As you sat by the fire last night, he pulled up a chair to sit beside you, like he does so often when the day is done. And while you darned a snag in his cloak, he carefully cleaned and sharpened the blades. 
Your eyes flicked between the black woolen fabric in your lap and his form, trying to memorize every detail of his appearance, even though it has long been etched into your mind. However, you’ll probably never get enough of watching him maintain his weapons. There is something calm, something unbudgeable about him and that pensive expression on his face whenever his steady hands wander over steel and silver. And you saw him stare into the crackling fire while his fingers absentmindedly traced Renfri’s broach. 
“Promise not to get involved in affairs that aren’t yours,” you said softly.  
His fingers paused, and you saw the corner of his mouth twitch before his gaze lit on you, golden and glowing like the dancing flames in front of you. 
“It might not be my choice to be made,” he said slowly. “Will a promise that I’ll try suffice for you, Little Bird?” 
His deep, raspy voice resonated in the darkness for a few moments, and although there was a touch of irony in it, there was also truth. 
“Whatever increases the chance of having you come back home will suffice for me,” you replied firmly, locking eyes with him. 
The hint of a smile curled the corners of his mouth, a curt nod signaling his approval. And yet, he remained silent.
He can’t promise you to come back. You know that he can’t. Not this time. Not ever. The world is too dark, too uncertain for such grand promises these days where nothing ever lasts, neither the good nor the bad. 
Nevertheless, the threads of your destiny are irretrievably entangled with his, binding you to each other. In this life. And in the next. Until Ragnarök and beyond, as you promised each other countless times. 
There wasn’t much you could have done in the here and now, and so you made love all night, rough and desperate, then again so slow and gentle it made you want to die right there in his arms. 
Your love left its traces all over your bodies, dark and harsh, as you engraved yourselves into each other’s skin with teeth and lips and nails. Those marks are there for the time being. And yet, they’re fleeting, and they will fade someday soon. Contrary to the scars both of you have been carrying since the day your paths crossed. 
It was also the day both of you almost died, killed by a dread with no name he saved you from. The monster that still haunts you in your dreams once in a while caused him grievous injuries in the fight, and it took you the last of your strength to drag him to your hut.
You spent weeks trying to cure his wounds, and you needed a plethora of healing herbs, teas and ointments and dressing, and every bit of knowledge your foster mother had taught you. In the end, you saved each other, sealing what destiny had long planned for you, ever since the beginning of time. 
You carry the scars of that fateful day with you, and you carry the ink under your skin, intertwined lines that mark you as the White Wolf’s mate and him as yours. 
Those marks will last when he rides out of the village with the other men, traveling toward the unknown and a battle that shouldn’t be theirs to fight.  
You already see him in your mind's eye, on Roach’s back, his pale white hair and vigilant golden eyes concealed under the hood of his cloak. He’ll keep a bit aloof from the others, like he always does, from strangers and even from the villagers who are supposed to be his people. In truth, however, they will never accept him as one of them. They know they need him, and they tolerate him, albeit grudgingly. But they also fear him, and they trust him as little as he trusts them. 
The rumors are spoken in hushed voices, at hearthfires, and behind closed doors. And yet they are there. Rumors about that man, the witcher, who can be no other than the human shape of Fenrir - son of Loki and prisoner in Asgard until the day of Ragnarök, where he'll finally break free and devour Odin and the sun herself. There are rumors about that man, who appeared in the village out of nowhere on the day he saved you. Before they knew it, he had made you his wife - you, the late healer's foundling they had always been a bit suspicious of. He had insinuated himself into their midst, and they were certain that his presence adumbrates the end of all times. 
Once spoken, the rumors stuck, and nothing Geralt had done for this village could cleanse them away. No matter how many times he had set out, putting his life at risk.  
It’s moments like this, when you realize how truly alone he will be amidst a whole army, that your heart tenses and fear threatens to flood your veins. 
“Don’t.” Geralt’s low voice reaches your ears, and his arms embrace you from behind, pulling your back against his chest. 
You didn’t even notice he already finished his breakfast and stepped toward you. And you involuntarily let yourself sink back, allowing your eyes to flutter shut and your body to lean against him. 
He feels so warm, and the heat of his body slowly creeps up your spine. To your neck and your shoulders and your arms. Until it permeates your every limb. And you take deep breaths to your stomach, trying to relax your shoulders like he taught you to. 
“Good girl,” he mumbles, lowering his head until his lips ghost your ear. “Don’t freeze. Don’t let it take control. What will be, will be, and you can’t change what is destined. But you can control your actions at this moment.”
“I know,” you whisper, nuzzling closer to him. “It’s just so… hard sometimes. And sometimes, I don't know how I’m supposed to go on… if…”
“I know, Little Bird. Believe me, I know. But you have to go on. I want you to promise you’ll go on. In any case. Promise me!” he urges.
And as you carefully turn around in his arms, the concern, the pain in his golden eyes takes your breath away. 
You put one hand on his chest, your palm on the familiar wolf amulet, and your fingertips on his heart. Your other hand rests on the Web of Wyrd pendant between your breasts underneath your nightgown. What will be, will be. Just as the three sisters, the norns at the root of the world tree, decide.  
“I promise.” 
He nods. And he smiles.
He smiles his usual hint of a smile, but still, you marvel at how much warmth it can radiate. And then, he takes your hand and brings it to his lips, kissing your fingertips. One after the other. 
Your fingers brush his unusually clean-shaven cheek. And then, you run your hand through his hair. Your digits get tangled in his thatch, and as you withdraw your hand, a long strand falls into his face. 
“May I braid it for you?” you ask, brushing the curl behind his ear. 
“Mmhm.” His hum is almost a sigh, and he nuzzles his cheek against your hand before he steps to the bed, sitting down on its edge. 
His eyes follow you as you get a comb and a short leather cord, and they wander up and down your body, as you walk over to him. All of a sudden, you’re overly aware of the thin linen billowing around your legs under the warm shawl you wrapped around your form. And you're overly aware of the sweet, sore sensation between your legs. And your fingertips ghost his cheek as you climb onto the bed, kneeling behind him on the soft furskins. 
As you begin to comb his hair, carefully detangling the long snow-white strands, the faint scent of milk and honey from the soap you used last night for his bath floods your nostrils. And you recall how he felt under your fingers as you thoroughly lathered his hair and his body. Warm and slippery skin. His hair, sometimes coarse and sometimes soft. And countless scars, some hard, some raised, others smooth and soft. 
As you gather the hair from his temples, braiding them to an artful pattern at the back of his head, you silently beg the gods to protect him, to ward him from death and injuries and from any malice lurking on his way. To bring him back safely. 
You fix the braid with the black leather cord, smoothing down the silky strands falling freely onto his back. And then, you fail to pull away. Instead, you wrap your arms around him, nestling up to his back - too close the moment when he’ll walk out the door. 
You lean in, pressing your lips to his temple, and then you slowly kiss your way down his cheek to his mouth. One kiss after another while Geralt’s eyes close and his lips slightly part in response to your caress. 
He hums quietly, and as you arrive at the corner of his mouth, you pause right there, letting him, letting you hang in the air for the length of a few heartbeats while your blood begins to seethe with longing. 
As he casts up his eyes and his glowing gaze meets yours, you forget everything around you. You forget the noises from outside where the men are already assembling on the village square. You forget his departure and the imminent danger. You forget the oncoming winter and the cold and darkness it’ll bring. And you forget the loneliness you’ll have to endure. All that vanishes in that moment because he’s still here, right here with you. 
“Little Bird,” he whispers urgently.
And then he kisses you, kisses your lips that are still swollen from a thousand bygone kisses. Yet, he captures your mouth, still reckless in his yearning, and yet, you need this right now, need to feel that he hates to leave you as much as you hate letting him go. 
And he continues to kiss you as he turns in your embrace, pulling you closer, closer until your body is pressed flushed against him, and you lose your balance, clutching his shoulders. But he holds you tight, and then he carefully lets you sink down on the mattress, hovering over you without abandoning your mouth. His hand, however, rucks up your nightgown, and you moan quietly as he settles down between your legs, forcing them apart for him.   
“No!” he growls as your hands move to his pants, and then his teeth dig into your bottom lip, drawing a whimpering from your mouth. “I need to taste you first,” he mumbles, kissing his way down your throat. Down the valley of your breasts, running his tongue over your pebbled nipples showing underneath your nightgown. 
“Geralt,” you whisper as he plants more kisses on your belly, and “Geralt!” you squeak as his teeth grace the soft skin on your hip, and his hand hastily rucks up your gown further to expose your most sensitive spots for him. 
“Need to taste you,” he hums against your skin as his lips brush your thighs and your mound, his breath hot on your wet flesh. 
And your groan blends with his as he licks a long stripe from your dripping opening to your swollen pearl. 
“Mmmm, so sweet, Little Bird!” 
As you briefly raise your head, you see that his eyes are closed, a raptured expression on his features, as if you are the sweetest thing he has ever tasted. However, as he casts up his eyes, seeing you look at him, probably all flustered and breathless, his expression quickly changes to cocky. And he swirls his tongue around your pearl in a way that never fails to make your mind go blank.
The sound leaving your lips is something between a gasp and a moan, and you feel his hum, his smile against your wetness, before he repeats the movement, sending a wave of heat down your spine. 
“Oh gods,” you whimper, throwing your head back against the pillow, balling your fists around the bedding, not even trying to brace yourself for what’s to come.
Instead, you just let it happen, and you leave yourself to him, allowing him to carry you away. 
He is gentle with you this time, so damn gentle, and yet, he couldn’t burn you hotter.
The twilight of your hut becomes blurred and hazy as blistering heat washes over you, churning you, making you helplessly writhe and squirm on the bed. And the room fills with your moans and whimperings and his groans and grunts and the lewdest sounds of his mouth feasting on you.
As your hips begin to buck, eagerly rocking your burning core against his tongue, you feel his body picking up your movements. And his hoarse groan vibrates against your flesh as he humps the mattress, desperately longing for the friction. Desperate for you. And then, his tongue swipes around your pearl in the most perfect way, making you arch your back like a bow while an undefinable sound rises from your throat. 
And he continues what he started and what can no longer be stemmed as your arousal surges inside you like a wave making landfall. Your movements grow desperate, and so do your sounds as you move with him, so eager to break, so eager to get carried away. 
As the wave finally breaks, as you break, and liquid fire sloshes through your veins, his hands hold you in a firm grip that feels iron and oddly safe at the same time. And his lips and his tongue lap around your core while your climax ripples through you in gentle and oh-so-delicious waves. 
At some point, your body goes limp on the bed, and your chest heaves with shaky breaths as you gasp for air.  
“Breathe!” he reminds you, planting more open-mouthed kisses on your swollen flesh, humming with relish as he laps at your dripping opening.  
And then he lays a trace of kisses upward, dwelling on your breasts. 
“Geralt,” you whimper, hastily wrapping your arms around him as he closes his lips around the puffy buds, only a thin layer of damp fabric between his tongue and your soft skin.  
Then his mouth finds yours, and your kiss floods your tongue with the aroma of your lust and his barely suppressed greed, so alluring, so irresistible your heart doesn’t stand a chance to calm down. And you feel his contended hum against your lips as you moan into his mouth. 
“You sing the sweetest songs for me, Little Bird,” he mumbles. “Can you give me one more, hm?”
“Yes,” you breathe, and your hands fumble for his pants without missing a beat. 
You fail to fight back the smirk creeping upon your face as you yank the buttons open, and your teeth dig into your bottom lip as he hastily slips off his pants, freeing his throbbing cock. 
He looks more than ready; his thick, veiny shaft rock-hard, his tip colored a dark purplish red, shining with thick droplets of precum you long to taste on your tongue. A part of you still wonders how you’re even able to take him. Yet, your body opens up for him as if by itself, and you feel more heat pooling between your legs as you spread them wider and your hands reach out for him to pull him closer to you. 
As you feel his tip against your opening, too sensitive from last night, you inhale sharply, clinging to his arms.  
“I’ll be gentle,” he promises, and you nod, briefly squeezing your eyes shut. 
And he holds you, planting soft kisses on your forehead, your eyelids, your cheeks, as he enters you, slowly, bit by bit, pausing again and again while he works you open for him. And you welcome him, reveling in every sensation while the waves of fire that just drew back begin to rush back on you. 
Both of you breathe heavily as he bottoms out inside you, pausing for a moment, and you cast up your eyes to look at him, at his features, almost too beautiful for this world, and at his golden eyes that seem to see so much more than anyone you’ve ever met. Once again, they seem to see right through you, to your soul. And you writhe and squirm under his burning gaze. 
“Fuck!” he mutters. “Fuck! Oh gods…” And he grits his teeth, his muscles twitching as he fights a silent battle with himself. 
It’s a hopeless fight, and its hopelessness is partly to blame on you. 
However, you can’t help but roll your hips, whimpering as you try to get him to move, to feel more of him. 
“Fuck!” he growls through clenched teeth, and his fingers dig into your skin. “I can’t be gentle if you fuck yourself on my cock like that.”  
And then he pinches your nipples. The whining he elicits from you turns into a moan as he repeats the coarse caress. And your hips buck as if by themselves. 
“Then don’t be gentle,” you whisper. 
“Little Bird…,” he breathes, a faltering protest. 
“Please! Please, take me, Geralt!”
Your soft plea is all it takes for him to give in. And your unbridled moans drift through the room as he finally fucks you.  
