#geralt of rivia fic

[formerly-geraltshumblebard]

in the season 3 finale geralt gets beaten up so bad he becomes australian

#geralt of rivia #jaskier x geralt #geralt x jaskier #the witcher #witcher #witcher wild hunt #dandelion #yennefer of vengerberg #geraskier #jaskier #joey batey #henry cavill #liam hemsworth #jaskier hc #geraskier hc #witcher hc #witcher fic #geralt of rivia fic #gerlion #geraskier gif #yennefer imagine #yennefer #witcher icons #henry cavill geralt #henry cavill hc #henry cavill fic #liam hemsworth witcher

[mentalpolaroids]

Wolf's Home

(Part I)

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!!

.................................................................................

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. 

.................................................................................

Part II soon!

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia x y/n #geralt x reader #geralt of rivia fic #the witcher netflix

[cuddly-dean-baby]

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! 💖💗

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

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

#the witcher #geralt #geralt of rivia #the witcher fic #the witcher fluff #the witcher x reader #the witcher x male reader #geralt of rivia fic #geralt of rivia fluff #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia x male reader #geralt fic #geralt fluff #geralt x reader #geralt x male reader

[notyetneedcoffee]

Sexy Mess

Kinktober - Mess Kink NSFW - Adults Only

Summary: You want to get messy with a certain Witcher

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.

#Kinktober #Geralt of rivia smut #geralt x reader #geralt of rivia fic

[velvetcloxds]

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

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.

#geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia x you #geralt of rivia x yn #geralt of rivia x y/n #geralt of rivia fluff #geralt of rivia blurb #geralt of rivia drabble #geralt of rivia oneshot #geralt of rivia fanfiction #geralt of rivia fic #geralt of rivia fanfic #monique's writing events #right where queue left me

[viking-raider]

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!’

“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.

“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.

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.

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!”

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!”

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.”

#henry cavill #henry cavil fanfic #henry cavill rpf #Viking-Raider Fics #Geralt of Rivia #The Witcher #Witcher #Geralt #Jaskier #Joey Batey #Nenneke #Temple of Melitele #Kaer Morhen #Geralt of Rivia Fic #Geralt of Rivia fanfiction #Geralt of Rivia x Reader #Geralt of Rivia x You #Geralt of Rivia/You #Geralt of Rivia/Reader #Geralt of Rivia & You #Geralt of Rivia & Reader #Geralt x You #Geralt & You #Geralt/You #Geralt/Reader #Geralt x Reader #Dad!Geralt #Dad!Geralt of RIvia #Fluff #Uncle!Jaskier

[cavillanche]

Last Night

A Geralt drabble - OFC wakes up after a night of heavy drinking and finds she's not alone. Rated T ~500 words

_______________________________

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.

#Henry Cavill #Geralt #Geralt of Rivia #The Witcher #Geralt fic #Geralt drabble #Geralt of Rivia fic #Geralt of Rivia drabble #The Witcher fic #The Witcher drabble #Henry Cavill fic #Henry Cavill drabble #my fic #I made this

[mirclealignr]

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 :)

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

#geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x you #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia x y/n #geralt of rivia fluff #geralt of rivia fic #geralt of rivia fanfiction #geralt of rivia imagine #geralt x reader #geralt x you #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher fic

[ratofthemedievalsewers]

The Fire I Breathe Shall Burn You Too

A COMPLETE WORK

Geralt of Rivia x Male! Dragonborn Reader

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.

#geralt of rivia x you #geralt x male reader #geralt of rivia fic #geralt of rivia #the witcher x male reader #the witcher netflix #the witcher #complete fic #male reader

[write-ur-wrongs]

No Time to Die

Request: Could I get maybe reader singing no time to die by Billie Eilish when they think they are alone? And Geralt is impressed with their voice, especially when they hit they high note during the climax?“

Word count: 2727 words _____________________________________________

“Bard! Give us a song!” the bearded man shouted while emphatically waving his tankard of ale, blissfully unaware that with each broad move more ale sloshed out and onto the inn’s already sticky floors. The room erupted in another drunken howl of enthusiasm, raucous voices fighting for the bard’s attention.

