#witcher x reader

The moon hung low over the darkened forest, casting eerie silver light through the twisted branches. You used your Witcher senses to hear out any noise, you stopped hearing the footsteps of men,the shouts, the clinking of steel. Hunters. They’d been tracking you for days now, ever since your last contract in Nilfguard, which ended up exposing what you truly were. They’d asked for a Witcher, but when a female Witcher came along, that was when it turned.

A female Witcher. One of the only surviving ones. A relic of doomed experiments from the School of the Cat. You were one of the surviving ones. To most, your very existence was tolerated, if only out of fear. But to others, men who thought they had any right of any woman, you were an abomination,unnatural, unpredictable. To them, you were an irrational monster that needed to be put down before it spread. Your lungs burned as you stopped sprinting between ancient oaks and bramble thickets, leaping over roots with feline grace,your mutations giving you speed they could have never matched.

The forest is silent except for the distant hoot of an owl. You pause, pressing your back against a moss covered tree. Suddenly the snap of a twig underfoot. Too close.

You whirl around, steel sword half drawn before noticing them golden eyes in the distance,meeting your own feline eyes. His face is impassive, but there’s something… different in his stare. Recognition? Curiosity? The air hums between you like the tension before a storm.

Geralt's POV

He’d been tracking a trail of blood,humans, not a monster. Men, hunters by the looks of it. The scent was fresh, mixed with something else… mutagens. Familiar, but different.

Then he saw you, more like he walked in the direction of you, a pulling feeling in his chest. You were panting, then like lightning your blades were drawn, golden eyes flashing in the dark like a cornered animal.

You spun towards him,steel hissing from its sheath. Instinct made his own sword arm tense. His eyes flicked to the steel sword clutched in your hand, then up to your face, taking in your features: feline pupils, slender limbs coiled with tension.

A Witcher. He'd never seen a female Witcher before. He'd thought it impossible; the mutagens too fierce, too deadly.

"Lower your blade. I mean you no harm," he said, his voice gravelly and measured as his own sword remained at his side.

Your POV

His voice was low. His golden eyes studying you with a sharp focus.

"You've got hunters on your trail, I am guessing it was you who left a trail of human bodies for me to find” A statement, not a question. He tilts his head slightly toward the very far distant cracks of branches behind you. "Men who think they're chasing prey."

You spot His gaze narrowing at your blades, then it flicks to your medallion, resting against your chest.

"School of the Cat," he murmurs,almost to himself. "So they weren't just stories after all."

The man’s own medallion you notice trembles faintly against his chest as he studies you,not from danger, but something stranger. The school of the wolf. Then the wind shifts, carrying the scent of iron and fear from your pursuers, now barely half a mile behind. You exhale through your nose and the Witcher does the same.

“You’re fast," he remarks, nodding at the tear in your sleeve. “But not fast enough to outrun arrows forever." His hand rests on his horses reins,the mare snorts impatiently.

A beat. Then, gruff but deliberate.

“Two choices. Keep running and kill them alone.. or let me return their hunt with one of my own." His lip quirks,almost humor, almost challenge.

“I don’t care who you are or what school you’re from. But I do care about those men attacking one of my own”. My own. That was new.

The first horn blares in the distance.

“Time's up, Cat."

The Witcher’s fingers twitch near his own sword hilt, not threateningly, but with the readiness of a predator. His golden eyes flicker to the treeline where torchlight now dances between the trunks. The hunters are closing in,reckless, loud, drunk on their imagined victory.

Then his voice again, low, almost amused. You didn’t even know his name.

“let them think they’re hunting you." A pause as he steps closer,not crowding you, just positioning himself between you and the approaching mob. His voice drops to a growl.

"Let them learn what happens when they hunt cats."

The wind carries their rough voices now, their raucous laughter like hyenas.

One of them shouts, "Find more tracks up here. She's near!"

The Witcher grunts,a sound almost like a chuckle,but there's tension in it. "They're eager,what did you do to piss them off so much hmm?” he remarks, more to himself than to you.

His mare snorts in agreement, stamping an impatience hoof as its tail flicks, ears pinned back. Your lips twist into a grim smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. "Exist," you reply dryly.

Then that pulling feeling. The Witcher's head snaps up, his gaze locking on your medallion, or you. You couldn’t tell but he feels it too. Something is happening with this… pull. It feels like... Destiny?

A yell rings out from the trees, closer this time. The men are closing in fast.

The Witcher shifts his weight, eyes darting between the treeline and your face. His mare snorts again, ears pricked, nostrils flaring in the cool air. The first flicker of torches appears through the branches, followed by the men themselves bursting onto the trail. There are four of them, originally 8. They were all rough faced and carrying bows and swords, eyes glittering with drink and bloodlust like hunting dogs on the scent of a fox.

The moment the hunters break through the underbrush, their triumphant sneers twist into shock at the sight of not one, but two Witchers waiting for them,one unmistakably female, her golden eyes gleaming like a predator’s in the firelight. The lead hunter stumbles mid stride, his bravado faltering.

“Wha— There's two of 'em now?!"

The Witcher doesn't move. His voice is steel wrapped in velvet.

"Turn around. Walk away."

But drunken arrogance wins. A crossbow bolt whips towards you instead, until your hand flashes up, Aard spell rippling the air and sending it clattering into the dirt.The men freeze as your spell hums between them like a warning growl.

You begin smirking. “Oh no… you didn’t just try to shoot me." Your fingers curl slowly around your sword hilt. “Now I’m irritated."

The Witcher exhales through his nose,almost approval? Almost amusement? Then his blade sings free as he steps beside you, shoulder to shoulder with this strange Cat who fights like a storm given form. The men’s faces morph from smug confidence to disbelief, even fear. The lead hunter spits on the ground and sneers.

"You think you're something special, do ya? Just cause you're some freak of nature wearing fancy armor?"

You can hear the Witcher's teeth grind beside you, but he doesn't move. He's watching you, waiting. You lean into your stance, smirking. The tension is thick enough to taste, the air alive with a crackle of anticipation.

"Freak of nature?" You reply, tone mocking. "That's rich coming from a man who probably can't tell his ass from his elbow in the daylight."

The lead hunter's face darkens, his grip tightening on his sword. "We'll see how cocky you are when we mount your head on a pike”

Beside you, the Witcher exhales sharply through his nose,almost a laugh. He tilts his head toward you without breaking eye contact with the hunters.

Then he murmurs, voice low and rough like gravel underfoot. “Try not to enjoy this too much."

You flash him a grin,all teeth and no warmth,as your blade hums free of its sheath in one fluid motion. “No promises."

And then chaos erupts in silver flashes and snarled spells as two Witchers descend upon four very foolish men who chose the wrong prey to hunt tonight. This would be an easy fight. The hunters charge. You move in a blur, feinting left before spinning the other way, sword flashing, cutting a silver arc through the dark. The first hunter falls with a choked cry, his sword falling into the bushes with a clatter.

Beside you, the Witcher moves like a predator himself. He's all lean muscle and coiled strength, his blade dancing in time with your own. He fights like a viper, striking fast and silent before vanishing into the shadows again. You fight like a tempest. Brutal, beautiful, a storm made flesh. The men stand no chance. You revel in the fight, all coiled muscle and sharp eyes. The Witcher's mare stomps a hoof, ears pinned as the sounds of battle reach her. The air grows thick with the rank smell of sweat and blood. The two remaining hunters backpedal, their previous cockiness gone. They glance at the fallen bodies,the blood staining the snow,the gleam of your blades in the firelight.