You wrap your legs around him, urging him to amp up the force of his thrusts while he fucks you into the mattress. He is relentlessness and abandon, a force of nature, devouring your body and soul. And a sea of flames washes around you, rising higher and higher until it surrounds you from head to toe. 
He holds you, just as much as you hold him, and then he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin and his desperate groan reverberating through your body. And his need, the pure need in those final thrusts, makes your feet lose touch with the ground. 
And you whirl around, weightlessly, as he spills himself inside you, painting your walls with hot jets, and you clench and flutter around him. 
The end comes all too soon. And you haven’t even remotely stopped floating when you already perceive that the voices, the clopping of hooves, and the commands being barked outside have grown louder, announcing the approaching departure. 
As he pulls back from your heat, you can’t help that hot tears flood your eyes, and you briefly bury your face in his hair. So as not to let him see. 
But of course, he already knows, and he gently withdraws from your chokehold to look at you. 
He doesn’t say a word. Instead, his lips dance across your face, kissing away the stray tears in the corners of your eyes and the lines of worry on your forehead and around your lips. 
As he sees you looking back at him with calm, dark eyes, a soft smile curls the corners of his mouth. And then, he gets up. 
You roll over on your side, watching him clean himself up before he pulls his pants back on. Then, his boots. And his cloak. 
He steps to the stove, putting two more logs on the fire before he pours tea into a mug he sets down on the bedside table. 
Then, he gets two fresh cloths, wetting one with warm water. And he sits down on the edge of the bed, indicating you to spread your legs for him. 
Goosebumps bloom on your skin as he gently cleans you up and dries you off, and again, you see him smile. 
He adjusts your nightgown, and then he envelops you in a thick woolen blanket, pulling it up to your chin. 
“Stay here for a while, will you?” he says quietly. “So I know with certainty where you are. So I know it at least this one more time, before I can only wonder where you are, and what you’re doing, and if you are well.” 
“I’ll be here, Geralt,” you say, cradling his face in your hands. “I’ll be here, and I’ll be thinking about you by day and dreaming about you by night. I’ll be waiting for you to come back to me.” 
And his lips move, without a sound passing them, but the kiss he presses to your mouth tastes like the promise he can’t give. 
“Witcher!” a man yells from outside, banging at the door. “You’re late!”
“Gods,” Geralt growls, resignedly leaning his forehead against yours, not even bothering to give a reply. 
“Go now,” you whisper. 
“They won’t leave without me, anyway,” he shrugs, smirking as you chuckle quietly. 
“Still.”
A last kiss. And then, he gets up.  
At the door, he grabs his bundle and slings his swords over his shoulder. As his hand dwells on the door latch, he turns to you, a lugubrious smile playing on his lips. 
“I love you, Little Bird,” he says quietly. 
“And I love you,” you reply, swallowing hard around the aching lump in your throat. “Until Ragnarök and beyond.”
“Until Ragnarök and beyond.” 
And then, he walks out the door.
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mentalpolaroids · 5 months
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Wolf's Home
(Part I)
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Geralt of Rivia x female!Reader
Summary: Geralt takes Ciri to Kaer Morhen and reunites not only with his family of witchers, but also with the person that makes him feel at home the most
a/n: this is sort of rewrite of S02E02. Sorry for the use of (y/n) but couldn't really think of a name for the reader. Also, this is my first try at writing for The Witcher so be nice to me please!!
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She woke up that morning expecting to face another routine-repeating day, possibly with an occasional healing of one of the witchers coming back to Kaer Morhen from a hunt, or coming up with a new excuse as to why she didn’t want to eat whatever crap Lambert cooked for them. His turn on food duty was always a dreadful one.
Her days were never too adventurous, not since Vasemir had insisted on a more permanent stay at the keep two years ago, when she was dragged through the Blue Mountains by a silver haired witcher, both injured, after fighting and killing a monster together. An encounter she still couldn’t really understand to this day, how they happened to be in the same place, at the same time, looking for the same creature, but she knew better than to question Destiny. 
Even with her own wounds to take care of, she still healed Geralt of Rivia first, who fell under her natural charm like a trap. He wondered if it was a spell, the way he so easily was put at ease in her presence. She was a mage after all. But as the days passed, he concluded that there was no spell besides the one used to close the gash on his abdomen. That woman was simply a caretaker by heart, one that somehow remained open and pure even knowing of the existence of nasty beings out there in the Continent. Everyone else in the Fortress seemed to be as mesmerized, and so, she was welcomed with open arms to stay, and heal, and fight with the witchers. 
The ropes were starting to burn the palm of her hands from all the knots she had conquered in the last hour, but she definitely didn’t mind because it was at least keeping her hands warm as she stood outside, light snow falling over the already white ground. 
One of the few advantages of the icy weather was that they could hear when someone was approaching, the crunch of the footsteps over the snow being hard to disguise. She heard those in the distance, but it was of a horse. (y/n) dropped the rope and grabbed her sword, preparing herself for the sight of the intruder before making her own known. But, the sight wasn’t at all what she expected. She didn’t know what to expect at all, but it sure wasn’t a familiar brown horse carrying Geralt of Rivia accompanied by a blonde girl, who (y/n) quickly convinced herself must’ve been a princess, if not for her looks, for her posture. She looked like she didn’t belong there, nor next to someone with the nickname The Butcher of Blaviken. 
The girl got down from Roach and looked around curiously. Her dress blended with the snow, from afar, (y/n) wondered if she was even real. Her gaze didn’t last long on the girl when Geralt got down from his horse too, the mere sight of his face barely visible under his dark cloak sent a shiver of excitement to her stomach. He had always had that effect on her, but it seemed the longer she went without seeing him, the stronger the sensation got after meeting again. 
The witcher and the princess shared words (y/n) couldn’t really hear from where she was still in the hiding, and as they started to walk towards the main entrance of the Fortress, the mage put down her sword and walked towards them. 
“You sure we’re safe here?” the princess asked Geralt, who walked in front of her. (y/n) was not close enough to hear the question, not yet to be noticed. 
“Safer than out there.” 
Her voice seemed to echo in the silence of their footsteps coming to a stop, both turning their heads to their right, finally acknowledging her. Geralt’s lips curved into a brief smile, his yellow eyes softening when they locked with hers. (y/n) smiled back, the shiver in her stomach was now climbing to her chest and for a moment she forgot he could probably feel her heart beating faster. Good thing she didn’t mind him knowing how she felt around him. 
Three steps away from coming face to face with the witcher, she slowed her pace, planning to walk past them. 
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my dearest friend in all the Continent.”
“It’s great to see you.” 
“Oh I’m afraid I was speaking to my best girl here.” (y/n) approached Roach, caressing the horse over her nose and planting a light kiss on her short fur, “But it’s great to see you too, Wolf.” she walked towards him again, for a second forgetting it wasn’t just the two of them there. The way Geralt followed every step of hers, his gaze warm even in the middle of a Winter day. (y/n) opened her arms to him, “Welcome home.”
The man embraced her tightly against him and it felt like getting drowned in memories of his days with her. He had forgotten how much he cherished her affection, and holding her reminded him how nice it was to let his guard down for a brief moment. It all felt like he had never left. 
“I missed you.” he murmured, unrecognizably self-conscious. He surely didn’t enjoy showing this vulnerable side of him, especially in front of someone else.
“I’m sure you did.” (y/n) let go of him, casting him a warm, welcoming smile, before looking to the girl standing behind him, now more curious about the pair’s dynamic than the Fortress, “And who’s this poor thing having to deal with your company?” 
“This is Ciri.” 
“Ciri.” (y/n) tried the name on her lips. She walked towards her with the same welcoming smile, but a different fondness in her eyes, “It’s nice to meet you, Ciri.” she said as she extended her hand to the girl, “I’m (y/n).”
“It’s nice to meet you too.” she spoke softly, clearly wary of meeting a new face, but the shadow of a smiling curve on her lips showed potential trust as she accepted the handshake. After all, the woman was obviously someone dear to Geralt, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Is that so?” (y/n) smirked, hoping the cold outside cooled the warmth spreading across her face. She turned to Geralt, who watched the two girls interact, but the words were directed to Ciri, “I’m sure I have a lot to hear about you, too.” It was a warning to the witcher: an endless night of chatting was to come, questions needed to be answered, stories to be told and his whereabouts to be known. 
As if reading Ciri’s mind, (y/n) squeezed her shoulder and tilted her head towards the entrance, “Don’t worry, you are safe here.” 
“Keep up.” Geralt told the girl, and both followed (y/n). 
They both pushed the heavy wooden doors and walked into the main room of the Fortress that was occupied with chatty men and the smell of burning wood and ale. (y/n)’s words echoing through the wide space caught their attention. 
“Look what the snow dragged in, boys.”
All eyes turned to the mage and the murmur came to a stop when everybody noticed the figure standing behind her. Her attention turned to Geralt as well, in time to see him remove the hood of his cloak and finally getting a decent view of the face she missed so much. She also checked on Ciri, who looked uneasier than before, standing in the middle of a room full of men. (y/n) winked at her, hoping to reassure her everything was alright. Geralt noticed, and he too turned to the girl and nodded at her before moving to stand beside (y/n) as Lambert stood from his seat and walked towards them. 
“Where the fuck have you been?” 
“We thought you got lost.” Coën followed Lambert, “Or killed.” 
(y/n) rolled her eyes. Geralt smiled tenderly.
“Not yet. Sorry.”  
The mage elbowed his side. She had always hated when he implied the possibility of his death at any moment, considering what he was and he did, in reality it wasn’t a massive impossibility. Still, even a simple joke triggered a non-existent grief that resided in her chest everytime she had to see the witcher leave and go long periods of time without hearing a single word from or about him. In his presence, (y/n) pretended he would stay forever, and if he didn’t stay, he would come back. Everytime. 
Geralt caressed her back and brought her in for the embrace Lambert had already initiated. He then went on greeting and hugging the other witchers and, more than ever, Kaer Morhen felt like a real home. The family was back together. 
“I guess I’m back to being second favorite now that you’re back.” Lambert complained to Geralt, referring to (y/n).
“Who said you were even a favorite in the first place?” 
Geralt laughed. 
“I hope you’ve all been treating her right.”
“We do, but she’s a mean one. Lucky for her, we don’t dislike her cooking.” 
The banter was interrupted by Vasemir, who entered the room already smiling at the sight of the silver haired witcher. 
“Wolf. You’re home.” the elder joined the commotion, “Finally.”
Ciri, still feeling out of place, placed herself visibly between Geralt and (y/n).
“Yeah. I had to make a few stops.” the witcher replied, referring to the princess next to him. 
“He’s home!” 
Once again, the commotion grew around Geralt as they kept celebrating his return. Ciri smiled shyly watching the content interactions.
“Come on,” (y/n) extended her hand for the princess to take, “I’m going to introduce you to everybody.”
When everybody settled enough for the mage to be able to order everyone to be nice to Ciri, the men were somewhat curious about the unexpected guest. The girl seemed less vigilant as she was offered a seat and cup and conversation started flowing as if both her and Geralt had always been there. 
(y/n) stood next to him, a sigh leaving her nostrils as she crossed her arms and discreetly nudged the man’s broad figure. 
“Yeah, I know. I have a lot to tell.”
“Yeah. You do.” 
Geralt looked down at her to meet her eyes and, with a soft motion of his hand, uncrossed her arms. He smiled, in a way she knew he was promising to stay for a while. She couldn’t tell what he thought her eyes were saying, but whatever it was, he felt the need to hold her hand, hidden behind his cloak, caressing the cold skin of her knuckles with his thumb. 
“I’m home.” his hoarse voice, along with the softness of his touch and stare, nearly warmed her up on the spot. 
In the back of her mind, there was a voice telling her he would eventually leave again, but for once, she shut it down. 
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Part II soon!
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cuddly-dean-baby · 5 months
Note
I saw your need for requests, and I come bearing a request! Could you write a Geralt/Male!Reader in which Geralt comes home super dirty and very tired but his boyfriend takes care of him ( I.e. bathes him, bushes his teeth/hair etc. pretty much whatever you feel like writing 😂); And then brings him to bed and tucks him in? Just anything super sweet and fluffy because he deserves all of that and more! Plus I’m a sucker for reverse comfort fics. Hopefully more requests come your way and you can get back into your writing groove! 💖💗
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Pairing: Geralt x M!Reader Words: 337 A/N: So I decided to merge these two together since they’re kinda similar and I went off the top of my head, I don't know what I did
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With his boots shuffling against the floorboards, he toes them off, noting in mind to clean the mud and blood off of them later on as he can’t be bothered right now. 
As he lifts his head up, he sees steam come out of the bathtub, knowing that his husband ran it for him. 
Geralt knows not to deny your love languages for him, so he strips out of his armour and clothes as he walks over to the bathtub. He eases his body into it, groaning in satisfaction as the heated water relaxes his muscles. He feels his eyes become droopy, so he closes them and rests.
He wakes up moments later to feel you brush his hair. Moaning a bit, he tilts his head to the side, feeling the plush of your thigh against his cheek as he closes his eyes again.
You smile, tying his white hair into a ponytail. “Food’s waiting for you.”
Geralt groans tiredly, meaning that he doesn’t want to move. “I’ve gotta clean my boots, clothes, and armour.”
“Already done, out on the line.”
He lifts his head off your thigh to look over at his said clothes and armour near the fire on a line, his boots clean of mud and blood. He opens his mouth to say something, but Jaskier runs in, going on about something.
