#Yennefer casts spell of Knowing Where The Fuck It Is

[muffinlance]

The Witcher but it takes Geralt five novels and two video game adaptations to open his damn takeout bag (he misplaced it in book two)

*cradling bag of take-out to my chest like a newborn princeling being whisked to safety out of the grasp of the Mad Usurper's army* i'll protect you my liege

[thegirl20]

Yennaia ficlet (set during 3.06)

So, I watched the early release of ep 3.06, half asleep in the middle of the night. And then this came out during my lunchbreak today. I don’t know how close the description of the scene is to what actually happened (as mentioned I was half asleep) but I thought I might as well shove it out into the world and adjust it later if I’m so inclined after seeing the other two eps.

ETA: Now on AO3 if you prefer

***Spoilers for episode 3.06 - this takes place in between two scenes in the episode***

Her lungs are burning as she runs along interminable corridors, throwing soldiers aside with barely a second glance. She sprints for the stairs, unsure of what she’ll find when she gets there. Alzur’s Thunder is not a spell to be cast lightly and she’s terrified that Tissaia will have paid too high a price for using it. 

When she reaches the upper level, she can see through to the balcony. Tissaia is still there. Still standing. But weak. Even from a distance, Yennefer can see the stoop of her shoulders, the tremors in her hands as the last surges of chaos make their way out of her body.

Her hair is pure white and, for the first time, she looks like an old, frail woman. 

Her legs give way just as Yennefer reaches her, and she grabs her around the waist to stop her from falling. She hoists her upright, taking all of her weight, even as Tissaia twists, trying to move back to her previous position. 

“It’s over,” Yennefer tells her. “We have to go.”

Tissaia makes a noise that cuts through Yennefer’s heart. A low keening, a noise from a distressed animal. 

Yennefer grits her teeth, wrapping Tissaia’s arm over her shoulder and half dragging, half carrying her away from the balcony, grateful when she feels the body in her arms stop fighting and acquiesce. 

They shuffle onward, through smoke and past rubble. Tissaia is whimpering and Yennefer can’t help the tears that fall from her own eyes, more for Tissaia than for Aretuza or herself. They’re nearing what’s left of the staircase when Tissaia stops moving, causing Yennefer to stumble into the wall to keep them both upright. 

“Leave me here,” Tissaia whispers. 

“What? No!” Yennefer urges her to start moving again. “The place is on fire. We need to get-”

“You need to get out,” Tissaia says, her voice a little firmer. She looks up at Yennefer, lifting a trembling hand to brush over her cheek. “Leave me here.”

“What are you talking about?” Yennefer says, growing frantic. “Stop being obstinate and just work with me.” Again she tries to get them moving, but Tissaia stays where she is, still as a rock. 

“Aretuza is destroyed,” Tissaia says, her eyes flicking around the ruin their home is being reduced to around them. “Everything I have worked to build, to preserve, to protect…is gone.” She shakes her head. “I have been a fool. It’s only right that I should die here.”

“No it fucking isn’t!” Yennefer almost screams. “I didn’t keep you alive at Sodden only to walk away now. I didn’t leave Ciri to let you die here.”

“I’m done, Yennefer,” Tissaia says, fresh tears making tracks through the dirt and blood on her face. “Aretuza is gone. I have no place in the world. I allowed this-” She flings a hand out towards the destruction. “-to happen.” Her eyes close. “I have nothing left. Leave me here.”

“Aretuza is a building,” Yennefer spits. “You have flesh and blood people who fought and died for you today. For you, not the building. You have them.” Her throat tightens. “And you have me.” She jerks Tissaia’s chin up, forcing her to meet her eyes. “Am I nothing to you?”

“Oh, Yennefer,” Tissaia slumps further against her, using the little strength she has left to grasp Yennefer’s arms. “Don’t you know? You’re everything to me. You are my legacy. And you will set the world back on its axis. You are the future.” She wets cracked lips with her tongue, more tears spilling down her dirty face. “I have no part to play in it.”

“Yes, you do.” Yennefer is desperate now. She’s seen Tissaia prepared to die before. She looked down upon her from that hill at Sodden, standing straight and proud, looking death in the eye as she expected to perish. BUt she’s never seen her like this. Despondent, dejected, ruined. “We need you. I need you.” 

Tissaia laughs, and it’s a tiny sign of the life left in her. “I’m not sure that’s ever been true.”

“It has always been true and remains so,” Yennefer says, jerking as a piece of ceiling falls and smashes into the courtyard below. “You have saved me more times than I can count. You’ve kept wolves from my door for most of my life, even when I didn’t know it, you were always there, protecting me.” She leans in, pressing her forehead to Tissaia’s. “I can’t lose you. I don’t know how to live in a world without you.”

“Yes, you do” Tissaia says, her nose brushing Yennefer’s as she speaks. “You are a powerful sorceress. You are a mother.” Her ragged voice warms with affection. “You’ve even managed to develop a skill for politics and diplomacy of late.” She inhales, the breath rattling into her chest. “But above all of that, you have retained your kind heart. You care about people, you care about the world. And you will do what must be done to set it right.”

“And I will do all of that with you by my side,” Yennefer says, her own tears flowing freely by now. “I will do it better with you by my side. The Tissaia I know would want to be there. She would fight.”

“I have fought,” Tissaia counters, her forehead dropping to Yennefer’s shoulder. “And I have lost.”

A piece of masonry lands a few feet away and Yennefer turns them both away from the dust it throws up. 

“If we stay here much longer we’re both going to die,” she says, coughing into Tissaia’s unsettlingly white hair.

“Go,” Tissaia says, attempting to push her away, but lacking the strength. “Ciri needs you. The world needs you. I will not allow you to perish here.”

“Then come fucking with me!” Yennefer screams, she has one card left to play. “I’m as stubborn as you are, you wretched old witch. And I’m not leaving here without you. So if you don’t want Ciri to be left motherless, again, you will get moving and walk out of this building with me.”

Tissaia looks at her for a long moment. Then she sighs. “You are stubborn enough to die here to prove a point.”

“Yes, but you’re not going to allow that, are you?” Yennefer holds her breath, but to her immense gratitude, she feels Tissaia move, even if her legs give way almost immediately and she clings to Yennefer to keep herself upright. Yennefer wraps her arms around her, bearing her weight as they navigate the stairs, moving as quickly as Tissaia can manage. 

“You know I have to die sometime, Yennefer,” Tissaia says, when they finally make it outside.  

“I know,” Yennefer says, almost blind from tears that refuse to stop. “But not today.” She draws them to a stop and waits for Tissaia to look at her. “Stay with me today.”

It takes longer than it should, but Tissaia nods, lifting a hand to Yennefer’s cheek and pulling her close, pressing a brief kiss to her lips. Whispered words follow, breath warm against Yennefer’s skin. “I’ll try.”

That’s all she can ask for right now, as Aretuza burns in the distance, and Tor Lara crumbles into the sea. She has Tissaia in her arms, solid and whole, and she has to appreciate that for as long as she can. 

Together they turn and make their way to the group of mages watching their home fall apart. Yennefer never loosens her grip.  If she can keep hold of Tissaia, if doesn’t let her go, she’ll stay. 

She has to stay. 

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

Yennefer saying 1, Yenskier

Here's some post-season 2 Yennskier with background Geraskefer.

"Could you hold me? Please."

Yennefer knows that casting the spell will probably kill her. All of Tissaia’s dire warnings about what happens when a mage burns themselves out ring in her head. She barely survived Sodden Hill and she know she shouldn’t risk that kind of loss of control again, especially not so soon after regaining her powers.

But soldiers found her, Geralt, Jaskier, and Ciri in the little farmhouse where they’ve been hiding for weeks now. Geralt is injured, his movements clumsy as he holds off three soldiers. She doesn’t know where Ciri is. The princess is hopefully hiding somewhere, but she’s probably about to do something reckless and dangerous. She can hear Jaskier shouting, taunting their attackers as he tries to draw them away from Geralt.

Yennefer turns and finds the bard backed up against the wall, holding a ladle like it’s a bludgeon and making anatomically improbable suggestions about the mother of the soldier approaching him with a sword. The soldier raises his blade and Yennefer knows there’s no time for her to hesitate. She may not survive, but she needs to make sure that Geralt, Jaskier, and Ciri get out of this alive.

For the second time in less than a year, Yennefer throws out her hands and lets her chaos run wild.

***

Yennefer wakes in the middle of the woods, her mouth tasting of ash and blood and her entire body aching. Her head is cushioned on a scratchy woolen cloak that reeks of horse and there’s a blanket thrown over her. A few feet away, a campfire crackles merrily and on the other side of the fire, Jaskier strums his lute. There’s a furrow in his brow and his tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth in concentration.

She takes a moment to observe him before she croaks, “Geralt? Ciri?”

Jaskier’s head jerks up, pure relief flashing across his face. “They’re off catching dinner.”

“Hurt?”

“No, love.” He puts down his lute and rounds the fire to sit next to her. “Geralt caught a sword to his side, but you know witcher healing. He bled a lot, took a couple of potions, and then started acting like nothing ever happened. Ciri doesn’t have a scratch on her.”

“You?”

“I’m perfectly fine.” He brushes a lock of hair out of her eyes. “Thanks to you.”

“Idiot. Shouldn’t taunt people with swords.”

“I’ve spent over two decades taunting a man with a sword. It’s worked out pretty well for me so far.”

“Idiot,” she says again, too tired to hide the fondness in her voice. 

“You scared the shit out of us, Yenn,” Jaskier says. “You slept for two days. We didn’t think you were going to wake up.”

“They were going to kill you and Geralt and take Ciri.” Yennefer closes her eyes, trying to block out the memories. “Are the soldiers dead?”

“All of them. And the house is burned to the ground. With all my favorite clothes inside, I may add.”

“Pity you were able to save your lute.”

“Yes, I got luck—hey!”

Yennefer smirks, eyes still closed.

She feels him let out a long sigh. “You nearly got yourself killed.”

“You nearly got stabbed for insulting a soldier’s mother.”

“Well, I had to do something to piss them off enough that they wouldn’t go after Geralt.”

Yennefer grits her teeth. “Don’t do it again.”

“I won’t if you won’t.”

“You impossible fucking bard.”

He presses a kiss to her forehead. “You impossible fucking witch.”

She hates this fucking man. She would tell him that at length, but moving her mouth is starting to feel like too much effort. She’s exhausted and acutely aware that the hard, cold ground she’s lying on is much less comfortable than the bed she’s been sharing with Jaskier and Geralt for weeks now. She’s gotten used to not having to sleep on the ground.

Jaskier sighs. “Anything I can do for you, Yenn?”

Yennefer hesitates, then asks, “Could you hold me? Please?” A few months ago, she wouldn’t have dreamed of asking for such a thing. It still feels odd to show that kind of vulnerability. But she’s cold, hurting, and all too aware of how close she came to never being held by Jaskier again.

“Of course.” The blanket lifts off her for a moment as Jaskier slides under it, curling against her side and tucking the blanket around both of them. Eyes still closed, Yennefer lifts her head off the cloak to settle it against Jaskier’s shoulder, a far finer pillow. His arms wrap around her, warm, secure, and achingly familiar. Yennefer settles against him, soothed by the feeling of him against her. The ground is still hard and her body still aches fiercely, but it’s a little more bearable with him holding her.

“Do me a favor,” he says softly. “Don’t almost die on me again.”

Yennefer knows she can’t promise that. None of them can, not when they’re on the run with the most wanted princess on the Continent. She can’t imagine how the four of them will all manage to get out of this alive. But Jaskier doesn’t need to hear that and she’s not above lying to her bard when necessary.

“I won’t,” she says. “So long as you don’t taunt any more men with swords. Except for Geralt. He would miss it.”

“No more taunting men with swords.” She knows he’s lying, just like she’s sure he knows she’s lying. But right now, curled up together on the ground, holding each other, they can both pretend that they believe it.

***

Hurt/Comfort Dialogue Prompts

Tag list: @kueble @mollymawkwrites @feral-jaskier @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde @dawnofbards @thisislisa @tsukiwolf42 @mosaicscale @rockysstupidity @fontegagrilledcheese @kuripon @help-i-need-a-cool-username @julek @flowercrown-bard @eveljerome

[roughentumble]

ok so timeline goes:

-yen gets taken by the hunt

-geralt goes after her to save her

-meets letho, becomes allies

-geralt offers to trade himself for her life

-geralt rides with the hunt, letho and co ride with yennefer

-letho and co and yen get captured by nilfgaard, interrogated, and letho gets strongarmed into sewing discord in the north

-yen stays in nilfgaard, whereabouts unknown

-letho goes out to kill kings for nilfgaard, getting into bed (metaphorically) with síle to do so

-somewhere in here, geralt somehow escapes from the hunt. wracked with amnesia, he doesnt even know to look for yen

-while letho kills kings, geralt recovers in kaer morhen, gets seduced by triss, and defeats the salamandra who are after witcher secrets

-geralt hears warnings about the wild hunt and the white frost, but doesnt know what it all means yet

-geralt saves foltest's life, and gets strongarmed into staying by the king for safety

-letho and geralt's paths cross again as letho kills foltest and frames geralt

-geralt goes on a quest to find letho, clear his name as kingslayer, and recover his memories

-the lodge, including síle, have been trying to gain power for mages this whole time, and continue to do so in the background

-geralt unwittingly helps philippa cast a spell to gain control of saskia for political maneuvering, which the lodge intends to use to further their purpose of getting the council reinstated

-geralt hunts letho to a meeting of kings, where letho lies and says the lodge is guilty of multiple regicides

-this sews massive discord among the north, as there's already political unrest with several heads of state dead, and now a prominent (though previously hidden) political force of magic users is seen as betrayers

-nilfgaard advances on an askew north, which starts infighting and grabbing for power and performing witch hunts amongst itself

-geralt retreats to kaer morhen and his witchering, knowing yen's last whereabouts but having lost the trail and with no way to regain it

-yennefer, presumably now with memories intact, sends geralt a letter insisting they meet, at the behest of emhyr

-there's been sightings of ciri, who disappeared many years ago, and so they set off on their own missions to find her

-the wild hunt had taken an interest in yen and geralt as ways to get to ciri, who the hunt is actively hunting

-after a massive hunt for her, geralt beats the wild hunt and finds her first, injured but alive

-they hold off the hunt as long as they can, vesemir dying in the process

-the lodge recovenes, still grasping for power, and ciri tells them all to fuck off

-they have a final showdown with the hunt, and ciri faces the ultimate threat-- entropy itself, the white frost

-depending on your choices, ciri destroys the oncoming icy death of the planet, the north pushes back nilfgaard and manages to find some semblance of order, and ciri lives her life as a witcher

-geralt and yen can finally rest, with the problems of the world once more put to rest, even as chaos still rages on

i think i have that right, but i played the games out of order like some kind of fool

[okruchlodu]

Yennefer sustained the spell powerfully, gritting her teeth against the piercing, bitter cold that filled her crown to foot as the witcher began the ritual and all around them was plunged into blue flame. She lifted both hands into the air, feeling a strange, vicious tug , a vortex of dark energy struggle against her magic; the casting of this spell should have been as easy as breathing for her, smooth and natural, yet something was furiously dabbling with it, causing the sorceress to pour more of her strength into maintaining its casting; she exhaled, and power, absolute and inconceivably immense filled her, causing her body, riddled with such vast energy to thrum and tremble against its furious pull, the piercing, sharp scent of ozone flooding the air all around her, which too, lit up and flamed with blinding blue light, crackling and sizzling.

