#female reader-insert

“Geralt, Geralt, look!” Jaskier said excitedly as he stood. “As I live and breathe. Y/N!”

Y/N blinked as she looked to the shout and smiled, waving a hand and ordering a round of drinks before walking to them. “Jaskier. Still loud as ever, I see,” She chuckled.

Jaskier smiled and clapped a hand on her back, blinking as the innkeeper brought them the beers. Y/N nodded and drank deeply. Jaskier drank and glanced over, seeing the way Geralt studied the hybrid. He frowned and looked, studying her further.

“You’ve got a new one,” Geralt finally said once Y/N set down the mug. She nodded, fingers gingerly touching the healing scar on her neck. “You got careless.”

“I know,” she whined, pouting. “I got the bastard, but it wasn’t worth it in the end. Had to be patched up by the doctor and everything. It was awful,” She hummed.

“What was it?” Jaskier asked. Y/N smiled and recounted the tale for the bard.

Geralt watched the way she spoke. His eyes kept focusing on her neck. Finally, he stood, “I’m turning in,” He said simply, heading up to his room.

Y/N blinked, watching the Witcher go. “He okay?” She asked after a long silence.

“I think he loves you,” The bard said with a grin. He chuckled at the blink from the hybrid. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Y/N blushed a bit. “Why would he love me? Jaskier, please don’t tease me,” She sighed, resting her chin in her hand. Jaskier frowned at that. “I’m a monster.”

“Aren’t we all?” Jaskier challenged. “In all my travels with Geralt, I’ve found humans are more terrifying. But, I do believe he loves you, Witcher and Sorceress, and all.” He leaned in. “Wanna know how I know that?”

Y/N glanced at him and leaned closer, letting him whisper into her ear. “He pouts when we part from you, and the moment he spotted you, he straightened right up. Not to mention he saw that new mark first. He knows you’re healed but seeing it upset him.”

Y/N blushed at that, sitting down. Jaskier took a long drink and hummed. “Room Seven.”

He smirked as the hybrid shot up, walking quickly to the room in question.

Y/N blinked as she stood outside the room, hesitating as her hand had raised to knock. Before she could ponder if it were a good idea, the door swung open. The glare immediately softened as Geralt took in Y/N’s appearance. He stepped aside and let her into the room.

The hybrid stepped in, eying the area. “You alright?” She finally asked, blinking up at him.

“I’m fine. Why?” He asked simply, sitting down.

“Because Jaskier says you…” She stopped herself, afraid for the first time in her life now. Of all the things that she’d faced, somehow, asking Geralt about his feelings towards her made her freeze up.

“What’d he say?” He sighed, clearly annoyed.

She gulped and said, “You were worried about me.”

Geralt blinked and sighed, stepping towards her. She held her breath as his fingers brushed against her collar, pushing away the fabric to study the scar. “A bit,” He confessed. “That was deep enough to make a scar.”

Y/N smiled softly. “Yeah. I used a flame to cauterize it. It looks worse than it was. It only looks as bad as it does because I passed out while doing that.”

“Idiot,” he snapped. “You could’ve gotten killed.”

“But I didn’t!” Y/N giggled. She reached up and squeezed his hand. “Geralt, look at me.” His lip came up in a snarl as he watched her. She smiled gently and brought his hand to her cheek, leaning into his touch. “I’m okay. I promise.”

The anger melted from his face as he leaned down, resting his forehead to hers. He sighed softly as his thumb rubbed against her cheekbone. “How dare you.”

“Huh?”

“How dare you make me worry,” He said simply, lifting her chin and pecking her lips. She blushed and stared at him before kissing him. He hummed as he pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. He slowly deepened the kiss as she stepped closer to him. “Idiot.”

She smiled against his lips. “You love me though, right?” She asked softly.

