Chapter Text
It's Geralt's fifth day following the fiendcat. There's a one-hundred fifty ducat reward waiting for him if he can catch it and kill it by the end of the day. And if he can't, there's an unpleasant choice: he can let himself run out of rations and continue the hunt in an even worse shape than his already weakened state, or he can risk losing his best chance to slay the monster by crawling back to the little agricultural village past the outskirts of Gulet in humiliating failure to regroup and restock his supplies and displease the group of farmers who hired him to dispose of the beast killing their livestock and farmhands. This contract got out of hand quickly; the one fiendcat the farmers claimed had been plaguing them turned out to be a pack of them each attacking one at a time, and Geralt's been battling them for days. The job wasn't supposed to be this long. Geralt's exhausted from the constant skirmishes and a few nasty slashes from fiendcat claws, but he's confident the one he's tracking now is the last one. The biggest and most ferocious, but the last one. He's been trailing the creatures up a treacherous mountain, a barren wilderness without sources of drinkable water or animals or plants to eat, and the limited provisions he packed for this supposedly quick assignment are running out. That's the real advantage the panthera-demons have over him – not only their speed and ability to tuck themselves away in the many hiding places amongst the rocks and crags up here despite their size, but how long they can go without requiring nourishment. Without a doubt, this fiendcat could outlast Geralt. So that's why he has to kill it by sundown, bring one of its claws back to the farmers, and put an end to this cursed contract.
A shiver goes through Geralt and he pulls his thick black coat tighter around him, tugging off one of his leather gloves and brushing dirty tangled strands of long silver hair out of his face before pressing the back of his hand to his forehead to feel if his fever has started to go back up. It has. He suspected as much, by the way he's been feeling progressively colder and hazier over the past few hours, but he'd been hoping it was just the winter air growing chillier and the mild dehydration from his increasingly strict water rationing starting to get to him. It isn't.
A flash of movement up ahead catches Geralt's attention, and his head snaps up. It's the fiendcat, standing on a rocky outcropping above him, feeling safe enough to wander out into the open again with Geralt having been hidden from its view for a while by the jagged dusty boulder he's crouching behind. He should've heard the stomp of its paws before it entered his field of vision, with the way even an ordinary human without his enhanced witcher senses could've picked that up, but he didn't. His mind is being fogged by the recurrence of the illness that regularly plagues him, and the potion he'd taken two days ago to stave it off must have nearly worn off by now. But this is Geralt's chance, his opportunity to finally confront the beast and finish this mission before he can't anymore. The fiendcat sits down in a patch of sun, trying to soak up the few bits of warmth it can get in the harsh midwinter, and Geralt knows he needs to strike now.
Geralt reaches into his nearly empty pouch and takes out the small glass vials containing two of the last three potions he has. The first, a teal Blizzard potion, he downs easily. With any luck, it'll increase his reflexes and reaction time enough to give him a good chance against the devilishly quick feline. For a brief second, he considers using his last Tawny Owl potion as well, but reminds himself he'll need it to get back to the settlement once the fiendcat is defeated; he used all the others to keep tracking and battling the creatures almost night and day, since they're too fast and sneaky to let too far out of his sensing range and were more than happy to attack him at any hour. And he can't build up too much toxicity in his blood right away, not when he still has to take the highly toxic second potion. This one, a malicious-looking bright orange liquid, goes down much rougher. Geralt can feel it burning all the way down from the back of his tongue to his stomach. Even after decades of taking it more often than he should, it's so foul he has to fight the urge to gag at the taste. But it'll bring his fever back down and clear his mind and put off the worst symptoms of the illness, just for a while longer. A day, if he's lucky. That's how it works, with the three of these orange vials he carries: the first delays the symptoms for three days, the second for two, the third for one. He doesn't carry more than three. After that, potions won't work. His limited food and water aren't the only time constraint he's under.
The potions take effect within seconds, and then in a sudden wave of renewal, Geralt feels like a new being. A replenished, sharp, dangerous one. One that looks horrifying, prominent veins and empty black eyes surrounded by sickly pale skin, but one that is powerful. One that can take on anything. One that can take on an entire pack of fiendcats at once, if necessary. One that won't fail, which he has to be, because he can't.
