#resident: ciri

[hotelofheroines]

@multi-muse-transect from here:

“Well, I guess you’re lucky then…” Cortana summons digital copies of herself smirking at Ciri right now. All of them having long members in between their legs. Each of them sharing the same mind and their intent to pleasure Ciri herself.

"Ooooh~" Ciri cooed playfully, admiring the small army set on fucking her brains out. Ciri wouldn't waist time get more naked than she needed to, just dropping her pants and loosening her top enough to let her tits hang open over the hem. She sat herself up on the arm of her suite's couch, spreading her legs to flash the ladies her pussy and gesturing to invite them in. "Can I get some service before I let you all pound into me? Some kissing, sucking, and licking, maybe?" She offered eagerly.

[heyciry]

1998 - 2015

Claire Redfield /// Leon S. Kennedy

#Cleon

[bbugsy]

my witcher hyperfixation is back so this may turn from a horror blog to a witcher blog LMAOOO expect witcher art n fics very soon sorry not sorry 😔🤙

[shy-urban-hobbit]

“I mean, you’ve got to feel a little sorry for them really haven’t you?” Jaskier said from where he was mopping up the last of the evidence of the half dead rat Roach had thoughtfully decided to gift them (the first time it happened he’d shrieked in surprise before Geralt put it out of its misery with a matter of fact “Welcome to country living, city boy”). Geralt gave a non committal hum from where he was warming milk up for Ciri on the stove. The little girl sat colouring at the large kitchen table - too large for two, but that would change when Geralt’s brothers and any guests they decided to bring descended on them.

“I mean they’re just minding their own business like, Oh I’m a hungry rat. Please don’t kill me.” Here Jaskier put on a slightly squeaky voice and held up his hands in imitation of paws, still holding onto the mop, “And then wham one of the last things they see is Roach’s teeth coming towards them. So many teeth.” He gave the resident farm cat a critical stare and received a dismissive tail flick in response.

Ciri giggled at his antics which caused him to grin back at her in return. It always felt like a special sort of personal victory when he managed to coax a laugh out of the little girl.

Despite being together for six months, he was still being introduced to her as her father’s ‘friend’ (which was true enough, they wouldn’t be dating if they didn’t get along) and Jaskier was happy to go along with it. Geralt had explained without revealing too much that the little one had been let down by too many adults in her life already, himself included, and ‘boyfriend’ was maybe just a little too official sounding for the time being (and if he said his heart hadn’t broken a little for the five year old smiling at him from Geralt’s phone, he’d by lying), especially after the shit that had gone down with his ex. Geralt hadn’t gone into detail but from what Jaskier had gathered, the woman had had a hidden agenda in wanting to get back with Geralt and Ciri had almost gotten seriously hurt as a result. Geralt had blamed himself for jumping back into the relationship too quickly and so, any potential partners now had to pass what Jaskier had dubbed ‘The Ciri test’.  

He liked to think he’d passed the first portion with flying colours, the tiny blonde seeming perfectly comfortable with him in public places. Now they were dipping their toes into Jaskier staying in their home for longer periods, with Jaskier having graduated from the guest bedroom to sharing with Geralt the previous visit (the brunette wanting the ground to swallow him up when she happily informed her Uncle Eskel of ‘Daddy’s sleepover’ when the man had dropped by unexpectedly the following morning. Geralt had just shrugged and told him to be thankful it hadn’t been Lambert; who could and would, happily take the piss forever).

“Alright Ciri, put your things away and then go get your bedtime book. I’ll be in in a minute.” Geralt said, pouring the warm milk into a plastic My Little Pony cup.

“I want Jask.” Ciri declared form where she was trying to force the crayons back into their box by the (relatively small) handful, Causing both adults to stop what they’d been doing and stare at one another. This was new.

“You sure you don’t want daddy?” Jaskier asked, looking to Geralt for some sign as to what he should do.

“You do better funny voices. Daddy’s all sound the same.”

It took everything Jaskier had not to burst out laughing at that as he took in the minute eye twitch from the other man at that statement, “Geralt?”

Geralt nodded, “Mind if I stay and listen? You know how much I love The Gruffalo.”

Jaskier snorted and felt a surge of fondness. The lies we tell for our children.

It ended up being a joint effort, with Geralt guest starring as The Gruffalo “On account of you being so, well...gruff.” and admitting to a slightly too smug looking Jaskier and a mostly asleep Ciri that “Yes, Jaskier does better voices for everyone else. Especially Mouse.”

"Everything ok? You’ve gone all quiet on me.” Jaskier said from where he had his head in Geralt’s lap as they watched some mindless Netflix show. “I didn’t overstep did I?” He was suddenly frantic, his anxieties bubbling back up to the surface now that he didn’t have a performance and an audience to focus on, “I know you probably just said yes so things wouldn’t be awkward. I probably should have told her no and come up with an excuse but how can anybody say no to that face-“

“Jaskier. It’s fine, honestly.” Geralt said, rubbing his hands up and down Jaskier’s arm in a way he knew calmed him, “I’ve built up something of an immunity to Ciri’s puppy eyes. I would’ve said no if I had a problem with it. I’m just thinking.”

“About?”

“About how I might have a question for Ciri.”

The next morning saw Jaskier seeing both of them off with a hug (also accompanied by fishing a stray cheerio out of Ciri’s hair which he had been too tired to question) before heading back to his city apartment and his job as a music tutor.

“Ciri?” Geralt asked, putting her school backpack by the door as he knelt down to help her button up her coat, “You know how Aiden is Uncle Lambert’s boyfriend?"

It had slowly been killing Jaskier not to check his phone as soon as the text notification came through but he was nothing if not professional and he would not check his phone when he was in the middle of a lesson. Thank the Gods he did wait as he was prettu sure he gave his retreating student a minor heart attack with the squeal he let out at Geralt’s message:

‘Ciri has been proudly announcing to her classmates this morning that Jaskier is her daddy’s boyfriend. Much disappointment from the single mums.’

[thedemonofcat]

During the torture, Rience puts a curse on Jaskier that prevents him from asking for help or even trying to get himself help.

Now Kear Morhen Jaskier finds he can’t ask for anything. Not help for the burns, he can’t ask for extra blankets to keep warm. Currently, Jaskier can’t even ask for food.

When one of the other residents of Kear Morhen, typically Geralt sometimes Yennefer or Ciri and each of the other Witchers once or twice. Try to ask Jaskier if he needs something the curse makes him decline any help. Since curse also prevents Jaskier from telling anyone about the curse

Meanwhile, Geralt is trying to figure out why, if Jaskier's scent is so strong, smelling of sadness and pain, why he doesn’t tell anyone what’s wrong.

[kxedeharas]

ICONS   !   CIRI THE WITCHER 4 TRAILER

by clicking this link you will be redirected to 14 icons of CIRI in the witcher 4 trailer, accompanied by 12 large headers. the icons are sized 1024 x 1024, and the headers are sized 1400 x 778 for quality reasons.

I AM hardly active on tumblr, and more active on pinterest where you can find my video game only icons - featuring games such as: resident evil, until dawn, and modded packs. @eternityeiicons.

