#the witcher fandom

[iskisaggie]

Needy Geralt, I repeat NEEDY GERALT 🗣️

[Do NOT repost, thanks] INSTAGRAM - BLUESKY

[greenapplespider]

With and without the tattoos 🤔

A redraw of an old sketch I did of the character Isengrim, from the Witcher books

[ogre0011]

More Witcher art!

[ink-and-embers]

[ the wolf and the lantern ]

PAIRING: geralt of rivia x fem!reader

SUMMARY: a storm drives you both into an abandoned chapel. you light your lantern and sit near the altar, drying herbs by its glow. he sits in the dark until you offer him half your cloak without a word. when thunder rattles the ceiling, he mutters, “you’re not afraid.” you answer, “you only scare the ones who don’t see you.”

WARNINGS: injured roach if you squint

NOTES: first of my geralt pieces, starting with how he met the reader - hope it’s okay!

[ masterlist ] requests are open

———————————————————————————

The storm came crawling over the horizon long before it broke.

You could smell it first — that copper tang of lightning still caged in the clouds. The forest had gone quiet, the kind of quiet that meant even the birds had found cover. Only the wind moved, tugging at the hood of your cloak as you followed the road that sloped toward an abandoned chapel you remembered from a past journey. The villagers said it was cursed. You called it shelter.

You were just rounding the bend when you saw him.

A lone rider, black horse slick with rain, silver hair already darkened by the downpour that hadn’t yet reached you. He dismounted slowly, as if the weight of the world — or of the blades on his back — required him to think about balance.

You recognized him by reputation, if not by name. A Witcher.

You might have kept walking, another traveler passing with a polite nod, but he was staring down at his horse’s leg — something wrong, a limp maybe. Instinct tugged at you the way it always did. You approached.

“She’s favoring the right foreleg,” you said, voice low enough not to startle the animal.

He turned at the sound, those yellow eyes catching the faintest bit of dying daylight. “You see that from here?”

“I see most things limping,” you replied, offering a ghost of a smile. “I’m a healer.”

He said nothing, but didn’t move away when you came closer. You knelt, fingers brushing the mud-caked fetlock, careful not to crowd the mare. The wound wasn’t deep — a stone bruise, perhaps. You pulled a small pouch from your satchel, the scent of crushed comfrey rising with the damp.

He watched as you worked, the kind of silence that felt like studying rather than suspicion. When you straightened, rain began to fall in fat, heavy drops that stung against your skin.

“There’s a chapel ahead,” you said, nodding up the path. “Stone roof, mostly intact. You’ll want cover before that turns to a storm.”

His eyes flicked toward the black line of trees, then back to you. “You’ll want the same.”

You didn’t wait for agreement — only turned and started walking. The rhythm of hooves followed a few steps behind.

By the time you reached the chapel, the sky had split open. The door resisted your shove, wood swollen with years of rain. He stepped past you without a word, shoulder braced against the frame, and it gave way with a low groan.

Inside, it smelled of dust and ash, old prayers clinging to the stones. You lifted your lantern, striking it to life, and warm light spilled across the empty pews.

The Witcher paused in the doorway, rain running down his armor in rivulets of silver. You gestured toward the shadows.

“Come in,” you said simply. “No use letting the storm have us both.”

He hesitated — then followed you in.

The Witcher turned, closing the door against the storm. The sound of the rain softened once there was wood between you and the world — distant now, a steady heartbeat against the chapel walls.

You lifted your lantern higher and took in the ruin. The roof sagged in places, but the altar still stood, stone veined with moss and candle stubs melted down to ghosts of wax. You’d slept in worse.

He stood by the doorway a moment longer, water dripping from the ends of his hair, cloak heavy with it. The faint scent of iron and wet leather carried through the chill.

“You can come closer,” you said, kneeling to set your satchel down. “No sense guarding the door. Whatever hunts out there will wait until dawn.”

He gave a sound halfway between a hum and a sigh, then stepped forward, boots echoing softly on the stone. The horse outside huffed once before settling, and for the first time since the road, the silence didn’t feel dangerous.

You struck a few bits of tinder together until the lantern’s flame grew, brightening to a steady gold. Its glow kissed the walls and touched the edges of his armor. Without the storm’s blur, he was sharper — all scars and steadiness and the quiet gravity of someone built to endure.

You began unpacking the essentials of your trade: rolls of linen, glass vials bound in twine, a pouch of herbs that smelled faintly of mint and earth. You spread them out on your cloak, letting the warmth of the lantern draw the damp away.

He watched, wordless, as you worked — not intruding, not offering help, simply existing in the shared hush. When you finally glanced up, his eyes caught the lantern light like molten gold through smoke.

“You travel light,” he said at last.

“I have to. I go where I’m needed.”

“And people pay you for it?”

“Not always,” you said, voice soft. “Sometimes they just feed me, or let me sleep in their barns. The Path takes care of its own.”

That earned you a faint lift of his brow. “You sound like a Witcher.”

You smiled at that — small, honest, fleeting. “I patch what you kill. I suppose that makes us opposite sides of the same coin.”

He looked at you for a long time, then glanced toward the door again. The thunder cracked closer this time, shaking dust from the rafters. You moved toward the altar, pulling your cloak tighter.

“Sit,” you said, gesturing toward the broken pew opposite yours. “Storm’s only getting worse.”

He hesitated — a creature of instinct, of distance — then finally obeyed.

The lantern burned between you, throwing both your shadows against the walls.

Outside, the storm began to howl. Inside, there was only breath, and warmth, and waiting.

The storm worked its way inside the chapel’s bones. Wind rattled the shutters, and rain pressed against the walls as if trying to remind you that the world outside still wanted in.

