#Game geralt's voice sounds like it hurts but maybe that's just me? anyways he's still cool

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Why did they do that tho

Every once in a while I think about how in the books, Geralt does anything and everything for his Dandelion, and goes murdercrazy when Dandelion is threatened/captured, and Geralt loves and looks after his Dandelion at every point And the netflix show made Geralt hate him, ignore him, and barely acknowledge his pain after getting TORTURED I just- YOU DON'T NEED TO BE AN ASSHOLE TO YOUR FRIENDS TO BE A 'BADASS HERO'!

In my heart they are happy and in love and geralt's not a cunt <3 I am a okay with the the half of the fandom that is firm on them just being friends, hell yeah they're friends! Amazing ones, at that! But you know who we all hate? The people who agree with TWN!Geralt's treatment of his bard... For shame... For shame....

[knifewieldingenby]

I have a prompt. How about geralt realising that is writer boyfriend is actually the famous Julian pankratz and that jaskier is a name he use for some of his work. I don't know if you can something out of this. Take care of yourself ❤️

Okay so this is definitely not exactly what you asked for (I took some liberties) but I hope you still enjoy it! 

Geralt hadn’t meant to snoop through his best friend’s desk. It’s just that he’d let Jaskier borrow one of his favorite pens last night and the junior had forgotten to give it back, and, well...Geralt was maybe a tad bit possessive of his belongings. He didn’t have much growing up, so what little he had, he coveted. 

And of course Jaskier’s desk was a trainwreck and a half. Stacks of papers, notebooks, highlighters thrown about, a few glasses of now unidentifiable liquids that made Geralt cringe. He’d tried to be gentle and fast, moving things aside to search for his pen. He didn’t much care for Jaskier’s academic writing, but when the pages started resembling lines of poetry he got curious and careless.

Jaskier is writing again?

Geralt slowed down and picked up one of the pages. Definitely a poem. Months ago Jaskier had burst into their shared room, thrown himself on Geralt’s bed, and declared that he should never write again.

(���I shall never write again!” Jaskier had his arm thrown dramatically over his eyes. Geralt nudged him over so he could stretch his legs out and continued tapping away at his research paper. “Don’t you want to know why, my dear friend?”

“Not particularly.”

“I shall tell you anyway!” Jaskier crawled into a sitting position and threw his hand back over his forehead. “My muse has broken my heart for the last time! Never again shall ink touch paper, not by the hands of this poet.”

“Hmm,” Geralt muttered unhelpfully. He knew Jaskier would be over it in a matter of days, as soon as he found a new muse.)

The problem was, Jaskier didn’t get over it. In the days that followed he became solemn, quiet, and distant in a way Geralt wasn’t used to. He was used to Jaskier hanging around at all times, joining him at practice most weeks, staying up late to watch tv and talk about (e.i. distract him from) his papers. After his announcement he made himself scarce, spent most of his time in the library or the office of the student paper, editing others' works instead of publishing his own. 

But this. This was clearly quite new. Geralt felt a burst of happiness for a moment, glad that his best friend was finding his muse again. That is, until he read the first few lines and felt the nagging suspicion that he’d definitely read these words before. 

Taking the piece of paper with him, Geralt dug through his trash can until he found the most recent copy of the student newspaper. He normally cut out Jaskier’s pieces and saved them in a binder he kept hidden under his bed, but since the poet stopped writing he’d taken to skimming over the paper and just throwing it out. He turned to the last two pages that displayed student creative writing and his eyes immediately went to the poem on the bottom right page. Starlight. It was clearly a love poem, about a silver-haired beauty who slipped through the poet’s fingers. He’d loved it, but he didn’t want to say so to Jaskier. No point making the boy jealous of some punk named Julian Pankratz. 

But now…

It was the same poem. Line for line, word for word; it even sounded like the poet’s style, if a little more melancholy. Before Geralt had time to process his emotions the bedroom door swung open.

“Ah, Geralt, you’re here! Terribly sorry to be a downer but I’m quite tired, can I- what the fuck are you holding?”

Geralt bristled, suddenly defensive. “I was looking for my pen.”

“Oh.”

Jaskier plopped his backpack on his bed and began rummaging around. He finally brandished Geralt’s pen and held it out to him tentatively. Geralt took it and, before he could talk himself out of it, held out the poem. Jaskier’s eyes widened.

“That’s-”

“You’ve been writing again.”

The silence that followed was beyond uncomfortable; Geralt was mad, but did he have any right to be? He hadn’t exactly been very responsive when Jaskier first told him he wasn’t writing anymore, why would he expect the boy to share it with him now?

Because he always did, his stupid, wounded brain supplied. 

To his surprise, Jaskier spoke first. “I’m sorry Geralt. I didn’t mean to mislead you-”

“No, I think that’s exactly what you meant to do. I just don’t understand why.”

“Because it hurt.” Jaskier moved to join Geralt where he was leaning against his bed. “I was in pain and I didn’t want you to know.”

“Why not? You’ve never hidden it before.”

“Have you been reading these poems?” Jaskier poked the newspaper laying idly on Geralt’s bed.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. He’d read every poem written by Julian Pankratz over the last two months, loved every one. 

“They’re...they’re about heartbreak. And I didn’t want to make things awkward between us.”

Either Jaskier really wasn’t making sense, or Geralt had taken a beating in practice. Either way, none of it was adding up.

“Why would it be awkward?”

Jaskier rolled his eyes and sighed, defeated. “Because they’re about you, Geralt.”

Geralt must have been a ridiculous sight, body frozen to the spot and eyes owlishly large. The lights were on, but clearly no one was home upstairs. 

“Come on Geralt, silver hair? How many people do you know with silver hair?”

“But- I- I assumed you were embellishing!”

“While that does seem like exactly the thing I’d do, this time I didn’t. This time it was all real. All of it was for you. I can...go, if you need time.”

“No!” Geralt gently grabbed him by the arm as Jaskier made a move to leave the room. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Jaskier laughed, but it sounded painful. “I did. Don’t you remember when I asked you out after your big game a few months ago? You told me you’d rather date a baboon.”

“...Oh my god. I thought you were making a joke!” 

Geralt shoved his head in his hands and cursed himself. 

“Would your answer have changed if I’d made it more clear how serious I was?” Jaskier’s voice was so soft now, so fragile. Geralt sighed and dropped his hands. They were standing close enough that their hands knocked together, and he couldn’t resist the urge to reach out and thread their fingers together.

“Yes. I would’ve instead told you how long I’ve wanted you. And I would have done this.”

Slowly, he leaned toward Jaskier, giving the man enough time to pull away if he no longer wanted Geralt - and he wouldn’t blame him at all - until their lips met in a soft kiss. It didn’t last long, but it made Geralt’s heart soar all the same. 

“God, you’re an idiot,” Jaskier grinned. Geralt rolled his eyes, but this time he couldn’t deny it. He pulled Jaskier against his body and kissed him again, because he wanted to, because he was finally allowed to have this.

And in the back of his head he was figuring out how to get a hold of the last two months worth of newspapers. Julian Pankratz’s poems belonged in his poetry binder. 

[friendofhayley]

I’m back after my hiatus from fanfiction, to give y’all the best multifandom recs of the fics I read this month. Shoutout to all content creators who helped us live to see the close of this year. This fic includes 15 fics for Sterek, Larry, Winteriron, and Geraskier. The starred ones put me through heaven and hell *chef’s kiss*.

Sterek (Teen Wolf)

1. Six Letter Word for Romance by @troubleiwant | domestic kink - omg there’s only one bed - soft Derek - oblivious idiots in love - 6k

Stiles definitely starts off thinking it’s fucking hilarious that Derek-sourwolf-Hale does crosswords and cares about scuffs on his furniture.

But at a certain point, and he can’t pinpoint exactly when, “fully functional adult couple” somehow becomes a massive fetish of his. Derek in sweats and bare feet, nudging his glasses up his nose while he does the Sunday crossword? Unff. Derek filling out forms to get some renovations on his property approved? Oh God, yes. Derek putting away groceries and bitching that the corner store was out of the right type of Greek yogurt? Take me now, Stiles thinks, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth.

This can’t be normal.

2. *Dirty Little Secret* by @isthatbloodonhisshirt | Cora & Stiles bffs - no one can resist the Stilinski charm - celebrity Derek - human au - 91k

“Holy shit, this is a date!” he blurted out, turning back to Derek wide-eyed. “This is a date! You intended for this to be a date, this was supposed to be a date!” He figured if he said it enough times, maybe he would believe it, but so far, no dice.

Derek was scowling again—seriously, did he want wrinkles?—but he just reached into one of the bags and pulled out a burger, checking what was written on the foil in sharpie before handing it over to Stiles.

“Of course it’s a date, what did you think this was?”

3. Can You Feel A Whole New Part of Your World? by @isthatbloodonhisshirt | i genuinely don’t look at authors names i just click i am sorry for spamming you but you write too good - neighbors Sterek - emotionally mature Stiles - the ideal fluffy world you’d want to live in - 53k

Can you hear me singing in the shower?” Stiles blurted out, because he had to know, now. If one of his neighbours had slid that note under his door, then it meant Parrish as another neighbour could hear him, too! He had to know if this was all a huge joke and one person had walked by and overheard him and decided to fuck with him.

Parrish gave him a weird look at the question, but answered anyway, making Stiles’ plans to leave the country speed up in his mind.

“Of course I can. You’re actually not bad. Though you have been singing a lot of Frozen lately, getting kind of tired of the soundtrack.”

4. Theory of Overprotective Canines by @petals42 | derek can turn into wolf - oblivious Stiles - future fic - mutual pining - 11k

Stiles is totally looking forward to living alone in his super cool apartment off-campus. He is. He is also very excited to bike to school every day, ready to set up an awesome game room, and definitely over his crush on Derek Hale. Completely over it.

Or at least he is until Derek decides he's moving in with him. And then turns out to be the perfect roommate. And then starts attending all his classes. As a wolf.

This is not going according to plan.

Larry (One Direction)

5. **The Changer and the Changed** by @homosociallyyours | literally the best fic of all time i want to live in there - girl direction - NYC ‘70s au - trans Zayn - the girls are so lovely - 59k

It’s the spring of 1977 and Harry Styles has just moved to New York City after graduating college. She knows she’s a lesbian. She just needs to figure out how to meet other lesbians.

Louis Tomlinson works at a popular women’s bookstore in the Lower East Side, Womon’s Direction, where she spends her days reading feminist literature, writing poetry, exchanging friendly barbs with her boss Niall, and dreaming of finding someone to love.

When Harry and Louis meet, their connection is instantaneous. Slowly but surely, Louis welcomes Harry into her community of women. Stonewall veteran and old school butch Niall; Liam, a land dyke who’s moved to the city for love; and Zayn, a lesbian musician who’s been ostracized by a vocal part of women’s community for being trans, welcome Harry with open arms, ready to help her find her place in New York City’s bustling lesbian scene.

6. others i’ve seen might never be mean (but they would never do) by @cherrylouvol6 | aaaaaaaa it’s lesbian When Harry Met Sally !!! - rom com - girl direction - coming out and first times - really great sex - 20k

Louis sighs.

“Do you remember what I said to you the first time we met?”

“That I’m naive and neurotic and would be hard pressed to ever find someone who could put up with me?” Harry snaps.

7. some things fade (some never do) by @so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed | aaaaaa this story took me apart and back together again just like Louis and Harry - urban fantasy au - second chances - exes to friends to lovers - hurt/comfort - 25k

Matching tattoos. He’d never thought he’d be the type for tattoos to begin with, let alone matching or magical ones, but once Harry had put the idea in his mind it had never quite managed to disappear. And it had made sense. With their relationship a long distance one, this was simply another way of feeling close to one another. Of knowing where the other was, how they felt. It had made so much sense.

Back then.

8. we can take the long way home by @eleadore | i usually don’t rec my porn but there’s so much feels in this one - canon-divergent - kink discovery - friends to lovers - this was written in 2015 as a future fic but it felt like it was taking place now so good job - 27k

“Fertile,” Louis says, and then laughs because it sounds stupid to say out loud. He hasn’t ever really thought of himself in those terms. Baby-making terms. It’s just one of those things his body can do, like exercise, or go without tea. Doesn’t mean he will.

Winteriron (MCU)

9. **Dig No Graves** by @missaphelion | Tony finds out about his parents right after winter soldier au - Tony Stark has a heart - Bucky heals with bots and lots of sugar - slow burn - 142k

"I'm here to kill you, Terminator," Tony said slowly, "does that compute?"

The soldier looked up at him with wide blue eyes and no expression. "Okay."

Tony froze. "Okay," he echoed. "I tell you I came here to kill you and your response is 'okay'?"

10. A Rifling Matter by Penndragon27 | Winter Soldier has such a big crush on Tony’s weapons, he escapes Hydra au - identity porn - pining Bucky - fluff and angst - Winter Soldier is a fanboy and it’s cute - 37k

All the Asset knows is fighting, killing.

He also knows a good weapon when he sees one and Stark Industries... they make some great weapons.

11. *Winter is Coming (aka Fifty First Avengers Dates)* by @tisfan & @everyworldneedslove | enemies to friends to lovers to 50 first dates - pining Bucky - Tony gets amnesia - no Steve bashing but he’s a little bit of an ass - mental health issues - 109k

Bucky Barnes is still mostly The Asset, and he's pretty sure Hydra is going to come back for him soon, so in the meantime he's just going to keep an eye on the Avengers for them. But then Clint spotted him hiding in the shadows, so Tony came out and dragged Bucky back to the Tower, threw him in the shower, and fed him cheeseburgers.

Now The Asset is having anomalous feelings. In his pants.

Geraskier (The Witcher)

12. *no reason to run* by @yoursummerfrost | different meeting au - only one bed but camping - cursed Jaskier - soft Geralt!!!! - poly negotiations - 61k

"You'll change your mind one day," says the innkeep. "The road can't love you back."

What a strange way to flatten something so beautiful, Jaskier thinks. What a small way to love.

13. *He Fell into a Faerie Ring* by @geraltnoises | Jaskier gets bardnapped after the fight au - non-human Jaskier - soft Geralt - Jaskier encourages people to be kind and becomes a god - emotionally mature Geralt - 57k

Traders are a gossiping sort. If there was a scandal within the noble houses of Posada, you’d hear about it in Cretegor by the end of the week. So, the quick spread of a rumor about a little village in the Kestrel Mountain range was not at all surprising. What was surprising was the story that the traders wove. They said that Luibhtorrach, a sad, ghost of a farming town, had miraculously become a hub for trade, as if overnight. Their lands unbelievably fertile and brimming with crop. Even stranger, each and every one of Luibhtorrach’s people professed that their good fortune was the work of a mysterious beast they’d claimed as their personal deity. Most recent news foretold of their plans to throw a midsummer festival celebrating this newfound god. In preparation, silken blue banners were erected in every corner of the town, each bearing the symbol of their new patron: A delicate dandelion wrapping around a golden sun.

14. Barking Up the Wrong Tree by KHansen | 5+1 things - I’m worried about Geralt’s skills - non-human Jaskier - monsterfucker Geralt - crack treated seriously - 11k

Geralt is 100% certain that Jaskier is a vampire.

He's 100% proven wrong.

15. Bardic Idyll by Lisztful | fake relationship - Geralt is soft and oblivious - pining - fluff and angst - Jaskier you can’t show your emotions mainly through song! - 13k

Jaskier is certain he can win the Continent's annual bardic competition, but he needs to be accompanied by a dashing romantic companion in order to enter. Enter Geralt, who is definitely, for sure, only interested in the free food, and not at all in staring lovingly into Jaskier's eyes.

[mollymawkwrites]

My lovely friend @simplymyselff requested Jaskier hitting Geralt with his lute (maybe because he was afraid of him being a ghost) and patching him up because he feels guilty, so this is my attempt at it. Enjoy! CW: minor injury, blood, terminal stupidity from both of the boys.

There is someone in Jaskier’s chambers.

He woke up with a start a minute ago when a crashing noise broke the silence of the late evening. From his bed, he could see the window in the tiny living room of his student lodgings gaping open, the panes gently swaying with the light breeze of the summer night. He’s sure he closed it before going to bed; some drunkards had been belting out sea shanties in the street below and he needed to get some sleep before tomorrow’s exams.

There had been a quick scuffle, and then nothing, but Jaskier can see a large shadow moving in his living room from where he’s pressed against the wall now, his heart beating wildly. The light of the almost full moon bathes the room in an ethereal atmosphere, and the silhouette is moving from one side of his tiny living room to the other, silent. Slowly, it approaches the open door of Jaskier’s bedroom, and all he sees is a flash of white before he grabs the nearest object and swings with all his might towards the tall figure. It might not be of any use against a ghostly apparition, but Julian Alfred Pankratz is not going down without a fight.

There is a splintering of wood, a discordant twang, and a loud and heartfelt “Fuck!” that is definitely not at all ghostly, before Jaskier is thrown against the wall by a strong arm.

The most terrifying man Jaskier has ever met is snarling right to his face, a hand splayed across his chest to keep him still and a blade teasing at his neck. Pale hair form a halo around his head in the moonlight, and a pair of yellow slitted eyes are glaring at Jaskier with rage. Blood is running down the man’s face, dripping down his chin and onto the dark, studded armour cutting quite an impressive figure. It tells a lot about Jaskier that even in the throes of terror, he can’t help but remark how devastatingly handsome the man is.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man growls, and his voice is just as sexy terrifying than the rest of him.

“Who- what- excuse me?” Jaskier sputters, caught off guard by the stupid question. “I live here!”

“Why did you attack me?” The hand against Jaskier’s chest presses harder, and he feels his ribs start to protest against the weight.

“You just broke into my lodgings! I thought you were a ghost!” His voice definitely does not come out in a squeak.

The man’s glare doesn’t abate, but he does release Jaskier and sheathes the wicked-looking knife back into the holster on his hip. Jaskier flinches when he raises a hand, but it is only to prod at the gash on his forehead that is still oozing blood sluggishly. “Ghosts aren’t real.”

“Oh, excuse me for wanting to make sure! You could- you could have been a thief! You could still be a thief! What are you doing in my chambers?”

“Hm. ‘m a Witcher. There’s a spirit in your flat.”

“You just said ghosts weren’t real,” Jaskier definitely squeaks this time.

“Not a ghost. A godling.”

“... a what?”

“A godling. A mischievous spirit, like a lutin. Harmless, though it can play some mean tricks. I was trying to bargain with her to leave the city when she bolted and slipped in your flat. I followed her, but she must have hidden somewhere.”

“Oh gods,” Jaskier moans. “Am I going to be haunted? I really don’t need that, I’m in the middle of my end of term exams…”

“No, she slipped away when you… distracted me. It’s unlikely she’ll be back. I just hope she’ll follow my advice, or she might meet people who are less inclined to let her find a nice forest or swamp to settle.”

“Oh. Well, you shouldn’t break into people’s homes in the middle of the night. Unless it’s really important, I guess.” Jaskier looks down at his hand still clutching his makeshift weapon, and lets out a wail that has the Witcher taking a step back in startled concern. “My lute! I broke my lute!”

The wrecked instrument is nothing more than a pile of kindling, strings and pieces of the body still hanging sadly from the neck.

“I hum… I think I should leave you to it,” the Witcher is looking increasingly uncomfortable as Jaskier falls to his knees and cradles the broken instrument to his chest.

Jaskier raises his head and narrows his eyes at him. “You’re hurt.”

“Yeah. You threw a fucking lute at me.”

“Don’t remind me. You need to tend to that wound. You’re bleeding all over my rug.”

“It’s a head wound. It always bleeds a lot.”

“Well, I’m not gonna risk you fainting from blood loss because I attacked you. Though I had a good reason to.”

“I’m okay. It’ll stop eventually.”

“This is nowhere near reassuring.” Jaskier declares cheerfully as he rises from the floor, broken lute forgotten. “Let me help with it, at least. As an apology.”

The Witcher makes a face like he wants to say no, but Jaskier is already lighting the candles on his desk and unearthing the poorly equipped medical kit he never uses himself, except for pain relief medicine after drinking too much wine.

“Come on, sit down, let me give that a look,” Jaskier ushers his patient towards the bed, and the Witcher looks utterly confused and out of place but complies, sitting with his hands on his lap and his hunched shoulders failing to make him look smaller than he is.

Silence falls upon them as Jaskier cleans the wound with unpracticed but careful movements, and he becomes increasingly aware of the level of closeness their position demands. Jaskier is standing between the Witcher’s open legs, one hand cradling the man’s head while the other dabs a wet cloth over his bloody hairline. The student finds himself blushing furiously, thankful that the other man is oblivious to his current predicament, staring right ahead of himself, which happens to be the open collar of Jaskier’s light nightgown.

“I’m sorry,” the Witcher says as Jaskier turns to trade the bloodied cloth for the little jar of balm he uses when he cuts himself with snapping lute strings. He looks back at the Witcher in surprise, but the man keeps his gaze down as he answers Jaskier’s silent question. “For your lute. I’m sorry it’s broken. I can pay for a new one.”