“Jaskier!” Geralt growls out, making the bard shut up.
“Oh, sorry, coming back later.” Jaskier is out of your sight within seconds.
Geralt plops his face back against your leg, not liking how he got disturbed. He groans in disagreement as he feels you move out from the back of him. “Bed, now. I’ll bring you some food.”
As he’s about to say something again, you interrupt him. “Roach is fed and brushed.”
He finally gets out of the bathtub, feeling you dry his body with a warm towel. “Mm.” He leans his body against you, pushing his face against your neck.
“The scary Witcher going soft for his husband.”
“Shut up.”
Henry Cavill + Characters Tags @enchantedbytomandhenry
The Witcher Tags @justreadingficsdontmindme @chrisevansangel
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notyetneedcoffee · 6 months
Text
Sexy Mess
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Kinktober - Mess Kink NSFW - Adults Only
Summary: You want to get messy with a certain Witcher
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Geralt’s deep, gravel voice called your name.
“Get in here.” He demanded.
You stepped out of the bath and into the bedchamber. Stretched out across the bed, the Witcher drank from a tankard of ale. Stopping to enjoy the view, you took a moment to admire his wide bare chest and thick thighs. His body held a map of scars. Large and powerful, you loved the way he made you feel.
When he drained the drink and laid back fully on the bed, his right hand gave his long, thick cock a stroke.
“I’m here.” You crawled up the bed to kneel between his thighs.
“About time.” He sounded stern, but there was laughter in his eyes.
You wrapped your hand around him and dipped your head. You loved his scent when he was fresh from the bath. Burying your face between his legs, mouth wet and dripping, you licked and sucked at his balls, hand gripping his cock harder. Geralt rumbled in appreciation.
Moving up, you took him in your mouth. Drool ran down his shaft to cover your hands. His fingers wound in your hair, pushing your head down and forcing his cock deeper. He pushed you near to gagging, before tugging you up by your hair.
He flipped you both over, looming above you. Geralt took your jaw in his hand and kissed you with tongue and teeth. He pulled away enough to give you a wicked grin, before licking a sloppy trail down your neck to your nipple.
“Please, Geralt.” You begged.
On the tablet beside the bed, a metal flask warmed over a candle. When Geralt opened the lid, the scent of mint filled the air. He didn’t bother to pour any into his hands. He drizzled it directly over your breasts. Warm and slick, it spread over your skin. He poured more, filling the hallow in your belly, and thoroughly soaking your core.
You moaned as his hands smoothed the oil over your body. He lowered himself down to kiss you again, this time allowing you to feel his weight and rubbing his body against yours. Hot. Solid. Covered in slick oil. Your nerves were on fire.
Geralt’s large hand dug into your thigh, massaging, moving closer to your core. Two thick fingers sank into your sex, stroking deep. Wriggling slowly beneath his body, you relished in the sensation of his chest hair against your hard nipples. Slick. Messy. Skin on skin. The heat circling in your belly.
“Need more.” You whined, hands running over his muscles. Hard. Strong. Your fingers dug in, pulling at him and sliding along his flesh.
Geralt’s thighs pushed your legs further apart. His teeth nipped at your lower lip. You felt his cock rub against your entrance. Slippery and hard. He pushed in, filling you. The stretch. Your legs wrapped around him as his began to thrust in and out.
A low growl rumbled up from his chest as he gripped you tighter, fucking harder. The breath rushed from your lungs. Warmth enveloped you. His wet mouth covered yours, sloppily kissing your mouth, your jaw, your neck.
Your thighs locked around him. The coil in your core wound tighter. The deep rumble from his chest vibrated through your body. He moved faster. Pushed harder. You quivered.
“Hmmm, fuck, yes.” Geralt hiked your legs up to your shoulders.
You panted and swore, each thrust hitting your deep. Pushing you closer to the edge. You wanted more.
“Come on me!” You plead.
Geralt’s hips snapped hard and fast. With a growl he pulled out. You watched him spurting hot come over your belly, over your tits. He slammed back in. Your cunt spasmed. He pumped hard, impossibly fast. Everything tensed. Heat flared, spreading in a flash. You came apart, flooding over his cock.
He flopped back on the bed. You both lay on your back, panting, sweaty and slick messes. Feeling boneless, you flopped over and curled against his body. He pressed his lips in your hair.
Geralt chuckled. “I am a sweaty mess.”
You laughed back. “My favorite sexy, sweaty mess.”
Want more? Check out my Master List.
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velvetcloxds · 1 year
Note
if you're too shy- send me a character and a scenario and I'll write a little baby blurb for it
Geralt of Rivia falling in love with a beautiful chubby cottagecore healer, after she helps him, when he is wounded, please? Thank you!
SOFT HANDS | GERALT OF RIVIA
word count: 0.6k
warnings: plus sized reader, not specified per se but definitely implied
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You woke up startled by a crash in your kitchen, looking around your room in tired confusion, trying to figure out the time by looking out through the rags you had weaved into makeshift curtains, it was not morning just yet, far from it, but the timing of the intrusion usually only meant one thing- your witcher was there. You stumbled from your bed, pulling one of your blankets with you, covering your nightgown as it did not aid you much in concealing your curves, thin it its design- Geralt never minded though.
"Geralt," you breathed, you were barely awake, stumbling slightly as you found your footing, already smelling him and you were glad that he had managed to bathe before breaking into your home, very considerate of him.
"Good evening, las," he was talking with his mouth full, busying himself among your wooden cabinets, it piqued your interest, making you speed up until you were next to him, his hands hard at work making some sort of stew. "Are you hungry?"
"Let me see first," you were very convincing, voice just soft enough to make him pause to give you a quick glance at his face, new scars, still bleeding as they stretched over the side of his forehead. "Are there more?" he nodded, grunting when you swatted his hands away from the knife and began pulling him to your washroom, the action only possible because of his willingness to follow you. You noted the burning candles he had arranged around the house, knowing you would need the light, always uneasy when he arrived in the dark.
He could not help the sort of amused tilt to his lips as you forced him onto a chair, struggling to remove his armor but he made no attempt to help you, enjoying the little huff and pout the struggle earned from you. When you finally managed to take it off, you threw it to the floor, giving him an unamused glare, not at all fooled by his faux innocent shrug.
You sat down in front of him, folding your legs and shifting the blanket over them, another huff was given as you dragged the bucket of water closer, taking one of the clean cloths from where you had folded them in a pile. Your cheeks burned as you scanned his torso, it was not right, was not fair for that matter that he had that effect on you- none of your other patients had, in fact, you prided yourself on being professional but only Geralt could make you flustered while cleaning his wounds.
"These are fresh," you noted, eyes averted from his as you dragged the wet cloth over his stomach, frowning lightly when he did not flinch. "You know, there are plenty of healers on the road, most if not all of them more suited to treat wounds such as yours," you were done with his chest, drying it with another cloth and wrapping it with strips of cloth that had been soaked in your homemade healing remedy.
"Hmm," a grunt, a familiar sound, a comfortable one. "I prefer coming to you," he stated and shifted lower, leaning his elbows onto his knees so you could easily access his face, a new surge of heat finding your skin at the eyes that soared over your features. "Your hands are the softest," he explained and you nearly pulled away from him, hands just barely keeping still as you wiped lightly at the scar on his face, the other hand gripping his chin to keep him still. "I also do not mind the view," he was being sly, daring, and extremely cruel as he breathed a light chuckle, not missing a single beat of your sporadic heart. "Nor the company," you paused, eyes falling to his without any control and you were stuck, entranced, unable to move or look away, only managing to break the daze when he cleared his throat.
"I assume it would be a waste of breath to ask you to be more careful?" you attempted a change in subject, following the same process as you did for his stomach as you finished up your work.
"Completely," he agreed and you wiped your hands, shaking your head in familiar disapproval as he simply enjoyed the very view he had traveled many miles for. "For what reason would I have for coming to see you if I were?"
"I should go and make myself decent," you dismissed the question, not surprised when he took your hand to help you stand, rough hands uncharacteristically gentle as his thumb brushed your wrist in his hold. "Do you have a place to rest for the night?" he shook his head, he dare not attempt to lie to you with words, tell you that Jaskier had booked the pair of them a room not far from your cottage, because truth be told he rather enjoyed you fussing over him, taking care of him, and he knew you did as well- so, who was he to take that chance from you?
"I was rather hoping you could spare me a room."
"Of course, I will prepare it while you clean my kitchen," he smiled, a true smile, one you had not had the chance to see before but you were grateful you could, it was lovely, dreamlike. He nodded in silent appreciation and agreement, looking down to where he still held onto your hand. "They truly are the softest that I had ever held," he told you and you were the one to smile, a shy smile, warm with affection as you tried to consider how you would survive a whole day with this man in your house when he was insistent on stealing your heart and your sanity.
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starryeyedstories · 2 years
Note
Nova, I recently (finally) watched Season 2 of The Witcher, so I'm back in my Geralt feels and I just adore the way you write him. Would you be willing to do "comparing hand sizes" with him? 🥺
I’m so glad you’re back in your Geralt feels!! The first time I ever wrote for him was a request for you, I think it’s beautiful that we’re always enabling each other 🤣
Also I hope you don’t mind but this prompt fit perfectly for an idea I’ve had for ages for the Cottage series!! I hope you enjoy this, Amanda 🥰
The Cottage at the Edge of the Woods
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The silence at your kitchen was so comfortable that it verged on being intimate. Geralt sat opposite you, grazing on a bowl of stew, whilst you cradled a cup of the tea that he had brought you from his latest travels. Beneath the narrow table, your legs were tangled with his.
“Is it true that Witchers have slower pulses than ordinary people?” you asked curiously after a while.
He raised an eyebrow in surprise at the question, then extended his arm towards you on the tabletop in silent invitation. You hesitated for a moment then picked his hand up gently with one hand, your index and middle fingers curling around his thick wrist; they almost couldn’t reach the spot where you knew his pulse would be palpable, just below his thumb.
A frown tugged at your lips at first as you felt no pulse at all, then you felt it- the surge of blood beneath your fingertips. Nearly three seconds passed before you felt the next beat, and your eyes widened in wonder.
“It is true then,” you thought aloud, and Geralt chuckled at your amazed tone, “No wonder your hands are always so cold.”
He watched as you opened your own hand to press against his, palm to palm; his dwarfed yours easily, and he heard your own heart rate speed up at the sight of it. The frown that tugged at your lips at the constellation of scars and calluses on his hand did not escape his notice and he turned his hand to hold yours carefully, as though it were as delicate as a rose.
“I’m lucky I have your hands to warm mine then,” he said quietly.
You smiled softly at that and lifted his hand to your lips, cupping it with both of your warm hands as you pressed a gentle kiss to his knuckles.
“Always.”
2K notes · View notes
write-ur-wrongs · 2 years
Text
Frostbite
Request: geralt x female reader where he for whatever reason isn’t with her, and it’s freezing and by the time he finds her she’s practically hypothermic? and just fluff as he panics and warms her up making sure she’s okay? thank you so much!! :)
Words: 1200 
Thank you sweet anon for your request and (as always) your patience with me!! Writing is an escape I love but it demands attention that I just haven’t had the energy to give these past few months. This bad boy isn’t proof-read but I hope y’all enjoy it nonetheless!!! _____________________________________________________
The thing they don’t tell you about freezing to death, is how unbearably warm it is. Sure, at first, it’s just as it sounds; every breath feels like knives in your lungs and your bones ache. You can’t tell if your fingers and toes are numb or if they’ve fallen off. The shivering, while uncomfortable, doesn’t last that long, and eventually the general stabbing sensation brought on by the bitter cold is replaced by an overwhelming heat.
“You stay back”, he’d said to you, a steady hand on your shoulder. The ice on the lake had melted in an unseasonal bout of heat, turning an hour-long trek across the water into a three-day journey around it. You didn’t pack for extended travel and, having gone through the bread and berries you’d brought, Geralt suggested he go out and find food. Alone.
“Geralt, no! What if something happens?” You’d pleaded, arms crossed to keep warm against the cool off-shore wind.
“I’ll only be gone an hour at most, you’ll be fine”, he’d assured you, kissing your temple quickly before mounting Roach and riding off.
That was back when the sun out, back when the sky was clear.
Since then, the sun had set, the wind picked up, and the sky opened up. You weren’t certain when the snow had changed from flurries to full out squall. You spotted the flurries when you went into the brush looking for kindling for the fire. You felt the wind bite at you as you carried the sticks back through the forest. What you didn’t know was how disorienting a blizzard could be, or how easy it would be to get lost in these damned woods. All you knew was that you were lost, fucking freezing, and somehow on fire.
At some point you’d started crying, causing small beads of ice to form on your lashes and preventing you from opening your eyes. You were thankful for that now. Glad that you couldn’t see your skin as frostbite ravaged it.
With your eyes closed it was easy to imagine that the burn you felt was simply the sun on a sweet summer’s day. You could practically hear Geralt begging you to get out of the sun, warning you of the risks brought on by prolonged exposure.
“Y/N! Oh fuck, fuck, fuck!” Geralt shouted, his voice straining as if he’d been screaming for hours. It sounded so real, so close. “Y/N! No, no…” his voice breaking as he got closer.
“G-Geralt…?” you stammered, unsure of what was real.
“No, shh, darling,” he murmured, scooping you up into his arms before gently kissing you on the forehead. “Save your energy.”
