Chapter Text
“Freak.”
Geralt doesn’t flinch.
It is nothing he hasn't heard hurled at him before, usually followed by a derisive laugh from the speaker. The stranger in the gym might not have even meant for him to hear the word, muttered as it is while Geralt's back is turned as he raises the weight setting on the machine he is currently using.
Even when people have heard about Witcher Syndrome and know what to expect from it, they seem to forget about the more acute senses, like hearing, that people like Geralt possess. So, he pretends that the insult was just an unconscious aside that the man behind him meant to keep to himself, and tries to continue his workout.
It is still far too easy for Geralt to pull down the bar on the lat machine, so he pauses again to adjust it to an even higher weight setting, trying not to be self-conscious of the scoff he hears from the same man, and hoping that this won’t become an issue.
Luck is not on Geralt’s side, it turns out, as the man in question meanders closer, a bit out of breath from his own workout and propping his hands on his hips. The stranger is openly staring now, getting a proper look at the sight of Geralt.
And he understands the stranger’s apprehension, certainly.
Geralt knows he does not look “normal”.
A full head taller than the other man, Geralt has stark, white hair that he wears quite long, pulled back into a bun that reveals a shaved undercut at the nape of his neck. Despite being young enough that he should probably not be fully grey(let alone white haired) yet, his hair and height are not what unnerves others most about him, and those like him.
Much of the skin not covered by Geralt’s black gym shorts and t-shirt is adorned with varying and shocking scars. Beneath all that, his muscles are almost comically large and defined, the sort of physique the average person would have to train day and night to ever achieve or maintain.
Then of course there are his eyes: his irises are an uncanny bright yellow beneath his oft-furrowed dark brows.
Geralt returns the man’s gaze, trying not to glare at the thinly veiled disgust in this strangers eyes and in the scent coming off him, and waits for whatever vitriol and judgment he will undoubtedly spew.
“That’s a pretty impressive weight on the lat pull-down. You must be a professional weight lifter,” the man says in a tone that falls just short of sounding friendly.
“Not really. Just looking for a decent workout,” Geralt grits out in his deep and gravelly voice.
It might be closer to a snarl, but he’s not in the mood for this shit after the day he’s had.
“I mean, I’d love to build that kind of definition. I just don’t think I could handle the side effects of…whatever you’re on,” the stranger replies, a cruel smirk starting to form as the friendly facade begins to wane.
Irritation ripples across Geralt’s broad shoulders, and he levels the man with a thunderous scowl that would normally send the other person squeaking out an apology and running, especially with Geralt’s very impressive musculature on shocking display as he pulls the lat bar down with fairly little resistance.
But it seems this meathead has a death wish, and he just keeps smirking at Geralt.
“I don’t take steroids, asshole,” Geralt growls.
The man smirks even more sarcastically, feigning concern as he speaks, “No, no, I’m sure that’s all natural, not just for show. I don’t know who you’re trying to impress here, but you’re just gonna hurt yourself.”
Geralt’s temper is already frayed, and he lets the weights clang back down with a bit more force than usual, earning him a few dirty looks from the other gym-goers nearby.
Before the chatty prick can mouth off again, Geralt adjusts the machine several pegs, to the absolute highest setting on the machine. He locks eyes with the man as he grabs the lat bar and slowly but easily pulls it all the way down and just holds it there. Not even his breathing is taxed by the effort, and Geralt’s muscles bulge impressively beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, revealing just a measure of his true and very abnormal strength.
The haughty smirk slides off the stranger's face and he goes a bit pale. The unnatural show of force seems to be enough to finally knock some sense into him, and he takes a hesitant step back from Geralt, who calmly lets the bar go back up without a sound from the weights setting back down with perfect control.
“You’re a fucking freak, man,” the stranger chokes out in frightened disgust, quickly retreating back across the gym and away from Geralt.
“I heard you the first time,” Geralt says softly and only to himself, as anyone in the gym who witnessed the moment has quite suddenly and inexplicably found other machines to use, anywhere far from him.
One person actually trips over their own gym bag in a hasty scramble to get away. The smell of stale sweat in the gym is suddenly overwhelmed by the sour scent of fear. It’s not a scent most humans could pick up on.
Humans who would just as gladly not count Geralt among their kind.
