#witcher reader

“Damn, how many hours have passed now? I cannot feel my arms anymore!”, cursed Fenri, supporting his hands on his knees to take a breather. Cole checked their surroundings before he lowered his steel sword and sat on one of the meager patches of grass in the courtyard. 

The sun shone directly on his face and the keep’s high walls created long shadows on the ground. They had been training for hours now and Deglan had yet to come and tell them to stop.

Their group consisted of 8 boys who had miraculously survived the trials of Grasses and they had been in the school for around 3 years now and therefore knew how shit worked in the school’s keep. 

Consequently, it was a normal occurrence for the witcher to leave their training unsupervised, while he checked on the lessons of the younger ones. But despite his absence, he always seemed to sense when they were slacking off. 

And that often happened when their younger friend Wendir was with them. The boy was originally part of a younger group but he was the only survivor during the trials of the Grasses and due to his fate, he would often train with them, although he was known to tempt the other boys to take a break. He was unexpectedly lazy for a witcher apprentice.

Yet, this time the boys did not fear Deglan’s wrath because they were accompanied by their friend Y/N, who had finally recovered from his last alchemical experiments.

If Deglan ever discovered their break, the older one would save them from his harsh punishments. They could trust Y/N due to the many experiences they had shared and the times he had saved them selflessly during their trials. Therefore, they rested their sore bodies for a while.

Said youth was currently wiping the sweat from his forehead, although he did not look nearly as exhausted as the rest of them. His breathing was shockingly even for the fact that they had just swung their swords 1000 times at straw puppets.

However, this was not a surprise at all for any of the boys.

Y/N was the oldest among them, he had the most fighting experience and he also underwent the most additional experiments. The scars and muscles on his lean body were proof of that. Y/N's stamina and capabilities were already beyond a child of his age, which gave him quite a few admirers but also rivals.

The blond Fenri followed Y/N's gaze across the courtyard. He was once again staring at Tristan - one of the young witchers who took care of the new brats. He did not know why Y/N seemed to always gaze at the black-haired man with an unreadable expression but it had reached a point where it annoyed him to death. So he opened his gob and said words he would regret for years in the future:

“You know if you continue to stare, someone might start to think you fancy the man.”

Fenri’s comment made the other guys focus on him, their laboured breathing hindered them from asking questions though. Yet Y/N, the person he addressed did not pay him any attention. His yellow eyes did not even move an inch away from Tristan’s form. 

“What do you mean?”, asked Cole breathlessly. 

“One might think Y/N is in love with Tristan.” 

Fenri watched the oldest of their group closely to see any kind of reaction from his words and the corner of his lips twitched when he saw how the h/c haired boy straightened his back and turned towards him, a contemplative expression on his face. 

“What’s wrong with that?”, asked Barmin, curiously staring at his friend.

Seven pairs of eyes looked at him expectantly and Fenri had to pause for a second. He did not exactly know how to answer that question but it was not like he was spouting lies. His mother told him when he was younger and still lived with his family. It was just wrong.

“You cannot be in love with a man," he responded confidently. “Men love women, women love men, that is the law of nature. Men loving men is... gross.” 

The boys did not look convinced and while he tried to find a better response to why love between two men was wrong, the blond noticed that Y/N focused his attention on their training again, he raised his dull training blade about to swing at one of the straw puppets once more. 

Fenri frowned in annoyance. It seemed as if he could never truly rattle the older boy he considered his rival. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. One day he would triumph over the other, whether that would be in a conversation or battle.

Robin and Milan began to argue about his words and their voices got louder and louder now that they had regained their breaths. 

“Who said you cannot like another boy? Is it not just love?” 

“I have never liked another boy or been liked by one before! So it isn’t natural, it cannot be!” 

“That is just because you have a brain the size of mouse shit and a nose like a potato! No one would like you anyways, be it a girl or a boy!” 

“Fuck, what did you just say?! You want to fight?”

“As if you’d win against me!”

Their argument turned a few heads of passing witchers and students and Fenri sensed that if he did not stop them soon, they could expect an angry Deglan on their arses at any second. 

“Did you fools not listen to the talk of our seniors? They said themselves that we want to fuck broads left and right when we finish all of our experiments! Women NOT men!”

He hoped this argument was enough to silence them. He did not expect his teasing to initiate a fight. And judging by the eyes on his two friends who were at each other’s throats, they had been loud enough to draw attention. 

Luckily, they quickly shut their mouths when Cole stared at them disapprovingly. The boy looked somewhat like a scolding mother and it was very effective. Hopefully, they didn’t alert Deglan. Who knew where he was lurking...

The fact that he used rather crude words did not come to his mind until he heard someone clear his throat behind him and based on it, he knew exactly why everyone had turned dead silent and why Y/N had turned around and stared at him - or most likely at Deglan behind him who had mysteriously shown up out of nowhere.

“What a nice discussion you have during your training. Would you like some fucking tea served to it?” 

Fenri tensed and did not know if he should turn around or not. Before he could do anything though, Y/N stepped forward with his steel sword. Cole sighed in relief.

“No tea, sir,” was all the boy said when he changed his posture into a defensive stance, sword tip pointing at Deglan. He held his sword firmly in his hand, ready to distract their mentor from his friends like usual. 

Had Fenri turned around, he would have seen the glint of amusement in Deglan’s eyes, one that only showed when the h/c haired boy uselessly tried to cover for his friends by challenging the witcher to a fight. Even now he tried it even though he caught them red-handed while they slacked off.