“Don’t be shy now, poet! Give us ‘Burn butcher’!” hollered the bearded man’s companion, banging his own tankard on their table.

Jaskier, who was leaning back in his chair and balancing on its back legs, was doing his best to wave off the requests with grace but found himself doing little more than egging them on.

“Jask, what the fuck! Give the people what they want,” you laughed into your drink, kicking the bard’s chair back down on all fours, “or else we might have to get Geralt out there to fend them off.”

“No, no, no,” Jaskier said, shaking his head lightly and speaking under his breath, “that’s, uh, not going to happen. How about a round of Toss a Coin?” he shouted to the room over his shoulder before muttering to himself, “or one of my hundreds of other songs maybe?”

The crowd was not to be denied though, and hollered their displeasure at the suggestion.  

“Seriously Jaskier, what’s your problem?” you said, looking to Geralt for validation that your friend was being uncharacteristically shy, but he was avoiding your gaze too.

You leaned back in your chair and took a slow sip of your beer while you considered the two men across from you. Jaskier, who’d normally be parading around the pub like a king with this type of attention, was cowering under his hat and refusing to look at Geralt.

Geralt, whose lack of interest in the bard’s performances wasn’t unusual, was being especially statuesque. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like he was going to bite right through his teeth and a bead of sweat lined his forehead.

You looked from one to another a couple times, taking in Jaskier’s deep blush and Geralt’s long face. But it wasn’t until the crowd at the bar started slurring lyrics that you finally put two and two together.

All those lonely miles that you ride Now you'll walk with no one by your side Did you ever even care With your swords and your stupid hair? Now watch me laugh as I burn all the memories of you

“Wait…” you gasped, leaning onto your elbows so that you could whisper-yell over to your friends, who seemed to be shrinking back into their seats the more the crowd sang. “Jaskier! Was this a breakup song? For him?!”

“Y/N…” Geralt begged, holding a hand over his face in shame.

“I can’t believe this? How have I never made this connection?” you rambled, laughing to yourself incredulously. “Wait, Jask – we sing this all the time, how is it only weird now? Fuck I sing this all the time. It’s catchy as hell.”

“Geralt’s not normally… here. When we sing this one.” Jaskier admitted, sucking on his teeth uncomfortably.

“I can’t believe this…” you mused, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of bread as you skimmed through your memories trying to figure out how you’d never caught onto this pattern, or how you’d managed to spend almost a year with the two of them without ever picking up on this dynamic. “Hang on, does this mean you broke his heart too?” you asked, giving Geralt a quick kick under the table so that he’d meet your gaze.

“Too?” Jaskier squawked, shrugging his sheepishness off as if it was a heavy fur coat. “You knew Geralt before we three met?”

“Yeah –”

“BARD! Give us a song PLEASE!” the bearded man interrupted with another shout from his table across the room.

“He’s coming!” Geralt roared uncomfortably, desperate to avoid this conversation.

“In a minute!” you shouted simultaneously, equally desperate for the opposite.

Either placated or humbled by your aggressive replies, the man and his group grumbled incoherently amongst themselves before starting up on a known shanty.

“As I was saying,” you started up again, switching seats so that you were sitting next to Jaskier. “I met Geralt a few years back. He was coming through my town on his way to take down a wraith that was terrorizing the nearby mine. I had a silver dagger and offered my help, he accepted, we got close, he stole my dagger, I went after him because it was a fucking heirloom, Geralt,” you paused to give the now cowering witcher a pointed look. “Anyways, to make a long story short, I assisted him in battle, we both sustained injuries but prevailed nonetheless.”

“You are both very proficient,” Jaskier interjected, thoroughly enjoying the way this turned into a shameless opportunity to dig on Geralt.

“Well, yes,” you agreed quickly with a sly smile. “Anyways, after the fight we fall asleep and swear we’d go back into town in the morning to collect the reward together, but I wake up in the mine’s ruins alone and without my grandmother’s silver dagger.” You punctuated the trip down memory lane with a tight close-lipped smile at Geralt who, to your great satisfaction, looked miserable beyond belief.

“Geralt, you son of a bitch!” Jaskier scoffed, tsking in mock contempt. “Once a heartbreaker, always a heartbreaker it seems. You abandon me on a mountain and leave poor Y/N in a mine?! The gall.”