THANK YOU for using these icons if you choose to do so, any likes and reblogs are much appreciated <3

[fangirleaconmigo]

I've been going through some of your posts about Geralt and Dandelion's friendship in the books recently because... well I'm back in my book/game phase I guess and I really wanted to know if there are any other Dandelion friendships you like from the books and why? Like him and Zoltan or with the other Hansa etc? [Personally I'm a big fan of what little we see of him with Regis and it always makes me weepy that he wrote a biography about him in the games and fondly remarks abt him smelling like herbs all the time]

Awww yayy thanks for spending some time on the ol blog. I absolutely love this question. I don't get to talk enough about Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, and his relationship with Dandelion (for the newbies, that is Jaskier's name in the books) is so lovely.

Dandelion and Friendships

For those who are just joining us, Tea is talking about my series about Geralt and Dandelion's friendship in the books.

I have also written posts about Dandelion's friendships with Ciri and Zoltan:

Dandelion and Ciri

Dandelion and Zoltan

And for this post, I'll focus on Regis and Dandelion's friendship, which I absolutely love.

Dandelion and Regis Friendship (books)

What really strikes me about Regis and Dandelion, is just how patient and kind Regis is with Dandelion. Sometimes it is almost like he’s dealing with a child he cares about. Considering Regis’s age (over four centuries old), Dandelion (approx in his thirties when they meet) IS a child. 

On top of that, Dandy’s personality is rife with traits often associated with kids:

insatiable curiosity to the point where he endangers his own life, (when they go into the forest or sea, Geralt has to essentially, follow right behind him like you would a toddler),

hyper enthusiasm about every discovery he makes, (he whispers in awe when he sees mandrake for the first time, that’s just how he reacts to everything new)

his inability to censor himself or stop asking questions even when everyone else wants him to shut up (he will ask until he understands, no matter the social cues happening)

the way he will act incredibly transparent and awkward while thinking he is being subtle and smooth

Perhaps that is why Regis seems to be so indulgent of him. And somehow their personalities just fit naturally.

Regis’s most annoying trait is to lecture people at length like a professor and cut people off who are asking a question, since he is too eager to answer it. The vampire loves to hold forth on a topic.

Dandelion’s annoying trait (one of many, bless, we know he can't keep it in his pants either) is to ask questions incessantly. In that way, they really kind of fit together. 

Geralt loses patience when Dandelion is being socially inappropriate by asking too many questions. Geralt really values discretion and manners.

Regis is more willing to spend time explaining things and to open up.

Early in the hansa's time together, (before he manages to surprise folks several times over) Dandelion is often seen as the one who is in way over his head. Everyone else is a warrior or a soldier. Dandelion is the soft one. To add to the indignity, Geralt is angry at him during Baptism of Fire because Dandelion keeps forcing him to make friends (well, to ask for help)

Yet Regis, the new guy, is the one who always makes sure Dandelion isn't embarrassed or ashamed.

Here’s a few examples.

When Dandelion is given a bloody head wound by an arrow, the poet is howling and shrieking. He thinks he's dead already. He is not a stoic man. It is played comedically, but Geralt is also legitimately terrified that he will lose Dandelion. That bit is not played comedically.

But given the circumstances, the rest of them could be forgiven for rolling their eyes at the poet's dramatics.

But Regis (who is treating his wounds as the resident barber surgeon) does not.

Regis speaks to him so soothingly, and kindly. (I am omitting the Geralt dramz because I will get off topic lol)

Dandelion groaned and took a sharp intake of breath....

“I’ll put in a few stitches,” Regis said...”Be brave, Dandelion.”

Dandelion was brave.

“Almost done here,” Regis said, setting about bandaging the victim’s head. “Don’t you worry, Dandelion, you’ll be right as rain. The wound’s just right for a poet, Dandelion. You’ll look like a war hero, with a proud bandage around you head, and the hearts of the maidens looking at you will melt like wax. Yes, a truly poetic wound....”

And when it is revealed that Regis is a vampire, and Dandelion is afraid of him, Regis is incredibly patient and kind about the whole thing. He does not take offense. Geralt does! (Ironic, considering Geralt ran Regis off, but Geralt, bless, is dealing with a clusterfuck of feelings about the vampire and everything else going on in his life.)

But yes, after Geralt tells Dandelion about Regis, Dandelion is scared, and wants to seek reassurance. But the poet (unbeknownst to him it seems) is awkward and bad at it. He tries to bring up the issue with the subtlety of a sledge hammer.

Dandelion...deciding to clear up the uncertainty..began as soon as they set off. With his usual tact.

(I like that. His usual tact. Meaning, zero tact lmaoooooo.)

“Milva,” he suddenly called as they were riding, sneaking a glance at the vampire as they were riding, sneaking a glance at the vampire. “...I fancy eating a hunk of real meat for a change! How about you, Regis?”

Yeah. Real subtle Dandelion.

“I beg your pardon?’ the vampire said, lifting his head from the horse’s neck. 

“Meat!” the poet repeated emphatically. “...fancy some fresh meat?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And blood. Would you like some fresh blood?”

“Blood?” Regis asked, swallowing. “No. I’ll decline the blood. But if you have a taste for some, feel free.”

Geralt, Milva and Cahir observed an awkward, sepulchral silence.

I love that. Awkward sepulchral silence. Dandelion causes a lot of those. But Regis does not dismiss him or laugh. He reassures him.

“I know what this is about, Dandelion,” Regis said slowly, “And let me reassure you. I’m a vampire, but I don’t drink blood.”

The silence became as heavy as lead. But Dandelion wouldn’t have been Dandelion if he had remained silent.

But Dandelion wouldn’t have been Dandelion if he had remained silent. (sorry I am laughing every other line at this part)

“You must have misunderstood me,” he said, seemingly lightheartedly. “I didn’t mean-”

“I don’t drink blood,” Regis interrupted. “...I gave it up.”

Dandelion doesn’t know what that means and keeps pestering Regis to explain. Geralt is embarrassed and tells Dandy to shut up.

However, Regis opens up around the camp fire that night. He tells his life story, and says he hasn’t drank blood in fifty years. Dandelion is incredulous. 

“Not at all?” Dandelion said, and stuttered. But his curiosity got the best of him. “Not at all? Never? But...?”

Geralt is embarrassed again and shuts him down again. Regis, by contrast, is patient and defends Dandelion.

“I beg your pardon,” the poet grunted.

“Don’t apologize,” the vampire said placatingly, “And Geralt, don’t chasten him. I understand his curiosity.”

Baptism of Fire 291-295

That's right. Don't chasten him Geralt.

Regis and Dandelion also just have a wonderful dynamic of picking on each other.

Dandelion teases Regis about his long ass name.

And Regis has a great time teasing Dandelion lovingly. In one scene, Geralt and Regis team up to pick on Dandelion and the secretive way he treats his writing. Dandelion has stolen some paper and pencil from a Lyrian military convoy and is writing whenever they make camp, but gets testy whenever anyone gets near him or looks at his manuscript.

Geralt is good-naturedly giving Dandelion a hard time and Regis jumps in with such adorable relish. (Also, in this scene, we find out that Regis actually named Dandelion's memoirs)

"Indeed," the witcher joined in...."You've become devilishly touchy, Dandelion. One cannot fail to notice that it is somehow connected to the paper which you have recently begun to deface with a bit of lead while we camp." “It’s true,” Regis agreed, “our minstrel has become touchy, not to say secretive, discreet, and loving of solitude recently. Oh no, having witnesses when performing his natural needs doesn't bother him at all...His shameful secrecy and oversensitivity to being watched extends solely to his scribbled notes. Is, perhaps, a poem being written in our presence? A rhapsody? And epic? A romance? A canzone?”

