#i have to say though that between this news and geralt

[hirazuki]

Hi, just wanted you to ask about your tags under the post about Joseph Mawle: were those negative comments very critical of the actor made by fans or a report of what happened between him and the producers? It's not clear for me because the OP brought essentially more details from his co-stars, so i wonder if the fb page had more details from people who worked with him on the show. Thanks anyway for all the infos that you shared, because i have a hard time with this announcement and really need to feel that other people care too.

Hi anon!

The comments were made by a fan, who was essentially saying that the actor is greedy for wanting more screen time than he was given and he let his vanity get in the way of doing his duty by the audience, thereby depriving the audience of what they were due (i.e., his continued portrayal of Adar). As far as I know, there have been no further comments from the cast or crew or Amazon other than the two that OP shared.

You're welcome! I totally get it; Adar was literally the only part of the show I found myself enjoying so, even if I dislike the show as a whole, the wasted potential of his character is still a bummer.

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 79

Jaskier and Geralt have confessed and gotten together, and Jaskier couldn't be happier. It's like a dream come true, being able to kiss Geralt. Jaskier learns that Geralt isn't a big fan of PDA, a tad troublesome for him, but he'll learn and grow to be a better lover for his witcher! He just might forget and try to kiss him a few times before it actually stays in his noggin! However he also learned that Geralt.. Doesn't like talking about them in public. Or insinuating them in public. Jaskier can't even make dirty jokes or ask Geralt where they should go out on dates. Geralt hisses for him to stop talking about it and glances around. Jaskier has been longing to eat at this one fine restaurant in a crowded town for months, and they have a chance to! There's a table still open! With a vase of flowers, and candles, and a dark red tablecloth, and they're sat right next to a small stage where the performers play! Jaskier goes to sit down, only for Geralt to drag him out by the arm, saying that they can't eat there. Jaskier is of course asks if there's poison in the food, or a monster infesting the eatery, only to get a grunt. "Really, Geralt, why can't we eat there?" "We just... Can't." Jaskier just assumes the owners must be some sort of witcher-hating pricks who tried to... To sell Geralt their daughter in exchange for wanting him to kill something that doesn't need to be killed or... Or some other really hateable things. A pity, he's heard amazing things about that place.. But all is well! Soon enough, they head to an inn, and get settled in a room. Jaskier tries his best to seduce his boyfriend, but Geralt just glances around their room and shakes his head. "Not now." Jaskier shrugs, and heads down to play for some coin, and perhaps get a bit tipsy for the fun of it all. He wakes up the next morning with quite an awful headache, and a very annoyed-looking Geralt. Jaskier apologizes for going overboard with the drinks, but Geralt huffs and says that isn't what's upsetting him. What upset him is Drunk Jaskier telling people that he and Geralt are together. But come onnn! Everyone's been saying "The bard is fucking the butcher" for over a decade! Surely some villager's account of a drunk bard saying the same isn't worth all the fuss Geralt is making over it. Another night, Jaskier is sat by the campfire, idly strumming his lute. "Annnd even though today I had to hide in a tree~ I love my witcher, and my witcher loves me~" Geralt suddenly loses his focus and turns sharply to Jaskier. "That's a new song." "It's not a song, I'm just making things up for fun." "So it's not in your song journal?" "...No?" "Good." 'Good'? Jaskier could just play it off as another one of Geralt's teases about disliking his music, but something about this in particular made Jaskier feel nauseous. A week or so after that, Jaskier has finished his set and is excitedly skipping off to meet back up with Geralt when he overhears some conversation from where Geralt is sat. "Your bard sings well!" "He's not my bard." "No? I thought I heard you two were together." "No. Acquaintances at best. Hardly know him." Acquaintances at best? Acquaintances? Jaskier knows Geralt has been offput by the idea of telling people they are romantically involved, but he couldn't even muster up a 'No, we're just friends.' He's STILL not a 'friend'? That's when it clicks for Jaskier. Oh. Geralt's ashamed of him.

Is it because he's a man? Would Geralt be proud to show off his lover if his lover were female? Is it because of Jaskier's looks? He's been told he's rather attractive, but perhaps he looks quite small and delicate beside a witcher. He didn't think Geralt would care for such things, though. Perhaps it's his personality. Maybe the lighthearted remarks between the two of them were more barbed on Geralt's side than Jaskier at first thought. Maybe Geralt really hates his singing, or how much he talks, or how often he turns things into an innuendo. Is he just some quick fuck in the woods? The second they hit civilization he's not even a friend? Jaskier slips back up to their room, completely forgetting to let Geralt know where he is. Oh well. If Geralt gives a shit he can sniff out Jaskier's perfume. For now, Jaskier is going to curl up in their bed and try not to cry. Jaskier and Geralt have confessed and gotten together, and Geralt couldn't be happier. It's like a dream come true, being able to kiss Jaskier. But Geralt has to keep in mind how many enemies he has out there. Personal, blind hatred based on his reputation, blind hatred based on him being a witcher, the list goes on. Geralt worried for Jaskier enough as it is when they were best friends. Geralt would be powerless and completely devastated if anyone were to take Jaskier. Geralt would be putty in their hands if they so much as threatened the bard's life. Now that they're lovers? Geralt cringes to think at how many people would be chomping at the bit for an opportunity to kill the Butcher's one true love. To use him as a hostage for Geralt to do their bidding. For them to torture Jaskier in the hopes of learning things about Geralt. So Geralt makes a plan. He'll keep Jaskier at an arm's length whenever he thinks anyone could see or hear them. It's exceptionally hard not kissing the hell out of his bard whenever he feels like it, but he must practice restraint in order to keep him safe. Jaskier keeps making it harder on him, though. Kissing him, wanting to go eat at some romantic place, telling every soul he can how much he and Geralt are inseparable soulmates who can't live without one another, all in front of so many people. Any one of which could be just too loose-lipped. Any one of which could lead to a snowballing effect that ends in his beloved Jaskier's harm or death. Geralt just can't wait until Winter comes. He plans on bringing Jaskier with him, and they'll be able to do whatever they want the entire winter, with no fear.

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: Tonality [4]

Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader

previous chapter

Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!

A/N: a little more story, a little more tension, a little mor everything! what do you guys always, please mind the warnings, and enjoy!😊🥰 divider by @firefly-graphics​

 The Nilfgaardian banner snaps in the sharp, salt-laden breeze, the dark fabric bearing the crest of its namesake. The bright yellow sun mirrors the one in the cloudless sky above the keep. From your room, you can see their approach long before they reach the gates, a thin vein of black weaving through the countryside like a snake. The garrison pauses only briefly in the city, winding through the crowded streets in their pitch colored armor like a long satin ribbon. You grimace at the sight of them, swallowing against the sourness you feel growing at the back of your throat. 

 You do not know why the sight of them fills you with a dark foreboding, a shadow that looms in the space behind your thoughts. Perhaps it is the knowledge that you are expected to greet the Nilfgaardian envoy alongside your mother, the king, and the prince that makes your stomach curdle.  

“My Lady, should we not join their Majesties?” Kassandra’s voice draws you from your churning thoughts. “Her Highness would not be pleased if we were late.” You swallow the dry retort that your mother would not be pleased no matter what you did, and automatically feel guilt over the bitter thought. You grimace before nodding at Kassandra over your shoulder. 

 Nothing good will come of this. The feeling—no, the knowledge—is as familiar to you as your own name, appearing among your thoughts as if it had always been there. Only sorrow will come of this day. 

 “Are you alright, Your Grace?” 

 Your throat tight, you smile. “Y-yes.” I am grim without cause. You shake yourself, smoothing your hands down the stiff, unfamiliar dress. It’s new, gifted to you only this morning as your mother had informed you of her expectations. 

 “You’ll look lovely in this,” she had bade the servants to lay out the massive thing, a veritable ocean of fabric, with so many skirts and stays you find yourself amazed you can even move at all. You detest the restriction and corsetry of it all, fidgeting with a frustrated grimace as Kassandra opens the door. Your thoughts must be plain on your face, for she is quick to reassure you as you pass.

 “You are a vision, Your Grace,” she says, hurrying to your side as she closes the heavy door behind you. Despite your displeasure, her words do comfort you, and you offer Kassandra a watery smile in thanks. “I daresay you shall be the envy of every Lady in attendance.” 

 You laugh dryly. “Even you?” Kassandra’s response is unexpected—she shakes her head, pressing her lips together into a thin, apologetic smile.

 “No, my Lady.” She says softly. There is true pity in her eyes, which stings all the more. “Though there are many in His Majesty’s keep who would treat with the Gods themselves to take your place—and, exalted though it may be, I am not among them.” The words pass unspoken between you, true honesty masked only slightly by propriety. “I would not wish that for all the world.”

 The throne room is as packed with bodies as it was at your mother’s coronation only a few scant weeks prior, servants weaving deftly in and out of the crowd. It parts easily for you, people scrambling out of your path as you make your way toward the throne. Geralt stands to the king’s left, and you feel the weight of his gaze upon you so heavily it is as though he has touched you with his hand. 

 “My King. I trust you are well this morning?” He heaves a heavy sigh at your question, massaging the graying hair at his temple. 

 “As well as can be expected, given the circumstances.” King Vesemir graces you with a tired smile. “But I am glad these worries are mine. Would that they fall on mine own shoulders and save yours.” Of these troubles, you know only what little you have managed to glean from casual conversation and your own observations—the Lord of Nilfgaard has sent his envoy, along with a garrison of troops, to treat with the king. 

 Your mother scoffs. “You are a King, my love,” she says, tilting her regal head at him. “You can do nothing without rousing at least a little of the rabble.” 

 You take your place next to her, skirting around the prince with a wide berth. Your mother reaches for your hand, patting it as she nods approvingly at you.

 “You look as lovely as I thought you would.” Somehow, her complement makes you like your clothing even less. The dress is heavy and cumbersome, the corset laced so tight a deep breath makes the seams groan. 

 “It is the color.” Geralt’s interjection makes your mother’s smile thin and tighten, until the edges seem brittle like paper. “It suits you, sister.” Is there no line he will not cross? From behind his wide shield of plausible deniability he mocks you, his mouth quirking innocently as if he is unaware of the boundary he dances upon. Gracious acceptance is the only play you have, and he knows it as well. 

 “You are too kind, my Prince.” You clasp your hands together and face forward. It is surreal, almost, to see the calm with which he regards you now, when only a week ago he had raged at your door like a madman. Had you not seen it yourself, you would not think it possible. Though you would blame him for it, the nervous twisting of your stomach is not Geralt’s fault alone. The ill feeling that had taken root in your belly at the sight of the Nilfgaardian envoy still left you with a sour taste on your tongue, one that did not seem to wash away. 

 And the dreams…

 You shudder to think of them, the dark, creeping things that keep you awake long after the halls of the king’s keep have fallen silent. You have not wandered from your rooms again to your knowledge, but you’ve slept so little in the past week that you suspect it is less a matter of your self control and more the lack of opportunity. The nails on your fingers, hidden by the cumbersomely long sleeves of your dress, are bitten down to the quick. It is a new habit you’ve developed sitting in the crushing dark as you wait for the dreams to come. 

 Your father’s rotting face swims before you again. 

 Sugar sweet—  

 You twist the heavy fabric of your sleeves in your nervous hands as you stare hard at the stone floor between your feet. 

 “What troubles you, Little Doe?” Geralt’s voice is as much of a surprise as his proximity, his side lightly pressing against your own as he leans down. You drop your hands to your sides like deadweight, suddenly aware of his eye. 

 “And why would you think me troubled?” You ask curtly. The prince’s wolfish grin sends a strange, hot pulse straight to your core, one you vehemently try to ignore. You are under no pretense, you know what the prince is, who he is. He has gone out of his way to show you, and yet—

 “I am apt to know trouble when I see it.” 

 The throne room doors slam open, leaving you no time to respond as every eye is drawn to the entrance. The instant hush that falls over the room is so deep that the herald’s voice is like a crack of thunder. At the same time, your stomach tightens. The dark warning in your heart rings again like a bell, clear and true. Though you still do not quite grasp its meaning, the message is clear—whatever you’d been meant to avoid had now come to pass, leaving no room for escape or denial. 

 “Presenting His Lordship, Duke Emhyr of Nilfgaard!” The duke sweeps into the throne room, his ink-black cloak billowing behind him. There are two of his own guards flanking him in their telltale black armor, like pools of animated shadow. Their faces are hidden by their helms, the sides carved like griffin wings. 

 The duke stops before the throne, dropping down to one knee. 

 “My King.” His accented common turns the words up at the edges, almost like a question. “Hail.” His face is handsome but severe, high cheekbones, fierce, beady eyes, and a thin mouth that curls up at the corners, just like his words. There is a scar on his face, long and thin and jagged, stretching from his left temple to the right side of his chin. His already wan smile thins further as he turns to your mother. 

 “My Queen.” 

 “Lord Emhyr.” The duke’s smile is wan as he dips his head again. “I bid thee welcome. I trust you found the journey pleasant enough.” The words are empty pleasantries, merely frivolous formalities exchanged before the truth is allowed to be addressed. 

 “Aye, Majesty, as enjoyable as one can find a carriage journey.” He straightens back up. “I would extend my many congratulations on your union. The Gods themselves could not have delivered a more beautiful Queen.” 

 To your surprise, it is Geralt who speaks next. 

 “We did miss you at the celebration, my Lord.” The remark is meant to sound like a casual observation—you know it is not. “Quite a pity.”

 Emhyr’s jaw tics. “Indeed.” He looks over his left shoulder, and motions the guards forward. “My deepest regrets. As I previously expressed to His Majesty, my presence was required elsewhere. As I am sure you recall, we do share a border with the Elves.” He spits the word like a curse. “Occasionally those savages do need a good reminding of where their lands end, and ours begin, Your Grace.” 