Deglan and everyone else knew Y/N would always lose - the fool himself knew - he was just a brat after all, but Deglan found it amusing that the boy tried again and again. His desperate attempts of creating a diversion amused him greatly.

The witcher saw through it every time, yet he never punished the boy, nor his friends too harshly. 

Deglan found Y/N’s protective spirit commendable and it impressed him every time how fast he came up with new fighting tactics. Furthermore, the injuries that the boy sustained in each fight were probably punishment enough. 

“Ready for round 24? Or is it 25?” he asked the h/c haired youth while rolling his left shoulder with a subtle smile. 

“Actually it’s 27," Y/N replied, and Deglan hummed. The witcher glanced at the sword in his hands and grinned. 

“I think my fists are enough for today.” 

Y/N frowned. After their seventeenth fight, the witcher had begun to use his sword, so why...? 

His eyes took in his surroundings and he realized that the people in the courtyard, the young witchers, the new candidates and their potential mentors, all were now watching them, even Tristan. 

Automatically Y/N’s heart began to pound faster. His gaze lingered on the black-haired witcher and when something moved in the periphery of his vision, he could only gasp in alarm before he crashed face first in the dirt. A painful groan escaped him and a bolt of pain shot through his neck where Deglan had hit him.  

“Getting distracted means getting yourself killed”, warned his mentor and the laughter of the surrounding witchers made Y/N’s face burn from embarrassment. 

This was the first time in a while that he could not even swing his sword at Deglan before he got humiliated. 

Shame rose in his chest, but he was also angry. Deglan played dirty by attacking him while distracted, although he knew that neither monsters nor human enemies would act chivalrously in a real fight.

One might expect him to have thick skin after 27th defeats but getting embarrassed in front of so many people was different, especially when a certain young man was watching him. 

He wished a hole would open up under him and swallow him whole.

Y/N slowly stood up, mud caked his clothes and his face and he grimaced. He had bit his lip during the fall and the taste of iron was disgustingly familiar. He was about to grasp his sword again, ready for defeat number 28 when Deglan dismissed him with the movement of his hand. 

“Training's over for you, mud face. Go wash yourself and you-”, he pointed at Fenri, Cole and the rest of Y/N’s friends, “you lot follow me.” 

Deglan’s voice turned icy towards the end and he walked past the dirty boy, giving him a strong pat on the shoulder. 

Y/N almost lost his balance but quickly regained it. His ears were red from embarrassment and before Cole could nudge him encouragingly, he turned around and quickly crossed the courtyard to escape the still laughing pack of witchers. 

His defeat hurt more than usual, probably because Tristan had been watching, and it annoyed him. Sighing, he rubbed his face.

When he washed himself that day, he scrubbed his skin vigorously and pondered about the events that happened that afternoon.

He should have felt guilty for not being able to distract Deglan from his friends. They had probably gotten punished with "special” training - exactly what they had wanted to avoid since the last time had been absolutely horrible... But he couldn’t shake off the gnawing irritation. 

It was probably due to Fenri's words.

The younger boy often tried to egg him on, but he rarely succeeded. This time, however... 

Y/N racked his brain about Fenri's statement from before. Was he not allowed to like Tristan? He had never questioned his feelings up to this point so it greatly disturbed him.

"Men loving men... is gross..."

These words would haunt him in the coming years and torment him in his sleep because that had been the moment when he realized that his feelings for another man might be viewed as unnatural by other people. What exactly that would mean for him was something he learned only later, though.

When Y/N had laid down in his straw bed in the stables that night, not sure if he could sleep after the event in the afternoon, Cole nudged him and said: 

"You know, I don’t believe men liking men is gross. We have many other things to worry about, so the feelings of another man are the least of our concerns, nor are they our business. Deglan told us that...” 

He stopped for a second and then whispered: “I think Fenri is acting like a cunt because no girls are training to become witchers. He is just a lonely pent-up arsehole, you know."

Y/N snorted when "I heard that, you bastard!" came from somewhere in the back and some hay flew across the room, hitting Robin, who was laying in another straw hollow right next to him. He sneezed loudly.

“Shit, I was this close to sleeping, you fucker! I’ll get you!”

Chaos ensued, 5 boys were brawling and the discussion was over before Y/N could answer Cole or ask him any questions. 

But a little later, after all of them were screamed at by one of the witchers on night guard; when Y/N was the only one still awake, he contemplated what Cole had meant. 

Did his mentor not have anything against the thought of two men liking each other? Did he take his friends aside to tell them that and not to punish them? 

He would have to ask Cole in the morning... Or should he ask Deglan directly? 

The idea made his heart speed up suddenly. Why was he so nervous?

Out of nowhere, he saw his mentor in a different light.

-

In the end, he did not ask Deglan directly. He was too shy. But his mind replayed Cole’s words for days after that. And that marked the moment when Y/N’s eyes began to unconsciously follow someone other than Tristan. 

Yes, he still watched the black-haired young man from time to time, but their training suddenly entailed a lot more lectures and so he began to see Deglan daily, while Tristan crossed his path less and less. And then came spring and the young witcher went on the Path - as many others - and his absence left a hole in Y/N’s usual routine. A hole he filled with a new person of his interest; Deglan. 