“A-are you r-really –” you tried, attempting to bring your hand up to his face to test the strength of your pain-induced delusion, only to find that you couldn’t move your arms at all.
“Shh, Y/N, it’s alright,” Geralt cut in, sensing the panic rise in you, “You’re wrapped in my cloak, please stop struggling I promise you’ll be fine.”
“You r-really f-found me? I-I’m not dying?” You were so quiet; Geralt could barely hear you over the howl of the storm.
“Shh, I’ve got you; you’ll be fine,” he kept repeating this like a mantra, just for him, but the constant rumble of his voice was calming to you nonetheless. “We’re almost there. You’ll be fine.”
He carried you in silence for a stretch and the warmth he radiated allowed you to thaw enough that your grip on reality seemed to strengthen with every step. The sound of his breathing and steady steps was only more grounding to you.
Unfortunately, every step toward awareness turned the numbness back into the burning pain that sent you to insanity in the first place. Suddenly everything hurt and you were on fire once more. Every now again the pain would become too much and you’d groan and cry out in pain and with every cry the knot around Geralt’s heart tightened painfully.
In an attempt to comfort you and warm you, Geralt would hike you up in his arms to hold you closer. When the ground was flat enough to allow him a looser grip, he’d take a few moments to rub your arms and legs, desperate to create more heat.
“We’re here, dove,” he whispered suddenly, pulling you out of your spiral, and before you had a chance to catch up, Geralt was kneeling by the fire setting you down. Every bone in his body was screaming for him to old you tight and never let you go but he had to in order to stoke the flames. Cursing under his breath, he released you.
“N-no, p-please!” you cried piteously the moment he let you go.
“I’m right here, Y/N, I’m not going anywhere,” he blurted, stumbling over his words and his feet in his rush to add a log to the fire before wrapping you up in his arms and never letting you go.
“Okay, I’m here, I’ve got you,” he said, settling you firmly against his chest and rubbing his calloused hands against you to warm you further.
“G-Geralt I’m s-so sorry,” you blubbered between dry sobs as you turned to latch your arms around his neck, “I should have stayed p-put l-like you said-d.”
“Hey, no,” he shushed, readjusting so that you were fully pressed against his core, leeching every bit of warmth imaginable off him. “I should never have left you,” he whispered into your hair, peppering you with quick kisses. “But I have you now, and you’ll be fine.” He said firmly, squeezing you tighter as if to add emphasis.
Wordlessly, you nodded and nestled ever closer, keeping your eyes closed and doing your best to focus on his warmth, his scent, the strength of his hold, and the fire behind you. When the pain came to be too much, you tried to focus on the sounds around you; the crackle of the fire, the wind outside, Geralt’s gentle breaths, and most critically, the sound of his heart beating. It was slow but strong, and after a while, you noticed it sync up with your own quieter heartbeat.
Thump-thump.
                      Thump-thump.
Realizing this, you couldn’t help but smile and let out a soft hum of a laugh.
“What is it?” Geralt asked into your hair, not releasing you even an inch.
“Our hearts,” you murmured, the shiver having melted away from your voice, “they’re beating in sync. It’s nice.”
“Ah,” he said, letting a chuckle roll through him, “that’s not a good thing, Y/N. Yours should be much faster.”
“I think it’s cute,” you hummed, “we’re one.”
“You’re right,” he conceded, happy to see you were feeling strong enough to talk, “you and me? We’re one.”
Eventually, after Geralt had force-fed you fresh water and some food, you finally fell asleep in his arms.
Secure in the fact that you’d be fine so long as the two of you were one.
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viking-raider · 1 year
Text
A WITCHER’S LEGACY - PART THREE: BONDS
Summary: You travel to Kaer Morhen with Lycus and Jaskier, while Geralt hunts down who's behind the Mage attack. Starting with Nenneke, in the Temple of Melitele.
Pairing: Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Word Count: 4.8k
Parts: I II
Warning: PG - Witcher!AU, Dad!Geralt, Soft & Protective!Geralt, Sassy!Reader, Language, Hurt/Comfort, Protective!Jaskier, Uncle!Jaskier, Confession, Separation, Nicknames, Memories, Unrequited Love, Rude Behavior, Fluff
Inspiration: A subject from my story, A Witcher’s Destiny, Season Two of Netflix’s the Witcher and a Quest in The Witcher 3!
Author’s Note: I hope you enjoy it! Line divider by @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS!
If you would like to be added A Witcher’s Legacy Tag List, please message me!
I also have the story on my AO3
If you would like to get notifications for my writing! Just follow my Tag List blog, @VIKING-RAIDER-TAGLIST and turn on the notifications for it! It’s that easy!’
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“I don't want to leave you.” You whimpered, tugging on the hem of Geralt's cloak, while trying to stifle back tears.
Geralt smiled softly, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulled you in, closing Lycus in between you. “I know you don't, my firefly.” He whispered, pressing his lips to your forehead. “But it's for the best.” He told you, looking down at Lycus, nestled inside your own cloak. “For you and our son.”
“We've never been apart for more than a day or two, since we've met, you know that?” You said, looking up, and trying to smile for him.
“I do.” He chuckled, golden eyes sparkling. “What is it that married couples say?” He quipped at you. “The ol' ball and chain.”
That drew a genuine laugh out of you. “Is this you suggesting we legitimately marry?” You teased back, nudging him with your shoulder.
“I've told you before, you've been my wife for a very long time.” Geralt answered, catching your chin in his fingers. “I don't need an alderman to tell me that.” He whispered, his forehead brushing yours.
“Unless, you want it?” He mumbled, softly.
“I don't need one either.” You assured him, sweetly. “Besides, I think this sweet guy bonds us together far more than a marriage contract ever could.” You said, glancing into Lycus's face, seeing so much of Geralt in his teeny features.
“That's more than true.” He nodded, smiling at his beautiful son. “Now, hop up on Bell. It's a four day ride from Asheberg to Kaer Morhen.” He told you, grabbing a hold of the rose gray horse's reins to hold it still, while you maneuvered Lycus in his sling and pulled yourself up into the saddle.
“Hey.” Geralt called quietly, squeezing your calf as he looked up at you.
You looked down, lifting a creased brow.
“I'll miss you and I love you.” He assured you, giving you a reassuring expression.
“Same, my wolf.” You rasped back, your voice cracking around the lump in your throat.
Patting your thigh, Geralt turned away from you and Lycus. Taking a deep breath, as he tried to ignore the raging storm inside his body that wanted to keep him from walking away, knowing the danger the two of you were in. Stiffening his jaw and squaring his shoulders, he set his right boot forward in the slimy mud, before approaching Jaskier, who was fussing with the buckles to his own horse's saddle.
“I'm entrusting their safety to you, Julian.” Geralt said, giving the Bard a stony, golden glare.
“Come now, Geralt, I will protect them as if they were my own wife and child.” Jaskier replied, clicking his tongue at the Witcher, in an attempt to sound confidently dismissive. “As if they were my lute!” He added, with a melodic laugh, glancing at his long-time friend.
“That's another thing I want from you.” Geralt said, turning an eye over his shoulder to you. “She probably won't hear of it, but should anyone ask on the journey to Kaer Morhen, they are your wife and child.”
“What, why?” The Bard frowned, shaking his head.
“Because, people are clearly trying to find a woman and her child that she had with a Witcher.” He replied, cocking his head at him, amused by his friend's airheadedness. “While it won't fool the people specifically looking for them, it'll keep word of their location from being spread.”
“Ri-ight.” Jaskier nodded, finally understanding. “If it comes up, I'll claim them.” He promised Geralt, reaching out to clasp his shoulder. “I'll get them to Kaer Morhen and Vesemir safely.”
“I trust you, my friend.” Geralt sighed, returning the gesture. “Until then, I'll be looking for the bastards that are up to this.”
“How are you going to do that?” Jaskier asked, curiously.
“When I took her to the Temple of Melitele, to give birth to Lycus, there was an incident.” He replied, eyes narrowing, as he recalled the moment. “I didn't think much of it, at the time. One of the visitors snooped on a conversation between Nenneke and I. It's a suspicion and my only lead currently.” He explained, biting his lip.
“Other than heading to Aretuza and demanding the name of the Mage, by the description I give them.”
“Well, Hell Hounds know no fury, like a father and a Witcher on a warpath to protect his wife and child.” Jaskier laughed, slotting his expensive boot into one of his saddle's stirrups, but paused, looking back at Geralt. “Oh, this is going to make a great song.” He chuckled, the wheels already turning in his mind.
“No, it won't, Jaskier.” Geralt warned, giving him a knowing look.
“I said, it would make a great song.” Jaskier huffed, rolling his eyes and heaving himself into the saddle, but leaned down. “I never said anything about singing it to the Continent, you muse killer.” He grinned, winking, and straightening up.
Geralt shook his head and moved out of the way, catching your eye as you nudge your horse northward, out of Asheberg and in the direction of Kaer Morhen. His slow heart clenched, seeing your reddened eyes, his brow drew together as he nodded his head at you. Doing his best to instill one last bit of hope and strength into you, before you lost each other around the bend in the road. Letting out a heavy sigh, Geralt turned and grabbed the horn of Roach's saddle and swung into it, turning the Chestnut towards the west, where the revered Temple of Melitele was situated, just outside the Duchy of Ellander.
He hoped that Nenneke would remember the man that interrupted their conversation the night he had brought you to her.
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“She's resting now.” Geralt said, meeting Nenneke just outside her office. “It was a hard journey from Smallton. We could only ride Roach a quarter of the way, before it became too much for her and the babe.”
“Well, from the examination I gave her, she is quite far along.” Nenneke replied, her expression troubled. “I would expect her to give birth within the next two weeks or so. It was wise you brought her to me, when you did, Geralt.”
“I was worried about more than her just giving birth.” He whispered, pressing his lips together, exhausted from the long travel, as well as the concern about you and the pregnancy.
“I don't want to sound—odious, Geralt.” The Priestess started, trying to pick her words carefully, for the Witcher's sake. “I know you love her and the two of you have been together for a very long time. But-” She gulped, regarding him with a measured eye. “Are you sure that this child is yours?”
Geralt sighed and rubbed his face.
“I am sure that the babe is mine, Nenneke.” He nodded, meeting her gaze. “Without a shadow of a doubt, it's mine.” He said, his voice wrapped with conviction. “I know she would never betray me, and I can hear its heartbeat, it's slow. Just like mine is.”
“But how, Geralt?” Nenneke pressed, shaking her head, surprised and confused. “You are a Witcher! Witchers are sterile. You can not have children, because of your training!”
“I know that, Nenneke. Trust me, she and I both had that conversation.” Geralt grunted back at her. “But she's adamant. She's never lain with someone that can get her with a child.” He huffed, agitated in your defense. “Besides, I know when she's lying to me. Her heart speeds up and her eyebrow twitches. Neither of these things happen, when she's asked about her fidelity.”
“But I have my suspicion about what it could be, that made it possible.” He added, pushing his jaw forward.
“What is your--”
A loud crash filled the stone hallway, startling Nenneke and putting Geralt further on edge. They turned and discovered one of the brass candle holders had been knocked over, spilling the thankfully unlit candles to the floor. Frowning, Nenneke strode forward, discovering the perpetrator of the disruption, a man hiding behind a pillar, like a gecko attached to a wall.
“What is the meaning of this?” Nenneke demanded of him, angered to find him spying.
“I-I--” He floundered, mouth flapping like a caught fish.
“Leave my Temple at once!” Nenneke hissed at him. “I will not have such disrespect to Melitele and her visitors.” She barked, jabbing a finger towards the double doors of the great Temple.
“Begone with you, at once, before I call the city guards upon you!”
Hesitating for a second longer, the man bolted from the Temple and out into the pouring night.
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With any luck, Nenneke would remember who the man was, enabling Geralt to track him down, and through him lead the Witcher to those that were now hunting you and Lycus.
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You saw the city of Ban Gleán come into view as you rode over the ridge, Lycus snuggled inside your cloak, babbling to himself as he tugged at the neck of your bodice, while Jaskier hummed to himself just behind you; the trail too narrow for you to ride abreast.
“We should stop here for the night.” You called over your shoulder to the Bard. “Restock whatever items we'll need for the last leg of our journey to Kaer Morhen.” You told him, gently pulling on the reins as the trail sloped downwards.
“It's the last trading post we'll see until we get there.”
“What about Ard Carraigh?” Jaskier yelled back to you.
“High Rock is too far out of our way.” You replied, shaking your head. “We'd have to go all the way north, then east to make it to Kaer Morhen. It adds at least a day to our journey, and I don't want Lycus out in the open any longer than I have to.”
“Fair enough, my fair lady.” The Bard twittered, pulling up alongside you as the road widened. “What are we in need of at Lower Village?” He asked, pursing his lips and crossing his eyes as Lycus popped his head out of your cloak, making him giggle.
“Winter is three months away, but judging by the mountain range,” You said, jerking your chin in the direction of the Blue Mountains. “The snow has already fallen in that region.” You guessed, chewing on your lip, wishing Geralt was there to confirm your suspicion. “I'll have to get Lycus something warmer to wear. Since his other warm clothes were from when he was a newborn. But I'm sure Geralt will bring me things to knit him more warm clothing.” You sighed, looking down at the little boy, and smiled softly.