“He’s a fucking ass,” you agreed, clinking your tankard with Jaskier’s before polishing off your drink, “and yet we stick with him.”

“Well, Y/N, he is handsome. And scary! That’s helpful.”

“So true, Jaskier,” you continued, revelling in Geralt’s well-deserved discomfort.

“Y/N, Jaskier, please,” Geralt begged, forcing himself to meet both your gazes, “I’ve said I’m sorry.”

“And we believe you, you old brute,” you assured him, weaving a softer tone into your teasing and reaching over the table to give his hand a squeeze, “but you’ve recruited two poets as companions, and pain is a powerful tool in the hands of an artist.”

“Two poets?” Jaskier asked with a hint of scandal, “Y/N, did you write a little something after Geralt broke your heart?”

“Tell you what, why don’t you get up there and entertain the masses, and maybe I’ll sing it for you later?” you said, shaking your head at his excitement.

“A song? Ohh-ohoho! That better be a promise!” he said with a flourish, grabbing his lute from the back of his chair. He shot you a quick wink and waggled his eyebrows at Geralt before roaring the crowd back up in time for another round of Burn Butcher.  

You watched Jaskier saunter off into his adoring crowd fondly before turning your gaze back onto poor Geralt. One look at his hunched frame and his pitiful scowl and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Buck up, sweets,” you teasingly cooed, giving his leg another light kick under the table. “It’s seriously okay, all is forgiven.”

In response, Geralt only leaned forward onto his elbows and fixed you with the biggest, most painfully sincere puppy eyes.

“Ger, stop!” you moaned, rolling your eyes.

“Y/N,” he cringed, visibly wincing, “I hate when you call me that.”

“I know, that’s what makes it fun.”

Groaning loudly with an eyeroll of his own, it was Geralt’s turn to kick you under the table. He shot you an exasperated look before allowing it to melt comfortably into a fond smile.

“There he is,” you beamed, giving his forearm an affectionate squeeze before getting up to grab your empty mugs. “I’ll get us a refill, looks like Jaskier is going to be held up for a while.”

“Thanks, Y/N,” he said, giving your elbow a pinch as you stood to walk away, “seriously, thank you.”

“Alright, keep your sword sheathed.”

“Fucking hell, you’re worse than the bard,” he laughed dryly, throwing his head back.

“Ha!” you barked, walking backwards toward the bar so you could hold his eyes for a moment longer, shooting him a wink of your own and laughing victoriously as he gave you a bemused smile.

At the bar, you took a few moments to watch Jaskier as he dazzled the crowd, sneaking quick glances over your shoulder to look back at Geralt. Sometimes, you found it hard to believe that your little trio worked. Two foolish optimists and the man who broke their hearts; you couldn’t paint a more ridiculous picture. Yet you couldn’t help but feel protective over the bard and, inexplicably, over the witcher too.

Yeah, he fucked you up, but he did come back. And he’s since stayed.

You thanked the bartender warmly after they pulled you from your reverie, setting three empty mugs and a full pitcher before you. You placed the necessary coin on the counter and started the delicate balancing act of carrying everything back to your table. However, before you could even lift anything off the sticky counter, you felt Geralt’s arms snake past you to grab the pitcher and mugs out from under you.

“You didn’t really think I’d let you carry all this yourself, did you?” he said, his breath ghosting over your shoulder as he maneuvered the crowded bar around you.

“A hero among us,” you sighed in a dramatic, dreamy tone. “Thanks.”

“Mmhm,” he hummed in acknowledgement, a smile playing at his lips. “Lead the way?”

Rather than answering him, you turned on your heels and started pushing your way back to the table. A faint blush creeping up your neck stubbornly as you felt his gaze burn the back of your head.

Back at the table, you spent the next couple of hours chatting lightly and without care. Your current lifestyle didn’t grant you many opportunities to let your guard down, so times like these were definitely cherished.

As the night went on and the crowd thinned out, Jaskier found his way back to your table. The three of you talked on until the pubs owner finally came over to let you know they were closing up the kitchen. You were all pleasantly buzzed and not quite ready to call it, so Geralt volunteered to get you another pitcher.