He's like, you don't care who sees you piss and shit, but oh this you care about. lol. Tell us about the poem. But Geralt objects.

“No,” Geralt retorted...”I know him. It can’t be verse, because he’s not cursing, mumbling, or counting the syllables on his fingers. He’s writing in silence, so it must be prose.”

“Prose!” The vampire flashed his pointed fangs - which he really tried not to do. “A novel perhaps? Or an essay? A morality play? Dammit, Dandelion! Don’t torture us so! Reveal what you are writing?”

Dandelion says it is a memoir called Fifty Years of Poetry. Regis says that A Half Century of Poetry sounds better.

“Thanks, Regis, Something constructive at last.”

P 88 -90 The Tower of the Swallow

I admit I'm such a sucker (hehe no pun intended) for whenever Regis's fangs are mentioned, whether he is hiding them, baring them, or unselfconsciously showing them during a warm, silly moment with his friends. (Sobs, I love this vampire, seriously I need an intervention)

Regis also comforts Dandelion openly when the poet is doubting his courage or fitness for a task.

Later in the book, Geralt volunteers for a bloody job/violence for hire that terrifies Dandelion, so the poet protests the plan. Geralt insists he’ll do it alone.

But no! He has a hansa now! He won't be alone! Angoulême volunteers to go. Cahir says he’s coming with as well. Then Milva insists she is coming.

Dandelion freezes.

It would be like the LOTR ‘and my bow and my axe’ yadda yadda scene, but if there was one person left and when it got to them, everyone turned around and looked and they are just standing there frozen like....motherfuck this is scary idk idk wtf do I do. And the way this next paragraph is written, it pleases me.

Dandelion...was evidently struggling with his thoughts. And the thoughts were winning.

lmaooo

And Regis jumps in "kindly." He shows solidarity with Dandelion, and takes the heat by calling himself a coward.

“Stop meditating, poet,” Regis said kindly. For there’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re even less cut out to participate in a bloody swordfight than I am. We weren’t taught to carve up our neighbors with a blade. Furthermore...furthermore..,” he raised shining eyes towards Geralt and Milva, “I’m...a coward,” he confessed curtly.

They keep arguing amongst themselves because Geralt believes they have been spied on. And Regis is just...always soft with Dandelion. When Dandelion starts guessing about who is spying on them, and is beginning to ramble incorrectly,

“You’re mistaken, Dandelion,” Regis softly interjected.

The Tower of the Swallow p 182

It's Regis's gentleness that just fuckn kills me. That's always the character that's gonna get me right between the ribs with a shank. (Metaphorically, Regis is too gentle for that)the one that lives in a horror filled, violent, cruel world and is still just kind, even to the loud, awkward, soft, obnoxious poet who is in over his head and is afraid you'll bite him in his sleep and who shrieks when he is wounded.

Geralt and Dandelion are so sassy and old/married with each other, deeply, proudly loving in actions, but always bickering.

It's sweet to see Dandelion have a friendship like the one he has with Regis.

It is so nice to hear that the games continued his love of Regis. (I haven't played them, so I get my info about them from you guys XD)

So thanks again for following me and for the ask! I hope I've done ok answering. I also love Dandy's dynamic with Nenneke and ofc Yen, but I'll stop there.

Hope your week goes really well. x

[tigerlyla-of-metinna]

Things you specifically or always do when playing certain videogames

I'm doing another tag game about videogames and our not-so-quirky quirks. Give 5 examples this time of habits or behaviors you commit when specific games or genres are played.

Here are mine:

Yakuza Series (PS4): I always, always call the local izakaya and order a take out of tekkamaki (tuna rolls) or some kajiki sashimi. because this game has your character nosh on premium sushi. Worse when you read the description and it always gets me mouthwatering for it. Nevermind the ramen or the donburi in that game, I love sushi and I will never play the Yakuza games without a dozen or so tekkamakis!

Streetfighter/Tekken: Or any one on one fighting games. I never play competitively. So when I sit in the arcade and play against the machine, and someone comes in about to pop in a coin, I always tell then "please don't. I do not want a challenger." I suck at actual human challengers. Thank goodness I've not encountered a jerk who ruins the game for me and let me finish my game.

Rune Factory/Harvest Moon or any farm sim: I check the list of marriageable candidates in advance and always pick the oldest bachelor. If there is an option to create a harem, mores the fun!

Resident Evil 4: I play tetris with my inventory. I am sure I am not alone in this :D

The Witcher 3: Nilfgaard always win! Also, I do not search for Ciri in the Isle of Mist until I get to talk to Countess Mignole with Vesemir still alive, then talk to Vesemir about her T_T.

I taggeth @bittersweetbark, @valandhirwriter, @regis-favorite-raven, @andordean, @alphagravy, @rotatingremains, @gauntermetaverse, @geraltyen-of-corvobianco. Anyone can also join and make their list!

[lurakha]

make a poll of your favourite female characters (no limits - as many or as little as you want) and see which your followers like the most!

thank you so much for the tag @dekarios @eternalergo 🫶🏻

no pressure tags: @dreaminggoblin-yells @killerspinal @aaphra + anyone else who wants to do this ✨️

[lambden]

#25: "What have you done now?" for the ship of your choice?

2.7K words, T, geraskier! warnings include alcohol overconsumption & references to Jaskier's alcoholism. set post-s2 thank you so much to @spilledbutter for looking over this for me! <3

Long after all the other residents of Kaer Morhen have gone to bed, soft hands come to touch Geralt’s shoulders, stirring him from his unrestful sleep. He jolts upright, sitting straight in his chair; the grip on his shoulders does not slip. Soft, strong hands then. He closes his tired eyes as the laboratory around them sways. When he speaks, the rumble rises from deep in his chest: “Yen?”

A broken off laugh, and not the voice he was expecting. “No. Not Yen, I’m afraid. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt corrects. The last thing he remembers is bidding goodnight to his brothers as they stumbled off to their rooms, conspiring to pull some awful prank on Coën. Geralt should probably get up to warn the poor Griffin about whatever Lambert and Eskel intend to do. 

Then again, the damage has already been done. His eyelids flutter shut once more, and he slides back forward, seeking the comfort of the solid table as a balm for his aching temple.

Jaskier, who Geralt honestly forgot was in the room, holds him up. Very strong hands. Geralt exhales, and with his trembling breath and tired throat, the noise comes out as a whimper. He reclines into Jaskier’s arms, who receives him with surprising stability and even brushes the sweaty hair from his forehead. “Darling,” croons the bard.

Geralt’s breath slows, caught in the tide of Jaskier’s expanding lungs and chest but buoyed by his thick arms. The bench underneath him could crumble to sand, and Geralt thinks Jaskier could still hold him here. The strength is even more impressive given that Geralt is practically dead weight right now.

Each word is a soft puff of air tickling the back of Geralt’s pink ears as Jaskier continues, slow and quiet and for once not amused at all, “What have you done now?”