Through the roaring of her magic throbbing wildly all around them, she heard the child howl, slither and hiss like a snake, dark, malicious laughter spilling from her mouth, her voice metallic, and unnatural, like a blade slicing through skin; the demon, growled, then snivelled pathetically, a high pitched, pained cry, and Yennefer strained every last one of her senses against the furious pull of the dark magic streaming over the air. ❝you are burning her!❞ she said, more to herself than to the Witcher. The mirror hung above the table, rattled and shook violently and the smell of something burning choked her, wrenching her breath. The demon made the little body quiver violently back and forth on the table, hissing and growling when Eskel leaned in closer, her lips stretched taut into a feral grin, her eyes black and terrible, staring out at him, and then, slowly, and all at once, at Yennefer, blankly, empty, hollow; there was nothing in those eyes, no life, only darkness and death; it roared and the head jerked up from the table, baring her teeth at the witcher, tearing now viciously at the shattered, clawed body it possessed, its motions unnaturally fast and made strange by the bent of her limbs, scratching at her neck, trying to slice a vein open, and from deep in her throat, muffled laughter spilling, filling the enchantress with dread. ❝ Eskel!❞ Yennefer cried out, just as the demon jerked violently and stilled the breathing to complete motionless, a low, humming sound emitting from somewhere deep in its throat. The shoulders, so very small and delicate, trembled frantically, hunched, the head now rolling to the side, lifelessly. A soft, pitiful sob filled that mouth. ❝ Is the child killer back for more? No child Surprise for you to kill here, poor Witcher! How very alone Deidre felt... how very frightened. mmm...❞ it made a continuous low humming sound, rasping pathetically and choking back a sob. Tears streamed down the pale cheeks, and suddenly it lifted those eyes to him, said, in a voice that did not belong to it, hard and sweet and lilting, Deidre's voice. ❝ Did you not have the heart for it? Did you not know what they had done to me? Eskel. I am trapped here... it's so cold, so dark... will you not come find me? please... please, come for me. she sobbed, her voice cracking, filled with pain. The head jerked again, and suddenly, one hand shot out towards his throat, nails hacking into his skin; the voice, changed, and when next it spoke, spitting and gnashing the teeth, it was the voice of Sabrina Glevissig that filled their ears; it fixed those eyes on Yennefer and she felt her breath hitch in her throat, her face contorted into an expression of stifled horror, Do you not know where she was flung when this fucking cunt of a mutant tore her open? You hunchback whore, desperate for the unattainable. Ask him, you arrogant, spiteful bitch! What did he want from her? To fuck her? Fuck her now, Witcher! Fuck Yennefer. Fuck me! ❞ she spat the words like venom trickling through gritted teeth, sparks flying from the dead eyes.

For a moment, Yennefer felt her hand falter and shake violently as though being pulled by some invisible rope, half stunned by the demon's words. She heard the glass of the mirror strech and tremble, sensed that dark, vicious presence filling the spaces between her and the witcher. Feverishly gathering her self restraint, she uttered another spell, her voice a fierce whisper as a net of unbridled energy shot from her fingers, causing the meteorite ore Eskel had scattered to flare up wildly, exploding into million blue sparks which suddenly lit up the air as wisps and tendrils flowed and swirled all around Sad Albert, pulsating wildly as they formed a mantle of shimmering light all around the table; the runes shivered with a hiss and exploded into shards and clusters of Chaos that filled the air all around the table with a magical barrier made of the witcher's sigils and ritual powder, fortified by her magic. Once driven out of the girl, there would be no other way for the demon to go but upwards and into the mirror where it belonged. Yennefer used her magic to momentarily still the child's hand which was once more attempting to claw at the little body's throat, groaning breathlessly and concetrating every last ounce of her Chaos on the demon, sustaining the spells with all of her strength as she watched the witcher react to the demon's following vicious, furious attempts to spit at him, a stream of foul curses and obscene, nonsensical threats flooding their ears as it violently thrashed about.

@wanderingwolfwitcher

Eskel watched the mirror magically levitate up from his hands and take its place over Sad Albert and the girl below, as well as the way she used her magic to intensify the bindings they had used, and at the same time he made his way down beside the table. In the process noting that the demon was watching the raven haired Sorceress raise the mirror as well, a flicker of unease appearing in its hateful gaze, features twisting in an inhuman manner as it looked batween her, and up at its reflection in the mirror. It understood alright... knew he knew what he was doing. Wasn't his first exorcism, and he wasn't about to make it his last one either. Ruehin or not, demon of the legends he had been told of and frightened about as a boy, that boy had died a long time ago, and now it was just another obstacle to the Witcher. A parasite long overdue for removal from its host by a professional. Leaning in and down, his viper eyes looked into the inky black ones set within the girl's deathly pale features, holding up the humming silver wolf head medallion before them, deep, coolly calm voice murmuring to the thing inside her, peeking back out at him.

"I know you're in there, demon. Can hear and see me just fine. Understand me. You know what this medallion is. What I do for a living. My brothers trapped you in that forest long ago. Time another Witcher finished their job. You've spilled enough blood on this world. You mock our halls, with your very presence within my school. You can leave the girl and go back to your boss willingly, or I can drag you out of her kicking, screaming and burning. Send you back to that shithole of a realm you call a home. Choice is yours. But let's be honest... we already know you're going to do this the hard way. There is no other way for your kind. I can work with that. When you get home, don't go telling Master Mirror that you weren't warned."

At that, the demon seized control of the girl's body again and tried to spit up at him, roaring in a language or languages he couldn't understand... but he knew curses, insults and defiance in any language. A chorus of otherworldly words and voices that filled the main hall, put an unnatural chill into the air that put out all the candles, darkness surrounding the table. The coldness worsening, until their breaths were like that of warm mist in winter. Just as he had thought. The hard way it was, then. Trading a look with Yennefer, nodding, raising a hand, he cast an Igni Sign upon the Meteorite Ore powder he had placed around the table. In a flash, it went up in tall blue flames, a circle of them, spreading the powdered ore into the air through the smoke like bitter incense, and the possessed girl on the table began to writhe, speaking more incomprehensible words in the demon's tongue. He heard the pain as much as the rage in it. The unnatural coldness was banished by the magical ore, at least for the moment.

Taking its reaction as a hint to press on, he reached into one of his pouches and produced another medallion, holding up the glinting enchanted metal in the differing colored lights of the leaping magical flames, glyphs, runes and sigils for it to see. The Ruehin recoiled when it saw the holy symbol it bore dangling in front of it, that of Melitele... and it struggled as he lowered the medallion necklace down by the chain, fastening it about the girl's neck for her to wear. The metal stinging the flesh, smoking, though harming the demon within far worse than the body it wore. It writhed and screamed, tried with all it had to break free of the restraints, but the conventional and magical devices kept it firmly where it was, cursed and spat further hatred at him, its shadows leaping all around the main hall. The medallion hurting and weakening it at the same time. The Witcher addressed it again as he reached into his pouch for the rest of the meteorite ore... holding it threateningly over the enraged demon... a cold smirk touching his mutilated, potion toxin infused visage as he spoke to it as calmly as before. Mocking it.

"Does that medallion burn? Compliments of Mother Nenneke and the rest of the priestesses of Ellander. I'm a friend of the Temple. Learned a few of their tricks for exorcisms. Dealing with abominations like you. We're only just getting started here, asshole. Dawn ain't far off either, now. Not exactly your favorite time of the day, huh? In the name of the Maiden, the Mother and the Crone... the power of Melitele compels you, demon. Begone from this child. Scurry back to the shadows, Ruehin. Into the mirror. Where you belong."

@okruchlodu

[bamf-jaskier]

So I’ve been having a lot of thoughts about how imbalanced Geralt and Jaskier’s relationship is in the show and while I might make another post about it, I don’t think anything shows that better than by comparing the Djinn scene in The Last Wish vs the show. 

For the set-up to meeting the Djinn in the books, Geralt and Dandelion are fishing together. They are both holding onto a line in and manage to haul in a 12 foot long catfish by working together and on the other line they have in the river  Jaskier pulls out the Djinn’s amphora. In the show, Geralt is hunting the Djinn in an attempt to try and get some peace of mind. Jaskier happens to run into Geralt and watches as Geralt pulls out the Djinn. 

Scene from The Last Wish:

“Ha!” Dandilion exclaimed again, proudly. “Do you know what this is?”

“It's an old pot.”

“You're wrong,” declared the troubadour, scraping away shells and hardened, shiny clay. “This is a charmed jar. There's a djinn inside who'll fulfill my three wishes.”

The witcher snorted.

“You can laugh.” Dandilion finished his scraping, bent over and rinsed the amphora. “But there's a seal on the spigot and a wizard's mark on the seal.”

“What mark? Let's see.”

“Oh, sure.” The poet hid the jar behind his back. “And what more do you want? I’m the one who found it and I need all the wishes.”

“Don't touch that seal! Leave it alone!”

“Let go, I tell you! It's mine!”

“Dandilion, be careful!”

“Sure!”

“Don't touch it! Oh, bloody hell!”

The jar fell to the sand during their scuffle, and luminous red smoke burst forth.

The witcher jumped back and rushed toward the camp for his sword. Dandilion, folding his arms across his chest, didn't move.

The smoke pulsated and collected in an irregular sphere level with Dandilion's eyes. The sphere formed a six-foot-wide distorted head with no nose, enormous eyes and a sort of beak.

Compare that to the scene from the show: 

Jaskier: Wow. Wow. What is- What is that?

Geralt: [inspecting the stopper] It’s a wizard’s seal. The djinn.

Jaskier: Do you mind if I- [He grabs the pot.]

Geralt: Jaskier...

Jaskier: Take back that bit about my fillingless pie. Take it back and then you can have your djinny-djinn-djinn.

Geralt: Let go.

Jaskier: No! No, let go, you horse’s arse! [Geralt accidentally pulls out the stopper. Jaskier upends the pot, nothing happens.] Hm. That’s a bit of an anticlimax. [A sudden breeze ruffles their hair.] Or is it?

Now, it’s important to note that the dialogue is actually quite similar when Geralt and Jaskier are arguing about taking the jar and the seal. However, where it really differs is the context. 

In the show, Geralt finds the Djinn and Jaskier takes it from him without asking and Geralt is clearly annoyed by this. 

In the books, Dandelion finds the amphora and Geralt doesn’t believe it’s a Djinn while Dandelion does and Geralt tries to warn Dandelion of opening it because he considers it dangerous. 

It’s the difference between Geralt being genuinely annoyed at Jaskier vs Geralt being concerned for Dandelion’s safety. There is a weird amount of contention between Geralt and Jaskier in the show that makes their relationship feels honestly unhealthy in many ways. 

Scene from The Last Wish:

“Djinn!” said Dandilion, stamping his foot. “I freed thee and as of this day, I am thy lord. My wishes—”

The head snapped its beak, which wasn't really a beak but something in the shape of drooping, deformed and ever-changing lips.

“Run!” yelled the witcher. “Run, Dandilion!”

“My wishes,” continued the poet, “are as follows. Firstly, may Valdo Marx, the troubadour of Cidaris, die of apoplexy as soon as possible. Secondly, there's a count's daughter in Caelf called Virginia who refuses all advances. May she succumb to mine. Thirdly—”

No one ever found out Dandilion's third wish.

Two monstrous paws emerged from the horrible head and grabbed the bard by the throat. Dandilion screeched.

Again, Compare that to the scene from the show: 

Jaskier: Djinn, I have freed thee, and as of this day, I am thy lord. Firstly, may Valdo Marx, the troubadour of Cidaris, be struck down with apoplexy and die. Secondly, the Countess de Stael must welcome me back with glee, open arms, and very little clothing. Thirdly-

Geralt: Jaskier! [He grabs the back of Jaskier’s top and pulls him backward.]

Jaskier: Wha-

Geralt: Stop! There are only three wishes.

Jaskier: Oh, come on, you always say you want nothing from life. So how was I supposed to know you wanted three wishes all to yourself?

Geralt: I just want some damn peace!

Jaskier: Well, here’s your peace! [He throws the pot to the ground where it breaks. Geralt bares his teeth and growls before he bows down to collect the pieces, missing the fresh cut on his forearm. The wind intensifies and Jaskier raises a hand to his throat.] Geralt… Geralt… it’s the djinn! [Geralt casts a magical sign at the black, transparent smoke rushing by. Jaskier doubles over and clutches his throat.]

Geralt: Jaskier. [Jaskier vomits blood.]

Again, while the dialogue is very similar, especially in the case of Jaskier/Dandelion some of it being word for word in fact, Geralt in the books tries to protect Dandelion while the only thing Geralt focuses on is the wishes themselves. As well, in the books, Dandelion’s injury in the books is due to his own folly and arrogance while in the show, the writers make it indirectly Geralt’s fault. 

It’s another weird choice that seems to suggest a dislike and a hostility between Geralt and Jaskier. It seems that even subconsciously Geralt doesn’t want Jaskier around. 

Scene from The Last Wish:

“A troubadour,” repeated Chireadan, looking at Geralt. “That's bad. Very bad. The muscles of his neck and throat are attacked. Changes in his vocal cords are starting to take place. The spell's action has to be halted as soon as possible otherwise…This might be irreversible.”

“That means…Does that mean he won't be able to talk?”

“Talk, yes. Maybe. Not sing.”

Geralt sat down at the table without saying a word and rested his forehead on his clenched fists.

Again, Compare that to the scene from the show: 

Chireadan: His throat was attacked. If the spell’s action isn’t halted as soon as possible, that damage might be irreversible.

Jaskier: Wha- [vomiting more blood]

Chireadan: And the longer he goes untreated, the more likely it is to spread. He could die.

Jaskier: [gasps] Fuck! Geralt.

Geralt: Uh... Yeah, we won‘t let that happen. [pats Jaskier’s back]

In the books, Geralt shows genuine concern for Dandelion and is heartbroken by the idea that he might not be able to sing again. Remember, in the books, Dandelion’s injury is a result of his own folly and Geralt still feels this obvious and clear sadness. In the show--he just has this awkward grimace and pats him on the back. He almost seems to be there out of a strange sense of duty and doesn’t seem to feel too much guilt about his part in Jaskier’s injury. 

Even when they are reunited after Yennefer heals Jaskier, it is very different in the two mediums (I actually want to do another post about Yennefer in Bottled Appetites vs The Last Wish)

Scene from The Last Wish:

“Dandilion!” Geralt shouted, holding Krepp back, who was clearly getting ready to perform an exorcism or a curse. “Where have you…here…Dandilion!”

“Geralt!” The bard jumped up.

“Dandilion!”

Again, Compare that to the scene from the show: 

Jaskier: Oh, Geralt. Thank the gods. I might live to see another day. We need to go. 

Geralt: Jaskier, you’re okay.

Jaskier: I’m glad to hear that you give a monkey’s about it.

Geralt: Let’s not jump to conclusions. What happened?

Geralt and Jaskier are overjoyed to see each other in the books meanwhile in the show Geralt is just...okay about it. 

And it’s really strange because Netflix!Geralt can show emotion when he wants to, he does with Yennefer in Bottled Appetites and Rare Species, he shows fear when she is with the Djinn and care when they are in the tent together and yet --- this emotion is not extended to Jaskier. This isn’t simply a difference of Geralt’s characterization.

In the show, the writers created an imbalanced relationship between Geralt and Jaskier where Geralt never asked Jaskier to be there. The bard is constantly inserting himself into Geralt’s life when he is not wanted and testing Geralt’s boundaries without permission. He almost seems like an invader in Geralt’s life and it makes it so that I honestly can’t believably see Geralt and Jaskier traveling together for 20 years. 

Dandelion and Geralt protect each other, care for each other and worry about one another. Even from the beginning of the Djinn incident, they were fishing together. Geralt and Jaskier on the other hand have a relationship where Geralt begrudgingly tolerates Jaskier while Jaskier plows along blindly. It’s not healthy on either side. Geralt is putting up with someone he doesn’t seem to have a genuine connection with and Jaskier is pushing boundaries and constantly talking to a man who has no interest in listening. 

There is no reciprocal relationship between Geralt and Jaskier and I think in the end that’s why there is this hostility between the two of them.

[chandelier-s-notebook]

Hello folks. I had so much fun writing The Flowers’ Breath that when I found out about @witchersummercamp because that one Witcher blog I follow was reblogging Day 1 fics, I pulled out my pen of choice and started typing. With less concrete ideas of the stories I want to write, but that’s okay!

Day 1 Prompt: Cabin

AO3 Link (600, T)

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

Safe Within These Wooden Walls

Ciri backed against the wall. The sound of swords clanging surrounded her from three sides.

“Geralt!” the bard yelled from across the room. “Oh shit.”

Ciri pushed off the wall with a cry. She lurched forward, slicing through the man that had pushed her there in the first place. She swung left to halt another blow.