The man was a renowned witcher, known for his strength and knowledge in the school and Y/N had begun to respect him after the first five losses of their duels. His respect began to grow even further, however, after observing Deglan closely every day.

The older witcher was a dick sometimes, his training was harsh, he could be insensitive on occasions and when his arms spasmed in pain after their mindless sword-swinging exercises Y/N hated him with a passion, but there was something about his mentor that drew his eyes to him again and again in the following years of his training.

Maybe it was the way he carried himself, maybe it was the way he treated Y/N or maybe it was his rugged but strong appearance...

The youth watched how Deglan poured a bucket of water over his naked upper body after his training with the older apprentices.

Nevermind, his appearance was definitely one of the reasons why.

A weird feeling spread in his gut, as he watched how water droplets travelled across Deglan’s scarred back muscles. His ears started to burn and the youth at the threshold of adulthood turned away to hack at the training straw doll with newfound vigor. 

-

While Deglan’s appearance definitely drew Y/N in, his character made his eyes return every time.

Thanks to his advanced training and the experiments, he was allowed to share moments with Deglan, when the rough exterior of the man vanished, to show his true character underneath. His kindness, his understanding, his humour. 

Of course, there were also moments when Y/N despised the man. He was his mentor after all and every witcher had such instances during their first years at the school.

When Y/N was subjected to more experiments than the other witchers in training and experienced more pain than them, he often cried at night, cursing Deglan in his thoughts. And he cursed himself for letting himself be overwhelmed by his mentor’s praise after he survived the experiments.

When Cole died during one of the trials because of a mage’s accident and Deglan did not dare speak out against the said man, he exploded on him and screamed his voice raw.

Yet although these incidents happened, Y/N could never truly hate him. Deglan had already conquered his heart.

The older man personally tended to him after his experiments. He cleaned his wounds, stayed up for nights to take care of his fever and made sure he was not left with horrible scars. Thanks to his care, Y/N’s face was not completely disfigured. 

And he made sure that the young adult was proud of his achievements.

Y/N blushed like a maiden every damn time when Deglan commented on his fierce-looking scars, while his heart tried to crawl out of his ribcage and present itself to the other man as if he were a god. 

And when Cole had died Deglan properly buried the boy, let his friends hold a funeral and allowed them a mourning period. They did not have to train then and Y/N spent his time at Cole’s grave, heart heavy and full of guilt. 

One day he had a breakdown, he blamed himself for Cole’s death and he felt the urge to hurt himself - because he should have been the one to die, he should have gone with that magician, it had been his turn - Deglan had given him a good punch and then an even better hug to calm him down. 

Y/N’s dreams had revolved around that embrace for several months when Deglan had gone out on the path, his heartbeat like an echo in his ears and his mentor’s scent and strong arms engulfed him in his sleep.

His dreams changed during these months and more often than not he would wake up sweaty in the morning and he hurried to clean his clothes before his friends would wake up. 

Due to these fantasies, his heart thundered in his ears whenever the older witcher would get too close after his return.

There was something special between them, their bond was more than just apprentice and mentor, Y/N fully believed that and allowed himself to dream.

It only took one summer for Y/N’s thoughts to get captivated by Deglan. Five more for him to finally admit that his feelings for the man were more than just admiration and two winters for him to realize that he wanted, needed Deglan and him to become lovers.

And then one night only, for his older self to learn that he had imagined everything between them, that he was a blind fool...

-

It had been just a normal evening if one ignored the fact that Y/N and his friends had finally reached the end of their training and would become full-grown witchers in about one moon. Soon they would set out alone on the Path for the first time. And simultaneously the day drew near on which Y/N planned to confess his feelings.

At first, it had been just a daydream but the eye contact he had shared with his mentor in the past weeks had only made his feelings stronger and so he decided to gather his courage to confess the day before he would leave for the Path. In case something would go wrong, he could leave quietly, although he did not actually fret about this, he was convinced that Deglan liked him as well.

The aspiring witchers were sitting in the evening hall, drinking ale and playing Gwent after a fulfilling meal, while their mentors told stories and their younger peers listened to them intently.

Suddenly, the door got thrown open and Deglan, followed by the current leader Rennes and two other drunk witchers entered the hall.

Deglan and the two others had gone down the mountains a few days ago because a noble had sent a letter about a beast that woke up early from its hibernation. It seemed like they had just returned. 

“Fuck, Deglan, why is it always you? That lady... Those lips are not just good for talking, you know that personally, right? Tell me and the lads about it!”

Y/N turned his head at the mention of his mentor’s name and he put down the cards in his hands to find the man among the newcomers. He hoped Deglan came back unscathed. 

The drunk witchers whistled loudly and patted Deglan’s shoulders expectantly after they had sat down on one of the tables next to the fire. 

Y/N's eyes found the older man and his heart pounded faster. The ale made him slightly drowsy and his imagination was running wild after seeing how Deglan's shirt was torn at the front, showing his strong abdominal muscles and his impressive scars. He didn’t seem to have any injuries and the h/c haired witcher sighed in relief.

Lewd thoughts rushed through his mind while he watched the man and he remembered one of the daydreams he had in their latest lecture. He moved in his seat and gripped his thigh to calm down before he would embarrass himself.

His mentor swatted the hands of one of the other witchers away and said something incoherent, while Vesemir, the young boy Deglan had brought back a few months ago, hurried to get some ale from the barrels in the corner and gave each of the newcomers a mug.  