Good question. Geralt, suddenly panicked that he’s been caught falling asleep in a puddle of his own sick, opens his eyes— but the laboratory table is thankfully only cluttered with the souvenirs from his night. Emptied bottles stacked against each other and long-forgotten cups tower over small plates of pits and crusts. The real culprit, Eskel, has already fled the scene, but he left behind the remnants of his poison in a few of the bottles. Geralt can’t even remember where he said he’d found the damned stuff, let alone what type of liquor it was. But he had warned them of its potency, and Geralt and Lambert, determined men of science that they were, had been desperate to test out the claim.

He struggles to piece together a good answer for Jaskier. Even though the bard has stunk like a tavern since they first ran into each other again, Geralt still feels embarrassed as he decides how to explain his night. Maybe if he tells him they were mourning, Jaskier will have more sympathy; except they weren’t drinking away their grief, not specifically. Witchers are always mourning, of course, but… it had been a good night. Right up until he passed out alone and stone cold drunk in the cold stone basement.

Geralt supposes he should be lucky it was Jaskier and not Ciri who found him, or Yennefer; he’s sure the sorceress would have some choice words for him. Jaskier should have some choice words for him. A few decades ago, if Geralt had brought the bard to Kaer Morhen and had a party without him, Jaskier would have given him hell for the lack of an invitation. But now he doesn’t complain even a little, just gently working his fingers through Geralt’s hair.

“Why aren’t you mad at me?” The words spill out before Geralt can catch them and cork them. He twists in his old friend’s grip, suddenly desperate to steal a glimpse of Jaskier’s expression, and in the process his elbow knocks a bottle off the table. It bounces away without shattering but the sound is enough to make both witcher and bard jump, and Jaskier’s strong, soft hands release Geralt.

A little pink— his heart is racing, Geralt’s witcher senses supply— and wide-eyed, Jaskier says, “What?”

“Why are you down here,” Geralt mutters, unwilling to repeat himself. It was a stupid question anyway; Jaskier is mad at him. The bard hasn’t said as much, not since Geralt picked him up from his jail cell. But even though witchers have a famed ineptitude for emotions, it would take the obliviousness of a rock troll to see past Jaskier’s anger. His fury, and heartbreak, are woven into him— stitched into his ruddy skin, his messy hair, his vulnerable eyes, the frippery he drapes himself in to look tougher. His fury is in his scent, how he stinks of booze and… What was it? Heartbreak and heroics? Destiny?

Those vulnerable eyes search Geralt’s for something now, and when Jaskier doesn’t find whatever it is he’s looking for, he blinks and sniffs and clears his throat all at once. “I know there aren’t any windows down here, but up in the world of the living,” the bard informs him, sounding more like his haughty usual self, “dawn has almost broken. You’re usually training at this point— I knew you and the other witchers stayed up late, but I didn’t know you had drank yourself to sleep right on the table. I mean, when I came down here, I thought something had gone horrendously wrong.”

“Something did go horrendously wrong,” Geralt jokes, deadpan. “I drank too much.”

“Yes.” Another sniff. “I think they can smell that from Novigrad. But, I’ve seen you drink an entire bar by yourself before.”

“That was human alcohol,” he clarifies. “This was not.”

“Ah.” Jaskier gives the bottle rolling away on the floor a more considering glance, then stoops to pick it up. Geralt has seen Jaskier sample more dangerous substances but not many, so instinct takes over. He rounds his knees over the bench to spin around properly in his seat, and then rises to stalk over to the bard and— well, he only means to take the bottle and set it down on the table again. But as he misjudges the distance between them, he ends up slamming into Jaskier and knocking him back a few steps.

This time, the bottle does shatter, and Jaskier shouts. “What the fuck! What is— listen, Geralt, just because you’re experiencing a proper hangover for the first time doesn’t mean you get to fucking— whatever the hell you think it is you’re doing!” His hands fly up to grab Geralt by the collar of his shirt, shaking him as best he can. The motion doesn’t sway Geralt as much as the loud sound does; he holds firmly onto Jaskier’s shoulders, trying to regain control of his breathing. “And if you want to know why I’m not mad at you, well, I’ve got a lovely surprise for you, you absolute prick, because I am, in fact, furious—”

“Then why come down here,” Geralt interrupts roughly, sounding as ragged as he feels. “Why keep tabs on me if I’m such a—”

“Keep tabs on you!” Jaskier chokes, incredulous. “I couldn’t give less of a fuck what you do—”

“You watch me train every morning,” he growls. Jaskier’s angry mouth clamps shut at that, and the rush of colour floods his face once more. “Even if I couldn’t see you watching, you just said about as much. Why?”

“Maybe I like seeing you tire yourself out!” There’s that anger, solid as a mountain. Geralt rests against it, almost comforted by Jaskier’s rage even as the man continues. “Maybe it pairs well with my morning tea; such a lovely sight, my boorish, sweaty witcher throwing himself against a training dummy for hours and hours as the sun rises instead of talking out your deep grief and trauma with, oh, hmm, I don’t know, fucking anyone? A friend? Your family? Your sorceress lover?”

“We talked about feelings last night,” Geralt protests.

Jaskier huffs, dropping his grip on Geralt’s shirt. Each angry sentence had been accentuated by him brandishing his fists as if to shake Geralt, like an angry child— in the absence of his tightly curled fingers, there are long lines that will undoubtedly stretch out the shirt. Geralt doesn’t care. Cold as ice, the bard hisses, “Did you now?”

“Oh yes.” Vaguely, at least.

“And how did that go?”

His memories are too vivid for the amount of liquor he consumed. Only a few hours ago, this room felt much smaller. Happier, despite the blips of enormous grief— how had their discussion about feelings gone? He remembers Lambert pretending not to fight back angry tears, hiding his twitching scowl behind his mug after they all fell silent at the mention of an old quirk Diever used to have.

Geralt, in lieu of a good answer, releases Jaskier’s shoulders so as to indicate the broken glass shards littering the floor between them. And, bizarrely, this works. Jaskier’s face falls, and he laughs uncomfortably. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. You’re drunk, and I’m being a prick.”

Instead of insisting that if he was still drunk he would feel better, Geralt steps over the bottle and presses a hand to Jaskier’s shoulder again. “No… you came to check on me,” he reminds the man gently. “Even though you’re furious. No one else has even noticed I didn’t make it to bed last night.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Jaskier mutters. This time he doesn’t shake Geralt, nor does he shake him off. He simply tolerates the witcher entering his personal space, just like how Geralt used to put up with the young bard’s apparent and obnoxious omnipresence. He doesn’t even avert his gaze, staring blatantly instead. “If I really was Yen, I’d be disappointed. You look like shit.”

“You used to bathe me,” Geralt blurts out, emboldened by the closeness and the hangover. Jaskier gapes, but he continues, a boat cut loose from its anchor, drifting further beyond the forgivable pale. “I haven’t forgotten. I’ve lived for more than a hundred years, but… I’ll never forget.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, heavily and warningly and desperately.

“You— you could do it again now,” he stammers. His hand rises from the man’s shoulder to the side of his throat; he lines his pointer fingers up under Jaskier’s jaw and feels the bard breathe. Pulse to pulse, the years are easier to forget. “I’d let you. You haven’t changed so much, you know— new coat, new hair… and you reek of wine now, but—”

“Wow—”

“But, your eyes are the same blue as ever.” Geralt traces the curve of Jaskier’s cheekbone, humming. “Vitriol blue.”