Another set and Ciri was with Yennefer. Back to back they circled and surveyed the momentary lull in the fighting.

“Jaskier,” Yennefer hissed, sending a bolt of magic his way.

“Shit. Shit. Shit,” he cursed, hobbling away from the fallen shelves. “I am not made for fighting, you know!”

Yennefer rolled her eyes, refocusing on the enemies around them. Ciri darted forward to strike a man.

Geralt broke out of the dog pile holding him down, four men flying into, and shattering, various wooden objects. He cut another person down and made his way to the bard.

A war cry came from the hall. All four groaned.

“Reinforcements,” Yennefer said.

Geralt grunted. “Ciri take Jaskier.”

“What?”

“What?”

“What?”

Geralt draped Jaskier’s arm around his shoulder. “Jaskier said it himself. He’s not a fighter, nor is he in any shape to stay here.” He dropped Jaskier into Ciri’s unconsciously extended arms. “I know you want to fight, but we can’t let anything happen to you.”

Ciri stiffened. “I can fight.”

“Jaskier can’t.”

Jaskier breathed out in pain when Ciri shifted him to a more comfortable hold. “I really can’t, princess.”

Ciri started to mentally prepare to cast a spell. “Why can’t Yennefer go with Jaskier,” she still whined.

“I’m afraid they might kill each other.”

“I would never.”

“Yes you would, witch.”

Yennefer huffed a laugh just as what little was left of the door caved in.

“Now Ciri!”

“Vonder gwethiel.” A portal opened within the circle Geralt and Yennefer walked and struck from. “Zola’s, near Sodden,” Ciri called as she hauled Jaskier through.

They landed with a thud on the wooden ground.

“Ow, fuck.”

“Sorry.”

Jaskier pushed himself to a seated position. “Where are we?”

“Zola’s cabin, near Sodden.”

“Zola? She going to mind a princess and a bard crashing her home?”

“Zola died. Fire fucker.” Ciri pushed herself to her feet. “Yennefer said she cleaned the bodies out last time she was in the area.”

Jaskier swallowed. “I’m so sorry. Was she dear to you?”

Ciri laughed bitterly. “As dear as a woman you knew for less than a week can be.” Her eyes darted around the rotting wood walls. “Yennefer said she stocked this place up, to be a safe house of sorts. I’ll go check if there’s anything for your wounds.”

He smiled thinly. “That would be lovely darling.”

“Any bleeding I should address before I leave you alone?”

“Nope.”

Ciri nodded and went in search of healing items. She mourned the degradation of the cabin; Zola would hate to see the sorry state her house was in. Unfortunately, the house had gone unoccupied for years as the war dragged on.

She glanced out the window. The yard was smaller. The woods were growing inwards upon the clearing the cabin found itself in.

Ciri shook out of her stupor and brought the healing supplies to Jaskier.

It wasn’t until hours later, once she and Jaskier had finished their dinner and tucked themselves into bed that they hear the sound of another portal opening.

Ciri grabbed her dagger.

“Ciri! Jaskier! It’s Yennefer! She’s loosing blood!”

Jaskier fell back into the bed with a relieved sigh. “Make sure the she-demon survives.”

“I will.” She ran towards her family, dagger clattering to the ground.

[twiistedgalaxies]

Three Times Jaskier Didn’t Seem Quite Human

(And one time Geralt asked too many questions.)

      “Jaskier isn’t human,” Yennefer stated bluntly, swishing a wine glass in her right hand.

      Geralt blinked, “What?”  This gave Yennefer pause. She knew that her on and off again lover was oblivious, but she hadn’t realized it was quite to this extent. Jaskier gave her a pained, pleading look from the other end of the table. She ignored him.

      “You seriously haven’t noticed?” she continued with a huff.

      “...No?” Geralt’s brows furrowed together in confusion. The nerve of these idiots. Yennefer had half a mind to just state the obvious, to keep these two from continuing to dance around the subject, possibly until the end of time.

      But it was much more fun to gently direct Geralt to the answer and watch his bard squirm. Yennefer took a sip of her wine, mentally cursing her high alcohol tolerance, “You’ve been travelling with the man for decades,” Geralt’s face was blank, the puzzle pieces not fitting into place, “He hasn’t aged, Geralt.”

      “That doesn’t mean anything,” he protested, though from the way his eyes shifted towards his companion he was clearly thinking it over. If they were not at such a high profile party Yennefer would have strangled him. He opened his mouth to say something else, but it was at that exact moment that Jaskier decided to pick up his lute and perform for the crowd - granted, it was what he had been invited to do, but Yennefer sent him a withering glare anyways. She was met with a cheeky wink. Oh if looks could kill. 

      “I could prove it to you, you know? A few well placed detection spells and-”

      Geralt shook his head, “He’ll tell me when he’s ready.”

      “You two are hopeless,” Yennefer sighed.

-@~*^*~@-

      It had been after a particularly difficult hunt, when Jaskier had to dress his companion’s wounds for the umpteenth time. Geralt sat upon a stool in the center of their tiny room at the inn. He looked more irritated than usual as Jaskier gave him what was essentially a sponge bath around where a kikimore had stabbed his shoulder with one of it’s spindly arms. Jaskier winced, it was too close to important organs for comfort. Humming as he worked, Jaskier tried to stitch shut what he could and thoroughly bandage the rest. The wolf medallion on Geralt’s chest thrummed contentedly each time the bard’s delicate hands drew near.

      “Where did you learn?” he asked suddenly, his gruff voice cutting through the peaceful quiet.

      “Hm?” Jaskier hummed, ignoring the Witcher’s grunt of pain as he applied one of his many salves to his shoulder, “You’re going to have to be more specific than that, dear.”

      “The salves, the stitching, all of it,” Jaskier raised an eyebrow at that, but Geralt continued, “It’s a very odd skill for a bard to have.”

      A laugh, Geralt had to bite back a hiss as Jaskier’s touches grew less gentle. He clearly wanted him to drop it. “What? Do you think that I was helpless before you came along with your bulging muscles and witchery glares?”

      The witcher shook his head, silver hair sending droplets of water in the air, “No it’s not that,” the bard had certainly proved capable and skilled many times over, “It’s just, were you a healer before you became a bard?”

      Jaskier froze, seemingly caught in a memory, “Something like that,” he began to bandage Geralt’s shoulder, “This kikimore did quite the number on you, didn’t it?”

      Geralt gave him a look of disbelief because obviously.

      “Come on, come on, give me the details, I can’t write my ballads off of just grunts and intrusive questions now can I?”

-@~*^*~@-

      Jaskier had tagged along on what was supposed to be a minor contract. Nilfgaard had stormed a small town, leaving destruction and countless corpses in their wake. Corpses that were perfect for every Alghoul in a three mile radius. 

      He and Geralt were engaged in their usual banter (which consisted mostly of Jaskier rambling about whatever was on his mind, punctuated with the occasional grunt from his witcher), when a sudden, piercing screech rang through the air. It was high pitched, shrill, and caused Jaskier to clutch his head as he let out a groan of pain. 

      Meanwhile, Geralt immediately leapt into action, drawing his silver sword as a pack of the necrophages surrounded them. He was able to take out several, his sword and the ghouls creating a smooth, gory dance. It all seemed to be going well before an Alghoul caught Geralt off guard, leaping onto his back while extending its spines. This sent Geralt off balance, and he was quickly overwhelmed. His sword got knocked out of his hands in the scuffle and he thought that this, however stupid it may be, would be what would kill him. 

      A cry of rage. Slashing, tearing. Suddenly the weight that was dragging Geralt to the ground grew lighter. He felt something wet and sticky. Geralt looked up to see Jaskier standing over him, holding Geralt’s silver sword, out of breath, and covered in Alghoul viscera.

      The bard looked down at himself, annoyance on his admittedly handsome features, “That was my favorite tunic too!” The tunic in question, once baby blue (like his eyes which were now flashing gold, what the fuck?) was now stained red and black. Jaskier brushed a bit of entrails off his shoulder, visibly disgusted.

      “Huh?” Geralt said, intelligently.

-@~*^*~@-

      The pair was making their way north, Jaskier strumming on his lute and Geralt sat atop Roach. The dirt road was a tunnel bordered by a wall of towering trees, whose orange and red canopies blocked out the sun, casting the duo in dappled shade. 

      Jaskier strummed a few chords in the major key, before he spoke, “Geralt, are you doing alright?” His face was soft and forget-me-not eyes distant like they often grew when he was lost in thought. Geralt shot him a confused look. “It’s just that, you’ve seemed rather distracted lately.”

      “Hm?”

      “I,” Jaskier sighed, collecting himself, “It’s just with the kikimore and the alghouls, and just last week when you forgot your potions in Roach’s saddlebags. I’ve never seen you get like this before, what’s going on?”

      “It’s nothing.” Geralt replied, gaze sliding to anywhere but his bard.

      Jaskier reached up, intertwining his lithe fingers with Geralt’s own, “I’m worried about you, Love.”

      Geralt huffed, he could never resist the man’s pouting lips and puppy-dog eyes, “Yen and I had a conversation at that party a few months ago.”

      He felt the bard tense, “Is that so?” There was a long, uncomfortable silence between them. Jaskier must have realized Geralt, man of few words that he is, wasn’t going to elaborate any further, so he spoke, “What did you two talk about?”

      “She said you aren’t human and I just thought about it more and… it makes too much sense,” Geralt began, feeling awkward as he tried to find the words to explain, “The way you don’t age, your medical knowledge (even of witcher potions!), how you know your way around a sword and how your eyes gleamed-”

      “Geralt, as you know I have an impeccable skincare routine and-”

      He frowned, “Don’t give me that shit, bard.”

      Jaskier sighed, “You really want to know?” A nod. “Okay, well, here goes nothing.” The bard let go of the witcher’s hand, and pulled off a golden ring that, now that Geralt thought about it, he had never seen the man without. A shimmer fell over the bard’s body, like a statue being unveiled. The first thing Geralt noticed was his eyes, they were a sickening, piercing yellow. His face was marred by countless scars, from claws, burns, knives, and magic. Jaskier’s build underneath the glamour more closely resembled Geralt’s, though he retained his shorter stature. The bard smiled sardonically at the witcher’s shocked expression, “Like what you see?”

      Geralt’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, “How?”

      “You’d probably know me better as Julian,” Jaskier’s eyes got that distant look to them again, his face was downcast, an unusual expression for someone who typically embodied sunshine, “I was in the Griffin school, before we were attacked,” a joyless laugh, “I had never wanted to be a witcher, ya know? Wasn’t cut out for it. But my father, Viscount Pankratz himself, couldn’t pay a witcher for his contract, so he offered me up instead. I failed as a noble, so maybe I wouldn’t fail as a witcher. He was wrong, of course, I spent most of my time writing poems instead of studying Signs. Singing instead of sparring. After the trials I spent a few years on the path before I grew sick of it and returned to Kaer Seren.”

      Geralt hummed, encouraging Jaskier to continue.

      “I was made to look after the students, I had to patch up their wounds and keep them from blowing themselves up with alchemy. I loved the little rascals, which is why..” Jaskier trailed off, fingers tracing the grooves in his lute.

      “It’s okay,” Geralt said, “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

      He shook his head hurriedly, “No, no I want to, I have to,” his voice cracked, “I left after the trials killed them. All of them. I couldn’t bear to be a part of it. A part of everything. So I ran, like a coward,” He spat out that last word like a curse.

      The pair stopped. Geralt placed his gloved hand on the bard’s shoulder, a rare gesture of affection and reassurance.

      “Eventually, I found a mage and spent my life’s savings on a well-made glamour and the lute the elves at Posada so lovingly destroyed. It wasn’t until I had graduated from Oxenfurt that I found out what happened in Kaer Seren.”

      “Why didn’t you tell me?” Geralt asked, his voice gentle.

      Jaskier’s face flushed red with shame, “I was afraid. Afraid of what you would think of me. That you’d hate me.”

      Geralt frowned, “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you.”

      At that, Jaskier laughed, “Just look at me! I’m an ugly fuck-up.”

      “No,” Geralt said resolutely.

      “Huh?”

      “I said no. Do you know how many times you’ve saved my life? Made long nights on the path easier to bear? I wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t for you,” Geralt continued, looking Jaskier directly in the eyes. He didn’t reply to that, just slipped his ring back on and hugged his arms to his chest.

      The rest of the day’s journey was spent in silence.

A/N:  I hope you enjoyed! Feel free to leave a comment, I love hearing feedback. I had one hell of a time writing this, I originally had only written the first scene, and it took a few months for my single window's screensaver brain cell to finally hit a corner and figure out how to continue and finish the story.

Ao3

[maggicktouched]

A part of her wished more than anything else that she was wrong. She suddenly wished that she could not feel Yennefer's magic pulsing through the air, or that she would not be in her room and the guards would find the little witch first and toss her out into the street. She'd be forced to go on her way, continue her search, and perhaps, this time, actually fucking think of what she was going to say as she went along! For more than a week she'd wandered the roads in search of Yennefer, and how had she spent all that free time? Singing silly tunes and playing with the wild things that came to see her and chatting with her familiars. Occasionally she bemoaned her traitorous stomach or her muscles that ached too easily for her taste, or the way that exerting herself made her go all red in the face where it wouldn't have before, but for the most part she'd simply skirted along merrily. Not once had she thought of how she might break this incredibly sensitive piece of information to Yennefer.

But the door opened almost as quickly as she'd opened her mouth, and Beck bit the inside of her cheek to try and keep her expression neutral. She couldn't help the way her whole body swooned at the sight of the sorceress. It had only been a couple of weeks, but Beck had missed her.

While she'd miserably failed to rehearse what she was going to say, she had put several spells on herself to keep the pregnancy from being noticed. She needed to at least have the chance to explain before Yen knew.

"I---I've been looking for you." She admitted. There was an uncharacteristic awkwardness to the way she hovered by the door, unsure if she should really venture too far in when she was likely about to be cast out in a mere few minutes. Beck shifted from foot to foot, idly twisting one of the rings on her fingers. "Yennefer, I--um. Ok. Well... you see I."

Fuck it wasn't coming out. Fuck fuck fuck. Since when had her silver tongue turned to lead? It was only two words!

"I'm pregnant." She blurted after that, going incredibly pale. After she managed to force the news from her lips, she couldn't stop talking. "I'm pregnant and I haven't been with anyone else. When we---something had to have happened."

A nervous whine escaped her, and she moved from twisting her ring to picking a hangnail. She was completely mortified to feel tears welling up in her eyes, and a lump forming in her throat. "You don't have to say anything or do anything, and I'm not---I haven't come looking for money. Don't misunderstand. It's just that I'm leaving soon and I thought before I went that you had a right to know. That's all. That's---that's all. That's all I have to say."

She felt like she might collapse from anxiety upon finally getting it all out. She forced herself not to flee out the door behind her, and took a deep breath to extinguish her desire to cry.

Yennefer had had a pleasant enough time with the witch--more than pleasant, in fact. It had been downright enjoyable, lovely even. But all good things eventually came to an end, and Yennefer was hardly made to be in one place for long. She had had had no real home since she was a little girl--if you could call that pigsty a home at all. She had hardly been welcome within the walls her parents shared, and she'd hardly felt any more welcome at the school in which she'd spent her girlhood years, learning to hone her magic, control her chaos. She dreamed of it, yes: a little cottage somewhere in the woods with the pitter patter of little feet running through the halls, of a loved one sharing her bed, of growing old enough to one day see wrinkles upon the face in the mirror that never quite aged.

She had thought, for a time, that she might have that life with Geralt, the man who had tied his life to hers with a reckless wish on a djinn--that their fates might forever be connected. But they had gone their own way in the end. Then she had thought, just maybe, that she and Beck would spend a time together, though by then she had stopped pretending that happily ever after was in the cards for her. She was too old, and she had seen too much of the world: she was no blushing maiden who believed in true love. Yet, those nights with Beck in her bed had been some of the happiest she could remember.

