On today's episode of my brother forming into a useless bisexual, I was scrolling through tiktok and a video of a shirtless Geralt cosplayer came up and I mindlessly scrolled past it and he tapped my shoulder and said "was that Geralt ...? Can you go back"
Write It In a Song (Geralt of Rivia x Reader) [Part 2]
Hello hello! I don’t know if this is allowed but I read this Geralt fict of yours a few months ago, “Write it in a song” and god, my heart was 💔❤️🩹. I was wondering if we could request a part two, maybe seeing Geralt’s POV, what he thought, did he love her back And get some closure for the poor man, regardless of how happy or sad? Thank you in advance, I hope you have a great day/night!
P.S: I really admire the dedication and creativity you put in all your ficts. You are truly one of the best writers in the fandom.—Requested by anon
The place smelled of sickness. Even with the door shut and the Witcher outside, he couldn’t avoid the stench.
He didn’t want to go in. He knew what he would find, and he wasn’t prepared.
Steeling himself, he opened the door. It scraped against the floor, unevenly made.
Flies swarmed as the light fell across them. The Witcher waved them away impatiently as he stepped further into the one-room hut.
The home was sparely furnished, and poorly at that, the quality of the furniture terrible. A single warped chair, one lopsided table, a damaged chest in lieu of a bureau. The floor was nothing but hard-packed earth with rushes spread over it. The rushes were soiled, decaying.
It had recently rained. The roof evidently leaked. The earth was muddy in the places it had, cultivating a mildew smell.
A wind kicked up outside the hut. It whistled and moaned through the cracks and holes in the façade. A finger of it toyed with some of the loose strands in the Witcher’s face.
He stopped in the center of the room and finally turned his gaze to the cot pushed against the far wall.
You lay upon it, the sheets tangled about you. Your eyes were closed.
He wandered over to you, stared down at your supine form. You had aged in the years since he had last seen you. The burdens of a hard life had taken a toll on your features, rendering them almost incomprehensible. He had once known you as a full of life, beautiful with inner light.
None of that remained in your face. Gray coursed through your hair, the crooked lines of color matching the lines in your features.
The Witcher dragged the lone chair beside your bed. It wobbled dangerously beneath his weight, but he paid it no mind. He continued to stare at you, his chest constricting.
You lived alone. As far as he could tell, you had always been alone. Jaskier had conveyed as much the last time he had seen you, some five or ten years past. The bard hadn’t said more than that, the silence weighted with more meaning than any words he could say.
It had taken that long for the Witcher to work up the nerve to visit you.
Except he was too late.
As he stared at your slack expression, he wondered if he had ever loved you. He wasn’t sure, couldn’t be when Yennefer loomed so large in his life, eclipsing all else.
What he did know was the deep ache he had felt when you had left. It had been mostly guilt, he had thought. His response to your confession had been ill-considered, and the pain he had glimpsed in you before you had fled had hurt him.
He only brought pain to everyone.
It wasn’t until he and Jaskier had encountered you at the castle that he realized guilt wasn’t the only feeling. When the Witcher had seen you across the room, he felt the breath knock out of him. He had immediately hidden, not wanting to draw your attention, but mostly so he could observe you. His eyes tracked you across the ballroom. You walked stiffly, as though you had lost the easiness that he remembered you for. Your face was blank, no light radiating out of it.
You seemed unaware, but Jaskier had noticed you. It had been his terrible idea to seek you out.
The Witcher had followed him against his better judgement.
Seeing your bitterness and your anger had changed his guilt to shame.
The worst of it was that he knew with shocking clarity that he had missed you.
He couldn’t bear to face you, not after your scathing indictment against him.
He should have, he realized.
Leaving your side, he retreated outside and shucked off his jacket and gloves. Rolling up his sleeves, he searched for what he needed and set to work.
When night fell, he lovingly wrapped you in the only pair of clean linens he could find and carried you out in his arms to the grave he had dug.
He didn’t say anything as he buried you. He only touched your cheek with his rough fingers before covering your face.
He had killed you that night without realizing it, without meaning to. He had killed the beautiful woman you had been, the carefree one full of humor and trust.
Of course he had.
As he covered you with soft earth, he knew it had been inevitable.
'The Sorceress' by White Wolf Alchemies. Inspired by Yennefer of Vengerberg, from 'The Witcher' series. Her signature scent of lilac and gooseberry. Notes of flowery lilac and tart berry capture the bewitching allure of a great and powerful sorceress.
