#yennefer x priscilla

[mangaka-devotee]

[mangaka-devotee]

YESSSSSS LETS GOOOO!!!!!

Priscilla x Yennefer

[thedreamlessnights]

Accismus - pt. 6

{previous chapter} || {next chapter upcoming}

Geralt of Rivia x gn!reader (Eventual NSFW)

Synopsis: On the journey, you and Ciri bond, and she and Geralt give you some training. A series of unexpected things occur. The road goes ever on.

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of major injuries and death, mentions of vomit, mentions of personal injuries. Intense scenes of fighting, multiple mentions of blood, graphic description of a monster death, moderately graphic descriptions of a corpse. Spoilers for The Last Wish (in particular, The Lesser Evil story). While prior knowledge of that book and story is not needed, I highly recommend it - it's a masterclass of writing and exposition.

Word Count: 8.4k

A/N: I am very, very excited for you all to see this chapter. I feel as though we're finally reaching the heart of the story - the scenes I've wanted to write since the very beginning, when I first had the idea for Accismus. I hope you'll all enjoy this segment (though many of you may also hate me afterward). Comments are incredibly encouraged and appreciated! Without further ado...

Leaving Novigrad is nothing but chaos. It’s sheer, overwhelming, and somehow endearing, but nonetheless chaos. 

As soon as the three of you are on your feet, there’s a desperate rush of teasing, goodbyes, and demands of letters, as if it’s just now sunk in that you’re actually going. There are calls for a final round of drinks, goblets of honeyed mead being shoved into open hands, wishes of luck murmured over the rims of glasses. 

Dandelion starts chattering as fast as he can about the djinn, too fast to give you any room to speak. He squeezes your shoulder and promises the ballad will be his best one yet, then assures you that you’re welcome to return at any time you’d like - which is so kind you don’t even know how to respond. Luckily, he doesn’t give you the chance. He’s off to chat with Zoltan about something.

You, Ciri, and Geralt try your best to lug your things to your horses in the midst of everything, but the two of them keep getting pulled away. Just as you’re thinking you’ll get out unscathed, Priscilla pulls you into her arms for a hug, and you nearly drop your bag in shock.

“I wanted to ask if you’d join us for Yule,” she says, giving your shoulders a tight, comforting squeeze before she pulls away. “Only if you’re interested, of course,” she adds quickly. “You’ve been such lovely company! I know we’ll all miss you just as soon as you’re gone. If you could manage it, we’d love to have you. There’ll be no ballads, I swear it.”

Your throat feels tight. “Thank you,” you tell her, forcing a smile. “I’d love to.”

As soon as you’ve said it, you know that you’ll have to be there. If not to see them all again, then to avoid disappointing her. Was it really just a few days ago that you and Geralt were in that cave, hiding out from the rain? When you had been telling yourself to shut him out, to not tell him a thing more about yourself? It seems years away now - as if the train of thought had been washed away the moment you’d stepped inside the Chameleon. 

At your answer, Priscilla beams at you, and with a final squeeze of your shoulder, escorts you out the door. “Stay safe, all of you,” she says.

Then, Dandelion is shouting out something else about the ballad, Eskel and Lambert are snickering over something about Geralt and a broken leg, and the three of you are finally, truly off. 

For the first time, you have something to look forward to after you and Geralt find the djinn. If only your hands would stop shaking.

From the very beginning, the journey out of the city is different than the one coming into it. Your days do not pass away in lengths of unbearable heat or blistering palms. Not that the heat is not there, of course, but it’s more manageable in fair company, when you feel less of a burden and more of a friend. 

If Yennefer’s presence had been a shard of ice, then Ciri’s is a warm glass of mead, filling you up from the inside out. Geralt clearly cares tremendously for her, and it’s not long before you do, too. And how could you not, coming to know her? 

Everything comes and goes in a blur of sun and moon - strengthening hands on the reins and calluses being built, Ciri’s witty, snippish remarks, and Geralt laughing, laughing, at her tales of being a witcheress. Somewhere in between, you’re being roped into talking about yourself. 

Geralt may not push about your past - or who you are at all, really - but Ciri wraps her inquiries in innocent questions that have you talking much longer than you’ve realized. Then, with your throat raw and hoarse, you’ll finally notice her tricks and - with no small sense of betrayal - drop off in the middle of a sentence. 

“What?” she’ll laugh. “Go on!”

And then you’ll be talking again.

You can’t stand to speak about certain parts of your past, so you talk about everything else - tales of your rambunctious childhood, memories of your parents that aren’t painful enough to silence you.