On days when will didn't seem to matter—after a glass or two, perhaps late at night throughout the hours he could not rest. During the wintery northern blizzards, when the tempest and all its ire directed its fervor to his manor. And he, ever so sheltered by its warmth, felt fearless. A false sense of security.

yan! cursed! grand duke, who'd stand before the mirror, rigid and quiet-like, witnessing his irises while an invasive white rotted the blue and conquered its territory. The remnants to prevail, rimmed thin around a colony of chiffon, nothing more than mockery. For it soon, too, would be no longer.

A parasite, it was. He, a mere host.

yan! cursed! grand duke, who searched all the land for the sorcerer responsible, who sought clarification on the words he was told.

A poor ruler, a foul soul.

Over time he grew older, somber. His blue rims never stopped thinning, and the white, plaguing. Rare were the days of adequate vision. Oftentimes of which, he refused to see at all: to delude himself into control, and that the imminent darkening of his world was of his ordinance. That sight was a privilege and he was disciplined enough to deprive himself of it.

And yet, the hunt continued. He hid the world away and fled north. The people whispered. Sorcerers and physicians, royal guards and their suspects. They came and went, all bearing bad news. A cowardly ruler, consumed by the foulness of his own soul.

And yet, the hunt continued. The blue thinned. The parasite swelled. Until he stumbled upon you.

yan! cursed! grand duke, who's only company prior was the hum of winter winds and its occasional whip or rumble. The cackle of the fireplace, the hoarse murmur of quill upon paper.

Gingko biloba, fennel, saffron, bilberry. You'd scuttle in all quivering—he could hear the roll of the cart and the tremble of glass—only to scamper out just as hastily. He'd feel for the corner of his desk what you always placed the tray upon. Sometimes it ferried aromatics, other times bitter soups. Seldomly, hardly ever, was it spiced baked goods. He liked those occasions.

yan! cursed! grand duke, who had found himself wound up by your unconventional approach and the quiet routine the two of you had built. He couldn't quite comprehend why, either. His vision continued to deteriorate.

Perhaps it was the very fact of being thieved of his sight and condemned to blindness that you were so appealing to him. Him and his sensibility, you and your scent of cedar and cinnamon and peppermint. Your potent herbs and tart stews, the muted grumble of the lavender you'd grind, your quiet huffs as you worked the pestle.

His irises solidified into ceramic, muddled its border along the whites. And yet, somehow, he felt the treatment was working. Like the looming panic beneath his ribs hushed into a lull.

The hunt concluded.

yan! cursed! grand duke, who'd reach out to map your face with his fingers and piece together your appearance in his mind. The commoner herbalist who smelt of spices and scurried off all mouse-like when came their daily visit.

As much as it amused him, he found solace in your presence, so you were to stay by his side while he worked. And ate. And walked the garden, arms interlocked—the way he insisted. As you prepared his medicine, as you collected said herbs. From the moment you awoke to the moment you laid rest, you were to be by his side.

yan! cursed! grand duke, who silently mourned, not his blindness in itself, but his inability to see you. Quite frequently, he'd demand you meticulously detail your countenance to him. But it was never enough. His blue rim thinned, and the subtleties were lost.

The manner what your ears flushed in the chilly northern climate—if they flushed at all. The way you styled your hair, your lips and how you curled them. How your irises caught light, unblemished by pools of white. He wanted to know all of it, and he had ever the patience and eagerness to learn.

The blue rim was no more. A poor ruler, a foul soul. The hunt concluded, and yet, he kept you by his side.

yan! loser, who couldn't hide his adoration had he tried.

At first, he'd stop by once a week or so. Then twice, thrice. Soon enough, daily. Several times a day. Always searching for you and the look in your eye that quickened his breaths. He never said anything. A wordless commitment, a warm summer, a cool haven, a one-sided love. He kept it up until the sunlight dimmed and fall rolled around.

yan! loser, who had his first conversation with you late September. With twiddled thumbs and an awful stutter he willed himself an introduction and asked you about the weather. A rather uninteresting opening, he'd admit, and you hadn't seemed to care at all outside your cordiality required as an employee.