As Geralt chatted with the owner at the bar, Jaskier took the opportunity to remind you of the promise you made earlier that night.

“No Jask, come on. It took me all night to get him back to his jovial self,” you sighed, shaking your head lightly.

“Please? Geralt is never truly jovial, and you promised!”

“Another time, yeah? When the wounds aren’t so fresh?”

“Y/N, it’s been ages. If the wounds were any staler the stench would kill us. Please? Just a verse? Only the chorus?”

“You’re incorrigible,” you sighed, already considering conceding to his relentless requests.

“Okay, what if you just give me the chords? Let me play it on the lute and imagine the artistry of your lyrics.”

You groaned and moaned, mulling it over as you weighed your options. You knew Jaskier would never shut up now that he had something to beg for. Watching Geralt at the bar, you considered how focused he looked in what the pub’s owner was saying and figured you had at least a couple minutes until he politely extracted himself from the discussion.

With a sigh, you looked back over at Jaskier with surrender in your eyes. His enthusiasm and excitement almost had you feigning sudden exhaustion so that you could escape to your room and avoid this whole affair, but he looked so impressed with the chords and melody you gave him that you couldn’t help but keep on. Whoever said flattery would get you nowhere had clearly never been subject to Jaskier’s charm.

As he plucked his lute to your melody, you slowly let the lyrics, and the memories attached, take you over.

I should've known I'd leave alone Just goes to show That the blood you bleed Is just the blood you owe

We were a pair But I saw you there Too much to bear You were my life But life is far away from fair

Fool me once, fool me twice Are you death or paradise? Now you'll never see me cry There's just no time to die

You started the song timidly, playing it safe vocally and keeping your voice at an almost whisper-sing. However, with Jaskier’s exceptional playing accompanying you, you felt yourself get lost in the song, eventually finding yourself near-belting the lines you’d written so long ago.

Back at the bar, Geralt was watching you with his mouth agape and his heart in his throat. Your voice was beautiful, almost haunting. He almost couldn’t believe it. He’d heard you sing plenty of times before; both with Jaskier and by yourself, but this was different. He’d never heard you belt like this, never seen you so lost in the song you were singing. Watching you, the way your chest rose and fell, your eyes closed, your head tilting back as you delivered notes even Jaskier would envy. As you reached the crescendo of the song, Geralt felt goosebumps rise across his arms, trying and failing to keep himself from physical reacting to your performance.

“They’ve got an incredible voice, eh?” the inn owner commented, as they placed the final pitcher of the night in front of Geralt.

The witcher though, could only manage a strangled grunt of acknowledgement. Yes, your voice was unlike anything he’d ever had the pleasure of hearing, but the lyrics cut deep. Each beautifully sung note was an ode to one of his greatest mistakes. A melodious tribute to his deepest shame. Listening to you sing was incredible, but it fucking hurt.

Merely nodding his acknowledgement and thanks, Geralt paid the keeper before making his way back towards your table, just in time for you to sing the last line. You were busy gushing over Jaskier’s impeccable playing as Geralt placed the full pitcher gently on the table.

“That was…” he tried, pausing to swallow the knot in his throat, “beautiful, Y/N. Really.”

“Seriously, Y/N, Geralt must have really done a number on you,” Jaskier spoke energetically, completely unaware of the uncomfortable look you just shared with Geralt. “I mean, with me he gave me Toss a Coin – iconic, and obviously Burn Butcher – a little polarising but the people seem to like it. But this? No time to die? Y/N this is evocative, haunting, breathtaking!”

Blushing furiously, you tried your hardest to keep your eyes on your freshly poured drink. Unfortunately, you were weak and couldn’t help but sneak a peek at Geralt. This, obviously, proved to be a major mistake because he was blushing just as furiously as you were. How were you supposed to stay cool when his big, sad, flustered eyes were looking at you like that?

“Okay, okay, Jaskier,” you mumbled, risking another quick glance at Geralt, “that’s enough.”

“Don’t be modest, Y/N” Jaskier insisted, taking a final swig of his drink.

“I-I’m not! I’m being,” you hesitated, cursing the blush burning at your neck, “sensitive, to Geralt!”