Geralt leaps out from behind the boulder, sword already drawn, and hurls himself up the outcropping and at the fiendcat. It leaps to its feet instantly and stretches up on its hind legs to its full eight foot height, claws long and dangerous and serrated fangs bared, ready to fight. And so is Geralt. He grits his teeth as his sword glances off the creature's claws as it parries his first swing, the sharp-tipped appendages as long as daggers and just as solid, and strikes again. He trades impossibly fast blows with the beast, ducking and dodging swipes of its paws and snaps of its jaws as he tries to get his blade close enough to its abdomen or chest or neck to cause it any real damage, and it gets in two vicious slashes across his left arm and his torso before he succeeds. They're worse than the others he's suffered so far, longer and deeper. The gash his sword opens in the fiendcat's soft underbelly isn't enough, drawing a significant amount of blood but no organs, and he swears loudly before diving out of the way of its furiously swung claws and horrific screech. In the next minute it takes Geralt to get another good strike in, the creature retaliates with a stinging swipe at his right leg that tears open both the fabric of his trousers and the skin beneath it. Geralt gasps and staggers, but recovers quickly enough to take advantage of the way the fiendcat has bent down slightly to plunge his sword into its throat. The demon screams, loud and horrible, and Geralt quickly yanks his sword loose and dashes out of range as it stumbles and wails and slices its claws through the air in its death throes. Blood spurts from its neck for a long time, splattering the dusty ground the same way it did to Geralt before he could get back far enough. When it finally falls, the earth underneath it shakes.
Geralt stands back for a moment, waiting to see if the fiendcat will move again, before slowly and cautiously approaching its body with his sword still drawn. His breathing is heavy and harsh, usually slow heartbeat fast and pounding in his chest, and he swallows down thick saliva. The adrenaline is keeping the effects of the pain and the blood loss from hitting him full force, but it won't be long until he feels them. When it seems safe enough to get close, Geralt swings his sword one last time and chops one of the fiendcat's spread-out claws off in one blow. He picks it up quickly, unbothered by the blood dripping from the severed appendage and visible shards of bone, then sits down hard on the ground beside the body.
The plan is simple. First, Geralt will bandage his wounds. Second, he'll take the last Tawny Owl potion to ensure he has the stamina to get back to the little agricultural village. Third, he'll head there immediately, moving as fast as he can; though he's been following the pack of beasts for five days it's been slow going, with them engaging in an extended game of hide and seek frequently punctuated by violent clashes. This all delayed their progress enough that if Geralt starts moving toward the settlement as soon as he's done patching himself up, he should be able to make it there before the most critical two potions wear off. That means he'll have just enough time to get the bare minimum of medical treatment and then drag himself somewhere safe and private before magical concoctions can no longer delay the inevitable and he goes into heat.
It's difficult, very difficult, to be a witcher as an omega.
It's nightfall by the time Geralt reaches the first farmstead on foot. With the silence and sudden movements and navigation of precarious terrain necessary to successfully track and kill the fiendcats, bringing his horse would've been more of a hindrance than an assistance during the hunt, so Geralt left Roach with the farmer serving as the head of the group that hired him who has been caring for her in a well-appointed stable. On the way back, however, having Roach to ride down the mountain and on to the outskirts of the village would've been a saving grace. By the time Geralt makes it to the property of the farmer stabling his mare, the stamina potion is wearing off and the exhaustion and blood loss are catching up with him. Throughout the whole ordeal he's aware, painfully aware, of how little time he has left on the other.
"How's Roach?" is the first thing Geralt asks when the farmer's wife, Anais, opens the door to his erratic knocks and finds the grotesque sight of him. Geralt is slumped against the doorframe dirty from the five-day hunt and covered in fiendcat blood and guts, still a bit ghastly from the potions, with his messily bandaged wounds sluggishly bleeding and the gory severed claw in his hand.
"In a better condition than you," Anais replies.
Geralt smiles and lets out a little huff of amusement. "I would hope so."
Anais doesn't manage to catch Geralt before he collapses half in and half out of the doorway, but that's for the best, since the witcher's big and muscular body would undoubtedly crush her. She calls out for the farmer as Geralt lays, head swimming, with his cheek pressed into the grainy wood floor of the farmhouse. He's awake, but not fully, when the clomp of the farmer's boots approaches and stops a few inches from the mop of blood-matted silver hair that's fallen over his face. He doesn't know when his eyes closed, but he's still distinctly aware of the claw he's holding just beside his head.
"Witcher?" the farmer, Sarai, says. Geralt's too exhausted to move, too exhausted to reply. "Witcher, are you awake?"
"Witcher?" Anais asks as well, but Geralt still can do nothing.
"He killed the beast," Sarai says, a little in awe, nudging Geralt with the toe of her boot once. Then, "Did it kill him too?"