That hadn't mattered to him, though. None of your disinterest in him held any weight in his heart when the sound of his name from your lips feathered his feet and gave him value. Every stolen glance, each smile worth biting back. All the days spent browsing energy drinks to bask in your presence.

You acknowledged him, finally, so it was only a matter of time you acknowledged all of him, right?

yan! loser, who interpreted the fine line of tolerance as acceptance, and from that moment on spent the entirety of his days either with you or wishing to be with you. No longer did he feel burdened by secrecy or the hue of his cheeks when you looked his way.

No longer was there shame about his far-too-frequent visits, or the way he'd trail close behind as you worked your shift. How he'd gotten your number from your manager and would pester you into the late hours of the night. Only to be up the following morning, shivering with glee, awaiting you under the fluorescent.

Sometimes you'd yell at him. He didn't know what to feel when that happened. Ecstasy, at first. To him, anger to such a potent degree was no less passionate than love. It was something that bested indifference in every aspect possible, even if your lips only ever curled in scorn, even if the words that slipped were reserved for curses. To him, it was every bit just as intimate. Just as worthy of reverence.

Then, however, came dread. A sharpness in his chest, an ache in his heart. Terrible tremors writhed underneath his skin. The swell of bile and the threat of vomit. Whatever perverse elation that burned the surface of his cheeks was smothered and done away with by pooling shame, tear-shaped and cooling down his face.

yan! loser, who both revered and cried.

The mere thought of your displeasure with him was enough to kill him three times over, so to look at him with such ire, however minor, was nothing short of excruciating. From several times a day to your entire shift, he'd linger with tired eyes and a hopelessly pathetic disposition. Profuse apologies murmured from parched lips, chocolate and cards handed from quivering fingers. Longing by the store window when you kicked him out.

He loved you. So much, at that. His devotion, his love had to count for something. It had to.

yan! loser, who, despite your cruelty, couldn't muster a morsel of hatred towards you. It went against all he stood for, and he only stood for you. Rather, he was thankful.

Thankful that you'd so much as speak his name, thankful you'd let him stand outside, thankful for your sneers, for your mockery when came his wails. It wasn't love, at least not yet, but you acknowledged him. And for that, he was so thankful.

So, incredibly thankful.

And so, inevitably, his skin grew supple, clay-like, fit to be chiseled into whatever it was the ceramist—his father—desired. It was easier that way. A vase, a coaster, a sculpture. A leader, a businessman, a husband.

yan! CEO, who thought nothing of the life he led, the world he built and the people who filled it. Nothing of the woman he lay in bed with, nothing of the shared kiss at the altar.

yan! CEO, who's skin grew tough with the years, no longer pliable and docile—replaced with a distinct coldness, a barrier of cruelty from the reality he fostered. The reality of aimlessly stringing along the supposed pieces to a meaningful existence.

yan! CEO, who despite his successes, his marriage, his wealth, his life—felt nothing but duty and profound nothingness.

yan! CEO, who learned the complexities of emotion and the experience of humanness through the spilling of coffee, through you.

yan! CEO, who had never in his life endured a feeling so absurdly passionate his head swirled, his vision bleared. A fervor so demanding it couldn't be conceptualized over the ear-splitting thump of blood in his ears, the flush of red at the base of his neck.

And you, who frantically wiped his desk and cleared it of its papers, unbeknownst to the subtle brush of your fingers against his own, heedless of the way he quivered in response.

yan! CEO, who, for the first time, yearned. He who had never been exposed to such an intensity, let alone one so hungry and eager, a romance so plaguing. A tenderness so strange, seductively primal, possessive and ugly. Nothing could encapsulate its extent accurately, nothing needed to. For it didn't matter, he'd greedily welcome it all.

yan! CEO, who didn't believe in the shallow sentiment of love at first sight—no, what he had with you was far more meaningful, and there wasn't a soul to tell him otherwise. He wouldn't let them.