 You shudder. There are few elves left south of the heavily policed Nilfgaardian border, but you have met some. Savages. The word makes your lip curl. They are rather fond of that word, aren’t they?

 “I did bring a—belated—wedding present.” Between the two of them, the guards haul forward a small black chest, the polished wood glinting in the light. He pulls back the lid, and a murmur travels through the gathered courtiers at the sight of the jewels. A small fortune in dark blue sapphires sits within. King Vesemir stands, bidding two of the ivory cloaked kings-guard forward to take the chest.

 “A most precious gift.”

 “The mines remain prosperous. Perhaps Her Highness might have them made into something befitting her loveliness.” A smile creases your mother’s ruby lips, but it is sharp enough to cut. Neither does it reach her narrowed eyes. 

 “We cannot thank you enough for your gracious gift, my Lord.” Her voice is delicate, like breaking glass. “But I do not believe you rode for six days to bear witness to my beauty.” You are left to wonder in the brief moments before Duke Emhyr answers. If he will allow the truth to be broached, or if he will flee from it like a rat from a burning ship. 

 “Indeed my Queen, I have not.” He casts a look around, as if the words he is about to speak are for everyone there, not just the king. “Your Grace, I come before you today with only the deepest respect for your will, authority, and wisdom.” Duke Emhyr chooses his words carefully. He chooses them as carefully as a mason did his stones, stacking each one meticulously on top of the other. “But I do admit my heart longs for clarity on this matter. 

 Not a season past, when His Majesty announced an end to his long mourning period, and indeed his intent to marry once more, I did put forth my own daughter as prospect.” His accusation takes shape, and you watch your mother’s face tighten, her fingers curling around the polished bone arm of her throne. “And before this very court, His Majesty agreed. I had imagined a shared future of prosperity and happiness between both our great houses. I mean no offense, and so I beg pardon—”

 “And yet you have given it.” Your mother’s expression remains placid—her voice less so. You can almost hear the icy words forming on her tongue as her lips part to speak again, but the king silences her, holding up one steady hand. 

 “I appreciate your candor, my Lord,” he leans forward. “But it is Vesemir who rules here, not Emhyr.” All chatter ceases, and the chamber is as quiet as the crypt beneath it. “The decision as to who it is I marry is mine—and mine alone.” King Vesemir stands, descending the short set of steps until he is level with the duke. “It is I who bears the burden of ensuring the prosperity and stability of this realm. And while I am ever thankful for the service you have provided it… you would do well to remember that fact, my Lord.” 

 “Of course, my King. I—I mean only for the betterment of the empire.” It is then that his eye falls to you. “I see no reason a match might not still be made—”

 “Then we shall speak no more about it.” You watch the duke’s jaw tighten, his lips thinning as he fights not to show his displeasure. 

 “As you will, Your Grace.” You have not heard the last of this matter, of that you are certain. A sinking feeling rises in your stomach, like you’ve tumbled freely over the edge of a cliff. There is no going back, the feeling seems to whisper, goosebumps erupting across your flesh. A path has been chosen now and you will walk it—

 “I thank you again for your generous gift, Lord Emhyr,” the dismissal is obvious in the king’s tone. 

 “The pleasure is mine, my liege.” The words sound broken in his mouth, like he’s chewed them up. A cold finger traces down your spine as his eyes meet yours again. “I thank you for your counsel.” 

 —

 The sky is dark, angry black clouds roiling above the keep. You’ve not seen much rainfall in Rivia since your arrival, but today the clouds above you seem full to bursting, the smell of the imminent downpour filling your nostrils. Still, you take your time as you stroll through the gardens, stopping every so often to enjoy the sight of flowers in bloom. 

 “You are enjoying the gardens today, my Lady,” Kassandra’s observance is gently made, though she looks worriedly up at the sky. 

 “I feel I must,” you reply, leaning down to inspect a half-closed bud. “Summer here is drawing to a close, and I must admit I fear the cold.” You offer her a small smile over your shoulder. 

 “Have you no winter in Redania?” She asks, wonder coloring her words. “The land of eternal summer indeed.” 

 “No snow,” you agree, shaking your head. “Tis more like… autumn.” There is a wistfulness to your words you cannot suppress, a longing that brings moisture to your eyes. In truth, you doubt it will matter how many years you spend here at court—Rivia will never feel like home. Kassandra smiles thoughtfully. 

 “I should like to see it, my Lady,” she says. “Twould not be a chore to accompany you—if you wished it so. The winter here is harsh, even within the city walls.” 

 “Aye, winter on the continent is no easy task to weather.” The two of you turn at the sound of a new voice to face the speaker. Duke Emhyr bows respectfully, removing his cap as he does so. “I did not mean to intrude—I find the gardens less familiar than I imagined,” he adds, a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “Might I trouble you for an escort?” 

 You had not seen the duke since his spectacle at court the day prior, the matter of which had the courtiers aflutter with gossip. You suppose you, like Duke Emhyr, had been equally blindsided in the matter of your mother’s courtship and her subsequent marriage. Nervously, you wonder if his feelings of dissatisfaction—and possible animosity—extend to you by proxy. Kassandra curtsies, and you nod, forcing a small, charitable smile onto your lips. 

 “O-of course, my Lord.” You reply. “I myself find the task of navigating the keep daunting, despite calling this place home.” Kassandra falls into step just behind you, and you must physically stop yourself from commanding her to walk beside you. Though you’ve little personal regard for the importance of blood and titles, you know here in Rivia those things matter above all else. The duke is more than happy to ignore her, his hawkish eyes weighing heavily on you. 

 “How long has it been since your arrival at the White Keep, if you will indulge my curiosity?” 

 “Nearly three months.” Though you have kept count of every passing day since your arrival, to say it aloud makes homesickness rear up in your chest. The duke clucks his tongue pityingly. 

 “Tis a shame. Redania is quite beautiful this time of year. I have had the pleasure of many a visit.” He clasps his hands behind his back and casts a look at the dreary sky. “Nilfgaard is my home, but I would be a liar if I said I did not envy the beauty of the southern jewel.” The wistfulness in his voice inspires thoughts of warm autumn nights scented with pine and faded sunlight. But a warning echoes in your heart at the false note in it, the one that reminds you of the coy, prying questions of your mother’s ladies in waiting, only cloaked in a cleverer disguise.

 “Indeed.” You round the corner of a hedge. “I have never seen snow, now that I think of it. I should much like to, now that I am older.” 

 “Never seen snow?” The duke echoes your words, replacing your simple desire with shock. “Though I would not speak ill of your late father—Redania has never seen a finer Regent—I do believe he kept you far too sheltered.” It takes effort to keep your smile from going thin at the mention of your father. As  if in response, a dull ache throbs in your chest. 

 “How lucky for us, then, that his death should bring me here.” You flick the words from your tongue like the lashing of a whip. There is a brief moment of dark satisfaction as the duke’s eyes widen, and his confident words falter. 

 “My sincerest apologies, Princess, I did not mean—”

 “No, of course not.” You reply, swallowing against the sudden lump in your throat. “Forgive me, Duke Emhyr. My father I are—were, quite close.” You offer him an apologetic smile. “Might we speak of something else?” 

 “Of course, of course. My deepest sympathies.” He casts a furtive glance in your direction. “I hope you have been enjoying your time here, despite the… unfortunate circumstances.” You nod primly—for what words do you have to  describe the aching emptiness that fills you at the thought that home is a distant             thing now, the memory of a place you no longer belong. 

 “I have found ways to occupy myself.” You feel as thin as your smile. “The White Keep is large, there are many ways to spend ones time.”

 “And Her Majesty has certainly taken to her role,” he continues. “She has taken to court as though she were born here.” There is a note of bitterness in his voice. “Has she spent much time in Rivia? Surely during His Majesty’s rather short courtship—”

 “I know little of my mother’s courtship,” you say flatly, your eyes narrowed. “If you wish to know about it, perhaps you should ask her.” This time, it is difficult to leash your ire. You grow tired of the duke’s probing, his thinly veiled attempts to pick information from conversation behind the shield of feigned ignorance.

 “Highness—”

 “I trust you will can your way from here.” There is an unfamiliar coldness that underscores your words, one that uncomfortably reminds you of your mother. It is like hearing her own voice from your mouth, leaving a sour taste on your tongue. “Lady Kassandra, l believe we should take our leave.” 

 “At once, My Lady.”

 You leave him at the entrance to the gardens in the courtyard, sweeping past as his eyes bore into your back. 

 —

 “How does it end?” You are sat before the fire, a book held tenuously in your hands. Your loose, traditional dress is folded beneath you primly as the flames dance in the hearth. “How does it end?” Your father repeats warmly, chuckling as he leans forward to rest a hand on your shoulder. “You stopped reading.” 

 You can’t quite recall where you were now, the words seeming to shift on the page as you squint at them. 

 “I… I don’t remember now,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at your father. Though the flames are bright, his face is shadowed, but you get the feeling that he is smiling. 

 “The princess has just met the wolf,” he replies. “She doesn’t know it yet, but he plans to devour her whole—body, and spirit.” You look down at the page. “She is careful, the princess, and clever, but the wolf is sly, and he is not the only thing she has to fear.” You do not know why, but his words fill you with an incomparable sorrow. 

 “What else does she have to fear? Is the wolf not enemy enough?” You are crying. You don’t know why, but you are, tears pouring down your face and dripping messily off of your chin to stain the pages with salt. 

 “Weep not, daughter. She may yet avoid his jaws—and if not that, then perhaps she might at least turn him to her will. But the peacock—she is her true enemy.” 

 “A bird?”

 “Yes, dear girl,” your father’s voice goes strangely quiet as the fire burns low in the hearth, and the sitting room is shrouded in gloom. “For while her pretty feathers distract you, her beak plucks out your eyes.” 

 You wake blearily, blinking in the darkness as you struggle back to wakefulness. Instead of your bed, you are knelt on the cold, stone floor in front of the half-dead hearth. The embers that still smolder within are not enough to give off true heat, and pins shoot through your legs when you struggle to your feet. It is frigid in here, and you shiver, clutching your thin nightgown tightly around yourself. 

 You’ve no memory of leaving your bed, nor of kneeling in front of the hearth, and you sniffle as you make your way back beneath the canopy above your bed. There is a familiar ache in your tight throat that feels like you’ve been crying, and when you lift a shaking hand to your cheek. 

 Your face is wet with tears.

 —

 Your mother strokes your head as you sob, your tears soaking into her gown. 

 “I—I fear sleep, I fear waking,” you rasp, wiping at your sore eyes with the back of one trembling hand. “T-there is no respite from them. I close my eyes in one place and open them in another—” A hiccoughing sob cuts the words in half. “Mother I fear I… I fear I shall go mad if I see father again. His face—!” You bury your head in her lap as another round of shuddering sobs wracks your limp body. 

 It has been years since you have sought your mother’s comfort like this, and in truth you cannot remember the last time it was even offered. She had been surprised to see you at her chamber door at this hour, disheveled and still clad in your nightgown, but she had let you in after you’d tearfully recounted the contents of your dreams. 

 She strokes your head. “Nightmares, my love. Nothing but terrors spun up by your mind—brought on from stress, no doubt.” Her hand is cool and comforting against your forehead. “I shall have the healer assemble something for you.” 

 “T-thank you, mother.” You offer her a watery smile.

 “Anything for you, my love.” She strokes your cheek affectionately, the bandage wrapped around her index finger rough against your skin. “I do so hate to hear of your suffering, I will do what I can to appease it.” You smile wider, even as you swallow back the inappropriately bitter feeling that says you have been suffering all this time regardless. This was the response you had desired from her all those weeks ago when you’d begged her to send you home—and now, for some reason, it feels… hollow. 

 “What happened to your finger?” You ask, and she sighs, waving her hand dismissively. 

 “A hairpin, nothing to worry yourself over.” You dry your eyes, dabbing at them with a handkerchief. Your mother barely acknowledges the timid knock at the door before the chambermaid pokes her head inside. 

 “Highness? H-His Majesty is here.” 

 Your mother does not look surprised to hear this. If anything, the corners of her mouth curl up into a sly smile for half an instant before she nods. 

 “I see. I shall see to him in a moment—” The maid squeals as the King himself pushes past her, his eyes wild. 

 “Thayet!” He calls your mother’s name with a hoarse, desperate voice. “I have waited over an hour for you—oh.” He seems to note your presence with all of the recognition one would give a fly. His bright, golden eyes are cloudy with confusion—as though he hasn’t the faintest idea who you are, or why you are there. Recognition finally lights in his eyes, and he nods at you. 

“Princess. It is… quite late,” he says slowly, as if he is only now realizing that fact himself. “Should you not be abed?” Your face heats with embarrassment. 

 “Ah, y-yes, my King. I was… troubled.” Your eyes dart between him and your mother. “But mother has allayed my fears.” You gather your shawl about your shoulders, bowing your head respectfully. Of course he would visit her as a husband—that is a fact you suppose you have known since you came to this place, but to catch the King in your mother’s bedchamber was another thing entirely. 

 The eagerness in his eyes as he looks at her, the way he licks his lips—it reminds you uncomfortably of Geralt, and of the need you see mirrored in his amber eyes. You retreat from the sitting room, though the sound of your mother’s voice makes you glance over your shoulder one last time as the door begins to close. 

 “I shall send Callista with a sleeping draught,” your mother calls at your retreating back. “For the dreams.” 

 Your stomach turns uncomfortably as you watch the king latches onto your mother, pulling her close as he trails desperate kisses down her arm. You are too far away to hear the words he growls through his gritted teeth before ripping at the bandage on her thumb and sucking the injured digit into his mouth. 

 The door closes with a loud bang, leaving you alone in the dark, empty hall. 