One of them swallows,eyes wide. "Y-you're a monster," he mutters,voice shaking. "A damn abomination!"

You tilt your head, feline pupils narrowing as a slow, chilling smile spreads across your lips.

"Abomination?" Your voice is velvet wrapped in steel. “you think that hurts my feelings? .. well Let me show you what a real monster looks like."

In one fluid motion, you flick your wrist, Igni erupts from your fingertips in a searing spiral. The hunter screams as flames lick up his armor, but before he can drop to the ground and roll, Aard slams into him like an invisible fist. He crashes into the trunk of an ancient oak with a sickening crunch.

The last hunter stumbles back,his sword forgotten in the mud and makes the mistake of turning to run. You’re on him in three strides your mutated speed making it look effortless. You grab him by the scruff of his neck and yank him around to face you. His eyes are wild with terror now; all that drunken bravado has bled out of him like wine from a broken cask.

"You came hunting me…” you purr, pressing the tip of your blade under his chin. "But here’s something no one told you about monsters..." A flicker of Igni sparks around your free hand. “We hunt back.”

And then,just because they called you irrational, just because they think fear makes them right,you let go... and watch as he scrambles away blindly into the dark woods without so much as looking back at his fallen comrades.

The Witcher exhales sharply beside you... not disapproval. No.

Something far more interesting. respect. He sheathes his sword with practiced ease before glancing at where their torches still smolder on bloodied snow.

"...They won't tell tales about this night."

His voice carries finality.

You flick the blood from your blade with a practiced twist before sheathing it, breathing slightly heavier now that the fight has left your veins humming. The Witcher watches you carefully, golden eyes assessing,not with suspicion like most would, but something closer to... understanding?

"You fight well," he rumbles finally. "For a Cat."

You arch a brow at him. "And you don't move half bad for an old Wolf."

The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost humor. Then his medallion thrums faintly again against his chest,yours does too,that strange pull between you still lingering like an unfinished sentence hanging in the cold night air.

In the quiet that follows, his mare stamps an impatient hoof. He rubs a hand through her dark mane before meeting your golden eyes.

"You've got no place to go, do you?"

You don't want to admit it, but he's right. After the debacle in Nilfguard... The Witcher sighs, a heavy sound like the rustle of ancient trees in a winter wind.

"You could travel with me for a while, if you need to. I'm heading north." He glances pointedly at your torn clothes. You study him, searching for any hint of deception. There's nothing,only a steady, honest gaze. He's offering you a way out, a place to rest if only for a while.

You swallow your instinct of distrust, nod once. "I guess traveling together can't hurt."

He grunts,almost in acknowledgement, before moving over to his horse. He offers you a hand and it's too easy to take it,pulling yourself up behind him. Your cloak brushes his side as you settle in, the familiar weight of your swords against your thigh. The mare shifts beneath the unfamiliar weight, but the Witcher murmurs something low and steady in Elder Speech, calming her. As the horse starts forward at a brisk walk, you notice how deliberately he keeps his posture straight,not putting distance between you exactly, but not leaning into the contact either. The silence stretches like an unspoken question.

"...Geralt," he says abruptly, as if remembering basic manners exist. His voice is gruff but not unkind. "My name."

A beat passes before he adds,almost grudgingly. “And before you ask... no, I don't usually pick up strays."

You let out a small laugh, the first genuine sound you've made since meeting. It's a little hoarse, but surprisingly warm.

"Strays, huh?" You reply, unable to help a smirk. “Is that how I'm to be known now? a Stray cat?" You raise a brow, amused.

"Don't worry old wolf, I promise I won't piss on your rug."

Geralt grunts, not quite a laugh, but his shoulders relax the tiniest bit as the tension eases. He shoots you a sidelong glance. There's a hint of a grin there despite himself. The wind whistles in the distance as the horse picks up a trot.

"You're something of a mystery," he retorts, the corners of his eyes crinkling faintly. "Like all felines, I suppose"

You smile at his retort, something about his dry humor making your lips curve.

"Mystery?" You reply, raising an eyebrow. "I merely prefer the shadows, like any good Cat." You shift slightly on the saddle as the horse picks up speed, the night pressing closer around you.

"As for names..." you pause, letting the suspense hang in the air just long enough to pique his curiosity. "My name is y/n."

Geralt inclines his head slightly,acknowledgement, nothing more. But there's something in that small gesture that feels like the first thread of something... uncharted. The road ahead stretches into shadow, but for once, it doesn't feel quite so endless.

————————————-

Next: Two Witchers on the Path,uneasy allies or destined sparks? The hunt continues...

Geralt rode beside you, his head slightly turned, eyes – those piercing, gold eyes – frequently darting to your face. You knew he was nervous, in his own stoic way. Introducing you to Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert, and Coën was a bigger deal than any contract he’d ever taken. This was his family, his last refuge.

"Cold?" he rumbled, his voice a low vibration that always sent a shiver of warmth through you, despite the actual chill.

"Bearable," you replied, pulling your scarf tighter. "It’s... grand. And desolate."

He grunted, a sound of agreement. "Always is. But it’s home."

As the towering, jagged peaks of Kaer Morhen loomed into full view, the sheer scale of the ruins struck you. Broken battlements, crumbling stone, yet an undeniable sense of ancient strength permeated the very air. This wasn't a castle; it was a scar on the land, and a haven for those who bore their own scars.

They were waiting in the courtyard, just as Geralt had predicted. Four figures, all bearing the distinctive Witcher build, even under the heavy winter gear. Vesemir stood front and center, his grey beard long, his eyes sharp and surprisingly kind, even from this distance. Beside him, Eskel, broad-shouldered and steady. Lambert, a sardonic smirk already playing on his lips, and Coën, looking more reserved.

Geralt dismounted first, his movements fluid, then reached up for you. His hand was a solid, reassuring anchor as you slid from the saddle. He didn’t release you immediately, his fingers lingering on your waist, a subtle possessiveness, a silent declaration.

"Vesemir," Geralt’s voice was softer than you’d ever heard it for anyone else, almost deferential. "This is Y/N."

You stepped forward, offering a slight, respectful bow, your gaze meeting Vesemir’s. His eyes, ancient and wise, seemed to peer into your very soul, assessing, questioning. You held his gaze, refusing to be intimidated.

"A pleasure to meet you, Master Vesemir," you said, your voice clear, not wavering. "Geralt speaks highly of you."

A ghost of a smile touched the old Witcher’s lips. "Does he now? That's a rare compliment from the White Wolf." His gaze flickered to Geralt, a hint of approval. "And you, young one. A healer, I hear?"

"I am," you confirmed, nodding. "Of herbs and remedies. Nothing as grand as a Witcher’s elixir, but useful nonetheless."

Lambert snorted from beside Eskel. "Hope you brought enough poultices for all our collective stupidity, then."

Eskel elbowed him lightly. "Don’t mind Lambert," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Welcome to Kaer Morhen. Any friend of Geralt’s is welcome here."

Coën offered a quiet nod, a polite if somewhat shy greeting.

"Lambert," Geralt growled, a warning note in his voice, but his hand found the small of your back, a warm, comforting presence. "These are my brothers. Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert, Coën."