A wave of fondness for the weird man leaves Jaskier rather breathless. He hides it behind a dismissive hand gesture. “It’s okay, really. I got it in a game of Gwent last year. At least it wasn’t my lucky lute, and it never made a great sound anyway.”

“How many lutes do you own?” The Witcher asks with an arched eyebrow, raising his head to meet Jaskier’s eyes for the first time since he sat down, which causes the student to smear balm all across the man’s forehead.

“Let me think… there’s the one I use for classes, the fancy one for formal events, the one I take for gigs in taverns… my first lute, which is also my lucky lute… that’s four. Five, if you count the one I’m still mourning.”

“Why the fuck do you need so many lutes.”

“So I don’t find myself without one when I use them as weapons against thick-headed Witchers,” Jaskier deadpans. “Can you imagine a bard without an instrument? That’d be utterly ridiculous. Why the fuck do you need two swords?”

“Some monsters require silver. Others require steel.”

“Hm,” Jaskier hums thoughtfully as he applies the last of the balm to the already healing gash. “Well, yes, I guess that makes sense.”

He steps away to clean his hands in the little basin he keeps on the vanity in his bedroom, and immediately misses the warmth the man radiates. When he turns back, drying his hands on his own nightgown, he finds the Witcher standing in the middle of the room, looking unsure as to what to do now. Jaskier wishes he had an excuse to keep the man from leaving.

“Well, my friend, I think you’ll survive this terrible wound,” he says instead, stepping closer and patting the man’s breastplate awkwardly.

The Witcher hums, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips, and he raises his own hand to trap Jaskier’s against his chest. “What would I have done without you. My hero.” His voice drips with sarcasm, but it has Jaskier’s heart beating wildly beneath his ribcage. After a slightly too long silence, the Witcher steps away, back into the living room where the window is still letting in the warm summer breeze. “Maybe… I mean, we could…” The man pauses, a frustrated crease to his brow as he tries to find the right words. “I might come back. To check on you. Make sure the godling hasn’t come back to… haunt you.” He finishes with uncertainty, then curses under his breath. Once again, fondness seizes Jaskier’s heart, and he smiles softly in the darkness of his living room.

“I would love that.”

The man’s shoulders sag with relief, and he turns towards the window, swinging a leg over the ledge. It’s all very romantic, Jaskier thinks. Like one of those books Priscilla likes to say are terribly cliché. He quite likes it, though. “Wait!” He calls before the man jumps from his window. The Witcher turns to look at him, his eyes reflecting the light of the moon, and Jaskier finds himself breathless for the second… no, third time in the evening. “What’s your name?”

“Geralt,” the man offers after a second.

“Well,” Jaskier scrambles for something to say, trying to stretch the surreal moment as much as possible. “Use the door next time, Geralt.”

This has Geralt smiling for real this time. It’s more of a smirk, to be honest. But it suits him nonetheless. “I will,” he says, and jumps, disappearing from Jaskier’s life as quickly as he stumbled into it.

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

This one is for @aloe-casia, who is ShyTrush on AO3 – a brilliant writer who always leaves much too cute comments on my fics. And (drum roll) I had a beta for this, namely @the-cooler-king-finnigan​ who is King_Finn on AO3 and also a brilliant writer. Wait a second, fan mode is setting in *SCREAMS*. Okay okay. So, the ask was as follows:

Could I, perhaps, submit a prompt for you? I love when you write Emhyr looking after Geralt after he’s been injured or sick, so my prompt is Geralt whump, poisoning, and Emhyr being competent and taking care of Geralt afterwards and making sure he’s comfy.

Now, hear me out. Emhyr truly is competent, isn’t he? He dragged Geralt out of the danger zone here, he pushed back his bones here, he was willing to tell a lie to make Geralt feel better in this fic, he held back his hair when the aftereffects of Geralt’s concussion took hold of the latter here and he even managed to take influence on him in, well, let’s say, a dream in this fic. Poison is nothing he can’t handle. Or is it?

This one’s called “Oh my beautiful disaster” (lyrics from “World on Fire” by Slash), read it under the cut or on AO3. 6688 words (I’m sorry, it somehow grew bit by bit) and I’d rate it G, I guess. 

"You don't have to do that, you know."

Geralt's voice sounded a little nervous. But the knife at his throat was probably a good reason to be. 

"I believe I do," was Emhyr's calm reply. "You're scratchy. You've been claiming for days that you don't have time to shave, and you refuse to let the servants do it."

"You won't let them touch your neck either," Geralt returned. 

He sat bare-chested in front of the mirror; behind him stood Emhyr with a towel in one hand and the razor in the other. 

"Which is why I have decades of experience doing it myself. Now hold still."

Emhyr set the knife precisely. 

"I could still do it myself," Geralt replied. 

"I don't know why a razor makes you so nervous," Emhyr said reprovingly. 

"I think it's more the fact that you're holding it."

"By which you mean to imply that you don't trust your husband? That's bold, considering you've just established that I'm the one with the knife, my dear."

"It's a golden blade. It's decadent. It's probably just decorative and blunt."

"Feeble," Emhyr muttered, dragging the knife slowly along Geralt's chin. "I’m about to believe this bush on your face is starting to appeal to you."

Against his will, Geralt grinned at Emhyr's reflection in the mirror. 

"It seems to bother you. That's quite entertaining."

Emhyr raised his brows. 

"In this game, I think I have the better hand," he returned. "I've got the knife."

Slowly, the blade continued to scrape along Geralt's neck, and the latter had to admit that Emhyr was indeed handling it skillfully. He began to relax, trying to see it for what it ultimately was: a courtesy of his spouse. Anyway, he didn't understand why he had such a strange feeling about it. Maybe it was because his medallion felt unuasually warm on his bare skin. Geralt almost casually reached out a hand to touch it. Suddenly, he winced.

"You should hold still. See, now I've cut you."

Emhyr snorted disapprovingly, bent down, and wiped a tiny drop of blood from Geralt's neck. 

"What is it now?"

Geralt shook his head. 

"This feels strange. Like it's vibrating, and then it's not. It's never done that before."

"Hmm," Emhyr mused as he continued to work on Geralt's beard with concentration. 

"What do you think it means?"

Geralt still held the medallion with one hand. His gaze was absent as he answered, "I don't know. Maybe it's..."

He didn't get to complete his sentence. Suddenly, Geralt rolled his eyes into the back of his head, stiffened, then slid off the chair. Emhyr pulled the razor away just in time. 

"Geralt? What is... Geralt!"

Emhyr couldn't prevent Geralt from falling, collapsing on the floor. He was immediately beside him, grabbing him by the shoulders, but now Geralt began to twitch uncontrollably. His whole body tensed up, his hands aimlessly hitting the floor. His neck stretched out; only the whites of his eyes were visible. His head began to hit the ground now, too, and Emhyr knelt beside him, placed Geralt's head in his lap – which wasn't easy, his twitching body continually threatening to slip away – and held his hands tightly. Then he yelled, "GUARDS!" 

—

When Triss, alerted by the guards, came rushing into the room, the sight almost chilled her to the bone. Convulsions ran through Geralt's entire body. Emhyr held his hands to prevent Geralt from hurting himself, but the sheer force of the spasms was already bloodying his heels on the stone floor. She had never seen anything like it. Instinctively, she knelt on Geralt's shins and put her hands on his chest.

"How long has this been going on?" she asked.

Emhyr seemed surprisingly calm, but by now, she had known him long enough. His voice might be serene, but the hint of worry in his eyes was unmistakable. 

"Five minutes," he replied with astonishing certainty. 

He had probably counted the seconds, Triss thought. She couldn't blame him. Her hands ran over Geralt's body. Invisible strands of powerful magic pierced his unconscious mind, examining the workings of his body, searching for clues.

"What happened before?" 

"A shave, nothing more," Emhyr replied tersely. 

As if that were an expected answer, the sorceress nodded and took Geralt's restless head between her hands. In extreme concentration, she narrowed her eyes, then snapped them open in surprise. 

"That's strange," she murmured. "It feels like poison, but then again, it's not. Maybe a spell to strengthen... What else did you do? Was anything different than usual?"

Emhyr frowned. 

"I wouldn't know..."

"The razor," she interrupted him. "Where is it?"

A shadow crossed Emhyr's face, and he looked around quickly.

"The blade was new," he replied. "It fell to the ground when.... it must be here somewhere."

Sure enough, he spied the razor he had dropped, right next to the overturned chair. Reflexively, he reached out a hand for it, but Triss immediately snapped at him, "Don't. We should get Adan."

—

The witcher, swift as ever, was summoned in no time. Although he had no idea what to expect, he did not dwell on surprise or pointless questions. He immediately went down on his knees, checking Geralt's pulse on the carotid artery. The feline bent over, pulling back Geralt’s eyelids, then looked at Triss.

"Looks like an extreme reaction to poison, but..."

She pointed to the razor on the floor with a curt movement of her head. Adan looked around quickly, noticed the dropped towel, took it, and picked up the knife with it. 

"I touched that, and I'm fine," Emhyr broke the silence. 

"Then it's something with the blade, but better safe than sorry," Adan returned. 

He held the razor close to his eyes, and his gaze became somewhat absent. Nobody knew what he was doing, but suddenly he stuck out his tongue, pressing the knife against it. Triss hissed his name, yet he held out his other hand, an unusual gesture that signaled her to let him. When he finally looked at the sorceress, his eyes had a strange gleam – at least it seemed that way to her. 

"Definitely some kind of poison," he said. "But that's not all."

Triss nodded.

"I think it's a spell. For enhancement, maybe. A double safeguard? A bit much for a simple razor."

"Now, it's not that simple," Adan replied. "I, for one, do not own a pure gold razor. So it's yours?" he turned to Emhyr. 

The latter suddenly raised his head as if a startling thought had occurred to him.

"It was one of the wedding gifts.... this morning, my knife broke, and I sent Meredid to get a new one. He said he remembered seeing one among those things – the gifts are still being cataloged, but it caught his eye."

"A strange wedding gift," Triss said grimly. 

"That's what I said, but he replied that, on the contrary, it was particularly thoughtful."

"Not merely because of its value," Adan said, immediately catching on. "But because it is especially personal. Something that would touch the Emperor on a daily basis. Kind of quirky, though."

"That's more than quirky," Triss protested. 

"It doesn't matter. The crucial question is who it came from," said the witcher – and he was right. 

"We can examine this later," Emhyr said urgently. "I demand to know how we are going to help Geralt."

Geralt's erratic movements had slowed a little, but his spasms had by no means ceased. Adan pulled a vial from his pockets. Of course, even at this late hour, he was fully equipped. Never was he without his armor, his swords, or anything of his equipment at all, even in the palace. 

Triss held him back.

"We don't know what will happen if you use one of your potions."

"Because of the spell? We don't know what kind of magic it is either," he returned. "And the poisoning is clear. We can start with low doses."

"He's not a lab rat. That could be dangerous."

"Doing nothing seems more dangerous. And apparently, your magic can't dissolve the other one either."

"Not right away," Triss replied defensively.

Emhyr had had enough of this strangely familiar-looking repartee. 

"You can argue later," he said sharply. "I've seen the effects of this potion often enough. Let him try it."

 Adan jumped up, telling Emhyr, "We need to switch places for a minute. You should continue to hold his hands down."

Apparently, he had hit just the right note; at any rate, Emhyr asked nothing further, letting go of Geralt's hands, retreating, and gently resting his head on the floor. Then he slid to the side and put his hands on Geralt's wrists again. Adan knelt behind Geralt's head, placing his fingers on his chin and jaw in a peculiar way, and then began to squeeze them both. Adan let go with one hand, pulled the cork out of the vial with his teeth, and carefully dribbled a small amount into Geralt's now open mouth. 

Everyone seemed to be holding their breath. Suddenly, the room became very quiet, except for the strange sound of Geralt's twitching body grazing the floor, regardless of their attempts to hold him down. Slowly, the convulsions subsided until he finally lay still. 

But beyond that, nothing happened: the dark veins that had emerged at his neck and other parts of his body had not changed, his eyes were closed, and he did not respond to Triss' soft words as she leaned over him. 

"I could increase the dose," Adan suggested, but there was an air of uncertainty in his voice. Something was happening here that was beyond everyone's control.

Triss shook her head. 

"We have to find out what kind of poison caused this. And what spell."

"That means you can't do anything for him?"

Emhyr's voice had a piercing tone to it. He was still clutching Geralt's wrists, although the latter was now lying perfectly still. 

"Poison needs an antidote," Triss explained. "Healing magic also knows an universal counteragent, but I would have to prepare it yet. However, since the potion didn't work, I'm afraid that won't get us very far. Mostly because of the apparent link to a spell. That's why we need to examine the blade..."

"...and identify the poison, and the spell," Adan finished her sentence. "To make a specific antidote. If we work together, it will be faster. I'll find out where the knife came from."

"In the meantime, we'll try the conventional way; we'll make a decoction, try poultices and a sweating cure.... Someone has to be with him at all times."

"We'll take turns," Adan said. 

"I'll stay here," Emhyr suddenly interjected. "I'll stay with him; you can show me what to do."

Triss glanced at him.

"This will be a lengthy and unpleasant business," she replied. "It could take us several days to make the antidote. I'm sure it's not life-threatening, at least not for him – in a way, we should be glad you didn't use the knife yourself. Still, it's going to be difficult."

"Is that supposed to scare me off? He's my husband," Emhyr said coldly. 

 "You have other responsibilities as well," the sorceress reminded him. 

It was her duty to tell him, and her status gave her the unique right to do so, but neither did she like doing it nor did he want to hear it. It was unusually clear on Emhyr's face. 

"I have a whole staff of advisors," he objected, not without a hint of defiance in his voice that no one had ever heard from him. "I'm not disappearing. Still, there's nothing that can't be postponed or delegated."

Those were unfamiliar words coming out of his mouth, but Triss couldn't say she didn't understand his motives. Yet, she said, "I can send for Ciri."

"Absolutely not," Emhyr replied sharply. "She will make a tremendous fuss, and in that condition, she is no help to me."

What he actually meant, Triss suddenly realized, was that he himself was just incapable of concentrating on anything other than his spouse's well-being. But he couldn't possibly admit that. 

"Fine, but we'll still take turns. Even you have to eat and sleep," she decided. 

—

Together they laid Geralt on the bed, and Triss inculcated Emhyr to keep him warm, have water ready in case he woke up (not wanting to predict as to when that would be), and otherwise just watch him. But Emhyr would not have required this advice; he did not take his eyes off him. He felt an unfamiliar nervousness rising within him. Often enough, he had seen Geralt wounded and without consciousness, but this seemed so uncertain: neither did they know who had done this to them, nor what the ultimate consequences would be. Especially with Geralt, he thought, not without anger, because obviously, the poison had hit the wrong person. Not for the first time. 

So he kept busy to distract himself from such thoughts. He had the fireplace lit, although it was no longer cold enough for it, covered Geralt with two blankets in accordance with the advice of his court sorceress and simply waited – for some change. Emhyr didn't know if he should believe that one could sweat out poison, and probably that was simply an additional safeguard, and yet he wanted to use every means at his disposal – knowing that those same means were limited. 

And that was probably the worst part of it. Over time, he had acquired amazing skills in dressing wounds, and he knew how to relieve pain. He didn't like any of it, but he'd be damned if he was going to tell Geralt how to live his life. Both had agreed on that some time ago. They circumnavigated some issues in their lives with the extraordinary certainty of seasoned sailors, without harm. Emhyr was sure they would be able to handle this as well. He sat down next to Geralt on the bed, stroked one of those unruly strands of hair out of his face, and took his right hand in his own. Slowly, he traced the engraving of Geralt's ring with his forefinger. That was what made him stay, no matter what.

Night fell, and while shadows of candles and fires flitted across the walls, Emhyr held Geralt's hand and watched his face. He appeared to be asleep, but his features lacked their usual relaxed quality. This had been going on for many hours now, and while nothing had changed on the outside, it was obvious that he was getting more restless. The fingers Emhyr held trembled every now and then, and the muscles in his face flinched as if he were in a profound yet unpleasant dream. Sweat had long been standing on his forehead, which was not surprising given the heat in the room. Emhyr himself accepted the warmth stoically. He would not admit any weakness, he never had, and he definitely would not do so now. Still, it felt unfortunate that he couldn't do anything. He observed, but there was nothing to see. 

It was already past midnight, and Emhyr had gotten up to walk around so he wouldn't get tired. His mind was rattling with a list of things he would turn over to his advisory staff the next morning; a dozen items to do on his schedule, documents he could sign even as he sat here, and the like. And yet, he noticed instantly when Geralt opened his eyes. Immediately he was at the bedside, sitting on the edge, reaching for his hands. 

Geralt's gaze was unsteady as he tried to sit up, and confused when he realized he failed right away. 

"Stop it," Emhyr said softly, letting go of his hands and gently pushing him back. Geralt's chest was wet with sweat; he had somehow managed to slip off the covers in the few minutes when Emhyr hadn't been looking. "Just lie still. Everything is fine." 

It was one of the few lies he had ever told his husband, but the circumstances probably justified it. 

"We fixed that gap in the wall a year ago, but it broke again," Geralt said. 

His voice sounded clear, but his words made no sense to Emhyr. It did not matter.

"You can fix it again," he replied, hoping that his voice alone would affect him, as it often did. 

At least Geralt no longer tried to sit up. He seemed to become a bit calmer, although still confused. His eyes had a strange gleam, and his pupils flickered like those of a drug addict. 

"Ciri needs to practice the feint again," he said, and that stung Emhyr a little. Clearly, Geralt was very, very far in the past. He wondered if he even remembered him in this condition. Certainly, he didn't even recognize him. 

Carefully, Emhyr leaned against the headboard of the bed, retook Geralt's hands, and replied, "I suppose she should."

Geralt's lids fluttered, then he closed his eyes again, but his sleep remained fitful. 

—

At some point, Emhyr must have dozed off, too, because the next thing that entered his consciousness was his aching back and the fact that Triss was standing over Geralt, wrapping fragrant sheets over his thighs.

"Ah," she said as soon as Emhyr noticed her, "it's good that you had some sleep. Can't have been much though, you should lie down again, a little more comfortably perhaps."

"Any news?" he asked as he stretched and glanced at Geralt's face. For now, he lay still, but his muscles still seemed tense. 

"Some ingredients are missing for the decoction; we will get them in the morning. Then the protocol officer will also arrive, who manages the records of the wedding gifts."

"The feline could well have kicked him out of bed to get this information," Emhyr muttered.

Triss glanced at him.

"Don't exaggerate," she said. "It's only a matter of a few hours, and we won't get anywhere without the ingredients anyway."

"But until then, Geralt won't get any better," he replied heatedly. 

"But neither will he get any worse," the sorceress returned calmly. 

As for the rest of the night, she was to be proven right. Emhyr was careful not to fall asleep again, and he stoked the fire himself when it threatened to go out toward morning. The heat in the room was unbearable now, and he had rolled up his sleeves. Meanwhile, Geralt had additionally developed a fever, which Triss had described as "excellent". Emhyr, however, could find nothing excellent about the sight of his husband lying there drenched in sweat, occasionally clenching his hands as if he were still trying to fight invisible forces even in his sleep. His cheeks, usually so pale, were reddened more by the fever than by the warmth in the room; just another expression of the unnaturalness of the whole situation. 

At some point, he had begun to utter soft noises, a strange mixture of incoherent words mixed with something between sighs and groans. Emhyr had taken his place next to Geralt again and grasped his hands, vaguely hoping that he would feel the touch and calm down. He barely heard when the door opened. Adan was basically very quiet, yet Emhyr wondered how much time had passed. Had he been about to fall asleep again?

Silently the witcher stepped closer, pulled up Geralt's eyelids to check his pupils, and felt his pulse, but neither told him anything new. 

"He seems stable, but we need the antidote as soon as possible."

"Do you now know what poison it was?"

"We're working on it. We'll know more shortly. The antidote is still missing a few basic ingredients; we've sent someone out to get them. However, only when we know what poison it is can it be finished. But we now know who the gift came from."

Emhyr sat up straight and ran a hand through his hair. He was aware that he might not be particularly presentable, but that was unimportant. 

"From whom?"

Adan shrugged.

"A Nilfgaardian nobleman, a minor duke or something. Just being brought in for questioning."

When Adan told him the name, it didn't ring a bell. 

"I should be there for the interrogation."

"You should get rest. Not here, if possible," the witcher replied.

"I suppose this suggestion comes from my court sorceress?"

"And from your security advisor."

"I'd say he's overstepping his authority."

Adan tilted his head.

"Is it not a matter of security if the Emperor overexerts himself?"

"Don't overdo it," Emhyr said, and the authority in his voice was unmistakable. "Come back when there is actually something new, or until I have one of you summoned. In the meantime, I will take care of my husband. Understood?"