No longer feeling up to the invigorating workout, Geralt quietly packs up his own bag, wipes down the machine, and leaves the gym, silently mourning the loss of something that is usually therapeutic for him.
Especially after a rough workday.
Geralt is a bounty hunter and private investigator. He primarily takes jobs for law enforcement that require him to track down and subdue dangerous criminals to bring them in to face justice. And on occasions he will take private jobs investigating for a civilian, as well. It’s usually just basic information like finding out if their spouse is being unfaithful, or tracking down a lost relative. Boring stuff.
While working for himself means he can turn down any contract that he doesn’t want, Geralt still has bills to pay like anyone else, and is sometimes in a situation where he has to take a job that he would normally not go for. Today was the sort of job he hates: bringing in a petty thief who was clearly only stealing to support their family.
It doesn’t help that the takedown was a rough one. The suspect ran. Whether from fear of Geralt himself, or from having to face justice, he doesn’t know. But Geralt had to pursue them over a fence and down several alleyways, and inevitably had to tackle them to the ground to end the chase. He used his extensive personal training in combat to land in a way where he took the brunt of the fall instead of the thief, bruising his entire left side.
In a way, Geralt feels he likely deserves to have gotten messed up for cashing in that particular bounty.
Even the grey sky above him seems to share his melancholy, as a light drizzle of rain starts falling and soaking him while he makes the trek back to his flat. He replays the situation from the gym over and over in his mind. Running is usually easier than fighting, but in the end Geralt feels like he always ends up doing both.
Images of his happy, early childhood filter through Geralt’s mind as he walks.
Being perfectly content, his mother’s face, their little home.
And then, his mom driving him to a strange building, and leaving him there. She did not return.
Trying not to cry, because he was eight, and eight-year-old boys shouldn’t cry.
One foster house after another, not understanding why his mother didn’t just come get him. Running away from every placement they put him in, because Geralt just wanted to go home.
Being confused about the things they called his mom. He didn’t know what a junkie was, didn’t understand “whore”, but Geralt knew they were insulting her, and he was so angry.
And then, when he thought life couldn’t get any lower, the changes.
Geralt was a seemingly normal boy, up until the start of puberty and the trauma of being abandoned became the catalyst to him finding himself trapped in a body that increasingly did not feel like his own.
A body that betrayed him.
His once dark auburn hair started growing in an unnaturally bright white, his muscle definition and height increasing far faster than most boys entering manhood. Geralt’s reflexes sped up, while his heart rate slowed more and more, though he didn’t ever feel faint from it like he should’ve.
All of his senses sharpened drastically, alarming everyone around him. Every sound was too loud, smells overwhelmed him, any light was too bright, and each texture against his skin felt like he was being ripped to bloody pieces.
At the same time, his ability to tell that he should stop doing something before he was injured by it, was alarmingly diminishing. Geralt would often get bad cuts and bruises, and even broken bones at times. He could objectively tell that he was hurt. Part of him could feel the pain, so terribly.
But he was suddenly able to mentally compartmentalize it so well, that those responsible for his care did not often believe the young boy pleading for help, and would refuse to take him to see a doctor. On more than one occasion, Geralt was left with horrible scarring wounds that he eventually started to hide from others. He hated the judgement in their eyes.
Those injuries also seemed to heal much faster than should have been physically possible, and it became easier to live with the quiet agony inside himself, than to be cuffed for lying. Because surely there was no way Geralt could have broken ribs from a tumble out of a tall tree, and calmly discuss that fact with whatever foster parent had been burdened with him at that time. So for practicality’s sake, Geralt taught himself to place stitches in his own skin, and to set his own broken bones.
All the while, Geralt’s eyes slowly changed from a lovely green, to an alarming golden color.
He was sure this was his body dying, slowly and terrifyingly; there was simply no other answer in his young mind. Most of his foster parents just ignored his suffering, a few attempted to get him some medical attention that didn’t draw any answers, while others just sent him back to the foster agency because he was too much for them.
Finally, Fate favored Geralt enough to have his unique condition recognized by a caseworker who knew of a foster parent way out in the Kaedweni countryside, with strikingly similar ailments and even some similar features.
And so Geralt found himself, no more than a preteen, with all that he owned tucked easily into one small bag on his shoulder, at Vesemir’s doorstep.