“If you’re trying to sound like a poet, comparing my eyes to sulphuric acid is a shitty start.” The protests are less effective thanks to how Jaskier’s voice trembles. He lifts his hand but only to place it over Geralt’s, palm soothing his knuckles. Geralt sways into him, and once more a strong arm circles around his back, keeping him steady. “If you remember this when you’re sober, you’re never going to speak to me again.”

“I’m painfully sober,” promises Geralt, lowering his tone to impress the severity of his sobriety upon Jaskier. “My stomach is killing me. I want to sleep for two days straight, then wake up to a barrel of coffee and a gigantic breakfast, and then I want to poison Eskel for doing this to me.” And Lambert too, for good measure. “But first, I want you to bathe with me.”

“Geralt.” Jaskier shakes his head as his steel grip tightens around the witcher to support him. But despite his stern expression and posture, his voice is soft and affectionate as ever. The laboratory has never seemed smaller. Geralt strokes the bard’s cheek again. “Fuck. Listen to me, my stupid darling witcher. If I take you down to the springs right now, you’re likely to drown and I’m nowhere near strong enough to pull you to safety. Sleeping for two days sounds better, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t you like to go to bed?”

Instead of pointing out that Jaskier is obviously strong enough to lift him as he’s holding him up right now, he finally relents. “Yes.” The human’s shoulders sink in relief until Geralt pleads, “Take me to bed, Jaskier.”

Jaskier laughs, tense and sharp, and pulls away before Geralt can try to persuade him anymore.

-

Every blow of his steel sword against the rotating iron dummy is a new pin-prick against Geralt’s already fragile skull. He keeps at it anyway, only showing himself mercy by striking at a less vicious rhythm than he might on other mornings. And while he usually doesn’t have to worry about the sun, the early afternoon is almost blinding.

As poor as he feels, he’s in much better shape than last night. The exact logistics of how he made it to bed and undressed have escaped him; he only knows that Jaskier had somehow managed to carry his drunk ass all the way back to his room. Geralt twists to glance up at the high walls of the Keep, his gaze searching for the window to the bard’s room. The little songbird watches him train every morning, just as Geralt had cruelly pointed out last night. Maybe it pairs well with my morning tea.

It’s no longer the morning. The familiar silhouette of his friend is nowhere to be found now.

Geralt strikes the dummy again, stomach roiling— not from his bad hangover, but from bitter, inescapable embarrassment. Over the decades they have fallen into certain roles together. Usually, Jaskier is the one who can’t handle his alcohol, who imbibes too much and makes it the witcher’s problem. Usually Jaskier is the one teetering on the slippery precipice of inebriation, begging Geralt to stay up and chat with him, loudly singing of the night’s exploits, and constantly proclaiming to his captive audience of one how very not drunk he is.

But in all their years of friendship, Jaskier has never behaved like that. Sure, he’s broken bottles, and stumbled up to Geralt stinking of sweat and sin and far worse things than liquor. But he has never pressed himself up against the witcher’s body, never begged to be held or gripped him tightly or traced the outline of his face. Never has Jaskier asked Geralt to bathe him; let alone to bathe with him.

Geralt swings too hard. His shoulder twinges; he beheads the iron dummy. Its vague head-shaped appendage clatters to the ground and the loud noise echoes around the stone courtyard.

Still, Jaskier does not peek out of his window.

Geralt sheathes his steel and stomps back inside, livid with himself. He pushes open the doors to the main hall and strips off the top half of his sweaty armour as he does. When he succeeds in removing his shirt and throwing it to the ground, he sees the very man who’s been on his mind all day standing before him.

If Jaskier is put off by the ugly scowl marring Geralt’s features or by his heaving, bare, oily chest, he doesn’t let it slip. In each of his hands is a clay mug of steaming water; he proffers one now and Geralt accepts it gently, cowed by the kindness. It isn’t in fact water but hot black tea.

In all those times that Jaskier came to him for aid, drunk as a Skelligan or hungover enough to curse the gods themselves, Geralt doesn’t think he ever went to the trouble of brewing the bard tea. He raises the mug to his lips without question; it’s delicious, and instantly calms his aching head. This makes him feel even guiltier. “Thanks,” mutters the witcher.

Jaskier’s eyes flash, but he keeps his musings to himself for once. There is a slightly clipped, nervous edge to his tone as he chirps, “Feeling better?” 

Perhaps he’s expecting Geralt to lunge forward and drop the mug between them and embrace him again. Geralt, mortified, will do no such thing. He answers honestly and bluntly, “No.”

Jaskier should slap him for his impudence or chew him out for his ungratefulness. He just smiles, nervously shifting between his feet, and then finally paces over to retrieve a previously unnoticed basket from a nearby table. Inside lay some small vials of oil and cleanly folded towels. Geralt’s heart melts, and Jaskier, still smiling anxiously, says, “Well, I’ve got just the thing.”

[valandhirwriter]

Another snippet

For @laurikarauchscat. This is a snippet of pregnant Ciri, it was meant for a sequel to "Heirs of Nilfgaard" that never materialised. I totally agree that Ciri as a Mom is an idea that doesn't always work, and that not everyone believes possible. I respect your opinion absolutely. I still had fun with the idea of her being pregnant with little Prince Geralt.

The carriage rattled over another bridge, and Cirilla leaned back into the soft upholstery. The roads of the Empire were the best she had ever seen, and the carriage was made for comfort, still, she was exhausted. When her father had suggested they leave the City of Golden Towers and travel to Loc Grim, in spite of the time of the year, she had thought nothing of it. Her father loved to confuse his court and did so with great skill and more glee than one might think. Travelling to the Imperial Summer residence in February had certainly thrown the court into disarray.

Cirilla herself had agreed at once. She might be pregnant, but she was not an invalid. Even as the entire household, the guards, and everyone else conspired to fulfil her every wish and whim, she insisted on caring for herself and not being treated like a porcelain doll. She had little success with it. The servants were all set on making sure she had everything she might possibly need, had every comfort that one might imagine, and her guards were not much better. Captain Adair and his soldiers had made it their personal mission to ensure that she travelled as pampered as she had been at the main palace. Beginning with the best, most comfortable quarters and ending with whatever food she might take a fancy to. Had they all been scraping sycophants, Cirilla would have known how to handle them, but they were not. They were honestly happy and honestly worried for her. There was a type of care she could barely describe. 

Ever since her pregnancy had become known, assassination attempts too had increased, and while assassins never could expect any mercy from Impera, there was a new quality to the assassin hunt now. She did not know all the details, and maybe she should be glad not to know what happened to those who had tried to kill her and who were taken alive. She had heard the Captain of her father’s personal guard talk to Captain Adair, saying that Vattier’s cells filled rapidly and that the old spy was as happy as a hog in a wallow and was working all the hours the Emperor sent. 

The carriage slowed down behind the bridge; they must have reached a station to change the horses. Cirilla leaned back and listened to the voices outside: soldiers giving orders and servants running. She was not expected to do anything, sun forbid that she would have to bother with such mundane things. Still, she did not escape the polite question of whether she wished for anything, water. Tea? Some light food? And when she indicated she wished for nothing, the polite negotiations for maybe a little tea and platter of fruit continued. She gave in with a sigh, pointing out she wanted only a little.