 The peacock, your father whispers in your memory as you shuffle back toward your room in the early hours.

 She’ll pluck out your eyes. 

to be continued…

Thank you for reading! Please check out my masterlist for other, similar works, and follow my library blog, @box-of-bones-library for updates. ❤️

[thezombieprostitute]

Tech Tuesday - Johnny Storm

Summary: Johnny is a natural when it comes to cyber security but he has to tread lightly.

Warnings: None at this point. Please let me know if I missed any.

Tech Tuesdays Masterlist

“Hey, G, Geralt, did you get those latest security patches tested?” Johnny never bothered to knock on the cubicle the testers shared. They'd asked to be called by their last names, Hunter and Rivia, to avoid confusion with the double G names but Johnny preferred to be on a first name basis. Though no one actually knew G's full first name outside of management.

“Is the update still scheduled to go live today?” G asked, not looking from his screen. “Yeah,” Johnny replied.

“And are our initials on the code updates?” Geralt growled, also not looking away from his screen.

“Yeah.”

“Then we've tested them. Why are you bothering us?” G monotones before taking a sip from his coffee.

“Because you know how much I love annoying you two,” Johnny said with a smile. “How's the bug count going?”

“I'm ahead by three,” Geralt says with a bit of pride in his voice.

The two testers had a “friendly” competition every month to see who could find and resolve the most bugs. Pine and Syverson allowed it only because it never escalated beyond veiled threats of bodily harm from the loser. No one outside of the two was ever really sure what the stakes were but Johnny figured they must be incredibly good.

“Way to go,” Johnny congratulated. “G's got his work cut out for him.”

“If I give you one of the cookies I got from the vending machine will you go away?” G sighed, still not looking away from his screen.

“Yes,” Johnny nods emphatically. Still not looking away from his computer G grabs the small roll of cookies and tosses one to Johnny who immediately consumes it. “Love the sugar. Thanks! Happy hunting!”

Johnny settled himself into his “war cave” as he called his cubicle on release days. He's got energy drinks, candy bars, and occasional “healthy” meals to keep his stomach from getting too upset.

New security updates means new attempts by hackers. He's gotta be on high alert for at least the first day, if not the rest of the week. He's got his work computer with his credentials and his laptop with his own TheHumanTorch69. Going back and forth between the two of them allowed for a two-pronged defense against would-be hackers.

In truth, there was one username in particular he was looking for: DarkAngel2000. She was always the biggest threat to the firewall. He'd taken great pains to befriend her using his personal credentials without earning her suspicion. He pretends to work with her to break everything but, in fact, uses the intel to counter her on his work account. It's a difficult line to walk, not being too obvious, trying to appear actually helpful, but he's gotten good at it. The sugar rush definitely helps.

He gets a notification on his personal account:

DarkAngel2000: ready to party? TheHumanTorch69: always! DarkAngel2000: got ur sugar rush started? TheHumanTorch69: way ahead of u DarkAngel2000: let the games begin!

For the next several hours Johnny goes into a bit of a trance as he gets to work in his two-faced role. It's almost a dance, well, more of a mosh-pit, but he's got the skills to navigate it.

You're taking notes on your conversation with TheHumanTorch69 and seeing if you can find correlation with the company drone account you keep seeing countering your hacking attempts. You're certain there's more to Torch than what he's telling you. He might even be this JStorm account from the company but you need evidence.

You need to be careful. Torch is a good coder, one of the best you've worked with. But ever since you started working with him, the vast majority of your plans have gone south. You don't appreciate being duped and if it turns out Torch has been playing you, there will be repercussions.

Tech Tuesdays Masterlist

Tagging @alicedopey; @darsynia; @delicatebarness; @ellethespaceunicorn; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory; @late-to-the-party-81; @lokislady82 ; @ronearoundblindly

[shy-urban-hobbit]

"Lambert, you'd tell me if I'd done something to offend Aiden wouldn't you?"

"Tell you, yell at you, throw you in the nearest snow bank. All good options. Ask him yourself though."

"I did." Jaskier replied, throwing himself down on the low stone wall Lambert was in the process of trying to repair. "He says not, but I'm worried he's just saying that to try and keep the peace."

"Trust me Bard. Aiden may be a little more tactful than some of us here with what comes out of his mouth, but he definitely lets you know if you've pissed him off."

"Then why does he keep looking at me oddly?"

Lambert downed tools and turned to look at Jaskier, giving up on getting any work done for the time being, "Odd how?"

"Whenever I go to talk to him or start playing, he looks at me like..." Jaskier squinted, the expression making him look slightly haughty and Lambert had a feeling he suddenly understood the confusion.

"I don't want to possibly make it worse by bringing it up with him. I mean, how many times has the phrase you're looking at me funny not ended in a fight? I'm trying not to take it personally, but literally the only time people look at me like that is when I've pissed them off or I've got something on my face."

"You do. But that's not what that look's for." Lambert smirked at the squawk Jaskier let out as he started wiping at his face with his sleeve.

"Relax, Jaskier." Lambert said mussing the others hair roughly, "Means the exact opposite with Cats. Means he likes you. Probably doesn't even realise he's doing it."

"Huh?"

"Yeah, confused the hell out of me too. The amount of times I thought he was looking to start shit in the beginning. Next time, do it right back."

"Wha-"

"Just, trust me alright. Now, piss off so I can finish this."

Lambert entered the hall just as the others were settling down to eat. He was sore all over but at least he could now tell Vesemir that particular section of wall was done (and to fuck off if he was expecting him to start another tomorrow. Let Eskel do some of the heavy lifting).

He took his usual place opposite Aiden, Jaskier on the Cats right and chattering about something Lambert probably had no interest in but seemed to have grabbed Aiden's attention. The Bard met Lambert's eyes briefly before squinting his own as Aiden contributed something to the conversation. The result was instant. Aiden immediately shuffled closer to Jaskier so they were pressed shoulder to shoulder. Grabbing a couple of bread rolls and placing them on the table between them.

Lambert turned his attention to his stew unconcerned, not begrudging his partner a new friend. He knew Aiden's affections for him weren't in danger of wandering and neither were Jaskier's for Geralt.

He raised his spoon in salute when Jaskier mouthed "Thanks" at him. Ignoring Geralt's own perplexed expression from next to him. He was waiting for the perfect opportunity to tell his brother that, for all his opinions on Aiden's school, he'd unknowingly been doing 'love blinks' at him ever since the Cat's first year staying with them.

[podcastenthusiast]

Three little drabbles featuring Geralt "Horse Girl" of Rivia and different animals, from Jaskier's POV.

---

1. Horse

Jaskier realized it a few weeks into this new witcher-following, song-composing venture. Specifically, when he went to eat the last apple and was told in no uncertain terms that it's for Roach, even though their food rations were running worringly low and they were a day's ride from the next village. Even though he's a fragile human. Even though she could literally just eat grass.

The mare outranked him. She had seniority.

He tried to befriend the horse, with middling success.

He tried to befriend the witcher, too.

At least Roach could be bribed with a carrot or a handful of raisins.

People project a lot of their own feelings onto animals, he supposed. It's a relationship designed to be unequal. As complex or as simple as a person wants it to be.

For a while, he had started to resent her a little, as pathetic as that may sound. That is, until he woke in the middle of the night and overheard a murmured, rather one-sided conversation.

"I worry about him, though," Geralt was saying. "Can't exactly just find a new bard and start calling him Jaskier if something happens, can I."

What?

"Wish he'd shut up sometimes, but... I guess it's been kind of nice having someone around who talks back."

Jaskier's heart felt like it might burst or break. Or both.

"Not that you aren't good company, old girl."

Roach gave a quiet snort.

That was all years ago, now. The horse is different, but still somehow Roach.

He is different, too, but somehow still Jaskier. Still the reliable bard his friend needs him to be.

Now, he watches from his spot by the campfire as Geralt brushes through Roach's mane. The witcher's got drowner brains in his own hair but gods forbid he has a wash before his trusty companion is completely tended to. He's very gentle with her, which is probably why she tolerates it as well as she does. He's heard tales of stablehands losing fingers to routine grooming before.

Jaskier wishes he could write a ballad about this without potentially damaging his fearsome reputation-- the unbreakable bond between a witcher and his horse. The unexpected tenderness of hands made to kill.

He reaches for his quill to jot down a few ideas. Something something the mighty wolf and the wild horse, loyal and brave companions defending their forest home together. Keep it vague enough. Maybe a folktale vibe.

Besides, Jaskier thinks with a touch of bitterness, the wolf's tongue is the real danger. His jaws that snap at anyone foolish enough to get too close, to offer help when he's caught in a trap.

...Maybe he still has some feelings to work through.

The wolf also has a heart he tries so hard to bury. Jaskier can see it. Always has.

"You spoil her rotten, you know," he remarks lightly, plucking on his lute strings. "She eats better than we do."

"It's like sharpening my swords. I have to keep Roach in good condition, or we don't eat at all."

"Mhm. And it's very sweet."

He no longer begrudges Roach her well-earned place at Geralt's side. The witcher had been alone out here for such a long time before he came along, probably will be again after he's dead and buried. Even if Jaskier does wish that he could be the one Geralt trusts with his innermost thoughts and secrets and sleepless night fears, he is glad the man has someone in whom he can confide.

They all have their roles in this story. Perhaps he ought to accept his as its scribe, and let that be enough.

But Jaskier's greatest fault, he knows, is an always has been his refusal to accept things as they are.

-

2. Cat

"Oh, look at that. Someone's cat has gone missing. Poor thing."

"We're here for real work, Jaskier," Geralt says, scanning a contract notice. Recent plague. Graves disturbed. Ghouls. See alderman for details. Bit dull.

"They're offering a reward. See?"

"Somehow I doubt a small child has enough coin to justify ignoring the ghouls."

"Says here you'll get their eternal gratitude and-- oh! The lady of the house will darn your socks free of charge for a full year. Any additional mending at a discount. Now that's a good deal."

"Hm."

"Geralt, as you know my favorite doublet is in a sorry state after that minor werewolf incident--"

"I told you to stay with Roach."

"--All water under the bridge now, of course, and what an adventure! Worthy of a fine ballad--"

"Jaskier."

"--as this would be. Can't you at least keep one keen witchery eye out for the cat?"

"And risk a ghoul catching me off guard? Sure."

"Well, now you're just being silly. Don't tell me you're a dog person. Or are you allergic?"

Geralt sighs, realizing now that only the truth will free him from this conversation.

"Don't mind cats," he mutters. "But they don't like me."

"Sorry, what?"

"Cats don't like me," he repeats. "They start hissing whenever I get too close."

Jaskier's expression is caught somewhere between disbelief and sadness. "Why?"

"I insulted their king. Why do you think? They've got more sense than certain humans, I guess."

It's a veiled remark. Jaskier sees right through it.

"You're not a monster, Geralt," he says, achingly sincere. Then, in a lighter tone, "Does that mean you've never pet a cat before?"

"I don't know. Maybe when I was very young. I can't remember."

Jaskier mercifully drops the subject after a quiet and thoughtful walk back to the village's tavern.

He doesn't fail to notice Geralt buying extra scraps of meat from the innkeeper, or how he sneaks away at night to set them like snares in promising locations near the village. He'd probably say it's for the ghoul contract if asked, but Jaskier knows better.

Even if he didn't, there is really no other explanation for Geralt returning to the inn on the second night, covered in claw marks, carrying a ghoul's severed head in one hand and a bag containing one squirming, hissing feline in the other.

-

3. Spider

"GERALT!"

Every witcher in Kaer Morhen hears the bard's scream, but Geralt reaches the room in moments, his silver sword already drawn.

"Jaskier, what--"

"Kill it!"

The bard is standing on his bed, pointing frantically at something. Geralt follows his panicked gaze and sees--

"Really, Jaskier?" He sighs.

"What are you waiting for? It's a monster! Kill it!"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's not a monster. Just a spider. Not even poisonous."

"How do you know?"

"I read." Geralt crouches down for a closer look at the spider. "Might look scary but it's harmless. Probably sought shelter from the cold."

"Well, then it can go right back outside."

"Jaskier, be reasonable."

"I am. Either the spider goes or I do."

The witcher looks thoughtful. Says nothing.

"Oh, thanks, Geralt! I feel so loved."

The spider crawls onto Geralt's hand and Jaskier almost screams again, shrinking back even farther. Gods, it has so many legs!

"Pretend it's a kikimora or something," he pleads. "Why won't you kill one little spider for your very dearest old friend in the world?"

"Because kikimoras have no niche. They're invasive, and need to be dealt with to maintain balance in the ecosystem. Spiders aren't like that; they do belong. A monster, fundamentally, is any creature that doesn't."

Jaskier just stares at him, speechless. He's not sure he has ever heard Geralt say that many words all at once.

Geralt's eyes remain on the spider. "Witchers aren't sent out on the Path not knowing why we kill; we're not soldiers."

"I never thought of it like that," Jaskier admits. "That spider's still fucking terrifying, though."

"Hm. I'll take it outside."

"Geralt?"

"Hm?"

"I know what scared, stupid people say about witchers sometimes. But I-- You do belong. You're important. Just want you to know that."

"...Thank you, Jaskier," he says. Then, quieter, "You too."

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

for the domestic/relationship situation prompts: geraskier + 19? 🥺

19. Bingeing an entire season of trashy reality show in one sitting

“I don’t understand.” Geralt squints at the TV, where the first episode of the new season of Surviving Love is playing.

“What’s there not to understand?” Jaskier asks. “It’s sixteen beautiful people trapped together, trying to survive while also banging each other’s brains out in the hopes of finding their one true love. The whole idea is that they pair off as soon as possible and the couples all compete to see who can survive the longest on a desert island.”