You tell them about your father raising horses, and how the first gift you can remember was a mare named Mead - the same one you’ve named your current horse after. You tell them about being five, imagining you were the village’s doctor, going from door to door with a piece of wood and noting down ‘illnesses.’

You’d even pretended to treat your father’s case of ‘measles’ - which was nothing more than a scrape on his arm - with a mysterious plant which had turned out to be poison ivy. It had given you both a horrible rash for a week. 

Your mother had tried to be stern then, but couldn’t hide her shaking shoulders from you as she rubbed soothing creams over your arms, concocted from the herbs in the gardens in front of your home. Nor could she hide the fond smile she gave you afterward, gently brushing her thumb over your cheek.

From then on, you’d been banned from touching mysterious plants - which led you to reading books instead. Your parents had been educated, and they’d taught you how to read, too. You’d gone around, begging neighbors for any spare works they could spare. It had been before the war, and times had been different - the people, too. More willing to share, even in Velen, where need bled into the very soil.

Every chance you’d gotten, you’d read and reread books about gardening, history, healing, and anything else you could get your hands on. When you were old enough, you worked any odd job you could, because you wanted to become a doctor. Cleaning, gardening, finding lost items. Mending torn clothes, fetching something from the next town over, catching a fish someone needed for a meal. You’d done it all. Everything you could.

“Busy as a bee, weren’t you?” Ciri muses with a smile. “Buzzing around from place to place.”

You can’t say her description is inaccurate. In those times, you hadn’t been still for a moment. Becoming a doctor had been your lifeblood, the reason behind every action you made. It was planted in you, a root that would not come out.

And, for the first time since you left The Chameleon, your words choke in your mouth, and you can’t speak - not about that. You leave the story there, and Ciri doesn’t question it.

 But you feel Geralt’s eyes on you, those warm, inspecting eyes that never seem to leave you. You wonder what he’s thinking. You’d give anything to know. 

Just a few days after you’ve set off, Geralt and Ciri take to training you. Even with two witchers, they explain, it’ll be good for you to learn. A real sword is too advanced to start with, and neither of them have practice ones, so Ciri shows you basic defensive actions, dodges, and escapes, and has you repeat them until they’re instinctive. Then she has you practice them in more depth, in various scenarios. 

“That’s it,” she says. “Keep spinning. Buzz around! Just like a bee!” 

Eventually, that shortens down into a two-worded application of the phrase. “Shift left! Faster! Buzz - bee!”

Any time you’re paired with her, you do alright. Not perfect, but enough to draw a look of pride when you successfully disarm her or escape her grip. She’ll give you a tip or two, then have you do it again. 

“How was that?” you ask afterward, panting.

She grins at you, a twinkle in her eye. “Perfect. Just like a bee.”

With Geralt, it’s a different story. 

Every time you’re paired with him, even before you’ve started, you freeze up. Your mind goes completely blank, as if the sight of him wipes your memory clean, wipes every instinct away. It’s even worse when he touches you. All you can seem to think about is the warmth of his body pressed against you, and even though you try with all your might to remember what to do, your movements always end up jarred and clumsy. 

“Try again,” he says softly, over and over. “One more time.” It’s never unkind, but he’s strict, drilling the moves into you with an intensity that you can only describe as fear. He’s worried about you. 

“Gotta use more force,” he says. “C’mon, faster. No, the other arm. Remember what Ciri said?”

You do. Buzz around like a bee. But if you’re a bee with him, you’re certainly a dead one. Your body just will not move the way you want it to, no matter how hard you try. This sort of thing goes on until you’re both exhausted, and you turn in for the night. And, naturally, when Ciri practices the same moves with you the next morning, they come naturally. 

“Well done, busy bee,” she says.

And there are Geralt’s eyes again, fixed on you. Golden. Piercing. Almost teasing, as he raises his brows. And you know he knows. 

For the fleeting moment when your gaze meets his, you regret not kissing him when you’d had the chance. More often than not, you’ve caught yourself ruminating on the softness of his lips, on how they might feel pressed against yours. On his hands, warm and sure, tracing a path down the small of your back. 

Then your mind rushes back to you, and you remember why you hadn’t. Your reasoning seems less and less sound when he’s looking at you like that.

Most nights of the journey are spent outside, but there’s the occasional inn that you come across, and none of you can resist the chance of a warm bed. You and Geralt share a room as you had before, and Ciri takes her own. That’s the only moment of awkwardness you can feel, when the three of you bid each other good night - but it’s brief and fleeting, and there aren’t any moments of tension with you and Geralt like before. Even if you might wish for it.