This one has been sitting in my drafts for a while, partially because it's a little personal, partially because ace week was coming up and what better time to post?
On Ao3 here
Please enjoy some grey ace, touchrepulsed Geralt. It is soft, I promise, he is just confused. <3
(Oh, and @thewitcherbog look, i posted!)
Many people are of the belief that Geralt is lonely. He is not, actually.
Even more think that he is so desperate for a kind touch that he would pay for it. Yet another thing he is not.
Well alright. He pays for company every now and then, but it’s not something he craves.
Truth be told, he doesn’t like to be touched at all. It kind of freaks him out a little. When somebody touches Geralt’s arm without permission, when a long gone acquaintance pulls him in for a hug, it just doesn’t feel right.
It leaves him with an uncomfortable feeling behind his ribs, and he is not sure why. He always feels a little bad about feeling that way too, so the easiest solution is to just… not to touch anybody.
So he touches other things instead. While walking past a tree he might reach up and touch a leaf. Not pluck it, just feel it between his fingers.
The different types of texture gives him a secret kind of satisfaction. Softly as to not break it he would rub it between his fingertips and let go. Sometimes it’s prickly, sometimes smooth.
Sometimes he drags his fingers against Roach's fur and mane. Feel the muscles work under her skin. Sometimes it’s a brick wall or the bark of a tree.
There are times he doesn't mind the touch of people.
Mousesack doesn't give him much of a choice, often clasping his shoulders and knocking their foreheads together. For some reason Geralt doesn’t mind, and is weirdly grateful for it.
Yennefer was also fine, more than fine, actually.
The way she would run her fingers through the hair on his chest, a sharp nail tracing the line of his jaw. It was all amazing, more than, but one day it just… wasn’t anymore. He can’t say why, but it got to a point where he didn’t feel comfortable anymore.
There are probably a lot of psychological reasons behind it, Triss told him that one day when she made him talk about it.
She is most likely right, he knows, but he’d rather not dwell on it. He is going to live a very long life and the moment he starts dwelling on things, he fears he will never stop.
He knows he is not like everybody else. The other witchers don’t seem to have the same feelings about touch as he does. Back in the days there were things like cuddle piles, no such thing as personal space.
Geralt joined in, or rather... sometimes joined in. Eskel was always the one constant in this. Eskel's touch was always a comfort.
Then there was the presence of Jaskier. Jaskier is a source of endless affection. And prattle. Endless prattle.
Jaskier is unable to stop talking. And if he ever shuts up, he is probably moping. That is never a good thing, and as annoying as Geralt finds his bard companion at times, he still cares.
That fateful day on the mountaintop made him rethink everything.
The time of dwelling has come.
Breaking off with Yen was not ideal, but it was a relief.
Breaking off with Jaskier was not what he thought it would be.
Without meaning to, he had come to enjoy the bard's company, and without him there is something missing.
In the evenings, he finds himself holding onto his own hand, pretending it was somebody else's. His pillow, for hugging rather than a headrest.
When Geralt finally stops his moping and whining and moaning about, he goes to find Jaskier.
Their relationship to begin with is strained, unsure. Geralt did a good job to get rid of him after all. So he goes out of his way to fix this.
He knows Jaskier thrives when he gets attention, affection and casual touches.
So he gives them.
A ruffle of the hair, a squeeze on the shoulder. Because he wants back what comfort he got. And Jaskiers touch is not giving him that squeamish feeling.
When Jaskier realizes that Geralt isn't shrugging off his casual touches anymore, he smiles impossibly bright.
That smile lives in Geralt's dreams for days.
At night by their fire, Jaskier will tuck his feet under Geralt's legs as he props himself up to write in the light of the fire.
Geralt lets him, secretly enjoying it. The scratching of the pen against the page, crackling of the fire, the solid feeling of Jaskiers feet under his thigh.
What changes things again is when Geralt returns from a hunt.
It was a tough one, he comes back exhausted and full of potions. It feels like the nerves are on the outside of his body.
When he more or less collapses in a heap by his bedroll, Jaskier approaches him.
The hand on his shoulder startles Geralt, and before he can stop himself he shrugs off Jaskiers hand.
“Don’t touch me.” He rumbles, unease building inside him. It’s too much, he is so tired. Jaskier leans back again, away from Geralt and for some reason he misses it immediately. But he doesn’t. It’s a confusing mess, really.
“What’s wrong Geralt?” Jaskier asks softly, sitting back on his haunches, giving Geralt space.