The road called, however, as it always did. She did a few jobs in Redania and Temeria as she made her way up to Kaedwen. She crossed paths with Geralt again, as his wish made sure she always would. And then she met an old, ugly little man with a large pile of gold, a good title, and no sense, and she'd decided it would be as good a place as any to pitch her tent, so to speak. Of course, the little man wished to keep her locked up, keep her close--it was only to be expected. Some days, she even let him believe he could do so. The townsfolk likely thought she was enchanting him, but she had needed no magic for him to open his doors to her. Her magic had made her inhumanely beautiful, and that was a weapon as much as any spell, and one Yennefer knew well how to wield.

Though she was beginning to get bored with the man's company, he was fulfilling her every whim, and Yennefer had expensive tastes. He had bought her gowns and jewels, fine foods, and given her the reins to throw any sort of party she liked--which she did, frequently, taking his more attractive knights to her bed when the affair was over. There was little risk in such encounters, as Yennefer--despite how much she might desire it--could not bear children.

And so the days wore on in the same extravagant monotony, until Yennefer thought to pack up her things and leave again. She had not packed yet, though she thought, perhaps, she would do it soon, gather up her things and leave in the night before the Baron could miss her--or decide he should use force to attempt to make her stay. Perhaps she'd throw another party before she left, she thought, laying back upon her bed.

It was then that she felt the magic. It was a surge in the air, a feeling in her veins, a sensation and knowing--Beck's presence--before she heard the knock or heard the voice. Yennefer did not like to admit that she was ever surprised, but she was surprised now. She sat up and made her way quickly to the door.

"Come in, come in," she said, quickly ushering the woman inside and closing--and locking--the door behind her. "What on Earth are you doing here?"

[falcor-thee-luck-dragon]

Of Monsters and Men

Chapter 12- Till Death Do Us Part

Summary: The battle for Sodden Hill is not over yet, your forces are almost all dead and the Nilfgaardian army is close. Things have been better, maybe by destiny they will?

Warning: blood & gore, feels, angst, fluff

Masterlist

You scream in fury as hot white lighting sparks from your opened palms and into the bodies of countless Nilfgaardian men, they fall in agony, their bodies twitching as they quickly meet a violent and painful end. You've been in battle all day, the forces of the enemy holding much better then you'd anticipated, nonetheless you've held your ground the absolute best you can.

You will not fall.

The sun has long abandoned the land and let darkness consume her whole, the woods around Sodden Hill on the other hand have been alive with the sounds of screaming and swords clashing. In the jumble of bodies and angry soldiers had you unfortunately managed to misplace your dagger, while also getting yourself sliced by a silver blade across your collarbone and left rib cage. Resorting your self defensive weaponry to the use of your destructive dark gift. And now more then ever have you been glad to make use of it.

It feels not enough.

The opened wound adorning your collarbone is small enough that it's not much of a bother for the time being, but the slice to your rib cage burns and seeps with hot wet blood as you move through the brush. You're certain that the leaves you part away are leaving a blood trail when you skim past them as you walk through the woods.

You wander though the thick underbrush in search of Yennefer and Tissaia, you've made sure to keep yourself hidden from Nilfgaard for as long as possible as you hunt for them in the darkness, also considering you're injured and bleeding, better to not draw any attention to yourself.

A few stray droplets of shining red fall to the forest floor while you stumble across a small downed log, praying that they're still alive in the woods somewhere, they have to be, your numbers are already dwindling every minute as Nilfgaard progresses.

Your eyes scan over the near distant patch of evergreens weeping low to the ground as a sudden flicker of light catches your attention, your eyes keenly follow as a torch and many soldiers charge through the thick conifers in the opposite direction of you to your great relief. They are oblivious to your existence as they hunt relentlessly for any sign of movement in the forest. Suddenly your ears prick to the tell tale individual beats of the heiress' and Yennefer's nervous hearts, walking further, you emerge from some bushes to find Tissaia and Yennefer on a grassy hill. Tissaia's hands outstretched as she casts some type of defense spell while Yennefer clutches her arrow wound, breathing heavily in the night air.

A feeling of great relief washes over you as a tired smile breaks out upon your dirt smudged face, "You're alive! Both of you!" You cry, sounding the most eased of your problems in quite some time. Yennefer finds your eyes, her shoulders relaxing ever so slightly as you shuffle closer to the two of them, your ribs hurting with each step.

Tissaia slowly turns, her face is an absolute mess, her clothes dirty and her hair a disordered nest upon her head. She smells of sweat and blood and fear as you catch her tired blue eyes with your crimson ones, "Y/N." She rasps, reaching a hand out to you, you take it, keeping the other pressed firmly against your opened flesh.

You take a heavy breath, "Sabrina needs your help. Yennefer told me, she probably said...why are you not...where are..." You pause for a moment to take another breath and regain your words, it even hurts to breath, they notice your discomfort as an explosion sounds from the near distance, "We all do."

She lowly smiles before her face contorts into a pained expression, a whimper escapes her lips as she clutches the side of her stomach before falling to her knees. You quickly kneel down, a look of deep worry upon your own bloody face as you gently touch her arm, "No! No! Not now Tissaia, the Northern Kingdoms are close..." You plead desperately, she stares back at you through dazed eyes as Yennefer joins your huddle upon the dewy grass, "We can't give up." Your voice a rasped whisper.

Gods my throat is dry.

More explosions sound in the far distance as you grasp her shoulder, her face is sad with defeat and fear as tears fall down her sweaty blooded cheeks, "We need you, what do we do now?" Your voice is shaky and desperate, a frustrated tear falls down your face as you feel more sticky blood oozing out from your fresh wound.

Tissaia says nothing, her eyes taking in everything you're saying but looking rather vacant at the same time, you nod in understanding before releasing her shoulder. She sits down and turns to stare off lost into the far off firelight flaring through the thick woods. Understanding her exhaustion you move away from her to seat yourself atop the grass as you grimace in pain. Gods your deep battle wound hurts like a bitch, the fucking skin not immediately healing due to the silver. This may suck but in retrospect you've done one-hundred times more damage to Nilfgaard then a simple slash to your ribs.

You can be an optimist Y/N, but you know they hit bone. It bleeds too much.

Yennefer takes your once close position next to Tissaia, she looks desperately into the blue eyed mage as she grasps onto her shoulder, "You...you saved me. I won't ever forget that." Says Yennefer, her voice breaking as tears well up in her violet eyes.

Tissaia smiles a pained one, touching Yennefer's cheek before letting her hand fall, her blue eyes playing downcast as she looks out into the exploding woods. Yennefer's head falls as her lip quivers, her lavender irises trailing over to you in a last hopeful effort to find help. She kneels down by your side, her face expectant as you stare up at her, feeling almost in a blurry daze.

Yennefer blinks, her voice but a determined whisper, "Y/N, we have to fight. I can't do this without you, I can't." You breath through heavy painful breaths as a small trickle of your own blood trails out from your mouth, her brows furrow in deep worry as she finds your bleary eyes, "Y/N?"

Your breathing is almost ragged now as you gently reach out to touch her arm, "It's your turn...to save the people, this Continent. This is your legacy."

Her face is pained, "How? I can't!"

"You can!" Your voice is stronger now, "Everything you have ever felt, everything you've buried..." Your free hand softly touches her cheek, a small smile upon your lips, "Forget the bottle, forget the djinn. Let your chaos explode." She looks deeply into your shimmering crimson eyes, not an ounce of falseness lacing your words. She furrows her brows as the two of you lean your sweat covered foreheads against one another in a comforting manner.

"Be a dragon."

She slowly pulls away, rising to her feet as she parts from you, knowing exactly what must be done if you're all to survive this night. You watch as she slowly stumbles over across the grass, standing in between two large boulders, she faces the Elven Keep that is currently aflame. She pauses for a couple long moments before turning and climbing up the giant heavy stone, a small stream of blood drips out of your nose as you keep your eyes on Yennefer the whole time.

You feel so tired.

Tissaia gently touches your shoulder as she wills you to stand, rising to your feet the both of you wait in anticipation for what she's about to do next, her vessel atop the highest rock, she looks down upon the grassy woodland valley. Mages fight close by as you ignore their hardships and the terrible sounds of Nilfgaard soldiers as they charge in your direction. You ignore them all as Yennefer makes eye contact with you, she nods before thrusting her hands down, a scream of fury erupting from deep within her lungs.

Fire emits from her opened palms like a fearsome dragon throwing her wrath across the land, the bright hot flames dance in your direction as you and Tissaia fall to the ground for cover. Though you know better, it's no use, the fire will certainly end your long life in an instant.

I'll miss you Geralt. I'm sorry.

You cover your face in dreaded anticipation as the hellfire of heat passes you and Tissaia without giving you so much as a burn. You can hear the piercing screams from the nearby soldiers as they burn in agony from Yennefer's grand display of chaos. Your glistening eyes look around you, nothing but a hot orange glow surrounding yourself and Tissaia as you suck in astonished ragged breaths.

Yennefer you amazing woman. Burn those fuckers.

The flames consume around you, hot wind brushing past your face and conveniently drying away all the sweat as you let the blaze swallow whole the forest full of soldiers. Then just like that does the fire end, the spewing wrath of Yennefer going almost as suddenly as it had come. Your eyes lock with Tissaia's as she helps you stand, your sights finding nothing but charred ground and smoky ash in the aftermath.

You take a small step forward, you can't hear her heartbeat anymore, she's gone.

Nothing.

"Yennefer." Whispers Tissaia, unsure of where the violet eyed mage has gone, she suddenly walks past you in search of the missing sorceress, "Yennefer!" She shouts again and again while looking all around the scorched field.

"Yennefer!"

A couple stray tears fall down your ashen cheeks as a quivering smile forms across your face while you fight the urge to laugh at how terribly everything has gone, dried blood cracking on your skin as you grin, "We're alone Tissaia." Your voice is hoarse, the blue eyed mage turns to you, her eyes wide.

"No. We can't b...she can't....she can't be gone." Her eyes are sad with fearful grief.

"I can't sense her near." You shake your head, "No heartbeat but yours and mine. She did the most bravest thing she could have done, there is nothing more we can do now..." Your eyes fall to the smoking grass, "I don't know....I can't sense her anymore...she's just....she's....gone..." Tears fall freely now at the loss of your friend, heavy breaths hurting your rib cage as you try to stop yourself from sobbing.

Not another friend, gone. Not her too.

The hollow and empty feeling of loss consumes your entire vessel as you stand among charred Nilfgaard soldiers and fallen mages, you take another step forward, your face downcast with sadness and anger.

Your fist clenches, pain and anguish coursing through your heart, "It shouldn't have ended this way!" You shout in a fury, your ribs falling into agony as you start to cough.

Tissaia casts her eyes away from your fuming desperation, "No, it shouldn't have."

Taking in ragged breaths you look out into the scorched forest, "I guess now I'll truly be alone forever. How terribly sad." You snicker though there is no humor in your words, "Huh, I should have never left Geralt." More tears and blood patter to the charred grass as you hold your side, "Tissaia, go back to Aretuza. Leave this mess, go before it's too late. She may have killed everyone in the woods, but more still live beyond her flames. I can't have you dead either."

"Where will you go then?" She wonders, glancing down at your sliced flesh hidden behind your fingers, her voice laced with concern, "Y/N, if you stay you'll die."

"I know." More blood patters to the ground, "I need to feed, human blood is the only thing that can heal this type of wound." You grimace in pain once more, "I can't help what I am, it's the only way I will survive this."

She nods in understanding, "Be careful Y/N. It is not safe."

You lowly chuckle despite the pain, "Thanks for the forewarning, hopefully any surviving soldiers know that. Because I don't intend to keep a single one of them alive if we cross paths."

She hands you a small smile in return, "Till we meet again."

"Goodbye Tissaia."

She watches as you trudge into the burnt and smoky forest, out of sight in an instant as you wander into the night. She stands alone atop the singed earth as you wander through the blackened trees, letting the scent of Nilfgaard soldiers lead you to your first victim, if any are still alive that is.

Hopefully soon, gods this knife wound hurts.

Your eyes adjust perfectly to your surroundings as they had in the beginning of the night, all colors now of dull greys, blues, purples, greens, and black. No one but a Witcher could see as well as you. For some time do you stumble through the charred trees and logs until finally have you made it to the other side. You walk out into a grassy opening, the air is fresh and cool as you scan the area in search of life.

You walk forward and notice the tell tale signs of Nilfgaard, they were undoubtedly here, the grass is matted and horse shit wafts into the air. They are still very close, you can almost....suddenly a stick cracks from your left alerting you to a new sound.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Two heartbeats. Hooves thudding against the dirt.

A slender faced man appears from the tree line atop his steed, his face dirty as his piercing blue eyes squint at you in curiosity. He is without a doubt from Nilfgaard, his strange black armor giving him away instantly, a crest of the golden thin star marked on his chest. Oddly enough he still looks rather attractive, in a sadistic cold hearted kind of way, Geralt would without a doubt be making fun of you if he was here to read your facial expressions.

You and the blue eyed stranger make eye contact as he leads his horse closer, once he's close enough to better see your face does he click his tongue signaling the horse to halt. If he's nervous he sure doesn't show it, most men would either cower away or immediately show aggression once they've glanced at your ruby irises.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Another heartbeat. Another man.

An armored soldier breaks from the tree line and stops, staring at the two of you, unsure of what's to happen next. The first man eyes you suspiciously as he lays a careful hand atop his sheathed sword.

"You are not human?" He wonders in a questioning statement, eyes trailing up and down your body in a cautious way rather then anything else more sinister. You stare up at him through irritated eyes, a hand still covering your wound, as your free one taps the side of your thigh.

"I am not the only monster to stand upon this land. You inbred Nilfgaardian cocksucker." He grimaces in disgust, clearly not anticipating that kind of blatantly bold answer, nonetheless he stares on still unsure if you're a true threat or not.

The other soldier takes a couple proud steps forward, instantly his ragged sword is out in an act of dominance, "You foockin' bitch, how dare ya call The Black Knight Cahir aep Ceallach by such a derogatory name." Huffs the loyal soldier as he spits in the direction of your feet, his black sword flashing in the bright moonlight.

You tilt your head to the side, a fangy smile stretching across your ashen face, "Oh, forgive me then. But as it would turn out, I don't give a fuck." You sneer with hatred, Cahir's eyes darken at your words.

Oh, you've got him now.

"Sebastian. Kill her." Commands The Black Knight with a simple nod, his loyal man smirks before raising his sword and charging at you like a wild animal.

Cahir watches in anticipated curiosity from atop his horse as his devoted soldier makes quick thunderous steps in your direction like a raging blunderous fool. You take one last even breath, enjoying the dull throbbing of your wound before you send it into agony once again.

You steady your feet, staggering them as you turn your shoulder so it faces the charging man, when your scarlet irises catch the brown of his bulging eyes do you launch yourself over his head swifter then he's able to comprehend. Flipping in the air above him you quietly land upon the soft earth once again before using all the strength you have left to throw yourself atop the man. His sword is ripped from his hands as you pin him to the ground in a fury.

His glossy brown eyes lock onto your flaming red ones, he shakes in fear before you push his neck to the side and bite down hard into his soft warm flesh. His scream pierces through your ears for a few seconds as he struggles underneath you, a moment later all goes silent as his body turns limp in your grasp. His blood is warm and absolutely delicious as it pours down your throat and seeps into your system, you can already feel your silver inflicted injuries healing as you drain the life from the soldiers body.

Once all his satiated and you feel one-hundred percent you again, do you release him, standing to your full height you turn around to face the wide blue eyes of Cahir. He quickly pulls his sword out as his horse neighs in nervousness underneath him.

"My god you're a vampire." He reveals astonished, swallowing hard as you study his fearful expression.

Blood trips down your chin and onto the grass below as an amused smirk plays at your lips, "A dhampir my good knight, sorry to disappoint." You chuckle, "Now I must be off, your friend was all I needed and now I am satisfied." He stares intently as you continue, "From here I plan to leave this fucking place and I intend to do so in peace. So I warn you, if you try and stop me I will end your pathetic life, you can try to slice me from atop your weak legged detestable meat-bag of shit. But if you dared raise that filthy sword at me, you will lose."

He blinks, thinking over your threatening proposition, just then he slowly brings the sword to his side and carefully sheaths it, his eyes never leave yours, "I will accept these terms." His hands tightly grip the leather reigns of his nervous horse. His face stoic as he clenches his jaw, he doesn't appear to appreciate being told off.