The older man did resemble Geralt in quite an unsettling way. But Vesemir’s greyed hair could more easily be explained by his age, even spry as the man still was. The situation was made all the more shocking to Geralt when he was introduced to his foster siblings: a group of boys all roundabout his own age, and all bearing very similarly distinct features.
They all looked far more muscular and of a greater height than any rough-and-tumble group of boys their age should rightfully be. All seemed older than their years in the somber way they held themselves. And each one of them sported several impressive scars, yet few suffered wounds that had not already healed.
Similarly, every single boy, and Vesemir himself, shared those same yellow eyes that haunted Geralt’s face in the mirror.
Geralt alone had a shock of snowy hair that reached nearly to his shoulders by then, all the dark locks having been cut away as they grew out; the daily reminder of hair that looked like his mother’s had been too painful for Geralt to face.
He doesn’t really remember much from those first few days at Kaer Morhen besides loneliness. Even among his peers, Geralt was something more alien still. While he slowly settled in over the passing weeks, Geralt waited for the moment everything would be taken from him yet again, not allowing himself to grow close to those around him at first.
Finally though, Geralt was given the proper medical care that he had been denied for nearly four years. Countless tests were run on him, specialist doctors from across the Continent examined him, he was made to run and jump, and was measured and weighed, and prodded, and poked with so, so many needles, until the conclusion and diagnosis was absolute.
The cause of all that misery in Geralt’s life was from Witcher Syndrome, a rare genetic mutation that affects mostly boys, and does not usually manifest symptoms until the start of puberty.
A disorder that doctors believed to be made worse by high levels of stress and emotion.
The condition causes a myriad of changes in the genetics of those it affects, most noticeable by making them taller and their musculature much more defined than others their age. The strength of children diagnosed with Witcher Syndrome often tested significantly higher than even grown men of a similar build.
For those with this grouping of genetic mutations, their regenerative healing rates from any type of injury increases to levels unheard of for humans. Their pain tolerances exceed all normal documented levels, allowing them to survive and recover from many injuries that would’ve been debilitating or fatal to anyone else, regardless of age or overall health.
And every individual with Witcher Syndrome eventually develops the iconic and intense yellow eyes that truly set them apart. The condition itself is incurable, but the symptoms are manageable with proper medications and therapies. It can't be passed on, though, because everyone with Witcher Syndrome eventually develop sterility while still young; new cases of the syndrome happen based on seemingly random genetic mutations.
The fact that Geralt’s case had both managed to go beyond notice of the adults in charge of him, and also progressively got more severe for years without treatment or intervention, was a cause of great anger for Vesemir for a long time. The older man felt a protectiveness and affinity for Geralt from the first day they met, and it hurt Vesemir's heart to know of the horrors Geralt endured even beyond the other boys suffering from the same syndrome.
Geralt’s unique alabaster locks confounded the specialists for a time, as his white hair was somewhat unique to him and not a usual hallmark of the condition that was ravaging his life. Eventually, the doctors ran his bloodwork and realized that Geralt’s mutations were much more advanced than any known individual living with Witcher Syndrome.
Whether by the extreme stress and despair he had been put under at such a pivotal time in his life, or just something unique to his specific genome, Geralt was the most highly mutated case of Witcher Syndrome that the doctors had ever seen.
At least, he was the most advanced case that lived through childhood, as the base level of mutagenic toxins in his bloodstream at any given time was enough to kill many grown men, but not Geralt.
Finally though, Geralt had some answers. He knew what was making his life a living death, and now had brothers and a father who shared his afflictions, who understood his pains. Even when Geralt couldn’t verbalize them.
And at last, Geralt was given the medications and therapies needed to manage his incurable genetic condition, and to keep it from actually killing him. He even had enough support at home to give him a small hope for some sort of future that wasn't spent in overstimulated pain and agony. All while the world around Geralt only saw someone too ‘strong’ to be truly human.
Unfortunately, there was no fairytale ending coming, no happily ever after for young Geralt.
The disruptive side effects of the many medications needed to stabilize his condition were almost equally as awful at times as his symptoms themselves. And no amount of medication or therapies could make Geralt seem even remotely ‘normal’ again to anyone he would meet out in the world on the rare occasions he absolutely had to leave home to interact with others.
And to Geralt, 'home' would always be Kaer Morhen.
A large country estate in the Blue Mountains that Vesemir had acquired from the government in order to raise his rag-tag group of genetically special boys, Kaer Morhen was a refuge for children from across the Continent suffering from Witcher Syndrome, all of whom could easily be considered disabled by the medical adversities they faced.