Adan remained unimpressed. Naturally. But he nodded and replied, "I will tell the court sorceress so."

He turned to leave. Quietly, Emhyr said, "You will not be spared her scolding." 

It almost sounded like an apology. 

"Well, neither will you," Adan said lightly before leaving. 

—

After a while, Emhyr began to reconsider his decision. It wasn't because he was getting tired – he had enough experience in staying awake for various motives. But because it became increasingly difficult to assess Geralt's condition. His restlessness had increased to a point where Emhyr feared that his erratic movements would once more turn into terrible spasms. Triss had advised him to bring the fever down a bit and forgo the fire since this treatment was not working. She continued to try herbal poultices, but even there, she had not been very confident. The things didn't last long anyway since Geralt tossed and turned too much. 

Emhyr counted on the fact that they would soon find out what this strange linking of a spell with poison was all about. There seemed to be no improvement in Geralt's condition, and even if his court sorceress was convinced that it was not a life-threatening situation, Emhyr was not entirely confident. It was perhaps all too easy for him to forget that he still had a witcher before him. But Geralt had told him things that would have chilled anyone to the bone. He had told things that were neither stories nor legends, and they had spoken of a great deal of suffering. Surviving was a doubtful gift; he knew that very well. Emhyr didn't know if Geralt was in pain; he seemed very far away now. But the possibility alone gnawed at him. He didn't understand why anyone would go to the trouble of securing such a simple object – which he had only used at all by chance – with so much hatred. The poison alone would undoubtedly have killed him. It made no sense. 

Emhyr had sat down on the bed again, he had begun to stroke Geralt's hair gently. Usually this calmed them both. Geralt still felt hot, he almost appeared to be glowing, and nothing Emhyr could do seemed to change that. Carefully, he ran a moistened cloth over Geralt’s parched lips and his forehead. Geralt's face twisted briefly, but that might mean that he felt the touch as much as that it disturbed him in the middle of a dream. Emhyr imagined that these were not pleasant dreams, but he forbade himself such thoughts. Worrying wouldn't help Geralt either.

As if to distract himself, he slowly stroked Geralt's hot cheeks with his fingertips. What came next happened so quickly that it would be difficult for him to recall it later. 

Geralt's right hand shot forward and grabbed his wrist. His eyes opened, but they seemed to look right through Emhyr with a dull gleam. He sat up, and the grip tightened painfully. 

"Geralt," Emhyr said softly, reassuringly, but he should have known better. 

He realized what was going on at the same moment he made his next mistake. Emhyr raised his other hand to grasp Geralt by the shoulder – a harmless touch meant to let his husband know that it was him, that he was here, that all was well, even if it wasn't. Geralt jumped up, pushing Emhyr forward without letting go of his wrist. When his feet touched the ground, he swayed briefly, but it didn't stop him. Yes, Emhyr knew what was going on, he really should have known better. At that moment, Geralt behaved no differently than a wounded wolf snatching at the hand that was trying to help him – because his instinct told him that such a thing never happened. 

Actually, they had left that behind for long. Emhyr had learned his lesson not to startle the sleeping witcher, and the latter had, at some point, learned to put trust above instinct, at least when they were together. However, Geralt was so very out of it, so very unaware that he did not recognize him or his surroundings. The wolf's instincts said fight or flight, and the grip on Emhyr's hand told him that he had chosen fight. 

"Geralt," he tried again, his voice a sole assurance that all was well, although that seemed a massive lie, "let go. Please."

Not even the softness of his tone, reserved for special occasions known only to Geralt, or the word that so rarely crossed his lips, triggered anything in the witcher. Geralt looked around frantically as if searching for an exit – flight, after all, Emhyr thought fleetingly – but since he didn't really seem to register what was happening, he turned back to Emhyr. The latter was doing his best not to look threatening, and although Geralt was only holding his wrist, he knew that one movement would be enough to break it. 

"You're safe," he said, his voice expressing confidence he didn't feel. 

It seemed like the biggest mistake to even approach him. Suddenly, Geralt's second hand was on his neck, and Emhyr’s free hand lay over it in a desperate attempt to relieve the pressure. His back hit the wall and his breath caught. Dark spots began to dance before his eyes. His mind demanded oxygen as much as his lungs, but still, a thought flashed in him. Something Geralt had shown him, he and Ciri, they had both insisted on teaching him something he had thought was superfluous. He hadn't tried it; he had found it ridiculous – with a whole army of guards and soldiers, with two witchers and Ciri (if she was ever present) and an extremely capable sorceress, what would he know such a thing for? 

And yet, some part of him could recall the knowledge now. Geralt was not standing quite securely, it was apparent. He wasn't putting any weight on his leg that had been broken twice; in stressful situations, it hurt more than usual, and he suffered from nightmares. And this was probably a particularly bad dream. Almost instinctively, Emhyr moved his right foot directly against Geralt's slightly retracted leg. He thrust in a movement that had been precisely described to him, hitting a point that had been tried to inculcate in him. 

Geralt did not fall, the kick had not been strong enough, but surprise and force threw him off balance. He let go of Emhyr's neck, but not his wrist, and Emhyr tried to free himself. He pulled, Geralt faltered, and Emhyr tried to kick again. His only chance seemed to be to throw Geralt entirely off balance. Only now did it occur to him to yell for the guards outside the door. Once they were in the room, he could order them to get the sorceress, and if they couldn't restrain Geralt, the other witcher as well.... He stepped forward, but this time Geralt seemed to have sensed his movement, and he pulled him to the side. Emhyr stumbled, but because Geralt was still holding his wrist, they both swayed. Geralt pushed him off with force, but he was too weak to stay on his feet any longer, and in the fall, he pulled Emhyr with him. Geralt's confused face was the last thing Emhyr saw; then he banged his head on the edge of the bed. 

—

He came to on the chaise longue in the salon. A damp cloth lay on his forehead, which he pushed aside almost angrily. There wasn't even a bump to be felt. The woman knew exactly how much he hated her magical healing, at least on himself. Emhyr slowly stood up, walked to the open door, and leaned against the frame, feeling slightly dizzy. Merigold and the feline were standing in the bedroom. The sorceress noticed him immediately.

"For goodness sake, can't one of you lie down for a while?"

Emhyr ignored her tone and asked, "What of him?"

Geralt lay in bed again, not moving.

"He hurt himself and you," Triss replied angrily. "From now on, you won't stay alone. Lie back down; you had a laceration, you'll still be dizzy. I'll go and finish the antidote. Adan can tell you what we learned."

"Geralt will not hear what happened, just so we're clear," Emhyr said seriously. 

Triss narrowed her eyes. 

"Stop blaming yourself. It was pure coincidence that Geralt got the poison, and an accident that it had such an effect on him."

She noticed that Emhyr was about to say something, but she interrupted him immediately, though much more gently.

"I agree that he doesn't need to know what happened. I don't think he will remember either. But you are both seasoned enough not to let guilt define you all the time."

"You still have amazing ideas about the duties of the court sorceress," Emhyr countered, but he didn't sound upset.

Triss shrugged, but as she walked past him, she said quietly, "But I know her rights pretty well."

She left him to Adan, who, as he noticed, was holding a small vial.

"What is that?"

Adan placed the empty vial on the small table next to the bed and replied, "Just a sedative. He knocked out two guards before I arrived. You might have to muddy the waters – I mean, if the Emperor's consort attacks him and then lashes out on the guards, it might stir up the rumor mill quite a bit."  

Emhyr only snorted contemptuously – he definitely didn't have the nerve for that now. He stepped closer, pulled a chair, and sat down at the bed. Geralt now looked reasonably peaceful; he could only hope that it stayed that way. 

"Doesn't the remedy cause any complications?" he asked.

"Frankly, we can't know for sure," Adan replied a touch too honestly for Emhyr's taste. 

"But you know more about the poison now?"

"Oh, yes. It wasn't effortless to find out because the spell kind of overrode it. I'm still wondering what purpose..."

"The poison," Emhyr reminded him impatiently. 

Adan scratched his head, one of the few gestures he had grown accustomed to that clearly showed he was unsure. 

"It's a strange mixture of easily obtainable toxins. Even ratsbane was among them, but also a veritable quantity of mushrooms and... well, flowers, like nightshade plants."

"What exactly is strange about that?"

"All of these are things that can be obtained from herb stores or alchemists, or you can simply gather them yourself from nature."

"So the perpetrator knew what they were doing."

"Not necessarily; they just knew where to get the poisons," Adan objected. "I'll have the herbalists and other stores in the area questioned, but I suspect they didn't buy any of it. The selection is pretty random. There were also a few re-identifiable kinds of grass in the mix and one or two non-toxic substances that weren't carriers or otherwise served a practical purpose."

"And that gives us what insight?"

Adan shrugged. 

"That's the question. I don't know yet."

A long silence followed. It might have lasted for hours; Emhyr had long since lost his sense of time. He continued to sit there and, perhaps in a fit of defiance, had reached for Geralt's hands again. It still soothed him to clasp those fingers tightly, to stroke over them with his own, hoping that somehow, sometime Geralt would notice. 

Adan had been standing there leaning against the wall for what seemed like an eternity. It was almost strange that he, who could nearly never keep his mouth shut, was so quiet. He held a worn, tattered little book in his hand, in which he wrote something down from time to time. Whenever he lifted his eyes, he glanced briefly at Geralt's motionless figure; then seemed utterly lost in thought once again. 

Suddenly, he pushed himself off the wall, noisily slammed his booklet shut, and shouted, "I've got it."

Already he was on his way to the door when Emhyr called after him, "What?"

Adan turned and looked at him as if noticing him for the first time. 

"I know who made the poison. Or at least how I can find him. It's someone from the palace. I have to go, but you shouldn't be alone. I'll let the guards know; Triss won't be ready yet..."

"Don't you dare," Emhyr said sharply, but the witcher was already out the door. 

—

Emhyr threw out all the guards, even if it probably meant incurring the holy wrath of his sorceress. But since she did not show herself, he assumed that the production of the antidote was proceeding. He desperately needed good news now, progress in many ways. He needed the certainty that something would change because every minute that passed seemed to bring Geralt suffering. Emhyr knew Merigold would have objected; she would have said that no one could understand what was going on inside him. But Emhyr did not sense it that way. He felt a hot forehead when he stroked over it. Saw closed eyelids twitching as if in a dream. Squeezed hands that did not return his pressure. 

How long could anybody, any witcher, possibly resist a mixture of strange poisons? All that remained for him was the hope that the antidote would have the promised effect, even though the unknown spell had mixed with the poison. As he watched Geralt, he thought about something they both knew: that there would always be unknown threats hovering over them both. That peace was fragile not only in the empire but also in their lives. They had agreed to brave the coming storms together against all odds. Their connection was unique and perhaps the strangest imaginable, but it worked. It was the best thing that had happened to him in infinite years, on so many levels, and he knew that Geralt felt the same way. Just maybe not now, because now he might feel nothing at all, and that hurt.

Time passed agonizingly slowly. Minutes flowed into hours, and everything around him became blurry. Therefore, it was probably no wonder that Emhyr flinched when Adan suddenly stormed into the room. To be more precise, it was as usual: from one second to the next, he was there, as if one had simply blinked a heartbeat too long and missed his appearance. 

His interim silence forgotten, he immediately sputtered, "Triss isn't here yet? Damn, so we still don't know anything about the spell? Anyway, now we know who poisoned the razor. You'll never guess."

 "I don't usually have to guess," Emhyr replied with enough disapproval in his voice that even Adan caught it. 

"Well, I suppose not," he returned. "It's not mysterious at all, either. An emissary, which explains why there were so many different poisons – he started collecting during his missions. Seems to have collected the stuff like some resentment built up inside him. His motive..."

"The wedding?" asked Emhyr, although it didn't sound like a question.

"I guess that was the last straw," the witcher confirmed. 

"How strange that my security advisor could miss this," Emhyr said. As usual, his sarcasm didn't catch on with Adan; would he never learn?

"This bloke has been with the court longer than I have," was the calm reply. "And you realize that human emotions will always find a way to overcome the best security measures."

"Of which you are the best example," Emhyr returned snappily, even though he knew Adan was right. 

"Last time I checked, I wasn't human."

Emhyr raised his brows in surprise.

"Funny."

"What?"

They stared at each other for a moment, and Emhyr thought that Geralt would definitely have found that hilarious. 

A moment later, Triss stood in the room, and the first thing Emhyr noticed was the vial in her hand. Slowly he stood up. She saw his look and nodded.

"I am ready. But you two will never believe who caused the spell."

"Another one with a long-held grudge?" muttered Emhyr. 

Triss looked at him in surprise. 

"On the contrary. The same Nilfgaardian noble who made the gift turned to a local wizard. It wasn't to curse the knife. He asked for a harmless enchantment. What it does is almost ridiculous: it embellishes the gift, so to speak, making it more attractive. This is also the reason why Meredid immediately noticed the razor and why he remembered it. Spell and poison were both of similar quality and strength and mixed in such a way that identification took its time."

"We should check if this noble and the emissary knew each other," Adan replied, updating Triss on his discoveries.

"I don't think so," the sorceress said afterward. "The nobleman wanted the spell to rise in favor. His rank and reputation are a bit shady. We could clarify how the emissary got the knife, but once he saw it, the spell will have made him think it was a good object for his vengeful desires."

"Pure coincidence, then," Emhyr said musingly.

"Just as unpredictable as emotions," Adan agreed. 

"Let's deal with this in more detail later," Triss urged. "I have an antidote, and I'm pretty sure it works."

Pretty sure was not enough for Emhyr, but he said nothing. Filled with tension, he watched Adan take the potion and administer it to Geralt. 

"How soon will this take effect?" he asked.

"I hope very quickly," she replied, basically voicing his thoughts. "And with no side effects," she added.

"You mean as opposed to witcher's potions?" Adan remarked as he set down the empty vial. "It might have looked worse without it."

"I don't think it compares."

"You started it, after all."

"Shut up, both of you," Emyhr said without raising his voice. 

Adan and Triss gave each other an almost guilt-ridden look, but at least it caught. For a while, everyone just looked at Geralt, spellbound. But for a while - nothing happened. 

Emhyr's impatience increased to new, unimagined heights. Triss nervously plucked at her fingernails. Only Adan still seemed unimpressed. He had gone down on his knees beside the bed, two fingers permanently on Geralt's carotid artery, his gaze highly concentrated. 

The silence in the room became more and more oppressive. Emhyr gave his sorceress a look, which she avoided. 

"Look," Adan said suddenly. 

He pointed to the protruding veins on Geralt's neck. Slowly, very slowly, they lost their unnaturally dark color, receding like snow melting in the sun. Wherever on his body this visible testimony of the poison had formed, the same thing happened. Triss put a hand on Geralt's forehead, then nodded.

"Almost over," she murmured. 

"Normal pulse," Adan confirmed after a while. 

Both stepped back, but still, all seemed to hold their breath together. The tender sprout of hope that had formed not only in Emhyr had become a real seed. 

Shortly after that, Geralt opened his eyes. When he saw them all standing there, he jerked back, straightened up on his elbows, and spluttered, confused as if after a long slumber, "Have I overslept? Did I miss something? Why are you all standing there? Shit, my head… did I forget that we got wasted? What are you all looking at! Damn, I have to pee."

Triss involuntarily started giggling. 

Adan said, clearly relieved, "What an idiot."

Emhyr looked into Geralt's puzzled face, and this time he did not hold back his smile, which only increased the latter's irritation. 

"Careful, you're insulting the Emperor's consort. However, it is true."

How peculiar, that he somehow sounded pleased.

[corroded-cofffin]

O’Valley of Plenty

Jaskier x Reader||The Witcher

warnings: Probably ooc because I watched the show once and know nothing else about anything related to The Witcher. mention of sex. idk how I feel about this

You had been travelling with Geralt for a while. He wasn’t particularly fond of company but you could hold your own in a fight and you weren’t overly chatty. You two had shared enough to become close. You began to view him as an older brother of sorts. He tried to put up a hard exterior but he was really rather nice.

Jaskier had a tendency to stick around him too which further proved to you despite all Geralt’s cold heartedness he cared about people. It proved Witchers do have feelings.

You often liked to annoy Geralt by singing a log with Jaskier, especially when it was Toss a Coin. He would always yell at you two to fuck off. These times it was just for fun, and you would just be basically talk-singing.

As a result you and Jaskier grew close. He admired your strength, and kindness. Not to mention you were pretty bad ass. He wrote a few songs about you, in secret only. He wasn’t sure how well you would react to them. They probably wouldn’t have done well in the taverns either.

After a long bout of travelling you all finally came across a river with a small waterfall. You couldn’t wait to clean off, but you were exhausted and passed out. Waking up early you headed to the waterfall. You quickly stripped then got into the water. It was pleasantly warm. You began rinsing off and singing Toss a Coin. You usually didn’t sing too much around anyone because that wasn’t your style, but you felt alone enough and relaxed enough to sing genuinely.

You suddenly heard something that sounded like stumbling and a splash in the water. You turned and saw Jaskier holding himself up on his hands and knees, shirt off, and pants soaked.

You covered quickly and ducked into the water.

“I’m sorry,” he pushed himself up and turned away, “I just heard a lovely voice while getting ready to bathe and I couldn’t help myself.”

You hated to admit you were blushing. You sunk deeper into the water, only your eyes peeking out.

He turned around to see why you were silent. “Are you alright?” He asked suddenly and you noticed his body now that he was standing upright. He was...buff. You shouldn’t be surprised he can keep up with you and Geralt. He carries that loot around constantly and occasionally his own pack.

But you were and your jaw would have dropped if you didn’t control yourself. You realized he asked you something quite some time ago.

“Oh..I’m fine. I’m good. Great even. I’m about done here.” You sputtered out and he nodded then turned around again.

You quickly got out of the water and covered yourself. “I’m covered.” You announced. He looked at you and sent you a smile.

“Back to your voice. How long have you been able to sing like that?” He was still smiling that smile, still shirtless. Your mouth was suddenly dry.

“I just..can?” You squeezed the towel tighter.

“You really should sing more. Maybe you can join me one night in a taven. We’d make more money.” He began unlacing his pants.

“Maybe. I mean I’ve not really sung in front of people.” You said trying to keep eye contact. He fully unlaced his pants and you swallowed.

“You should try it. It’s fun and gives you a sense of freedom.” His thumbs hooked into the waistband of his pants.

“Oh!” you realized you were staring and turned around.

“I don’t mind if you look. I was respecting your privacy. Trust me these eyes have seen a lot worse...” you could tell by his voice he was smiling. You couldn’t tell if he was teasing you or being serious...or both.

“I don’t know if that is supposed to be a compliment, Jaskier.” You said simply.

“I always compliment you.” He said and you heard a splash in the water. You turned around and saw Jaskier swimming around. You had the urge to peek at another part of his body, but refused to do so. You looked away.

“I’m rather offended you don’t find me attractive.” He said noticing you avoiding looking at him.

“Oh shut it. Just turn around so I can get dressed.” He made a thoughtful noise, “what?” you asked finally looking at him.

“Well, you’ve been standing there for quite some time, and that tree has been dropping leaves, and feathers, and debris on you.” He half smiled and you looked at your shoulders, fingers pawing through your damp hair.

He wasn’t lying.

“Damn.” You mumbled.

“So you could join me. If you don’t want me to peek, I won’t.” He winked and you rolled your eyes, ignoring the blush.

Jaskier was a flirt, yes, but this was a lot more direct than usual. And a lot more honest.

“Fine.” You weren’t going to let him intimidate you, “turn around.” He obeyed and you set your towel down before rushing into the water. You tried not to be self conscious but your arms still covered your chest.

“Can I turn around now?” Jaskier asked.

“Yes.”

He turned around and his smile dropped.

“What?” You asked.

“You’re beautiful, you know.”

“Shut up.” you splashed the bard.

“I mean it.” He was serious and you felt like choking. What the hell.

“Well, so are you.” You replied looking down at the water.

“I should not be doing this.” Jaskier said and surged forward to kiss you. You gasped as his lips met yours, and you pushed him away in shock.

“Wh-” you started but Jaskier started rambling, “no I know you and Geralt got like this thing going on and he’s my friend I wouldn’t want to hurt him in anyway. I mean you’re my friend too. I just thought-I don’t know-” he was talking a lot. A lot more than usual.

“Wait, you think me and Geralt have a thing?” You said finally cutting him off.

“yes?” but it came out as a question, “I mean you’ve been travelling with him longer than I have. He’s way more open with you.”

“We’re just friends. I mean I feel nothing for the guy and I’m pretty sure he see’s me as a sister.”

“Oh thank god.” Jaskier breathed.

“I pushed you away because I was surprised. It’s a thing that happens when one person suddenly kisses another person. Especially when they’ve shown no interest before.”

“We have been flirtatious.” He reminded you.

“You’re a flirt with everyone.” You said.

“Not like I am with you.” he returned and you rolled your eyes. 