“We all saw her eyes, she was like a bitch in heat next to her husband, the poor lad. You’ve been warming her bed, have you not? While that old fart rots away, you cheeky fucker!” hollered one of the drunk witchers before downing his drink in one gulp.

Deglan lowered his head, as if he was embarrassed and gruffly answered: 

“Can’t believe I told you about that...”

These quiet-spoken words echoed loudly in Y/N’s ears due to his mutated hearing. Y/N blinked. The conversations in the hall turned muffled as his heartbeat resounded loudly in his ears and he lowered his eyes to look at his hands which he unconsciously formed into fists.

You’ve been warming her bed... Can’t believe I told you...

Something in Y/N made an ugly noise. Barmin looked up from his cards and tilted his head, worried. His friend opened his mouth and said something but Y/N could not hear it.

Deglan was sleeping with some noblewoman. 

It made sense. 

He was a witcher and they did have an insatiable urge for sex. It was a side effect of the alchemic experiments and for them it was natural. They even had a lecture about it during their first training years. 

But for Y/N, who had experienced the carnal desire several times already since his completion of the trials and who used his hands to deal with the problem, it had been somehow logical that Deglan would not choose to lay with any women. 

His mentor was usually never involved in any of the lewd discussions of the older witchers, so he naturally assumed that Deglan did not bed any ladies ever.

Y/N must have brainwashed himself into thinking that the older man stayed in his room and fucked himself while thinking about him, that’s at least what he had been doing.

But it seemed like he got it all wrong.

It was his own delusion and the realization that he had been wrong all this time hit him like a punch in the throat. It left him breathless.

He felt betrayed - he had no reason to feel betrayed, Deglan was not even aware of this... possessive mess of emotions in his chest that he felt for him - and the realization that whatever feelings and dreams of a shared future Y/N had for Deglan were probably useless dawned on him. 

Fenri’s words from all those years ago once again echoed in his mind. 

“Men loving men is gross.”

An image of Deglan with a beautiful woman appeared in his head. His mentor held her close, one of his hands on her hip and the other held her hands and the man smiled, one of these crooked but beautiful smiles he only seemed to show when Y/N and he were alone. 

And it hurt. It fucking hurt. 

He was unable to transform the image, he could not take the place of that woman because he was as tall as Deglan by now and his spine did not have a soft curve and his hands could not be covered entirely by Deglan’s and all the stupid romance tales Robin dumped on them during their breaks did not entail two men with scars and rough, blister-covered hands and so he could not see himself next to Deglan because it was not meant to be. 

The shitty fairy tale romance he had spun in his mind would never come to life. 

The hope and delusion he had for all these years shriveled in his heart and died.

He had been wrong. The bond he felt between him and Deglan could not be what he had imagined.

Y/N was an orphan, his parents had had no need for him, he had been a waste of space and that was why they dumped him on the orphanage’s doorsteps, and while he did eventually find a home in the witcher’s keep - a home for the outcasts of society - he apparently remained an outsider even here.

An outcast among outcasts, was this not the fucking worst? 

Y/N cursed the experiments that gave him better hearing, he cursed the witcher who brought him to the school, he cursed his heart for once again choosing an unreachable person and he cursed the world for making him the way he was.

And he cursed Deglan for treating him so kindly, as if he were special, as if there was something between them, something that could grow and turn into love and make them soulmates. 

His mentor probably only treated him better because he had been praised as an exceptional student, a perfect test subject for experiments and a great fighter.

Not because he saw who Y/N really was, what he longed for...

How could he even think about confessing his feelings?!

He had to stifle a hollow laugh because of the irony and before Barmin or Fenri or Milan or any other of their table’s occupants could say anything, he abruptly stood up and left the hall. 

His way led him past the table where Deglan was sitting but Y/N’s eyes remained fixed on the door and even when his mentor called out his name, he did not turn around. 

He disappeared behind the wooden door of the hall and missed the dark look in Deglan's eyes as the man watched the retreating back of the younger witcher. 

He missed his mentor’s furious gaze on the drunk witcher who spouted nonsense and Rennes’ commentary that Deglan would never fuck some random noble woman, in fact, he wasn’t sure if the guy even had a dick because he never lusted after any woman, no matter if she were a virgin, succubus or a literal goddess.

You rolled your eyes. "That was a single slip. Another thing I've seen the error on. I've developed, I've grown. You have to admit that some things are hard to shake, like a word you shouldn't say or a prejudice you were taught as a small child. I wasn't really given a choice on who to sympathize with in the conflict. Cats and Elves, we go together. Call it a commiseration of outcasts."

He let out a long sigh before dropping his hand to yours. "You talk too much, Cat."

"Well, someone has to fill the silence around you. Jaskier doesn't seem to be around right now, so I'll take that mantle." You licked your lips and hummed as his fingertips slowly caressed the back of your hand. "I could help you fulfill your contract. Two witchers are better than one. What are you after?"

He turned his head just enough to catch your eyes. "You want to help me?"

"I want to fuck you, but I feel you're going to be distracted until you've got your coin so I might as well hasten that instance."

"Can I trust you to have my back in battle?"

You pulled your hand away and shook your head. "If I can alter my preconceived notions of humans, you can alter your notions of Felines. Or, in the very least, of me." You caught his eyes and held them without blinking. "I have known you for decades, Geralt. Can you trust me to have your back?"