The initial awkwardness slowly dissipated over the next few days. Kaer Morhen was a Spartan place – cold stone, roaring fires, the scent of steel and old leather. Yet, under the witchers' gruff exteriors, you found a surprising camaraderie.

You started small. Offering a soothing herbal tea for Vesemir’s morning cough. A salve for Eskel’s perpetually stiff shoulder, earned from an old ghoul hunt. You found yourself drawn to the infirmary, a dusty, neglected room, and began to organize the few remaining supplies, adding your own carefully dried herbs and tinctures.

One afternoon, you found Lambert grumbling, attempting to patch a deep gash on his forearm with a clumsy, ineffective bandage. He swore colorfully, then caught your eye.

"What?" he challenged, his eyes narrowed.

"You’re doing it wrong," you said, calmly walking towards him. "Here. Let me."

He grumbled some more but held out his arm. Your fingers were gentle but firm as you cleaned the wound, applied a potent antiseptic poultice, and expertly bound it. You could feel his eyes on you, watching your every move.

"There," you said, tying off the bandage. "Hold still until it sets. And try not to get monster guts in it."

Lambert stared at his bandaged arm, then at you. "Huh," was all he said, but something in his eyes, a flicker of grudging respect, warmed you more than the roaring hearth.

Later that evening, as you sat by the fire, mending a tear in Geralt’s tunic, Vesemir sat opposite you, sharpening his silver sword.

"You’re... good for him, Y/N," he said quietly, not looking up.

Your fingers paused. "He’s good for me too, Master Vesemir."

He finally lifted his gaze. "He's less... haunted. Since you. He smiles more, in his own way." A small, knowing smile touched his lips. "It’s been a long time since this old fortress felt less like a tomb and more like a home. You have brought a certain... warmth, child."

His words were a balm to your soul, easing the last vestiges of your apprehension. You were accepted. You were home.

The weeks turned into a comfortable rhythm. You healed their aches, patched their cuts, brewed potions for minor ailments, and sometimes, simply listened to their stories, no matter how gruffly told. Geralt, for his part, was a silent, looming presence. He’d bring you game he’d hunted, or sit by the roaring fire in the main hall, polishing his swords while you read by flickering candlelight. You brought a touch of domesticity to the grim fortress, and slowly, the witchers began to treat you not just as Geralt’s woman, but as one of their own.

One day, as you organized the infirmary, a young woman with silver hair and determined eyes entered the chamber. Ciri. She’d been friendly enough since your arrival, curious about your craft, but mostly preoccupied with her own rigorous training.

“You’re always mending him,” she stated, leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed. It wasn't an accusation, just an observation. “But what if you can’t get to him in time? Or what if you’re the one who needs mending because you couldn’t defend yourself?”

You paused, a half-knotted bandage in your hand. It was a fair question, one that had niggled at the back of your mind. You’d chosen to be with him, to follow him into this life of danger, and yet, you were utterly reliant on his protection. It was a truth that chafed. “I’m a healer, Ciri. Not a fighter.”

She pushed off the frame, a glint in her green eyes. “Maybe not, but everyone can learn to stand their ground. What do you say? An hour a day? Basics. Stance, a few blocks, how to hold it without losing a finger. Just so you’re not completely defenceless when he’s got his back turned.”

The offer was unexpected, but practical. And knowing Ciri, it was also a genuine desire to help. “I… I suppose I could try.”

The training began the next morning in the drafty courtyard, a practice sword—heavy, even if blunt—awkward in your hands. Ciri was a patient but firm teacher. “Feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent. Blade angled, not flat. Breathe. You’re too tense.”

The first few days were, in a word, humbling. Your hands, so deft with needle and thread, felt clumsy and alien wrapped around the grip of a blunted training sword. Ciri, a natural-born warrior, had to suppress her impatience, breaking down movements into excruciatingly slow components. “Again! Faster! Don’t just block, deflect! Feel the weight, use its momentum.”

You almost hugged Ciri when she finally told you it’s your training session for the day is over. As you huddled over steaming mugs of broth in the warmth of the keep’s common room, your conversation flowed more easily. Ciri, initially just a glimpse of Geralt’s past, became a person of vibrant stories and deep emotion. You learned about Ciri’s flight from Cintra, her accidental meeting with Geralt, her training at Kaer Morhen, and the harrowing ordeals that had shaped her.

“I was like this too, at first,” she chuckled, watching you trying pick up a spoon with shaky hand. “Well, not this bad, obviously. But I had to learn, just like everyone.” “Though Vesemir was the one who really drilled the basics into me. Geralt… he was more about the strategy, the monsters. He’d watch me, always. Even when he was pretending not to.”

The revelation, delivered so casually during mealtime, struck you. You’d known Ciri was important to Geralt, but hearing it from her, articulated as a profound, familial bond, painted the silent Witcher in a new light. He wasn’t just a monster hunter; he was a protector, a father, a man who had built a family out of choice and circumstance.

You listened intently, „He’s very protective of you.“

Ciri nodded, her eyes soft. “He is. Always has been. When I was younger, he’d ride ahead, clear the path of anything remotely dangerous before I even knew it was there. He taught me to fight so I could protect myself, but I think a part of him always just wanted to shield me from everything.”

She looked at you, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Like he feels about you.”

Your cheeks warmed. “I suppose so. But this… this is different. It’s my choice. To stand beside him, not behind him.”

Ciri smiled. “I get it. He worries. He’s a witcher, it’s what they do. But he’ll be proud.“ You felt a warmth spread through you, not from exertion, but from the quiet intimacy of her words. Ciri was subtly telling you that you mattered to Geralt, not just as a healer, but as you. This training wasn’t just for your protection; it was also, in a way, for his peace of mind.

During one of your training sessions on a chilly morning, Ciri had you practice parrying rapid, light attacks. You finally felt something click. Your footwork found a rhythm, your wrist didn’t ache with every block, and your breathing settled. You anticipated Ciri’s next feint, moving instinctively, and for the first time, your riposte connected cleanly with Ciri’s blade, deflecting it wide.

Ciri paused, her sword held loosely. A slow smile spread across her face. “There you go, healer,” she said, her voice laced with pride. “You’re getting it.” You felt a thrill of accomplishment, a warmth spreading through your chest that had nothing to do with the exertion.

“You’re improving,” Geralt said, his voice softer than the growl it often was.

You almost dropped your sword in suprise, instead you turned to him slowly to collect yourself. “Ciri’s an excellent teacher,” you replied, leaning on her sword, a small smile playing on your lips. “And I’m a stubborn student.”

He gave a low chuckle. “I’ve noticed.” He hesitated, then reached out, gently adjusting your grip on the sword. His fingers brushed hers. “Keep your elbow tucked. Gives you more leverage.”

Your eyes met. In his golden gaze, you saw not just the protective witcher who wished you safely away from danger, but a partner, acknowledging your strength, your desire to stand with him. The fear you’d felt about being a burden began to recede, replaced by a quiet confidence.

One particularly brutal winter night, the wind howled like a banshee through the battlements. Geralt had spent the day training, pushing himself beyond his limits, and you knew he craved the quiet intimacy of your shared room more than anything.

You were already there, the hearth blazing, casting warm, dancing shadows on the stone walls. You had a basin of warm water and a soft cloth ready. He entered, shedding his armor and outer layers, his muscles rippling under his tunic. He smelled of sweat, steel, and a faint, familiar scent of woodsmoke and a lingering, subtle sweetness that was uniquely him.