However, Geralt and most of his brothers fought tooth and nail to be perceived as ‘average’. They strove to live their lives as uninterrupted as possible by the mutations that could and had easily killed other boys of lesser constitutions. Despite a world full of prejudice and bigotry against them, all of Vesemir’s ‘wolf pack’ of foster kids tried to be a positive force in a realm that was determined to hate them for the simple crime of being born different.
Vesemir taught them to live by an old-school code of morals, along with teaching them physical skills like hand-to-hand combat in order to instill in them a code of self-discipline, to make something good from their 'gifts'. And like Geralt, most of his brothers pursued very physical careers where they could do the most good with the hand that Destiny dealt them.
Geralt’s deep revelry into his childhood from a lifetime ago is brought up short by the door of his flat appearing before his face.
The entire walk from the gym had passed in somewhat of a haze as he reminisced on some of his most painful and formative memories.
He despondently slides the key to his flat in the lock at the door and lets himself in, soaked through with muggy summer rain, and feeling similarly dejected in spirit.
A soft bark perks up Geralt’s ears, and a tight smile tugs at his mouth as his fluffy brown mutt of a dog, Roach, comes bounding down the hallway to meet him and to whine in protest of his absence. He allows the animal to briefly shower him with her somewhat slobbery affections, before sending her firmly but kindly back to her own bed in the other room in order to arrange for himself a very hot shower, which Geralt feels he quite deserves, considering the events of the day.
But no sooner has the hot cascade of water droplets from the shower fallen over Geralt’s tense and bare muscled shoulders, than another common but more persistently annoying of his symptoms chooses to rear its ugly head.
With the obvious imbalance of hormones and acceleration of many aspects of typical ‘manhood’, it is unsurprising that those suffering from Witcher Syndrome often have an unruly and disruptively high sex drive. The skyrocketing testosterone levels alone would be debilitating to the average man even without such mutations as his, but someone like Geralt has to fight agonizingly high levels of easy arousal, combined with an overwhelming reaction to any and all sensory inputs from the world around him.
Senses that are heightened so far beyond the norm.
Tantalizing and nebulous scents of his own desire, soft sounds from several flats down the way of two lovers enjoying one another, the warm feeling of the water rushing over his own skin…
Geralt growls uselessly beneath his breath, quickly turning the knob for hot water down completely, and allowing the painfully stinging ice cold water to run over his sorely overstimulated muscles.
Begrudgingly, but effectively, the frigid temperature kills his latent excitement until he is able to wash himself without caving to the compulsion to take himself in hand and wring out some vestige of pleasure to atone for the chaotic turmoil of the day.
Very rarely does Geralt indulge his baser desires, some part of him still unwilling to accept even after all these years that he is allowed to be different, and to allow himself different tolerances than would be considered normal.
Geralt is also unable to accept that his desires are not really so unorthodox and taboo as to be ignored completely like he tries to do. His loathing for himself, cultivated from his painful preteen years onward, has long since convinced Geralt that he doesn’t deserve to be happy. The best he can ask of life, is to be useful to others.
Eventually, even the glacial water stops curbing his libido as much as it had prior, and Geralt has to cut his shower short in an effort to quickly put some clothing on before he does something he will berate himself for.
Dressed more comfortably in low-slung sweatpants and nothing more, Geralt climbs into his bed with a protein shake in hand, unable to stop the pity-party in his head that has started without his consent. He feels sorry for himself for a great many things. The way he was born, what he became, the way he can’t seem to help but keep others at arm's length, what happened to Renfri, the way things ended with Yen…
Something like a whine of desperation slips through Geralt’s lips, and he knows he won’t be getting any sleep tonight if he doesn’t do something, anything, to stop the downward spiral he has found himself on. Geralt knows he isn’t in a great place to be making brash or lasting decisions, but regardless, he grabs his phone. Of the options easily available to him, Geralt decides on a dating/hook-up app aimed at men attracted to other men.
In his life Geralt has appreciated the physical appeal of people of varying genders, but his trysts with other men have overall been relatively short and lacking any depth that anyone would call an actual romance or relationship. It was only with women that he was compelled to strive for more. Whether that was a true preference of his own, or if it was only the women he was with that cared more to cultivate something beyond just a hook-up, Geralt doesn't know.