"Good." You smile politely, your face falling in an instant, "Now fuck off."

His face is stone as he clicks his tongue once more before kicking the sides of his steed, you watch as he hastily gallops on past you from a safe distance and out of sight into the thick brush.

This is a Knight of Nilfgaard, interesting.

——

After cleaning yourself up with crystal clear water from a nearby stream did you begin your search for a trail, anything that could take you to some kind of civilization or a fucking tavern for that matter. You wandered in bored frustration for almost the entirety of the day, your vampiric stamina keeping you awake and on guard as you trudge your way through the woods.

Your stomach growls, you haven't had a proper meal since Aretuza, and right now you're honestly desperate enough to take a bite out of anything. Though with the gracious scent of a deer wafting into your nostrils, your more primal instinct kicks in, your eyes narrow as you stalk your way through the bushes. The scrawny bastard stands near a tiny stream, you take another step and crack, a damn stick, the deer finds you standing in the greenery and books it away in the opposite direction.

Letting out an annoyed "fuck" you make good use of your legs by racing after the doe, your chase is short lived when she runs out of the wood line and closely past a horse and it's rider, though you're moving so fast that you don't have time to register what's in front of you until its too late. With a thud do you smack right into the front of the powerful mare, she neighs loudly in alarm while you stumble clumsily into the dirt.

Letting out a breathy huff, you inhale sharply, your sights fuzzy and spotted as you blink hard, trying to collect your bearings once again. Holding yourself up by your elbows you try and shake off the whiplash you've just received when the rider suddenly speaks in confused astonishment, "Y/N?"

Raising your head to the gruff voice your crimson eyes go wide in shock, your heart practically catching in your throat as you stare, "Uh, Geralt?"

His big beautiful golden irises trail across your disheveled state as you continue to stare, mouth a-gap, before he quickly jumps off of Roach and takes swift steps to your side, looking rather concerned. He reaches a hand down for you to take, that you willingly accept without a second thought he pulls you to your feet, quickly letting go of your hand, his brows furrowing as he tries to find his words.

"Y/N. How are you here...I though that you were....well, uh....where did you come from?" He questions, just about tripping over his words he's so confused but also incredibly relieved to see you nonetheless. It's been weeks.

"I...was hungry." Immediately slips out, nice one you idiot. His brows furrow once again, unsure what to do with that information and honestly taken so far aback by your random intrusion in the middle of nowhere.

He finally sighs, his eyes finding yours, "It's been almost four weeks."

You swallow, "Oh.....Has it now? Didn't notice." Your voice is smaller then you'd intended, but he can see right through your nonchalant answer. He knows you.

Clearing his throat he look to the ground then at a bush to your left, awkwardly avoiding your gaze as he thinks of what to say next, "Uh...I went to Cintra, and well, um....I didn't get the child surprise...the kingdom, it's gone to..."

"Shit." You nod, "Yeah, I know. I uh....went with Yennefer to Aretuza and uh.....happened to learn about Nilfgaards reign of terror from Triss." He looks at you with a puzzled raise of his grey brow, you give him the tiniest of smiles, "Long story." You shrug, "Even longer one if you really wanna know how I got here." You add with a familiar tinge of humor lacing your words that he's always loved.

His smile is small, but you catch it all the same as he finds your eyes once again, "Guess we both have a lot to catch up on. Although you might laugh when I tell you this," You raise an interested brow as he continues, "Calanthe wasn't very fond of my arrival in the slightest, so she had me set behind bars....and well," His eyes falling downcast, "I couldn't do anything to stop Cintra's destruction...."

"Sounds about right." You remark with a humored snort as you attempt to lighten up the mood once again, he lightly chuckles while you let a couple more friendly laughs slip out before falling into an awkward silence.

He looks to the ground as you shift your eyes to the trees before whispering, "Okay fuck I can't do this." He immediately snaps his attention over to you looking a tad bit afraid, shaking your head you shrug, "I'm skipping the heartfelt shit because Geralt, I wanted to shatter your kneecaps on that mountain...but, stay with me here...leaving you alone for a couple shitty weeks seems like enough of a fuck you." A small grin tugs at the corners of his lips as you break out into a smirk before your face falls once more, "But I am...Geralt I'm sorry for just leaving you there and I just...."

You let out a breath, yours eyes darting around his face as you try and figure out what he's feeling, he takes a cautious step forward, "You had every right to hate me, and even now. I can live with that and I can live without you by my side if that is what you choose." He says, not a shadow of falseness in his gravely voice.

You shake your head, blinking tears away that you didn't even realize started to form, "I could never hate you. Not now, not ever." A small grin tugs at the corners of his lips at your heartfelt words while you grace him with an affectionate smile, "I love you too much, you fucking idiot."

He takes another step closer, "I don't deserve you." Is all he's able to say as he gently opens his palm for you to take.

Slowly reaching out, you take his calloused hand, placing it upon the side of your cheek as you blissfully lean into his familiar touch with a warm smile adorning your features, "You definitely don't deserve me." He wraps his other arm around you, a genuine laugh reverberating from his strong chest as he presses himself against you.

Your foreheads pressed comfortably against one another now, "I've missed you so much." He whispers gently into the breeze.

You move your arms to hug him even closer, "I've missed you more then the moon and all the stars combined," You kiss the tip of his nose, "Though I won't hesitate to break both your legs and leave you a crippled man if you ever do that shit again." He chuckles at your passive aggressive yet loving threat, before pulling away to stare adoringly into your eyes.

His big golden irises shine like shimmering coins as he studies every inch of your face, his own one hides nothing as he shows pure love and admiration for you through his beaming grin, "I love you Y/N. Please never doubt that." He speaks softly as he presses his head flush with yours for the second time.

You chuckle, "Then never doubt this." He doesn't have time to reply as you hastily pull him in for a heated embrace, his lips are gentle and warm as you taste him. He's the same as you'd remembered. Full of fiery passion and feather light care all at the same time as his lips move with yours, hands trailing your sides as you feel him up just the same. Making sure to fully memorize each and every curve of one another that you'd both desperately missed from your time apart.

You slowly pull away, he follows your lips for a second before turning his head to find your scarlet irises, "As much as I'm wholeheartedly enjoying this, and much anticipating how you're going to make everything up to me later. I think we should get-a-riding before I decide to eat Roach."

He shakes his snowy mane, chuckling at your innate ability to always make him laugh, "You wouldn't dare." He jests, mock serious.

Gently squeezing his muscular bicep you eye him real close, your noses just about touching, "I would. And I bet she tastes, delicious." You add with a dramatic shift in your voice for humored emphasis of course. You'd never really eat Roach, well unless you happened to be desperate.

He suddenly hugs you even closer, his lips brushing against yours, sending shivers down your spine, "I know what could satisfy your hunger, my love." He whispers darkly, shifting the mood to your surprised enjoyment.

You lightly kiss his bottom lip, "Oh please, you may be a Witcher but there's no way you could handle me when I'm starved."

You can feel the electricity in the air, his scent and aurora shifting to that of lust, "I wouldn't mind your beautiful face as the last thing I see before I fall into darkness, never to wake again." Muses your Witcher with a small grin, "Sounds rather pleasant."

He bites his lip as you study his alluringly handsome face, "Too bad." You smirk as he watches your lips, "I'd miss your annoyingly attractive face and that ever enticing body of yours way too much to discard you like a forgetful rotten apple tossed to the side of the road."

In reply Geralt presses his plush inviting lips to yours, sending a pleasurable warmth beginning to blossom from deep within your chest, you can't help but to tug him even closer now. He's missed you a thousand times more then you'd first realized, and he is not disappointing with making a fraction of it up to you.

Roach snorts impatiently in the background causing you to laugh and Geralt to sneakily stick his tongue in your opened mouth.

You enjoy the surprisingly delightful sensation before a sudden thought sparks into your mind, pulling away from his enticing lips do you look up at his pouting face, your brows furrowed as you tilt your head at him.

"Where's Jaskier?"

-

Tagged:  @seninjakitey​  @notahappytree​ @ashleyforeverareject​ @sokkasdarling​ @kmuir1​​@haleypearce @diegos-butt​ (@auds24 sorry idk why ur name won’t work) @a-girl-who-loves-disney

[jacks-wylan]

It started to rain a day later.

Geralt's already bad mood started to increase even more, as he stomped down that trice damned mountain. His fingers trembled, and he knew very well that it was not because of the now terribly colder wind blowing, but he couldn't help but notice that the temperature was lower than the day before – lower than that same morning.

He gritted his teeth, eyes roaming up to the gray sky. Winter was coming, and that felt like the only blessing that was falling upon him lately, because winters meant home and late nights with his brothers and the closest thing he could ever have as a break, to have some time off everything .

He felt a pang of worry when, as the day passed, the weather worsened. Not for Yennefer, no, because she could take care of herself, and just portal out of there – but that idiot that went down the mountain path alone, without waiting for him at the clearing as he should have done no matter how much he was offended... the thought of him in a dangerous territory, with an upcoming storm no less, is worrisome. He tried to not think of Jaskier, because the he was still angered – and the guilt was already creeping up his spine, gnawing at his insides – and deep down he was hoping that he, indeed, joined the dwarves in the end, and he was not at all alone – as he was, as it should have been from the start.

Caingorn and the stables where Roach was waiting for him is half a way down, when he had to find shelter for the night. He found an empty cave, built a fire, and meditated. He couldn't fall asleep. Not that he tried, but he knew that slumber would not come easily on him this time. He would not fall asleep peacefully, safe , as he did with Yennefer ever again.

The rain became a downpour by the time he reached the inn.

He was surprised the same when, once entered inside the inn, knowing that he could not go anywhere with that kind of weather – he could not permit that something bad would happen to Roach – he found every single still alive member of the dragon hunt there.

Even Borch. Even Jaskier. Even Yennefer .

She did not deign him of a glance, and Geralt did expect as much. Jaskier, instead, looked at him with a relieved expression, but... but still, he didn't come to him, didn't run towards him and started to ramble as always. He noticed Jaskier's belonging at his feet, belongings that – apart from his lute – should have been inside Roach's saddlebags, with Geralt's things.

He told himself thank fuck .

He did not feel so thankful, though.

The common room was crowded, but Geralt found a table in a corner regardless. He settled there, ordered food and ale, and ignored the conversations around him. Someone was saying that if the storm did not placate, it would be impossible to walk the roads. He heard Yennefer snort and say that if things would not get better, she would just leave them all there and portal away. Jaskier muttered a mean: “Of course you will, but why are you still here?”

It was Borch that reached out to him. He sat next to him, and after he gulped a mouthful of ale, Geralt just asked: “Your child?”

“Safer than us here.” was his response, “The skies are enraged.”

“Shouldn't you be with them?”

“Not now, no.” Borch shook his head, “But I will be, if the rain ever stops.”

Geralt wasn't in the mood to understand Borch's cryptic words, so he just kept eating and drinking. Then he went out, saw Roach, gave her enough clean water and fresh hay, made sure that there still was pellet for her to sleep on. She seemed content, but she also seemed like she was waiting for something – for someone – that wasn't there with them, sniffing at Geralt's hands but not finding the treats he never gave her.

Geralt patted her muzzle and turned back in. The rain still didn't show any sign of stopping, falling almost cruelly on the ground. Roads became torrents, trees bent under the force of wind.

The skies are enraged.

None of the patrons could go back to their lives, when the night came. So the innkeepers decided that until the storm ended, the rooms were available for all of them – Geralt did not talk to Jaskier, as they walked up the stairs to their shared room, because he was expecting the bard to break the silence, but at first he didn't.

The awkwardness fell upon them until they had to look into each other's eyes by the only bed in the room, when Jaskier finally, finally talked. “Left or right?”

Geralt sighed, leaning his swords against the wall. “Jaskier,” he said his name, but abruptly stopped, because he didn't really know what to say.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. This is a very shitty situation, isn't it? We are all caged here for who knows when, and funnily right after–” Jaskier's voice faltered, until it stopped. “Can you endure me for a little more? I won't get in the way. You can talk with the witch, sort out all your problems, and live happily ever after. If there might be a silver lining here, it has to be this.”

Silence fell on them again. Geralt raised the blankets and got under them: he was pretty sure that not even that night sleep would come to him, but he could at least try. The road to Kaer Morhen was long and tortuous, he needed to be well rested before taking that way.

There was an acrid, bitter scent lingering in the air. Geralt ignored it.

“You really have nothing to say to me?”

Lying on the bed, Geralt looked at him with a sigh, “Just sleep, Jaskier.”

The room got illuminated by a thunder, fallen not too far from the inn. Jaskier jolted, head shot back towards the window with a panicking jump. Geralt could not see his eyes, but he imagined them being wide open, like a deer caught by a lightning. It might not even be too far from reality.

“If only I could.” Jaskier murmured, lying too on the bed but giving him his back. That position made Geralt feel lonely, but it was a sentiment so absurd that he just shrugged it off and closed his eyes.

Outside, the storm did not end, but it got calmer when he got up the next morning.

It was still a downpour, and it still made the roads impassable, but Geralt could see, with some difficulty, a timid ray of sun peaking through the thick, gray clouds covering the sky. He did indeed sleep, for a bit, he felt as refreshed as he could ever be.

Glancing at Jaskier, Geralt saw him still sleeping, his face relaxed, messy hair covering his closed lids. There was a slightly frown between his eyebrows, but so soft that it was difficult even for him to notice under the brown locks of his fringe.

Geralt swiped them off with the lightest touch he could gather so not to wake him up, then turned around and left the room.

The common room was almost empty, if not for Borch, the two Zerrikanians, and the innkeepers. “Most of the patrons went back to their home the second the storm calmed. After all, their houses aren't so far away.” one of the innkeepers was muttering, “Didn't even pay for the rooms, those whoresons.”

Not even an hour later, the storm increased again, with more force, with more violence it hit against the walls and doors. The sky darkened, it was an ominous scene.

“This looks like a catastrophe.” the other innkeeper said, “If it keeps like this, the land will become a giant swamp, and nothing will grow up again. If it keeps like this, our rations will end, and we will all die.”

“Always the same, you shithead. Stop being so gloomy, it's just the second day!”

“Myths spoke of a similar catastrophe cast by an angered God. It lasted forty days and forty nights, to drown the evil on Earth.” Borch said, calmly. “Just myths, they were. Evil is still on Earth, after all.”

The skies are enraged.

Moments later, Yennefer walked down the stairs, followed by Jaskier. They were talking in hushed tones, so low that Geralt couldn't understand most of the spoken sentences, but for the look of it Jaskier did not seem happy with their argument. Yennefer, though, she looked smug, a cutting grin baring white teeth.

Geralt felt something , something ugly and slimy kneading his mouth at their camaraderie. He felt left apart, abandoned, ignored. It was a feeling he should be used to – it was a feeling he always felt with Yennefer, it was a feeling he always made Jaskier feel – but somehow he felt the injustice of it burning on his cheeks, like embarrassment, if more humiliating.

He hated it, this weakness.

“I'm sorry, Yen.” he then said, because what else he has to do? Beg forgiveness, drop into his knees in front of her and say that what he did was wrong, but he just did it to save her. Not to see her die right after saving Jaskier's life, not to see her die after she mended his mistake which would have killed Jaskier, drowning him in his own blood that Geralt helped spill. “I had no right to do what I did, but I don't... I can't regret it.”

“Well, well.” Yennefer snorted. She sat gracefully on a chair, and looked up at him with an elegant black eyebrow arched. “You are apologizing. For someone else it might be enough, but not for me, Witcher.”

Geralt gritted his teeth. “Would anything be even enough?”

“I am kind of disillusioned, to be honest, now that I know the truth. Things I could not comprehend before are now clear, and bitter. I do not know what love is supposed to be, of course,” she pursued her red lips, then looked around until her violet eyes stopped on Jaskier – Jaskier that was standing still in front of a window, watching the hell outside. His back was tense, his hands were trembling so slightly. He was close enough to be hearing everything Yennefer and he were talking about. Strangely, Geralt felt guilty. “But I know that ours wasn't love yet. Not a love that matters.”

“Could be, one day.”