“Suuure, alright,” the bard laughed dryly, tapping the table lightly as he got up. “Well, I’m off to bed. Geralt – try not to break this one’s heart again, okay? I’m not looking for competition.”

“Shut up, Jaskier,” Geralt huffed, anxiously tapping at his mug of ale.

“’night Jask,” you said, rolling your eyes at him quickly before shooting him a soft smile.

Once alone, you and Geralt shared a moment palpable discomfort before you both burst into a fit of awkward laughter. You tried to break the tension but Geralt spoke up at the same time, prompting another bout of laughter out of the two of you.

“I-I know I’ve said it before but, I really am sorry,” Geralt said after silence fell between the two of you.

“I know,” you breathed, grabbing his hand and holding his gaze, “and I really did forgive you.”

“Okay,” he whispered, giving your hand a squeeze.

The pair of you sat in comfortable silence as the last of the candles burned to the end of their wicks around you. Your heart sank a little when Geralt pulled his hand out of yours, but then he put his arm around your shoulder and pulled you closer to him.

Closing your eyes, you smiled softly and promised yourself you’d write him another song.

#geralt of rivia #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geralt x reader #geralt x y/n #Jaskier #witcher fanfiction #the witcher x reader #anonymous #billie eilish #no time to die #the witcher netflix #gender neutral reader #fanfiction requests #geralt of rivia fic #the witcher series #song request

[finnicks]

( fic ) hot springs

hot springs

the witcher | yennefer/geralt; mature; 89 words Yennefer decides to play dirty with Geralt in the hot springs.

#yenralt #yenralt fic #yenralt fanfic #yenralt fanfiction #yennefer x geralt #geralt x yennefer #geralt of rivia x yennefer of vengerberg #yennefer of vengerberg fic #yennefer of vengerberg fanfic #yennefer of vengerberg fanfiction #geralt of rivia fic #geralt of rivia fanfic #geralt of rivia fanfiction #the witcher fic #the witcher fanfic #the witcher fanfiction #userjaded #my fic #*mine

[somebodytoundress]

wrote a modern geraskier au in which geralt owns a bar and jaskier is a professional nuisance please enjoy

#geraskier #geraskier fic #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geralt of rivia fic #jaskier fic #getting together #feelings realization

[thorst]

Tea and Tinctures (rewrite).

I went and rewrote my /reader Witcher fic into a first-person POV, and posted it on AO3. I also sorted out some things I had niggling issues with in the previous version and added a bit more ~flavour~. If you asked to be tagged for updates last time, I've tagged you here. Please let me know if you'd like to be tagged (or untagged!)

Fandom: The Witcher Warnings: Canon-typical violence, animal death, wounds Pairing: None yet, eventual Geralt / Female OC Excerpt:

He burst from the wood, all dark leather, steel and muscle. Eyes glowing gold only round the rims, pupils blown to inky black in the darkness, the backs reflecting moonlight like a cat’s. The sword in his hands gleamed the sharp white of snow; it couldn’t be anything but silver. At first I was relieved that the figure belonging to those startling eyes was that of a man; though a chill ran down my back as I noticed his hair, white as the moon above. The White Wolf. Reflexively, my fingers tightened around my branch. The butcher of Blaviken.

Tags: @ab-haya @consultingdetextive <3

#my writing #Geralt of Rivia #Witcher fanfiction #Witcher fic #Geralt fic #Geralt of Rivia fic #I am jumping into the Female OC ocean #One day I will make a proper header image for this thing but it's surprisingly difficult to separate fanart from official art #(I wouldn't want to accidentally take fanart and use it to promote my unrelated fic) #I can't use Netflix Geralt because his eyes aren't Weird Enough #I will have to roll up my sleeves and do an photoshop #me posting fic when Tumblr is asleep? more likely than you think! #I listened to "Wake the White Wolf by ministry of sound on repeat for this

[thedemonofcat]

In every single version of their first meeting, be the books, Hexer, or Netflix series.

It's always. Jaskier shows up one day to Geralt and goes

“Congratulations, I’m your bard now.”

Geralt has no other option but to accept.