“That's if grand-papa Vesemir hasn't beaten me to that.” You chuckled, amused at the idea of the oldest, surviving Witcher on the Continent knitting baby clothes as he wiled away his time in the Witcher stronghold. You still had the little cap Vesemir had made for Lycus's first winter at the Keep, when he was just a few weeks old.
“We'll have to replenish our food satchel as well.” Jaskier added, patting the bag attached to his saddle.
“Yeah.” You nodded, narrowing your eyes at him. “If someone had re-framed from munching on it, it should have been enough to make it all the way.” You quipped at him, eyes gleaming.
“Madam, are you implying something?” Jaskier gasped, touching a hand to his breast.
“Oh, not at all.” You chuckled, fluttering your lashes at him. “I'm just saying we have some sort of ghoul amongst our party, that's nibbling the food supply.”
Jaskier leaned over in his saddle, bringing his face close to Lycus's. “You sir, need to keep your wee ghoul hands out of the food satchel. You hear your mother, you're eating us to starvation!” He gasped with dramatic outrage.
Lycus stared at Jaskier, froze in place, it made you laugh, seeing the blank, but intent look in his eyes. How you loved them, with the small flake of warm amber at the bottom corner of his left eye, like a coin dropped in a calm sea, of their otherwise cerulean blue. It makes your heart both sore and light at the same time. Your sweet little boy. He was a wonder to the world, both in how he was created and to how the world worked to him.
But your wonder was short lived catching wind of something vile.
“Ugh!” You winced, nose wrinkling and face twisting in disgust.
“What's the matter?” Jaskier asked, pulling back to look at you.
“Someone has soiled his nappy, big time.” You said, shaking your head at your son.
“The ghoul has struck again!” Jaskier howled with laughter, rocking back in his saddle.
You and Jaskier hastily made it to Ban Gleán and you quickly changed Lycus's pamper, before going down to the grocer's stall with the Bard.
“Why are you using your own coin?” You asked, watching Jaskier pull out a coin pouch to buy the two loaves of bread and other food items that would last you until reaching Kaer Morhen.
Jaskier's cheeks colored as he dropped the orens into the grocer's hand, nodding his head to the man, before moving away with you. “It's not really my coin.” He admitted to you, reluctantly.
“Oh?” You replied, cocking a brow at him.
“Geralt gave me the coin, in case you needed any extra, along the way.” He confessed, unable to take the expression you were giving him.
“Why would he give it to you, and not me?” You asked, frowning. “I'm the one he gives our coin to, when he wants to save it.”
“I guess, he wanted to do the same thing, just extending it to me.” Jaskier replied, biting his lip. “You know Geralt trusts you in all things.” He said, trying to soothe whatever worries or concerns you had. “But you also know he's a bit overprotective, especially over you and Lycus. Just wanting to make extra sure you were prepared and taken care of.”
You sighed heavily and gently touched your shoulder to Jaskier's. “I know that, Julian. I'm just--” You trailed off, unable to find the words.
“You miss him and would rather be with that sour puss, than this charmer.” Jaskier chuckled, putting his arm around your shoulders, hugging you against him. “Honestly, I thought you were crazy when you and Geralt got together.” He snorted, shaking his head. “I really had it pegged, you and I would have been a couple.” He said, voice softening and his eyes darting to Lycus for a moment, a hint of something guarded in them, before it vanished behind another laugh.
“But now, I see the two of you have truly been made for one another, and because of that, I found the Countess!”
You cleared your throat, surprised at Jaskier's confession that he had felt something for you. “How is Lara, by the way?” You asked, having met the Countess de Stael on several occasions over the years.
“She's magnanimous!” Jaskier grinned, smiling up at the blue sky.
“You angered her again, didn't you?” You asked, lifting a knowing brow at him.
“I may have, unknowingly, insulted a beneficial member of her circle, in one of my latest songs.” He winced, looking back at you.
You laughed, shaking your head. “How do you unknowingly insult someone, in a song, Julian?” You asked, pausing by a stall selling yarn and other knitting goods. “You had to use their name or a general depiction of them for it to be perceived as an insult.”
“Ah, yes! Well-” He laughed, flashing that charming smile at you. “I did happen to attend a banquet, where this Earl was also an invited guest. But word got to me that he made a tactless remark about one of my songs...”
“Oh?” You giggled as he trailed off, picking up a thick ball of black wool, indicating to the seller of your interest in buying it. “What song, if I dare ask?” You shot a look over your shoulder at the Bard.
“One of your own favorites!” Jaskier replied, up playing his outrage. “The Stars Above The Path!”
You gasped, turning towards him. “That's blasphemous!” You huffed, half playfully offended and half actually angered by someone having the gall to say anything negative about Jaskier's music. Jaskier was many things, but a bad song writer wasn't one of them.
He wasn't a multi-hit wonder across the Continent for nothing!
“That's what I'm saying!” He replied, his blue eyes wide with indignation. “That puffed up, misanthrope!” He growled, brows drawing together as he pictured the man in his mind. “Anyway! He said the song wasn't, and I quote, catchy enough.”
“Not catchy enough!” You retorted, your face contorting with your confused exasperation. “I've watched grown men cry by the second verse of that song!” You huffed, ready to track this mediocre critic down and give him a piece of your mind.
“Geralt's tapping his foot to that song!”
Jaskier's head jerked back with surprise. “Geralt...Geralt taps his foot to 'The Stars Above The Path'?” He asked, his voice shaking with disbelief.
“He does.” You nodded at him, smiling at the shock on the Songster's face. “If you ever tell Geralt I told you this, I will deny it on my son's name.” You told him, chuckling softly at him. “But Geralt of Rivia, infamous White Wolf, proclaimed Butcher of Blaviken and supposed emotionless Witcher, loves your music.”
“Well,” He sighed quietly, planting his hands on his hips. “That little shit.” He huffed, rolling his eyes.
You snorted at him, shifting Lycus as he moved restlessly against you. “I'm still your number one fan though.” You added in, paying the stall worker for your yarn and stuffed it into the satchel that rested against your hip. “Yes, I know my son.” You cooed, feeling Lycus tug at your bodice and grunted. “I'm going to the inn to find a room, I need to feed this little rascal.” You told Jaskier, then glanced at the vendor.
“Where's your inn?”
“The Clover Hunter is just down the road, the first building you come to, after the bend.” He explained to you, pointing the way.
“Thank you.” You smiled, nodding your head.
“I'll see you there, just going to finish getting a few more things here.” Jaskier said, waving a hand around the stalls.
“All right.” You replied, then set off for the inn, softly humming the Stars Above the Path as you went. “Your eyes, like the stars above the road, Your lips like a cup of delight!”
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You could smell a sharpness of imminent snowfall in the air. Despite how good the warmth of the mid-afternoon sun felt on your back, walking down the cobblestone street, mindful of the horse and donkey piles that dotted it. Turning the corner and glancing up, you found the town's inn. A brass sign of a Hunter drawing an arrow, its glinting tip shaped like a clover, swaying softly from its walnut beam.
Up the creaking steps, that led to a small porch shading the main entrance, you could hear the ruckus inside. Even for it being so early in the day. Situating Lycus, you shoved the door open and the rush of sound filled your ears. People filled the tap room, mostly men and soldiers, sharing mugs of ale and mead, while leaning against the bar top or crowding the long tables. Serving women sailed through the thicket of sweaty and unwashed bodies with ease. Ignoring, swatting at or shooting a look at any of the males that made a grab at them or offered an ungentlemanly remark.
With a quick scan of the room, you found the innkeeper, a rail thin man, in such a state of balding, you might have mistaken him for a monk for a moment, had it not been for the apron and no nonsense look on his face. He only had a ring of salt and pepper hair around his head and a smooth dome on top, that shined in the light of the sconce, he stood beside.
“Pardon me.” You called to a Dun Banner, a Kaedweni light cavalry soldier, who was local to the city of Ban Gleán, and stood in your way to the innkeeper.
The cavalryman turned at the sound of your voice, and lifted a dark brow at you. You stared back at him. The smell of his stained, gold and black tunic, bearing the Kaedwen Unicorn, his lank and greasy, shoulder length black hair, coupled with his unwashed body was a powerful bubble around you and Lycus. You stopped breathing through your nose shortly after entering the inn, to help combat the assault of the smell that permeated in the air. But, it no longer helped.
Making your brow wrinkle, as you took a deep breath as quickly as you could and blew it out, just as fast.
“Excuse me, I'd like to get to the innkeeper, please.” You elaborated, as politely as you could, when he continued to just stand there, his ale thick breath wafting on your face, making your eye twitch.
“Would you now, darling?” He finally spoke, cracking a smile at you to show his one chipped front tooth and its missing partner.
“Yes.” You replied, putting some authority in your tone. “My son and I would like to rest.” You huffed at him, but tightened your hold on Lycus, should the soldier try anything.
The cavalryman's beady eye cocked downwards to see the top of Lycus's white head peeking out of your cloak. The little boy had stopped fussing about you feeding him during the walk from the stalls to the inn. Sufficing himself with sucking on the combination of his fist and the hem of your bodice as he grabbed onto it, steadily soaking the fabric with his saliva.
You didn't mind, he was quiet and content.
But now you were faced with the brute, who decided to test your patience. If Geralt had been here, the Kaedwenian would have gotten out of your way with a hard golden glare and a growl, despite being a soldier for the Kingdom of Kaedwen and Geralt being an evil Witcher. But, you were just a lowly woman with a baby, who would most likely lose interest in his fist soon and start screaming for lunch, if you didn't get this single brain celled, brute to get out of your way.
“Croso!” A voice roared from the thicket of people.
The cavalryman looked away from you, his black eyes lighting on the caller, his smile growing wider, at the woman. She had a hard face. But you had a feeling it was deceiving and she may have been younger than she actually looked in her burgundy and black, buskless, plain fronted corset gown.
“Morana!” He called back to her, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively at her.
“Stop pestering that lady and buy me a drink, you hound!” Morana scolded him, holding up her empty tankard. “Perhaps, I'll let you play with my toes later on.” She added an impish look in her gray eyes.
At that invitation, the Dun Banner was stumbling over his own feet, as well as into everyone, to get to the bar for a fresh mug of mead for her.
You looked across to Morana and gave her a gentle nod of thanks, which she returned with a kind smile. Now with your path less obstructed, you weaved through the crowd to the innkeeper, just as he finished a transaction with someone else.
“I would like a room, please.” You told him, once you had his attention.
“That'll be twenty Ducats, then.” He replied, hardly looking at you as he grabbed a tankard that was thrust at him, from someone behind you, and started to fill it up.
“That's fine.” You answered, taking the gold coins out of your money pouch and dropped them on the nicked up bar top.
Setting the overflowing tankard down with a slosh, the innkeeper swiped up your money and deposited it into his pocket, before waving you around the bar. You followed after him, mounting a set of stairs to the next floor, but bypassed that for the second floor. He took you to the end of the hall and shoved a door on the left open, jerking his head inside.
“This is the room.” He said, his face uncaring. “Don't cause any trouble.” He huffed, heading back downstairs.
“I don't plan on it.” You replied, looking into the room. “Oh, wait!” You called after him, catching him just as he took the first step down. “If a Bard comes in looking for him, please tell him where I am.” You informed him, not wanting Jaskier to worry you'd been stashed away somewhere.
“Sure. Fine. Whatever.” the Innkeeper shrugged and continued on.
“All right, my boy.” You sighed, going into the room, closing and locking the door behind you. “Let's get that monstrosity of a diaper changed!”
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Geralt felt a small relief as the Temple of Melitele came into view as he crested the top of a hill, astride Roach. Urging the Chestnut onward, his troubled mind mulled over the situation for the hundredth time. He needed to find out who was looking for Lycus, and before they managed to do any harm to his son.
“Geralt?” Nenneke's surprised voice echoed in the vast, stone entryway of the great Temple.
“Nenneke.” The Witcher called back, giving her a wary smile, while handing over his swords to one of the other priestesses.
“What are you doing here?” She asked, shaking her head at him and looking around. “Where is your dear wife and that precious babe?”
“They're on their way to Kaer Morhen.” Geralt returned, leveling a tired and troubled brow at her. “Where it's safer for them.” He added, softer.
“Safer?” Nenneke frowned, her head cocking slightly in her increasing confusion, but she reached out and took Geralt by the elbow, ushering him to the back of the Temple, where her office was. “Tell me what's going on, Geralt.” She ordered him, motioning to the chair before her cluttered desk, while she began to brew them some tea.
Sighing heavily, Geralt folded himself into the seat, rubbing the side of his stubbly face. “There are people—a mage, at least that we know of, currently. Stalking my wife and son.” He put it, simply.
“Stalking, for what reason?” She inquired, skillfully pouring boiling water over a kettle of loose herbal leaves.
“I'm a Witcher that sired a child, Nenneke.” Geralt grunted at her, indignant. “Obviously, they caught word that Lycus is my blood and wish to do him harm.”
Nodding, Nenneke let the tea finish steeping and poured them each a cup, handing one over to Geralt, before taking a seat in her own chair. “You never did tell me how you managed to father a child, Geralt.”
“Since we were so rudely interrupted.”
“Yes, I know. It's the person that interrupted us, I believe is behind all of this mess.” He sighed, holding the hibiscus tea between his hands and stared into its deep red tint. “I want to know, if you remember who they were? Do you know their name? Or, perhaps, where they came from?”
“I might recall his name.” She nodded, pressing her lips together. “But, why don't we start with exactly how you came to have Lycus.”