“How can I tell the difference?” You pursed your lips, your arms folded over your chest.

“I...just thought you could. It’s a little less playful, more eye contact. I’d do anything to touch you. I don’t know how you couldn’t have noticed. When I saw you today and saw you blushing, and clearly checking me out, I thought it was mutual.”

“Check you out? What are you talking about?” You sputtered.

“I have eyes.” He pointed towards his face.

“You think everyone is checking you out.” You responded, not meeting his eyes.

“Because many people are.” He grabbed your arm and pulled you closer to him, “if you are interested I don’t know why we’re playing this game.”

You finally look at him, too close to avoid it now. His lips were so close. Water droplets fell off his eyelashes onto his cheeks. You swallowed harshly.

Fine. You pressed your mouth to his, wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed your bare skin to his. He had been with a lot of women, you knew that, and he did too. But he knew nothing felt quite as good as your smooth naked breasts pressed against his chest. While your soft lips pressed wet kisses to his.

“I think I’ve died.” He whispered against your mouth.

“What?” You asked pulling away slightly.

“How can you feel so amazing?” He asked his hands slid up and down your back.

“How can you be so fit, yet can’t fight?” You said with a lift of your eyebrow.

“low. low blow. I fight.” You smiled at him and then you two were melting into another kiss.

You hated to admit how long you wanted him, but when you first met him all you could think about was how insufferable he was sometimes, even as you got to know him it was a little difficult sometimes. As time went on though he became endearing and you noticed he talked a lot sometimes because he was sad about something or feeling lonely. You began to indulge him with songs and chat. Sometimes you two would just make up stories.

You should have known it would have led to a moment like this.

You two pulled apart finally.

“I don’t think I want to wait any longer for you. You’ve drove me crazy these past few months.” Jaskier breathe his hands daring to slip lower to grasp your ass.

“I haven’t done anything!” You protested, pretending to ignore his wandering hands.

“Exactly. I’ve thought about making a move on you. Worried if you were something to Geralt, and waited for you to make a move.” You laughed lightly.

“You’re ridiculous,” you bit your lip, “we don’t have to wait.” You said and Jaskier didn’t hesitate he began kissing you everywhere.

He hadn’t had sex in far too long and spent too many nights sneaking off to touch himself and think about how you would feel. To imagine your lips, your body.

It was even more better than either of you imagined. You two reached your climax simultaneously. 

Your legs were shaky, and you could barely stand up afterwards. He was breathing heavily.

“Worth it.” He breathed and you managed a shaky laugh.

“I think we’ve been in here long enough, bard.”

You two got out and dressed quickly. When Geralt saw you two heading back closer than usual he grumbled, “fuck.”

He knew you two would be even more insufferable.

[jaskiersvalley]

The ficlet of blind Jaskier is so good! Your writing is amazing

I am so happy you liked the blind Jaskier ficlet! Hurting Jaskier in novel ways is quite good fun, I hope you like this little thank you for your lovely words!

CW: Alcohol abuse.

Life For Rent

It had been a while since Geralt saw Jaskier. They hadn’t parted on the best of terms, Geralt snarling that if he wanted Kaer Morhen to be a place where birds wintered, he would go out and buy a flock of pigeons - they would at least sound better than Jaskier’s constant, inane twittering. Needless to say, that hadn’t gone down well. After a few more barbed comments, they went their separate ways. That winter, Geralt was vicious with his training, focusing utterly on honing his skill and working himself to the point of exhaustion each day just so he didn’t have to think.

Come spring, he left Kaer Morhen, a little less frustrated with Jaskier and ready to travel with him again. However, Jaskier was nowhere to be found. Nobody knew where he had spent the winter, there was no news of new songs or performances. Geralt wasn’t best pleased with that but he had to fend for himself first and foremost, so he continued along his path, taking contracts and keeping an ear out for Jaskier.

All at once, news of the bard surfaced. He was playing not too far from Geralt, maybe two day’s ride. Which meant that maybe they could cross paths again and once more Geralt would have a travelling companion. It took four days to catch up with Jaskier, he was playing in a tavern, as bright and colourful as ever before. He spotted Geralt, face going through a complicated range before settling back on a smile as he pranced through the crowd. It earned him good coin. At the end, Geralt was the one to approach him.

“Winter has done nothing to dull you,” he greeted.

“And I see it hasn’t sharpened your wit,” Jaskier shot back. “Good luck on your path.”

With that, Jaskier left him and Geralt blinked, trying to figure out what just happened. By the time he tried to find Jaskier again, he was gone, not a single sign of him. Almost like he had disappeared into thin air.

So, Geralt continued alone. Contracts came and went, he completed them, took payment which was usually less than when he had Jaskier by his side. He reasoned that with one less mouth to feed, it didn’t matter. Villagers could hate him and it was fine. Even if sometimes they withheld all payment and threw stones to get him out after his services were no longer needed.

The next time he bumped into Jaskier, it was by accident. He was at a court, answering the call about a creature terrorising a settlement at the edge of the land. It was a complete surprise to find Jaskier there, playing and smiling as if he’d spent his entire life tethered to such a court.

“Jaskier,” Geralt nodded. He hoped he could lure the bard away from his post.

“Witcher.” The title stung and Geralt frowned.

“Does the road not call to you?” He tried again, wanting to offer Jaskier his usual spot.

“It does. And it always will call in the direction that takes me furthest from you.”

That was a slap to the face and Geralt blinked. He didn’t understand. Before he could ask, Jaskier turned and excused himself for the night, claiming fatigue. After that, Geralt didn’t see him again for a long time.

Only, stories of Jaskier kept cropping up. Geralt was listening out for them, wanting to understand and to maybe stay out of the bard’s way after the last encounter. Yet there were stories of Jaskier in villages and towns. Some claimed he had taken a post at Oxenfurt while others swore they saw him near Nilfgaard. It made no sense. Especially not when Geralt knew from a merchant that Jaskier was in Cintra yet a day later they met in passing in Cidaris. It was impossible for Jaskier to be able to travel so fast.

Opting to say nothing, Geralt watched Jaskier leave Cidaris and he took the road in the opposite direction. He and Jaskier were no longer friends but at least Geralt could afford him the courtesy of avoiding him. Only, two days later Geralt found him in a tavern. He shouldn’t have been there. Even if he had turned back and headed out of Cidaris in the same direction as Geralt, they should have passed on the road. Something wasn’t right.

Waiting for Jaskier to be done with his set, Geralt approached him as he was collecting the coin thrown by his feet. With everything squirrelled away, Geralt could easily grab him by the arm and haul him to a room.

“What are you?” he hissed, dagger close to Jaskier’s throat.

“Don’t hurt us!” Jaskier squirmed, leaning away from the silver of the blade with wide eyes. “We’ll show you everything. Just let us be.”

Really, Geralt should have killed the creature then and there, imitating Jaskier as it was. But he needed answers and this beast could give him that. “Just remember I can hunt you down,” he snarled. “So don’t try to run. Tell me everything.”

“We’ll show you. We won’t run. We need to return to pay anyway.”

It was so peculiar to hear Jaskier talk like that and Geralt had a sinking feeling he was talking to a doppler. It would make sense, given the peculiar habit of referring to himself in plural and fear of silver.

“We’ve only just started. We’re still learning but we hate you.” Even if it wasn’t Jaskier saying it, hearing that in his voice still hurt. Geralt did his level best to ignore it.

They rode together, passing through villages and sometimes seemingly taking an unnecessary detour. However, in the end they were in Lettenhove. Rather than the viscount’s mansion, they pulled to a stop in a village, in front of a hovel. Knocking on the door three time, Jaskier let them in, a pouch of money in hand.

“We’re back, we’re sorry,” he said.

There was a low growl from the table shoved in the corner. “How many times, it is ‘I’m back’! If you want to pass as me, you need to talk in singular.”

The voice was familiar but it was slurred, bottles lined all the surfaces, empty but that did nothing to hide the stench of alcohol. A dull and lifeless figure lifted its head from the table and sunken blue eyes glared hazily at them.

“What the fuck have you done?” Jaskier snarled, angry and at the same time smelling terrified. “There are three rules. You sing like I showed you. You avoid each other. And you never bring him back.” He pushed up from the table and swayed dangerously. Geralt could see how much weight Jaskier had lost, his skin pale and sickly, too much drink and not a whole lot else had been wasting him away.

There were so many questions but Jaskier yelled at them to get out, threw one bottle before reaching for another to drink from. It was a pitiful sight. However, Geralt left, watching as the doppler all but threw a coin pouch onto the table and beat a hasty retreat. Once outside, Geralt listened to a hiccoughing sob from behind the closed door.

He stayed and watched, trying to understand what was going on. Over the next couple of days, he saw Jaskier only leave once to order a fresh delivery of bottles, indiscriminate of what he got as long as it got him drunk. However, other Jaskiers returned to the house, slipped in with a coin pouch in hand and left without it. Each time, they knocked three times before entering.

Slowly, Geralt understood and he waited until one of the dopplers left. There would be at least a couple of hours before another turned up. He approached the door, knocked three times and let himself in.

This time, Jaskier was half propped up by the empty fireplace, hand clutched at the neck of a bottle and slumped forward.

“Leave your payment on the table and get out,” he snapped, not even looking up.

On quiet feet, Geralt approached and crouched down opposite him. “How much do you charge?”

That had Jaskier’s head snapping up, teeth bared. “Don’t play games with me. I will end you.” A silver blade appeared in his hand and was waved in Geralt’s face. With great ease, Geralt grabbed the dagger, ignoring the bite of blade against his palm and twisted it out of Jaskier’s hold.

Silence engulfed them and Jaskier stared up at him, blinking and trying to decide on what emotion to settle on. It looked like he was torn between rage and horror.

“It’s you.”

“It’s me,” Geralt agreed. “And I finally found you.”

A bitter laugh left Jaskier at that and he leaned back against the wall. “I’m everywhere. The great Jaskier must live on after all. The Continent needs me. At least that’s what I tell myself. That the people need me even if you don’t.”

Finally, Geralt understood. Or he thought he did. Jaskier had been selling his life, renting it out to any doppler that wanted it. He could teach, be a viscount, travel the roads and sing all at once. While he himself could drink himself into oblivion in a rundown house, taking rent for the lives he never lived.

“I got myself a flock. Spread my wings to cover the Continent with my shit.” There was something so bitter about him and Geralt knew it was his fault. Slowly, he sat down next to Jaskier, feeling old and tired like he never had before. “I give them my songs. I give them my potential. They will do more with it than I ever could.”

Carefully, Geralt pulled the bottle from his lax hand and took a swig from it. He’d fucked up beyond recognition. Now, it was time to make amends. The only thing Geralt could hope for was that he wasn’t too late.

[troiings]

Modern day werewolf au?(sent this to jz as well but I really like you lil au headcannons ❤️,there so soft)

took me a min to figure out we were belatedly playing the 5+ au headcanons game tbh. (i’m still game, btw, just if anyone asks maybe specify what you’re asking lol. bc i absolutely thought this was a proper fic prompt at first.)

hm.

this would be largely inspired by Sanctuary and somewhat inspired by the Turners aka a married!ship from the rp days...

Sanctuary inspo comes from Tissaia as a “monster hunter” but not a monster killer... captures, studies, protects from humans and protects humans from them. Werewolves would be more... traditional though, not like the HAPs of Sanctuary (god if you even KNOW Sanctuary lol)

(obviously Original Monster Hunter When Necessary Geralt works for the Sanctuary (we’re just gonna call it that for Ease) and is one of the best field operatives and one of the most trusted when it comes to bringing dangerous creatures in alive)

anyway Yennefer is a young woman fucking minding her own business when she’s attacked by a werewolf. Tissaia actually finds her immediately bc there’d been reports of werewolf activity in the area and, well, it’s pretty obvious when you find a bloody, claw-marked young woman on the ground hanging on by a thread what’s going to come. so she’s brought to the Sanctuary for treatment and that’s where she wakes up.

Yennefer is not a good patient. which, given her trauma, is sorta to be expected, but like. this lil stink is a downright pain in Tissaia’s ass. to call her a *brat* would be a bit mean, because she’s been through a LOT, but she’s definitely difficult at best through the recovery process

she’s barely recovered from the majority of her injuries when the month rolls around, certainly not enough to return to life as normal, and the first transformation is a hard one. really hard. it sets her back a bit, but within a couple weeks after that she’s ready to return to her real life. and the thing is, the Sanctuary is a safe haven and a research facility, not a prison. bylaws state that no being capable of reason should be kept at the Sanctuary against their will, barring extenuating circumstances in which said being poses a clear threat.

and Yennefer *really* wants to get back to her life as usual. Tissaia has her doubts when Yen promises to come back the day before the full moon but she can’t claim any real reason to keep her around until Yen proves she’s a danger, so she lets her go.

...and it takes more than 3 months to find her again. or, well, they find her during that first full moon 2 weeks after she leaves, but she manages to slip away. for the next two full moons after that she’s fucked off to the countryside or something, having realized that, yeah, this is something of a mess after all, but even the countryside has animals and people a werewolf will happily rip to pieces. all of this is, of course, more than enough reason to disperse contacts into the areas where reports of potential werewolf activity has been occurring, and finally the next month a contact reports a sighting.

they don’t find her until morning, when she’s transformed back into human form; it’s Geralt who tracks her through the moors and finds her curled up, unconscious, in a bed of heather so tall you wouldn’t know she was there unless you were right on top of her. it’s autumn, so it’s *chilly*, and Tissaia’s right behind Geralt, so when he goes to take off his coat and lay it over her Tissaia is just “not with THAT filthy thing” (listen he’s an excellent tracker and cleans up fine but by and large he’s a mess and he doesn’t take care of his outerwear as well as Tissaia would like) and takes her own coat off to lay over Yennefer and Geralt is just “SHE’S filthy.” (Tissaia rolls her eyes)

Yen wakes to the sound of Tissaia’s voice, has a great big sob fest because it’s clear that this is something she can’t escape from and can’t stop and who’d she hurt this time, and Tissaia just holds her on this heath until she’s finished crying while the rest of the team assembles a reasonable distance away and pulls some clothes and shit together for her

anyway this is getting long and we haven’t even gotten anywhere remotely shippy yet. Yen comes back to the Sanctuary to recover, goes through her next transformation there, and then by and large becomes a permanent resident for a while. mostly because she’s scared, and partly because she’s not sure how to cope with what’s Outside now, how to deal with friends, etc. Tissaia gets her some therapy, makes it a point to personally educate her on the supernatural shit the Sanctuary Network has been working so damn hard to keep secret for hundreds of years.

Yen slowly recovers, slowly comes to terms with what she is, slowly starts to agree, without any real prodding, to allow some study/experimentation, and offers herself up as a test subject for medications to repress the transformations or to, at least, make them less violent (yeah it’s basically wolfsbane potion ok). and slowly starts to develop some feelings for Tissaia as they develop a rocky friendship and then something very tentatively more.

likewise Tissaia slowly starts to find it more and more difficult to maintain a clinical perspective when listening out for and watching video feed of Yennefer when she’s transformed in her cell on full moon nights and she knows she’s fucked when she just finds herself just on the floor with her back against the cell door one night sobbing because there’s nothing in there for Yennefer to tear to shreds but herself

Yen sleeps like the dead ‘til noon after her transformations and it’s understood - through explicit consent - that typically Tissaia enters her cell first, tends to any injuries that need tending, covers her up (despite that Yen keeps saying she doesn’t give a fuck what Geralt sees), and Geralt is in charge of moving her to her room.

this morning is the same. Tissaia always has to clean Yen up a bit to ascertain the damage that her transformation back to human form didn’t heal, but this morning she deviates by following them to Yen’s room, and by using a fresh basin of water and cloth to keep cleaning her up. just carefully washing her face, her hands, grooming broken fingernails and cleaning the blood from beneath them. Tissaia always makes sure there’s a meal waiting for Yen when she wakes, but this morning *she’s* there waiting for Yen too.

Yen’s groggy and disoriented when she wakes but she spots Tissaia and with her mouth still all dry and sticky she mumbles “You’re here.” “Is that alright?” “Mm. Good morning.” “Afternoon, actually.” (Yen can’t keep her hands from traveling Tissaia’s hand cupping her cheek, can’t stop looking at the subdued, somber smile pressing at Tissaia’s lips.) she laughs breathily and mumbles ‘Good afternoon’ and Tissaia gives the same half-laugh, mostly breath, in response before leaning over to kiss Yen on the forehead and Yen just leans into it stiff and sore and hurting everywhere but somehow satisfied, and that’s how their relationship begins, and how Tissaia comes to find herself going further and further to take care of Yen after each full moon and how Yen wakes to find herself cradled against Tissaia’s body, her head nestled against Tissaia’s breast several full moons later, and how Tissaia finds herself standing in Yen’s cell kissing her desperately before moonrise the month after that. and like yeah Yen goes back out into the world eventually but mostly she trains and becomes an operative in the Sanctuary because even though full moons are horrific she literally cannot think of a single place she’d rather be in the in-between.

[ruffboijuliaburnsides]

viper jaskier AU teaser

Did you want to read a bit of the setup for my Viper!Jaskier AU? well how about a lovely chunk of the first chapter to tide you over! That sounds like fun, right?

It is not out of edits yet technically, and it is not the entire chapter and I have cut out significant chunks of content so it remains new when I put it on AO3, but I am very proud of it. Please let me know what you think?

------------

Jaskier had, perhaps, been a bit too rash in storming down the mountain after the dragon hunt, effectively removing himself from Geralt’s life. Geralt from his life. Whichever way you cut it, they aren’t going to be travelling together anymore and… and good riddance, frankly.

Jaskier spent two decades as a stand-in for someone else, and he had borne it for the love of that fucking man, despite what little good sense he had. And in return he gets told off for having the audacity to try to cheer Geralt up after whatever happened with Yen that left him in such a foul and hateful temper? Oh yes, how dare he care about his friend – certainly that deserves sharp words about knowing when to shut up.

It was better than being alone, with the gaping ache in his chest as he tried to find his way to something that would fill the empty loneliness, that he'd felt every time he was without Geralt. But he’s done. He’s washed his hands of Geralt of fucking Rivia, and he’s glad of it.

Except that he’s not. Not really. Jaskier is in the next town down a random road, out of the town Roach had been stabled in at the bottom of the mountain, and his chest aches and aches and aches, the way it did before he met Geralt, the way it did every time they were apart. When he met Geralt it was a revelation how well he could fill that emptiness, and he stayed with the man for twenty years. Twenty. Years. Despite the harsh words. Despite the way he sometimes heard Jaskier and looked as if he’d just eaten a lemon. Despite the fact that Jaskier knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the witcher tolerated Jaskier because of someone he'd already fucking lost.. And then after Jaskier finally lost his patience with it and told Geralt as much, he had the audacity to try to claim that he’d let Jaskier stay for his own sake.

Which, frankly, was bullshit, and Jaskier knows it.

Which is why he is here, two weeks later, in this shit town, spending the last of his coin on another bottle of some sort of local liquor. It tastes like shit, but it gets you completely drunk, which is a good state to be in for the shit songs he’s writing and will never perform.

He says

It’s you and always you

I say

You never really saw me

Jaskier hums a bit, tucked into a table in the far corner of the tavern after having been booed into ending his attempted performance, trying to fit the scrawled (nearly illegible) lyrics to some kind of melody, and takes another swig of the bottle next to his journal. “Nah, that’s shit,” he mutters to himself, and scribbles it out loosely.

Maybe it should be a song that blames himself. He’s the one that turned it into a goddamn argument, after all. Geralt had snapped at him how many times, and he’d never taken it personally, but this time somehow was too much? Especially when Geralt was… already upset. He’s not sure what happened between Geralt and Yennefer, but he knows something happened, something not good, and yet he still pushed, and took it personally when Geralt didn’t respond well. Of course Geralt didn’t respond well.

Honestly, Jaskier only had himself to blame for being alone, after all that.

It’s been two weeks. Two weeks he’s been drunk off his ass and written a complete load of maudlin and frankly idiotic shite. He passes out at the table eventually, face planted into his journal and liquor bottle emptied down to the dregs.

The tavern owner apparently thought it best to let him sleep it off, because it's not until morning that Jaskier's roughly shaken awake and told in no uncertain terms to get out, and that his bardic services won't be needed again. Jaskier doesn't blame him; can’t keep a bard on hand if he largely sings depressing songs, he supposes. 

He starts walking out of town, hoping he actually has all his things, and decides to take stock, even if he's still a bit wobbly. He has his lute, his bedroll, a silver dagger Geralt gave him once "for emergencies", and his bag that mostly just has a change of clothes that probably needs washing pretty badly. A quick subtle smell test (which frankly, Jaskier realizes didn't need to be subtle, as there's no one on the road with him, but old habits and all) verifies that he does absolutely need a bath before he does anything else.

Right.