"He's still alive," Anais replies. "He looked like he was dead when he arrived, though. I almost screamed when he opened the door. Let's get him inside. We're going to need some thread and bandages; he has serious wounds."
"Inside? Are we taking in witchers, of all things, like stray dogs now? Fine, fine, I suppose we should keep him alive. But we should wash him off first. He's filthy." Sarai begins to lift Geralt with arms muscular from a lifetime of hard manual labor, and her smaller but surprisingly strong wife helps. Geralt lolls in their hold like a rag doll, groaning softly at the pain of being moved with his wounds still very much open and irritated, and tries to stay awake just a bit longer. As they carry him off to wherever he's going to be washed, Sarai snorts quietly. "I always thought it was unsettling how witchers' scents are suppressed by whatever weird things they do to mutate them – makes them feel even less human than they already do – but you wouldn't be able to smell his right now anyway."
"He was out there for five days, I don't know what you expect," Anais says. Geralt hadn't taken much notice of it before, but he registers now that both women are betas. She adds, "You don't like smelling alpha scents anyway."
"I'd prefer an alpha scent to no scent. Less unsettling." Then, "But I'd prefer no scent to what he smells like now."
"Yes, you've said," Anais sighs. "We'll give him a bath. Then he'll smell like lavender, and not alpha or... this. Is that better?"
"The suppressed scent thing is still unnerving," Sarai replies. "But yes, I do prefer lavender to alpha. Or this."
If Geralt were lucid enough, he might be tempted to laugh. He wouldn't correct them, of course, but he would be tempted to laugh. He's on the verge of slipping fully out of consciousness in another second or two, but he still has the presence of mind to both find their conversation amusing and to be grateful for it. He's heard this exact same sentiment about the eeriness of his lack of scent many times. It's one of the many reason people hate witchers, after all. And it's often juxtaposed, just as now, against the assumed alternative of an alpha scent. There is a common belief that all witchers are alphas. But, like most fables and lore surrounding witchers, it is incorrect. Geralt of Rivia knows this better than anyone.
Geralt wakes up drenched with sweat, both violently shivering and unbearably burning beneath the thick furs laid over him, in a haze that takes a few moments to dissipate enough for him to remember what it means. It takes him another few moments to remember where he is and how he got here, prompted by the constant dull pain coming from the wounds all over his battered body. He slowly drags his eyelids open like a heavy weight, the nearly zenith sunlight sharp and vicious on his sore golden eyes, and he realizes he's out of time.
"Good morning, witcher," Anais says from somewhere above him and off to his left side. "How are you feeling?" Geralt doesn't know. Or, he does, but he can't phrase it. He's woozy and hurting and sweltering and exhausted and he can't string words together. And he's panicked, progressively more and more panicked. Anais makes a concerned noise, adjusting something on his forehead that feels cool and wet and heavy. "You fell ill during the night, but I've treated your wounds and given you medicine for your fever. You're a little worse for wear, but you'll be alright."
He won't.
Geralt pushes the furs back and struggles to sit up, wincing as the movement pulls on his numerous wounds and sends sharp stabs of pain through the areas around them. It takes a significant amount of energy, too much of his dwindling and depleted reserves, but he begins to drag himself off the bed. Out in the open, frigid winter air barely mitigated by the small fireplace across the room, Geralt's high body temperature and the layer of sweat coating his skin leave him feeling almost unbearably cold. Another aggressive chill racks him and he shivers, wishing he could crawl back under the covers and sleep, but he can't. The illness ensures he always has to worry in a way an alpha or beta wouldn't.
"Witcher, you aren't well," Anais says, reaching out to press him back down onto the bed, but even in his weakened state Geralt is too strong for her to push and he stumbles to his feet nonetheless. Anais and Sarai have been kind enough to arrange his armor and coat and sheathed sword and empty pouch neatly on a low table across the room, with his trousers and underwear and shirt laying stretched out by the fire, and Geralt makes his way to them single-mindedly. He hadn't noticed he was naked until now, scarred body fully exposed, but at the moment he doesn't care. He feels guilty as he pulls on the slightly damp clothing and notices they've washed it for him and mended the rips from the fiendcats' claws. "Come back to bed and rest."
"There's another task I must do," Geralt rasps, and by now he has to wipe the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and try so hard to keep his thoughts together that he hopes he won't draw any suspicion when he goes out into the village. "It's very important."
"Surely it can wait until you're not so ill," Anais tries to reason, hovering near him like she's not sure if she should be trying to stop him but also knows she couldn't if she tried. "You shouldn't go out in this state. You'll just collapse again."