“Sure.” Yennefer sneered, “But am I willing to wait? With the risk that once we break the Djinn's spell, all will be lost? I am not an hopeless puppy like your bard,” at that, Jaskier flinched, “I will not wiggle my tail at every scrap of attention you'd deign to give, to be then discarded when you will get enough of it.”

“Like you've done all this time with me?” Geralt growled.

“Like you've done all this time with the bard.” Yennefer replied, unapologetic.

They stared at each other for long moments, Geralt trying so hard not to turn and look at Jaskier again. He didn't want to acknowledge that those words were true and how much effects they had on him. “Why do you care? You can't even stand Jaskier, damn it!”

A thunder fell just outside the window Jaskier was leaning on. He shouted, scrambling away from the shaking – cracking – glass, and it was not long before another thunder fell, and the window shuttered.

Geralt fumbled up from his table, but Jaskier didn't get hurt, just soaked in the rain gusted in as he fell on the floor in fear of it. He whimpered, and brought a hand against his chest. In the chaos surrounding them, Geralt could clearly hear his heart beating like a war drum, louder than any noise, more deafening than the storm outside.

Yennefer went and, with a flick of her fingers, the window returned whole again.

“Fucking hell.” Jaskier creaked, “What the fuck is happening?”

Geralt looked out, and the gray of the storm became black, filled with blue and white, blinding stripes that made the land shake. Trembling like Jaskier's fingers tightened around a chunk of his own red doublet.

The skies are enraged.

And they were bringing down on Earth all of their anger.

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

read the rest on ao3!

[hard-to-be-the-bard]

heyy your blog is adorable, i love your jaskier fics! could you do one where the reader is from another reality and into meme culture and makes jokes all the time :)) and he has no idea whats going on nor does geralt xx

Oh yesssss

- You had somehow made your way into the witcher universe a few weeks back

- Conviniently falling straight out of portal into Geralt and Jaskier

- Now being pretty cool, you knew about the witcher world, having played the videogames, and watched the newer netlfix series

- So you were able to concince Geralt you'd be useful and he let you follow him around

- Jaskier took a liking to you, asking you questions about your world

-After all how often does this happen

- He was gonna make it into a song just you wait

- Now one thing never of them understood was your humour

- Or as you called it 'meme culture'

- It started one day as Geralt had informed you you'd need to be able to hold some sort of weapon if needed and you'd laughed and pointed at him

- "I've fought mudcrabs more fearsome than you"

- Obviously you hadn't because with one clean sweep you were on the ground with Geralt looking down at you

- "Hmm"

- "You dare attack me? I'm warning you" You muttered as you stood up and brushed yourself off

- The next time it had been when you were walking through the forest, and some sort of animal ran past nearly tripping you over

- "Ahhhh get yo fucking dog bitch" You screeched and Jaskier stopped to turn around to look at you, confusion written all over his face

- "W-what?" He asked, and you looked at him

-"No off topic questions" You'd responded, and he stuttered

- "But why?"

- "Because I don't want too, that's an off topic question" You replied and he began to speak

- "You have been stopped" You said and carried on as if nothing happened

- The next time was when Geralt had watched you fall of Roach while trying to climb while thinking Geralt wasnt watching

- "I should of left you at that portal where you fell" He said, standing over you, and you looked up at him

- "But cha didn't" You say and Geralt walks away leaving you on the ground

- It happened again when you were taking a bath and Jaskier was helping, he'd decided to hop in with you and he looked up at you when he heard you sing

- "Two bros chillin in a hot tub, five feet apart cause theyre not gay"

- "You confuse me" He laughs and you shrug

- "I know"

- Another time it happened was when you had met Yennefer and you were in the tavern in the morning

- "I eat cheerios because they're heart healthy, and my heart has been severly damaged- so john if you're out there" You said making Jaskier ask who John was and gaining a weird look from Yennefer and Geralt telling her to get used to it

-It happened all the time

- Tripped over a root in the woods?

- "I'm walking here" You say in a bad new york accent

- Geralt said fuck?

- "Watch yo profanity"

- When Jaskier asked you if you knew any songs

- You'd picked up his lute

- "Hey how ya doing well im doin just fine i lied im dying inside"

- That caused a worried Jaskier and you had to assure him it was a joke

- When Yennefer was talking about casting a spell

- "You magic? Charles, it says talent show"

- No one knows what you're talking about half the time

- Jaskier still thinks you're amazing though

- Even if he doesn't understand any of your humour

- Geralt? Well he has to deal with two idiots

[handwrittenhello]

(edit made by the wonderful @ghostinthelibrarywrites!)

Summary:

Yennefer stops, sinking into a crouch so that they’re on eye level. “Jaskier. You have a spell placed on you and I need to break it,” she explains.

“A spell?” Contrary to what any sane person would think when told they’ve been bespelled, Jaskier is wide-eyed and excited, the same look he gets as an adult whenever he senses a good story coming on. “What kind?”

“A dangerous one.” She hates to squash that light in his eyes, but it’s true—she doesn’t know what other side effects it might have. She needs to reverse it sooner rather than later—gods forbid it becomes permanent. “Now will you please come here? I’m a sorceress, and I can help.”

Spell after spell after spell she casts, getting more and more complex as she goes, but none work. “Fuck!” she roars as her latest attempt fails, once again.

“Madame Sorceress?” Jaskier asks, brow creasing, worry creeping in. “Is it—did it work?”

“No,” Yennefer replies, and sighs, because she knows what she has to do. Who better to break a curse, after all, than a witcher?

My entry for quick fic this week! Geraskefer, 3k, featuring deaged jaskier—read it here on ao3 or below!

It happens like this: Geralt so rudely decides he’s better off without the company of his very best friend in the whole wide world, and Jaskier thinks, well, fuck this, and goes to find the nearest tavern.

And then—because the gods love to hate him, it seems—he sets one foot inside, sees raven curls and expensive clothing, and immediately turns around and leaves. He’s had enough rejection for one day, thanks, and he’s not sure his poor, sensitive, bardic heart can handle any more barbed words, be they in unlikely jest or not.

“Where are you going, bard?” Yennefer calls, and every eye in the place turns to him. Shit. Well, he knows how to play a crowd, at least.

“Well, you see, I—I’m due a visit to my, um, my elderly grandmother, she—she needs my help, um, corralling her chickens—”

Or not. Why do his stunning intellect and quick tongue always disappear when she’s around?

Yennefer snorts. “Sure you are, and then I assume there’s a cat on a stove somewhere that you need to go save?”

Were it not for years of barding training every and all sense of embarrassment out of him, he’s sure his face would be aflame by now.

“Come have a drink. You’re better company than anyone else in this shit town,” she grumbles, and it’s then that Jaskier spies the numerous empty wine glasses on the table before her.

Misery loves two things—company and copious amounts of alcohol. And if she’s offering…

“You’re buying. I left my coin pouch with G—well. You’re buying,” he says, but he’s already sliding into the chair across from her and flagging down the barman.

A drink turns into two turns into ten, and shit, he can’t even remember why he ever thought maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Yennefer turns out to be much more tolerable when her inhibitions are lowered by drink, uncharitable though it is to think, but really, she’s so much more open, and her cheeks flush so prettily in the candlelight, and she even laughs—not the mean, bitter laugh she does whenever she’s mocking him (which is frequently), but a small flash of teeth, a breathy thing that turns into full-on cackling as it goes.

“I never knew—is this what Geralt sees in you?” Jaskier muses, running a finger along the rim of his glass. Then he pales, realizing what he's just said, and looks up to see that every trace of amusement in her face is gone.

“Whatever he felt for me, it wasn’t real,” Yennefer says harshly, pushing her chair back so fast that it tips backwards and falls to the floor with an audible THUD. She starts towards the stairs, presumably to her room.

Jaskier winces and follows after her, still a bit unsteady, but sobering up quickly in the wake of his gaffe. “Yennefer, wait—”

She’s too fast, and he only barely manages to stick his foot in the doorway before she can slam the door in his face. “Ouch,” he complains, and knows he’ll be feeling it much worse in the morning.

“Go away,” Yennefer hisses. “Don’t you know when a woman has had enough of your company? Or is that why Geralt had to scream it from a mountaintop, to get rid of you?”

Ouch. He flounders, every possible retort dying on his lips. “That’s not fair,” he almost wants to say, except that hurts even worse, so he says nothing. He does withdraw his foot, though, and she’s quick to slam the door, the lock clicking audibly into place moments later.

He thunks his head against the door. Why does he do this? Every time he thinks that someone might tolerate him, might actually want him around, he sticks his foot in his mouth and fucks it up.

“Fuck me,” he mutters to himself, then gathers the strength to peel himself away from the door. He debates for a moment just sleeping right here in the hallway, curled up in front of her door, rather than facing the mortifying ordeal of begging for a room with no coin to promise. But he's just as likely to get hexed as he is thrown out, and, well, at least if he’s thrown out he can sneak into the stables or something. He shudders to think what sort of nasty spells Yennefer could cast on him if she were to trip over him on her way out in the morning.

He sighs and turns to leave, only to hear the lock click again, followed shortly by the knob turning. The door swings open on its own, and, half fearing for his life, Jaskier peeks inside. Yennefer is sitting at a vanity, taking her makeup off, her back to the door.

Her eyes meet his in the mirror, and he yelps, tripping over himself in his haste to retreat. Yennefer rolls her eyes. “Are you going to come in, or are you going to flail around like an idiot?”

“Are you going to harvest my organs and use them for your magicks?”

“No.” He feels a bit better at that, only for her to immediately follow up with, “Your organs aren’t anywhere near good enough.”

He pouts, but edges inside, the door shutting itself behind him. “My organs are perfectly harvestable,” he argues, and then feels quite ridiculous, and shuts up before she actually does harvest them.

“Gods, this was a mistake,” Yennefer mutters under her breath, finishing with her makeup and pulling back the covers on the bed. “You can have the floor. Don’t touch my stuff.”

He gleefully sets his lute case down to claim a space before she can change her mind. He’s touched, really, that she cares enough to offer him this. “Can I have a pillo—” he starts to ask, sneaking a hand up towards the bed, only to yank it away when she smacks it.

“No. Good night, bard.”

Never mind, he’s not as touched.

He sighs and lies down, curling around his lute case like he does on the road. It’s warm, at least, the heat from the kitchen below rising up to warm the floor beneath him. He falls into a deep sleep, hastened by the alcohol, and stays that way for several hours, before his bladder makes its needs known.

Upon waking to see the moon still high in the sky, he groans, reaching a hand up onto the vanity to pull himself up. His questing fingers brush against a vial—whoops—and in his blind fumbling to catch and right it, he ends up knocking over several more bottles. Fuck.

“Sorry, sorry,” he hisses, when Yennefer stirs in bed. Gods, if he's just spilled something important, she really will hex him.

Something important begins to drip onto his hand. Gods fucking damn it. He tries to scrub it away, only for it to begin tingling and burning, quickly spreading up his arm. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

It’s encompassing his entire body, now, itching and prickling like his skin is too small. “Bard? What are you doing?” Yennefer asks sleepily, sitting bolt upright when she spots the overturned bottle and him scratching frantically as if that will make the sensation go away.

“I didn’t mean to,” he pleads, suddenly very scared, and not just of her. Whatever this enchantment is, it’s spreading fast—will he survive it?

“Is that my fucking anti-aging serum?” Yennefer demands. Jaskier, who has no idea what an anti-aging serum looks like, continues to panic. Even his insides feel weird, guts writhing and bones aching. It’s becoming more and more painful, too, until he can’t stand it anymore, and his vision narrows and darkens and his back hits the floor and then he knows no more.

--

That fucking idiot. That stupid, fumbling imbecile! Yennefer should have known better, really, should have known that the blundering, blithering bard would immediately find the only potentially dangerous thing in the room and spill it all over himself. Really.

She rolled out of bed, a headache already pounding behind her eyes—partially the wine’s influence, yes, but more at the sight in front of her: Jaskier, no longer a long-limbed adult, instead a small, slight child, swimming in silks.

“For the love of fuck,” she sighs, pinching her brow. Her anti-aging serum—which is meant to be used in small doses, one or two drops at the most—she never knew it would have this kind of effect. And now she has to play babysitter to the most annoying person on the Continent, all because he couldn’t keep his hands to his fucking self.

“Wake up,” she orders, refraining from kicking him like she might if he were an adult. She’s mean, but not mean enough to kick a child.

“Hm?” he hums, eyes blinking open, only to freeze when he sees her towering over him. “You’re not Mama,” he says, voice trembling.

Oh, shit. It’s taken his mind as well. For a brief moment, she dares to hope that perhaps he’ll be less trouble like this.

Then he scrambles to his feet and tries to dive out the window.

“Oh no you don’t, you little shit,” she curses, and sends a small spell to trip him up before he can escape. “Stop that.” He stumbles, little palms meeting the wooden floor when he tries to catch himself. She finishes by flicking a finger and latching the window shut, same with the door. The last thing she needs is a de-aged, runaway bard.

Well, if he were to run away, technically he wouldn’t be her problem anymore…

But that’s too heartless, leaving a child on his own like that—and Yennefer can’t deny that her hardened heart has always held a soft spot for children.

That soft spot grows a little softer when Jaskier scoots back against the wall and bursts into loud, messy tears.

She doesn’t know what to do, really, doesn’t know how to comfort him—she can’t remember when she last comforted anyone. “Stop crying,” she orders instead. “Those tears won’t get you anything.”

Incredibly, it works. Whether it’s the shock of being spoken to so harshly, or they were only crocodile tears, she doesn’t know, and doesn’t care. What matters is that he’s finally stopped, and she can actually try and fix this mess now.

“Where’s my mama?” he demands, glaring at her distrustfully. Good, that’s an instinct that will keep him alive someday. “If you want a ransom, then—then Papa says that he won’t pay. Says I’m too much trouble, so you should—you should really just take me home, or else—or else he’ll come here and he’ll kill you.” He lifts his chin defiantly to punctuate his statement.

Well. That’s a lot to unpack, but she’s going to go ahead and shelve that for now. “I haven’t kidnapped you,” she says irritably, then considers the best way to break it to him.

…There is no best way, so she decides not to.

“Then where am I? And who are you?”

“That’s not important. Now come here,” she says, advancing on him and readying a spell that will hopefully reverse the effects of the serum.

He shakes his head, shrinking back further against the wall. His eyes flick between her and the door, and she’s guessing he’s about to make a run for it.

She stops, sinking into a crouch so that they’re on eye level. “Jaskier. It’s very important that I do this. You have a spell placed on you and I need to break it,” she explains.

“A spell?” Contrary to what any sane person would think when told they’ve been bespelled, Jaskier is wide-eyed and excited, the same look he gets as an adult whenever he senses a good story coming on. “What kind?”

“A dangerous one.” She hates to squash that light in his eyes, but it’s true—she doesn’t know what other side effects it might have. She needs to reverse it sooner rather than later—gods forbid it becomes permanent. “Now will you please come here? I’m a sorceress, and I can help.”

He nods, pushing away from the wall and coming to sit in front of her, legs crossed.

“You might feel a tingling, or even a bit of hurt,” she warns, and he nods again, his face creasing in worry and determination.

She’s just about to start when—“Can I hold your hand?” he blurts out. “Mama lets me hold her hand when I—”

She takes his hand before he can launch into some inane explanation. His hand is warm and delicate in hers, no trace of lute callouses to be found. He brightens immediately, gently squeezing their fingers together.

Her eyes, traitors, are getting misty. She angrily clears her throat and begins to cast—the sooner she can reverse this, the better.

Yennefer tries a simple reversal, first. Generic, easy, and evidently not likely to work. No matter. She lets it go and pulls forth another—a spell of speed, to hasten his aging. It fights against her, like drawing a bow, getting more and more difficult as she progresses—she lets that one go, too, lest it snap in her hands like a bowstring rebounding.

Spell after spell after spell, getting more and more complex as she goes, but none work. “Fuck!” she roars as her latest attempt fails, once again.

“Madame Sorceress?” Jaskier asks, brow creasing, worry creeping in. “Is it—did it work?”

“No,” Yennefer replies, and sighs, because she knows what she has to do. Who better to break a curse, after all, than a witcher?