Geralt gave Nenneke a critical look. He didn't want to talk about how you and he conceived Lycus. As complicated as it was to start with. He just wanted a name and a location of the man he was inquiring about. So he could settle into his room for the night, get a half decent night's sleep, in a soft bed, before traversing across the Continent in search of him and anyone else in the scheme, for the next three months. On top of plying his Witcher trade, so he could bring back supplies for the three of you.
But Geralt also knew Nenneke was far too curious to be deterred away from the subject.
“All right, fine.” He huffed, taking a large gulp of the scolding tea.
“It occurred during our stay in Toussaint.” He started, resting back in his seat, and looking up at the window set high on the wall behind Nenneke. The light slowly fading on the other side. “Originally, we were only supposed to pass through. However, an acquaintance of mine had a letter delivered to me, while in Beauclair, informing me of something that might prove troubling to Witchers.”
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cavillanche · 2 months
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Last Night
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A Geralt drabble - OFC wakes up after a night of heavy drinking and finds she's not alone. Rated T ~500 words
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The room was spinning before her eyes opened. She gripped the sheets, begging the world to stand still as she groaned.
"I don't think it works that way."
The deep male voice made her bolt up straight. She clasped a hand over her mouth as nausea washed over her. The white-haired man jumped to his feet, and shoved the chamber pot in her hands just in time.
"Haven't seen anyone that shade of green in a long time."
He lay a wet cloth across her neck while she leaned over. The balmy dampness helped to ease the tension that vomiting always gave her.
"Who are you?"
"Geralt."
She stared at him and wiped a large clump of hair from her forehead. He was large. It would have made her wary if he weren't keeping his distance.
"You were in the tavern. I remember you." She slowly looked around the room. "Where are we?"
"My room at the inn next door."
"Your room? Did we—"
"No."
She groaned and put her head in her hands. "What happened?"
"You don't remember?"
"I remember… those men."
"Four of them."
"Yes. Loud, overbearing—"
"Asses."
She laughed and immediately regretted it.
"Sailors," she said. "The downside of being so close to port. I challenged them to drink."
"You did." The corner of his lip turned up. It could barely be called a smile.
"I remember the first one passing out. After that…."
"You outdrank three of them. The fourth held on long enough to have one more than you."
"Ah, damn."
"The tavern declared you the victor. They'd never seen a woman drink like that before."
She smiled. "How did I get here?"
"I didn't like the way some of the men were looking at you after. No one knew who you were or where you're staying, so I brought you back here to sleep it off."
"And where did you sleep?"
He jutted his chin toward the empty space next to her. "It is my bed."
She ran her eyes over him, and her hands over herself. Her clothes were still on properly, and he still wore the clothes from the day before, wrinkled and clearly slept in.
Geralt drew the curtain on the small window aside, and the light split through her head like an ax.
"No. Please close that."
"Sorry. Just checking the sky. I have to head out. Do you have a room?"
"I hadn't gotten one yet."
Geralt shook his head. "Always settle your room before drinking." He dressed himself with his sword and other accessories. "I'll pay for one more night on the way out. You can stay here."
"You don't have to do that."
"I know I don't." He stopped after opening the door. "You'll want to drink a lot of water. It helps."
He closed the door and was gone. She sat staring at the worn wood, left with a pounding head, and a churning stomach.
At least she didn't have to worry about finding a room.
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mirclealignr · 2 years
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a bath | g.o.r
geralt of rivia x reader
requested by 🌙 anon with the prompt “nothing would ever stop me from loving you”
warnings; mentions of alcohol, being drunk, consumption of alcohol, implied non-sexual nudity, fluff! no pronouns used :)
word count; 683
a/n; first geralt fic :)
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Geralt entered the small tavern in a somewhat pleasant mood. He had just received payment for his latest job and was eager for some hearty food and a jug of ale.
He didn’t notice the keen stares or whispers of judgement as he trudged through the tavern, but simply smiled as he gazed upon you behind the counter, his mood greatly improved.
“Here you are, darling,” you smiled, pushing a plate of food and a pint of ale over to him as he sat down.
Geralt caught your hand before you turned around to continue your duties and leant over the counter to give you a tender kiss. You smiled appreciatively against his lips and sunk your hands into his hair, only to recoil as your fingers became entangled with dirt and leaves.
“Nothing would every stop me from loving you,” you hummed, “But by gods, you need a bath.”
“What?” Geralt grunted, furrowing his brows and shovelling food into his mouth as he huffed.
“I beg of you, your hair is filthy!” You cried, running around the counter, “Bring your food, by all means, but I will not be taking no for an answer.”
Geralt obliged, begrudgingly, and picked up his plate and ale before following you further into the tavern and through a little door in the back. A small bath was situated in the corner, and you began the tedious task of filling it with hot water and bath salts.
Geralt watched you, and missed you when you left to retrieve your boiled water, and groaned audibly when you had finally filled the bath. You turned away from him as he removed his clothes, for your own embarrassment rather than his, which Geralt found amusement in.
He could not deny he was soothed by the hot water surrounding him, washing over his tired and worn body. He dampened his hair for you, and returned to his seated position, allowing you to work the dirt and grime out of his platinum locks.
“Relax!” You ordered, pushing his shoulders down and kneading his knotted muscles, “You have earned it.”
He let his eyes flutter closed, relishing in the sensation you brought him with such ease. Your patience ignited a love he never thought possible—that someone could look past his wrongdoings, his nature, and remain beside him despite his prickly disposition, had once been unfathomable. Likewise, he had never thought of finding someone he could love upon this Earth—he thought his temperament too resigned.
He relaxed further as your fingers worked their way into his hair, lathering the lavender scented soap in your hands and rubbing gently it into his scalp. He could envision himself falling into a peaceful slumber here, if he was not worried about waking to icy water seeping into his skin.
“I’m almost done,” you told him, using a small bucket to fill with water and pour onto his head, watching the soap suds run down his muscular back and into the water.
Geralt hummed, his eyes still closed. When you were finished, you wrapped your arms around his chest and rested your chin upon his shoulder, tilting your head to see him smile. Geralt instinctively turned toward you slightly, creating a perfect opportunity for you to capture his lips with yours. His arm contorted so his hand could cup your face and pull you in deeper to his embrace, but you did not fall for his tactics, and instead pulled away.
“Your towel is there,” you pointed across the room, standing up and towering over the Witcher, “I’ll prepare some extra food for you.”
He watched you leave with sadness, wishing this was not a tavern that employed you, forcing duties upon you he did not wish to allow you to fulfil. But, obediently, he dried himself off and got dressed quickly. He exited the small room and found you again, smiling behind the counter of the bar and serving ale to drunk customers—never complaining, never frowning.
He could not think of someone he admired so much, nor could he imagine someone who would ever take your place.
- - -
tag list | library account: @mirclesjournal
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The Fire I Breathe Shall Burn You Too
A COMPLETE WORK
Geralt of Rivia x Male! Dragonborn Reader
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THE ORIGINAL SERIES:
PART I
PART II
PART III
PART IV
ADDITIONAL ONE-SHOTS FOR THIS WORK:
*coming soon*
EXCERPT:
Every muscle in his body burned with strain. Pain to the beat of the thundering heart that pounded within his tight chest.
The adrenaline that had driven him forward now left his arms aching and legs shaking, yet he held the hilt of his silver sword tighter and locked his knees into a defensive stance. In the pit of his stomach, he could feel bile threatening to rise at the overexertion.
The mud and grime clung to his boots, the ground beneath him over encompassed with moisture from the heavy rain that pelted down from the sky above, disturbing and churning the soil like dough until it almost became quicksand in viscosity; Boots sinking, pulling Y/N down while he tried to stand tall and on his guard.
His sodden hair was in his eyes and it stung, yet if he tried to blink it away he knew he’d miss a pivotal moment; That one millisecond that he knew the other would make his first move.
It was checkmate.
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mayloma · 2 months
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Where You Are - Part 2
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Pairing: AU Viking!Geralt x female reader
Series masterlist
Part summary: While Geralt is gone, you do your best to hold your ground. Until the day when the villagers and you receive word from the ending of the battle. 
Word count: 5.4k
Warnings: Fluff, melancholy, angst, hostility, violence.  
Author’s note: Lovelies. This chapter may be a little different from what you expected. Nevertheless, I hope you’ll enjoy how the story of Viking!Geralt and his Little Bird unfolds 💕
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As you straighten up to put the kindling you’ve just collected into your basket, you see him.
The big black raven sits on a branch of the old oak on the edge of the forest, stone still, its head slightly crooked, and its dark eyes fixed on you. You poise too, and for a moment, the animal and you lock gazes. 
You know you should chase him away like everyone else does whenever a bringer of bad tidings crosses their way. However, you can’t help but marvel at the bird’s beauty - its shiny plumage and intelligent eyes, black as midnight. 
Just when you turn your head to look around, a second raven alights on the branch - a female, slightly smaller than her mate. She greets him by briefly preening his feathers, and you involuntarily smile at the sight of them. 
Did you know they do almost everything together, child? They even soar wing by wing, and their bond lasts a lifetime. And when one of them dies, the bereaved one mourns their mate. 
You can still recall your foster mother’s quiet voice. She had caught you cowered down behind the corner of your hut, where you secretly watched the ravens instead of picking herbs in the garden as she had told you to. But instead of scolding you, she crouched down next to you to share everything she knew, as she always did. 
It’s moments like this, when you remember something she taught you, that it feels as if she wasn’t gone. As if she was still here, within your reach. 
As a stone zips past your ear, so close you can feel the draft of air, you flinch. And while the ravens flush with noisy wing beats, you spin around to the direction the stone came from. 
“You must scare them off! Or are you trying to invoke bad luck upon us, woman?” Edda, the armorer’s wife, snarls, and her admonitory gaze pierces into yours. 
You involuntarily raise your chin, looking straight into her narrow eyes. I have a name, you’re tempted to say, but you choke it down. Her word counts for much in the village, and you remember just in time that it’s probably better to keep your head low.
“Of course not,” you mutter instead. 
However, you fail to keep your voice free from contempt, and you compress your lips with amusement as you see Edda’s face turn beet-red with anger. 
“Good,” she puffs like a grampus, and then she rushes past you in a berth, as wide as possible, so as not to brush a tail of your cloak. 
You, however, remain standing on the narrow path, gazing back at the empty spot where the raven couple just sat. And for this one moment, you allow yourself to miss your mate. You allow yourself to miss him so much that your heart aches and it speaks his name with its every beat. 
Geralt. Geralt. Geralt.  
Don’t let it take control, Little Bird. 
You remember his words, and his deep, mellifluous voice. How his lips felt when he mumbled into your ear. And you remember the promise you made. The promise to go on. 
I haven’t forgotten, Geralt.  
The memory gives you enough strength to draw yourself up. And a deep breath fills your lungs with crisp, clear air. 
The air is freezing cold, but the sun is shining, and you can feel her bright rays on your face. And you hope that he can feel it too, that gentle touch of warmth, wherever he is. 
On your way back to the village, an indistinguishable mix of conversations and laughter, clanging and clopping reaches your ears long before you reach the first longhouse. It’s the first sunny day in weeks, and the village seems to be twice as busy as usual. Women, children, and the few elderly men who stayed behind - apparently, everyone is outside today. 
When the other men rode out of the village almost two weeks ago, they left silence behind, oppressive and full of uncertainty about the things that would be. However, not even an hour later, the daily routine had already eaten up the silence. Life just went on, and how could it be any different? Even though the men are gone, there are still meals to cook, clothes to wash and to mend, children and animals to care for and things to repair, and if anything, there’s even more work than before. 
Work and routine keep you going, and the children keep you on the run. They romp around the village with the dogs, they yell with laughter and they argue, they fall off trees, knock their heads, and scrape their knees, and the blacksmith’s daughter even broke through the ice of the pond behind the longhouses last week. 
Sooner or later, one or two of them end up in your hut, and you listen to their blithe chatter while you patch them up - at least as long as their mothers aren’t around. If one of the mothers is with them, all it takes is a stern look, and your little patient falls silent. And the familiar silence draws a veil over your hut as you continue your care under watchful eyes. 
You can’t even recall when the silence around you started. Or maybe it had always been there. You remember playing with the other children when you were little, but also being aware that you were different. 
You always knew you were a foundling, barely older than a few days when you were abandoned at the healer’s doorstep. The elderly woman was unmarried and childless, and yet she took you in and raised you. 
Nevertheless, no one in the village ever forgot about your unknown parentage, and while you grew up, your features, the color of your hair, and your eyes were compared to the villagers in an attempt to spot some kind of semblance. Of course, assumptions were made, but they were never confirmed. And still, you stayed an outsider, even more so when your foster mother began to teach you the art of healing, and there was no longer enough time for you to play. 
“Witch child,” the villagers whispered behind your back, and in their minds, it wasn’t even repugnant to the fact they still knocked on your door to seek your help if no one else knew what to do. 
The days were full of work and downright endless sometimes; the years, however, were short, and your foster mother died of an inflammation of her lungs in the winter when you were just considered an adult. 
After her death, you had learned to take her place. And you had learned to fill the days and the years and the silence. You had learned to be alone. 
But not your heart. Your heart had been cold and frozen, and it only began to thaw on the day when Geralt threw himself between you and the claws of the monster in the darkness. 