Geralt shakes his head again, starting to don his armor. He'll have to find someone else to mend that, but not now. That can wait. "I must do it now. It's critical."
"Try your best to be safe. We don't need any more deaths in this village," Anais says, relenting, and begins to pack some things into a small burlap bag; Geralt doesn't take notice of what. "Take some medicine with you, and some bandages. Hopefully you won't rip the stitches on your wounds, but I know you witchers manage to find danger wherever you go. We'll keep Roach here if you'd like – how long will you be gone?"
"Few days. And please," Geralt grunts. It takes too much effort to get the strap of his sheath over his head. He still just barely has the presence of mind to head off any further protests with, "There will be someone to care for me."
So, he still has the presence of mind to lie.
"Alright. Avoid trouble, and we'll mind Roach until you return. She's stubborn, but she's the smartest horse I've ever met." Anais offers him a smile, handing him the burlap bag of supplies and a purse of coins containing his payment for the contract as soon as he's got his coat on. The warmth is a relief, as are the much-needed medicine and money.
"Thank you," Geralt tells her, very sincerely, as he tucks the small bags into his coat pocket. With his mind so fogged he hadn't really processed it until now, but it's shocking how well Anais and Sarai have treated him, what lengths the farmers have gone to in ensuring his health and comfort. In Geralt's long life as a witcher people have been significantly more likely to run him out of their towns than to take him into their homes, and infinitely more likely to swear at him or call him terrible names or wish harm upon him than to express any concern for his wellbeing. People don't like witchers, and at the very least don't trust them, so an occurrence like this is exceedingly rare. Perhaps it's because he was in such a debilitated condition that Anais and Sarai didn't think he'd be much of a danger to them, but either way, the times he's been denied the chance for treatment by a village doctor or a healer in a similar state are too many to count. And all of this, the stone throwings and mob attacks and insults and threats and refusals, have occurred with people believing he's an alpha. Geralt can only imagine how much worse it would be if they knew he's an omega. The anti-witcher bigots would certainly be emboldened by his perceived vulnerability, and he'd receive much more abuse.
"Of course," Anais replies. "That beast was ruining us, destroying our livelihoods. Five farmsteads, five families, losing our livestock and loved ones to the monster. People in this village may fear you, witcher, and perhaps they're right to, but I expect they'll show you gratitude. And respect."
Respect. A foreign concept to witchers, certainly to Geralt, and would be even more foreign if anyone knew his rank. As it is, people who would show any kindness to a witcher are few and far between. And this is truly the best time for Geralt to encounter some. Trying to get through his heat is always difficult, even moreso when he's injured – which he quite frequently is – and without treatment and supplies, it's even worse. So he's deeply, deeply grateful. "I appreciate your kindness."
"You saved us," Anais says, with a smile, and puts a gentle hand on his shoulder for the briefest of moments. "I can at least help you a little."
There's one inn in the village the farmsteads lie on the edge of, and it's further on foot than Geralt would like. The walk would be nothing for him at full strength but is nearly unbearable in his current condition, frail and aching from the feline-demon wounds and on the verge of being overcome by the illness. The inn is small and rundown, the roof clumsily patched many times over and the door not perfectly fitted in the frame, but as long as it has rooms it's more than enough.
There's no brothel in this village, and even if there were, Geralt wouldn't opt for it. It would satisfy certain needs an inn doesn't, but he's very careful about which ones he visits. Brothels are where his designation is in the most danger of being discovered. Over the years he's found four brothels, spread out across the areas of the Continent he regularly frequents, with one alpha in each he trusts to keep their mouth shut about him (aided by a hefty bribe for their troubles). In a true emergency he'll try another, but with great discernment and an even heftier bribe. He wouldn't visit brothels at all, but sometimes it becomes necessary. He despises it with every fiber of his being, but hardwired into him is the need for the dominance of an alpha. He doesn't want to take a mate or be claimed or marked or form any kind of bond, especially as a submissive partner – quite the opposite, the thought makes him feel trapped and threatened and uncomfortable – but that occasional need for a dominant force remains. He's done his best to master his nature, to gain control over his biological urges, but despite the fact that he's a witcher he's still physically human. There are some times his heat is too intense and he can't go through it alone, and some times he feels lost and agitated and needs to be broken down in order to build himself back up mentally. It's quick; he goes to a prostitute, he satisfies his need, he gets it out of his system, and then he goes on with his life. But if he could, he wouldn't visit brothels at all. This is because, while it's generally true that witchers' scents are suppressed, there's one instance in which they emerge – when the witcher becomes aroused.