#the witcher netflix #the witcher #geralt of rivia #joey batey #jaskier the witcher #henry cavill #the witcher jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #fic ideas #jaskier #gerskier #cirilla fiona elen riannon #freya allan #headcanon #yennefer of vengerberg #the witcher season 3 #the witcher season three #anya chalotra

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: this one came out of no where.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

It’s uncharacteristically grim on the plains of Debray. Rains pelt the tall green grasses, flattening them in a slanted downpour that dims the horizon. Clouds blot out the daylight and lend to atmosphere of unease in the warring lands. 

Behind the castle walls, one can forget about the bloodshed staining the counties red, though it is all the dukes and his audience can speak of. The lords that bluster through those gates, sometimes at the toll of morning, some in the black swathes of night. You can’t count them all, you can name even fewer, but they come anon and leave just as brusquely. 

A peel of thunder shakes the land and a dark line limns the curve of the horizon. What appears first as a storm cloud advances quickly through the fields, appearing more clearly to the naked eye, distant nonetheless. Men. Another party fast on the approach. 

The alarm goes up at a man’s holler. Ethred, man at the gate hollers to the other men in mail. Niam peers out from the vantage of the tower and calls back down. A hush falls and bodies scurry all around, metal clinking and boots crunching. There’s something amiss. Something you can’t quite place. 

You turn away from the window, the steam rising from the basin in your hand swirling around your head. You carry on down the corridor, wool skirts around cautious steps as you balance the swaying water in the vessel. You approach the lady’s door and give it a rap with your knee. Merinda, another handmaid, opens it from within. 

You enter without a word and place the basin on the vanity table. The duke’s daughter preens herself with a painted fan, fluttering her lashes at her reflection as her curls spill down her long back. She tilts her head this way and that. She snaps the fan shut and puts it down, touching her soft brown cheeks with a devilish grin. 

“Do you know what father mentioned last eve?” Jazlene asks with a vain flutter of her lashes. 

“What did he mention?” Her mother, Lady Rezlyn prompts lazily as she plucks another cherry from a dish heaped in fruit. 

“A husband,” the daughter grins coyly at herself, “it is well due, isn’t it, mother? Who do you think it might be? Lord Gai, perhaps? He is young still.” 

“Perhaps the Earl of Mesafin,” her mother taunts back to a disgusted gasp. 

“Do not,” Jazlene pouts, “I could never... I am much too pretty for that haggard beast.” 

“Well, then, who might you have, precious?” Rezlyn goads. 

There is a clamour in the hall that keeps the younger of the woman from answering. She rolls her eyes and darkly glare at the door. You peer back behind your shoulder as a wail goes up carrying her father’s name; ‘Lord Dustan!’ 

“What is all that?” Jazlene whines, “as if it isn’t enough with the rain and the winds. It is summer!” 

“It’s always summer in Debray, darling,” Rezlyn scoffs, “otherwise I’d have never married your father. Pray you don’t hook yourself a winter lord.” 

You peek over your shoulder as you stand near the door, in your vigil, awaiting your next order. You face the ladies again as the elder continues to feast and the younger fusses over her thick brows. You scrunch your lips back and forth, a habit that often has your jaw aching. 

Jazlene turns to narrow her eyes at you, “what is it then? What has you making faces?” 

You bow your head, appeasing her ego, “my lady, there were men coming. A party approaching from the north.” 

“There are always men,” she shakes her head, “who was it then? Anyone I should wear silk for?” 

Her mother laughs, “I warn you, daughter, that trite tongue will not endear any husband.” 

“I do not know, lady,” you answer. 

“Ugh, useless, must I work as my own handmaid?” Jazlene tisks, “come, pin my hair. Merinda find me a gown. Mother... wipe the dribble from your chin.” 

“Eh, watch yourself,” Lady Rezlyn rises and wipes her lips with her sleeve. She wears muslin in a dark shade of burgundy, embroidered with little copper finches. “Or hope you marry above me before you lash that tongue at me.” 

Jazlene merely trills with laughter. You take the pins and work at twisting her fine curls into place. Merinda brings to her a dress of teal satin and is promptly shooed away, “something pink. It brings out my bosom.” 

You ignore her bawdy jest as her mother harrumphs. You work in quiet tandem with the other handmaid. You add a touch of paint to the lady’s cheeks and kohl around her eyes. You tint her lips with pigment and she pushes out her lips at the mirror. You help Merinda dress her, pulling the noble daughter’s corset tight enough to leave her lightheaded. 