She was more than relieved when Morvran joined her in the carriage. “You can help me eat up all that,” she pointed to the platter with fruit, delicate cheese and other small but enticing bits. “I swear everyone in this household conspires to feed me.”

Morvran smiled gently at her. “You don’t eat enough, my dear,” he said, taking her hand. “And they have worked out what will entice you. Captain Adair most certainly conspired with some officers native to the region to procure your favourite things.” 

Ciri sighed. “I am not used to being pampered like that, Morvran. Even being pregnant with the heir to this Empire does not warrant that much fuss. I understand my maids, ladies in waiting and other household people, but the soldiers? Really?” It was what irritated her most. In Cintra, a pregnant princess wouldn’t have been made such a fuss about. 

“They remember,” Morvran replied thoughtfully. 

“Remember what?” Ciri asked, “I understand that my father’s refusal to marry certainly had people nervous.”

Morvran shifted, leaning his arms on his knees and looked at her. “Long before your father returned to Nilfgaard, there was a strong opposition to the Usurper, nobles, commoners, and soldiers, it went across all classes and estates. Nobles and escaped slaves conspired to take down the Usurper together. But one question remained wide open: the succession. Who should take the throne, once that man was dead? Some groups were fiercely loyal to your house; if they were not loyal to Emperor Fergus, who was dead, they were loyal to his father’s memory. Emperor Torres cast a long shadow over this land. Some of the nobles wanted to elect a new Emperor from their ranks, but they had to realise that the broad base of the resisters would not go with that. That’s why they expended so much effort to find your father and bring him back to Nilfgaard.” He gently took her hand in his. “The fear of those years, the fear of exchanging one tyrant with a worse one, is still there. Your father proved to be a magnificent ruler, a beloved ruler as far as the common man goes, but he had no children. The question…”

“The question what would happen when he died was still there,” Cirilla replied. She had learned that according to the common Nilfgaardians her father was a beloved ruler; in the eyes of the people, he had done everything right. It was something she was still struggling with. 

“Exactly,” Morvran shrugged, “I was to be his heir, but the distrust was great. When you returned, it assuaged some of the fears. And now, knowing you are pregnant with the next in the line… it shows something is right again, dear heart. The sun is still shining on Nilfgaard. Many of the soldiers out there saw the civil war as young men, and to them, the thought that their sons and grandsons won’t be thrown into one again, that there is stability, is a great gift.”

Ciri squeezed his hand, smiling at him. She was delighted with their first child, she wanted it safe and healthy, but she still struggled with being pampered like that. “So everyone from here to Darn Rowan is conspiring to pamper me,” she said, with a hint of amusement in her voice. “I will have to accept that.”

Captain Adair knocked on the door of the carriage to report that both carriages were ready to go again, inquiring whether she needed some additional rest before proceeding. Cirilla shook her head, casting a glance at Morvran. “Stay for a while?” Most of the time, Morvran rode with the escort; he got restless when cooped up the entire day. 

But he smiled and inclined his head. “Of course, my dear.”

The carriage was closed, and the escort mounted their fresh horses. Cirilla could see her father’s carriage move out first through the window, surrounded by a heavy cordon of mounted Impera before their own carriage began moving again. To her surprise, she spotted that her father’s carriage was not drawn by the typical White Albans that served as Imperial coach horses, instead, much heavier horses - Roweni military horses - had been used. 

“Is something off at the station?” she asked Morvran. “Don’t tell me that anyone would have the Imperial carriage drawn by the same type of horse your armies use to move supplies and catapults.” Her husband was a cavalryman; he needed no further explanation.

Morvran shrugged. “Your father decided to leave the Alban road and take the shortcut to get us to Loc Grim faster. The white road shaves six days off our journey, but we need to cross the ridge from here. White Albans would have problems with that ascent. For Roweni, it is no problem at all. I heard your father liked taking the route right through the garden districts; rumours had it, that sometimes he went as far as riding that part of the route.”

Cirilla chuckled before suddenly putting a hand over her belly, as the little life inside her became known through a few strong kicks. “Someone agrees,” she said, not removing the hand. “But my father and riding? He hates travelling on horseback. The worst days on the entire journey from Vizima were when the carriage broke down, and he had to ride.”

She could see the amusement sparkling in her husband’s eyes. “One might say that even your father now and then has the youthful impetus to show he is not a machine of the state but a man. The garden districts bring that out in him, or so the word goes.”

It was an amusing thought. Cirilla knew her father was a great statesman, a machine of the state in some ways, always working on things, not wasting time on unnecessary distractions. And yet… the idea that even he might want to enjoy some things or be perceived as a man by someone… it was an intriguing thought. Something else came to her mind again. “That word - the garden districts, I know it must mean the region around Loc Grim, but it’s not in the maps.”

“It’s colloquial for the Imperial heartlands,” Morvran explained. “The garden districts comprise of Loc Grim District, the Golden Hills and the Dakhur District. Once we are across the ridge, you’ll see why your father insisted on making the trip, early though it is.”

The name of the singular provinces Cirilla knew, they had come up in various things she had learned about the Empire since arriving in the south. They were among the economic strongest of the Empire, trading in various goods, especially dyes, silks and medicines. “While I would like to know what my father’s possible reasons could be, I also am just realising that I cannot recall many noble houses from the region.”

“There aren’t that many,” Morvran said, “except a few minor titles that are as old as the Empire itself. Most of the region is immediate to the Empire, making it the place with the least influence of the great houses in all the Empire. Which would be one reason, the reason of state, why your father chose to move you here before birth.” 

It made sense, Cirilla agreed, that a few houses would still be miffed that her father had spurned them, bringing his daughter from the North to Nilfgaard and marrying her safely to one of his allies. While she had fallen in love with Morvran by herself, and he had been willing to wait for her, wait for a long time if necessary, many houses believed they should have had a slice of the Imperial cake. “Provided that the region’s populace isn’t worse than certain houses…”

Morvran laughed heartily at the suggestion. “With another Emperor, maybe, but your father? When he took the throne, he ended the religious persecution of all the heretics in these districts, stopped his secret service to further nose after traces of the old religious organisations that preceded Sol Invictus as state religion and generally allowed them to live in peace. Keep the Imperial law, pay taxes, and no one will ask to whom or what they pray or whether they believe your father to be a deity or not. Even before, many loyalists came from these hills, but after your father lifted the persecution, it gained him a few provinces with fanatically loyal people. I don’t want to know how many would-be-assassins were taken out by the locals before they could even come close to the summer palace.”

It was one thing that Cirilla truly struggled with - state religion saw her father as a deity incarnate, and she had encountered many people to whom this was important. Her father had allowed for certain religious liberties among his people, stopping zealous persecution of heretics and sects, something she wholeheartedly agreed with. But the entire idea was still very complicated to her. “And what would the other reason be?” she asked when she felt the carriage sway slightly as it began to be drawn along a steep rise. 

Suddenly Morvran beamed at her. “Look outside,” he said softly, cradling her hand between his. 

Peering through the window of the carriage, Cirilla gasped. They were just drawing across the ridge, and beyond she could see white road winding across the hills. Sharp black basalt cliffs formed the background, overgrown and dotted with flowering bushes and trees. Where the capital had been grey and stormy when they departed, spring had already come to these hills. The burst of red and violet bushes in front of the black cliffs were marvelous, and the fragrance of them even made it past the windows of the carriage. “It’s beautiful…” 

Strong, warm hands squeezed hers. “The garden districts usually have an early spring, because the mountains shield them from the rough sea winds,” Morvan said. 