“Island can’t be that deserted if there’s a camera crew following them around.” Geralt arches his eyebrow as a pretty redhead on the TV has a breakdown about needing to eat bugs for protein.

“You just need to suspend your disbelief for eight episodes or so.” Jaskier winces sympathetically. If he had to choose between starving and eating bugs, he’s honestly not sure which one he would choose.

For several moments, Geralt refrains from commentary, though his left eyebrow keeps twitching, like it often does when Jaskier is doing something that perplexes him so much that he finds himself beyond words. It’s one of Jaskier’s favorite expressions, not that he’s ever going to tell his boyfriend that. They both had a rough week—Geralt got stiffed on a big contract and Jaskier had to have not one, but two conversations with Valdo Marx—so they’re both in need of some TLC.

“Oh, good for her,” Jaskier says as the redhead from the bug breakdown begins making out with an attractive blond man. “She bagged the park ranger. He can probably catch something better than bugs for dinner.”

“Hm.” Geralt looks unimpressed.

Jaskier snuggles closer against his boyfriend’s side. “You know, I auditioned for this show years ago.”

That earns him an incredulous look. “You?”

“Don’t give me that look! It was before Pris and I made our first album. I needed a way to get our name out there.”

“You wouldn’t have survived a week.”

Jaskier drew back, gaping in outrage. “Excuse me?”

“Eight weeks without a shower and a toothbrush? Remember how much you whined when you followed me on that three day forktail hunt?”

“I was the picture of stoicism!”

Geralt is wearing that infuriating little half-smirk he wears whenever he thinks he’s being witty and clever, the fucker. “You were very stoic when you told me to leave you there to die when you stepped in forktail shit.”

“I was traumatized.” Jaskier whacks him lightly on the chest. On the screen, the redhead is tussling with another woman, screaming about betrayal. “And now we’ve missed something important! Go back!”

Geralt groans, but picks up the remote control.

***

Eight episodes later, the living room is dark and strewn with empty takeout containers as the theme music for Surviving Love plays from the screen.

“That was bullshit,” Geralt says.

Jaskier is actually a little surprised. He never really expected Geralt to like the show, but his boyfriend did sit through eight hours of it without much complaint after the first episode.

“Simon and Gretta should have won.” Moodily, Geralt takes a sip of his beer.

Jaskier blinks at him. “What?”

“The whole point is working together, right? Heidi and Jan didn’t really work together; she did all the work while he went off and played grab ass with Elin.

“Yeah.” Jaskier shakes his head, disappointed. “I don’t see them making it past the finale.”

“None of these couples are making it past the finale.”

“I don’t know.” Jaskier snuggles closer, propping his chin on Geralt’s shoulder. “If you can survive eight weeks together without showers or toothbrushes, you can survive anything.”

“Hm.” Geralt presses a kiss to his temple. “We could try it. Put our relationship to the test.”

“Don’t even think about it. I’ve cleaned harpy bites on your ass and picked kikimore intestines out of your hair and that was before we started dating. Our love has been proven thoroughly.”

“And I’ve been to your concerts.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” Geralt turns off the TV. “It wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. I can see why it’s your favorite show.”

They sit in the darkness of their living room for a moment.

“You know, that was season sixteen,” Jaskier finally says. “There are fifteen other seasons we could go back and watch.”

Geralt turns the TV back on without hesitation. “Hm. If you want to.”

Jaskier grins as he pulls the blanket more securely around him. “You know, we could pretend not to know each other and audition for season seventeen. We would kill.”

“No.”

“Think of all the kitty treats we could buy Roach.”

Geralt pauses, considering. “What makes you think I’d pair up with you?”

Jaskier gasps. “Geralt! You knave!”

“What?” His boyfriend shrugs, looking very pleased with himself. “Roach only deserves the best treats. Gotta pair with someone who has a chance of winning.”

Jaskier splutters, outraged beyond words.

“Going to go get more ice cream,” Geralt rises to his feet.

Jaskier stares after him. “Fine! But we are having this conversation when you get back, mister!” He sulks for about thirty seconds before calling, “Can you bring me some ice cream?”

“Already got out the mint chocolate chip.”

“You’re the best. I love you so much that I’ll share the prize money when me and my partner on Surviving Love beat you and your harlot by a mile.”

In the decade they’ve known each other, Jaskier has never heard Geralt laugh so hard. He would be more offended, if he weren’t too busy laughing too.

***

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

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

Part 13

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Part 12 🟣 Part 14

A reverse harem vampire AU ft. Mikey, Marshall, August and Sherlock

Series summary: Somehow, you've managed to live with your boyfriend and his roommates for months before finding out they're vampires, but the real shock first comes when they find out you have a special quality. A quality the guys would love to make use of...

Warnings: Ongoing vampire shenanigans, mentions of blood, biting, angst, a kiss, slightly inappropriate fang-examinations.

Word count: 2.7k

A/N: All I have to say is.... I'm sorry?

@geralts-yenn @deandoesthingstome @summersong69 @teamfan7asy @mis-lil-red @ellethespaceunicorn @sillyrabbit81 @peyton-warren @livisss @itsrubberbisquit @ktficworld

Waking up next to Mikey in cold sweat, hoping he wasn’t snooping around in your brain wasn’t a new thing for you at this point. In fact, you’d been doing it for weeks now, growing increasingly exasperated with every new dream. When you had negotiated the arrangement, you had promised yourself you wouldn’t let anything come between you and Mike, but these dreams were rapidly shitting all over your fantastic plan. Feeding the guys had somehow simultaneously become more casual and more intimate; you no longer insisted on the formality of relocating to the couch in the living room, but instead just crawled into their beds if that happened to be the most practical option. Also, you had already found yourself shouting (according to them) through the house whether ‘anyone needed to suck on you because you were planning on getting hammered’, which was hardly a dignified way of ‘offering your services’ – you still hated that phrase; it made you feel like a hooker.

Your relationship with the guys had definitely changed over the past weeks: the crazy spike of protectiveness after feeding had begun to settle, and all of it left you in a situation where you were extremely well cared for. Mike kept you hydrated by bringing you water or tea whenever he felt you wanted a drink, Sherlock was on top of your vitamin intake, and August had expressed a particular preference for the way your blood tasted after eating certain foods, so you got a whole lot of fantastic meals without ever even having to ask. Marshall, despite being grumpy and tired all the time, gave the absolute best hugs in the whole world, and you spent many a movie night snuggled into his side with your feet in Mike’s lap. You’d talked about that, and he was okay with it. He had been really okay with a lot of things.

Despite your changing relationships, and getting closer to the guys, you always slept next to Mike, and not once had you entertained the thought of leaving him for one of the others – which is exactly why these dreams weren’t fucking helping. There was no doubt in your mind that you never wanted to lose Mike; you simply loved him way too much to ever let him go. Then why were you dreaming about his roommates? His friends? His brothers?  The bond between the four of them was undeniably strong, and you regularly cursed yourself for getting into this mess and wiggling your way in between them, while at the same time ‘in between them’ was exactly where you wanted to be. Now, these were things you should probably – definitely – discuss with Mike, before it started to completely eat you up inside, but you just… no matter how much you really wanted to, you just couldn’t.

“Is this the first time you actively wish I’d snoop around in your brain and swoop in?” Mike asked softly as he wrapped his arms around you tightly and pulled you into his chest. You let out a sarcastic chuckle. Smug bastard.

“Yes,” you answered truthfully. That would really make things so much easier, even though it didn’t make the conversation any less scary.

“I know they all love you, in their own way,” he sighed. “Things have been changing. Can’t say I like it, but I can’t say I want to stand in your way, either.”

Was he saying what you thought he was saying?

“I guess what I’m trying to say is…” He let out a deep sigh and kissed your neck, grazing his teeth over your skin for a brief moment. “Let it happen.”

“Sherlock?” you asked carefully as you opened the door. The room was completely dark.

“Come in,” you heard from where you knew his desk to be, “feel free to turn on the light.” The words were followed by a low chuckle. By now, you knew that sound so well. You had dreamt about it. That, and… never mind. “Can I help you?” He smiled at you – the same heartwarming smile that also appeared in your dreams quite often.

“Were you working? Am I interrupting something?” You quickly glanced at the paper he had in front of him. It looked like a letter.

“Just writing to an old friend,” he said. You had to admit he looked exhausted – and even in that state he was still such a beautiful man… “Why are you here, darling? It has to be past midnight.” It was, and you should be asleep right now, but you weren’t. You had spent the whole time working on a paper that was due tomorrow night, and things had been flowing, so you hadn’t been able to stop. Now, at two in the morning, you had somehow convinced yourself that Sherlock had to take a look at that paper…

“Can’t sleep,” you said, “I finished my paper, but it won’t get out of my head. Would you maybe take a look at it? Doesn’t have to be now, of course, you can do it in the morning…” He already held out a hand to you.

“You know we don’t technically need sleep, don’t you?” he said as he took your tablet from you. “It’s just a convenient way to conserve energy.” He stayed quiet for a few moments, reading your paper much quicker than you ever could. “This is good. I can make a few notes in the morning, but please stop worrying about it now.”

As he handed the tablet back to you, his fingers brushed against yours. He was cold. He was…

“You’re starving,” you whispered. His embarrassed smile told you all you needed to know.

“Yes,” he admitted. He shouldn’t have to feed for a few more days, and even then he certainly shouldn’t be this hungry… “There was a plagiarism case… the department got permission for me to compel students to tell the truth. It’s a whole ordeal. Witnesses, cameras, written consent. They weren’t the perpetrators, but that makes the interrogation no less exhausting.”

“Sherlock…” You stepped closer to him, reaching for his cheek. “I don’t want you to wait this long before coming to me.” As you stroked the side of his face, he gently hooked his hands behind your knees and pulled you in until you were straddling his legs.

“What is it like for you?” he asked suddenly, taking you by surprise. “Feeding us, I mean.” His hands moved from your knees to your thighs as you sat down in his lap.

“I can smell you,” he whispered against the skin of your neck. “Nine hundred years of practicing restraint, and now that it’s you…”

“What do you mean?”

He smiled at you apologetically as he frantically tried to control his breath. “I can’t seem to control my teeth… Answer my question, please; what does it feel like for you?”

“To feel that you’re this cold and hungry?” you asked. “I feel like a failure for not keeping you happy and fed.” Your words seemed to shock him – hurt him, even. “I crave the feeling of your lips on my skin,” you continued without thinking, “and the moment of the bite. That warm feeling afterwards…” Three months had been plenty to draw a conclusion about your hypothesis that the feeling differed depending on who it was that fed on you, although you still needed more experience with it to really explain it.

“Do you think that’s what she felt, too?” he asked then, referring to the woman with whom he’d had his previous agreement. There was a sadness in his eyes.

“You never asked?” you said quietly.

“I was just given enough time to feed, never for lengthy conversation,” he admitted.

“It sounds like… Charles Brandon, was it? Sounds like he was a bit of a dick.”

“Charles isn’t a bad man at all! Impulsive, perhaps. But you have to understand how incredibly dangerous it was for him to even share her with me. If he had been found out…”

“But they didn’t catch you two?”

“Darling, neither of us would have been alive today if they had,” Sherlock said in earnest, shuddering at the thought of what could have happened.

He smiled at you again, his fangs threatening to puncture his lower lip. Carefully, you reached a finger out to touch one – and he let you, chuckling as you examined his teeth.

“What happens if you lose one?” you wondered, suddenly pulling your hand back as you realized it was a bit weird to sit there with your fingers in his mouth.

“They grow back,” he laughed. “It takes a rather unusual amount of force to remove them…”

“Torture technique?” you blurted out. To your surprise, Sherlock shook his head.

“Filing them down was more common,” he said with a strangled look on his face. You didn’t need to ask if it had ever happened to him.

“Sherlock, will you please feed?” You had finally grown tired of these games, no matter how fun it was to learn new things about vampires. He needed to eat, and he needed to do so right now. To your surprise, he didn’t protest.

“I don’t feel like moving,” he muttered so softly that no one in the house would have been able to hear him. It should have occurred to you then and there that there was something not right about this – whatever this was – and you loved to believe that you would have realized it… if you hadn’t agreed with him so thoroughly.

“Me neither.” The words that slipped from your lips seemed so simple, so straightforward, but in reality, they were everything – including the permission Sherlock had been looking for to sink his teeth into your neck as he wrapped you in his arms and drew you closer to him, leaving you to fight down strangled moans and whines that – although muffled – reflected every shred of ecstasy you felt.

He drank quickly, taking a little too much time to pass his tongue over the wounds when he was done, but you didn’t care. When you looked down, you saw him licking a drop of your blood off his lips in an almost criminally sensual way… and then he kissed you. Either that, or you kissed him. Not that it mattered, because one way or another, it was your mouth on his now. It was his tongue sliding along your bottom lip, and your lips parting for him. It was hushed groans of pleasure and – as much as you hated to admit it – it was your hips grinding into his. And it was Mike, standing in the doorway with his mouth hanging open and tears in his eyes. It was his panicked, ragged breath out of sync with your own, the shock on his face, and the quietly whispered ‘what the fuck’. It was your broken heart and so, so very clearly his, too. In fact, it was all clear as day. Despite the conversation you had had with Mike, this felt wrong.

“What the fuck do you mean ‘he’s gone’?” Marshall yelled, absolutely beside himself with anger. August leaned back in his chair, and didn’t seem at all prepared to do anything about this situation. “What happened?” All it took was one glance between you and Sherlock that you never intended Marshall to catch, and he knew exactly what had caused this.

“You?” He sneered. In one motion your eyes didn’t catch, he pinned Sherlock against the wall, a hand firmly on his throat. “I expected bullshit like this from him!” He gestured at August, who didn’t take offense to his words. Instead, Marshall seemed to calm down unnaturally fast. 