The pair of ladies, elder and younger, leave the chamber with you at their skirt tails. They sweep through the corridors with chins up. They are queens in their own minds. Their fine dresses and sparkling gems are untouched by the disparity of war. The lives lost are squares on a game board, tawdry talk for men in their studies. 

“Lord Dustan,” Lady Rezlyn mimics the earlier call for the lord of the castle, “my husband. Dear, dear husband!” 

The women go to the banister and look down upon the great hall as the flurry continues below. You and Merinda loom behind, not daring to stand at a level with the pompous nobles. You have never volunteered yourself for their impetuous lashings. 

“Woman!” Dustan booms back up, “do not trouble me now.” 

“Oh, has another lord come? Perhaps a suitor for our lovely daughter--” 

“Cease!” The duke demands hotly, “now is not the time for womanly games.” 

“Tell me it true, husband, she will be an old maid before you find a suiting son-in-law--” 

“Go away to your chambers. Now. The men who come are not to be trifled with and you lot do trifle overly much!” 

“Bah! Oh do not be so uncouth!” Rezlyn decries. 

“Father, please, is it a husband?” 

“Go before I send my guards up to put you away like thieves in a dungeon. Hear me when I warn you that this does not concern you. Not as yet,” Dustan snarls, “you would spoil this war with your puny concerns.” 

“Ugh,” his wife puts her hand to her forehead, “he does tax me. All I ask of him is to take care of us, daughter. As any husband should.” 

“I should have your lips sewn shut!” Dustan rebukes hotly, “be gone before I find a tailor.” 

The women share an aghast look. The turn back to flutter away in their skirts. You and Merinda follow them to the drawing room, closing them in as they fall onto the velvet cushions. Jazlene reclines dramatically on the chaise as her mouth mopes on a sofa. 

“Shall I be alone forever, mother?” Jazlene snivels, “why won’t he let me marry?” 

“He only wants to find the right man, that is all, darling,” Rezlyn coaxes. “He is overprotective and that is good for it means he will find a husband for you with a similar bearing.” 

“Such sweet words cannot convince me. He punishes me. When all my lady friends have wed and borne a whelp or two, I remain with the dust and stone.” 

“Do not be theatrical,” Rezlyn girds, “you are silly.” 

“I am not silly, mother. I am afraid. I am twenty and three and I have no suitor. I have only a war butchering any man who might have my hand. Why must this go on? Why must I suffer for the gripes of stubborn kings.” 

“We cannot fear. This war will be won and you will have a knight for a husband. Isn’t that better? To have a warrior you can be proud of than some bookish lord in his tower?” Rezlyn stands and moves to sit with her daughter, petting her as she cooes, “oh my beautiful, no man can resist you. You will see.” 

⚔️

Some hours pass with the restless women, pacing and chattering, about careless things beyond marriage and war. Like needlework and a banquet that should be had upon the truce. Would that the day would come sooner. 

You and Merinda stifle yawns that pass between you. The act is contagious as you stand in the tedium of the wealthy and wait for a duty to be called upon you. The hours you spend watching the women preen and swoon make you envy the stable boys and the shit shovelers. 

The noise beyond those walls continues. You heard the moat open and the clopping hooves of horses, even the clatter of carts. The voices had since hushed but footfalls carried back and forth. The wordless activity betrays an air of impatience, almost of nervousness. As the ladies within mirror the sentiment. 

Finally, as the windows darken and the candles burn brighter, a knock shakes the door. The ladies snap their heads around. Merinda is asleep on her feet as you move first. You open to a man in grey and black waits on the other side. He is not Lord Dustan’s. 

“The duchess and her daughter,” he garbles through a mouth that sounds full of salt. 

You dip your head and look to the ladies in question. There is a tension, of unease, of unknowing, of excitement turned to dread. This is not as it has been. There is not call to the dinner table. There is no buoyant introduction of a lord Dustan met as a young scamp. There is silence and fear. Has someone died? Has a battle been lost? 

The women emerge and greet the man with niceties and tight-lipped simpers. He does not pay them heed as you and Merinda exchange looks. You trail after the ladies but the man stops. He turns back, a hand on the pommel at his waist, and sneers, a furrow in his brow. 