"Four nights," Geralt says to the innkeeper as soon as he's in the door. The inside smells like a mixture of must and mold, and the furniture is old and worn down, but the dim lighting is a relief to his sensitive eyes. The innkeeper approaches Geralt slowly at first, and Geralt is relieved to catch the scent of beta; the smell of an alpha might be too much for him right now. He mindlessly fumbles in the purse containing his contract payment in various denominations of coins and hands the innkeeper several that he thinks add up to the amount the man asked for, or close to it, an amount he forgets almost as soon as he hears it. He listens to the coins clink in the innkeeper's hand as he counts them out, the sound too sharp through his enhanced hearing for his aching head. Four nights should be enough, hopefully more than enough; his heat usually lasts three nights, but every so often it will last four. Usually when he delays it for as long as possible through the use of potions, as he did this time. At worst he should be able to spend his entire heat safely holed up here, and at best, the extra night will provide additional assurance that the scent of heat-frenzied omega in the air will fully dissipate – Geralt can't take any risks when it comes to being found out in an unfamiliar place. Or any place.
Should the word spread that he, Geralt of Rivia, is an omega – or that witchers are even capable of being omegas at all – the consequences would be devastating. Society has many biases regarding omegas, largely incorrect, that conflict directly with someone's perceived competence at being a witcher. Not only would he be in increased danger from the kind of people who would attack a witcher and lose the few scraps of respect he's afforded due to the common belief that he's an alpha, he could lose his livelihood itself. No one would trust Geralt to hunt a monster again, despite the fact that he's been successfully slaying beasts for decades. His achievements and strength and commanding presence and terrifying face should speak for themselves, but in a world like this, they wouldn't. It doesn't matter how dangerous he is, how tough, how confident, how big, how skilled, how experienced. It doesn't matter that he's never shown the slightest bit of submission in his life outside the safe and private enclosure of a bedroom. Everyone's perceptions of him would be clouded in one short instant, just from hearing his status. Omega.
"I'll assume you bear no ill will, stranger?" the innkeeper asks.
"You're correct." Geralt understands why the innkeeper asks. He has his heavy black coat wrapped around him, hood up to shield his face, and he knows the effect is mysterious and sinister. But wearing the long garment right now is better than not wearing it. Not only does it keep him from shivering, it covers his armor and the sword strapped to his back and the wolf medallion around his neck. The villagers know there's a witcher in the area, and while there's a decent chance the innkeeper may have already guessed the carefully concealed figure in his inn is that witcher, he doesn't want to confirm it for sure. The hood not only hides the way his forehead is dripping with sweat and his cheeks are flushed with fever, but also the now-glassy golden eyes that would give him away instantly. He doesn't know how many villagers know the name of that witcher – Geralt of Rivia – but that's all the more reason to be cautious, and to cover his distinctive long silver hair. The more Geralt can hide his identity, the better. People aren't kind to witchers, not at all, but every cycle for a few days the cruelty of bigots becomes only the second most important reason to hide what he is.
His situation is humiliating. It's shameful. Geralt knows he's not the only omega witcher – there are very, very few, but there are others, including one he trained with growing up at Kaer Morhen – and still, sometimes he feels like the perception that an omega could never be a successful witcher has the smallest bit of merit to it. Sometimes Geralt feels like perhaps people might not be wrong not to trust him every time his biology betrays him and his heat starts coming on in the middle of a contract, when he doesn't time jobs properly or they run longer than expected or an emergency comes up or his cycle is irregular, which it often is due to the stress and injury and toxic potions he constantly subjects his body to. Sometimes he feels like people might be right to hold him in lower esteem when he faces off against a particularly powerful alpha and something inside him wants to bend, even though he'd never allow it to. Sometimes he feels like he's much more vulnerable and more fallible than a witcher should be when these things combine and he's helpless and out of his mind in the throes of heat below an alpha prostitute he bribed into secrecy before almost desperately giving himself over to them. Geralt doesn't respect omegas any less than betas or alphas, knows the prejudices against them are wrong, and he has a deep admiration for the very small handful of other omega witchers that exist. But still, he struggles to accept it about himself. Geralt of Rivia, omega.
"Well, if you've no ill will, you're welcome here," the innkeeper says, and holds a heavy iron key in his hand. It takes Geralt a moment, foggy as he is, to realize it's being offered to him. He takes it and then stands there for a moment, trying to remember why he feels like he has something important to say to the innkeeper. "These extra coins you've given me – what else would you like me to get for you?"