“I would very much like to remind you that trying to kill him would be extremely stupid,” August noted calmly. Marshall’s grip on Sherlock’s throat relaxed, until finally his arm dropped to his side again. Sherlock hadn’t moved throughout all of this – not voluntarily, at least – and he continued to stand there, very still… almost as if he had completely resigned to Marshall’s anger.

“Mike said he was okay with it,” you sobbed quietly, staring at the floor to keep the guys from seeing your tears. It was hopeless; they could easily hear them.

“Clearly he isn’t! And now he’s run off!” Marshall snapped.

“Walter!” Everyone’s eyes drifted to Sherlock immediately. No one ever used Marshall’s first name. “I don’t believe he was lying. I think he just wasn’t quite prepared for what he saw.”

“He’s testing his bonds, Sherlock,” Marshall said, his voice breaking as he spoke. “And not just ours, the one with me, too.” When he said it, the room went eerily quiet. Clearly this was something serious – something very serious you had absolutely no context on.

“What’s going on?” you asked in a small voice.

“You two handle this,” Marshall growled as he pushed his way past Sherlock, into the hallway. “I’m not in the mood for another vampire lesson.”

Without saying a word, August put the kettle on. He didn’t drink tea, so you assumed it was for you. August impatiently gestured at you to sit down.

“So, what happened between you two?” August asked, an eyebrow raised. It was easy to see that he was both curious and extremely worried.

“We… kissed,” you muttered. It was loud enough for him to hear you, of course. Looking around the kitchen, you noticed that Sherlock had left, too.

“He’ll be back,” August said. “So a kiss is what has Mike… Oh, well. Here.” He held a cup of tea out to you before the sound of the kettle had even registered in your brain.

“Thanks,” you said, sitting down. Suddenly, Sherlock appeared in the chair next to you.

“He’s not at the pier,” he said, “I figured I’d give it a shot.”

“I think we may just need to let him cool off,” August said calmly, though still with a worried frown on his face. “If he’s really trying his ties, we don’t want to piss him off.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, and neither did you – it was usually easier to just wait for August or Marshall – or Mike – to pick up on your confusion than to keep asking for explanations. Lo and behold: August’s soft chuckle indicated that he’d noticed your silent distress: “Vampires are coven-bound.”

“That doesn’t explain anything,” you chuckled softly. You were used to this by now; the rest of the information would follow, you were sure of it.

“It’s barely any different than family ties or friendships,” Sherlock said, “with the exception that we can… feel them.”

“To a point where they’re almost tangible,” August added. “It’s tough to explain, but it feels different, trust me. It also means I don’t have to be near these guys to know what they’re feeling. Sherlock could compel him to come home.”

You immediately turned to Sherlock. “Why don’t you do that?”

“Can you calm him down?” you asked. Mike wasn’t the only one who was extremely upset, for fuck’s sake! You were pretty damn torn up about this, too!

“Because that would force him to make a choice immediately,” Marshall’s voice sounded from behind you. “The bonds are strong, especially after several decades, but they’re not unbreakable.”

“I don’t think he’d decide in our favor. He’s extremely upset,” August added.

“Princess, I have a stronger bond with you than I do with him,” August snorted.

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Marshall replied. “Either way… We have a similar but more… detailed bond with the vampire who turned us. Right now, he’s pulling on that string, too, and it hurts…”

You noticed the tears in his eyes as he said it, and without thinking you made your way over to him, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him tight. “I’m sorry for the trouble I’m causing.”

“He’s the one causing trouble, Princess,” August growled, “not you.”

“That’s not fair, August,” you replied. “We’re the ones who drove him away.” Sherlock didn’t look at you as you said it. Instead, he stared at his hands in his lap.

[d-andilion]

a gesture

my first prompt for @whataboutthebard!

prompt: whump: destruction of sentimental property/theft, wuv: giving gifts, mending clothing

(geraskier, T, pre-relationship, s2 compliant, post-mountain angst, hurt!jaskier, hurt/comfort, 1k, read on ao3)

Geralt can’t for the life of him think how everything went so wrong. This was supposed to be a good moment. He was supposed to be presenting his bard with a thoughtful, timely, and very expensive gift. They were supposed to be making up for lost time, maybe mending some old wounds. Jaskier was supposed to be happy.

The bard is not happy.

Even if Jaskier’s body language—tight shoulders, clenched fists, eyes pitched low—weren’t enough to clue Geralt in, the refusal to lay so much as a finger on the instrument lying on the bed between them certainly does. Where he was lounging comfortably mere moments ago, Jaskier is now perched like a leaf on a cliffside waiting for the slightest gust of wind to send him toppling over, and the lute before him might as well be a gathering storm for the glare he gives it.

Geralt would never claim to be an expert on the subject, but he thought the lute was just fine when he purchased it at the market yesterday. It could never compare to the elven one Jaskier received all those years ago, but nothing ever would. Surely the bard knows that. If he is waiting for another ancient heirloom from the elven people to fall into his lap, he’ll be waiting until the end of time.

This one is a perfectly good replacement. It’s used, but in good shape to Geralt’s eye, and the merchant was spoken highly of when he asked around. The finish is intact, the strings are brand new. It even has delicate yellow flowers embroidered into the shoulder strap. Geralt had thought it a fine gift. A chance for him to show Jaskier that he’s trying.

But Jaskier hates it. Worse, he almost looks frightened of it.

“You’re upset,” Geralt says, forever stating the obvious.

“I’m not,” Jaskier replies, smiling tightly. Geralt suppresses a frustrated groan.

“You don’t like it? Is it… I don’t know, the wrong wood?” The merchant said spruce was standard, but Jaskier has always liked to be different. Would be have preferred pine? Cherry? Do those kinds of lutes even exist?

“No, it’s lovely,” Jaskier says, though he makes no move to retrieve the instrument. “Thank you very much, darling.” 

Jaskier isn’t lying about that, Geralt can hear as much, but he clearly isn’t pleased. On the contrary, he looks to be at the brink of tears, and he’s rubbing his fingers together the way he does when he’s nervous. It’s a new tick of his, one more thing about him that Geralt has had to relearn since their parting. Jaskier does it all the time now, even when his hand was still bandaged from his run-in with—

With the fire fucker. Fuck.

Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s hand but the bard snatches it away. It stings more than it should. Another reminder of all the liberties he hasn’t yet earned, the ones he once took for granted.

“You told me you were healed.”

“I am,” Jaskier lies, heart skipping.

“Let me see.” Geralt holds out his hand, an offer this time rather than a demand. Jaskier doesn’t accept it.

“It’s fine. See?” Jaskier waives his hand quickly in front of his face before tucking it into his lap. “Barely a scar.”

“But it’s still bothering you.”

That earns a hollow laugh. 

“Does it hurt?” Geralt presses.

“It doesn't anything anymore, Geralt!” The admission yanks at whatever remains of Jaskier’s composure, bringing an edge to his voice and a tear rolling down his cheek. He’s trembling a bit, anger and despair curling sourly in the air around them. 

“I have no feeling there,” Jaskier continues. “I... Sometimes I think I feel something, but it’s never real. It's gone.”

Geralt can’t think what to say to that so he says nothing, letting the silence draw out into a long tense pause.

Jaskier sucks in a shuddering breath. “This is the one thing I can do without ruining it. If can't do it anymore, I'd rather not find out. I don’t think I could bear it.”

Frustration with Jaskier for keeping this from him builds and dissipates in a single breath. The bard has always been quick to hide his hurts, terrified that Geralt would leave him behind. And he did, didn’t he? Things have been better since Voleth Meir, Geralt thinks, but he has hardly earned the full breadth of Jaskier’s trust yet. Not even close, he wagers.

If things weren’t so broken between them—if Geralt hadn’t been the one to break them—he might have some hope of offering Jaskier the comfort he so clearly craves right now. Tactile is Jaskier’s base state of being, even more so when he’s upset. But now he pulls away, curling in on himself instead of reaching out for Geralt the way he has so many times before. 

Geralt doesn’t dare reach for Jaskier again, but he lays his hand on the blanket between them, beside the offending lute, a gesture of whatever Jaskier will accept from him right now.

“You don’t ruin things, Jaskier.” It earns him a watery smile he probably doesn’t deserve. Geralt returns it with a small grin of his own. “You know how to play like you know how to breathe. If you practice, you might get the feel of it again.”

“Maybe,” Jaskier agrees. He doesn’t look quite convinced, but not entirely hopeless either. Geralt can work with that. “I need a bit more time, I think.”

Geralt nods. He can give Jaskier time. “And this?” he asks, nodding to the lute. It looks imposing now in a way it wasn’t before.

Jaskier picks the instrument up with shaking hands and sets it in his lap. It doesn’t look quite at home and neither does Jaskier, but Geralt is certain that will change. It has to change.

“Might as well keep it, hm?” Jaskier smiles. “It really is lovely.”

“Not sexy, though?”

The bard laughs brightly at that and it drenches the room in warmth. He holds the lute a little firmer. “Maybe a bit sexy.”

~~

w.a.t.b. masterlist

[aramblingjay]

Let the sea birds cry Geraskier, pre-relationship (1K)

Jaskier wants Geralt to have a holiday. In the summer, when it’s warm and sunny, and preferably by the coast. He resorts to creative measures to make that happen. Or: When Jaskier said “we could head to the coast”, it’s because they’d already been there once before.

ao3

“I want to go to the coast,” Jaskier says brightly one evening.

Geralt looks up from counting potions (there’s a few he needs to replenish, but the current stock will tide him over until they come across an herbalist) to Jaskier lounging against a log beside the fire, popping nuts into his mouth between words. He looks, despite every evidence Geralt has seen to the contrary over the last seven years, like he belongs out here amidst the forest, as familiar to walking the Path as Geralt himself.

“Hmm?” Geralt asks, because Jaskier hates when he doesn’t respond, and Jaskier looks too beautiful illuminated in the red-orange glow of the firelight to sulk.

Nearly a decade of experience must mean Jaskier correctly parses that particular hmm into the intended set of questions, because he responds as though he’s heard Geralt verbalize every one of them explicitly.

“Anywhere along the coast, I’m not picky. Yes, I do mean now. It’s the birth of summer, the season of sun and warmth and happiness, Geralt. This is the perfect time to take a break. Just for a week or two. No contracts, no monsters, just sun, sand, waves, and music.”

The request hasn’t come entirely out of nowhere. Geralt is aware that Jaskier has a fondness for the coast, likes to winter as near to the water as he can manage without actually going for a swim (or encountering any of the numerous nobles he’s pissed off, which can be a difficult proposition in some coastal towns). And he’s often wondered how many years Jaskier can keep this up, being his companion on the cold and dirty and dangerous Path without complaint, when a man of his talent and nobility could certainly afford to spend his days in much greater comfort.

Jaskier deserves better. He deserves two weeks relaxing by the coast, away from this life.

Still, it feels like stabbing himself in he heart with a dagger when he says, “Okay. You should go.” There’s a flash of hurt in Jaskier’s eyes that he doesn’t understand, but hates all the same, and Geralt tries to rephrase. “I want you to enjoy the coast. In summer, when it’s warm. You should—you should go? Yes.”

He feels clumsy, closer to the child fumbling with his new senses after the Grasses than the decades-old monster-killing machine he knows himself to be. Jaskier always manages to draw out that buried part of him, somehow.

The hurt in Jaskier’s eyes dissipates, leaving something—sad? Fuck, now he’s made Jaskier sad. This is why Geralt tries not to open his mouth if he can help it.

“Geralt, I didn’t mean I want to leave you to go to the coast. I meant, I’d love a holiday, and we’re—well. I meant that we’d both go. I’m aware you have to walk the Path, et cetera, et cetera, but I’ve yet to see any stipulation on exactly how long you have to be out here in the muck killing monsters continuously for it to count. And we took down a whole—okay, yes, you took down that whole striga nest a week ago, which surely counts as multiple monster hunts all in one, so really, if you ask me, we’re ahead of schedule and due a vacation.”

The very idea of abandoning the Path for several weeks to relax by the seaside is abhorrent. Witchers don’t go to the coast and rest. That isn’t—that isn’t how it works.

“Jask, I—” Geralt doesn’t know how to say this in a way that won’t upset him. He wants Jaskier to go, Jaskier deserves to go. But as with many things, the Path means Geralt can’t just do as he pleases. “I can’t,” he finishes inelegantly.

Jaskier frowns. “Okay, don’t think of it as a vacation then. Think of it as a contract. I’m going to the coast, and because I’m just a poor, helpless bard, I need a witcher bodyguard to make sure I don’t get killed before I dip my toes in the sand. You in? I can pay you, make it all proper and everything.” He sounds so earnest it hurts, eyes wide and gleaming.

“I don’t want your coin,” Geralt snaps, because that’s the easiest part to focus on.

“Is that a yes?” Jaskier asks with barely-contained glee, seeing through his surliness as always.

Could this work? Technically, there’s no rule book he’s ever seen that dictates what does and doesn’t constitute a contract. And Jaskier looks so eager—and as much as it’s a ruse, the bard truly would be highly likely to run into trouble if he travelled alone—and it wouldn’t be his first time accompanying Jaskier somewhere he would never go himself, just the longest journey he’s had to undertake to do so.

“Fine.”

Jaskier punches the air in delight, and Geralt can’t find it in himself to regret this.

-

The coast is everything the Path is not.

Warm, so warm. Sun in the sky for hours on end, lighting the sand a brilliant white. Even the sand is warm. It nestles between his fingers like a friend that’s too attached, and Geralt loves it so much he pulls off his boots and lets it nestle in his toes, too. Soft and warm.

The rustle of the ocean is different than the trees, but the quiet, rhythmic hum-whoosh of the waves seeps into his very bones, and he starts to wonder if maybe he could become a coastal Witcher, hunting only drowners and the occasional sand monster.