He dropped onto the bench before the fire, sighing heavily. You knelt, gently taking his calloused hands, examining the myriad of small cuts and scrapes.

"Hard day?" you murmured, running your thumb over a fresh knick on his knuckle.

"Always," he grunted, but leaned into your touch. His eyes, softened by the firelight, met yours. "Good day, though. Vesemir seemed... content."

You smiled, knowing what he meant. "He was. They all were."

A comfortable silence settled between you, filled only by the crackle of the fire and the distant shriek of the wind. You began to wash the grime from his hands, then his face, your movements slow, deliberate, a tender ritual. He closed his eyes, savoring the touch.

When you were done, you cupped his jaw, your thumbs tracing the rough stubble. His eyes opened, heavy-lidded, filled with an unspoken depth of emotion.

"Y/N," he breathed, his voice a low rumble in his chest. He reached up, his large hand enveloping your smaller one, pressing it against his warm skin. "Thank you. For coming here. For... everything."

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, Geralt. You know that."

He pulled you closer, until you were kneeling between his legs, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you against his hard frame. He buried his face in your neck, inhaling your scent – herbs, clean linen, and something uniquely you that always calmed the storm within him.

"Mine," he whispered, the possessiveness deep and raw, yet laced with a vulnerability that only you ever saw.

You shivered, a delicious tremor that had nothing to do with the cold. "Yours," you affirmed, threading your fingers into his silver hair.

His lips found your neck, trailing a line of fiery kisses up to your jaw, then finally capturing your mouth. It was a kiss of relief, of possessive yearning, of deep, unshakeable love. His mouth moved with a slow, deliberate passion, tasting and teasing, his tongue delving into yours, claiming you.

You responded with equal fervor, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer until there was no space left between you. The day’s anxieties, the cold, the very world outside this room, faded into insignificance. All that mattered was the warmth of his body, the taste of his lips, the intensity of his touch.

His hands slid under your tunic, finding the soft skin of your back, his calloused fingers sending delicious shivers through you. He lifted you, and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, holding onto him as he rose, carrying you to the makeshift bed in the corner, warmed by furs and the fire's glow.

He laid you down gently, his eyes never leaving yours, a silent question, a promise. You answered him with a soft sigh, your fingers already fumbling with the laces of his tunic. He shucked his clothes with quick, efficient movements, his body a masterpiece of scarred muscle and hard planes under the firelight.

As he shifted over you, his weight a welcome press, his skin warm against yours, you traced the familiar lines of his chest, the faint scent of his monster-slayer elixirs clinging to him. He was raw, powerful, and utterly yours.

His lips descended again, hungrier this time, devouring your neck, trailing lower, leaving a path of fire. You arched into him, your hands finding purchase on his broad shoulders, your fingers digging into the taut muscle. Each touch, each kiss, was a story of a year lived together, a deeper understanding that transcended mere physical release.

When he finally plunged into you, it was with a low groan that vibrated through your very core. You cried out softly, a gasp that was half pleasure, half a primal recognition of him, filling you completely. His rhythm was slow at first, deliberate, savoring the depth of your connection, each thrust a confirmation of your bond. His eyes, golden slits in the dim light, were locked on yours, reflecting the raw, untamed desire that simmered between you.

You met his pace, hip to hip, a dance as old as time, yet utterly new and electrifying each time. The world narrowed to the feel of his skin against yours, the sound of his ragged breaths, the rising crescendo of pleasure that built with each powerful thrust. You wrapped your legs tighter around him, pulling him deeper, wanting to absorb every inch of him, every ounce of his essence.

The tension coiled tighter and tighter, a delicious agony that promised blissful release. You cried out his name, a broken plea, as your body convulsed around him, waves of pure sensation washing over you. He followed quickly, a guttural groan torn from his throat, his body tensing, then collapsing onto you, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

He lay there for a long moment, heavy and warm, his heart thundering against your chest. The sound was a comforting drum in the aftermath. You tangled your fingers in his damp hair, kissing the top of his head.

"Geralt," you whispered, feeling his arms tighten around you.

He lifted his head, his eyes still clouded with passion but softened with contentment. He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then finally, a tender, lingering kiss on your lips.

"Home," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, his gaze sweeping around the simple, stone room, then settling back on you. "You make it home."

He took you under his protection initially a handful of months ago, when he found you lost in the forest. A lost and broken female Witcher. It was no law of surprise but you both found yourself inseparable. And with every foe you both have crossed, you have insisted that you can fend for yourself. It’s hard for you to resist being stubborn about it since you were both around the same age and once wielded power like his.

Today, he finally decided to teach you the trade of combat. Since you never learned under prior “guardianship”. For, there would be a point where you would lose at your attempt to get involved.

Your leather boots squelch into the terrain below as you pull your arm in with blade in hand. The slight breeze that carries sprinkles of rain falls into the bay of your parted lip. You swing the throwing knife at the target ahead, hearing it whisper its sharpness in the air as it flies. The knife thuds on the ground, refusing to stick into the wooden target.

“Your grip is key.” He places another blade in your hand gripping your fingers tightly around it to show you how hard you should hold it. “The angle you throw should follow your arm’s aim…” Looking over at him, watching his yellow eyes flicker as he focuses on your training, you admire his strong features. His husky jaw and broad shoulders. The way his hair looks like beds of fallen snow and soot, with a strand falling next to his furrowy brows. More than a handsome man, but a damn good-looking one.

“Just inhale deeply and let it go as you throw. Just like the bow and arrow.” You nod “I understand”.

You spin your head back toward the target that is nailed to the wide tree, narrowing your eyes. Throwing again you manage to make it stick, but not in the center.

“Better,” His voice sounds full of gravel. But it’s deep enough to be alluring.

You’ve been attracted to his presence since you met him. And he’s felt the same about you. There have been many times when hands graze, tension fogs a room, and sometimes your lips almost meet during the fading of dusk. Your hearts were more than friends, but you both never mentioned any sort of lust, when it fluttered in the air. You both just let it pass by for some unknown reason. I mean, how could you turn down a man so protective and valiant as him?

“Remember to take your time, the ease will keep you in line with your target.” He gets closer to you guiding your arm with his hand, “When the knife leaves your hand, you want to be aiming higher than the target.” Shifting your eyes from him back to the target, just to get a sense of how close he is. You inhale deeply, letting it all fly away with the throw of the next knife.

Geralt is impressed and nods. “Good, very good.” He hands you another knife. “Again.” His dominating tone makes him all the more attractive.

Continuing to practice, you make a good improvement. Even with the distractions of him looming over you, or showing you how to hold the blade correctly. Not to mention the exchange of glances here and there that feel so seductive. But his expressions are always too cold to tell half the time.

You practice until the sun begins setting in the sky. He plucks the last knives out from the spiral wooden target. “You did well.” As you move toward him he turns around to take the last two from your hand. “I believe I’ve made quite the improvement on the path to proving you wrong, Geralt.” His response is a huff. The closest thing you’ll get to a chuckle from him.

“We should get back inside before it turns dark.” He looks at you, “Get some food and rest”.

You both make your way back to the tall house you’ve decided to reside at for the month. It’s tall and made of cobble. Wide and large, but not as large as a mansion. It’s just more than enough space. The mossy stone is gorgeous with the way the golden light showers its surface.