What he had with you, what this happenstance meant to him, was purpose, fate. All the agony he had sustained, the torturous circumstances of his life prior led to this—you and him. He had found his purpose, his clutch was tight, and he would not let go.

yan! CEO, who had eagerly endorsed your promotion as his personal assistant, who made haste to keep you pocketed by his desk, tucked near his heart. Where you could coax the innate humanness he thought he hadn't had, make him feel things.

yan! CEO, who couldn't bear that you made others feel things, too. By no fault of your own, you had found yourself captured—wound up by a corrupt fool what had no right being with you as he did. He saw of him occasionally after hours when you left for home, he saw of him so vividly the planes of his face were seared into the surface of his retinas and boiled a loathing thick in his gut.

It was always you, you, you. Before you, he had never a hatred so blazing, a love so concentrated. There was no envy, none to be periled by.

And then there was him—that foul man, a rotten, ugly extension of you, a crooked mass of evil who had also taught him to feel. Not of the intricacies of devotion, but a dense contempt what whitened his fists and drew them of liquid red.

yan! CEO, who not only yearned for you, but for the extermination of your boyfriend.

yan! CEO, who was infuriated beyond measure at the man so impudent you kept by your side, and the woman so foolish he kept by his.

No longer could he stand to look at the face of his wife, a reminder far too cruel to bear. When came mornings, his heart longed for when you'd tempt him into your embrace, and he'd gently nose the skin of your neck. He'd kiss you soft and tender, nothing like the hollow affection what of an arranged marriage. And you, ever so benign, would welcome him pleasantly.

It was excruciating when he so greatly wanted for your presence beside him as the sun stirred and its light pooled in, only to find some other sat in your place.

yan! CEO, who'd await the inevitable day you'd remain unfettered to your burdens, and he to his. When you'd entwine each other so intimately, so profoundly, and the circumstances of his life would be made right.

Because you can't suppress love, nor escape fate.

How rotten of him, to once reject the fickleness of fate, the ambiguity of religion. How utterly naive, to endure a life so painfully ungodly and yet there was you—you and your sanctity what delivered him from ruin, cleansed the filth of his character with sweet words and subtle smiles. You, in all your nobility, who picked a beggar from the capital slums and appointed him as your guard.

yandere knight, who could only hope to atone and do good by you, to reimburse even a fraction of the tenderness you spared him. The mere insinuation was sacrilegious in itself—that a sinner could indeed resemble absolute holiness. And so, he prayed.

yandere knight, who prayed with bruised knees and wetted cheeks into the late hours of the night, who awaited your every will and decree during the seconds of the day. Understanding the sugar that painted your lips, and the syrup what wafted his heart, for what it was. Law.

Law that was made to be obliged by every second, minute, hour of every year by every person in every millennium. There was only one word for someone qualified to command such absurdity.

yandere knight, who committed blasphemy by its very nature when condemning another in a furor of loathing and madness. To the swordsman, his greatest fault of the matter was not the crime of murder, envy or rage. It was not the cruelty of slaughtering a man from the hairs of his head to the filth of his soles on the mere basis of jealousy and bitterness. It was not the irony of his actions—his morals were nurtured by your demands alone. Anything else was irrelevant.

It wasn't any of the things what had to do with his duty as a knight, a protector, or the misguided morals of the kingdom. No, to the swordsman, his grave sin was his irreverence to you, and the revulsion plastered atop your face when inevitably came the aftermath.

The gentleness you'd regard him with what would overwhelm him entirely and settle warm in his stomach and hot on his cheeks. The placid nectar in your voice, supple with kindness and care, even for those utterly undeserving. The softness of your palm he'd felt only once yet desired so profoundly, and his own, now calloused and bloodied, while you observed in terror.

yandere knight, who had decried his maker.

yandere knight, who's heart smoldered a potent shame, blistered and searing. He had forsaken the only one to matter, committed impiety, even when he had so greedily accepted his appointment as your knight. When his hued cheek lingered along the tenderness of your fingers, and as his lips trembled and settled against them.