[hotelofheroines]

[chaptersinprogress]

Hellooooooo I humbly request #35 'your problem is my problem' from the ~they're dating~ prompt list

Ciri tossed and turned and tossed and turned. But it was of no use. The ground remained unpleasantly uncomfortable: lumpy and hard in all the wrong places.

Sighing, Ciri flopped onto her back and closed her eyes. Maybe she’d have better luck counting sheep...

1 little sheep, 2 little sheep, 3 little sheep...

She’d reached 741 sheep before rustling and a huff at her side broke her streak. Keeping her breathing in the even meditative cadence it had fallen into, Ciri opened her eyes just a fraction.

The dark form beside her huffed once more before sitting up. A short hiss escaped the figure, before it crawled out of the makeshift tent they lay beneath. 

Ciri opened her eyes fully and curled up on her side so that she could see out of the entrance better. She watched as the figure paced in circles round and round the campfire beside the tents.

The repetitive pattern of the action had nearly lulled her into a doze, when a whispered voice carried through the air.

“Yennefer?” she heard Jaskier ask. “What’s wrong?”

A new figure joined the one that had abruptly stopped moving by the fire. Ciri found herself now wide awake.

There was a long pause that hung in the air, Yennefer seeming to weigh her words, before she finally answered him quietly.

“Couldn’t sleep. Why are you up?”

Jaskier shrugged, the movement almost imperceptible to Ciri.

“Same here.”

The two of them stood by each other in silence, staring at the fire or out into the woods, Ciri couldn’t tell which. Minutes passed as such, and Ciri had about made up her mind to stop watching and attempt the sheep thing again when Yennefer spoke once more.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Ciri only caught the tail-end of a hastily stifled chuckle. Then Jaskier’s head tipped to the side a little, as if he was actually considering the idea, before it was shaken off.

“Maybe,” his voice quietly allowed. “But not today I think.”

Yennefer hummed.

The bard nudged her. “You have more than enough problems to solve at the moment anyway, nevermind adding mine to the mix.”

The sorceress inhaled, paused, then abruptly turned to him, her hand shooting out but the fingers coming to rest gently on his wrist. Jaskier froze.

Ciri couldn’t be certain but she’d bet the last three sweets in her pack that their resident magic-expert was staring intently at the place her fingers met the skin of Jaskier’s wrist.

“It’s… It’s not a hardship,” Yennefer said slowly. “If you have… problems… I… You’re my favourite sing-songy twit so…”

The muscles in the mage’s jaw worked hard, the movements highlighted by the flickering light cast by the fire. She glared at a point over the bard’s shoulder.

“Your problems are my problems too, okay?”

From the way Jaskier was gaping at Yennefer, Ciri could tell that he had been completely caught off guard by the sentiment. To be fair, Ciri hadn’t seen it coming either. Yennefer didn’t really come across as the type to express that sort of thing.

“Right… well…” Jaskier tripped over his tongue, which had Ciri biting her own to make sure her laughter couldn’t be heard. “Well you're my favourite sewer-dwelling she-hag, so your problems are my problems too!”

Now it was Yennefer’s turn to be thrown, violet eyes blowing wide open as she stared at Jaskier in disbelief.

Meanwhile Ciri had graduated from biting her tongue to biting the meat of her forearm to stifle the full-body laughter that shook her. Melitele help them all, this was almost as bad as when she had to watch Grandmama and Eist figure themselves out! It was like neither of them knew what to do with each other… and Geralt said that they’ve all known each other for a long time!

The two adults continued to just stare at each other.

“So, um, hugging!” Jaskier yelped out frantically. “Hugs—hugs are a thing we do now right—would you like a hug? A hug seems like a great idea right about now, really adds to the whole vibe we have going; though I really probably should stop taaaalkingggg…”

The bard’s voice trailed off as he abruptly found himself wrapped in a hug.

Ciri couldn’t help the soft coo that escaped her as she watched the two of them just stand awkwardly frozen for a few moments.

“I do believe a hug typically involves more than one person doing the hugging, Jaskier,” said Yennefer, her voice partially muffled by said man’s chest.

“Ah—right, right,” replied Jaskier frantically, startled into action, hands flailing a little before he gingerly rested them on the mage’s back.

The awkwardness lasted a little while longer, before the tension began to seep out of their muscles. Ever so slowly, they began to relax against each other—the distance between them vanishing into nothing—curling over and into each other until an onlooker wouldn’t be able to tell where one ended and the other began.

Ciri watched them for a long while: two bodies melded into a singular, more solid form, swaying gently side to side as the night breeze swirled around them. Her eyes grew heavier and heavier, the time between blinks stretching further and further, till she slipped easily into sleep’s embrace, the afterimage of the entwined figures lingering for just a few moments longer.

~they're dating~ | ask box

[dapandapod]

Brave your neck to see the sun

Just another thing that lives in my head rent free that is half a fic, half an idea, that begs to be written, so here is the mix of it. And because who I am as a person, I slapped it on Ao3 as well.

(cw, lettenhove has fallen, sad stuff in general, loss of family, their spirits)

Because....

Cursed Jaskier.

I mean, he is immortal, and his home, Lettenhove, is but crumbled rock by now, and jaskier is tied to their ruins. 

And maybe madness is threatening in the corner of his eye, maybe the past is talking to him, maybe the stones remembered what they looked like in ages past.

And Jaskier cannot leave.

Maybe this is where jaskier goes after the mountain, because when he last was home, it was still standing.

But the land is fallen, burned, ash on his tongue.

Maybe there was a curse put on the stones rather than him, keeping what remains of the family bound to the ground, for the dynasty to defend against an army should they return.

And Jaskier is caught in the ruins, and the remains of his family and his childhood.

Geralt finds Ciri, and she dreams of Yennefer, yes, but she cant' stop dreaming of a land that was, and she feels herself pulled there, but it is too dangerous, because it is on the other side of the army following her.

When they finally go, the survivors in the gathering of houses on the outskirts of Lettenhove speak of a ghost, of lights as the darkness is falling, of the sound of crying, and singing, sometimes laughing.

It takes time for them to make it up there, the magic fighting them every step of the way, making it treacherous and dangerous.

Jaskier can hear them coming, but they are not the first ones attempting to seek the treasures of what once was, and he hides.

They find a lute, broken in what seems in a fit of rage against the stones. some of the strings are still connecting the neck to the body, and Geralt feels a pang of fear when he recognizes it.

Jaskier has had time to make many hiding spots, a routa of sorts, of small camps. There are weeds growing around the cracked stones, sticking up defiantly, baring their necks to see the sun.

Eventually Geralt finds Jaskier, hiding in one of the crumbled rooms, a half burned painting propped up against the wall, a little girl with one eye covered with yellow locks looking out, holding the hand of her older brother.

Jaskier holds his dagger out, until he realizes who it is.

Geralt doesn’t know how to break the curse, and it hurts Jaskier to leave. They can’t stay with him, and to not raise suspicion they have to leave him behind.

Jaskier watches them leave, and he knows that he won’t see them again. Why would Geralt come back after all, now that Jaskier finally can’t follow.