After eating a sufficient meal you decide to head to the bath. Geralt leaves you to clean up and relax, as you’ve earned it. The bathroom is just as homey yet grand as the house itself. A large sunken smooth stone tub, with buckets and candles around it. Cloth to wash and dry with as well. You undress from your robes, covered in mud and grass stains. Slipping every item off with ease as your breath deepens in relaxation.

The bath is warm as you step in, one leg at a time, then sit on the inner step of the tub. The cuts on your knuckles sting as they meet the water. Training did not only involve throwing knives but it involved throwing punches. Some against hardwood.

Although you are exposed, you feel safe, finding peace within the subtle darkness of the room. You steep in the tub for a while, taking your time cleaning yourself. Tilting your head back and closing your eyes, you soak and relax further.

So relaxed you are reluctant to hear the door creek open. “Oh uhm.” That coarse voice makes you shoot your eyes open to find Geralt standing there. You catch him looking at your wet and free breasts, so beautiful as they glisten from candlelight. He quickly turns away, “Sorry I thought you had finished.” The last word echoes in your head. Finished. The interaction makes you grin. He’s felt the breast he sees before him yet he has trouble looking out of respect for your current nature.

“Not yet.” You tease and play with his words and smirk, looking him up and down. You wouldn’t mind if he were to look again. Maybe come over and join you. “I’m almost done. Unless you want to join me.”

Geralt nods and moves closer, refusing to look anywhere in your direction. You’re surprised he decided to join you, but you guess he just thought it was best to not waste warm water. “I cannot stay for long. I have tasks that need my attention later tonight”. He finally meets your eyes but doesn’t explore anywhere else.

“Well, There’s plenty of warm bath.” You gesture to the other side of the large tub. It’s spacious enough to fit four people. He starts to take off his ragged dark clothes of the day and steps into the bath, only leaving on his medallion. His body was covered in those familiar scars he lets you ask about. He sinks into the tub, and you watch him out of the corner of your eye, wanting to pay the same respect to him as he did to you.

He seems very at ease in the pool as if everything else is just white noise. He closes his eyes and sighs as if he were waiting for this moment of relaxation. The water blurs everything beneath the surface as it ripples, and you watch the water as it waves.

“So what does the night feature for you tonight? You said you have tasks.” Your eyes meet his. Geralt seems to think for a moment, the water lapping the sides of the pool. “Nothing too serious. Need to deliver a Kikimora leg to an alchemist in town.”

His voice is comforting and relaxing. He has a lot of experience with monsters, so it’s quite natural for him to speak of them so calmly. “I’ll be back in the early hours of the morning.”

“Then you should take your time now before you face another creature.” You grab a sponge and hand it to him. Your hands touch on accident, as they tend to do, and he takes the sponge. “Thank you.” It glides over his muscular arms and chest, and you can’t help but watch him a bit. He groans and it makes you squirm your legs a bit. As the noise would be lovely in another situation.

You let a few strained minutes of stubborn sexual tension pass before you notice how pruned your fingers are. “I’m headed to my chambers, I’m in dire need of my beauty rest.” You grab a towel and start to emerge from the bath. "I look forward to seeing your beauty upon rising.” He turns his face away and remains silent after this, seeming to restrain any further comment on your naked figure before him.

You dry yourself as much as you can before wrapping yourself in the warm towel. Starting to walk out of the room, you turn your head back to meet his eyes again.

“Goodnight, Geralt. And good luck” You smile and turn to walk away closing the door behind you, just hoping he makes it back as unharmed as possible.

-

-

-

You wake up in sheer terror, gasping for breath, clinging a hand to your heart, and feeling your pulse race a little faster than usual. It was another nightmare. One that was rare these nights. You sweep your curly locks out of your face and try to gather yourself. Maybe turning on a light or two would help.

The terrors fade a bit from your memory as you cool down, trying to observe the room to distract you. It must be late in the evening, creeping into early morning as it is still dark out the window beside your bed. He must be back by now, he has to be.

You throw your blankets open and slip out of bed, still wobbly from your slumber. With slightly heavy feet, you make your way out into the hall with candle in hand. The silence of the house is accompanied by the creek of the floorboards and the wind faintly hitting the window at the end of the hall. There is no glow from the outside seeping through the window like there is in the winter. Just darkness and shadows of your surroundings bathe around you and your candlelight.

As you carefully make your way down the hall, refraining from making as much noise as possible, you reach his door. You stand in front of the mahogany and iron, deciding if you should bother his sleep he so well deserved. Although you now desired more than one form of comfort.

Taking a deep breath, you nudge the door with your knuckles just enough to see and peek in. The door’s hinges creak quietly as it moves open a sliver.

You find that his bed is made, and he is not there. A strange discovery as you knew he’d be back in the early hours of the morning.

“Y/N.” A large warm hand lands on your shoulder and you gasp. “What are you doing up?” His hot breath lingers on your neck. You turn to face him, candle at your side. He’s a little cleaner than usual with a few small scratches on his face and his garbs and armor rugged from combat.

“I could ask you the same question.” His eyes glued to you as he takes your candle and sets it on the hallway’s table beside him.

“I am well within my reason. You should be in bed.” He wasn’t wrong about either. But it’s hard to sleep when the best comfort is supposed to be in the other room. Now it faces you.

Taking the pad of your thumb, you swipe his cheek and ignore his scolding. “Didn’t get too beat up, I hope.” He holds your hand in place and closes his eyes for a moment, taking in your palm. Then meeting his eyes with yours again, he lets go of the grasp and lets your hand fall.

“All went well indeed.” He moves a step closer to you backing you up against the wall.

“Now. I will ask you again. What are you doing up?” His voice makes you shiver with how low it is. Although it’s an intimidating tone, you find it protective.

“I’m safe and sound aren’t I? Why does it matter.” You try to throw your attitude at him to show he has no control over you.

“Because. You tend to linger by my bedpost when you’ve had a night terror.” He’s not wrong. You would come to him when it was unbearable because he was the only company you knew to turn to. You stay quiet with a tough look on your face, and he clearly reads you like a book.

He takes a step forward and as a result, you are pinned to the wall between his door and the table with the candle lit. “Or are your intentions…” Leaning in, he puts a hand on the wall right over your shoulder. Another attempt at protective imitation. “More seductive?”

“Perhaps a bit of both…” You analyze all his features, letting your eyes wander. “Perhaps…” You move a smidge closer to him, breath upon breath, “more seductive intentions.”

He doesn’t even let you catch your breath before taking a firm hand to your hip and locking lips with you. The kiss is filled with a feverous passion that makes you ache for more. You reach for his face again, pulling him closer, while you put another hand on his chest starting to unbuckle his armor at the sides.

This felt different than the other moments when you’re lips met each other. This felt like it was going to lead somewhere more permanent. It was rougher and made you more in need of his touch. His chest piece falls to the floor while he works on taking the others off, throwing it to the side. Geralt was now easier to feel, with fewer clothes to shield him from your touch.

In a swift motion, he grabs you by your thighs and picks you up, pressing you into the wall while your legs wrap around him. Tongues interlacing in a dance, swirling.

As you both pull away, your lips burn with sensation. He huffs into your mouth and presses his temple to yours, swinging you around and taking you to his bed. His grip on your ass as you travel is firm.

His room is almost as humble as his, but his bed is just as handsome. The headboard is stained Mahogany with carved features of trees and animals. And the canopy drapes over the bedposts, making it a cozy resting place.