Geralt is gone. Jaskier has left Geralt. Geralt and Jaskier are no longer... whatever they were. Friends? It seems shallow to call them friends, but they weren't anything else. And maybe the leaving was his fault - Geralt was angry, and upset, and Jaskier knows probably better than anyone how much Geralt doesn't know how to handle strong emotions. Maybe Jaskier shouldn't have left. But he did leave.

They're done.

Geralt is gone.

Jaskier is alone.

It's an awful feeling, being alone, but Jaskier spent twenty years imperfectly filling a role someone else had filled before Geralt ever met him. Trying to fill a hole in Geralt's heart the way Geralt filled a hole in his. The problem is the shape of it: Jaskier's loneliness is broad and overwhelming and he's dealt with it as long as he can remember. Geralt's is shaped like a specific person.

And Jaskier is forty-two. He's too old to trail after a man with no interest in him like a lost puppy. He's too old to keep trying to wedge himself into a place he doesn't fit into, just so he won't feel lonely. He's too old to sit around for weeks crying over a broken heart he saw coming almost two decades ago; too old to be drinking himself to oblivion, and playing nothing but heartbreaking songs. He has the rest of his life to live.

So, metaphorically at any rate, he picks himself out of the dirt, dusts himself off, and keeps moving. He's still living, even if the life he'd built is in ruins, so now he rebuilds it.

[...]

It's been almost two years since leaving Geralt when he runs into the mage in Temeria.

He's played quiet inns and taverns before, and the key to those is generally to work at various familiar and relatively low-key songs until the audience responds, and work from there. But in this town, they seem to not want to engage, and he only plays for about an hour before he gives up, and asks for a meal and some ale.

"I wish you'd played longer," a man says, sitting down across from Jaskier. "You have a beautiful voice."

Jaskier glanced up at him, and considered what might be happening. The man was a bit older than him by all accounts, greying black hair and moderately attractive; his clothes weren't fancy silks or anything, but they looked finely-woven and well-fitted. And there was something about his eyes that set Jaskier on edge.

"Mmm," he said, something clenching nervously in his stomach. "No offence," he says lightly, with effort, "but I have a policy not to fuck mages. Professional courtesy and personal preference. You understand."

"I'm a bit disappointed on principle," the man says, with a hesitant smile. "But no, that's not why I wished to speak to you, Jaskier." 

Jaskier is almost more terrified by that than by the compliment. "I don't know where Geralt of Rivia is, either," he says, trying not to let any panic into his voice and failing miserably. "Haven't seen him in years, actually."

"My name is Doran," the man says gently. "I am a mage, though I'm mostly removed from the politics of the Brotherhood. And I'm not here to hurt you or ply you for information."

"Really?" Jaskier asks, dubious and still rather terrified, if he's being honest. "Not to be rude, but given my experience with magical personages, that seems highly unlikely."

Doran doesn't seem phased, though, and just leans forward. "You've a curse on you, bard. It seems rather nasty, and I... wanted to make sure you knew, I suppose."

Well. That certainly got Jaskier's attention quickly, and he freezes for a moment, his heart clenched. "A curse?"

"A curse," Doran verifies, nodding. "A strong one, too, as far as I can tell. Did you anger a wizard recently?"

Jaskier's pretty sure he hasn't, but he wracks his brain anyway, thinking back and trying to think of any magic users other than Yennefer that he might've pissed off enough to have a strong curse on him that he somehow doesn't know about.

"I... mildly irritated a sorceress nearly two years ago," he offers. "But I'm relatively certain she was much angrier at someone else. We have history, the irritation was mutual. Actually, I was off my game; I was probably more irritated than she was." He's starting to get jittery, turning moments over in his mind, turning himself over in his mind. 

"I doubt that would've been the source then, even for a touchy mage," Doran says thoughtfully. "Casting this curse would've taken a fair amount of effort." Jaskier's food and drink arrive, and he stares blankly down at his stew, his stomach souring. No, definitely not in the mood to eat anymore, and he pushes the bowl to the side.

[...]

"I should put this up in my room, if that's all right?" Doran nods his agreement, and Jaskier heads upstairs to stash his lute safely in his locked room. He pauses before going back downstairs, rests his forehead against the door, and takes a moment to breathe.

He's cursed, with a powerful and unknown curse, that could take effect at any moment, that he'd received at some unknown point in time, and if anything happens to him, Geralt will almost certainly never find out. Jaskier can't even be melodramatic and leave a letter for Geralt, because there isn't anywhere to send it. And it doesn't escape his notice that even now, with the spectre of something awful hanging over him, two years after he'd walked away, the only person he can think of is Geralt.

"Fuck," he whispers into the empty room. "Geralt, I swear to Melitele if this kills me, you'd better find out and grieve me like you were grieving your damn ghost for twenty years."

Then he takes a deep breath, straightens his back, and exits the room.

[...]

Jaskier sits on the cot and folds his hands in his lap to keep himself from fidgeting absently with any of the bottles or dried herbs within reach, like he would when he was six and fifteen and twenty-seven and now forty-four, and he waits.

"I'm making a tea that helps keep my magic focused," Doran says as he uses a small bit of magic to heat the water and herbal mixture he'd made. "Not something I need assistance with, generally speaking, but it will lessen the effort it takes to do, so I can focus my efforts on finding the shape of your curse and how to unwind it."

"That's fair," Jaskier says, jiggling his leg. Now that they were here and talking about magic and curses again, the calm he'd felt from the familiar movements and attitude has melted away entirely, like a chunk of snow on a burning log. "I can't imagine it's particularly easy. Seeing as how it's made of chaos and everything. Does that mean it's against its nature to be focused? I rather imagine it's a bit like my mind most days," he's trailed off into talking to himself, but Doran's standing in front of him holding an empty cup and smiling faintly. 

"I don't doubt it's similar, you seem to be rather chaotic yourself," Doran says, and puts the cup down, pulling a stool over so they're sitting facing each other. "Now, this shouldn't hurt, or feel like much of anything. I'm just looking for the magic of the curse, to try to see when it will activate and what it will do. All right?"

Jaskier lets out an anxious breath and squeezes his hands together tighter, then nods jerkily. It will be fine. And if it isn't, then he'll consider trying to find Yennefer. Doran reaches out and puts his fingers on either side of Jaskier's head. 

And nothing happens. Or, at least, nothing happens from Jaskier's point of view. He can feel this... flutter, almost, at the edge of his thoughts, that he's pretty sure must be Doran's magic, but other than that it's rather uneventful and anticlimactic. So he keeps still for a few excruciatingly long minutes before Doran opens his eyes and lowers his hands, looking solemn.

"Well, that can't be good," Jaskier says, trying weakly for levity and not managing it.

"It's some sort of transformation curse," Doran explains, sitting back on the stool for a moment. Jaskier's fingers flutter against the backs of his hands as he keeps them folded in his lap. "A very strong one. And it was set in place long enough ago that I can't see any part of you that isn't touched by it."

Jaskier's fidgeting stills, and his eyes narrow. "Wait. You mean it's a curse that's been waiting to take effect since I was a child?" 

"It's a curse that's already taken effect since you were a child, by all appearances," Doran corrects. "Whatever the transformation is, you've been living it since before you can remember."

Well. That was more upsetting and complicated than he'd expected.

[...]

He stumbles a few steps away from the door and bends over, hands on his knees, breathing deeply. Faintly he can hear the door close, and a small part of him is grateful that Doran is, if nothing else, polite enough to give him a moment of privacy to try to deal with this.

"Fuck!" he doesn't quite shout, and pushes himself upright, still trying to breathe evenly, so he can pace. "Fuck. Shitting tits, I..." Okay. He needs to not just curse. He needs to think this out, the best way he's ever known how.

"Right, Geralt," he says to no one, to the memory of his best friend for two decades who could barely stand him most of the time. "It seems that I've run into a bigger spot of bother than I thought, and I've been cursed since infancy. A transformation curse, no less, and no idea how it's changed me!"

Hmm, says the voice in the back of his mind, that he's so glad isn't here and wishes were here so badly he aches. It's thoughtful and concerned and definitely paying actual attention, rather than grunting assent while not hearing a word he says. Jaskier can— could tell the difference. Can imagine it.

"I suppose it could be something lovely," he says. "Secret heir to a throne somewhere. Or it could be worse, it's probably worse. Probably had some sort of horrible deformity and my parents were so mortified they cursed me to make me look normal enough for their perfectionistic standards." Maybe it's childish to let that much bitterness seep out in his tone, even if he's not talking to anyone but himself.

Could be, his imaginary Geralt says in this imaginary conversation he's having, and Melitele's tits, he can't even have an imaginary Geralt that is more conversational? But no, he can't, because he knows Geralt too damn well for a chattier Geralt to feel at all realistic. Damn the man.

"Whatever it is, it will change the way I exist," Jaskier continues, to the night air and a memory. "If it's from before I can remember, then it's..." his frantic pacing slows to a stop and his heart stutters. "What if I can't play anymore, Geralt?" he whispers. "What if I can't sing?"

His imaginary Geralt is silent.

But his own mind is not, it never ever is. If he can't play and he can't sing and he has more of his heart torn out of him... he will find a way to dust himself off and keep moving. He always has. He always will. If he stops, he'll drown himself, or find a dangerous lover, or try to help someone he has no business helping. And then he'll burn out the way part of him has been trying to do since he left Oxenfurt that first time at eighteen.

He's Julian Pankratz. He's Jaskier, the greatest bard the continent's ever known. He will survive and thrive after whatever this curse can throw at him.

"Right," he says, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "Okay."

[...]

:3 (I believe @brothebro, @wingedquill, and @storyinmypocket​ at the least will be interested in this!)

[oh-for-fic-sake]

It All Worked Out In The End

When the parents are away the kids will play... or fight one of the two.

I am genuinely have a too much fun with these imagines.

Masterlist

Warninngs: Swearing ,Mentions of fighting ,Hinting at Drugging and Rape (nothing explicit)

Jaskier stood befor you in your rented room dunking the bloodied rag into a jug of cool water before wringing it out then lightly dabbing your eye brow and angry claw marks on your face. Ciri stood off to the side apprehensive watching the bard tend to the wound.

"Got her good tho didnt i?" He smirked at that trying so hard to be disappointed in you but he really couldnt. 

"Yes I even won a bit of coin, lets just hope the other two dont come back until this has gone down we can explain the black eye and cut but not the scratches."

"Yeah ... I still have all my teeth tho!" Cheerful in your victory utterly pleased with yourself Ciri shook her head at this then spoke up in disbelief.

"Where did that even come from?" You grinned wincing again as it hurt the bruises that were forming on your cheek and jaw.

"Well my sweet Cirilla a few years of pent up anger can do wonders for your right hook or in my case bitch slap" She snorted relaxing as she saw that you were to all intents and purposes unharmed. She wandered over to the bags on the chair by the bed.

"Wait Jask did you say coin? You put coin down?" Jaskier shrugged in response to your question dipping the rag in to the water again.

"Hey they started taking bets at the bar, I wasnt gonna join in but then looked at you , there was no way you werent gonna put her down ,your face looked a lot like Geralts growley face"  He swiped over your face one last time there was a pregnant pause.

"So you gonna split the coin?"

"Nope" He said popping the p dropping the now pink cloth with a wet slap on the table. Your younger sister from another mister walked back over to you with a small vial. Poppy milk or better known to you as morphine.

"Yennefer left us some poppy milk for emergencies, you should take some now before you really start feeling it.How are we going to keep this from them?" Waving a hand motioning to your damaged face as Jaskier prepaird the medicine. If you were honest you didnt think that far ahead at the time you just needed to ko that Bitch -which you did thank you very much- but you knew what Ciri was getting at Geralt and Yennefer were a couple of mother hens... allbeit slightly more intimidating... and dangerous... and volatile. 

"Not sure we can" You replied nodding greatfully at Jaskier who offered cup of water that held a dose of the pain killer. Knocking it back before pulling faces at the bitter taste.

"Oh god! Ugh no" you shook your head befor quickly eating a cube of cheese from the small platter in front of you. The singer shrugged ignoring your outbust looking between the both of you.

"All i do know is that your going to be in trouble when they do find out" He said in a sing song voice you slumped back in the chair grunting.

"Oh yer how'd you figure its just me in shit Jask" Sputtering he glared at you

"Maybe because your the one who decided to turn savage and attack a whore! You even bit her bit" You tapped a pointing finger on the table

"Ok fisrt things first she hit me first got a strict rule never throw the fisrt punch but allways throw the last and second yeah fair enough i bit her but she was fighting dirty. And you could have pulled me off her, you also placed a bet on me which was encouraging it.If im going down your coming with me." He gaped at you in disbelief.

"What about her she didn't intervene either?" 

"She also didn't bet on me."

"I don't think Geralt himself could have dragged y/n off her" Ciri quipped from the side lines you nodded at her continuing.

"Not only that im pretty sure they left you in charge bard so really when you think about it its all your fault" He pailed as you and Ciri high fived.

"I need to lie down" Wobbling to the bed flopping on it face first.You and Ciri shared a look after a few beats of silence befor being asked the enevitable question 

"So how did it start anyway?" 

"Thats what id like to know" Came from the bed as Jaskier sat up.

"Not really sure she was just running her mouth i geuss" You lied patting her head befor freighning tirednes making your way to the other bed deciding that she never has to know the real reason to you cat fighting with a whore. A few days later after the scratches and swelling had faded the others returned they hastily made their way up to the room. Geralt started speaking as he stormed through the door.

"Can some one explain to me why iv just had to pay for a whores loss of earnings And medical costs?" You balked

"Loss of earnings I knocked out her teeth surely shes making double on blowies" Jaskier snorted into his mug

"What the fuck happened?" Geralt growled out not finding your comment amusing in the slightest as he saw the clawed bruised cheek, blackened eye and cut on your brow he quickly gave Ciri and Jaskier the once over fearing youd all been attacked, relife flooded him when he saw they were ok . Yennefer gasped striding past the seething witcher stopping in front of you placing a soothing hand on you uninjured cheek.

"Who did this?" She whispered you beamed at her nuzzling into her palm.

"Dont worry I dealt with it. Besides I got off lightly you should see my opponent" Ciri nodded in agreement befor breifly explaining.

"Y/n had a fight with a whore, beat her into the ground actually then knocked her out with a single back hander. Was quite immpressive to watch"

"Made a satisfying sound to" Jaskier added Geralt looked between the three of you.

"So Y/n had a cat fight with a whore?" You all nodded

"And did enough damage to not only knock out teeth but keep her out of work for a few days?" The three of you shared a look and nodded the hunter sighed a deep breath crossing him arms.

"Do i want to know what started it?" 

"Probably not" was you offered choosing once again to keep the fact it was for Ciri's sake to yourself, trying to trick you in to selling yourself for a night was one thing but planning to drug and sell Ciri was a completely different ball game. She was family.No one was getting away with that not on your watch its lucky you caught on to the hushed conversation. You dont want to think about what could have happend if you hadnt been paying attention. Geralt threw his hand up looking towards Yennefer when it was clear none of you were going to elaborate any more then that. Aproaching he droped his swords and bag taking Yenns place tilting your face to inspect your wounds.

"Well they didnt do much damage or manage to fracture anything ,even your nose which is good." He leaned in kissing your forhead chasetly. As yenn preceeded to pull you over to where her bag was on the bed with a healing balm in hand stippling it over the cut on your face.

"Fighting a whore honestly, can't leave you alone for a few days with out you getting into trouble. I hope you know your in trouble missy" She muttered as she flitted threw her bag then began fussing over your split knuckles applying a different ointment.

"And the money we had to give her for this whole incident is comming out of your allowance starting today" Geralt grunted from the table Jaskier and Ciri watched in peels of laughter as you tried squirming away from the sorceress pleading with the unimpressed white haired male you continued protesting at Geralt's decision until he pinned you with a stern look that shut you up. Yeah he wasnt a happy camper.

"And your grounded from singing bard" Jaskier stopped laughing 

"What?"

"you were told to take care of them and it doesnt take an idiot to guess why this is considerably heavier you dont make this much from singing alone" he growled out lifting up jaskiers bulging coin pouch .All in all the couple took it better than any of you thought they would, you were relieved they didnt push the issue as if they knew what had kicked it off they probaly would have burnt that whore house to the ground, whores and all... Jaskier did share his winnings tho so it all worked out in the end,Jaskier made a weeks worth of coin in a night, you saved Ciri ,let out some pent up aggression and Geralt didnt have kill anyone.

[mlm-writer]

Another One Bites the... Endrega?

Gif source

Pairing: Platonic Geralt of Rivia (Game ver.) x Peter Parker (T.H. ver) Rating: Mature for violence Words: 2590 POV: Third Summary: After losing his parents, Peter makes the journey to Novigrad to live with aunt May and uncle Ben. However, the road is not without dangers. Fortunately, Peter has lady luck on his side. Note: Last of the crossover works! Also that spider got to bite Peter so often. I pulled on uno reverse card on that shit.  Tags: action, fantasy, mentions of death, canon-typical violence, fight scenes, monsters and mild Witcher 3 spoilers of what happens in Novigrad

Branches cracked beneath his feet, as he ran as fast as he could through the forest. The moon illuminated the night, showing him the way through the bed of leaves that covered his vision of the night sky. Peter was unsure if he should scream for help or if that would attract even more of these spider-like creatures that chased him. Lady luck was on his side as he saw light flickering in the distance. A smile spread over his face as he put the last of his energy into getting help. 

Peter screamed for help, when he approached the light. A figure with white hair that reflected the moonlight stood up from near the campfire. Yellow eyes made themselves clear in the dark and Peter knew he was saved. He ran past the man, stopping when he was behind him. The witcher grabbed his silver sword and Peter watched him slay the beasts, though not without struggle. Peter had not looked behind since he last caught a glimpse of one of those things, so only now he realised there were at least a dozen of them and the witcher struggled taking that many all at once. 

The blade swung with finesse through the air, the peeking moonlight reflecting off it, until it got stained with monster blood. One of the spider-like creatures bit the witcher in the leg. He tried to shake it off as his blade slashed through the other monsters. Even Peter could tell that the witcher had to free his leg soon or it was a lost fight. The young boy looked around, trying to find a weapon, but unless he somehow could get a hold of the second sword on the wither’s back, there was none. He had to think quickly. Act quickly. 

Peter lashed out and jumped the monster that had its teeth into the witcher and… gave it a taste of it’s own medicine. It let go as Peter’s teeth struck through a particularly soft patch on their body. It bucked and threw the boy off. Peter coughed, spitting out the blood that had gathered in his mouth. Head started getting fuzzy immediately. He hoped the witcher was alive. It sounded like it, but everything sounded muted, as if there was a wall between him and reality. 

He heaved, the air in his lungs prickling. Vomit covered the ground below him and he coughed, clutching his chest in pain. Strong hands lifted him up and placed him against a tree. “Do not swallow. Just rinse your mouth,” a low muted voice cut its way through his panic. Peter followed the instructions, taking the water offered to him. It did not help. Then suddenly, clarity as if there was a spell casted on him. It still hurt and he still felt like he was dying, but the panic was gone, he could think clearly of what to do next. 

“Listen, I could try to give you something, but it might kill you.” Peter understood. He nodded and reached out for whatever could either save or kill him. The alternative was just dying anyway. It was not hard to tell with the excruciating pain. He took the bottle, hardly looking at the red fluid, before downing it as fast as he could. More coughing. More pain. Then nothing.

---

Geralt sighed as he watched over the young man. Were it not for the boy’s foolish actions, he would have died today. The boy was sweating, his brown hair sticking to his forehead, but his face looked pale enough for him to be dead. The witcher threw another stick into the fire, trying to keep the boy that saved his life warm. At least he was not dying of hypothermia. 

The fact that the stranger was not screaming from pain was a good sign, but that did not mean he would make it through the night. Night turned to day and Geralt awoke to the sound of a coughing fit. He helped the boy sit up and handed him some water. Once the boy was no longer coughing, their eyes locked. “Thank you, master witcher,” the boy spoke hoarsely. 

“You are lucky to be alive. Biting an Endrega was really stupid.” The boy nodded and sat up, arms shaking. “You are also lucky to survive ingesting a witcher potion. I think you might even pull through this, kid.” He nodded again, understanding his situation. A small smile spread over his lips when he got the news he was probably going to survive. “What’s your name?” 

The boy looked at him with a hazy gaze. He seemed to think very hard, before he could answer. “Peter,” he ended up saying, “sorry, my head is all fuzzy.” Geralt placed a hand on Peter’s head. It felt really hot. 

“You’re running a fever. Your body is still burning through all the toxins. Where are your parents?” The boy looked down. Right. The war. Another orphan then. 

“They died. I’m heading to my aunt in uh…” He paused, thinking again. “Novigrad.” Geralt huffed. This boy was probably lady luck’s own bloody son. 

“That’s where I’m headed. I’ll drop you off at a healer there.” The boy thanked him over and over until he got caught in a coughing fit again. “Don’t mention it. I drop you off and we do not owe each other anything.” Peter nodded, finally shutting up. 