And then there is Jaskier. If he looked strangely at home on the Path, he’s positively unleashed here—strumming his lute jauntily at every man, woman, and child who walks past, earning more than a pretty copper for his trouble, and immediately wasting every single coin on some special kind of salted sea nut they don’t make in the woods.

(The nuts are good, Geralt can admit that much, but it’s not worth all the coin they have.

The way Jaskier smiles after every bite though, wide and dimpled and unabashedly happy, that might be.)

It’s inevitable, in some ways, that after two weeks covered in nothing more nefarious than sand and saltwater, pulling out his sword only to clean the ocean rust off and put it back under the bed—after two weeks of looking at Jaskier in the golden light of the coastal sun—he wakes up in the morning to the bard snoring in the other bed, hair askew, drool spilling into a little puddle by his mouth, and thinks—

Oh.

[deandoesthingstome]

Get to know me!

@itbmojojoejo I'm with you on the "starting a new post for these things" thing. So even though yours wasn't long, that's just how I'm rolling lately. So here's another get-to-know-me game!

Nickname: As an adult, no one doesn't call me by my given name, unless you count on Tumblr. Which, to be fair, is the name I gave. So nothing now. But as a kid, it was Bear.

Sign: Sagittarius baby!!!

Height: 5'5.5"

The last thing I googled: sexy 70's disco fashion. For reasons.

Amount of sleep: Fitbit says between 7 and 8 per night usually. But sometimes it's like 4. IDK. Never enough.

Dream job: I just had coffee with a friend this morning and chatted about this very topic. When I was younger I wanted to be a marine biologist, but these days I don't know what I want to be doing when I grow up. I know it isn't what I became.

Favorite song: I hate this question. But Sunrise by Simply Red is on constant repeat these days.

Movie/Book that summarizes me: I also hate this question. I have a feeling it's probably whatever the most mundane day-to-day story you've read or seen is.

Favorite instrument: Have I ever told you how much I love drum and bugle corps? So that's actually two (or more because all the different kinds of drum and brass, but IDK. The sound thrills me!)

Aesthetic: Comfy, cozy. Give me a blanket.

Favorite authors: Since I don't seem to actually read books anymore, I'll go with a few I used to love immensely. Jorge Luis Borges, John Barth, Steven King

Random fun fact: I'm a certified yoga instructor. whoops!

No pressure tags and fun only! @kittenofdoomage @raccoon-eyed-rebel @mayloma @geralts-yenn @dadralt @littlefreya @sillyrabbit81

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: Tonality [3]

Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader

previous chapter

Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!

A/N: more creepy dream fuel, Geralt being slimy and having ulterior motives, and a little more tension with reader and her mother. all in all, i think you guys will enjoy this latest addition. as always, please mind the warnings, and enjoy!😊🥰 divider by @firefly-graphics​

The doe’s coat is as yellow as spun gold, and she blinks at you nervously as you approach. You cannot hide your childish squeal of delight, though it vexes her further. She nickers, shifting from hoof to hoof as she blinks at you with wide eyes. 

 “Papa, is she really mine?” You ask, your quiet voice heavy with awe. “She’s beautiful.” You hold out a hand, and her nostrils flare at your scent. Her long ears flick back, laying flat against her head behind her horns. They’re small—she’s young, barely a year old, perhaps less—and still covered with soft, velvety baby fur that you know will shed as she ages. 

 “Careful,” your father’s voice is ripe with caution. “She is new. Young, still, and a bit unwieldy.” You cluck your tongue at her, producing the sugar cubes you’d stolen from your mother’s tea tray from the sleeves of your dress. “I said careful—!” The doe leans forward, pressing her muzzle into your outstretched hand. You raise an eyebrow at your father, who shakes his head, a disbelieving laugh puffing out from between his lips. You stroke her head, running your fingers gently between her antlers and softly flicking ears. 

 “She about took Gaspard’s hand off this morning, she was so wild,” he says, shaking his head. “And yet she eats from your own as if you had weaned her yourself.” 

 “Did Gaspard try sugar?” You ask, giggling as her lips tickle your palm. “Perhaps she mightn’t have tried to amputate his fingers had he kept some of his salt to himself.” The wind shifts, and beneath the doe’s thick animal scent, there is something else.

 Something like sulphur and rotting meat.

 Your hand passes down the doe’s head, and her skin sloughs off beneath your fingers, leaving shiny, white bone behind. You gag, clapping a bloody hand over your mouth as fat flies buzz lazily out of her empty eye sockets. Wrong. This is wrong, it doesn’t happen like this—

 How does it go, again?

 Your father gifts you the doe, the golden doe, you are eighteen, you are a woman now, you will ride with him on the hunt, you will—

 “Su—gar swe—et,” Your father’s voice is the buzzing of a thousand glistening black flies, his tongue is made from them, wriggling in his wide open mouth. His eyes are children’s scribbles, black and writhing, and tears like ink drip from their corners. “It tasted like sugar—”

 It is then that you remember your father is dead.

 He is dead. He is dead here, because he is dead everywhere, dead and rotting and gone but not gone and you mustn’t listen, you mustn’t—

 You wake with a sharp gasp. 

 “—Princess?” The words dissolve into a static, meaningless drone as you are thrust suddenly back into consciousness. For a moment, the dream is still overlaid over the waking world like runny watercolor as you blink groggily in the dark. Beneath your trembling fingers, you can still feel the doe’s soft, golden coat—and the sharp, polished bone of her skull. With a sweaty palm against the wall, you retch, doubling over as you heave. 

 Nothing comes up. 

 The air around you is stale, stagnant, and the taste of dust and decay blankets your tongue as you swallow down lungful after panicked lungful. One thing is abysmally clear to you as you dizzily rest a hand on the cold stone to keep yourself upright—

 You are not in your rooms. 

 Where am I?

 “Princess.” The voice sounds again, and your head snaps about wildly, your eyes wide as you stare into the dark. The dream is still there, sticking the fringes of your waking thoughts like tar, and for a moment there are two voices, one made of dark black honey, sickly sweet, and the other the insectile buzz of a thousand glassy wings all beating in unison—

 “Wh-who goes there?” You ask, dragging the back of your hand across your quivering mouth. There is a sound like the sharp rushing of air, and all at once the room is lit with warm yellow light. You suppress a scream as your father’s withered, sunken face appears before you, his eyes like children’s scribble—you shut your eyes, closing them tightly as you whimper. 

 “A dream, this is a dream, a dream—” A cool, bare hand wraps about your wrist and you scream, pulling and fighting as fiercely as you can manage. “No! No! You’re dead—!” You cry, hysterical tears creeping out of the corners of your closed eyes. 

 “I regret to inform you, little sister, that I am very much alive.” It is not your father’s voice—not the dead—but your step-brother’s. “Despite your best attempts to dispatch me.” Slowly, you open your eyes, sniffling as you meet his gaze. He nods up at your balled fists, still trembling in his grip. You can feel the heat of him through his own loose night-shirt and your thin cotton shift, and your skin prickles as he licks his lips. 

 “Release me.” You say it with more confidence than you feel. For a moment, you feel your step-brother drag his thumb across your pulse point and cock his head, as though he is considering it. 

 “Will you strike me again, little princess?” He asks, a mocking smile curling at the corners of his mouth. You scowl. “I did not plan for a midnight brawl.” You shake your head, your cheeks flaming. Geralt stares at you for a moment, like his golden eyes see something yours do not. As you prepare to make the demand again, he frees your wrists. You clutch your hands to your chest, eyeing him warily. The torch he has lit casts the long room in dim orange light, the flames dancing in his irises, turning them molten. It is the firelight, you think, that makes him look so menacing, so…

 Hungry. 

 You shiver, turning your gaze instead to your surroundings, squinting at the long stone hall in the flickering light. The cool, stagnant air is disturbed only by the sound of your quiet breath, which catches in your throat as your eyes widen.

 “Where…are we?” You ask, though you fear you know the answer already. 

 The walls are lines with alcoves bearing countless candles, stuck into the melted pools of wax left by their predecessors rather than into proper candelabras. And in neat rows in front of them… 

 Graves. Made of the same gray stone as the castle. Highly polished and clean, they are each adorned with ornate carvings of their occupants. You stare grimly at the rows and rows of polished stone, and wonder at how you might have possibly found your way here through the dark labyrinth of the castle. You think again of the dream, and gooseflesh rises again on your skin. 

 ”Did you bring me here?” You round on the prince, your brow furrowed. He chuckles in response, and the sound of it grates against you. 

 “Me? I merely followed you. In truth I had wondered why you would visit the catacombs at this hour. I thought perhaps,” his eyes narrow as a crude grin plays at the corners of his mouth. “A secret paramour, or—”

 “Do not confuse me with yourself!” You snap, wrapping your arms around your body as you shiver. The prince clucks his tongue at your ire.

 “Come now, don’t be cross, little sister,” Geralt purrs. “It wouldn’t have been proper to leave you wandering the hallways in your state of undress, muttering to yourself like a madwoman.” Your cheeks warm at his crude words, and you feel angry, embarrassed tears flush hotly into the space behind your eyes. You blink them back. 

 “I… have not walked in my sleep since I was a child,” you admit, looking down at the space between your bare feet. Geralt hums in response. Old Madge, in her half-blind wisdom had always muttered fearfully to your father about your nightly escapades. 

 A soul shouldn’t walk about at night, she would say, her thin, knobby fingers twisting strands of honeysuckle and dried lavender together into a long chain, one she would wind around your bed’s posts every night for a year until finally you stayed in it. A soul shouldn’t walk about at night. What’s it lookin’ for?

 “I fear I…” You shake your head, swallowing your concerns—they are not for him to hear.  “No matter.” For an instant, a look of disappointment crosses his face before it is gone again, leaving you to wonder if you had even seen it at all. “Thank you.” Your reluctance is palpable. “For waking me.” 

 “You’ve no need to thank me. Not yet.” His eyes glitter darkly. You swallow thickly, and they follow the movement, sweeping almost lazily down the line of your throat. “Let us go.” They flick back up to yours. “Unless you wish to spend the night here?” He gestures behind you, and you shiver again, shaking your head quickly. 

 “Please.” 

 You are grateful to leave the eerie silence of the royal catacombs behind you, following as closely as you dare behind the prince. His torch throws up strange shapes on the walls of the narrow, spiraling stairwell. You can feel the dream sitting at the edges of your thoughts, waiting eagerly to settle back over you like fog. You were not predisposed to bad dreams, and yet they seemed to be the only ones you have had since you arrived. You have been beset with dark thoughts, nipping at your heels like hungry dogs, no—

 Wolves. 

 The two of you emerge from the narrow stairwell into the empty chapel, and the vast hall echoes with your entry. The sconces are dark, and the robed, painted priests nowhere to be seen. The chapel is far less intimidating at night, the sharp features of the northern gods softened by shadow. Cold moonlight filters down softly through the domed ceiling, the colors pale and muted. For a moment, the perfectly round moon is framed perfectly by the pane of red glass containing Father Wolf, shining bright crimson above his head as you pass beneath it. 

 The choking scent of the incense is gone now, and only a trace of it remains in the still air. It is overpowered by a thick, musky animal scent that reminds you of wet fur. As the two of you cross the center of the room, Geralt hooks left, towards the wide, dark archway on the other side of the room. It gapes open like a toothless mouth, the stone floor sloping downward steeply into the dark. 

 You stop at the top of it, the warm air stirring the loose hair about your shoulders. Geralt turns to look back at you, raising a brow and cocking his head p as he lifts  the torch higher. There is a question in the tilt of his head, unspoken on the curve of his lips.

 Are you afraid?

 You are. The dank, pungent animal scent washes over you again, and you shudder. It reminds you of your father’s hunting dogs.

 “Come, little Doe.” His voice feels like cold fingers drawn across the back of your neck. “You need not fear the kennels this night.” 

 “I am not afraid.” You jut your chin out stubbornly, even as gooseflesh erupts along your arms. 

 “Good,” he purrs, licking his lips. “They can smell it.” Geralt descends down into the dark maw, and you reluctantly follow. Like most, you are no stranger to the rumors that leak steadily from King Vesemir’s halls; fantastical tales of furred beasts whose jaws were wide enough to swallow a horse whole. You clutch yourself, inching closer to the prince as the sloped path straightens out, opening into a massive cavern. 

 Geralt’s torch is little more than a pinprick of light in in the vast, unyielding dark. The warm glow only manages to dimly outline the shapes of natural stone pillars, throwing up misshapen shadows. There are still more passageways, little more than tunnels, littering the walls like pockmarks. For a moment, the light of Geralt’s torch throws a long arm across the chamber. 

 Reflected in it’s light are two, glowing orbs. Eyes, the size of dinner plates, their color impossible to describe. It was as if the eyes themselves were ablaze, glowing brightly, breaking the darkness. Over the rush of your own labored breath, you can make out the quiet scratch of claws on stone. It’s coming closer. The thought tightens your throat.

 You are powerless, paralyzed before it like prey. Are you prey? You suppress a whimper. There is warmth at your back, and you realize belatedly that it is  Geralt, so close his breath brushes the back of your neck. 

 “No fear, little princess. No fear.” 

 In less than an instant, the creature stands just beyond the ring of light cast by the prince’s torch. Faintly, you can make out the hulking shape of it; larger by far than any horse. Shaggy white fur, stained a rusty red around its muzzle, it’s ears pricked up and forward as it listens to the sound of your breath.

 “Hold out your hand.” You do, lifting a trembling palm in front of you as if to stop the wolf from coming any closer. The wolf’s lip curls, exposing the wickedly sharp tip of a fang. It sniffs at your hand, and for a moment, you fear you will draw back nothing but a bloody stump. Your shock is palpable when it presses the tip of its snout against your hand, whiskers tickling your palm. 