He plops you down onto the edge of the end of the bed and starts to loom over you again. Leaning in to kiss you once more, you scoot backward. Making him work for it. “Catch me if you can, White Wolf.” You make sure to annunciate the name, just to tease him further. Every quick move you make back, he advances. Until you hit the headboard, letting him have his way with you.

The kiss again is tender and filled to the brim with passion. He grabs your wrist pinning it above you as he starts to kiss down your jaw, then your throat, until he hits your night dress. A thin white gown made from cotton cloth that comfortably drapes your body. He sits up, staring down at you for a second.

“I’ll get you a new dress.” He grabs the opening right above your breasts and tears it open, turning the garment into mere scraps of fabric. And just as he found you in the bathing room, you are exposed to him yet again.

He takes you in, being so mindful of every hill and plain on your body. It looks like he’s mapping you out for a plan of sensual attack. He murmurs low at the sight of you, and a hint of a smile appears on his face.

Your knees are bent, stuck together, while your heels lay far apart. With his medallion dangling, he takes a hand from your stomach and glides his calloused palm down your side. He sweeps under to grab your ass, releasing his grip to then move to your thighs. Trailing up his hands meet your knees, and he moves them apart. Opening you.

As his hand moves, his eyes follow to meet the center of your opened legs. His treasure. His reward to reap. He dances his fingers to your inner thigh, closer and closer to your center.

“Am I to watch as you dangle satisfaction above my head.” You say softly while your breath hitches with every change in touch. “Mm-hmm.” He nods as he finally reaches your clit making slow circles. You gasp and arch as his touch consumes your entire being shooting pleasure up every vertebrae.

Leaning in closer, he grabs your face sternly with control and kisses you again. The sensation fills you with desire. He then fills you again but with his fingers. Not rushing but not hesitating either. In and out, he pushes again and again. Although this fills you with more than mere lust, you want to show him how you can overcome his territory.

You push against his chest with a hand and he follows the motion sitting up with you and slipping his fingers out. He might be dominating but he’d do anything for a beautiful creature such as yourself. As he’s up you sit on your knees before him and begin unbuttoning his shirt.

Stopping only four buttons down you look into his eyes with mischief in mind. You tear open his shirt the same way he did to your dress. Taking his medallion in your hands you pull on it just enough so his lips are once again close to yours. “I’ll get you a new one”. You smirk at him and his hint of a smile grows a little larger from your playfulness.

You unlatch the buckle on his pants and push him back onto the mattress. It was your turn to be the cat climbing over him.

As your breasts dangle in his face he starts to take his trousers off. You stop him and do it yourself, throwing them on the floor. Now he’s just as vulnerable as you.

Starting from his ankles you prowl your way to his hardness.

Within your grasp, it is firm and thick. Only growing thicker as your breasts hang in his face again. This throat purs with his low-toned vibrations making you chuckle. Lifting his head, he places his mouth on your breast while placing a hand on your waist. This leaves your entrance to hover over his cock in your hands. A tease for you both as you continue to move your hand up and down his shaft while his tip kisses your wetness.

Moaning and humming, you both stay here in this series of actions. But he desires more of you. Moving his mouth away from your breast, he places both of his hands on your waist. “I trust you remember our horseback lesson, yes?” He says looking at you.

Your grin is naughty after he says this. With his permission you slide onto his mass, stretching you, while he guides you with his grip on your hips. His length fills you and you struggle to look at him straight. It’s just too large to handle without going slow.

Now that you’re sitting upon him, you start to ride. Just like he taught you. Starting slow you bounce up and down letting your hair hang in front of your face. The pleasure is too much to bear with eyes open. Grabbing your face again he says “Look up, darling”.

His grip tilts your head up to face a mirror you failed to notice at the other end of the room, facing right at you. You also fail to continue to ride him, now distracted by the surprise of your reflection. With your hips now hovering, he gives you another surprise and starts to thrust into you. You start to close your eyes again as your face scrunches in pleasure.

“Keep watching.” He tightens his grip on your face as moans continue to escape your mouth. And you watch as he fucks you. He frees his hand on your hip for a moment to smack your ass as it creates a tantalizing sting, leaving your cheek red. He watches as you watch your reflection jolt up and down from his thrusts. Moving his hand down to your throat, he flirtatiously chokes you, while he arches his head back to watch the mirror with you.

Reaching a hand to hold his arm that has a grasp on your throat, he finally lets you throw your head back as you grow tighter around him. “Gods…” You exclaim. “You feel…so…fuck”. He chuckles low at you and starts to thrust at a faster pace.

As you both get closer to ecstasy his hands move back to your hips, and you bow down to meet his temple. Moaning into each other’s mouths, the sensation of your parts meeting is what the afterlife should feel like. It’s more than safe to say that this is the furthest you’ve taken each other than ever before.

Your temples continue to meet as he trusts, and your grip on his shoulders tightens as you feel yourself pulse around him. Holding you close his movements get tighter and tighter. Until finally, a rush of sensation washes over you and within you, as he finishes as well.

Slowing down, sweat drips from your brow. He lets you feel him twitch inside you before lifting you by your hips while you gasp at the release of fulfillment. You feel the mixture of fluid drip down your inner thigh, a satisfying tickle.

You both try to catch your breaths lying on his chest. As your hand lays on his heart you feel his body rise and fall with each breath. It’s so calming here, even if your legs already feel sore. He puts a hand on your back to soothe you.

"Oh! It's you..." You sighed in relief, making the Witcher frown.

"Um... Mister... Uh.. sir? Whichever you prefer, I have some information about the beast that might help you." You chuckled nervously, looking around to see if someone was spying on you. You might get in trouble if you were to be seen with the Witcher alone.

"Speak."

You glanced at the Witcher before nodding, "Well... If you think the attack is being done by some sort of animal like a wolf, it's not true. It's not a wolf." You said quickly.

"What makes you think that?"

"W-well-... A wolf was injured because of the said beast and the wounds didn't look like it was from a wolf fight either so..." You mumbled, trying not to act suspicious.

The Witcher stared at you silently. You were acting suspicious and it was evident by the way you talked that you knew more than you told him. The Witcher took a step towards you, making you look up, still standing your ground nervously.

Witcher frowned at your weird behaviour, you were scared but not because of him, but because of something else. Something else was making you nervous.

He opened his mouth to speak before a sudden growl intrupted him, making both of them tense up as he grabbed his sword, stepping in front of you protectively. A wolf stood before them, glaring and growling at the Witcher, ready to pounce.

"Stay back-" The Witcher mumbled was unheard as you stood in front of him, glaring at the wolf.

"Sky!" You hissed, still standing in front of the Witcher. It would've amused him if they weren't in a tense situation. You, a young girl, perhaps in your mid 20s, standing before the Witcher with no weapons, as the Witcher behind you towered you with his height. You looked tiny compared to his frame, both height and muscle wise.

The Witcher felt annoyed at your pathetic attempt to tame a wild wolf, as if the wolf would suddenly transform into a domesticated puppy and obey your every command.

The wolf continued to growl but it slowly started to approach you, the wolf stance becoming slightly relaxed as it stared at you and your hand that was outstretched in front of you. The Witcher looked at the exchange in slight confusion, his expression was still stoic but he felt confused.

"Sky, come on, what did I tell you about jumping in front of guests like a beast? Hmm?" You mumbled as you patted the wolf, the wolf's tail wagging behind him.