--

“You’re shitting me,” is the first thing Geralt says after Yennefer explains the situation.

“Does it look like I’m kidding?” Yennefer yells, while Jaskier cringes behind her skirts. Despite his excitement at getting to meet a real life witcher, the actual experience has since proven to be a bit much for him. “I wouldn’t be here if I had any other choice, believe me,” she bites out, and Geralt winces, but wisely chooses not to comment.

“De-aged, then?” Geralt asks, sinking down onto his heels. “You can call me Geralt,” he says, and Jaskier peeks out at him.

“Julian,” Jaskier answers, and Yennefer remembers him introducing himself as such to the dwarves. “You’re a witcher?”

“I am,” Geralt nods. “I’m here to help. Did Yennefer explain what’s going on?”

“She said I had a spell on me. But I don’t feel spelled.”

“Mhmm. They can be tricky like that,” Geralt offers.

“Can we get on with it?” Yennefer asks. “This is all very nice, but we still don’t know what the side effects may be.”

“Fine,” Geralt says, standing up and holding out a hand to Jaskier. “Julian, why don’t you come meet my horse.” Jaskier lights up, latching onto Geralt immediately. Yennefer tries not to mourn the loss—why would she? She’s glad to be rid of the annoying little shit, she tells herself.

Geralt gets him situated with Roach, petting gently over her neck and mane, before returning to Yennefer. “I’ve only ever heard of this happening once before,” he begins. “Woman walked into the woods on An Skellig, came out a little girl.”

“And what happened to her?”

“Locals were stumped, until they remembered the old songs. Tír na nÓg.”

Yennefer scoffs. “Skellige fairy tales? That’s all you’ve got?”

“It’s not just a tale. They took her to the bridge during fog season, let her walk across, and she returned three days later all grown up, and no memory of it.”

Yennefer closes her eyes. It’s the only lead they’ve got, and they both know it. “Skellige it is, then. I can’t portal us all and Roach there, though.”

“Good. I hate portals. We’ll head to Novigrad, catch a merchant ship.”

Setting out on the road together is surprisingly easy. Though the fiery passion between them has simmered down, Yennefer still finds she enjoys Geralt’s company, when she forgets to be angry at him. It helps to have Jaskier there as a buffer, oddly enough—Geralt seems to sense her moods keenly, and often makes himself scarce, taking Jaskier with him to identify herbs as they walk, or carrying him on his shoulders as Jaskier tries to reach the lowest branches of the fruit trees they pass.

And sometimes she finds herself alone with Jaskier when Geralt is off hunting, or tending to Roach, or doing whatever the fuck it is he does when he’s alone. He proves to be, if not a scintillating conversational partner, very eager to learn, especially when she explains magical theories to him.

“When I grow up, I want to be a sorceress!” he proclaims one night, and she can’t help but smile.

“What about a witcher? Last I recall, you wanted to be a witcher yesterday,” she teases.

“I can do both!” Jaskier insists. “A witcher-sorceress. They’ll write songs about me!”

He never really has changed, has he?

--

The journey to An Skellig is largely uneventful—there’s one exciting moment, when they spot a blue whale off the bow of the ship, but other than that, it’s a monotony of rolling waves and bouts of seasickness for Jaskier.

They’re all glad to set foot on dry land when they finally do. They’re so close that Yennefer can taste it—though she can’t deny that young Julian has grown on her, and she’ll almost be sad to see him gone.

She swallows her feeling and continues on, trekking through the woods as Geralt leads them to the bridge to Tír na nÓg. The temperature drops as they go, until Jaskier is shivering atop Roach. Yennefer conjures a cloak for him with hardly a thought, and he throws a grateful smile at her.

They keep on, the forest growing darker, and just when she’s about to demand that they stop for the night and continue on tomorrow, the trees before them break, revealing a breathtaking view.

An arched bridge spans a perfectly placid lake ringed by trees, a fine mist overlaying the whole scene. This must be it—the bridge to Tír na nÓg, the land of youth.

Geralt has instructed Jaskier on what to do over the course of their journey, of course—for neither of them can accompany him. He has to face this trial alone. “Are you ready?” Geralt asks, helping Jaskier down from Roach. Jaskier nods, little face screwed in determination.

Anxiety flutters at Yennefer’s throat as she watches him cross the bridge, and she’s about ready to call it off, but Geralt holds her back. “Let him go,” he says quietly.

Jaskier disappears into the mist, and they begin their wait.

--

It turns out to be not very long at all. The sun is just only beginning to rise when Geralt rouses from his meditation, waking Yennefer as well. He looks out across the bridge, witcher senses focused on something Yennefer can’t.

And then Jaskier appears, back to his normal, adult self, grinning brightly. “Geralt! Yennefer!” he shouts, and breaks into a run. Geralt catches him as he leaps, drawing the witcher into a tight hug. It only lasts a few seconds, and then Jaskier is turning to Yennefer and pulling her into a hug as well. She stiffens, but doesn’t pull away.

“Thank you both for taking care of me. I know I couldn’t have been the easiest child,” he says wryly.

“You were fine,” Geralt says, at the same time Yennefer replies, “I don’t know, you might have been preferable as a child.”

“Rude,” Jaskier pouts, but he’s still hugging her.

There’s still so much they need to talk about—that damned mountain, for one—but right now, it doesn’t feel nearly so important. It’s enough to have this moment of peace, the three of them all reunited and as they should be.

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

The final two chapters of Always a Witcher are up and the Where There's a Witcher series has come to an end! I wrote the first chapter of Where There’s a Witcher in about two hours while waiting for my takeout on New Year’s Eve 2019 after bingeing all of season 1 in a day. It was the first thing I’d written in years and I never expected to finish the chapter, never mind the entire fic. I never expected so many people to enjoy it. I definitely never expected it to turn into a nine-part, 250K word series. Thank you to everyone who has left comments and kudos, especially those of you who have been with me since the beginning. I appreciate all of you.

Excerpt: Jaskier can’t look away from Geralt’s beautiful brown eyes as he braces for the agony that he knows is coming. He’s under no illusions that he’ll be one of the few who survive the Grasses. He’s about to die horribly, but he hopes that it will be enough to satisfy Micah’s thirst for revenge. If Jaskier can save Yennefer and Geralt from a painful, pointless death, then it will all be worth it.

It’s just hard to remember that as the needle gets closer to his arm and he struggles to keep his composure. He knows his fragile hold on his dignity won’t last long—once the pain starts, he’ll cry and scream and piss himself the same as anyone else undergoing the Grasses—but he wants Geralt to remember him as calm and composed. He’s glad that his partner can’t hear his heart pounding and smell his terror.

One of the witchers shouts a warning and Jaskier’s head jerks up to see Eskel and Triss come lurching through a portal. Eskel snarls and hurls an Aard at Micah. The witcher is thrown backwards, the vial of Grasses tumbling out of his hands. Jaskier hears the sound of glass shattering. Hands raised to cast a spell, Triss starts towards the witchers surrounding Yennefer. When Jaskier looks around frantically for Geralt, he sees that Coën, Vesemir, Tissaia, and Sabrina have portaled in and Coën and Vesemir are fighting Helene and Cara while Tissaia and Sabrina go to assist Triss and Yennefer.

Calanthe’s face appears over his and Jaskier can’t stop a yelp from escaping his lips.

“Good to see you too, kid.” She saws through the straps holding him down with a hunting knife. “Now get the fuck out of here.”

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

And Do I Dream Again?

We’re throwing it WAY back to the early 2000′s with this one, guys. One of my first hyperfixations crossed over with my latest; poetic, really. I also dug into my Weird Memories archive and remembered that we used to make banners for our fics back in the fanfic.net days (I’m old as hell and I’ve been doing this for a long time). So...without further ado, the first story in my A Very Bouncey Halloween series:

Jaskier perched on the velvet-padded stool in front of his dressing room mirror and ran a brush through his soft brown hair. He hoped to remove the curls it had been pulled into for the performance and return it to its normal fluffy mess; unfortunately that wasn’t entirely possible, the pomade his costumer had applied was too thick. 

Once his chestnut locks were as silky smooth as they were going to get, Jaskier placed the silver brush back on the tabletop and sighed. The Phantom had left him another plain red rose with a plain black ribbon around the stem. No note. No name. Just Madame Yennefer’s quiet, “He was pleased with you.” 

A whisper in passing.

Valdo interrupted the young starlet’s thoughts when he poked his head in the door and smiled brightly. Jaskier pulled his delicate white dressing gown closer around his shoulders and chest, hiding whatever skin he could despite its laciness. An ingénue’s aesthetic did not always lend itself well to preserving one’s modesty, ironically enough.

“You did wonderfully tonight, my sweet,” the Viscount purred from his place in the doorway.

“Thank you.”

“Could I have the honor of escorting you to a late dinner?”

Jaskier was about to turn him down outright when he struck upon a very particular thought. If his Angel of Music was as possessive as Jaskier hoped, surely he’d step forward and show his face to deter the Viscount. If the Phantom thought his claim on the pretty opera prodigy was being threatened then perhaps he’d make an appearance. The scheming young starlet smiled softly and let his excited Angel-related blush do the work for him in regards to Valdo Marx, “That would be lovely, Viscount Valdo.”

The mustachioed cavalier beamed. “I’ll have my footmen bring the carriage around.”

And then he disappeared back out the door.

Jaskier turned towards his mirror, still clutching the robe around his shoulders tightly to keep it closed. He wished desperately that he hadn’t changed out of his costume before the Viscount arrived at his door. Valdo had all the appearance of a gentleman, and he’d been kind enough when they were both children, but something about the way he’d looked at Jaskier in such a state of undress, like he was hungry… 

The prodigy shivered and ran his hands up and down his upper arms for both comfort and warmth. The corset around his middle felt unusually tight as he stood to get dressed in his street-clothes. If he was to meet with the creepy young Viscount for dinner then he’d need to be dressed.

Before he could move an inch, however, a cold wind swept through the dressing room and doused the candles. Jaskier gasped and let his hands fall to his sides. Had his plan really worked so well? Had his Angel decided to step out of the darkness and finally show him the face behind the roses?

The deep, familiar rumble of his tutor’s baritone seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, filling the pitch dark room with sound: “Insolent boy, this slave of fashion, basking in your glory! Insolent fool, your brave young suitor; sharing in my triumph!”

The possessive note in his Angel’s voice sent a shiver down Jaskier’s spine and he replied quickly, already halfway under the Phantom’s dizzying spell: “Angel, I hear you! Speak, I listen; stay by my side and guide me. My soul was weak and I wished…” - the boy shook his head to clear the thought away - “Forgive me. Enter at last, Master.”

“Flattering child,” the Angel chuckled darkly. “You shall know me soon and see why I hide my face in shadow. You shall understand at last why I have not let you lay such innocent eyes upon me in all these years.”

“Yes,” Jaskier breathed, stepping forward into the embrace of darkness. From behind the two-way mirror on the wall, Geralt gasped softly. He felt his heartbeat double in speed. The longing on his flower’s face was exquisite. It lit a flame in the composer that could not be dampened by the mists of any Paris catacomb. The boy cast his eyes around the dark room, searching for his tutor, “I want to see your face, my Angel. Don’t tease me any longer with your pretty words. I’m tired of spending my nights alone, Phantom.”

Geralt was going to fall to his knees and cry if the boy said another word, so he interrupted: “Look at your face in the mirror.”

Jaskier turned to the full-length mirror on the wall and saw a light shimmering faintly from behind the glass. He reached out involuntarily and his eyes went wide with confusion. There was definitely a figure there...a tall, broad-shouldered man standing just beyond the wavy glass wall. He was holding out his hand in Jaskier’s direction. The singer’s ghostly, lace-clad reflection stared back at him with hazy vision, enthralled entirely by his Angel’s presence.

“Angel of Music, hide no longer!” Jaskier begged, stepping forward again. “Let me see you, please!” 

“Come to your Angel of Music,” the figure in the glass beckoned, waving him forward with that broad, outstretched hand. Further into the room. Into the dark.

Jaskier placed one delicately slippered foot in front of the other, crossing the carpet in a slow but determined line. He tried to keep his legs from tangling with his dressing gown as he moved, slipping it open a bit to reveal his mostly-bare legs. Geralt bit his lip at the sight of all that skin, too much and too little at the same time. Gods, how he wanted to touch the younger man. Hold him. Please him endlessly. 

Jaskier’s eyes never wavered from the figure in the mirror. His Angel had finally come for him and he wasn’t about to waste the chance to see his tutor up close. To feel his Angel’s hands against him. He reached out towards the glass and the white silk of his robe slipped easily from his shoulder, baring a swathe of pale skin. 

Geralt hadn’t been aware, until that very moment, that someone could feel both predatory and terrified at the same moment. He wanted to take Jaskier away and hide him beneath the Opera house forever where nobody could ever touch him again; but oh, how sinful would it be to keep his talented student sequestered from the sun. He didn’t want to be rejected. He didn’t want the boy to see his face, his hideously scarred face and strange white hair, and turn from him in terror. He wouldn’t be able to live through that. 

And then…

“Jaskier!” 

Fuck. That stupid little Viscount was going to ruin everything Geralt had worked for! Had waited for! Had prayed and begged and yearned for!

But the starlet didn’t turn around. 

The posh young fool pounded against the strong mahogany of Jaskier’s dressing room door, screaming his head off to get the opera star’s attention but Jaskier’s bright blue eyes stayed trained on the composer’s outstretched hand. His gaze was glassy and out-of-focus. 

Hypnotised by chance, Geralt mused. I probably should have expected that, given the circumstances and the usual nature of our meetings.

It had been months since the Phantom of the opera last had to hypnotize his prized pupil; and it was only to keep him from getting too close to his lair.

Now his darling little flower, the boy whose voice he’d trained from good to gorgeous, was standing willingly before him. His face was void of anything but devotion. His eyes were misty and his lips were parted oh-so-sweetly as he stood before his Angel, utterly enthralled. The decadent white lace of his dressing gown had fallen from one of his shoulders, baring not only his entire left collarbone but the long, statuesque expanse of his neck as well. Geralt took his flower’s pale, rose-petal soft hand in his larger, more calloused one and whispered, “Will you come with your Angel of Music?”

Jaskier nodded and breathed out a soft, pleading: “Yes. Take me, Angel.”

Geralt pulled the younger man’s robe back over his shoulder to return him to a state of oddly indecent modesty before grabbing up the torch and turning his back on the dressing room entirely. Jaskier followed behind as they walked, the gentle whispering swish of his robe’s lacy train a constant reminder of his presence. You are taking Persephone down to the Underworld, a little voice at the corner of Geralt’s mind whispered. You are pulling your flower away from the light of the sun. 

He shook away his guilt and squeezed the starlet’s hand. Jaskier squeezed back instantly, firmly, and any doubt left in the composer’s mind flew clean away. He wants me back, the older man realized. He came with me into the Underworld. 

They rounded the final curving corner of the low, quickly-dampening stone hall and came upon Roach. The trusty mare was waiting as patiently as ever where Geralt had left her bridle fastened to the wall and she perked up her ears when her master approached. The opera ghost lifted his muse up into Roach’s saddle and nervously met Jaskier’s blue eyes with his malformed gold ones, “Sing once again with me our strange duet.”

“Your power over me grows stronger yet,” Jaskier replied easily, finishing the rhyme of a song Geralt had once composed for him. His hand reached down to cup the side of the Phantom’s face that wasn’t hidden by the white plaster mask. Geralt flinched away but Jaskier paid the movement no mind, continuing to caress him wherever he could reach. “Oh, my sweet Angel.”

The composer turned away, leading Roach down the echoing hallway as quickly as possible. He tried not to glance back at his flower too often, afraid of having his intentions misunderstood by the drowsy-looking boy but oh - the way Jaskier looked sitting astride the horse with his stockings still fastened above his knees and his underthings only barely reaching to meet them. The way his dressing gown, all thin white silk and fine lace details, cascaded down around his hips and spilled over Roach… “Fuck.”

“My Angel?” he inquired. He sounded half asleep and Geralt bit his lip in shame. It wasn’t right to look at someone like that without their permission, first. He’d apologize later. 

“Nothing, my little flower. Would you sing for me?”