 “Incredible.” The word escapes with the release of your held breath. You stroke the warm, bristly hair on its muzzle slowly, your eyes still wide with disbelief. The dire-wolf snorts, claws tapping against the stone as it turns from you. As quickly as the wolf appeared, it is gone again, disappearing back into the dark. You remain as you were for a moment more, your arm still outstretched as you watch its retreating back with terrified wonder. 

 “Yrsil.” Geralt’s voice drags you back to the present, and suddenly you are aware of how close he is to you, the way his warm breath ghosts against the shell of your ear.  “The she-wolf. Her name is Yrsil.” You jump away from him, smoothing your hands down your shift as you eye him warily. 

 “Why did you bring me here?” The accusatory note in your voice appears to amuse him, further stoking your ire. “To frighten me?” 

 “If I wanted you fearful, I would not have needed the kennels to do it.” You clench your fists, glaring hatefully at him as he resumes his casual pace across the cavern floor. “Come, now. This is the quickest way back to the eastern wing of the castle. I would not lie to you.” You glare at him, your eyes narrowed.

 “Would you not?” You reply dryly. 

 “I am many things, Princess.” Geralt’s voice drips into your ears like snake oil. “But liar is not one I am eager to add to the list.” 

 True to his word, the two of you emerge from the kennel entrance in the throne room, the hot musk of below sticking uncomfortably to your skin and hair. You half expect the prince to take his leave, now that you are back in familiar territory, but he doesn’t. He keeps pace with you all the way back to your chambers. The heavy door is still slightly ajar, no doubt from your midnight venture. The prince places the lit torch in one of the empty wall sconces before leaning expectantly against the wall, his body partially blocking the doorway. 

 “Excuse me.” 

 He slowly tilts his head, fixing you with a questioning look. “I do believe there is something you are forgetting, my Lady.” He parrots Kassandra’s tone with irritating accuracy. “I know Redania keeps to the old customs as well as they can, however here in Rivia we do require a certain level of decorum.”

 You clench your fists in your nightgown. “What do you want, Geralt?” You ask, exasperated.

 “A kiss should suffice, little Doe.” He purrs. His golden eyes burn the same way they did in the gardens the night of your mother’s coronation. You shake your head in disbelief as you stare at him, your lips parted. 

 “Y-you cannot ask this of me!” Your repudiation is a shrill squeak. “T-tis  indecent, w-we cannot—!” You shake your head again. “The king will not allow—”

 “I think you will find, little sister,” he reaches forward to trace the pad of his forefinger along your jaw-line, “that it matters not what the king will allow if he is not present. Do you see him?”He pushes your head to the side, forcing you to look down the hallway. “I don’t.” This is the closest Geralt has ever been to you, practically pressing you against the wall, caging you in with his massive arms. You understand now, the message relayed beneath his words—you are in no position to negotiate. 

 “You are my brother!” You plead, but he is unmoved. 

 “In name only.” He leans down, twining a lock of hair between his fingers, tugging it gently. “My father’s sham of a marriage has remarkably little to do with me.” You press yourself against the stone as he leans closer. “Come now, little Doe. Let us speak truth.” He tugs gently at the satin ribbon at the neck of your shift and it falls open. 

 “What you saw in the gardens intrigued you,” Geralt traces a path from your chin to your collarbone, his fingers feather-light, “did it not?”

 “No!” His open amusement at your conviction is like cold water down your back. 

 “I saw, Sweetling,” he says lowly. “The look on your face—”

 “Fine!” You shrill, tearing yourself away from him. It is not true, it cannot be—and yet, your blood rushes through your veins, a thin tendril of that same shameful longing uncurling in your belly. The dark curiosity that had driven you to peer around the hedge all those nights ago surges with sinful familiarity, even as you try to stamp it out.

 You lean forward with a grimace, rolling onto the tips of your toes. The prince cups your chin, smoothing a finger along your lower lip. He is unprepared for you to turn your head sharply, your lips brushing against his stubbled cheek. It is only the quickness of your movement and Prince Geralt’s own surprise that allows your malicious compliance, and you dart away, ducking under his arm and through the slim gap in the door. 

 He snarls, reaching for you, but you slam the it shut, sliding the bolt into place with speed that surprises you. Your heart hammers against your chest as for a brief moment, there is silence on the other side of the door. 

 “Aren’t you clever,” he sneers, his voice muffled through the wood.  He tries the handle before letting out a muted curse. “Open the door.” Your silence earns you a dark growl. “Open it!”

  You jump back from the door, muffling the sound of your scream with the palms of your hands as Geralt throws himself against it. It shudders in its frame, and for a terrifying moment you fear it will burst open, revealing the enraged prince on the other side—but it does not.

 “Open it!” You shrink against the wall as he seethes, his threats echoing in your ears. The sturdy wood holds against his assault, and when he finally stops, you can hear the sound of his labored breathing on the other side. That too, gradually fades into silence, and cautiously, you approach the door. Somehow, though you cannot see him, you know he remains there, waiting. 

 “You will regret this night.” There is grim promise in his words. “Little sister.” The sound of Geralt’s retreating footsteps makes your shoulders sag with relief, and you collapse against the wall, your breath labored. Though you doubt he is still there, waiting to ambush you in the hall, you do not dare open the door again until morning—

 Just in case. 

 —

 “It is a beautiful day, is it not?” Your mother flutters her fan daintily as she basks in the warm end-of-summer sun. To her right, Lady Amelia, red-faced and sweating beneath her pale face paint, forces a smile through her obvious discomfort.

 “Oh yes, Highness.” She blinks as a cloudy bead of sweat slides down into her eye. “Lovely.”

 You know the noblewomen fawning over your mother would much rather be inside, sheltered from the hot sun by the cold stone of the castle. It was where you would have been, if not for the summons from your mother. You had spent the majority of the past week or so in your chambers, reluctantly leaving them only when strictly necessary in your attempts to avoid the prince.

 The Prince.

 At the thought of him, you cast a wary glance at your surroundings, looking for the telltale gleam of his golden eyes, or the shock of his snow white hair. Thankfully, you find neither. Crossing the patch of soft, green grass toward your mother, you perch impatiently on the end of the carved stone bench as you wait for her to notice you. You make idle conversation with her ladies as you wait, twisting your fingers nervously in the fabric of your skirts while you try to parse out your request.

 I want to go home. 

 “Ah, daughter,” she greets you, and you drop your head respectfully as she addresses you. “Come to enjoy the weather?” She gestures around her at the blooming garden. “I daresay we shall miss it soon enough.”  She stretches, the jewels adorning her fingers and throat shining brilliantly in the sun.

 “It is lovely,” you say, nodding agreeably. “It does remind me of home.” You curse yourself as the word slips from your lips. Instantly, your eyes fly to your mother’s face, watching for the displeasure you know you will see written in the stiffness of her smile or the narrowed slant of her eyes. 

 “Of Redania, you mean.” The soft curve of her lips belie the dagger sharp edges of her words. The smile you force in return is weak, trembling at the edges of your mouth. 

 “Y-yes. That is… what I meant to say.” You do not miss the way her ladies lean in amongst themselves, whispering. “D-did you wish to speak with me?” Though the day is unseasonably warm, and you yourself are surrounded by people, you feel small and cold and alone. Adrift. 

 “Must a mother need a reason to see her child?” She asks, rising gracefully from her seat. One of the servants rushes over with a parasol, but she waves him away, shaking her head. “If a reason must be given, I suppose mine might be that I have missed you.”  She loops her arm through one of yours securely, steering you off the patch of cool grass and back onto the garden path proper.  The whispers of her ladies follow behind you, biting at your heels they fade. 

 “I am your mother, and yet I cannot recall when last we broke bread together.” 

 “I have found myself quite exhausted, of late,” You mumble the half truth. “I fear the journey weighs heavily upon me still.” You suppress a shudder as you remember the dream, your father’s rotting face bloated with fat maggots—“I have not slept well.” 

 “Late night escapades do tend to be quite exhausting.” Her lips curve into a cold, knowing smile, and your belly fills with hot lead. Shame turns the blood in your veins to ice as your mother inspects her sleeve. A terrible fury rages beneath the placid surface of her pleasantries, and you cower in the face of it. 

 “M-mother, I—” The words will not come, leaving you floundering as your mouth opens and closes in silence. “H-he—”

 “Did you think I would not see it?” She spits. Disgust drips from the words.    “Would not notice his...” She pauses, her eyes narrowing as her mouth twists with displeasure. “Interest.” You swallow against the lump in your throat, knowing it matters not but still wondering who might have seen, who might have witnessed Prince Geralt raging at your door. 

 “Mother, I-I swear to you, I have done nothing—! H-he, I—I walked in my sleep, a-and he found me, I—nothing happened!” You hate the look on her face, like your pleas of innocence have only confirmed your guilt. “Nothing—”

 “Nothing?” Her lip curls. “You must know these games you play, all they have done is pique his interest.” She speaks as though somehow, you should have known better. “Men are stupid, willful creatures, desirous of what they cannot have.” She clucks her tongue at you. “Your father coddled you far too long—you are a woman grown! It is long past time you act like it!” 

 “Father would believe me!” You sob. Hot, angry tears spill down your cheeks.   “I am innocent!” Your mother stares at you coldly, before reaching forward to cup your chin. 

 “It is not your innocence I question.” Your mother’s voice is deceptively soft.   “It is your sense.” You blink at her through your tears, trembling. “My sweet, naive girl.” She wipes roughly at your tears with the pad of her thumb. The cold distance in her eyes splits you cleanly down the middle like a sharp blade. There is part of you that wants to fawn, to deliver honeyed words on a platter until her love shines down on you again like the sun—

 And part that wants nothing more than to flee. You want to ask—no, beg—for her to send you home, to return you to the walls you knew better than the lines on your own palms. Your mother embraces you, her lips brushing your cheek even as your own work silently. The words won’t come, like they are stuck in your throat. 

 “There should be only honesty between us.” Your mother says. “Understand?”

 I want to go home.

 Send me home.

 Please.

 “Yes.” You hang your head in defeat, the words retreating from your tongue.  

 “Good.” She chirps as she leans away. She is herself again, smiling affectionately as she brushes imaginary dirt from your dress, tucking loose strands of hair back into your fraying braid. “And you’ll tidy up for supper, won’t you? We have missed you at the table these past nights.” You clasp your hands together so tightly that your palms sting as you force a smile.

 “Of course.” 

 For a moment, just a moment, the warm breeze carries with it the smell of rot and earth, and you remember the doe, your father’s gift dead and bloated in the patch of hexweed in the woods. 

 It smells like sugarcane, but it isn’t, your father had taught you young. It smells sweet, but it’s not, understand? 

 Perhaps, you think, as you reluctantly follow your mother’s retreating back, people can be hexweed too.

to be continued…

next

Thank you for reading! Please check out my masterlist for other, similar works, and follow my library blog, @box-of-bones-library for updates. ❤️

[hoomhum]

Tag Game: Find the Words

I was tagged by @inexplicifics who gave me the words "kiss", "laugh" and "snarl" to find in my WIPS. Thanks for the tag! This was fun. :)

Kiss was kind of hard to find in something I haven't posted yet! But here's an excerpt from the very beginning of a WIP titled Ghost!Jask.

"All our girls are booked up tonight," says the madam as they drag themselves through the ornate doors of the brothel. She spares them only a brief glance, lip curling in disgust. "And the lads." "Please," Geralt says, turning blindly toward her voice. "We just need a room. Not company."  "And a bath," Eskel adds, adjusting his grip on Geralt's arm, where it lays over his shoulder. "We've coin to pay. We won't be any trouble." He needs to get Geralt horizontal, needs to look at his eyes and get another dose of Swallow in him, and Kiss for himself; the wound in his gut isn't closing up like it should. It's burning with some sort of infection.  The madam sniffs at them both. The room is full of women, and a few men— all employees, by the looks of them. They seem to be frozen at the sight of them. Wearily, Eskel digs into his gambeson and pulls free a pouch of gold, only stained a little by his own blood. It's nearly all that they've made on this contract, but it won't do them any good dead. "There's an attic," the madam says finally. "We don't use it, but for storage. I'll send a bath up, but you won't be dragging your filthy selves through the building in that state."

Laugh, from an untitled omegaverse AU, where Jaskier finds himself won when a mysterious alpha challenges his fiance to a duel.

"I'm sorry."  He looks up to find that all three Alphas have stopped what they're doing and are looking at him with concern. It's Geralt that had spoken to him from across the fire. "I'd make him take you back, if that's what you wanted. If they'd listen. I was— not in control of myself. I didn't mean to take you away." Jaskier huffs a sad laugh. "He was going to take my voice. I should be thanking you." "He what?" "I'm a bard. Classically trained, studied at Oxenfurt, all of it. But he didn't care about that, apparently," Jaskier says to his bowl of porridge. "I was just a good match. Financially. He wanted my family's contacts. When you intervened he'd just announced he'd found a hedge witch willing to silence me. So I wouldn't be so. Annoying." "What the fuck," Lambert spits, looking back in the direction of town. "Damn, omega, you want me to kill him for you? I will." Geralt's expression is furious, a growl building low in his throat. "I'll help." "That wouldn't help anything," Eskel cuts in. He reaches out, as though to touch Jaskier's shoulder, but seems to think better of it. "I'm sorry. We'll find you someone better."

Snarl, from the latest chapter of Double Down, my thief!Jaskier story:

"You bringing him to poker tomorrow?" Eskel asks, moving to power down his laptop and collect his shirt and jacket. Geralt swears beneath his breath. They have a tradition, the three of them, to meet for a game at Vesemir's each month.  "Why the fuck would he do that?" Lambert snarls, glancing up as he shoves his own laptop into his bag.  "So we can stop trading the same two hundred crowns between us all. New blood, and all that," Eskel says.  "Poker?" Jaskier joins them, buttoning up his shirt and collecting his jacket. "Ooh, is this like a team bonding activity?"