He held your eyes for a few moments before he picked up his ale. "It's a graveir. Strength is more important than speed."

"Well, then I'll just have to pull its attention and hope it is hungry for witcher." You smiled. "And you can kill it before it eats me."

He smiled just a bit as he set his mug down. "Perhaps I'll let it eat you, kill it while it is sated and happy."

"Aww, but then the great White Wolf would never get to eat his fill of this Feline ever again."

He smirked as you set a coin on the bar and requested an ale of your own. "And what brought you to Kagen, Y/n?"

You smiled at the use of your name. "Tracking a man." His eyebrow went up so you clarified. "Just tracking. He's a historian. There's some question of the authenticity of some of the Aen Seidhe artifacts he's 'found'. He's at the whore house two down so I thought I'd have a drink while he was busy. A lucky stroke to find you."

"If you help me with the graveir, you might lose him."

You took a drink of your ale and turned on the stool. "You think we can't take down a graveir and have a fun night before a middle-aged human historian wakes from his well-deserved nap after a night of lust away from his wife?" You leaned next to his ear and whispered, "Are you underestimating me or yourself?"

"I could never underestimate you." He tipped his head back and finished off his ale and you chugged down your own. It was time to work.

As you moved to follow Geralt out of the tavern, a tall man with a sunburned face stepped in front of you.

"I didn't know they made witchers with tits," the foul-smelling farmer said with a guffaw at the end for good measure.

"Well, you've never seen the Butcher of Blaviken with his shirt off, have you?" you snapped, stepping away from him.

"You're a real one, then? You got the eyes, I see. They do all those mutations on you? Hear witchers are like a bitch in heat but cain't procreate. Now there's a perfect woman, right? Always ready to be filled, but never able to give me any more little brats."

Geralt sneered at the man's words but you just shook your head. "I guarantee no woman wants to be filled by you or your brats. Especially not this woman."

The drunk looked offended for a moment before he scoffed. "You're not a woman. You're a fuckin' mutant. Wouldn't want your-"

A blade was in your hand and held against his throat in a flash. "I'm a fucking mutant and a fucking woman and I want nothing to do with you."

"Apologize," Geralt demanded, quiet and intent.

The drunk looked down at the knife and blinked a few times, then nodded. "Sorry."

Your blade was back in its sheath on your hip before he could take another breath. "Let's go, Geralt."