The journey to Novigrad was a long one. Peter was weak, only getting a little better each day. He had to rest a lot, but he was good company. Geralt could see he was the type to chat his ears off, but speaking brought Peter into a coughing fit, so words were rare. Geralt learned Peter’s parents died in the Battle of White Orchard. Peter was also good with horses or at least with Roach. There was nothing out of the ordinary with the farmer’s boy, but there was something special about him too. 

Peter tried to offer his mother’s ring as payment for the escort, but Geralt did not accept. By the time they closed in on the gates of Novigrad, Peter seemed to be doing well enough to get home on his own. He insisted he finished the journey on his own two legs and Geralt had business to tend to, so their ways parted at the gates. After finding Dandelion, he thought he was done in Novigrad. After all, Ciri was not there, but Geralt’s path was bound to converge with Peter’s once more. 

Geralt needed coin for the journey to Skellige. There was a contract on a ‘giant, humanoid, red spider’. It apparently attacked some people. It was a menace to track down. Tracks ended on walls that even Geralt could not climb. There was no distinctive scent either. He followed the trail of thick, abnormally strong spiderwebs to a house near Oxenfurt Gate in the Bits. Downstairs was a workshop that looked untouched for a couple of weeks. Spiderwebs spooked in the corners, but none matched what he found on the buildings in other parts of the Bits. 

“Anybody home?” He called out. Feet rushed over the first floor and headed to the stairs. Geralt watched as someone came down the stairs, skinny but muscular legs, followed by a lean body and then… a very familiar face. 

“Geralt!” Peter exclaimed joyfully. In a flash Geralt found himself being hugged tightly by the boy. He froze, unsure what to do. “It is great to see you! Look!” Peter stepped back and did a little dance. “I’m all good and healthy!” The boy paused, then frowned. “Wait, what are you doing here?” 

The witcher looked around, eyes scanning over the workshop that looked abandoned. “What happened to this workshop?” Peter’s smile disappeared. He cleared his throat and looked down. 

“Uncle Ben died. It was his. I uh… meant to pick up his work, but… it’s just hard to touch his stuff.” Geralt answered with a grunt and a nod. He stepped around, careful to not touch anything. “You need anything? I can make stuff as well. Combs, mirrors, machinery components, you name it. I’ll make anything for you at half the price…”

“I’m looking for the red spider man that has been attacking people ‘round here.” Geralt was right. Peter really could talk a lot. Dandelion would love him. Peter grew awfully quiet. Geralt could hear his heart pounding rapidly. When he looked at the boy, there was no eye-contact. “Peter, if you know anything, you need to tell me. This thing could attack you too.” 

Peter finally looked up, shaking his head. “No! It is not like that! I mean…” He moved around restlessly. “Spiderman saved me! He does that a lot! He attacks bandits and other bad people. He would not harm me.” Lies. Geralt could tell, but he wondered why Peter would lie about it. 

“This spider man attacked some commoners.” “Maybe those commoners were attacking someone else.”

Geralt raised a brow. That was a really quick answer. “Peter, I am not asking again. What do you know?” Peter seemed to get smaller under his threatening gaze. He mumbled something that even Geralt could not hear. “Speak up.” Peter took a deep breath, before speaking in a small voice. 

“I’ll lead you to Spiderman. Meet me at midnight behind the city walls, between Oxenfurt and South Gate.” “Just tell me where he is. No need to bring you into danger as well.’ “Like I said, master witcher, sir, Spiderman will not harm me or any other innocent person.” “You don’t know that.” “But I do and you will too, tonight.” 

The boy fidgeted in place. He offered the witcher a cup of tea. Geralt refused and left. He had some other matters to attend to, before leaving for Skellige. It was raining that night. The moon was hardly visible, only a thin crescent hung in the sky, leaving that night’s illumination to the flickering fires from the city. Geralt’s witcher senses were triggered when he heard something behind him. Down from the wall came a figure clad in red with a mask that reminded him of one that Dandelion wore during his scheme with Sophronia. Geralt reached for his silver sword, but stopped when the figure stood before him. Even at a distance, Geralt could recognise the faint scent of that neglected workshop. His first thought was that Peter got eliminated, before he could meet Geralt, but as the spider man stood before him, he noticed a similar build, a similar height, a similar way of cowering before the witcher. “Peter?”

The figure reached for his mask and indeed, as the leather came off, there was the scared, but unnecessarily brave boy from the forest. “Hello, Geralt, sir,” the boy almost whispered. Geralt lowered his arm, sighing. “How did you climb that wall?” 

Peter smiled a little and walked back to the wall. “You see, some things changed after I bit that spider thing…” “Endrega.” “That! I think it interacted with that potion you gave me.” “Gotta note that down…”

“And now I can do this!”

Peter jumped and scaled the wall while sticking to it like… a spider. Geralt stared at him, unsure of how to react. He nearly got a heart attack when Peter jumped off the wall when he was near the top. He rushed to catch the fool, but from the boy’s wrist came something that stuck to the wall and Peter hung from it, upside down, right in front of Geralt’s face. “I can also shoot webs like a spider,” the boy proudly announced. Geralt sighed, rubbing his temple. 

“Peter, did you attack people?” The boy came down and nodded shamefully. 

“Yes, but I only attacked bandits and some whoresons that were harassing elves! Please, Geralt, you must believe me… sir.” Geralt could tell he was honest. It was not about believing him or not. 

“You need to stop. You might get hurt. The witch hunters might even want to put you on the pyre.” “Let them try.” 

Geralt raised a brow. Peter stood before him, clad in red like a junior Dandelion and arms crossed like a child. He was a child, a ridiculously stupid child. “What you’re doing is dangerous and you need to stop. You don’t know what these… powers are. You’re healthy now, but you might not be for long.”

“And what about you?” Geralt raised a brow at the boy again as he walked closer. “You go around helping people with your special powers, why can’t I?” “I am trained to do this.” “Then train me.”

Geralt let out a sigh of resignation. He wanted to send Peter to Kaer Morhen, but he didn’t trust him to get there alive or even find the way. “No.” Geralt tried to walk away, but quicker than he ever saw any normal human move, Peter was in front of him, blocking the way. 

“What if I can take you on in a fight. Not win, of course, but I bet I can stand against you for a minute.” “You have gone from foolish to just arrogant.” “Give me a chance! I can do more than climb walls and swing from a web… please?” 

“Fine, if you survive a minute, I’ll train you, but, if I floor you within that minute, you get rid of the stupid costume and never attack anyone again, bandit or otherwise.” “Deal.” 

---

Peter was afraid he might have overestimated his abilities, but all he had to do was not be floored. Fortunately they agreed to no weapons. “Time goes in now,” Geralt announced and Peter expected him to pounce right away, but it seemed the witcher was waiting as well. Peter stayed alert, his new, sharp senses noticing how slow Geralt’s heartbeat was in contrast to his own, pounding his chest like it was trying to get out. 

Then finally, Geralt lunged forwards and Peter barely dodged him. He rolled over the floor and got back up with great finesse. Yellow eyes narrowed and scanned his body like it was determining the price of a horse. Peter swallowed a lump in his throat, before dodging again. For now, that was all he was doing. He knew better than to try something funny or to hope for Geralt to get exhausted. With one close call, Peter found himself behind Geralt. He took the chance to give a quick, albeit not hard, kick against the witcher’s back, before dashing backwards. They had drawn a circle on the ground, he barely stayed in it. 

It ended up being the only strike Peter would give. Geralt was simply not as fast as Peter and while Peter had taken a pretty good blow to the head, he was still standing after a minute. When the time was up, a sigh left the white-haired male. “Fine, but you will have to come with me to Skellige. I still need to find Ciri.” 

Peter let out the air he held in his lungs and collapsed on the ground, tired from dodging like his life had depended on it. “Your daughter, right? I’ll… have to leave aunt May for a while, but I’ll be back, right?” Geralt gave him a look that said ‘yeah, sure, maybe’ and Peter found it rather ominous, but he also trusted the man enough to keep him alive. “I’ve never been to Skellige. What is it like?”

Geralt did not spare him a look as he put his equipment back on. “Cold. We leave tomorrow at noon.”

[iam93percentstardust]

Born Under a Black Sun

I fell into the rabbit hole of yet another fandom so here’s a quick fic inspired by this post from @faeymouse

It starts as a game.

When they’re laying together, content and sated and Jaskier is draped across his chest, Geralt lets him ask a question. The first time they do this, Jaskier runs his fingers across one of the scars on his arm and asks if he could hear the story about that one. Ordinarily, Geralt would never have given up one of stories so easily but Jaskier had done something clever with his tongue earlier and he supposes he’s in a bit of a good mood.

“If you can guess what gave it to me,” he says.

Jaskier pushes himself up so he can look at Geralt’s face. “You mean it?” he asks, blue eyes wide in surprise.

Geralt is already starting to regret it and maybe Jaskier sees that because he immediately continues, “You can’t take it back. You’ve already said yes.” He lowers himself back down, traces the jagged edges of the scar. “A…Drowner?”

He’s correct, of course, which is good considering they’d just come back from fighting with one. For a moment, Geralt thinks about telling him he’s wrong anyway but Jaskier asks him, in that hopeful way, “I’m right, aren’t I?”

And Geralt sighs and tells him about the first time he’d fought a Drowner.

He pretends to be surprised when Jaskier performs a ballad about it the next time they stop at an inn.

~

When they first start the game, Jaskier gets the scars wrong more often than not. He just doesn’t have the years of experience that Geralt has to immediately tell which bites and slashes came from what. Geralt doesn’t tell him a story on those days. Instead, he rolls them back over and sets Jaskier to singing again. But, it’s…nice, sometimes when Jaskier’s face lights up when he gets it right. And truthfully, the more he talks about the scars, the less awkward it becomes. He’d never tell Jaskier that though. The bard would never let him live it down.

There’s a night though when Jaskier runs his fingertips over an old scar on Geralt’s thigh, one that he knows intimately well and will never forget. He tenses under Jaskier’s hand at the memories it stirs and immediately, Jaskier pulls back. Geralt wonders when that happened, when they’d become so familiar with each other that Jaskier immediately knows when it’s not the time to push and moreover, actually doesn’t. 

It’s that old familiarity that makes Geralt say, before he can regret it, “You can ask about that one.”

Jaskier hesitates. “Actually, I don’t know this one.”

Jaskier doesn’t usually hesitate and he’s never admitted that he doesn’t know what scarred Geralt, only taken wrong guesses. Geralt’s on the verge of ignoring the whole thing and just going to sleep but something, guilt maybe, pushes him to say, “A princess.”

“Ciri gave that to you?” Jaskier gasps, sounding scandalized.

Geralt sits up entirely, pushing Jaskier off his lap. Jaskier makes an affronted noise but Geralt just ignores him as he settles against the headboard. He reaches over and pulls Jaskier back into his lap, seats him between his spread thighs, the bard’s back to his front.

“Not Ciri,” he grunts.

“Who then?” Jaskier asks. He picks up one of Geralt’s hands and runs his thumb soothingly over it. “How many other princesses do we know?”

“You never met her. She died before we met.”

He tells him about Renfri, about her being born under a black sun and how that had, according to Stregobor, given her internal mutations meant to help usher in a new age of Lilit. He talks about how Stregobor had all but killed the girls he believed to be one of the sixty women, performing autopsies on them afterward to confirm his previously unsubstantiated theories, about how Renfri had escaped and sworn revenge on him. He speaks of Stregobor trying to hire him to kill her and how she had tried to get him to tell her where he was hiding and how he had turned down both of them, how he had tried to talk her into leaving Stregobor alone but she had gone back, how he had returned to face her, fearing for the lives of the townspeople. He tells him about their fight and how she died with the prophecy about Ciri’s destiny intertwined with his on her lips.

“Stregobor wanted to take her body,” he finishes. He’s talked more in the last thirty minutes than he has in a very long time and it’s beginning to take a toll on his voice. “He wanted to defile her corpse so he could prove he was right and when I tried to stop him, he turned the people’s fear against me to make them think she used her mutation to sway me to her side.”

“He gave you that name,” Jaskier finishes quietly, more subdued than usual. Geralt doesn’t have to ask him which name. He already knows. “Did she use her mutation on you?”

Geralt doubts it. He probably wouldn’t have killed her if she had. But there’s no way of knowing for sure. “Renfri just wanted her life back,” he says finally. “She didn’t want to be hunted. She wanted her happy childhood and the love of her father and to not have to fear the wizard every time she turned around.”

Jaskier nods to himself. “She wanted justice.”

And Geralt can’t think of anything more to add on to that besides, “Hmm.”

~

Jaskier’s quiet over the next couple of days, which is unusual enough that Geralt asks him if he’s feeling okay. And that apparently is out of character enough for Geralt that Jaskier turns it back on him by asking if he’s feeling okay and eventually Geralt gets irritated enough that he shuts the conversation down with a very eloquent, “Shut up.”

To his surprise, Jaskier does shut up and Geralt would ask again if everything’s okay but he doesn’t want to start up that conversation again. 

He knows that Jaskier is working on a song. He keeps scribbling in that notebook of his and strumming chords on his lute but he never sings along so Geralt has no idea what the new song is about.

It’s not until the next inn they’re at—where Jaskier is asked to perform just about every witcher song in his repertoire—that he gets to hear any part of it. Jaskier is finishing up the song about the first time Geralt fought a Drowner, making every inch of Geralt regret that he’d ever told Jaskier that tale. Jaskier finishes with a flourish, takes a long drink from one of the mugs a patron shoves into his hand—

And then Jaskier, atop his table, yells, “I have a new song for you! Do you want to hear it?”

The tavern roars its approval.

“This one,” Jaskier begins, lowering to a hush. Even Geralt can’t quite stop himself from leaning in slightly with the rest of the crowd. Jaskier’s face is flushed and his eyes are bright. He’s in his element and Geralt loves him like this. “This one is about the Butcher of Blaviken.”

Geralt’s heart skips a beat. Surely—no—Jaskier wouldn’t do this to him, not after knowing how much that name hurt him.

Jaskier turns to him, something in his face softening. “The Butcher of Blaviken,” he continues, “and the Black Sun Princess.”

Startled, Geralt quirks his head. Jaskier smiles at him and nods encouragingly. Then he plays a chord on his lute and begins to sing—about a girl whose life was brutally snatched from her, about a girl who had to fight to survive, about a girl who knew that no matter what she did she would always be seen as a monster so she sought justice from the sorcerer who made her that way.

And the tavern cries.

And he sings about how she came across the witcher, who only wanted for her to find happiness, who turned away the sorcerer who wanted him to kill her, who faced her when she threatened the townspeople and all he wanted to do was take her away from that place.

And the tavern weeps.

And he tells them about how bravely she fought but how she was no match for the witcher, about how the witcher stood guard over her body as the sorcerer tried to defile her and when the sorcerer realized he wouldn’t get his way, he called the witcher, who had fought to protect a child, a murderer. And as he finishes, he looks directly at Geralt and asks them to tell him who was the real butcher that day: the girl who wanted her life back, the witcher who tried to protect the town, or the sorcerer who destroyed two lives?

And Geralt bows his head and allows himself to cry.

~

They don’t hear anything more about it for another month. They’re heading north for the winter, north to Kaer Morhen and to Ciri. They stop in an inn for the night. Jaskier is recovering from a head cold and refuses the innkeeper’s request to play. Geralt pays him with what little coin they have left. He would have made them sleep on the ground that night but Jaskier still looks too pale for him to feel comfortable making them sleep outside.

There’s a couple old farmers sitting beside them and it’s from them that Geralt overhears, “That’s right, heard they caught up to him only a few miles outside of Blaviken. Tore him to pieces, they did.”

“Serves him right,” the other one snorts. “Running to his ivory tower?”

“Aye. Shouldn’t have left it in the first place.”

Geralt exchanges a slightly confused glance with Jaskier, who turns to the farmers and asks, “Hope you don’t mind me cutting in. Who was torn to pieces?”

“That wizard from the ballad, Stregobor,” the first one says easily.

“Torn to pieces?” Geralt clarifies even as Jaskier asks, “From the ballad?”

“Aye, the one that bard sings about the black sun princess.”

For the first time, Jaskier doesn’t take credit as that bard. Instead, he leans back in his chair and beams at Geralt until he reluctantly smiles back.

~

“I think I would have liked Renfri,” Jaskier says a couple days later. He’s completely recovered by now, has his lungs and voice back to sing and complain loudly about the quality of their sleeping arrangements.

“She wouldn’t have liked you,” Geralt returns but there’s no heat to it. There never is anymore. “Would have told you to shut up.”

“Yes, well,” Jaskier says and the slightest blush dusts his cheeks, “all the best muses do.”

[sorrelchestnut]

from the discard pile: Geralt, Emhyr, Yennefer

This was from what was supposed to be a long plotty story called “Strange Bedfellows,” which I finally admitted I’m not ever actually going to do anything with.  So instead here’s the emotional core I actually cared enough to write, which is essentially the follow-up to Geralt and Emhyr’s conversation at Stygga, which the game kinda... skimmed over.  The context, as much as it needs any, is that they’re in Nilfgaard for Ciri’s wedding, and in the previous scene Geralt and Yennefer saved Emhyr from an assassin at a banquet.

"Can I ask you something?"

"I'm sure I won't be able to stop you," Emhyr said, very dry.

Geralt briefly considered whether or bringing this up while Emhyr was trapped in bed was entirely fair.  Then he decided he didn't give a shit, and asked anyway.  "Why did you change your mind, back at Stygga?"

Emhyr was silent for a long time.  So long, that Geralt gave up on looking politely out of the window and twisted around to face him, curious what emotion had caught hold of his tongue.  Whatever it was, it wasn't visible, not even to Geralt's heightened vision.  His face was pale, but that was just as likely to be the blood loss; his jaw was set, but that could be anything from lingering pain to irritation at Geralt's effrontery.  Geralt was pretty good at reading people, after all these years, but he'd never been able to read Emhyr worth a damn.

"I suppose you'd like me to say that it was your blandishments that swayed me," Emhyr said, after a time.

Geralt snorted.  Figures he'd try a run-around.  "What I'd like is for you to tell me the truth."

"The truth is complicated, witcher.  Surely you've learned that much, if nothing else."

"I learned it years before the crown first touched your father's head," Geralt said evenly.  "That doesn't mean I don't have a right to ask for it."

"No, I suppose not," Emhyr said, glancing wryly at his leg.  "Very well then, if truth you would have of me, then truth you shall receive.  Your speech was not without impact; I won't deny you that.  'If the world is to be saved like that, it would be better for it to perish.'  Yes, I remember the words exactly," he added, to Geralt's no-doubt-surprised expression.  "There is very little I have forgotten about that day, our conversation least of all.  But that wasn't what changed my mind."

"Yennefer," Geralt said softly.  He'd suspected as much for years, but it was Emhyr's very unwillingness to say it aloud that confirmed his pet theory.  "It was Yennefer."

Emhyr's jaw worked, in temper or self-loathing Geralt couldn't tell, but one thing he'd never been was a coward, and after a moment he nodded.  "Yes."

Emhyr wasn't the only one who remembered that day.  Geralt could still hear Yennefer's words as if she spoke right into his ear.  Please, as far as possible, don't harm my daughter.  I wouldn't want to die with the thought that she's crying.

"You couldn't bring yourself to hurt Ciri," Geralt said.  "Could you?  Not even for the fate of the world.  No matter what you said."

"No," Emhyr said.  His voice was harsh.  "I knew it when I saw her, I think, but your lady's words were nonetheless… impactful, on that front.  Perhaps I would have understood sooner, had I thought there was a limit to my barbarity.  For I am of course a monster, far worse than any you were raised to slay, but even I…  I note you show no signs of leaping to convince me otherwise," he added, with something not unlike amusement.

"What, you want me to lie to you now?  You know what you are.  What you've done."

Emhyr nodded far more readily.  "Oh, yes.  And whatever you think me capable of, witcher, I can assure you I've done far worse.  And yet in that moment I knew that this one thing, this final monstrosity in a long line of them, was the one I couldn't bring myself to accomplish."  He shrugged, as if the memory didn't pain him, but Geralt saw faint lines of strain at the corner of his mouth.  "So I didn't."

"Just like that."  Geralt knew he sounded skeptical, but he couldn't quite help himself.  "Fifteen years you spent, working towards this exact end, and then just- never mind?"

"What do you want me to say?"  Emhyr spread his hands.  "I couldn't bring myself to do it; therefore, it couldn't be done.  And if it couldn't be done, then the prophecy that demanded it must have been false."

"Vilgefortz," Geralt said, still bitter all these years later.  "You trusted a prophecy given to you by Vilgefortz."

Emhyr shrugged again.  "He had, until then, been a very useful ally."

"Because he wanted to kill Ciri," Geralt said.  "After impregnating her, aborting the fetus, and taking the blood, as many times as it took to drain her power.  He wanted to make himself into a living god.  That was who you trusted?"