He waits until he can’t see them anymore, until he believes they can’t hear him anymore, and he screams out his frustrations, voice echoing against the stones.

Eventually Yennefer finds him, and she has the solution. Not a pleasant one, but one that allows him to leave.

His bloodline is tied to this place, imprinted on him when his fathers father brought him underground and a small child, and put his blood among his ancestors.

What Jaskier thought was madness was instead shattered remains of a spirit.

With the witch’s help, Jaskier’s mother’s spirit wakes, and she cries when she sees her son.

“Where were you?” She asks, she grieves, she screams, until her rage has run its course.

More spirits rise, and Yennefer keeps them safe in the middle of the courtyard.

The curse can’t be lifted, but they learn that Jaskier can be freed, can move on from his past if he lifts his imprint away from the stone.

A grave hag has taken residence below, her cackling and grunting traveling up the stairs, and Yennefer too must leave Jaskier, to bring a witcher to help.

Her magic is still fragile, and she places her hand on Jaskier’s cheek as he takes her goodbye, leaving him with the spirits of his family.

Eventually it is Eskel who kills the hag, keeping Jaskier company when he laughs a little too loudly, his eyes a little too wide with unrest and grief.

When Yennefer finally returns, she brings Geralt and Ciri once more, and they are surprised to see Eskel by Jaskier’s side, the hag dealt with.

Yennefer presses Jaskier’s cut palm against the cold stone of his ancestors, chanting as she recalls his blood, distangles his past from the stone.

Above, the ruins creak and groan, the spirits growing agitated. They shriek and they trash and they try to protect their home from the intruders.

When they emerge, Jaskier is quiet. He is quiet as he tests his first steps outside the ruin grounds, and he is quiet when he looks back to what was his home, and then his prison.

The ground is covered in weeds, slowly dancing in the wind, the spirits keeping their own company.

Lettenhove is no more, and the ruins remain unbothered. 

Sometimes Jaskier returns, just to speak with his sister. Sometimes he sings to his mother, and talks about the worldly affairs with his father.

Jaskier is not tied to the stone anymore, but his spirit will not rest until his family does.

Ciri doesn’t dream of the ruins anymore, but sometimes she gets a faraway look, takes Jaskier’s hand, and asks if he would take her to the coast.

Geralt and Yennefer never reconnected after the djinn. and eventually finds another djinn to break the wish.

She finds her own way, even if it is connected to Ciri’s, and she finds her own destiny in the shape of a Merigold.

It takes time for Geralt to build up what he broke. Takes time to figure out how friendship works, and even more so when Geralt figures out his own feelings towards the bard.

The bard is not the same man, how could he be, but he grows anyway. Grows like a defiant weed in the cracks of a stone, baring their neck to see the sun. 

[ladyannemarie5]

Geraskier Mamma Mia!AU

I started reading a wonderful fic on ao3 with the Mamma Mia theme titled "It's a Game We Play" by BambiRex (Geraskier/ Yennskier/ Radskier) and remembered I had a similar idea in my drafts with Jaskier, Geralt, Eskel and Lambert, so here it is.

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

Geralt, Eskel and Lambert live and run Kaer Morhen in the mountains, a residence for retired soldiers or those who simply can't find a home. The three brothers have been in charge of the place since Vesemir retired a few years ago and with them, the place has blossomed to welcome their brothers in arms in a calm and relaxed atmosphere. 

Ciri, Geralt's adopted daughter is a lovely teenager whose love and devotion lies with her father, uncles, aunts, grandfather and of course, her favorite singer: Jaskier. 

Ever since Ciri met Jaskier when she was in elementary school, her love and obsession for the singer grew more and more each day to the discomfort of her father and uncles. 

Every year without fail, Ciri hogs the TV room to watch the entire award season wherever Jaskier goes and that year is no exception. 

For some strange reason, Eskel, Lambert and Geralt always accompany Ciri to watch the awards. Their reason, they say, is to make sure the girl doesn't see anything inappropriate on TV. The teenager doesn't complain because she loves telling people about Jaskier and the meaning of his songs. 

Jaskier wins the Grammy for Album of the Year for the third year in a row to the delight of everyone present, and his speech changes everyone's life in Kaer Morhen. 

Jaskier gives the usual thanks to his friends, collaborators and others, and then thanks that wonderful summer love affair he experienced 10 years ago that was the complete inspiration for his winning album. He wishes the best to that man and says in a worldwide live broadcast that sometimes he still thinks about him. 

Ciri, social networks and media go crazy. Geralt, Eskel and Lambert too. 

And of course, Lambert opens his mouth to say that he can't believe Buttercup still thinks about him. The mouths of those present open wide and Ciri starts a whole barrage of questions. Lambert confesses and brags that he met Jaskier one summer 10 years ago and they spent a whole wonderful week together. But it doesn't end there, Eskel jumps in to say that if anyone inspired his Lark to write a Grammy winning album it's him, because apparently Eskel also spent a wonderful summer week by the singer's side. Last but not least, Geralt speaks for the first time since they sat down and confesses that he too spent a week with his Bard 10 years ago. 

From there begins a friendly fight of who is the winning muse of the great singer Jaskier, everyone starts analyzing lyric by lyric claiming that they are inspired by one of them. Everything is a joke (let's not talk that the 3 morons remember to perfection every moment lived with Jaskier and that sometimes they stay awake until the wee hours of the morning trying to remember more), until Jaskier, the great singer, arrives to Kaer Morhen. 

Ciri, fed up with their bickering and excited to be able to reconnect any of the fools with her favorite singer, contacts Jaskier to let him know that he is more than welcome to Kaer Morhen for more inspiration. 

Of course, a series of events begins where Jaskier plays with his wolves to keep them from guessing who has been the biggest muse in his life and which songs are for whom. 

Spoiler: In my mind and heart, Geralt is the obvious winner. 

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As always, let me know what you guys think, if you want to add anything, if you don't like it, etc.

Also if you want to take the idea and write it, go ahead. Just remember to tell me so I can read it. The songs I imagine are entirely Taylor Swift songs, but if you have suggestions and for whom, feel free to let me know.

[thedemonofcat]

No one ever enters Lettenhove and lives to tell the tale. For a long time, all its residents were part of a hive mind, hostile to outsiders.

Julian Pankratz, the young Viscount of Lettenhove, was used to following the collective will. However, one day, a bard managed to enter Lettenhove, and his music profoundly affected Julian.

It was as if Julian had awakened from a deep slumber, his mind now his own. Before the people of Lettenhove could execute the bard, he gifted Julian his lute, affectionately calling him 'Little Buttercup.'

Soon, in the dead of night, Julian, now calling himself Jaskier, fled Lettenhove. He began traveling as a bard, keeping Lettenhove a closely guarded secret—a secret he even kept from Geralt, though the witcher always suspected something.

Jaskier had been living in Oxenfurt for a while and was surprised when Geralt and Yennefer showed up at his door. The last time they saw each other was at Kaer Morhen. Now, Geralt, Ciri, and Yennefer had traveled too close to Lettenhove, and Ciri had been captured.

They needed Jaskier, the only known person to have escaped Lettenhove, to sneak Geralt and Yennefer in to rescue Ciri. Despite the great danger, Jaskier agreed, wanting Geralt, Yennefer, and Ciri to be happy, even if he wasn't part of the family.