"Hmm." He pulled open the large wooden door and walked out, you followed.

~~~~~~~~~~~

"When's the last time you saw the Caravan?" Geralt asked as you headed for the woods.

"You really don't think I've changed, do you?" He gave a noncommittal grunt so you rolled your eyes. "Even after that slime back at the tavern? I didn’t kill him. I didn't even hurt him. I didn't even spout off and call him a...well, if anyone deserves to be slurred, it's a man like that and I held my tongue." You reached out and slapped your hand across his chain mail. "Haven’t seen hide nor hair of Dyn Marv in…"

You rubbed your fingers across your eyes and shook your head. "I abandoned the Caravan the day I met you. The ideals were harder to shirk but I left my school the moment I realized that Gezras wasn't quite the savior they claimed. You had it right. You and the others up at Kaer Morhen, you know how...how a witcher's supposed to act. You were trained in the codes and morals, I wasn't."

"No, you were trained blindfolded on a tightrope across the rooftops of Oxenfurt."

"Let it never be said that Cat School is without our flair." You smiled over at him. "And it was Oxenfurt, the Cintran Capital, and Vengerberg. Nomads and all that."

Geralt looked over at you and smiled. "I can imagine the Cintran guard were very happy to have a bunch of witchers crawling across their roofline."

"Oh none of them ever cared for having a bunch of witchers in their city let alone running training exercises across their roofs. But not a one tried to stop us. You'll recall, there was a time when most feared and respected us more than they hated us."

"I don't recall people ever fearing Cat School," he teased.

"Ah-ha, you're so hilarious, Geralt. My sides are in stitches from all this laughter," you responded dryly.

You walked in relative silence for a few moments, your boots making no sound on the tall grass. "I didn't know meeting Vesemir affected you so much," he said eventually.

"Oh, yes. It was wise old Vesemir that showed me the error of my ways, not the dashing white-haired man who rode into Novigrad after him."

"Dashing. That's a new one."

"I'm absolutely certain it is not a new one, Geralt. Not for any woman who's had the pleasure to make your acquaintance." Your cheeks heated up in a way you imagined his never did. Wolves dulled emotion. So did Bears, and Vipers, and most schools. Most pushed down emotions to make a witcher less susceptible to fear and anger and sadness. Cat School was different. You were reminded of that every time you were around Geralt. "I bet 'dashing' would be one of the first words they'd use to describe you: the Triss Merigolds and Yennefer of Vengerbergs of the world."

He looked over at you as you approached a cemetery filled with recent dead from a bandit attack on the outskirts of Kagen. "Hmm. Is that jealousy I hear?"

"No!" you responded just a little too loud. "What do I have to be jealous of? They're two supernaturally beautiful sorceresses who've been part of your life much longer than I have. Besides, none of us really gets you for more than a night or two, right?"

He grunted softly in agreement, then offered a potion from his belt. You took it and swallowed it down, feeling your already-fast reflexes get a boost. "You're supernaturally beautiful too. It will make you better graveir bait."

You couldn’t focus on the compliment he'd given you as he pointed to a bloated ghoul digging into a fresh grave with short, strong claws. He was gone by the time you looked back but you could sense him moving around the outside of the cemetery.

Normally, this was the point when you'd draw your silver; approaching a ghoul as it ripped a limb from a corpse to make its meal for the night. The sword stayed on your back with your steel, however. You were to take its attention so Geralt could kill it from behind.

It was fairly easy, actually. You and Geralt, working in tandem, had the graveir as dead as his dinner before there was a chance for real trouble. It noticed you, it rushed you, you dodged and dodged and threw a punch or three to its ugly face and then Geralt appeared in your vision and the graveir met the sharp blade of a witcher's silver sword. No muss, very little fuss, and very little blood.

"You did good as bait," Geralt commented as you walked back toward the city. "Maybe I should have you play the snack on hunts more often."

"Oh? A snack for the monsters or a snack for yourself?"

"I'm serious. We work well together."

"It's not the first time we've worked together."

There had been, in fact, two other monsters that you helped Geralt with. A wraith terrorizing a man in Novigrad that you helped him with when you first met each other and a wyvern you encountered on the road. Geralt happened to have the contract on the wyvern and showed up to take it down as you were in the midst of killing it.

He graciously shared a portion of the coin garnered from his contract.

He hummed in acknowledgement. “You should come with me.”

You stopped and turned to look at him. “What?”

“Once you’ve fulfilled your contract on the historian, you should saddle up and travel with me. You said it yourself, ‘two witchers are better than one’.”

You looked up into his eyes and blinked a few times. “You miss Vesemir so much that you would travel with me just to have another witcher at your side?”

“Why don’t we leave it at ‘I enjoy your company’?” he suggested.

You started walking again, heading toward your mare, a Konik named Daisy, and Geralt’s mare, Roach. “Will you be staying in Kagen for a while?”

“I have a room at the inn. I can stay in Kagen until you return.”

“You’re serious about me coming with you? I thought sweet nothings were whispered in the throes of passion, not in the aftermath of battle.”

“You don’t have to come with me, Y/n.”

You shook your head. “I’ll have to think about it, Geralt.” You didn’t want to anger any sorceresses. You climbed up into Daisy’s saddle and grabbed her reins. “For now, let’s go to the inn. A bath and a bed sound amazing,” you said, before riding toward the city.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The tub was small but you weren’t large. “How do you fit in this thing?” you asked, dunking yourself under the warm water.

“I’m very good at fitting into tight spaces.” Geralt stepped up behind you and kneeled down, setting his chin on your bare shoulder. “Do you need help getting clean?”

“No. But I’d love a bit of help getting dirty again after I’m done.” He hummed and nodded, turning his head to press his lips to your neck. You hummed happily and turned your head to give a bit more access and he took the invitation, running his hand down your body and under the water. You gasped as his fingers brushed your curls. “I’m not clean yet, Geralt.”

“Clean enough.”

You pressed closer to him, arching your hips and reaching back to grab the back of his head, pulling him further down. “More,” you whispered. He chuckled, slipping a finger down to tease your entrance. “Fuck, don’t tease.”

“Why not?” He nipped at your jawline and gave a low hum. “You know...the first time I heard your voice, I knew I’d have to hear you moan.” You gasped as his finger slipped into you down to the knuckle, your fingers digging into his scalp as the heel of his palm pressed into your clit. “I knew I’d have to feel you cum on my cock when I smelled you in the heat of battle.”