"I don't trust anyone," Emhyr said.  "And he was not the only one to espouse that particular interpretation of Ithlinne's Prophecy.  It was only after Cirilla's disappearance that I was able to lay hands on an older version of the text, one uncorrupted by imperfect translations.  Had I located it earlier, things might have been different."

"Yeah," Geralt said tiredly.  He knew that feeling, all too well.  "Gotta admit: really fucking wish you had."

"On that point, witcher, you and I can readily agree."

Geralt sighed and looked out the window again.  Why is it always towers, he wondered.  Thanedd, Stygga, Tor Gvalch'ca - even Tesham Mutna was a tower, once upon a time.  Just once, it'd be nice to have my world turned upside down in a nice sunny meadow or maybe an orchard.  Just for a change of pace.

Then again, Ciri had left him by the side of the road, and that had been the worst day of his life.  Maybe he should be careful what he wished for.

"May I ask you a question in return?"

Geralt turned back with a quirk of his eyebrow.  "It's not like you to ask permission."

Emhyr gestured wryly to his leg.  "The alternative seems discourteous, considering."

"Not like you to care about that, either."  But it turned out his curiosity was stronger than his desire to get the last word, so he flicked his fingers in absent permission.  "Sure.  Hit me."

And because Emhyr had never held back in his life, he didn't hesitate but immediately said, "Do you ever regret saving me, when Calanthe bid you to strike?"

"No."

Emhyr's pause was fractional, but it was long enough to know that Geralt had actually surprised him.  "That was definite."

"What's the point of regretting something when neither of us really had a choice?  All the shit you did, everything that happened because of that - it happened because it needed to happen.  Don't fool yourself, Duny.  It was all destiny.  Not just the parts that made it into the ballads."

A muscle in Emhyr's jaw flexed - yeah, didn't like that, did he, the thought he wasn't the supreme agent in his own life.  Good.  Let him get a taste of what the rest of the mortals felt.

"And is that the only reason?"

This time Geralt was the one holding silent, struggling with his response.  Not because he didn't know the answer, but because he did, and it might not be the one Emhyr wanted to hear.  And while he liked to tweak the tiger's tail as much as the next guy - okay, way more than the next guy - he had a feeling that if he got this one wrong, he was losing a lot more than just the emperor's forbearance of his usual disrespect.

Well, no other way but through, as Vesemir liked to say.  It wasn't like Emhyr wouldn't be able to tell if he was lying even if he did want to try it.  Might as well be honest and hope for the best.

"Ciri," he said.  "Without you, there never would've been her."

"Not, strictly speaking, true," Emhyr countered swiftly.  Not an unexpected answer, then.  Which wasn't the same as welcome.  "Pavetta was already pregnant.  That was, after all, the nature of your claim."

Geralt made a gesture, wiping away that argument.  "She would have existed, true.  Who knows, maybe she still would have ended up on your throne.  But she wouldn't have been Ciri.  She wouldn't have been the Witcher Girl."

"Are you so certain?" Emhyr inquired.  "As you say, destiny is a powerful thing.  And a river, denied its intended course, will jump its banks and carve a new one through unweathered ground.  How can you be so sure she would not have been promised to you regardless?"

Geralt snorted.  "You think Calanthe would have opened herself up to the Law of Surprise?  After watching you make a claim on her daughter?  No.  And I wouldn't have thought to ask, either - only did because you kept insisting, and that only happens for one reason."

Emhyr made a thoughtful little mhm noise.  "And so, for your intervention, destiny bound us together in that moment in time, so that it might create a savior of a very particular shape.  A witcher girl, a learned sorceress, a killer with a will of steel.  The child of the Elder Blood that would face the White Frost and save us all from extinction."

"Well, that's what the prophecy said, anyway," Geralt said.  "I never gave a shit about any of that.  All I cared about is that for a little while, she was mine."

After a long moment, Emhyr said, "You must hate me very  much."

Geralt didn't pretend to misunderstand.  It would have been easy: he had a lot of reasons to hate the Emperor of Nilfgaard, and every single one of them was earned.  But Geralt had never been one to take the easy path, so instead he said, "You know, back then - before Thanedd, I mean - everyone from Triss to fucking Djikstra was always so eager to tell me that I couldn't hold onto her, that she didn't belong with me.  Even Vesemir.  Even Yen.  But you know what's funny?  I never thought otherwise.  Crossed half the world to find her, but it wasn't because I thought I could keep her.  Only ever wanted to keep her safe."

"Interesting," Emhyr murmured.  His gaze lingered on Geralt's face, missing nothing.  "I was certain you blamed me for taking her away."

"Guess you had to be wrong about something," Geralt muttered, and rubbed a hand over his face.  "No, I always knew she was meant for bigger things.  Okay, so I didn't guess this," and he waved a hand toward the window, meaning the city, the realm, the bloody continent now held in the palm of Ciri's sword-calloused hand.  "But something more than slaughtering drowners at ten crowns a head.  And even if I did - what'd be the point blaming you, anyway?  It was Ciri's choice.  Think I'm going to be mad at her for trying to make the world better?"

"Interesting," Emhyr said again.  It was impossible to read his expression, but that didn't stop Geralt from trying.  "I underestimated you, it seems.  Again.  Not a condition I suffer often, and yet it's become very nearly a habit where you are concerned."

Geralt snorted.  "I wouldn't worry about it.  Doubt you'll have much opportunity in the future."

"Do you think?"  The effort of the conversation seemed to be tiring Emhyr out; even his hawkish gaze was beginning to blur.  "And yet here you sit, witcher.  And here I lie, when by all rights I should be dead.  I'm not so certain that we are done, you and I.  Destiny might have something in store for us yet."

                                         * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Emhyr fell asleep soon after, which Geralt figured was just as well; he needed a little silence in his head.  He didn't want to think about what Emhyr had said.  What was the point?  If he was right, fate would reveal her fickle hand sooner or later; nothing mere mortals could do to hurry it along.  You could go mad, trying to live your life like that.  And in the end it didn't matter - you'd do the right thing, or you wouldn't, and you could never know which was which, not really.  The best you could do was make the choices in front of you, and try not to let yourself regret.

It was about two hours later when he heard someone approaching down the hall.  Geralt roused himself from his light meditation and tracked the footsteps - one set of heels clicking against the marble and one set of soft leather slippers, designed to be nearly inaudible to human ears - until they reached the door.  It opened silently on oiled hinges, followed by the whisper of fabric and displaced air from a bow.

"Thank you, Mererid.  That will be all."

"Of course, my lady."

The door closed once more.  Footsteps tapped closer - quieter now, making an effort.  A gloved hand rested on his shoulder, delicate yet firm.  Geralt inhaled the familiar smell of lilac and gooseberries and relaxed for the first time since he saw light flash on the assassin's blade.

"How is he?" Yennefer asked, keeping her voice low.

"Better.  Sleeping.  He was up for a while earlier, though.  Didn't seem addled-"  Massive understatement.  "Just tired.  Probably good as new in a day or two."  He picked up her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist, right where her cuff and glove left a gap.  The steady throb of her pulse under his lips leeched away a little more of the day's poison.  "What about Ciri?"

"Cloistered with Rousarde, Vattier, and about a dozen imperial accountants.  One of Vattier's men managed to track down the account used to make the payment, and they're currently following the thread through a series of shell companies at Central Banking.  Rousarde assures me it's only a matter of time until they find the source of the money."

"Must have a lot of it, whoever they are," Geralt said.  "Killing an emperor can't be cheap."

"If you combined all of the contracts you've ever completed in the entirety of your years on the Path, you might approach the payment that young man would have enjoyed had you not intervened."  Yen laid her palm against his cheek, stroking the hinge of his jaw with her fingers. Her gaze was very warm, though her glove was as cool as ever.  "You did very well, you know.  I didn't get a chance to say as much earlier."

"Wasn't the only one.  Potions wouldn't have done shit if you hadn't held him steady long enough for them to work."

Yen inclined her head in acknowledgement.  "Consider the practice I've had in that arena.  I could almost thank Avall'ach for getting himself cursed."

"Wouldn't if I were you."

"No, probably not the done thing."

They shared an exhausted smile, and then Geralt decided she was still entirely too far away and tugged at her wrist.  She gave him an unamused look, but acceded to his silent plea and stepped over the footstool to climb gracefully into his lap.  He held still, allowing her to arrange their limbs to her satisfaction, and then buried his nose into the silken fall of her hair and inhaled gratefully.

"You should get some sleep," she said, after a few minutes had passed.

Geralt didn't bother responding.

 "I know you must be very tired."

"Ciri said guard," Geralt said, and left the remainder unspoken, too obvious to need words: so I guard.

Yen's shoulders rose and fell in a sigh.  "You're going to sit here until Ciri comes to tell you otherwise, aren't you?"

Geralt didn't bother responding to that either.

Her head shifted on his shoulder, and he knew she'd turned to regard the bed, or more precisely its occupant.  "He looks quite peaceful like that, doesn't he?"

Geralt only barely held back a snort, which was sure to wake Emhyr as their quiet voices hadn't.  Not a lot of people laughing around the emperor.  "It's a trick."

"Yes, of course, but it's quite a good one."  She was playing with laces of his doublet, winding the string about her fingers and then unwinding it the opposite direction.  It made a tiny shushing noise, a fractional rasp of fabric against skin, that was oddly soothing. "He was awake earlier, you said?"

"Yeah."

"Did he say anything?"

"Oh, yeah."

He felt her frown against the side of his throat.  "It went that poorly, then?"

"Yeah- well, no.  I guess.  Hard to tell, with him."

"Of that, I am entirely too aware."  Shh, shh, went the laces.  Yen rubbed her thumb thoughtfully against the little v of skin below his collarbone.  Nilfgaardian fashion favored closed collars, but he'd had a rough day.  "What does he want from us, Geralt?  Really."

"You mean, besides saving his life?"

She let out an impatient huff of air.  "Yes, aside from that."

"I think... I think he wants absolution," Geralt said slowly, puzzling it out even as he spoke.  "Or- he wants to want absolution, and he's hoping like hell that's close enough to count."

"But why us?" Yen said, with a plaintive cast Geralt heard only very rarely.  "Surely Ciri-"

Geralt sighed.  "He loves Ciri more than any other person alive," he told her, too tired to be anything but honest.  "And I'm pretty sure he knows he doesn't deserve her."  He tucked her head a little more firmly under his chin.  "Would you be honest, if you were in his shoes?"

There was a brief, sullen silence.  "No," Yen said, finally.  "I don't even like it with you."

That was at least halfway a lie, and anyway, Yen didn't think she deserved him, either.  (She didn't think he knew that, but he wasn't an idiot.  He totally knew.)  Before, he hadn't been in any kind of hurry to disillusion her in case she noticed it went the other way around; these days, he was finally starting to figure out that they just about deserved each other.  Yen wasn't there yet, but that was okay.  They had time.

[songofseraphine]

My Neck of the Woods

Part Three of The Song of Seraphine

Warnings: Adult themes and cursing. Mentions of assault.

A/N:  Hello there and thank you again for reading.  Please send me a message if you would like to be added to a tag list also hearts are nice too :)

Part One    Part Two

The fields Seraphine rode through were overgrown and long forgotten.  After leaving her old home for the second time in her life she had camped in the forest nearby.  Now she was just short-cutting it from one village to the next, not really wanting to travel the main roads.  Not that there was anything to be feared on the main roads, by now the news of her (her sister’s) death had reached the mayor.  Not travelling the main roads was just a simple choice, no longer a must. She had allowed herself one night at a village a few over from her own where she washed her clothing and cut her hair. It made her feel somewhat like her old self to have short hair again.  It felt almost like a rebellion, a final act to prove she was not her sister and no longer would pretend to be.  She was Seraphine, Sera for short and that was that.  There would be no more fake names and for the first time in a long time she would be herself.  

     The innkeep at the last village she was at informed her, after she had asked, that the woods just past the fields were full of game.  After her hunt she would continue on to the next village where she would sell the pelt and meat of a stag or maybe even a wolf.  Anything to get a bit of extra coin, other than killing monsters larger than a ghoul.  The wheat she rode through was nearly as tall as she was, even when sitting on top of Vega. AS she continued through the fields she began to pick up on what sounded like some sort of struggle including the sounds of a snarling creature.  “So much for no monsters, right, Vega?” she said as she slowed Vega down to a trot. Even as she sat up straight on the saddle she couldn’t quite see over the wheat so she rode slowly to a hill nearby, hoping to get some kind of better vantage point.  She promised herself as she continued towards the hill that if it was just an animal in the traps of the beasts she would just ride on. But if it was a human she would have to interfere.  

     As she crested the hill she began to catch sight of what was making all of the sound which was a group of neckers.  Then her eyes caught a flash of silver hair and her jaw dropped.  She never thought she would see this man again let alone in the middle of a pack of at least seven neckers.  Sera dismounted from Vega with her bow in hand, quiver strapped to her back and sword attached to her hip.  As she got closer she could see that Geralt was struggling with his attackers. She pulled back on the string of her bow and shot down a necker that was headed for his back.  He plunged his silver sword into another one of the beasts then turned to see who it was that fired the shot.  His dark brows knitted together with recognition and confusion as his gaze settle on her for a fraction of a second. “Seraphine?” he said while focusing back on his targets.  “What are you doing?”

    “What does it look like, Geralt? I’m helping,” she said while shooting down another necker.  She made her way to him and they fought together back to back.  In the past she had avoided these damned creatures at all costs but seeing Geralt in the middle of a hoard of them swayed her.  They continued to multiply, dinging themselves out of the earth around them.  The bow was useless at this point, seeing that there were too many of them. “Dammit,” she said while throwing the bow on her back and unsheathing her sword.

      It seemed like the more they killed the more would dig themselves out of the ground, attracted by the shrieks of their kind.  Sera was beginning to feel fatigued and knew it was becoming obvious to Geralt.  “You need to leave,” he said as he sliced the head off of another necker.

      “Not… without you…” she said between gasps of air.  No sooner had she gotten her sentence out had Geralt let out a sharp whistle, calling for Roach.  Sera turned to look at him with a half glare and half a look of reassurance.  He nodded his head towards the quickly approaching Roach and she let out a defeated curse.  “Fuck,” she said then slashed her way through a group of the snarling beasts. She was almost to Roach when a necker jumped on her back, digging its long claws into her shoulders.  She let out a cry and fell to her knees while attempting to shake the beast off of her.  Its’ growls in protest were deafening, making it harder for her to concentrate.

      She heard Geralt curse in the distance just as she was beginning to lose consciousness. She felt the weight of the necker leave her back and then just as she was slipping into the darkness, felt the weight of her body leave the ground.

 Everything was warm.  Seraphine felt warmth and her immediate thought was that she was dead… she had to be.  It had been a long time since she had felt this content.  She cracked her eyes open and saw that she was no longer in the overgrown fields.  Instead, she found that she was in an inn, and a rather nice one by the looks of it. She could hear the crackling of a fire in the hearth, which was the cause of the warm glow throughout the room. The luxurious furs that covered her form and how nice the place was in general fed the thought of how she must be dead.  It would have been believable too if her shoulders weren’t screaming in pain.  “I told you to leave,” his rough voice made her nearly jump out of her skin.  

              She turned to her right seeing that Geralt was sitting comfortably at a small table with a book in hands and a small platter of fruits and cheeses placed in front of him.  She let out a grunt and closed her eyes, thinking about the fight in the fields. She had been stupid to get involved but she would never verbally agree with him on that.  She should have just kept riding with Vega if this was the thanks she was going to get.  Her eyes sprung open with a jolt of realization and she sat up despite her shoulders protesting in pain and despite wearing very little clothing underneath the covers.  “Vega!” she said with her wide hazel eyes set on Geralt.  

              He casually set down his book and turned his gaze to her.  “She’s outside with Roach,” he said while setting his book down on the table.  The worry she had for Vega’s well-being left Sera’s mind and was quickly replaced with the worry of her own well-being.  Geralt’s golden eyes peered at her own making her feel rather uncomfortable.  

              “You’re mad,” she said and he tilted his head to one side then she watched as the muscles in his jawline shifted.  “Take that as a yes…” she said while trying to sit up a little more comfortably.  She pulled the covers up to her shoulders, covering the lose binds that were thankfully covering her breasts.  Not that it mattered what he saw considering he was probably the one that undressed her and bandaged her shoulders in the first place.  She was suddenly thankful for already wearing the bindings around her breasts as she always had.  She looked down at her hands, needing a distraction from the judgmental golden eyes still peering at her from across the room.  Small scars covered her hands and arms and she knew that despite the chest binding and the wounds on her shoulders, he had seen the numerous scars that now adorned her once perfect skin.  “I will not apologize for attempting to help you,” she said as he stood and walked over to the side of the bed, handing her a mug filled with water. “I will admit it was foolish, but that doesn’t change anything,” she said before taking a long drink from the mug. She handed it back to him and wiped the excess water from her mouth with the back of her hand.  “How did you get us out of there anyways?  Last thing I remember was almost getting to Roach when one of those damned things jumped on my back.”

              Geralt had taken his spot back in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees. He looked over to her and slowly she could see that his annoyance with her was fading.  “There were only a few left after I took out the one on your back. I knew Roach could get us out. She got a scratch or two but she will be fine,” he said after her face filled with worry.  She averted her gaze, suddenly feeling guiltier knowing Roach had gotten hurt as well.  “Sera, what were you doing out there?”

              Her shoulders shook with a slight, unemotional laugh and her eyes locked onto his.  “I used to live out there… well in a village nearby,” she said plainly.  She could see him processing that information and recalled the promise she had made the last time she saw him.  She owed him an explanation.  

Apparently he could see her mentally struggling with whether or not she should just lay all of her cards on the table.  “Rest,” he said, his gaze resting on hers once again.  He didn’t tell her to rest and when she wakes she owed him her story, no… just rest.  She gave him a nod and allowed herself to relax back into the pillows.  The last thing she saw before sleep overcame her was his form sitting in front of the window, cast over with a warm glow from the hearth, and his yellow eyes watching over her.

 Light was now streaming into the room through the window when Seraphine opened her eyes.  Her joints felt stiff and her back was starting to cramp from being in the same position for too long.  She wondered how long she had been resting in that bed.  She sat up, despite her shoulders stinging with protest, and swung her legs over the side of the bed.  Geralt was nowhere to be found in the room which worried her slightly but she was sure if he left for something serious her would have woken her.   She stood up, her legs shaking like a newborn dear, and looked around the large room.  It was decorated in reds and gold with accents of dark wooden furniture all throughout.  Behind a large scrim in the corner of the room was a wooden bath filled with water. Steam rose from it and despite not knowing if the bath was for her or not she began unbinding her chest then pulled off her trousers.  She dipped her hand into the water and nearly sighed.  It was the perfect temperature for her.  Soon she found herself completely submerged in the hot water, fully encompassing herself in the faint scent of vanilla and patchouli.  She made sure to not let her bandaged shoulders get too wet while she a month’s worth of dirt from her hair.

              She couldn’t remember the last time she had a proper bath, one that wasn’t in a stream and was actually warm, so this was heaven to her.  It was so comforting to her she almost allowed herself to slip back to sleep.  “Nice to see you’re enjoying yourself,” Geralt’s rough voice pulled her out of whatever sense of relaxation she had.  She covered her chest with her arms and turned to glare at him.

              “Dammit, Geralt.  You scared me.  You can’t just sneak up on people like that,” she said, now turning away from where he stood near the scrim.  

              “Should change your bandages and clean the wounds,” he said and she could have sworn his voice was getting closer.   When she looked back at him she noticed he indeed was closer and he was handing a towel out to her, without looking directly at her.  Sera sighed and snatched the towel from him and he turned away from her before she started getting out of the warm bath.  She wrapped the towel around her body and walked past him and to the bed, her hair still dripping.

              She sat down when she heard him approach and felt the bed sink where he sat just beside her.  She moved her short, wet hair out of his way and held the towel up around her torso with her free hand.  “I’m sorry if that was supposed to be your bath,” she said, he only let out a short hum in response.  She jumped slightly at his touch on her shoulder and braced herself for the feeling of the bandages being peeled from her wounds.  “Thank you,” she said, her voice just above a whisper.

              “For?” he asked while peeling away the rest of the bandage.

              She almost laughed.  “A lot I suppose,” she said and swore she heard him laugh.  “If it wasn’t the neckers to kill me it would have been those men.”

              He said nothing, only pat a damp cloth over her wounds earning a hiss from her. “No infection, that’s good,” he said then started to pack on a salve.  “You heal very nicely, better than most I know.”

              “Should I take that pride in that?” she asked with a smile.  He said nothing, only another low hum followed by silence.  It was always something that bothered Sera.  “I promised you an explanation last time we saw one another,” she said while he began to apply new bandages.

              “I don’t need one,” he said.  She tried to look at him but he put a hand gently on her chin and turned her head back away from him.  