"You... Tamed the injured wolf..?" Asked the Witcher, eyeing them warily. It's not everyday that someone saves a wolf, let alone tame them.

"I would prefer 'befriended' and yes, I did. He is a sweetheart. That is also why I wanted to warn you that this wolf is not the beast. Oh! And the beast also does not live here. It lives deeper into the woods, this area is just the edge of the forest. The people... They forgot to mention something important." You glanced at him as you stood up, the wolf standing besides you in his fully height, his black fur and tall height made it look intimidating, the wolf looked strong and but the bandages around his torso also did not go unnoticed by the Witcher, making him believe the story that you told him about patching up a wounded wolf even though it sounded bizarre and made up.

"What is it?"

You bite your lips, looking at the forest, deep in thoughts before finally speaking.

"The town people provoked the beast. Some drunkards wanted to prove to the people that there was no such beast residing in the depths of the woods, so they went ahead despite the warnings and... Well, only their mangled up bodies made it back here. That's why the people think that the beast resides in the edge of the forest and not deep within."

The Witcher's frown, staring at you for a while before speaking.

"They knew that there was a beast?"

You nodded, "The beast is older than most of us, the tales have been circulating amongst the people since past few generations, it can probably be dated back to the generation of our grandparents, something similar happened but this time, the beast is... More angry. It didn't kill people before like it did now, or at least that's what the people say."

The Witcher sighed at your words. This was more work than he intended to do. If the beast was as old as you said it was, then it wouldn't die without putting up a great fight and he was in no position to get into a full-on battle in his tired state.

"Sir..? You look tired, and I doubt the villagers asked you to rest or offered you food, would you..." You trailed off, laughing awkwardly as you stared at the Wolf, Sky, instead of the Witcher as you continued in a quiet manner, "Like something to eat?"

The Witcher froze, not expecting an act of kindness, especially from someone like you. He stared at you suspiciously, thinking that you had ulterior motives to offer him something like that. You looked at him in alarm, as if sensing his chain of thoughts as you waved your hands in front of you. "I don't need anything in return, i promise! It's just... You look tired and hungry."

The Witcher didn't say anything, simply staring at you for a solid minute before nodding his head along with a stoic, "hm."

"Um.. sir? Where did you leave your horse?" You asked suddenly.

"It's outside the woods."

"Ah... You can bring your horse in, this part of the woods is safe and Sky isn't going to hurt your horse, I can assure you that much." You smiled at him, the Wolf still standing guard besides you.

"How do you know it's safe here?" The Witcher rolled his eyes.

"Well... I live here. My cottage is just a few minutes walk away from here."

"You... Live in the middle of the woods?"

"It's the edge and yes, I prefer living here." That made the Witcher frown his eyebrows in confusion as he walked beside you to get his horse.

"Why? Isn't the town safer?"

You stayed silent for a while before chuckling softly. "Perhaps. But I am not too fond of the people there." The Witcher could see why, so he stayed silent and walked towards his horse.

꒷꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒷꒦꒷︶꒷꒷꒦꒷︶꒦ ͘ ˖ ⊹

You provided food and a place for the Witcher to rest, which he found weird and bizarre but didn't complain about. You insisted that the Witcher rest for at least a day before he went to hunt down the beast, saying that it will give him more benefit in battle if he is well rested and fed. The horse, which you learnt was called Roach, was spoiled rotten too. It looked like you had a liking towards animals and insects, finding them adorable and taking care of them and for some reason, animals seem to like you too, even the most wild animals liked you and it was evident with how the wild wolf acted like a domesticated dog in front of you. The food you prepared for the Witcher was amazing, and the spare room was also comfortable enough for the Witcher to sleep in but you insisted that he slept in your room instead, that the spare room wasn't that clean and that you would sleep in the spare room instead. The Witcher tried to decline politely but you were stubborn and he ended up getting the best sleep he ever has in your bed while you slept in the spare room.

Your whole cottage was filled with plants, flowers and books. The plants weren't everywhere but the ones you did have inside were too pretty and went well with your theme. Your cottage had a cozy feeling to it, the aroma of tea and lavender was always present, along with some books lying here and there. It made the cottage feel like a home that the Witcher didn't have.

The Witcher thanked you before venturing off to hunt the beast, giving you a small, awkward smile before leaving. You waved enthusiastically at him, wishing him luck before rushing after Sky, who has decided to run after a rabbit.

꒷꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒦꒷︶꒷︶꒷꒦꒷︶꒷꒷꒦꒷︶꒦ ͘ ˖ ⊹

When the Witcher came back, the cottage was a mess, making him frown as he couldn't find you or Sky. It looked like you left somewhere in a hurry as there was still uncooked food on the table, half done and some books were scattered on the ground.

The Witcher went towards the town, the head of the beast was hanging from his hand. The battle against the beast wasn't easy, but it was nothing he couldn't handle.

The town was filled with commotion, people gathering around a tall tree, yelling at something or rather, someone.

As he walked closer, he could hear what they were saying clearly.

"Burn the Witch! Burn her! She was the one who brought the beast to the town!" Someone yelled venomously, making the Witcher frown his eyebrows as he walked towards the crowd. The Mayor took immediate notice of his presence as the people stopped yelling.

"Ah! Witcher! You are back and you brought the beast's head with you." The Witcher paid the Mayor zero attention as he stared at the scene in front of him. Someone was bounded to the tree with thick ropes, blood pooling underneath them as it dropped from the wound on their arm. It looked like a young girl, which made the Witcher slightly nervous. He couldn't see her face, as her head was down, her hair covering her face. The only thing that made it evident that she was alive was the quick motion of her chest falling up and down as she breath heavily.

The Mayor, displeased with the Witcher's ignorance towards his words, turned his attention to the girl instead. He stepped closer to the girl and gripped her hair, making her wince as he forced her to look up.

Witcher's breath hitched as he saw your pained face, staring directly at him before looking at the Mayor in fear.

"The beast you called upon is long dead now, Witch. You have no one to save you now." The Mayor hissed, staring at your face as he continued to hold your hair in a tight grip, making you wince.

You were already weak from the beatings and the lack of food, your head throbbing painfully under the harsh Sun. You were dehydrated, hungry, wounded and scared.  Oh, you were so so scared.

A lot has happened in the span of just four days after your last meeting with the Witcher.

You flinched when someone threw another stone at you again, wincing at the sharp pain that erupted from your temple, where the stone landed, making it bleed.

You couldn't even look at the Witcher, humiliation filled your body as you stared at the ground, willing yourself to not cry. You have yet to let the tears flow and you want to keep it that way. You want to keep some of your dignity, if there was even any left.

"What's going on?" You closed your eyes as you heard Witcher ask the Mayor. You didn't want him to think that you were someone evil, but you weren't sure if the Witcher will believe you over the Mayor's word or the people's word. You just silently hoped that they won't answer his question but your hopes died quickly as the Mayor began to tell him what happened.

"This girl, this witch, is the one that unleashed the very beast you hold in your hands. She was seen with a wolf, commanding him to attack innocents! She can put animals and beasts under her spell, making them do whatever she please." The Mayor spit out, glaring at you as you kept your eyes closed and your head low.

"Just look at her! She has been punished but she has yet to utter a word of apology or even a tear in remorse! She is a threat to the town and the people!"

"Burn her!"

"Kill her!"

Were the words that followed soon after the Mayor stopped talking, making the Witcher step in front of you protectively, just like how he did before when he saw Sky as a threat.