“One of ya,” he grits. 

Jazlene says your name. She must’ve noticed Merinda swaying on her feet. If she even cares so much about a maid. You keep your head down and follow as they press on. Down the corridor and around the duke’s study, recently deemed his war room. You’ve never been within. It is not the domain of women. 

The grey and black soldier thumps on the door. Mother and daughter clasp hands. Even they can sense the unusual frigidity. The door opens from within. It is Lord Dustan. He wears a serious look on his lined face. The ladies are beckoned in and the soldier nudges you after them as you hesitate. 

Lanterns light the space from the desk at the rear of the chamber. The large table draped in maps, wooden horses, and little wooden pucks stands central on a thick rug. A figure stands behind it, head down as his burly and broad silhouette seems to sop up the shadows. 

The ladies follow the duke to stand across from the man. His head is down as he slides a horse along a road on the map. He stops it and grips it tight. He looks up and the lantern light dances on his features. You suck in a breath, as the rest do, stunned by his appearance. 

His hair is white, his eyes are a goldish yellow, pupils deep pools of black, and his square jaw is just as thick as the rest of him. You have never seen a man like him before, but you have heard of one. Of him. King Geralt of Rivia. 

You stand in similar confusion to the ladies. Their silent confoundment is broken by Duke Dustan as he nears the table. He sniffs and presses his fingers to the table top. 

“Your highness, my wife, Lady Rezlyn, and my daughter, Lady Jazlene,” he introduces. 

The women glance at each other then curtsy to the white king. He watches them dully. You fold your hands, taking it in curiously. It is rather something to witness the scene. You are so unimportant as to not be a part of it. 

“Your highness,” the recite, “it is...” 

“An honour,” Dustan finishes for them, “of course it is. We fondly welcome you and your allyship. We hope that we will be essential in ending this war. In helping you attain the peace you have so valiantly fought for--” 

The king raises his hand to silence the lord. You can’t help but quork your head. Allyship? But King Geralt, he is of Rivia, he is of the hinterland, he is the one who invaded the summer country and bid it his own. He is the foe. That is what they told you. 

“Enough...” the king speaks in a silty tone that scrapes in his throat. His eyes wander over the women and narrow. You wince as your own meet his golden irises and you shy away, putting your chin to your chest. That’s a mistake. “...words.” He slaps his hand down, “you do not win wars with words.” 

“Yes, your highness, you are correct. I know it well. It is why I invited you here. It is the very reason I made my entreaty. You have my men, they will win this war for you.” 

The king is hardly impressed by the fact. He looks back to the table and moves the horse further before turning it back. He knocks it over and stands completely straight. 

“And the daughter of Debray, your highness. To have a wife of summer’s blood, men will bend the knee. If you show them you do not mean to eradicate but to join with them,” Dustan moves to stand closer to his daughter, “isn’t she a fine queen for a fine kingdom?” 

Jazlene swoons and falls against her father. She’s fainted. Rezlyn grabs onto her other shoulder and you peek up at the chaotic scene. You come forward to help, snatching a pillow from the single couch, and you place it under Jazlene’s head as they lay her down on the floor. 

A shadow shifts as Dustan and Rezlyn fuss over their daughter, fanning and calling to her. You look up as darkness clusters over you. You see the king staring down at the scene. No, not them. He staring at you. Before he can reprimand you, you put your head down. 

You must quit that lest you find yourself at the wrong end of a switch. 

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt of rivia #dark!geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x reader #the witcher #winter's king #au #medieval au #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series

[spielzeugkaiser]

This was supposed to be part of a 'Ciri starts to realize that (while it's obvious that Jaskier is in love with Geralt) this is not as one-sided as she thought it was' comic (or like in short, when you find out your dad has two hands) but then I decided to colour that panel and made it separate 🙈 also a Ciri under the cut:

She's going hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #geraskier #geraskefer #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #Ciri #there is nothing that I love more than relationship fics from an outsider POV #it doesn't work as well in art sometimes but I looooove it I love it so much #I think from S3 onward - since Jaskier is part of the family - it's not like a big shock especially since she's already an adult #but I think these stories are really sweet with kid Ciri