You still recall its beating in your chest as the forest was suddenly quiet again, both beast and man lifeless on the ground, and you kneeled beside your savior. He was bloody and beaten up, and yet he was, without doubt, the most beautiful being you had ever seen. At this moment, your heart didn’t race with fear, but with anger and revolt against the gods and the Norns themselves. And an iron determination to save him, to not let him vanish to Valhalla yet, suffused you from head to toe. 
During the long weeks it took for his wounds to heal, you got to see him in all his beauty. And even though you hadn’t thought it was possible, you soon realized he was even more beautiful on the inside - full of willpower, wisdom, and sensitivity. You sensed that the insights he granted you bit by bit, were rare and precious, and you cherished them as such. And all the time, you were dreading the day when he would set off and step out of your life, while never doubting that it was bound to happen. 
Little did you know at this point that his heart had been just as cold and numb as yours and that he felt as if your every touch and every glance, every word you spoke, made the ice melt. And it melted further until you were left all warm and raw and open for each other, and your blood began to sing with longing. 
One night, when both of you sat on the edge of the bed where you applied ointment on the cut on his eyebrow as you had already done so often, your hand refused to withdraw. And his gaze locked with yours as your fingers dwelled on his forehead before you tentatively brushed them along his cheek. 
As he reached for your hand, you first feared he would pluck it off his face. But instead, he carefully clasped it and brought it to his lips, and you couldn’t prevent your breath from hitching in your throat as he planted a kiss on the tip of your thumb. Then on your index finger, and on every finger of your hand, while his golden gaze held yours. He still held your hand as he leaned in. And as he bestowed a tender kiss on your lips that had never been kissed before, your heart fluttered and danced in your chest, wild and free. 
Now that he’s gone, you feel the ice creeping back upon you. It coats your heart in frostflowers - stunning and unique patterns made from the memory of his love and the fear that memory is all you have left of him. 
The cold seems to haunt you, even at night in your bed, no matter how many blankets you envelop yourself in or how many logs you put on the fire. It keeps you awake, and the little sleep you get is haunted by the white wolf showing up in your dreams. 
You see the strange and beautiful animal stroll over meadows and clearings, through mountains and woods, its conspicuous fur disguised by the snow. You see it lurking and running, always silent, always on guard. And then, you lie awake for hours, shivering with cold while you feverishly try to read every little detail of your dream. 
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One night, not long after the last sunny day, you don’t wake up cold to the tips of your fingers. Instead, you feel as if you’re burning as you startle out of your sleep, and the remnant of your scream seems to echo in the silence of your hut. 
You sit up in bed, desperately gasping for air as you throw back the blanket. And your fingers tremble like an aspen leaf as you hastily wipe the beads of sweat from your forehead. 
There was blood, is all you can think, shuddering as the cool air creeps into your nightgown. There was blood. In your dream. 
And there were claws and teeth, sharp and bared. Mercilessly digging into skin and flesh until crimson tinted the white snow and the white wolf's fur. 
“Geralt,” you whisper into the semi-darkness, and your chin quivers with effort as you struggle to choke down the sob rising in your throat. 
You numbly stare at the small crack next to the doorstep where blueish light tells of the approaching daybreak. And the edges of the Web of Wyrd dig into your palm as you clench the pendant in your hand, and a sense of foreboding settles deep in the pit of your stomach. 
The day has come, you think to yourself. The day when things will come to an end.
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The first thing to end is the darkness. And the second one is the silence. As soon as the eyes are able to make out outlines and silhouettes in the light of dawn, the first refugees trek through the village. Most of them are women and children. Some of them ride on horses and mules, but most of them walk. They’re heavily loaded, and still, they carry only the bare necessities. 
With them comes the message. Of the lost battle marking the bloody end of a feud that had lasted for decades.
It is an old story, almost as old as the nine worlds themselves. Many years ago, a jarl had ruled over this swath of land reaching from one of the great lakes to the other. He had two sons, Harald and Erik, and as he died, he bequeathed each of them as much land as a man could traverse by horse within two days. In his eyes, it must have been a fair distribution since both parts had fertile ground, woods, and even fishful waters. However, the two brothers had never had anything other than envy and resentment for each other, and after their father’s death, envy and resentment became blind hatred. Over the years, battles were fought, and land was won and lost, sometimes by Harald, sometimes by Erik. Sometimes, there was peace for a few moons until the hatred kindled anew. 
Now, Harald’s army is defeated, and Harald himself is dead, smitten and beheaded by the sword of his nephew - his own blood - and Erik is the sole ruler over his father’s land. But his hatred outlasted his brother’s death, and he issued the order to raze the area in the middle of the two realms to the ground. It had sometimes been his, but recently his brother’s territory, and now he intended to punish the inhabitants for their putative perfidy. 
The villages in the East are already burning, bereaving people of their homes, and still, there can’t be a greater bereavement than the one of husbands and fathers, brothers and sons. 
The refugees don’t know much; not about what has become of their own relatives and most certainly not about the men from this village. The only thing they know is that Erik’s men showed no mercy - not in the battle, not on their revenge campaign - and that too many lives were lost. 
The news travel fast, from door to door, and around midday, most of the villagers have already set off toward the West. A few families, however, have stayed behind to wait for the men, hoping they'll return before Erik’s men invade the village. 
Hope is what made you stay as well. Because you know about the exceptional swordsman and horseman that Geralt is, and about his abilities that set him apart from every other warrior. And you hope and pray with all your heart that he’ll come back. 
At the same time, your dream is still present. The blood on the snow. The bleeding wolf. 
It has settled in your mind and deep under your skin, gnawing at your viscera. It whispers to you that you clutch at a tiny, fragile straw that’s about to break any minute. 
And the only way for you not to lose your mind is to keep your hands busy. 
After packing up necessities and a few memorabilia, you make your way to the barn. As you open the door, you already hear your mare’s nervous snort. She obviously senses that something is off, flicking her ears back and forth and pawing the ground as she looks toward you. 
Where Geralt’s Roach is tall and elegant with her shiny, pitch-black coat and her long flowing mane, Björna is the exact opposite: short and sturdy build, with a dun-colored fur that is downright fluffy now in the winter. 
“Are you sure this is the one you want?” Geralt had asked you at the horse market back then, raising his eyebrow with a skeptical smile. 
“Yes, this is the one,” you replied determinedly with a fond look at your new friend, who contentedly munched on her hay. “She’s strong and hardy. And just look at her eyes! She looks so kind, doesn’t she?” 
“She looks like a bear with hooves,” Geralt muttered, gently picking a straw from her wild mane. 
However, it would have never occurred to him to make you change your mind. And apart from that, you sensed that he secretly doted on her already. 
On your way home, he was the one who gave her her name. Björna. She-bear. Ever since that day, she had proved her value more than just once. And ever since that day, you had to keep an eye that Geralt wouldn’t spoil her too much.  
“You miss him, too, don’t you?” you mumble, slowly rubbing her neck. “You know, we mustn’t abandon all hope. At least not yet. But I’m going to be honest with you; it might take a while until we see him again. We need to leave this place very soon, you and I.” 
Your fingers sink into Björna’s thick fur, and as she gently nuzzles your cheek and blows on your hair, a tiny smile tugs at your lips.  
After carefully grooming her, you bring her fresh water and an extra-large helping of fodder. You know you should eat something, too, even though the mere thought makes your stomach twist and churn. Nevertheless, you finally put a kettle on the stove and fill it with milk and oats, enough to feed you and enough to provide a warm meal in case some of the refugees knock on your door. 
Your guess had proved itself true, and at some point, you suspect that the villagers living in the longhouses don’t even try to help but send everyone straight to your hut instead. There are so many mouths to feed that the kettle is soon empty, and those who don’t ask for food ask for a place to rest or for your art of healing. You try to help as best as possible, providing food, improvising beds, resetting a dislocated finger, and brewing teas against the cold and the ever-present cough. 
The afternoon has just broken when you suddenly hear the noise of galloping horses dashing into the village. 
You hastily straighten up from the edge of your bed where you had just spread another blanket over an exhausted mother and her three little children. From outside, you hear calling, a squeal, and sobbing. Nonetheless, it doesn’t sound like an attack, and you hastily wrap a warm shawl around your shoulders before you rush out the door. 
Just like you, the women and children who stayed behind swarm to the village square, and so do the refugees since they, too, are hoping for news. 
A group of horsemen has arrived, familiar faces without exception. They look exhausted and ragged, with dirt and blood all over them - other’s blood as well as their own. 
“They’re back!” voices chime from everywhere. “The men are back!” 
Are they? Well, at least some of them are back. A few. Barely a dozen men and horses have arrived, not even a third of the warriors who had set out. They have jumped off their horses to clasp their wives and children in their arms. And you’ve seen at the first glance that Geralt is not with them. 
You and so many others stand on your tiptoes and crane your necks to see if there are more riders coming behind the bend. 
But the path is empty. 
With every second passing by, you realize that it will stay empty. 
And you feel more and more blood drain from your face. 
“Is that all of them?” someone asks in disbelief, speaking out loud what all of you are thinking. 
And then, silence descends on the village. 
Deadly silence. 
All eyes turn to Gorm, the armorer and Edda’s husband, who had always claimed to be their leader, loudmouth that he is. 
He puts his youngest daughter back on her feet, drawing himself up to his full height while he solemnly looks around the crowd.  
“Yes,” he finally declares, “that is all of us.” 
It takes the length of a heartbeat for his words to sink in. 
And then, the silence ends as sudden as it came. 
Everywhere around you, voices surge up. Shocked gasps and sobs, whimpering and calling to the gods, a muffled scream, murmurs and whispering. 
However, in your ears, all those noises sound oddly muffled. And none of them gets through to you. 
You suddenly remember the summers of your childhood when you and the other children went swimming in the pond. 
You remember how quiet everything sounded as you dove under, and the water dampened all noise. So quiet you imagined you could hear your own heart beating. And how calm and weightless you felt in those moments.   
Now you stand there, alone on the square amidst all the villagers and the strangers, and so benumbed you feel almost weightless again. 
And you force yourself to keep breathing, whereas at the same time, you desperately wish you could just dive under and disappear. 
As you close your eyes, the things that were drift by your mind’s eye. Along with the things that could have been. 
Your hand involuntarily reaches for the pendant next to your heart, absentmindedly tracing its outlines with your fingers. 
Was that it? you silently ask the three Norns. Was that really his destiny? To die in that pointless battle when all the skills he has were meant for something bigger? When there were so many plans he had? Plans that he and you had. 
But maybe that’s just what death is like, you think to yourself. Bitter and merciless and without a care about the skills or the plans or the possibilities one still has. And about what you leave behind. 
The dull rushing roars in your head, and just when the ground begins to sway under your feet, you hear it. 
A sound. Blending in the rushing.
At first, it is only quiet. 
Then louder. 
And louder. 
Until you can hear it clearly. 
The sound fills your head, and for a moment, you lose yourself in it. 
It’s the sound of a heart beating. 
But it is not your own heart. 
The heartbeat is steady and much slower than any other heartbeat you ever heard. It’s one of your favorite sounds in this world, along with Geralt’s calm voice, his laughter, and the way he whispers “I love you, Little Bird!” against your skin. 
It’s the sound of strong muscles pumping fresh blood through a body. 
It pulses in your ears. 
It sounds fleshly. 
Alive. 
As if… 
Your eyes fly open, and you gasp for air as if you had actually been underwater, on the verge of drowning, and now you briefly managed to get to the surface.
What if.
What if the blood in the snow wasn’t the end yet? 
And you greedily suck in breaths of fresh air. 
As if you were trying to swim. 
As if you were trying to not get dragged back under the surface. 
Not as long as you don't know it for certain.
It takes a few moments until you manage to come back to the here and now, and then, you realize that the crowd around you has dwindled a bit. 
Some people have adjourned to the longhouses. Some have probably set off toward the West. And some gather around the warriors. To ask them about their loved ones. Driven by the need for certainty, just like you. 
And you, too, manage to abandon your numbness, walking over to them. 
You ardously put one foot in front of the other, and every step, every movement seems to take forever. 
As you finally stand in front of Gorm, he just gives a nod to Astrid, the blacksmith’s young wife. 
“He fought bravely, and he died with his sword in his hand,” he tells the sobbing woman whose green eyes swim in tears. “He’s in Valhalla now, so you should be glad.” 
He sounds almost sympathetic to his standards. But as soon as his gaze lights on you over Astrid’s shoulder, his crude features contort with anger.   
“What do you want?” he growls, his eyes piercing into yours, and Astrid and the other bystanders involuntarily take a step back.
“I want to know what happened to Geralt,” you say, determinedly raising your chin. 
“Geralt?” the man barks full of contempt, moving further toward you until he towers over your smaller form. “I don’t give a rat's ass about Geralt and what happened to him, and you shouldn’t either!”
“He’s my husband!”
“He’s a TRAITOR!" he shouts, drops of spit flying from his mouth. "A fuckin’ dirty traitor! He was supposed to win this battle for us! He’s in league with the evil, if he’s not the evil himself! And what did he do? NOTHING! They just trapped and slayed us, and there was no forewarning, no magic! NOTHING! Men died because of him; good men!” 
“That’s not how it works,” you object, involuntarily shuddering as his foul breath reaches your nostrils. 
The spells Geralt can cast are powerful, without doubt. They help him fight all sorts of monsters, human or not. But never could they gain the victory in a battle of two whole armies, on an unclear field full of people, ambushment and chaos. 
“SHUT UP!” Gorm’s voice echoes through the village. “What do YOU know?!” 