You’d grown used to weather like this — storms that drove people into each other’s paths. He seemed less comfortable with it. Every thunderclap drew the faintest flicker of tension through his jaw, a readiness to fight something that wasn’t there.

You reached for your satchel again, half for distraction, half out of habit. “You should get out of that armor. It’ll take a day to dry if you don’t.”

He gave a low sound — not refusal, exactly, but resistance. “Not the first time I’ve ridden through rain.”

“No,” you said, smiling faintly as you sorted a few damp herbs onto a cloth near the lantern. “But maybe the first time you’ve done it with company who knows how to treat pneumonia.”

That earned you the smallest curve of his mouth. He unbuckled one pauldron, the metal clinking softly as it met the floor. The lantern’s light caught his profile — sharper now, but softer, too.

You worked in silence until he spoke again. “Geralt.”

You looked up. “What?”

“My name,” he said simply. “Geralt of Rivia.”

You nodded once, meeting his gaze. “Then I suppose I should tell you mine.”

He tilted his head slightly, waiting.

You gave it — quietly, as if the name might echo too loudly in a place like this. His eyes flicked toward the lantern, thoughtful.

“Not a bad one,” he said after a moment. “Has a steadiness to it.”

A small smile placed itself upon your lips.

A crack of thunder rolled through the rafters, deep enough to make the air tremble. You didn’t flinch, but the lantern swayed, sending your shadows dancing across the walls. He noticed — or maybe he was waiting for you to startle and didn’t know what to do when you didn’t.

“You’re not afraid,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

You met his gaze through the shifting light. “You only scare the ones who don’t see you.”

The words hung there — simple, but heavier than they sounded. Something eased in his shoulders, like tension unwinding from years of habit. The thunder outside rolled away into distance, leaving only the steady rhythm of rain against stone.

He looked at you for a long moment, the sort of look that doesn’t demand understanding but quietly asks for it anyway. You didn’t shy from it.

The lantern’s flame wavered and steadied again, a fragile, stubborn thing — much like the moment between you.

You turned slightly, pulling your cloak closer and holding out one side toward him. “It’s warmer if you sit nearer the light,” you said, not quite an invitation, not quite a command.

Geralt hesitated, then crossed the few feet of empty chapel floor. He sat beside you, the bench creaking under the shared weight. The cloak bridged between you, half yours, half his.

For a while, neither of you spoke. His breath slowed, deep and even, and yours followed suit. The scent of rain and metal gave way to herbs drying by the lantern’s heat — chamomile, mint, smoke.

It wasn’t comfort, exactly. It was something quieter: the absence of fear.

When another rumble of thunder murmured across the hills, he said, “Most people would’ve run the other way.”

You smiled faintly, eyes on the lantern. “Most people aren’t used to what comes after monsters.”

He made a low sound — not laughter, but close enough to count.

Outside, the storm began to pass, its fury traded for drizzle. Inside, time seemed to loosen its grip.

You leaned back against the wall, eyelids heavy, letting the quiet take root. Beside you, Geralt rested one hand over the hilt at his hip — habit more than need — and the other lay open on the bench between you, empty, patient.

You didn’t take it. But you thought about it.

And for that night, that was enough.

[cassual-rat-enjoyer]

Every fanfiction i read on the witcher, where Geralt brings jaskier to the Witchers keep and Vesemir is like “whatever i dont care” feels exactly like a dad telling his son he can keep the stray he found on the side of the road. There is no other way to explain the feeling those scenes give me.

[supercupcakecollector-love]

Making a list of positive/ constructive/ not 100% negative grifter video reviews of TWN

This guy also has excellent threads on his Blusky and an inactive twitter (Sterling Archer of Riva) account about both the books and the show that really helped me look at them in a different light

These analyses are by the amazing @naumaxia-art Their videos really got me thinking and helped me formulate a few theories I have about season 5

That's really all I can find for now, if you have any suggestions, feel free to add them in the reblogs

For as much fan art and fic I can find of this fandom even though it's much smaller than it once was, it would be nice to find more non toxic video reviews and essays

I already know about a few podcasts that constructively review the show I'm in their Discord servers as well (I've even appeared on one coming out soon)

[dragonbornphoenix]

Here is a helpful article on how to use a site skin on AO3 to hide or warn for works that include tags about AI (except for ones that are saying they've used a spell checker or grammar checker). A friend in my Starsky and Hutch fandom found this after a group discussion we had about AI generated stories. The instructions are easy to follow and it works just fine.

How to Hide / Warn Any Ao3 Work That Uses a Generative AI Tag

a not so small guide on how to use my "yuu's AI Warner" and "yuu's AI Hider" skins on ArchiveOfOurOwn so you can avoid anything related t...

[islenthatur]

Look, look... plot bunny has bitten me. We all know Jaskier is a man of many talents, he graduated top of his class for the 7 liberal arts.

We also know he would basically do anything to help ease the path for Geralt. So what if instead of teaching each winter, he decided to learn a trade.

Healing from the best healers he knows to make sure that when Geralt is wounded he can help stitch him, carry and make salves, mix the herbs Geralt will need for potions.

New HC though would be a leathersmith? Jask learnt how to tan hides properly from geralt, he'd have to for extra money to trade or sell. But what if one day Geralt's armour was nearly destroyed beyond repair and Jask just thought 'huh I should learn how to fix that' and he does. He spends several winters with many leathersmiths till his own reputation under another name began to proceed him?

Just picture witchers clamouring to get their sword caloused hands on these leather pieces that are Witcher durable and finding one was like finding a dragon... and geralt just... comes home with a WHOLE SET of Julek Armour and his brothers are just 'Geralt where the fuck did you get your hands on a WHOLE SET!?'

Geralt is just confused and mutters. "My bard??"