Reunion
Geralt of Rivia/GN!Reader
AKA Cottagecore!Geralt 2: Springtime Boogaloo
This can be read as existing in the same universe as Delay if you want to, works as a prequel or a sequel :)
Reblogs are very much appreciated 💕
Word Count: 1.8k
Warnings/Content: Beefy!Geralt, soft!Geralt, established relationship where they still pine for each other a lot.
You wait by the window, watching the pink cherry blossoms coat the branches at the edge of the treeline, speaking of spring, the welcomed thaw.
The snow had melted two weeks ago, much to your goat’s delight - he’d grown tired of hay in the winter months and could finally snack on grass whenever he was outside the little barn. Your bees are busy too, pollinating all the flowers on your small patch of land, and soon you’ll have enough honey to harvest and sell at the market in the nearby village.
Spring doesn’t always bring the Witcher to your door - sometimes his work keeps him busy well into June and you spend over half a year worrying for his health… or you would, had he not gifted you a magical stone connected to a charm he wears on the chain of his medallion that glows a deep blue when he’s well and turns puce if he’s injured badly.
You know, even if he doesn’t visit, that he’s in perfect health after the long winter, the stone in pride of place on your mantel, glowing blue. He may not come for a long while, but still you wait, kneading bread with practised technique that means you can keep your eyes on the gate at the end of your garden and a few feet beyond for the tell-tale ripple of a disrupted ward.
He may not come yet, the blossoms mean nothing more than the start of his journey to you, but you will watch by the window until he does.
~~~
Geralt navigates the path easily, his well-trodden route a second nature after so many journeys down it. He travels it easier than the path to Kaer Morhen, there’s less danger in this patch of wood than on snowy cliffs, and the faint blue glow beneath his shirt settles any nerves about what he may find on the other side of the gate. Unlike his journey at the start of winter, when he doesn’t know how many brothers will have perished in the months since their last meeting, he can be certain that you will be waiting.
He doesn’t always visit so soon, but he had missed you more this past season than he had thought he would. Bidding farewell to you in mid-September and working on the other side of the Continent for a month before returning to the Keep and a colder winter in the mountains than usual had left too long since he had last seen you, your smile, your eyes… since he had last smelt your scent and laid beside your warmth.
It didn’t help that Jaskier had pilfered the floral, honey, and goat’s milk soap from his pack without him noticing, taking the soothing reminder of you. His ability to smell like you all winter gone. Even Eskel’s soap, made from Lil Bleater’s milk, didn’t smell enough like you to calm him down - he’s sure his brothers will tease him for (at least) the next decade after he’d spent the winter grumpy, pouty (as Lambert had put it), and a little short tempered - not that anyone other than his brothers would’ve noticed much difference in the length of his fuse. Except for you.
He’s missed you - he always does - but this time more than ever, and while he’d usually take jobs on his way to you, this year he’s refused to be distracted - if the problem is large enough, another Witcher can deal with it. He has somewhere more important to be.
~~~
He hadn’t intended to arrive at night. He could’ve timed his journey better and emerged from the treeline mid-morning after spending a night at the village inn. But he was restless - to be so close - and he was sure that, even if he’d directed her toward the village, Roach would’ve continued on her path to you - to your warm and uncrowded barn with the best quality hay and oats - far better than a tiny, cramped stable that wouldn’t even offer her the faintest sniff at an apple.
He always arrives in the day so, when they pass through the wards blocking out the rest of the world, he’s not quite sure what to do with himself.
When the sun is out, you run to him, hug him tightly and urge him to get Roach settled while you draw a bath… but now, with the stars lighting his way, he knows you’re sleeping, that a bath isn’t on the cards until you wake - and he’s unwilling to draw you from slumber before you’re ready.
Roach huffs, nudging his shoulder impatiently.
He smiles, nodding, guiding her to the barn, removing his pack and her saddle before grabbing a bag of oats. The goat is sleeping, thankfully, the little creature is always at odds with him for stealing your attention away.
He gives his horse another once-over before heading to the cottage, being careful of your ever-growing herb garden as he walks.
You always look so peaceful when you sleep, he thinks, that small smile a semi-permanent fixture on his face - at least when he’s here.
He’s careful not to wake you as he strips down, sniffs himself quickly (a little stale from the road, a bit horsey, but not too bad - not as bad as the last few times he’s arrived anyway), and moves to your bed, climbing under the covers carefully, not wanting to disturb you.