“He’s my husband,” you repeat emphatically, returning his piercing gaze as calm as possible. “And I need to know what happened to him. Please!” you even add - a final attempt to make him yield. 
Your motionless posture is the exact opposite of Gorm, who now begins to circle you, corner you. 
“Of course!” he snarls. “Once the child of a witch, and now the darn witcher's mate! Makes you basically a witch yourself, right? So, you probably knew what he was up to! Maybe you’re even cahoots with him! Probably going to cast your spell on us too, aren’t you?” 
While you slowly turn around so as not to lose sight of Gorm, you also see all the people who have gathered around the two of you. Strangers, but mostly villagers. People you have known for your whole life. And they just stand there, watching in silence. With their arms crossed and their eyes squinted. 
You realize Gorm isn’t going to tell you what happened to Geralt. And you realize he could just raise his sword against you right here and now, and no one would come to your help. No one. 
And it’s that moment when you abandon your usual caution, allowing a wintery smile to curl your lips.  
“Are you scared, Gorm?” you ask, and your smile deepens as his jaw goes slack for the blink of an eye. 
Yes, one glance into his eyes tells you. He is indeed scared of you. 
However, he regains his composure quickly. 
“Scared?” he sneers. “I don't see anything to be scared of! All I see is Fenrir’s whore-”
“ENOUGH!” you cut him off. And you clench your fists as burning anger slashes its way through your veins.
“Have you already forgotten about everything?” you raise your voice. And this time, you speak to all of them, looking them straight in the eyes, one by one. “You knocked on our door whenever you needed our help! You came to us! And we never turned you away! We helped you! Every single time! And this is your thanks?!” 
Some of them just stare at you. Some seem to have at least the spark of a bad consciousness, and they avert their gazes so as not to look you in the eye. But they remain silent as well. 
Silence is the only answer you get. Still, it hurts in your ears. And it leaves a bitter taste on your tongue. 
You know it’s the end of your life in this village and among these people. Because there is no longer a place for you here. And maybe there has never been such a place. 
A small bitter smile curls the corners of your mouth, and after a last look, you turn away, walking toward your hut with measured steps. 
The sound of metal brushing along leather is whisper quiet. And still, it seems to echo in the silence on the village square, making you stop dead in your tracks. 
“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” you say loudly, keeping your gaze straightforward. And the sound stops instantly. 
As you turn around, you see Gorm’s hand dwelling on his sword, frozen halfway as he pulled it out of its sheath. 
“Oh, really?” he sneers. 
“Really,” you retort casually. “And I’m going to tell you what you will do instead. You will let me walk to my hut, and you will let me get my things and my horse. You will let me leave without hindering me. And if you or anyone else tries to stop me or harm me, I will curse you and everyone in this village. I will curse the village itself. I will do it with my very last breath. I will do it either from this world or from another. But I will do it, and I’d think about it if I were you, Gorm Ulfsson. Think carefully!” 
Your voice has begun to quaver with wrath, and you watch with some kind of morbid fascination how their eyes go wide, and the color disappears from their stupid faces. And it wouldn’t have taken much for you to burst out laughing. 
Instead, you dart another black look at them before you spin around and continue your way to your hut. 
The door of your home is open, your hut empty, as the refugees also took to their heels in the face of your ostensible malice. 
After you close the door behind you, escaping the hostile eyes, you lean your back against the wall for a brief moment. And your heart pounds like mad as your trembling hands brush your hair behind your ears. 
That was close! Dangerously close.
But even the touch of relief you feel doesn’t last for long, and you know it’s just a question of time until they'll come back to their senses and see through your bluff.
You hastily swap your shawl against your warm cloak, and then, you grab your bundle. Your bow and arrow. The long hunting knife Geralt left behind for you. And you get on the tips of your toes to angle for the little bag hanging at the ceiling, among other little bags full of dried herbs. As you tuck it into your belt, the scent of thyme fills your nostrils, and the weight of the silver coins sewn into the fabric feels somehow soothing. 
As you stand at the doorstep, you can’t prevent your gaze from wandering through your hut - the place you have called your home for as long as you can remember. The place where you took your first steps. The place where you learned how to speak and how to cure wounds and to brew elixirs. The place where the woman you called mother died. The place where you saved Geralt’s life and the place where he kissed you - for the first time and for countless other times. And maybe also for the last time in this life. 
As the aching lump of memories in your throat threatens to choke you, you squeeze your eyes shut.  
Don’t let it take control, Little Bird. 
I won’t, my love, you promise silently. I won’t. 
And then, you walk out the door. 
The remaining villagers, who haven’t flown yet, have gathered at a safe distance from your hut. They watch you motionless and in silence, how you open the barn and how you load and saddle your horse. 
And they watch you ride past them. You hold Björna's reigns in one hand, letting your free hand dwell on your thigh. And you fight back a smirk as you look down at Gorm and Edda and the others, who stare at your hand as if they feared you could raise it to curse them any second. 
However, your whole body is tense like a bowstring as you have to turn your back on them at some point to get to the forest, expecting to feel an arrow or an ax spear you any moment. And it’s only when you reach the spot behind the last longhouse where the path disappears between trees and bushes, that you breathe a silent sigh of relief. 
“Burn it down!” Gorm's voice reaches your ears, and as you spur Björna on and the two of you disappear deeper into the forest, the smell of smoke already floods your nostrils. But you don’t look back. 
After a few miles, the forest thins out, and as the path furcates in front of you, you bring your mare to a halt. 
You longingly stare toward the West, where the sun is already low, the almost clear sky just turning a soft orange. 
There is peace in the West. There are villages and towns where you could take refuge. And maybe there is even a place for you to stay. Somewhere. 
Nevertheless, you turn Björna around, spurring her on as you take the opposite direction. 
In front of you, in the East, where Jarl Erik’s men have already brought death and destruction, the smoke of burning villages darkens the sky.
You know that death and destruction lurk on your way as well. And still, it’s the only way for you. 
Because there, in the East, is a place where Geralt is. A place where you’ll find him. 
Dead or alive.
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yenn-atreides · 2 years
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Blaviken inn (a Witcher story) - part III
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Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x F! Hurt mage reader
Genre: h/c, angst, fluff
Warnings: injury description
Tag list: @kmuir1
This story is part of a series, part I and II can be found here:
There was no time to lose, so you had packed in a hurry. You felt lightheaded and sore, but also full of adrenaline. It had never crossed your mind that people could be so low and petty towards strangers, sure they had been nasty before - but this was baffling. They had proven just how horrible they were once again. Everyone different was believed to be evil, and you were different, and so was Geralt.
Their behaviour and the fact that you were in agony were not the only reasons why you were nervous and shaking. You were about the run off with the White Wolf himself. You found him attractive and intimidating at the same time, he didn’t exactly scare you though. You were just a little unsure around him but you had instantly realised that he wasn’t a monster like the ones he kills. And yet that was what everyone called him: a mutant monster, an abomination.
He didn’t have to rescue you: he could have turned his back and walked away, but he chose to help you. It wasn’t his fault and yet he felt like he was to blame. As soon as you left the inn you saw him standing by the stables across the street. Next to him were two horses: your black mare and a chestnut one with a white blaze on her head. He held a lead in each hand.
‘Ready?’ he asked with his gruff voice as he took your bag from your hands. ‘Yes.’ you said confidently and greeted the other mare. ‘Who’s this?’ you asked curiously and gently stroked her mane. You immediately regretted this since your chest was bruised and painful. ‘Roach.’ he answered proudly and you could tell he loved the animal by the way he looked at her. ‘Hello Roach!’ you said cheerfully as she started nudging you.
He hummed and looked at your horse, ‘Lilith.’ you said - you had named your mare after the demon goddess of the night. It suited her: she was ardent and darker than a moonless night. You put one foot in the stirrup and struggled to mount properly. Geralt dropped your bag to the ground and picked you up as if you weighed nothing more than a feather. You were taken by surprise and let out a little yell as he did so, but he didn’t even seem to notice and put you in the saddle.
You uttered a shy: ‘Thank you.’ and smiled at him. To your surprise he reciprocated the smile, it was almost a grin though, and it made your heart flutter in your chest. His yellow eyes were special, unlike anything you had ever seen before. His features were manly: a cleft chin, an immaculate jawline, his broad and muscular build. Geralt’s white silvery hair was partly tied back, but roughly: loose strands framed his face. You felt your face redden as you made eye contact, and he could probably hear your fastened heartbeat…
‘You’re nervous.’ he stated and furrowed his brows. You swallowed and looked at your hands, you didn’t want to gaze into his honey eyes any longer because you’d get even more anxious by doing so. ‘They won’t hurt you when you’re with me.’ he grunted and mounted Roach with one, swift movement. ‘Follow me.’ he hummed and clicked his tongue on which Roach started walking with your horse in her tow.
And that’s how you left Blaviken, with company. It made a nice change to have someone to travel with, let alone a protector. You rode past the market towards the woods under the condescending eyes of the inhabitants. You’d never step foot in that village again, and nor would Geralt.
‘I’ll tend to your wounds.’ he said after a long silence. You had travelled a couple of miles deep into the forest and had just reached a clearing. He tied Roach to a tree and plucked you off the saddle before you could try to get down yourself. He gestured for you to sit down on a tree stump and tied Lilith to the same cypress as Roach. After rummaging through his saddlebag he walked over to you and kneed down beside you. He looked at you expectingly but you didn’t understand what he meant, so you just looked back at him. ‘Your dress.’ he grunted and you suddenly realised why had given you that funny look. ‘Oh…’ you muttered bashfully and tugged at your sleeves. He turned his head to give you some privacy but helped you when he heard your pained sounds. You turned red and felt shy, embarrassed even. You saw the damage now: a wound just above your corset. The skin was bruised and raw with a shallow gash in the middle. You were sure you had contusions on your left shoulder too, it felt swollen and sore. Thankfully, it wasn’t serious - it could have been much worse.
‘Does it hurt?’ he asked on which you nodded and answered with a timid ‘Yes.’. He moved his face closer to you to have a look at how he should tend to your injuries. ‘Doesn’t need stitches.’ he hummed and took something from his bag: a mortar and pestle. ‘Stay here.’, and he walked off.
There you sat, half undressed, in the middle of the woods waiting for your witcher to return. He had probably left to look for plants. You were cold, the wind had only grown stronger. You waited for a couple of minutes before he returned with a handful of greens. He put it in the mortar and started crushing it into a thick paste. You reached out to have a look, you were curious about which herbs he was using. ‘Yarrow, arnica, and chamomile.’ he said without looking up. He did look up when he heard you chuckle, and as his eyes met yours you felt your heart skip several beats.
‘This hurts a little…’ he said and dipped his fingers into the muddy green salve. He carefully and hesitantly cupped your shoulder with his other hand - almost as if he expected you to flinch at his touch or pull back. You didn’t, but the burning sensation from the herbs made you hiss. ‘Sorry.’ he grunted as he continued to rub small circles on your bruised skin. You felt the calming effect of the plants and suddenly the pain faded almost completely. Your eyes fluttered shut at his gentle touch, his hands were so strong and big and yet they could be so delicate and tender.
You opened your eyes again and saw him studying your face. His golden eyes mapped every detail, which made you smile. ‘There.’ he said and removed his warm touch from you. ‘Thank you, that was kind.’ you uttered. ‘No.’. You gave him a curious, questioning look, ‘What?’. ‘This is my doing, I’m to blame. So don’t thank me, Y/N.’. ‘I won’t have any of this. You saved me, so please stop this nonsense.’ you stated with a stern voice. He hummed a ‘Hm.’ and grabbed for something in his bag. You pulled up your dress and wrapped your cloak around you, goosebumps covered you completely.
Geralt had taken out a brioche which he tore in half before handing you a piece. ‘Oh, thanks.’ you said and accepted the piece of bread gratefully. ‘And thank you for taking care of me, I’ll get out of your hair now…’ you stated as you looked down. He huffed and thought for a moment, then said: ‘Who’ll take care of your chest then?’. You smiled weakly, was he truly offering you to travel with him? ‘That I do not know.’ you said, but you knew that no one would take care of you. You were almost always alone, you only had your horse - the company of your best friend Triss Merigold was rare since you roamed around the Continent. ‘You could always accompany me a little longer.’ he offered. You were quite taken by surprise, you hadn’t expected him to really ask you this. Your eyes travelled to the ground as you nervously plucked at your brioche. ‘Never mind.’ he said, you couldn’t help but notice the disappointment in his tone.
You looked up and saw his brows knitted into a frown, his eyes had lost the sparkle they had earlier. ‘I’d be happy to.’ you said with a sweet smile.
‘Hm.’ he hummed and the corners of his mouth curled up.
This happened years ago, and you are still travelling with Geralt to this day. He is your friend, your lover, and your destiny. Both are different and shunned, both ‘created’. You had only ever had yourselves… and now you had each other.
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which-witcher22 · 2 years
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First Official Post!
“Geralt?” A soft voice asks from the doorway to the bathing chamber, knuckles thunking against the wood of the door to get the Witcher’s attention.
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“Yes?” He replies, having turned around in the bathtub and away from his thoughts to stare at you.
“Dinner is ready.” You smile small, doing your very best to not look below the golden eyes locked on yours.
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There’s a lot of bare, wet, hot skin in front of you and you had sworn to yourself that you wouldn’t get tangled up in the thick, muscle-encased arms and strong thighs of the man in front of you.
“I’ll be right there, love.” He grins his rare grin, always soft when talking to you.
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