              “I want to,” she said.  “I’ve never really had the opportunity to explain myself.”  She figured he would refuse instead she was met with another hum. She took it as a sign for her to continue.  “They say I have killed a man.  That I am a thief and a murderer,” she began then took a deep breath.  “I’ve never killed another human… never wanted to other than one, I just never had the chance.  I’ve stolen but nothing of high importance or value.  Only bread or an apple when I didn’t have the money to buy them.”

              Geralt tied off her bandages a bit too tight causing Sera to jump and let out a small whimper.  “Sorry,” he said.  She shook her head then stood from the bed.  “If you’re not guilty of those crimes then why do they believe you are?”

              Sera walked over to the scrim where a changing robe was hung and disappeared behind it before dropped the towel and pulled the robe over her body. “It’s a very long story,” she said as a warning.  He only nodded.  Sera walked over to the table where a jug of wine, a jug of water and a plate of fruit sat. She poured them each a mug of wine and continued her story as she walked back over to the bed.  “The village I was from had this mayor,” she began then handed him his mug of wine as she sat back down on the bed beside him.  “He was a vile, disgusting example of a man.”  Sera took a long drink from her mug of wine and looked at Geralt who was looking down at the mug in his own hands.  “I have a twin sister,” she said making Geralt look at her, she continued.  “He became obsessed with Faline.  At first, when our father was still alive, he was a kind man.  She still had no interest seeing that we were both still rather young at the time.  Fourteen, I believe.  After our father passed, he became more… aggressive with his behavior towards her. He would stop her when she went to the market alone and he would attempt to follow her home, claiming she shouldn’t travel alone even though we always had,” she said then paused, remembering the day she came home from hunting to see the door to their home standing wide open. “Then one day… I came back home from hunting with Will,” she said.  Geralt didn’t question who will was, he let her continue.  “The door to my home was open and Faye wasn’t in the garden to welcome us home as she normally was.  I knew something was wrong so I went running into the house despite Will’s protests. The mayor had come for a visit, knowing she would be alone while I was off hunting with Will.  He came into our house asking for her to marry him and she lied. She told him she belonged to another, the blacksmith’s son.  It was believable, everyone knew that Tomas admired and adored Faye.  He didn’t like that at all.  He beat her… raped her… and said that she would belong to him forever. He swore that no one would every change that, not Tomas, not her sister, no one.  Then he left,” she said.  There was little to no emotion in her voice as she relived the moments of discovering her sister beaten and bloody on the kitchen floor.

              “What did you do?” he asked, pulling her from her thoughts.

              Sera shook her head and took another drink of her wine.  “I stopped hunting with Will and stayed at home just in case he returned.  When he did I had Faye hide, not knowing what he would try to do to her.  I didn’t expect him to think I was her, but then again maybe that was my idea unintentionally.  It was the first time in a long time that I wore skirts instead of trousers and my hair was braided just as she kept hers.  I went along with it,” she said and Geralt looked at her with dark furrowed brows.  “My immediate thought after he mistook me for her was that if I could get close enough to him… I could kill him.  And I did try.  I got him a few times with a knife we used to cut potatoes.  He left bleeding, swearing that I’d… Faye… would die for what I’d done. He swore that he would be back with more men.”

              They were quiet then and other than the faint crackling from the hearth, there was silence.  She watched his features change when realization hit him.  “You took on your sister’s name and fled,” he said and she nodded.  “The mayor just believed that?  He didn’t threaten that he’d kill you if he didn’t have your sister?”

              Sera stood from the bed and sighed.  She crossed her arms over her chest and looked at the hearth.  “Before I left I had Will promise me that he would take care of Faye and that he would protect her.  Knowing he would do anything for me, I asked him to continue living his life as if she were me.  I asked Faye to do the same and then I left.”  The flames of the small fire licked the air above it and when Sera threw another log into the hearth a thousand little sparks flew out.  “They have two kids now,” she said with a sniffle. “I know I told them to live but I didn’t expect my sister and my…” she stopped and quickly wiped her eyes before turning back to Geralt.  “Anyways, the mayor promised he would find me… Faye… so I have been running ever since.”

              He let out a famous hum that made Sera role her eyes.  “Now that you… your sister… is presumed dead, what will you do?” he asked making her gaze settle on his.

              “Well it’s not like I could go back home and stay there, picking up where I left off.  It’s been four years.  They have a life of their own now, I can’t show up and destroy that,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders.  He still looked at her waiting for an answer.  “I’ll most likely put some distance between me and my home and travel more.  Do some jobs here and there, sell my game, to earn a little coin and try to enjoy not having to look behind my back every second.”

              “That’s not really living,” he said, getting a laugh out of her.

              “Is it not, Witcher?”  After all that is what you do.  Instead of monsters I’ll just be hinting deer and wolves,” she said as he smirked.  She smiled and let out a yawn, stretching her sore arms above her head.  

              “You should get some more rest,” he said and she didn’t complain.  He got up from the bed and she sank down in the warm covers, her eyelids already feeling heavy.  

              “Thank you,” she murmured as she sunk deeper into the warm bed.

              “For?” he asked.

              She hummed this time.  “Everything,” she said then closed her eyes completely.  Geralt watched as she quickly fell to sleep and shook his head. His eyes caught sight of the still steaming bath and he shrugged his shoulders.  There was no reason he shouldn’t also get to enjoy a nice warm bath.

[trulycertain]

Thoughts on the Netflix Witcher:

Not many people are tossing a coin to their Witcher, are they? Geralt still has to buy his own drinks, it seems.

Jaskier’s lyrics need, er, work, but Joey Batey has a lovely voice. 

Love the wardrobe design, Yen’s in particular. It’s distinctive, not always “pretty” in that it sometimes feels like medieval experimental haute couture, and combines sexuality with hard lines. It feels very her.

I love Freya Allan’s Ciri. Allan’s a really good actress, in my opinion, with a really hard arc to carry, and also apparently show!Ciri has the same effect as games!Ciri - that of me turning into Geralt and muttering “must protect” a lot and wanting to stab anyone who tries to hurt her. Her eyes are very cool.

I think it's interesting that in the books, Yen is clearly based off Polish archetypes and the wild raven curls are part of that; in both the games and the show, it's played down. (Not least because I've seen her in other stuff and Chalotra naturally has pretty poker-straight hair, so curling that for any length of time without the curls falling out, even with a ton of product, would be a pain.) 

My one issue is that I still think she looks a bit young and I would've been perfectly happy to chuck out the whole "sorceresses enchant themselves to look early twenties forever" thing, but actually... I also kind of really like the "soft-faced, soft-voiced enchantress is actually hard as nails" idea. It lets her presence speak for itself, which Chalotra does very well, and means people tend to underestimate Yen, which is also handy. I mean... I will always be frustrated by “somehow, conveniently, they look like a 22-year-old actress and a 35-or-so leading man”, but Chalotra’s work itself is good. It's different from the Yen in my head, but I like her performance and interpretation.

I like Triss, and I like seeing her here. I hope they’ll go more into their friendship. It’s been rocky at times, but I found it quite annoying how the games treated all that, as opposed to the books. This is one of those things where I’m really glad it’s adapting the books in particular.

Critical stuff, written in December, with warnings for discussions of consent and stuff:

The Last Wish is the short story where Geralt and Yen meet, with the capture of the djinn. I read it once, coming up for four years ago? now, so I'm really muzzy on memories and it might well have been like that originally. Now, knowing Sapkowski, who does pull this shit, it probably was. (I love his female characters as characters. It’s just that often, his gender worldbuilding bothers me. The two shouldn’t be different, but they often are.)

All right, so the sexual dynamics going on are... uncomfortable, and perhaps you get a bit inured to it in the books because there's just so much uncomfortable stuff, but it stands out a bit more starkly in the show, which has been better for it. (I do not like rapey canons. At all. I have no idea how I got into the Witcher; really liking the female mains and liking Slavic mythology? And the fact that the games and show were pretty good with how they treated it as part of someone's story rather than a "haha, look, so titillating" on-screen scene? And certainly, Calanthe and her people killing themselves to avoid enslavement, torture and rape is depressingly historically accurate. Anyway.) 

Things I'm bothered by:

The implication that the orgy is basically sex pollen/a possible humiliation tactic, rather than her manouvering her way into circles with everyone's embarrassing secret being "we like to willingly fuck the whole village," which would also have been political humiliation. I mean, you can make a point that she's had a background of being sexually and romantically manipulated most of her adult life - look at the Istredd thing, for a start, with the rectors - and is just shrug about it all, but. It's different from Stregobor's  illusion because these are real people. They all look like they've just come out of a trance and scrabble panickedly for clothes and their reputations, they look like didn't know quite where they were, and spells for that kind of thing had been established an ep or two earlier in the series.

So the first time Geralt and Yen meet, we've got non-con sex played for laughs, or at least played off as "yeah, she does that, don't worry about it" (which is fed into by Geralt's later enchantment, which I actually don't mind, humiliating him and then sending him to hang because he's in the way is somehow less objectionable to me? Maybe because i just hate non-con storylines that much, or maybe because it's less of a direct attack). And then when they meet, you've got: strong-arming him into a bath (sure, he says yes and I guess you can say he figured there'd be sex, but he seems surprised about it all), getting naked in front of him when he's already in a position where it'd be difficult/awkward to leave, the first kiss which has a pretext but was very specifically a kiss and which again, he's kind of too taken-aback/assessing to reciprocate... I mean, if all this sounds kind of OK, swap the genders; heck, even watching it at the time, some of it was pinging me as "hey, this sounds too much like rl things that have happened". 

Now, one can say, "Well, he stuck around, didn't he?" - hmm, OK, but you've got the trickier things of magical intimidation at play (even before the enchantment, he knows he's dealing with a powerful sorceress who fucks with people's heads) and just "eh, I guess I'll go with the flow" that can kind of characterise Geralt. And even Witchers freeze. And you can say, "Well, she could probably tell he was attracted to her, with magical mojo if not just through observation." Aye, but dude was kinda busy and on-duty and clearly mistrustful of her, so he would probably never have acted on it - and didn't, because of all those factors. The later thank-god-we're-alive/angry sex when they actually get it together? Totally fine with that, that seems about par for the course with those two.

I also feel like the fact that Geralt, who I fondly say is the biggest horndog in Temeria a lot of the time and will rarely turn down a bit of afternoon delight, doesn't make a move and stays questioning her, albeit amusedly, says a lot about where their relationship is at that point and the fact he's still trying to figure her out. (Not that that implies he's not interested; quite the opposite, mistrustful boffing is kind of a thing he does at times, and heck, look at Renfri.) And on Yen's part, it's definitely more of a power play than needing to save bathwater (I mean, she's pretty rich). 

Now, as said, the original story was prob at least a bit like this, because Sapkowski *eyeroll*, but considering the amount they changed (Istredd's entire backstory! A whole bunch of Yen’s! Yennefer's transformation! A bunch of other things), they could've probably adjusted this and/or at least put a different lens on it in the script. It's also frustrating because a lot of people I've seen make this argument are using it for "Yen is such a bitch, Geralt deserves better, I hate her." I'm not interested in char-bashing.  No, I love games!Yen (one of my favourite characters in... anything) and what of books!Yen I've read, and I really enjoy Chalotra's version... aside from these scenes. 

And aye, one can say that Geralt/Yen is about two people who've been shaped by a truly awful world learning to be better and of course they have their flaws (uh, completely ignoring consent is a pretty darn large one), but it's definitely played as intriguing/romantic/casual mischief. 

Update, as of January, when I went back to it:

I literally love every single other scene with her. Hmm. Also, I’ve spoken to a couple of people about this, and neither one of them had it ping to them as coercion. Perhaps I’m just overthinking things or not being good at romance storylines again.  Just... not sure, I guess. Nothing else bothered me. Is this my books knowledge being wonky? Am I being daft? If anyone else has thoughts, I’d be glad to hear them.

[corancoranthemagicalman]

So @sigrunsavestheday​ tagged me for this game during my great Laptop Absence and it’s since been saved in my draft as I’ve slowly tried catching up to things amidst balancing graduation upcoming. Having been tagged by @darkshrimpemotions​ too, I figured that was the perfect excuse to kick my rear in gear, update the list, and actually post it. :)

The first lines from your last 20 works and see if you spot any patterns!! :) I don’t really know who to tag, but here’s my works listed below the read more.

I’ve noticed that I start with either dialogues or “the” statements a lot. I play with tense and perspectives a lot between all of these (especially the more recent pieces), but you can definitely tell the more present tenses are my shorter works. Typically. Or definitely ones I was getting experimental with. Again, thanks to you both for the tag, and if anyone wants to do this, please tag me as your tagger ;))

1. Will You Take Me Away (Will You Make Me Your Wife): T+ SPN 789 words

The gulls are crying out in the fresh morning, and from where Cas’ stands he can see Kelly keeping a sentinel watch over the water. Her ankles are buried in the surf as the ocean kisses her skin with mist. It’s peaceful, really. The way her hair is swept in the breeze, and she seems like a painting. Motion paused; life still.

Cas peers through the yellow curtains one more time, just to watch Sam chase Jack across the open field that makes up the front yard. Its grass bleeds into the surf where Kelly stands. He can’t see her face, but Cas imagines that she is smiling. Her son—so full of good—young and carefree in a kind world. A paradise.

2. de·noue·ment: T+ SPN 1k words

The Old God was a writer.

He sat at his desk, scribbling away on a page. Or he typed away at keys. He crafted and drafted words— worlds . Creation came to life beneath his fingertips. After the world was created, and filled with his characters, he continued to write. Continued to fill out the page, writing a masterpiece that would culminate into the tale of two brothers.

3. Another Word For Divine: T+ SPN 2.9k words

“What’s all this, then?” Mary asked as she walked into the Bunker’s kitchen on a Sunday morning.

Jack smiled, beaming a sunny disposition as he turned away from the stovetop he was monitoring. “Hi! Sam said I could help with breakfast. I’m watching the bacon.”

Mary let out a breathy chuckle. Despite him looking so much older, Jack was still just a child. In a way, it was the opposite of how she felt seeing Sam and Dean. When she looked at Sam and Dean, it was like she was searching for her babies but could only see men. When she looked at Jack, his blue eyes a mirror of Castiel’s, she tried to see a man. The Devil’s son. But all she could see was a child . The child of her friend. The child of her children.

4. An Invisible Man Sleeping In Your Bed: M SPN 1.5k words

Dean Smith is a simple man. An average man. He orders salads from the cafe down the street. Talks to the other people on his floor when he steps out for his coffee. Has a unicorn laugh that erupts from his office on occasion. He’s sociable, competent, and attractive. There’s only one problem all the single women on the floor have with him.

5. (How Am I Supposed To) Carry On: M SPN 15.9K words

The thing about Florida was that it was hot as balls. The humidity was gross, and Dean could not believe anyone would want to vacation there. Maybe the beaches weren’t so bad, but wendigos didn’t stalk beaches. Sam made some smart sounding comment about silkies to which Cas refuted that silkies were hardly carnivorous and it was the sharks one had to watch out for.

6. Into The Sea Of Waking Dreams: E SPN 5.9k words

Swallowing thickly, Dean traced his fingers over the inscription within the volume that Sam had placed in front of him. His throat felt dry, but his mouth would not salivate. He turned his gaze to Sam, words rasped. “Are you sure?”

7. Modern Methods of Instruction: M SPN 2.7k words

The history of mold and its use for spellwork was an intriguing subject, though hardly relevant to Sam’s current inquiry. Sighing, Sam replaced that particular novel back into its place before retrieving another unearthly arcana book. He flipped through the pages, mentally marking how yellowed they were. Sam wondered if he should begin cataloging the books within the library. Shifting through artifacts was a daunting enough task, but creating a Hunter’s Dewey Decimal System was something more within his wheelhouse.

8. Between The Shadow And The Soul: M SPN 2.3k words

The Righteous Man was touched by angels. Literally and figuratively. Castiel himself had touched the Righteous Man’s soul, bore his grace into him, and stitched his torn soul together. Placed his body back piece by piece with a few added bonuses. Healed the old liver. Twisted the knee back into place. A few pieces here and there that would have no true bearing on his role as the Michael Sword, but which Castiel hoped the Righteous Man would appreciate.

9. You Don't Wanna Be Alone: G SPN 1.7k words

When Dean was four, he watched his mother hold his baby brother to the blooming sunflowers she kept in the backyard. Mom said they were called Sunriches. They were named that because they were like golden suns. Dean thought the sun was golden, but when he tried looking at it, the sun was just a bright, white color. Blinding. Dad said he couldn’t look at the sun without hurting himself, so he stopped trying.

10. I'm Lost And I'm Found: M SPN 1.4k words

The first time Castiel feels hunger, he is standing beside the ocean.

His brother—tall and formidable in his form—watches over the ocean with unblinking eyes.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” His brother sighs wistfully. “The quiet?”

Castiel knows what he means. It has not been so long since Lucifer rebelled against God’s Will. The noise had been terrible; the fighting was great. Now Heaven rolls with ominous thunder that looms within the clouds, waiting to rain down upon the peace that has settled since Lucifer’s Fall.

11. All That I Want For You, My Son (Is To Be Satisfied): T+ SPN 2.8k words

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean’s voice is soft. “Dad’ll be gone soon. And we’ve already fixed everything that my dumb wish messed up anyways. Might as well let him meet the kid, right?”

12. A Two Dimensional Kind of Guy: T+ SPN 2.3k words

“Hey, man, so like…” Shaggy trailed his words off as the dude halted in his steps. His shoulders were large and intimidating but his face made him seem softer and more approachable. It was easier speaking to the guy, Castiel, when faced with his - well, face.

13. You Hang From My Lips: M SPN 1.8k words

You can’t touch him unless his blood is coating your hands.

Maybe it’s because your unholy hands could never touch something so divine unless bathed in its blood. Like red wine cleansing the body’s sins. You’ve heard wine is good for that. Some God-follower interpreted it and some doctor agreed with it.

Maybe it’s because all you know how to do is hurt. Your touch is poison and it drags him down, down, down. Until there’s nothing left of that burning star but a husk.

14. A Second Once In A Lifetime: G The Witcher 1.2k words

The winter had gone quickly in Kaer Morhen this year. Geralt was certain this was because of the non-Witchers who had stayed during the season. His focus had been Ciri’s training and helping Yennefer to heal, and both responsibilities had taken up much of his stay this winter. It had certainly broken up the monotony of repairing the old keep with Vesemir.

15. The History of Tango: M The Witcher 48.9k words

If there was one thing that Jaskier could find agreeable about the eccentric Countess Yennefer of Vengerberg, it was her taste. Well, that and her disregard for social etiquette. Together, it made the woman rather impressive. The Countess had not married into her title, having been bequeathed it in some dramatic fashion that Jaskier had heard no less than three versions of. The people did love their gossip, especially when it surrounded such a scandalous figure.

16. Your Eyes Aren't Rivers There To Weep: T+ SPN 2.7k words

It was a cold night in January when it began. Castiel recalled the humans had recently marked the year 1979. The evening was an ordinary one save for the birth of one, small child. Crying, the babe called out for his mother. Like most humans, the babe hungered. Humans milled about before affixing the newborn into the arms of a tired but brightly smiling mother.

17. You've Been Ever So Kind: T+ The Witcher 2.1k words

“Geralt,” Jaskier whined. “I am sweating like a paid lady in a temple!” He pouted, fanning himself with some tool of an Eastern design that Geralt was not familiar with. The bard cupped his hand over his brow with the opposite hand not already preoccupied with the fan in order to shield his eyes from the overbearing sun.

18. I Heard There Was A Secret Gourd (That David Carved): G The Witcher 2.2k

The laughter of children as they ran along the sidewalk outside was but a muted noise within the apartment inhabited by Geralt Rivia and his goddaughter Cirilla. The young tween sighed boredly as she stared at the scattered patterns. Miscellaneous eyes and mouths meant to be traced on the gourd met her gaze as she sighed again. Drumming her fingers against her cheek, Cirilla turned to face her godfather.

19. A Wet Red Devil: M DC Comics 2.2k words

There was a reason Zatanna did not often invite Constantine to join their missions.

John Constantine was the single most irritating human to have ever existed. A brilliantly talented warlock with a bastard smug grin. A knack to create anarchy amongst even the most peaceful of beings. Zatanna was certain that even Superman himself had wanted to make Constantine choke on his smarmy words.

Sighing, Zatanna placed her forehead to her palm. While she had always tried to keep from inviting Constantine along - well - needs must and all that.

But was this worth it?

20. Vado Dove Vai Tu (I Go Where You Go): M YOI 1.5k words

The worship of the gods is common. Which deity is worshipped varies from city to estate, like which sort of wine decorates a table, but the pantheon under Zeus’ watchful eye is predominantly those deities that are worshipped. Sacrifices are offered for blessings or boons, whether it be for harvest, happiness, or war. The velvet tongues of mortals cry out their gods’ names and bleed forth on altars all for the sake of worship.