You moaned at the thought of Geralt, barely knowing your name, deciding that he’d have to have you just based on scent. It was something so animalistic, so inhuman...so uniquely witcher.

You twisted in the water and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in for a fierce kiss. You didn’t wait for an invitation into the cavern of his mouth, tugging on his bottom lip with your teeth as he gathered your body in his arms and carried you to the lumpy bed across the room. You pushed at his clothes without breaking the kiss, desperate to taste and feel him. Your fingers skimmed across the lines of his back muscles as you pulled his shirt off. His fingertips dug into your hips and moved to put bruising pressure on your ass as you started untying his trousers.

The man was a specimen. The mages at Kaer Morhen made the best of him. You didn’t have time to examine the body and the cock that were so prominent in your wettest dreams because he was obviously just as desperate for you. He got his trousers down and reached between your bodies, taking his length in hand and smearing the head of it in the wetness seeping out of you. You were just about to start begging when he slipped his cock into your cunt.

You lifted your hips to get more of him inside of you. You needed him stretching you and stuffing you. You needed him pushing you to the absolute limits. He fit you better than any ever had.

He rocked his hips against yours, his pelvis putting pressure against your clit as his cock barely moved against your walls. You wrapped your legs around him, ankles crossed at the small of his back, urging him deeper. He growled and grabbed your wrists, pulling your hands from his shoulders to pin them to the bed above your head.

No other man could put you in such a position. No other man controlled you like Geralt. You would never think to let it happen. No man, not even another witcher, could play you like such a fine instrument. A beautiful lute.

Part of you wished you didn't heal so efficiently, so quickly. Part of you wanted to wear his marks upon you for days, but his marks, just like the scent of your coupling, faded far too quickly for your liking. It left you with nothing but the memory and that just wasn't enough. Not when the man you were remembering was so...amazing.

You whimpered out a faint request and he heeded it, slamming his hips into yours harder. You struggled against his grip, desperate to get your hands in his hair, wanting to tug on the white locks, but he refused to relinquish control of your wrists. He gave you everything you needed, but not necessarily what you wanted.

Like you wanted to hear his voice, but the only time you really needed to hear it was when he leaned down next to your ear and demanded, “Cum, Cat.” Your toes curled and your head pressed back into the pillow, your hips arching closer to his as that finally cracking pleasure fell over you. Geralt lasted a while longer before he filled you, his cock pulsing against your walls as his breath caught in his chest, fingers tightening around your wrists as he came.

He pressed sweet kisses along your jawline as he pulled his half-hard member from your dripping pussy and his hands released your wrists to slide his fingers up to entwine with yours. You ended up with your legs tangled with his, neither of you seeming to care about the wetness of sweat and cum sticky between both of your thighs. You kept one of your hands clutched in his, but pulled the other away so that you could run your fingers through his hair as you stared at the ceiling.

“Do you give it much thought?” you asked, quietly. He made a questioning noise and popped open one eyelid to look up at you from where his head was on your breast. Your cheeks heated up and you licked your lips. “What they did to us. What the mages made of us. What they took from us.”

“Took?”

“Options. The options they took from us. We were children, Geralt. We were babies. They stole…” You cut your words off with a shake of your head. “I guess I’m the only one who thinks about it...and I can’t really imagine being some normal peasant wife with a litter of children and a world of misery, but I...I guess there’s some sweetness in the simplicity of their lives, you know? And I hate that I was never given that option. I was deprived of simplicity before I was even aware there was a difference between the folk in the Caravan and the rest of the world.”

Geralt was silent, but the way his fingers tightened their grip upon your hand filled you with a sense of calm. “People hate us, Geralt. They think us heartless, emotionless, cold. I learned to fake it, because that’s what people expect from someone with two blades on their back and these lovely eyes, but-”

“Cat School doesn’t dull emotions.”

“No. Not even with training. That’s a learned reaction to the outside world. I miss Dyn Marv fiercely sometimes because it’s...lonely away from people who understand. It’s hard to walk the Continent alone.”

He closed his eye and shifted a bit against you. “Why aren’t you with them, then?”

“Differences of morality.”

He was silent for a few minutes, just the sound of your breathing filling the room. “Opposites attract.”

“What?”

“It’s something the bard says. The idiot heard it from an alchemist once and he likes to believe it applies to relationships too. It’s why he goes after beautiful, cultured, married women. ‘Opposites attract’.” He sat up and looked down into your eyes. “But it’s horseshit. We look for companions that remind us of us. It’s why all of his women are as enamored with him as he is. Opposites don’t attract, Y/n...and that’s why you are someone I can’t say ‘no’ to.”

“Because we’re so alike?” you guessed.

“Yes.”

“Just because I’ve changed though, right?”

“No. You changed because you weren’t truly that woman. You were what the mages made you. What your teachers made you. You changed when you decided to.”

You licked your lips again and sat up a bit on your elbows. “What about your sorceresses?”

He smirked a little. “I don’t have sorceresses, Y/n.”

“Lovers. Ex or current?” you simplified the question.

“Current. Obviously,” he said, sarcastic humor in his voice as he ran his hand down your body.

You rolled your eyes and tried to ignore the way his touch lit your skin aflame with sparks of desire. “Geralt, I’m serious. If Yennefer were to ride into Kagen right now...if she knocked on that door…”

“Yen would just walk in. She’s never been one for other peoples’ privacy.” He leaned his head down when you didn’t express amusement at his jest, pressing his forehead to yours. “I could lie.”

“Not really. You’ve not proven yourself a good liar, Wolf.”

“True. I prefer honesty.” He sighed and looked away, sitting up to lean his back against the wall.

“Would you turn her away? Would you turn away Triss?” You sighed heavily. “I’m not trying to sound...like such a sodding woman, but...Geralt, you asked me to come with you. That seems like-” His pensive face made you question what you were even trying to get at. “You know what? I think it’d be better if I just head back to my job following Professor Lery and-”

“Don’t.” He grabbed your arm as you moved to get off the bed. “I care for Triss and I think I...loved Yennefer. But I...don’t think we’ll be an option again. She’s been upset at me since Triss.”

“Won’t this-”

“Stop questioning everything.” You closed your eyes as he leaned over and kissed you again. “Stay.”

“I have to finish the contract, Geralt. I’ve already been paid a hundred-fifty gold for it.”