He frowns when he realises there’s a pillow between you both, lifting the blankets to get a better look, judging how easy it will be to extract it. You’re spooning it, face nestled into one end, a leg thrown over the other… and… his shirt around it… the one he’d left here after a Kikimora had slashed at him and torn it.
You’ve mended it, shoved a pillow in it… missed him so much that you needed to hug it and soak up the remainder of his smell.
He suddenly cares less about letting you sleep, shifting closer to kiss your forehead and swap places with the pillow, to give you the real thing and not some poor substitute that no longer carries any whiff of him.
“Mm,” he breathes as your head settles on his chest, his arms coming up to hold you, about to get his best night’s sleep since the year began.
~~~
You’re warm. Incredibly warm. You haven’t been this toasty beneath your covers since before winter. Since…
Your pillow moves under your head, rumbles with a snore, faint hair tickles your nose.
You smile softly, nuzzling into Geralt’s chest, letting your eyes open slowly, savouring the last moments of sleep and the first (conscious) moments of his company.
“Mm.” He hums, the heavy arm around your back tightens its hold, keeping you pressed against him - as if you’d ever want to leave.
“When did you arrive?” You whisper.
“Only a few hours ago.” He admits, “Go back to sleep.”
“And waste more of our time together?” You hum, “I’m sure you’d agree there are better things to do than sleep if you don’t want to get up.”
“Haven’t bathed.” He denies you.
“And you slept in my bed!?” You feign offence.
“Mm.” He smiles, cracking an eye open to look down at you, “You don’t seem to mind.”
You settle back against him, kissing his chest, “I don’t.”
He’s put on weight over winter - like a hibernating bear, bulking up on months of regular meals, training with his brothers, keeping warm in the Great Hall and not having to worry for his life or anyone else’s. It looks good on him, the extra muscle, the slight softness around his middle - the signs of prolonged relaxation. Though, compared to most others, a Witcher’s relaxation isn’t… entirely relaxing - logging trees to fuel fires in the Keep would be most men’s idea of a hard day’s work.
But Witchers aren’t most men.
“I missed you.” He says quietly.
“I missed you too,” You kiss his chest again, marveling at the difference a few months can make. He’s never scrawny - not by any means - but you’ve not seen him this bulked up before. “Did you come straight here?”
“Mm.”
“You didn’t even stop on the way? There’s a Wyvern-”
“Eskel will take care of it. I told you: I missed you.”
You smile, “How long can you stay?”
He tightens his hold, “Not long. A week at most. But I’ll be back as soon as I can be.”
“I know. You always are.” You sit up a little, just enough that you can look down at him, “Always.”
“Mm.” He smiles, reaching a hand up to cup your cheek, “I would stay forever if I could.”
“I know,” you cover his hand with yours, squeezing gently as you look him over, “But we both know you can’t.”
“One day.” He promises.
“Once all the monsters in the world are taken care of,” you nod, “or once you grow too old and tired for the job. We can sit on the porch wrapped in blankets and watch the bees all day.”
“Mm.” He pulls your head down, kissing you sweetly, “I’ll make sure I’m not too broken and old to fuck.”
“Good.” You smile, “that is the only reason I keep you around.”
He laughs, kissing you again, “Then you’d best let me up to bathe, dearest, else I shall overstay my welcome.”
~~~
He bathes quickly and thoroughly, washing the journey from his body with pleasured groans, delighting in the warm water and the scent of your soap. He tells you how Jaskier had pilfered his, and you promise to give him several bars when he leaves, so he shall never run out, even if the troubadour steals some more.
You give him breakfast as he sits in the tub, bread baked yesterday, freshly churned butter, some salted meat. The two of you sharing the simple plateful to get your energy levels up before you undoubtedly exhaust each other.
He tells you of his life since he left you, the new scar from a Striga on his shoulder, some still-healing yellowed bruises on his torso from brawling with his brothers, the stiffness that still infects his knee in the cold. He speaks of his joy at seeing his fellow Wolves again - no new losses to report, though all of them are beginning to feel their age.
You tell him of your time - leaving out the last few weeks spent watching the path from the kitchen window - how there were some prematurely born lambs at market recently that you’d considered buying, but had settled on stocking up on oats for porridge (and for Roach), how the goat had chewed through his tether during a storm and you’d spent a week clearing up the mess he’d made…
You both make mention of how you’ve missed the other, and upon his rising from the cooling water, promptly fell back into your bed to truly demonstrate your backlog of affections.