It takes him some time, not sure how to phrase it, or if to say anything at all. But nothing is ever to be left alone with Jaskier around.
“Are you hurt?” He asks, a hint of worry coming through. Geralt sighs.
“I just…. I don’t like it when people touch me.” He admits. Not what he meant to say but it’s the truth.
“But I touch you all the time?” Jaskier looks down at his crumpled form, and all Geralt can do is look back. What can he say about it, really?
They just look at each other for a long moment.
“Should I stop? Am I making you feel bad? Oh Melitele do I make you feel bad--”
“Jaskier, no. Not you, I… Not when it’s you.” Geralt says, staring at the ground. As he learned when talking with Triss, it is hard to make sense of it.
“I can’t explain. I just… can’t. Please stay.” he squeezes out when Jaskier attempts to back away.
He looks hesitant, but sits down properly, far away enough not to accidentally touch Geralt. Something eases in Geralt’s chest, because he wasn’t sure he would stay.
“How can I help?” Jaskier asks softly, and Geralt closes his eyes.
“Would you sing something?”
He is sure to be teased about it, for actually asking Jaskier to sing when all he ever asked before was for him to shut up.
But he doesn’t. There are some shuffling sounds, and when Geralt looks, Jaskier has laid down next to him, staring up at the sky.
Without the lute, Jaskier sounds different. Without an audience, without the pressure to perform, to be perfect, there is just his voice, naked and raw, soothing the sky, the trees, the witcher next to him.
Geralt unbuckles his armor in silence as best he can, and falls asleep with Jaskier's calming presence next to him.
It takes three days before Geralt brings it up. Mostly because Jaskier didn’t, but he feels he owes him this much. And possibly because Jaskier hasn't touched him as much.
“I don’t like it when people touch me.”
Jaskier looks up at him, giving a small smile.
“Some people are alright. Safe.”
Jaskier says nothing, just keep looking straight ahead as they walk side to side.
“Jaskier.” Geralt says, stopping him with a hand on the shoulder. The bard turns to face him, and if he is surprised that Geralt is touching him, he doesn’t show it. Geralt purposely lets his hand stay there.
“I’m not pushing myself to touch you.” Jaskier looks sceptical. “Alright, maybe a little. But it is because you are...safe to me. You feel right. I see how much it means to you, and I want to give that to you. I might not be able to always, but I’m trying.”
Jaskiers gives him a sad smile that Geralt doesn’t quite understand.
“You don’t owe me anything, Geralt. You are not responsible for my happiness, and if it causes you discomfort, I will not ask that of you.”
That’s not it. How can he possibly explain?
Please don’t stop touching me.
“I… I like what we have. I like you touching me, I like you allowing me to touch you too. I... If I say no, you listen. Mostly.” Geralt says, trying desperately to be understood. It has never felt this important before. Jaskier gives a little smile and Geralt takes that as a success.
“I barely understand this myself. I can’t predict who works and who doesn’t but, you deserve to know. I don’t want to push you away again.”
“You won’t, my dear. Will you tell me if I become too much?”
“You know I do.” Geralt smiles, relieved, squeezing Jaskiers shoulder a little, because he knows it makes him happy. “And would you… uh. I’m bad at asking for things.”
“I know.” Jaskier smilles fully now. “I think this is the most I have heard you say in one go, probably ever.”
“Hush you. I’m trying to say, don’t hold back around me.”
“I will do my worst.” Jaskier grins, and Geralt can’t help but to grin back.
Truth be told, Geralt doesn’t like to be touched. It kind of freaks him out a little. When somebody touches his arm without permission, when a long gone acquaintance pulls him in for a hug, it just doesn’t feel right.
He touches other things instead. While walking past a tree he might reach up and touch a leaf. Sometimes he drags his fingers against Roach’s fur and mane. Feel the muscles work under her skin.
Sometimes it’s a brick wall or the bark of a tree.
Sometimes it is his bard's hand, his hair, his back.
Inktober day 24 Forgotten deity. So for the last week of this inktober I’m also going to be following the prompts from @witcher-trick-or-treat I thought Geralt fits the theme of forgotten deity pretty well especially when combined with spell the prompt from witcher trick or treat. I used Geralt’s face and medallion from the Netflix show and the armor from the game. I’m so incredibly proud of how this turned out especially the fire!
This is part of the necromancer!Jaskier series, especially after flowers and this comic!