They’d reached the shore of the underground creek that cut through Paris. It wasn’t the sewer but it wasn’t exactly nice either. Geralt swung Jaskier down from Roach and into the boat, settling him back against a pile of velvet pillows gathered (stolen) just for this occasion. He wanted his love to be comfortable. He wanted the boy to return once his tutor gave him back to the outside world.

Because Jaskier could not be kept away from the sun. From the stage. From the adoration of the Paris elite.

No, Jaskier was destined to succeed. 

Jaskier sang through the final notes of the aria he’d performed earlier at the Gala, daring to push his voice further and pitch the notes higher than was written. It sounded heavenly as it rang and bounced off the curved brick walls of the tunnel system. Geralt knew his home would never sound this lovely again and he marveled in it for a moment. 

“Sing for me!”

Jaskier went ever higher, his face turning pink with the effort of sustaining the song. He gasped for breath between notes. 

“Sing, my flower! Sing for me!” Geralt demanded, rowing the tiny boat closer to his odd little home. Jaskier was so caught up in pleasing his Angel, his tutor, his Master, that he didn’t pay attention to how constricting his corset was or how little air he’d actually been taking in. 

The desperate opera singer finished out the final two notes of his aria as strongly and loudly as the rest before he slumped, unconscious, to the floor of the boat. 

The phantom dropped to his knees, abandoning the oar completely. He gathered the younger man into his arms and laughed in shock. His fingers paused at Jaskier’s neck to feel his pulse. He was alive. He would be fine. He’d been so eager to impress that he had run himself out of air. 

“The little fool,” Geralt chuckled, settling him against the pillows again to resume rowing. “I’m fucked.”

---

Jaskier’s eyes blinked open slowly, surveying the unfamiliar bed he’d found himself in. “Angel?” he called nervously. There was no reply, but in the distance he could hear an organ playing quietly. Jaskier stood and stepped gracefully from the bed, summoning up all his greatest charms to impress his teacher. 

When he crossed the floor and ducked into the antechamber he gasped; the Phantom wasn’t hideous at all. He wasn’t a hunchback like Triss had suggested. He wasn’t deformed like Firman claimed. His Angel’s hair was long and white, swept halfway up and away from his face while the other half hung to sweep against his shoulders. Jaskier knew already that his eyes were deep honey-gold and slit like a cat’s; they had haunted his dreams before. 

He had seen them in Box Five before. Watching him sing. 

“Angel!”

“Jaskier!”

The music stopped as his darling Phantom rushed to reach his side, arms outstretched to steady him if necessary. Jaskier thrilled at the attentiveness of his soon-to-be-lover (he hoped) and let himself fall bodily against the Phantom’s chest. His head fit perfectly against the older man’s broad shoulder and he sighed contentedly as he settled into place. “I thought you’d never show me your face.”

“I still haven’t.”

“Let me see,” the brunette pleaded, reaching for the edge of the mask where it sat on Geralt’s face. The composer turned away and grasped Jaskier firmly by the wrist. His grip sat just on the edge of painful and Jaskier bore it bravely. If he had to prove himself than by gods he most certainly would. “I want to see you, Phantom. I want to know your name and your face, truly.”

“You’ll… I don’t want you to leave yet,” Geralt whispered brokenly. Jaskier’s heart ached for this man, the man who had taught him to sing so beautifully. Surely the only thing beneath the mask could be more beauty?

“I’m not scared of you,” he reassured. “I love you, my Angel. Can’t you tell? I’ve been waiting for you for years, now.”

“You were merely a boy, then.”

“You aren’t much older than I am,” Jaskier huffed. “What, six years? Maybe seven?”

“Closer to ten.”

“And if I hadn’t been orphaned so terribly young then I would have been married at fourteen,” Jaskier reminded his tutor, whose face had turned pink beneath his covering. “I was a noble’s son, my dear. Please let me see you.”

Geralt sighed and removed the mask, baring the scar that marred one half of his otherwise very attractive face. Jaskier’s fingertip traced feather-light across the surface of his wrinkled skin. He didn’t flinch this time.

“Beautiful,” the boy muttered. “You’re so beautiful, my love.”

“My love,” Geralt sobbed, burying his face in the younger man’s neck. “My name is Geralt.”

“Geralt,” the prodigy whispered softly, like a prayer. “My sweet, perfect Geralt. You have shone so brightly in the darkness of my life, darling Geralt. You must know that I love you deeply and dearly.”

“As I love you,” the Phantom admitted. This had been more than he’d ever hoped for. Tolerance he was prepared for. Tolerance he understood. Reciprocity? Acceptance? He was terrified and thrilled and giddy.

“You are brighter than all the stars in the sky,” Jaskier beamed, pressing his lips to the opera ghost’s. Geralt kissed back, pressing their bodies together from hips to shoulders. Feeling him.

“You are my little flower,” Geralt stated, pressing another soft kiss to the boy’s forehead. 

“Come,” the starlet insisted, pulling away and tugging at his hand. “If I am to be your virgin sacrifice in the pits of this Parisian Hell then I intend to enjoy it thoroughly.”

The Phantom laughed and followed his darling into the bedchamber. 

[acemoppet]

16 Yengilla 🥺

Hey Aaliyah!! Sorry this is so late btw- I got way too involved by Yen and Fringilla bonding over lack of accomodations for schoolwork, but c’est la vie I guess. 

16.) One person pouting, only to have it removed by a kiss from the other person.

———

“It’s not fair!” Fringilla says, scowling when her potion doesn’t bubble like it’s supposed to. “How are you so good at this?”

“Practice,” Yennefer says, sing-songing in the way she knows Fringilla just hates. She can’t help but annoy the girl- Fringilla’s always been so good at everything she does at Aretuza. 

Probably because her great-uncle is a mage, Yennefer had thought bitterly many a time. So it’s gratifying now to see something she’s not good at. 

...or it would be, had it not been Yennefer’s job to make sure her potion skills were up to par. Honestly, between this and the tutoring Tissaia has her do, you’d think she was trying to make Yennefer Aretuza’s next professor or something!

“Alright,” Yennefer says finally, trying to keep the sigh out of her voice. “Show me your process.”

Fringilla blinks. “You want me to make this potion again?”

Yennefer understands her disbelief- under ideal conditions, the potion takes about an hour to make, and Fringilla’s already spent nearly two trying to make this failed batch. Still…

“It’ll be the fastest way to help you,” Yennefer says, briskly snapping on a pair of potion gloves. “Come on, we don’t have time to waste.”

Between the two of them, they manage to divvy up reagent preparation quite nicely. Occasionally, Yennefer looks over to where Fringilla is grinding her petals, but she’s doing it correctly- perfectly textbook, even! 

Strange, Yennefer thinks as she cuts and guts the necessary stems. Problems as big as the ones Fringilla’s been having usually stem from faulty reagent prep, but if she’s doing that correctly, then what-

And then they get to the portion where Fringilla has to lift her small cauldron over the fire, and it all snaps into place. 

“You can’t lift your cauldron into position properly, can you?” Yennefer says, eyes fixed on Fringilla’s good hand where she’s clutching the cauldron for dear life. Her other hand, the one she’d withered on their first day here, hangs limply at her side. “Why didn’t you ever ask for help?”

As soon as the words fall from Yennefer’s mouth, she knows she’s made a mistake. The seldom-seen anger on Fringilla’s face just underlines that fact. 

“I did,” she spits, slowly lowering her cauldron to the ground with a shaky hand. “And Tissaia never did anything- just said I had to work hard and catch up because this level of quality was ‘unacceptable’.”

Yennefer blinks in shock, but then she remembers her own struggles to get the help she needed- her back didn’t allow her to perform the more difficult physical tasks, and she’d lobbied for ages trying to get the accommodations she’d needed for the classes. She’d finally gotten them when she’d told Tissaia it looked like the Rectoress had wanted her to fail, calling her teaching skills into question- she’s quite touchy about those, Yennefer’s found. 

Fringilla is… scared of Tissaia. All the students in their year know this. None of them are quite sure why, but it’s evident in the way she often goes rigid around the Rectoress, in the way her eyes go wide and white, darting from wall to wall as she tries to look away. No wonder she’d not been able to get accommodations from Tissaia.

Yennefer’s not one for pity- she’s tasted enough of it from others to know she hates it. What she does next is not pity- it’s simple empathy.

“Stay here,” she says, walking towards the door. She takes a quick look into the hall- good, no one’s around- before shutting the door closed and locking it tight. 

“What are you doing?” Fringilla says, eyes darting over to the closed door. “Yenna, what-”

“Try it now,” Yennefer says. “But use the lifting spell we learned last year.”

Fringilla gapes. “Tissaia’s told us not to use that!” she exclaims, eyes wide in shock. “She said it interfered with the potions!”

“She lied,” Yennefer says simply. “It’s just to force us to do it the hard way- something about how that builds character supposedly.”

“No,” Fringilla frowns. “She wouldn’t do that… would she?”

Yennefer huffs and goes to sit on a stool. Gods, her back is killing her. “Believe me or not, there’s no way either you or I can lift that cauldron without the spell.”

She’s about to crack, Yennefer can just feel it. Still… “How do you know she’s lying?”

Yennefer looks at her dead on. “Because she told me.”

As her words pass over Fringilla, the girl thins her lips and her eyes go sad. For a moment, Yennefer is filled with pity- Yennefer’s not trusted an adult for years now, but Fringilla’s not like her. The girl actually does trust adults- or most of them, anyways- despite all the ones at Aretuza continuously showing that they’d rather throw the students into the fire to see them rise or die. 

If she closes her eyes, she can still taste the ozone in the air from the lake of eels underneath this wretched place.

“Alright.”

Yennefer jolts back to the present. “Hm?”

“I said, ‘alright’,” Fringilla says, voice loud and defiant. She flinches at the echoes and quiets down her next sentence. “I’ll do the spell. You told me to.”

I’m trusting you, Yenna, Yennefer catches from her thoughts, baffling but wondrous before she turns away and casts the spell.

Chaos parts- it’s always a thrill to see the silver threads of the world bending and shifting. They shine against the tan of Fringilla’s palm, the brown of her fingers. What would those fingers look like, Yennefer wonders, next to mine?

“What next?” 

Yennefer jumps. For some reason, heat rises in her face- Fringilla doesn’t seem to notice, too focused on the textbook next to her. 

She breathes in, shaking the thoughts from her head. “Get the reagents ready. We’ll need to…”

The next hour goes by fast- it’s mostly a lot of stirring, with an occasional flick of their fingers to keep the flame alive. They should be using their fire tools, but Yennefer manages to make a very good case- “what’s a little more magic?”- and Fringilla seems to come around. At the very least, she doesn’t protest when Yennefer turns up the flame again.

Finally, they have their potion- a smooth, pearlescent concoction which is supposed to temporarily smooth away wrinkles and facial blemishes. The potion is something they’ll sell to court ladies and lords, to keep them from looking weak and old. It’s not that useful for them- they’re too young for wrinkles, and they’ll never get them once they Ascend. 

...They do have blemishes though.

“Shall I try it, then?” Yennefer says, wafting the potion. 

“Shouldn’t I try it?” Fringilla says. “I mean, it is my potion after all.”

“You?” Yennefer snorts. “We couldn’t test it on you, what would you need it for?”

Fringilla frowns- no, pouts. “Don’t be mean, Yennefer,” she says curtly. 

Yennefer gapes. “I’m not trying to be mean!” she protests. “Your face is flawless, Fringilla!”

“Not flawless enough to land a Ban Ard boy,” Fringilla scoffs.

...Wait, what?

“Fringilla,” Yennefer starts slowly, trying to put the pieces together. “Are you- do you like Istredd?”

“What- no!”

“Then?”

“I just-” Fringilla blows out her cheeks and frowns- no, pouts. “I just… want to be wanted,” she says softly, like she doesn’t really want Yennefer to hear.

But Yennefer does, and she is baffled. 

“Wanted?” she repeats, utterly confused, and a little irritated, actually. With the exception of Tissaia, Fringilla is the teacher’s pet of their year- why the fuck would she think she’s not wanted?

Fringilla ducks her head and- is she- is she blushing? “You have Istredd,” she mumbles. “And Sabrina has… well, just about everyone she wants. I’m the only one who doesn’t.”

That’s… certainly not untrue. All of the girls their year have had some form of lover at one point during their time here- all except for Fringilla. But Yennefer had always thought that was by choice, because really, who wouldn’t want to step out with Fringilla?

Fringilla, who’s near the top of their class, who’s perhaps the smartest in their year. Fringilla, who knocked over at least one Ban Ard boy when she smiled at him, and possibly one of their Aretuza juniors as well. Fringilla, whose sense of humor is hidden most of the time, but has made her and Sabrina devolve into stitches on the rare occasion she does break it out.

...Fringilla, who Yennefer’s just realizing she might have a crush on. Fuck. 

“You’re wanted, Fringilla,” Yennefer says belatedly, but even as she says it, she knows it’ll fall on deaf ears.

Fringilla’s pout deepens. “Don’t pity me,” she says, turning away.

“I’m not,” Yennefer protests. “I- here, let me show you.”

And before she can overthink it, she takes Fringilla’s face in her hands and kisses her.

It’s soft at first, and a bit dry. Both of their lips are chapped from spending the entire day down in the cold potions room, but then Yennefer tilts her head and their mouths slot together, and it’s good, it’s good, it’s good-

Fringilla pushes her off.

“What the hell, Yennefer?” she spits, face twisted in anger. Fuck, but it only makes her prettier. “What was that?”

Yennefer blinks, taken aback. “I- sorry, did you not want that?”

“No!” Fringilla says, growling. “Why the- why the fuck would you try to kiss me?”

Yennefer inhales, trying to keep the weird, shocky ache in her ribs contained. “I’m sorry,” she says again, not knowing what else to say. 

Fringilla huffs. “You should be.”

Silence falls over the room. There’s a steady drip-drip-drip from one of the faucets- they need to shut it off before they leave, Yennefer thinks hazily, doing her best to swallow around the ache that’s slowly grabbed a hold of her lungs and throat. 

“You need to tell Istredd.”

Yennefer blinks. “What?”

Fringilla glares at her, eyes suspiciously shiny. “You need to tell Istredd,” she repeats, teeth gritted. “You’re going to tell him you- you cheated. If you don’t, I will.”

...Wait, what?

“Fringilla,” Yennefer says, “You’ve got the wrong idea- I didn’t cheat.”

“Like hell you didn’t!” And oh, Fringilla must be mad to her gills if she’s cursing this much- normally, you can’t even get her to say ‘shit’. “You just fucking kissed me- are you going to pretend that’s not cheating?”

 Ah. Well, Yennefer can’t really blame her- in a usual relationship, that would be considered cheating. In her and Istredd’s though…

“We talked it over a while back,” Yennefer explains. “We’re each other’s main partners, and probably always will be, but we’re ok with each other taking other partners if we wish.”

Fringilla blinks. “That- really?”

“...Does that bother you?” She’s not going to lie, it’s going to hurt if it does bother Fringilla. Not because she apparently likes her either, but because Fringilla’s been her friend for years, and to have her judge her…

“No!” Fringilla says. “I just. I never knew that was possible. Liking more than one person, I mean.”

Yennefer can certainly understand where that’s coming from. “Well,” she says, unapologetic. “It is.”

Fringilla nods. “Right.”

They lapse into silence then, and it’s so awkward that Yennefer wants to crawl out of her skin. She almost says something, anything to break the weird atmosphere, but Fringilla’s just… contemplating quietly. Yennefer doesn’t quite know what it is, but something tells her that the wait will be worth it.

And it is worth it, because Fringilla looks at her again, then leans in and says, “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Oh?” Yennefer says, just made a little bit breathless by the curve of Fringilla’s eyelashes, “Mind repeating it?”

Fringilla smiles, soft and maybe a little bit shy- it’s one of the cutest things Yennefer’s ever seen, and fuck if it doesn’t make her weak. “Why did you kiss me?”

“Because I wanted to,” Yennefer says immediately, startled by how raw her voice sounds. Because I want you, she doesn’t say.

Luckily, Fringilla seems satisfied by that answer, since her smile gets wider. “Do you… do you still…?”

To that, Yennefer just tugs her in again.