"Witcher, what are you doing?!" The Mayor fumed, staring at the Witcher in anger and annoyance.

"Keep your hands away from the girl." He said quietly, his sword already out, the beast's head thrown somewhere on the ground. No one dared to put up a fight against the Witcher, everyone was too cowardly to try and fight him.

"The Witch has put you under a spell too, Witcher!" The Mayor exclaimed as the people started to insult both of you.

You whimpered, staring at the people and the Witcher in fear.

"What good will it do to you even if you safe her? She is a damned witch that should rot in hell for her crimes!" The people agreed, trying to step closer to her before the Witcher pointed his sword towards them, making them step back in fear.

"I will keep her."

That made the whole town silent as you stared at the Witcher in confusion and shock.

He couldn't let them kill you, not when you were the only one that treated him like a human and showed him kindness, it pained him to see you in such a state and he will not let you get harmed. You took care of him, and it was now his turn to do so.

He gripped his sword tightly, glaring at whoever dared to step towards them.

"Give me the girl." He hissed, his gaze making everyone scared, some even rushing away to their home to not face his wrath.

The air was tense, people stared at you and the Witcher with scared and disgusted expression while the Mayor was deep in thought. The town was known for its cowardly people and after watching the Witcher walk with the head of a beast in his hand, nobody wanted to fight him.

"What will we get in return if we let the girl go unpunished?" The Mayor asked, smirking as he stared at the Witcher.

"You can keep your coins." He grumbled, throwing the pouch of coins towards the Mayor that he got as a payment when he first came here to slay the beast.

The Mayor checked the pouch before letting them go, commanding people to go inside their houses as they rushed away.

"You are lucky, or else today would've been your last day, witch." The mayor muttered venomously before leaving them be.

You flinched when Witcher's blade cut throw the thick ropes, all at once as you stumbled forward. He caught you, making you wince as it made you put some pressure on your wounds. The Witcher carried you towards your cottage, but not before the Mayor warned them that they had to leave before noon, and if they failed to do so, they will both be punished and killed. The threat made you tense, as you tried to make yourself as small as possible in his arms as he walked you towards your cottage.

"Where's sky?" He asked, trying to break the silence.

"I made him leave. The... The people saw him and they would've hunted him down or hurt him..." You mumbled, sniffling a bit as he sat you down on your bed.

He nodded in understanding, before cleaning yours wounds.

"You should go wash yourself and pack." You glanced at him, wondering what he meant by 'pack'.

"We need to leave. Make sure to only pack the necessary things like clothes and some food." He muttered, staring at you.

You looked scared, and timided, not like the lively girl he met that day that took care of him. It made his heart clench painfully for some reason.

"Oh... A-are you... Taking me in?" You asked slowly, stuttering a bit.

He nodded silently, walking out of your room to let you bath and change. Your voice suddenly made him stop.

"You... You can use the bathroom in the spare room to freshen up too!" He smiled a bit as he heard you, making his way towards the spare room.

After you were done packing and ready to leave, you both stood in front of the Mayor at the gate of the town, you stood behind Witcher, trying to hide from anyone's view, the Mayor stared at you both as you began to walk away from the town, making sure that you both were out of the town.

After walking beside Witcher and Roach, you glanced at him as you handed him a pouch with gold coins.

"U-um... I know what you did for me can never be paid by coins, but... I still want to thank you and repay you for saving me and giving up the coins you got as a payment." You mumbled quietly.

"Keep them." He grumbled, walking towards you.

"Do you know how to get on a horse?" You shook your head, making him chuckle at how cute you looked while doing so.

"Let me help you." You nodded as he grabbed your waist gently, trying to avoid any wounds as he helped you on the horse. It made your heart beat quicken with how close you both were.

"Thank you, Sir."

"Geralt." You looked at him in confusion.

"My name is Geralt, just call me by my name."

You stared at him in shock before smiling wildly, "Okay, Geralt!"

And for some reason, Geralt loved the way you said his name.

***

Geralt watched the woman sitting across from him with growing curiosity.

When the bard had told him he was looking forward to introducing him to a friend of his in town, he’d rolled his eyes. Jaskier was always trying to introduce him to women he knew, women he hoped would sway and soften him up a little. It was exhausting, infuriating, and frankly, a little embarrassing. Geralt didn’t need any help in that department and he definitely didn’t share Jaskier’s taste in partners.

But this woman was nothing like the others. For starters, she wasn’t human. Geralt could sense her power even before she entered the tavern, his medallion vibrating in warning against his chest. When she entered, he took immediate notice of the way every candle got brighter, each flame now leaning toward her slightly, drawn in by her power.

She must have been a fire elemental of some kind, he’d thought. Or maybe a sorceress who’d given into the Power brought by fire. Either way, Geralt couldn’t take his eyes off her.

His fascination had only grown when she spotted Jaskier from across the room and her guarded face erupted into a wide and open smile. A smile that turned defensive as soon as she locked eyes with him over the table.

She bared her teeth and sent a surge of power through the room, flames flickering around them. How did Jaskier even meet this woman?

“What the fuck, Jaskier?” he said, pushing up from his seat and reaching for his sword, a confusing mix of defensiveness and jealousy settling in his gut. How and where did his soft, flowery friend meet someone like this?

***

“Okay, first of all, thank you both for agreeing to this.”

“I would never have agreed had I known –”

“Jaskier you son of a –”

“Okay, sorry! Sorry! That was a mistake, I admit that, I’m sorry,” Jaskier said, rambling, “but look, Y/N, you’re always saying how you wished you could find someone who saw you for who you are and not what you are.” He turned to you as he spoke, cupping his hand gently over your elbow, urging you to uncross your arms.

“And Geralt, please don’t kill me for this,” he blurted, placing his other hand next to the witcher’s on the table, “you’re too lonely for your own good, and I thought maybe if you met Y/N, someone who could match you, you could, I don’t know…”

“Wait,” you interrupted him, laughing despite yourself, “you’re saying this is a romantic set-up and not a,” you brought your hand across your throat in a mock-slice, “murder-for-hire set-up?”

“Now, wait, hang on. Why would I kill you?” Geralt said, speaking over your realization defensively, as if he didn’t reach for his sword when you made eye contact. “I’m a witcher, not a damned assassin.”

“Because I’m,” you hesitated and glanced around you to make sure no one was looking before briefly demonstrating by drawing a flame up in your hand and extinguishing it just as quickly. Jaskier was looking at you so softly, his eyes betraying the way he pitied you, but Geralt? He was looking at you like you’d just juggled the bread rolls on the table rather than summoning fire.

“Why would that be reason enough to kill you? You’re not a monster.”

“Tell that to every village I’ve ever dared to call home.” You scoffed.

“Geralt can relate!” Jaskier said, jumping in far too loudly and with too much exuberance. “People have been wrongly treating him like a monster for years!”

“Jask!” Geralt hissed, looking pissed and, wait, was he embarrassed?

“Sorry!” he squeaked, throwing up his hands as he got up from the table. “I am going to get us another round, the two of you… get to know each other.”

You watched your idiot friend rush over to the bar for a beat before rolling your eyes. “I can’t believe he did this.”

“We could take him if we team up,” Geralt said, a mischievous glint shone in his eyes when you looked back at him.

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you then, nor could you stop the blush that crept up your neck when you saw the witcher’s face break into a wider smile.