That serves as the reminder. Geralt is dimly aware that it's been a long time since he's eaten properly; he's stopped noticing the hunger, even though he can feel it. But he needs to handle that now, because once he succumbs, his ordinarily suppressed scent will flare up and if he doesn't want to be scented as an omega he'll have to cut off contact with the rest of the world entirely. Unless this happens to be the one inn on the entire Continent where no one has a sense of smell, it won't be safe for him to interact with anyone at all. Continuing to use the affected accent he adopts in situations like this, one very distinctly not Rivian, Geralt says, "Food and water. And ale. Enough for my stay. Now."
"Right away," the innkeeper says, his tone sardonic at how brusque Geralt's clipped request comes off. "If you don't enjoy a hot meal, we've got all the bread and cured meat you could want. Anything else?"
"A bath, if you have one. And hurry."
"Of course, stranger. Up two flights of stairs, second door on the left. I'll bring everything up to you in a moment." As the innkeeper heads off, Geralt's relieved when he hears the man muttering, "I suppose they don't have patience wherever you're from."
Geralt waits upstairs in his room, acclimating himself to the modest setting that will be his hermitage for the next few days. An ordinary human wouldn't be able to pick up on it, but with his enhanced sense of smell he can tell that a beta left this room a few hours ago, and two days before that, an omega who had been riding a horse for quite a while. The bed is just barely large enough to provide comfort for a man of the witcher's size and the only other piece of furniture is a small chest of drawers beside it, but that's fine. Geralt won't be leaving the bed much anyway, and most of his time out of it will be spent in the bath. He keeps his coat on, as he will until he's permanently alone. He's far gone enough that his wait and the innkeeper's two trips to bring his food and his bath pass in a blur, his mind consumed by a growing agitation beneath his skin and desperation for this whole affair to conclude before his scent emerges any moment now.
"Ah, I forgot to ask your name, stranger," the innkeeper says, as he lights the fireplace. Geralt hopes the extra wood beside it is enough to last four nights, because with how bone-chillingly cold it is in the room, if the fire goes out the bathwater will freeze. "If you wish to give it."
Geralt's delirious mind has room for one more thing, which is the hope that the innkeeper isn't just humoring him and genuinely hasn't recognized him. That he truly is stranger instead of witcher or Geralt. He gives one of the handful of fake names he uses, one he heard in a story a long time ago and doesn't remember who told it or who the name belonged to, but it stuck with him nonetheless. "Emiel."
"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Emiel. Do let me know if you require anything else." The innkeeper shuts the heavy door behind him. Geralt immediately locks it, bolts it, and then finally takes his coat off. Unless something goes terribly wrong, those locks will stay firmly in place for the next few days.
Geralt strips and crawls onto the bed, tossing his layers of clothing and armor and weaponry onto the floor much more carelessly than he usually would, and waits for the miserable illness to overtake him. He's starting to feel unbearable in his own skin, hot and stifled and burning from the inside and flooding with a familiar adrenaline and need. He tries to suppress the hated thought, the one he has more often than he'd like to admit, but as soon as the dreaded arousal starts between his legs and begins to spread to every inch of his body he can't push it away anymore. He can't help but fixate on how much he wishes he had an alpha to take care of him. To touch him, to command him, to reassure him, to praise him, to manhandle him, to fuck him so hard he muffles broken cries in the pillow beneath him. Geralt hates how much he wants it, hates what a relief it is every time he gets it, hates that he can't stop wanting it no matter how wrong it feels to need anything other than complete self-sufficience. No matter how much he tries to fight those instincts hardwired into his mind. No matter how much he hates having the need to submit. He wants it. He wants it so much, but he won't get it. It's not an option now.
It's never that simple. Geralt doesn't get options, not if he wants to live. Omega witchers don't have the luxury of simple options. They get nothing more than they're willing to risk.
Geralt will have to go through this alone. But it's far from the first time he's had to go through his heat alone, as agonizing and hazardous as it is, and he's used to going through every part of life alone. He'll survive. Somehow, he's survived everything so far. He's survived alghouls and strigas and dragons and koshcheys and horrific beasts he doesn't even know the names of. He's been a witcher for most of his extended life, and an omega for all of it. This distinct and particular suffering that comes along with being an omega witcher won't kill him – nothing about being an omega will be the reason for his death.
Geralt of Rivia will die as a witcher, and solely a witcher. He won't die as an omega. He won't allow it.