In practice, Geralt has never had a proper boyfriend, but he has certainly been with his fair share of men in one-night stands or flirtationships that didn’t amount to anything serious once the weekend was done.
And so Geralt finds himself wearing next to nothing and sweating profusely in his bed despite his freezing shower, swiping mostly left on any number of wanting men in his area while he absently presses down on an increasingly painful erection.
Some of the profiles almost seem like his type, but something or the other about the candidates has Geralt making a snap judgment and swiping them away off his screen in rejection. He is nearly ready to give up and switch over to an app more open to women as well just for the added variety, when a new profile filters across Geralt’s screen and stops him in his tracks.
A musician going by the name Jaskier, several years younger than Geralt, and new to the area. One selfie of the man showcases his bright cornflower-blue bedroom eyes, his tousle of silky brown hair, and a delicately hairy chest, all while he poses somewhat lewdly in nothing but a pair of black leather pants.
Geralt feels a tug of arousal spike through him, and quickly flips through the other photos of Jaskier’s profile. Some depict him singing and playing guitar on stage of quaint local venues in Oxenfurt, the university town that the man is from, while a couple others are just cheeky smiling selfies. In several photos, Jaskier even wears black eyeliner that makes his enchanting eyes that much more enthralling. Jaskier’s bio says nothing more than, “Swipe right. Let’s chat, I love to talk.”
The tension in Geralt’s shoulders grows, but the desire radiating from his prick is more insistent, and it takes more willpower than Geralt would like to admit to move his hand away from his cock. He double checks his own profile hesitantly, wondering if he is the type of man that Jaskier would even be interested in.
Geralt's own series of perhaps lewd but never nude profile photos show off his enviable body in flattering low light, but never his face. His eyes alone would scare off most potential hook-ups. Additionally, his name and age are listed, but he has no extra info about himself on his profile, and that’s how he prefers it, really.
Before he can properly chicken out, Geralt swipes right on Jaskier, and quickly tosses his phone aside on the bed. He presses his hands over his eyes and suppresses a groan of frustration that he’s even doing this again.
It’s been several months since Geralt’s last disastrous fling, a very short-lived relationship with a woman named Triss. The sex was good, but Triss wanted something far more serious than Geralt could commit to, and he had eventually ghosted her.
A soft chime interrupts Geralt’s moping, and he grabs up his phone to see the notification that he and Jaskier have matched. Moments later, another chime, as a message from Jaskier comes through in the app.
Jaskier: I don’t have terribly high hopes that you’re not a bot, because of those selfies…your body is unreal, if you’re even…real, and not AI
Geralt worries his lower lip with his teeth, feeling more heat pooling in his groin to even be talking to such a beautiful man. He takes an unsteady breath, and types out his reply.
Geralt: could say the same for your photos. too pretty to be real
Jaskier: Well if we are both bots, then I suppose we are very silly bots, speaking to one another like this. I am, however, intrigued. Could I see your face?
A scowl furrows Geralt’s brows, and he thinks for certain that Jaskier will ghost him or even block him as soon as he shows his shocking yellow eyes.
Geralt: gotta prove you’re real first, then I’ll think about it
Jaskier: You want me to prove I’m real? You were the one in question!
Jaskier: But fine, have it your own way. How shall I prove the reality of my existence, sir?
Jaskier’s last cheeky reply has Geralt’s cock twitching hard in his sweatpants. The sir being addressed to him is almost a physical force on his body and he presses a palm down firmly on himself to hold back his mounting desire.
Geralt: send me a short video, just say my name, so I know you are actually you
A long moment passes and right as Geralt feels he must've come on too strong, a video message pops up on his phone. His hand shakes slightly as he taps to open it.
In the video, Jaskier is sitting in bed up against a dark purple plush headboard, shirtless, but his sheets are pulled up so Geralt can’t tell if he’s wearing anything else below the waist. The man is smirking in a flirtatious way, his handsome blue eyes sparkling in the low light of the room. His hair is grown out some and he’s got a bit more stubble than most of his photos, but it’s really him.
Geralt holds his breath as Jaskier addresses the camera in the video, “Well Geralt. I must say, I’m impressed you got me to play along, and I hope you’re ready, because it’s your turn now. Send me a little video of your own. Say my name, darling. Prove that you’re real.”