The question of Jaskiers age came up a few times; also Geralt getting roasted under the cut:
Geralt is... in pain. (also still conflicted, because all the other stuff, and in a very protective mindset, you know they have BAGGAGE in this 'verse, even (maybe even especially) 'cause Jaskier isn't remembering it.)
#necromancer!jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #the witcher netflix #Ciri is like. Around 25ish here? Jaskier around 17/18/19 depending on when he met Geralt #I TRIED to figure out the timeline and then I just gave up #I come back with comic relief with this one
Fandom: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert, Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, Jaskier | Dandelion+Lambert, that's for the qpr, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Characters: Jaskier | Dandelion, Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Additional Tags: Cuddling & Snuggling, queer platonic relationship, jaskier and lambert are in a qpr, Winter at Kaer Morhen (The Witcher), Caring Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Lambert (The Witcher), Polyamory, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Some Humor, Banter, Established Relationship, Napping
Geralt’s room at Kaer Morhen is simple and comforting. There’s a fireplace, as there is in each of the witcher’s rooms, along with a bed and a bathtub. So far Jaskier finds himself most familiar with the bed, where he and Geralt are tangled now. Geralt rests behind him, the witcher’s chest firm against his back, a furnace to keep him warm so far from the fire. Geralt’s hand lifts and brushes over his temple, his fingertips brushing gently across his skin, tracing his hairline down to the front of his hair and back, following the pattern a few times. Jaskier sighs, content, and Geralt echoes it before bringing his arm back to curl around Jaskier’s waist. The witcher covers him, protects him, makes him feel safe; safe in a different way than there’s no imminent danger, although Geralt does that for him, too. No, right now, in their old keep, he could never be in danger. The other feeling of safe is more… right. Being in Geralt’s arms settles a part of him that, at many times, can be settled no other way.
“It’ll be dinner time soon.” Geralt’s voice is low, comforting, and clear. His head is set just behind Jaskier’s on the pillows.
Jaskier rubs his socked foot up and down the witcher’s calf in acknowledgement and a burst of affection, then hums. “Mm. Yeah. Last night Lambert said it was your turn to cook?”
His boyfriend hums back at him in response. Jaskier presses his face into the pillow to smother a smile. “I only have to cook vegetables on the stove. Won’t take me very long.”
Jaskier giggles, the sound too loud to be covered by the pillow. He takes his face out of the fabric, since Geralt is aware of his joy now anyway. “You don’t have to get out of bed yet, you mean.”
A low, rumbling laugh intertwines with the remainders of Jaskier’s as Geralt nuzzles his nose into the hair behind Jaskier’s ear. He whispers, teasingly and pleased, “We don’t.”
They’re quiet for a long moment. The only sounds around them are the rush of the winter winds against the keep’s stone walls, the crackle of the fireplace across the room, and their soft, calm inhales.
Geralt breaks the silence with his lovely voice, still sleep-rough even though they’ve been up for hours. “I’m glad that you two… have what you have.”
“Me and Lambert?” Jaskier clarifies, even though he knows what Geralt means anyway.
Geralt hums in lieu of a verbal answer. Jaskier laughs again, unable to catch it in time to smother it like he did before. Geralt shoves his knee into the back of Jaskier’s in reprimand, but Jaskier knows he isn’t actually angry. Can feel his joy floating in the air around them.
“Yes,” Geralt says. “It’s… I like to see you two bonding, or spend time together or whatever you get up to. It’s comforting to know that because of your… relationship,” Geralt stumbles over what to call them and it makes Jaskier smile, if only because he and Lambert struggle to define it in the same way. “Lambert finally has someone he can trust who isn’t just one of us. You’re good for him.”
Warmth curls in Jaskier’s chest and suffuses his body in happiness, tingling under his skin. He sighs, pleased, and allows the relaxation to spread through his entire being. “I’m glad.” He snuggles deeper into Geralt. “He’s good for me too, you know. It’s not a one-way street.”
Geralt’s hand slips up his side, along his bicep, over his jaw, and hooks on his chin, tilting Jaskier’s face toward him. Jaskier shivers pleasantly and leans into the touch, craning his neck so that he can kiss Geralt while they stay close, still spooning. His witcher’s lips are warm and gentle, and he kisses Jaskier as he always does: sweet and slow and oh-so passionate.
The door creaks open.
“Fuck, you two are busy.” It’s Lambert. Jaskier pulls away from Geralt’s lips and turns forward to find his best friend hanging awkwardly in their door frame, one hand still gripped tight around the door handle and a nervous look on his face. Jaskier’s chest aches at the sight. “I’m sorry, I can leave—”