“Then come back,” he demanded softly.

You smiled at him and nodded, but your heart was far less resolute than you were pretending. “Of course. Don’t go anywhere.” You rolled off the bed and grabbed your trousers and shirt, dressing hastily before grabbing your swords and potion belt. You kissed him one more time before leaving the room, swiping a loaf of bread off of a table in the tavern on your way out.

“Always,” Geralt replies before stepping forward and piercing the first wolf with his sword. Instinctively, you bounce onto the ball of your feet and run in the opposite direction towards your half of the pack. Your movements are light and graceful as you bring your sword far above your head, then down with enough brute force to decapitate the first beast. Before a second wolf can jump at you, you pirouette out of the way, then slash at the wolf’s belly. A third and fourth one flank you, but you manage to roll out of the way in the nick of time. You make quick work of the remaining wolves, and when you turn around to check on Geralt, you see the other witcher panting heavily among a heap of dead wolves. Your eyes meet, but he doesn’t match your giddy grin. 

Geralt, always the soft-hearted son of a bitch. 

“Let’s go,” you urge him as you wipe the blood off your sword with the hem of your shirt, “like our instructors at Stygga said, where there’s a way in, there has to be a way out.” 

You hear Geralt grumble something unintelligible under his breath, but you decide to ignore him in favour of searching for said way out. As far as you’re concerned, he can either be part of the problem, or part of the solution. You know which side you picked. Eventually, Geralt falls into step with you, and the two of you scan your surroundings in a companionable silence. While Geralt seems unsettled and nervous, you find yourself smiling as you saunter through these strange lands. You always affectioned chaos more than order, anyway. Chaos is your element. 

You know Geralt doesn’t feel that way, but that’s why you two are the perfect match. Opposites attract, or so they say. 

After a while of walking around the place and not encountering other enemies, you’re beginning to think that whoever is in charge of this place wants to toy with you and Geralt. A mage is behind this, there’s no doubt about that, and a clever one at that. They, whoever they might be, must be observing you from afar. It’s like an elaborate game of cat and mouse. The thought makes you smile, and you thumb your medallion again. 

You always enjoyed a good mouse chase. 

Eventually, something begins to change. The world around you darkens as black clouds roll in over your heads, heavy with the promise of rain and thunder. When the first drop of water hits your skin, you feel an unfamiliar itch right where it hit you. Not thinking much about it, you poke your tongue out and catch the raindrop that hit your lips. The tangy, metallic taste of blood fills your mouth… and that’s when you see it. This is no regular rain. This is a shower of blood. 

How very dramatic!

“Of all things, you would have thought that the rain was innocuous enough,” Geralt shouts over the low rumbling of thunder, “turns out, nothing is innocuous in this Gods forsaken place!” 

“Geralt, look!” You point north, where your keen eyes caught the sight of something shimmering in the distance. “The portal! Run, we don’t have much time.” 

You sprint in that direction, confident that Geralt will be close behind you - or at least, you hope he is. You don’t look back and make a beeline for the portal in the distance. The rain falls harder, lightning hitting the ground right next to your feet. It is only thanks to your feline-like reflexes that you manage to dodge the treacherous strikes. Out of the corner of your eyes, you can see that Geralt has caught up with you and is expertly sidestepping various monsters the mage conjured out of nowhere. The portal is just within reach. You’re almost there… almost… Then you hear it. The distinct sound of something tackling Geralt to the ground. You stop dead in your tracks, your eyes darting between your freedom and the witcher you have come to care very deeply about. Your heart is racing in your chest… the choice really shouldn’t be so difficult. 

“Y/N!” you hear Geralt call out to you, “Y/N, save yourself!”

He’s giving you permission to leave him. You briefly consider doing just that, your eyes lingering on the portal. You think that if you’re fast enough, you’ll be able to make it. But a small voice inside your voice tells you that this is more than that. This is the mage toying with you both now. Why else would the portal remain open for so long? Whoever they are expect you to leave Geralt behind… and you won’t give them that satisfaction. You unsheathe your sword and fight off the beasts - nekkers, as it turns out - tackling Geralt to the ground. 

“What are you doing?” he roars, and there’s a desperate edge to his tone that you’re unfamiliar with, “Y/N, save yourself! The portal…”

You ignore Geralt’s protests as you feel your blood rage consume you. Geralt’s voice dies in his throat at the sight of you butchering the group of nekkers which a few seconds ago had been pinning Geralt to the ground. You aren’t aware of your own movements anymore, your emotions having well and truly taken over your instincts and lowered your inhibitions. Only when you’ve killed every last nekker do you hoist Geralt to his feet and pull him towards the portal once more. 

You don’t know how you made it in time - perhaps the mage took pity on you - but the next thing you know, you feel yourself fall through the portal. You feel like being dragged through space and time by a hook attached to your navel. It’s uncomfortable and painful, but over within several seconds. The air in your lungs is knocked out of you when you hit the ground with brute force. You hear the distinct snapping of bones as both you and Geralt collapse on the forest floor, followed by pained groans falling from both your mouths. 

“Fuck!” he curses breathily, “That was close.”

“Too fucking close.” You hiss as you try to push yourself up onto your knees. “Shit! There go my ribs.”

“Tell me about it. I think I broke my arm.”

“We’ll live,” you state conversationally, as if you were discussing the weather. A near hysterical laugh pushes past your lips. “Shit, Geralt. I was right. I told you if there’s a way in, there’s always a way out.”

You watch Geralt roll onto his side and sit up, face pulled in a pained frown as he cradles his broken arm to his chest. Your eyes widen at the sight of him, caked in dry blood from the torrential rain, giving Geralt a near feral look. You guess you don’t look in much better shape if the look in his amber eyes is anything to go by. You manage to crawl up to him and catch his lips in a sloppy kiss. 

“Thank you,” he whispers in a gravelly voice in between heated kisses, “for coming back for me.”

“Don’t let it get to your head,” you tell him, “you’d have done the same for me. You wolf witchers are all self-sacrificing bastards.” 

“Only for the people who deserve it,” Geralt adds as he cups your face with the hand attached to his good arm, “make of that what you will.”

You offer a kinder smile, your eyes softening as you take in the sight of your lover. You’re both alive. You both made it. Not that you ever doubted that for a second. Well… maybe for a tiny second.