Even when he had almost succumb to euphoria in the midst of the knighting ceremony, he had forsaken you. Like a selfish mutt to its owner.

For it was not the act of murder, but the rejection of you and your holiness. The rejection of Alexander—the name you had bestowed upon him, and all its implications.

yandere knight, who was offered rebirth and renewal, only to respond with scorn and sacrilege.

Cheeks then painted a burning pink now smeared with red. Scarred palm candidly wielding his steel blade, gifted by you, sun-kissed by the excruciating agony that was doing wrong by you. All without regard for the corpse before him.

And yet you, with the anguish that pervaded your eyes and the sorrow what ached your heart, approached the sight in all its gore, for him. To survey his state, through all his offenses.

A miscreant turned murderer, and the divine what'd always absolve him.

yandere knight, who didn't know it before, but he knew it now. There was only one word, after all.

A god.

yan! outlaw, who told himself it was the circumstances of his profession what herded his two feet like that of a cattle every night to the establishment. He who told himself it was either that or his tawdry motel suite, that it was the dull warmness of saloon beer and not you, the bartender.

A quarter a bit, was what it cost him. A mere coupla' cents for a commonplace beverage, and yet it impacted him so remarkably.

yan! outlaw, who'd heart sweltered the pump of adrenaline, the kind what when he'd aim his revolver to his bounty and his fingers—rugged and calloused, would hover over the cool metal of the trigger. When his pupils went jittery and the beat in his ears overwhelmed all else.

yan! outlaw, who just about keeled over right where he sat whenever you sauntered over with his drink.

yan! outlaw, who'd subconsciously, in all his stature, shift his bearings n' walk light when around you, as if your skin was born from porcelain and the full weight of his soles would shatter it.

yan! outlaw, who knew there was no space for somethin' sweet what you were in his life, yet found himself wondering. Wondering if you'd spare a fella' like him the time of day, wondering if he'd let you, if he'd like it.

If you'd like it.

He wasn't a fool, he knew it was your job to lasso in genteel folk and bastards alike, serpentine them in your clutches and wring them of any coin what you could muster about your fingers, smooth and unsuspecting.

A ruthless gunfighter who very well knew the nature of his job, and the nature of yours. Who insisted he was no fool, yet was ever so eager to wonder like one.

yan! outlaw, who had never once regret his chosen direction in life, not the revolver what he carried on his hip nor the whispers what followed. Never sought repentance for the blood he'd puddle by his boots in exchange for a copper coin and its pretty luster.

yan! outlaw, who had never more wished for normalcy, dignity and all other conventions he hadn't concerned himself with when he saw the manner what the candlelit warmth of the saloon would settle on your cheeks, and how you'd curl your lips at him all sincere and gentle-like. Spoke at him with honeyed tones what had no business stirring what it did in his gut, and once again, he found himself wondering.

Had he become some law-abiding ranch hand instead of what he was, would you consider him? Would it be acceptable for him to offer you all he could, be the only one to kiss you sweet-like and give you what you need? An intimate wedding, a pretty house by the lake.

But alas, he was sensible. For he was not a lawful rancher, not your doting husband—but an outlaw what did outlaw things.

yan! outlaw, who'd cup your cheek and run the pad of his thumb along its bone, whispering assurances as the two of you long slipped out of reach of the lawmen what pursued.

Even what with the thick ropes around your limbs and the tears painted upon your skin he felt a sense of romance under the moonlight and as his horse trotted about—a new beginning between a cruel gunman and his pretty fiancé.

It hadn't mattered what gunfighter they sent after him, which sheriff from what county, the amount of zeroes they marked onto his bounty.

Because when has the law ever stopped him?