[shy-urban-hobbit]

Care to go up against me, Princess?"

Ciri looked over from where she'd been whacking seven shades out of the training dummy to where Lambert's cat, (' Aiden', her brain supplied), was leaning against the wall. She was sure he hadn't been there a minute ago.

"Why?" She asked warily, Geralt's warnings about cat Witchers coming to mind.

Aiden shrugged, "Everyone else is busy and I'm bored. Vesemir gave me the okay to oversee your training for the day. Would go and bother Lambert but learnt the hard way not to do that when he's playing with his bombs. It gets messy, and not in a fun way."

Jaskier, who had been sat bundled up by a brazier watching (read: babysitting. Ciri wasn't stupid), snorted a laugh.

"You can tell me to piss off and I can see about trading with Eskel or Coen. I won't be offended" Aiden offered with an open smile. He'd recognised Vesemir's olive branch straight away but he wasn't about to use it to make the young cub uncomfortable.

She looked between him and Jaskier, the bard merely shrugging as Ciri mulled it over. He couldn't possibly be that bad if Vesemir had allowed him to stay and with Jaskier sat right there and Eskel just in the stables, she wasn't technically alone with him…

"Alright. But just a quick spar."

Aiden's smile grew.

"Don't be afraid to move." Aiden said, leaning on his wooden training sword, Ciri stood bent double as she heaved for breath, aching and frustrated from the multiple hits Aiden had managed to land on her whilst she'd barely touched him, "You keep coming at me full frontal like that you're basically painting a target on yourself. It became predictable, which means it became dangerous."

Ciri straightened up indignantly, "The wolves are always telling me-"

"No offence to the wolves." Aiden interrupted gently, "But they're all over six feet tall and built like brick shithouses. Brute strength and stubbornness works for them. They can take the hits and keep on coming. You, unfortunately, are a bit more breakable." He very lightly poked her in the belly with the end of his sword, "But you're also small and fast. Use that."

He tilted his head thoughtfully, "If you like, I can show you some basics from my school that might benefit you."

"You mean how to fight dirty?" The words left her mouth before she could stop them. To her relief (and confusion) though, Aiden merely laughed in response.

"Is it fighting dirty if it's against something trying to kill you? And out of the two of us, which one has more bruises right now?"

He replaced the training sword and picked up the coat he'd discarded earlier, shaking the snow free, "Again you're free to say no, but the offer stands. You too, if you like." He said looking towards Jaskier, or more specifically, the small dagger at his belt as he made to leave, "I'm curious if you can actually use that."

"Wait."

Aiden stopped, waiting for Ciri to continue.

"Learning a couple of things couldn't hurt. Could it?"

Geralt smiled as he made his way back through the gates. The sun has almost set and with how treacherous the mountain could be, he knew the sensible thing would have been to hunker down and make his way back in the morning but after three days, he was too eager to see both his bard and his girl. His excitement was short-lived as the sight that greeted him at the other end of the courtyard had him immediately seeing red. Jaskier sprawled on his ass on the ground, Aiden with his back to Geralt but he spotted a very familiar head of blonde hair peeping over his shoulder as Ciri appeared to be struggling in his hold. the pommel of a sword in the hand which wasn't restraining her. Fucking bastard! He knew he should have given in and allowed the two of them to accompany him on the hunting trip!

Abandoning Roach and the game she was carrying, Geralt unsheathed his sword and charged.

"Aiden!"

Jaskier's yell came a second too late as he realised what Geralt was intending. Witcher reflexes meant Aiden was able to move quickly to drop the sword and shove Ciri away from him but not quickly enough to avoid a blow to his shoulder as the white haired Witcher roared furiously, "Get the fuck away from them!"

Aiden immediately dropped to his knees, as he turned to face Geralt, trying to look as non threatening as possible with one hand pressed to his now bleeding shoulder.

"Geralt, no !"

"What the fuck, Geralt?!"

"What the hell is going on out here?" Eskel yelled as he emerged from the stables, nose wrinkling at the overwhelming mixed scents of anger, confusion and fear.

"Eskel. Go get Vesemir." Geralt growled, not taking his eyes off Aiden.

"No need." The Witcher in question appeared next to Jaskier, drawn out of the main hall by the sudden noise. He offered Jaskier a hand up as he took in the scene, "What is happening here?"

"I found the Cat threatening Ciri with a sword."

"You mean this sword?" Jaskier asked moving forward to pick up the wooden blade and waving it in Geralt's face, "We were training, nothing more."

"By whose leave?" Geralt demanded before turning to Eskel, "And you! Where the hell were you when they needed you!"

"Hey!" Eskel snapped, "I've been in the stables since they started this morning. You really think I wouldn't have intervened if I'd heard anything untoward? Which. I. Didn't. They were never in any danger."

" Aiden!" Lambert came running towards them, panicked by the scent of blood and the sight of Aiden on the ground, "What is your fucking problem!" He yelled, squaring up to Geralt, "The old man put him in charge of Ciri's training for the day, he wasn't doing anything he wasn't supposed to be!"

"Forgive me if I don't take you at your word given your attachment. I don't want Ciri learning anything from him. "

Aiden was marginally surprised that Geralt didn't spit on him for emphasis.

" Enough!" Vesemir barked in a tone he knew would immediately bring his pups to heel, "Everyone inside. Now! Eskel, take Ciri and help Coen in the kitchen. Lambert, see to Aiden. Geralt, with me."

Read the rest on my A03!

[tigerlyla-of-metinna]

Tentative Chapter Title: Old Friend, New Light

Work in Progress

The next chapter of my Emhyr x OC witcher fanfic: The Roles We Play. It is shaping up quite nicely, plus a surprising but pleasant cameo.

Here is a snippet:

The address led Geralt to an antique-esque establishment that has seen better days and looked out of place among its more up-to-date, prestigious neighbors.

It looks like it belonged in a different district. Or a different century. Several centuries. Without the empires’ intervention in preserving heritage structures, the council of merchants- and the capitals planning committee would have demolished the place and have a building to match the current times.

Geralt glanced up at the shop’s sign above the gray awning, and grinned.

Vinne Exotisch

The etching below it: a goblet surrounded by grapes and an assortment of painted herbs and tubers that are generally identified as deadly poisons. There was an odd sign that did not belong, carved in the center of the goblet.

Geralt recognized it immediately. To the ignorant, it is just any other daring danger symbol. Geralt has seen them carved inside the walls of the human pens in Tesham Mutna.

The symbol of the Gharasham Tribe.

The door opened from the inside and a well-dressed young man exited, holding a wine bottle wrapped in dark brown paper that looked finer than the establishment it belonged to. Geralt grabbed the door before it closes and entered, flipping the “OPEN” sign to “CLOSE”.

A familiar cultured voice greeted him.

“Pick your poison, witcher, I believe I may have a bottle or two that you’ve not tried yet but I guarantee, it is far more satisfying that the usual concoctions you imbibed before a hunt, and much more intoxicating than all the wines in Toussaint.”

“Well, well, you finally decided to market your mandrake brews to the public. I expected you’d be a barber-surgeon or a medic, not a vintner.”

Regis got out from behind the counter to shake Geralts’ proffered hand. The witcher, instead, pulled the vampire into a bear hug. After, Geralt held Regis at arms length and gave his old friend a look over, and chuckled.

“Heh, mister fancy pants! Traded your threadbare coat for some expensive threads-” he sniffed “- and smelling of soap instead of the inside of an apothecary.”

Regis gave him a full toothed grin, showing off those frighteningly sharp teeth. Like the majority of the nilfgaardians, Emiel Regis wore black. His doublet is embroidered with gold threads in the pattern of elven vines partly covered by a fine short black cloak. He posed like a matador for Geralt.

“You like it? The outfit gives off an air of trust: which is very vital for a merchant selling exotics. Separates the snake oil salesmen from the experts.”

An eccentric expert more like, Geralt though humorously.

 “Care to try one of my new brews?” Without waiting for an answer, Regis went back behind the counter and picked a bottle.

“Regis, I am not here for a social visit-“

“You are here to slay the Great White Terror junior” the vampire’s habit of interrupting mid-sentence no longer annoyed Geralt, and let his friend expound. “It is all the capital talks about, besides the usual politicking going on between the empire and the Merchants’ Guild. Witchers are a rare sighting in Nilfgaard and your presence in my shop is no mere coincidence. Thus, you accepted a contract for its head.”

“You deduced cor-“

“-And you were sent here, which is not a coincidence. Since you’ve so kindly closed my shop, I’ll open a bottle for you. On the house, as the humans say! Let us discuss your not-social-call over a fine brew of crocus and monkshood. Oh, I know that look!” Regis’s brows arched in amusement while uncorking the questionable vino. “It tastes nothing like your potions. But I swear on my physicians’ honor that my poisons won’t kill you-“his pointed ivories flashed playfully  “but merely give you a taste of the afterlife.”

Geralt groaned, masking the overwhelming urge to laugh.

[geraskierbrainrot]

This is a collection of fics, canon or AUs, where Geralt and Jaskier have a meet-cute — a cute, charming, or amusing first encounter between romantic partners

Flirting (Wasn't Flirting) by TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG | T | 1k

Sugar and Spice Witcher bingo Prompt: wrong date

Fire Lizards and Flirting by @wherethewordsare | 1k | G

Out on an ecological survey, Geralt has to fish a handsome stranger with a lute of all things out of the river. Roach is a big goofy Great Dane and responsible for the need to fish the guy out.

sweet tooth by willkinnie | 1k | G

so basically, a few days ago i was trying not to think abt an upcoming dentist appt, ergo new dentist geralt trying his best to make everyone comfortable and jaskier that has to deal with it. that's it. that's the story.

Up to Date by @lambden | 2k | G

"You were so hot that when you asked if I was the blind date you were looking for, I lied and said yes. But then your actual date comes up to introduce themselves and I'm so embarrassed." for Geralt/Jaskier.

sideway spirits by @julek | 2k | T this work is part of a series but can be read as a standalone (though I recommend the whole series)

“Got anyone in today?” He wonders, nodding to the dark green door that leads to the mortuary downstairs. “The paper says there’s been a car crash. ”Geralt shakes his head. “No one in yet. But I’m sure they’ll start coming soon.”

Weird Fishes by @aalizazareth | 3k | T

Jaskier doesn't think he has a superpower until he meets Geralt, who can't believe he's finally met someone who's able to see him.

Signs and Dogs by @dahliavandare | 3k | T

While jogging with Roach, Geralt meets Jaskier and his dog.

→ and the subsequent Geralt and Roach, Jaskier and Baby series

Don't Look a Gift Gobling in the Mouth by @yoursummerfrost | 3k | G

“No, I’m serious, I really do have like, uh—a goblin… thing… in my house!” Jaskier insists. “Will you come take a look at it? I don’t want it to, I don’t know, eat my liver or something?” Geralt massages at his temple. “Very few monsters are that picky. It would probably just eat all of you.” Aka: The one where Jaskier hires Geralt to investigate a monster in his house, and the outcome is somehow better and worse than Geralt expects.

Never Been in Love Before by jesskier | 3k | T

Geralt takes his dog, Roach, for a walk and meets his new neighbor.

Meet-Cute for the Socially Anxious by @freyjawriter24 | 4k | T

Jaskier liked people, but he also didn’t like people, and now he was on his way to a house party where there were very definitely going to be a lot of people. Most of which he didn’t know. Ugh. University was a stressful place. *** Modern everyone-is-human AU where Jaskier and Geralt meet at a uni house party and bond over D&D. Inspired by The Amazing Devil's Drinking Song for the Socially Anxious.

all roads lead to tranquility base by seasofglass | 4k | T

Jaskier needs some promotional photos for the launch of his new album, but as much as he loves composing new music, posing for the camera makes him a nervous wreck. On top of all, he's saddled with an unconventional photographer who claims he'll be able to show Jaskier a new side of himself. Navigating his feelings of anxiety and attraction, Jaskier remains skeptical that the photographer can deliver on his promises.

Sweet as Chocolate by @xianvar | 6k | T

“I don’t think that’ll be your next hit,” blue-haired-regular says apologetically. Jaskier is coming up with a witty reply – he really is – when he notices the figure in the back corner, seated underneath the broken lamp Valdo has been “about to fix” for weeks now. White hair, a scar over his right eye, uncomfortable gaze fixed on a large cup of coffee – it must be chocolate-voice, and Jaskier is ready to bet his favourite guitar on that. He’s even more swoon-worthy than his imagination has made him out to be. Jaskier temporarily forgets all his words, to the point that he only nods agreeably when Valdo says, “Fuck it, make yourself useful if you’re done; I’m gonna go take a leak.” Jaskier enjoys his lot in life – he has friends, a job that he loves, and all the opportunities to flirt that he could ever want. Until a gorgeous white-haired man starts frequenting Jaskier’s little bakery-slash-café and turns his whole world upside down.

hold my hand, show me something sweet by ghostiewritesthings | 7k | T

“You alright?” The other man groaned, bringing his hands up to cover his face. He screamed into his palms for almost a full minute, and Geralt let him, waiting patiently to the side. He’s been there. Eventually, the stranger stopped and took a deep breath. He left his hands over his face. “Never been better.”

a dream is a wish the heart makes by @dear-galileo | 12k | T

the last thing geralt had expected to do was meet a prince in the woods. no- the last thing that geralt expected to do was fall in love with the prince, and make a deal with a witch to see him again. (cinderella witcher retelling)

Show love to all these authors by leaving kudos and comments, and happy reading! And thank you for all the appreciation on the last rec list, I hope you enjoyed it all ♡