The inns are rare, and the farce you’ve put up for yourself is bearable. Usually, the three of you sleep in shifts, and the two of them drill it into you to wake them if you hear or see anything. 

You never do, not in those nights under the stars, keeping alert in the progressively cooling air. There’s never anything but the three of you and open air, the soft sounds of Geralt and Ciri breathing. It’s the one time you seem to get for yourself, and you come to look forward to it. Being able to think, without Geralt or Ciri watching you, you can almost pretend that the djinn isn’t real. 

Almost.

As time goes on, something between you and Geralt slowly shifts. Ciri is a buffer, too clever for anything to slip by her, and Geralt would never do anything while she’s here - not even if she’s ten minutes away, gathering some food for the journey. 

There seems to be a silent agreement that settles in. You don’t know what it will be like, in those days after she’s gone, but you do know with an absolute certainty that nothing is going to happen while she’s with you. And, with the lessening number of inns that show on the journey, it makes for very little room between you and Geralt. Not enough room for romance, that’s to be sure.

Thoughts of kissing him fade. Your eyes still linger - on his sure hands, strapping up food to Roach, on the scars of his arms, soft and pink - but you’re quick to catch them. The message there is clear. Not now, it says. It’s not the time. 

Maybe not ever, you think, a deep pit in your stomach.

Eventually, with this sort of emotional blockade put up, solidifying, you’re able to do the defensive moves even with Geralt. They collectively decide that you’re ready to move on to something else. The further on you go, the more dangerous the roads are.

Initially, Ciri tries to give you a dagger. Unfortunately, as soon as she hands it to you, your hands start sweating so much that you can barely grip it. It might be helpful if you didn’t feel like throwing up every time you look at it - much less holding it. Geralt finally notices the way you’re trembling and takes the thing away.

Which means you must resort to other methods of protection. As soon as the three of you come across a town with a blacksmith, you’re set up with your own crossbow, equipped with bolts. Thankfully, this turns out to be a success. You’ve worked with a bow before, after all, and Geralt and Ciri make you take turns shooting it while riding on Mead, hitting random targets until you’re very pleased at your aim.

And, of course, Ciri can use a crossbow bolt to hit a piece of wood mid-air. Like father, like daughter, it seems.

When the three of you cross over the border of Kaedwen, the mood changes. You’re not sure why. There’s something deeper, something veiled in the air. You spend your nights tense. Your dreams turn feverish, plagued not only by visions of a dagger in your hand, but by the cave you’d seen that night in Novigrad.

The deep, dark pit seldom leaves your mind. You grow so weary of it that your eyes turn desperately to your surroundings as the three of you ride, pleading for something else to attach to. Rain falls heavily and fog chokes the pathways, making it hard to see.

And, for the first time, the three of you come across some danger. 

For a first event, it’s not much. It could be much worse, really. Just a few ghouls, eating a decaying corpse. No bandits. No giant centipedes bursting out of the ground, or swarms of nekkers ready to claw you apart. 

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself. It doesn’t stop your immense sense of discomfort, the sweat pilling up on your palms, trickling down the back of your neck as you mindlessly put an arrow toward your bow.

You hate monsters, but there’s something in particular you hate about necrophages. Something… unsettling about the way they crave rotting flesh. Only one thing lies between them eating you, and it’s your loss of life. Not exactly an encouraging thought.

As the three of you ride in closer, your stomach starts churning at the smell in the air. Death. You’d give anything to never smell it again.

Being at the front of the line, Ciri leaps off her horse and kills three of the ghouls in a quick, clean motion. Then she looks at you. “Just one left,” she says, motioning to one that’s a little further down the road. “Go on, Bee, give it a shot!”

“Ciri,” Geralt says, hand tightening a little on his sword. Hesitation brims his tone. “Gotta be careful.”

She simply shoots him a look, eyes twinkling. “Aren’t I always?” she asks.

You know the answer to that, and you don’t like it. You also do not want to do what she’s asking. You can barely stand to look at the remaining ghoul for a second longer, much less target and kill it. Then again, you really should know how to defend yourself. And if you can’t kill a ghoul, you’re almost hopeless with anything else.

“I’ll do it,” you tell them.

Mead is shifting uneasily under you, so, with your heart pounding like a drum, you swing off the saddle and tighten your grip on your crossbow. You can’t seem to remember how to breathe. Geralt’s silence and his gaze on your back aren’t helping.

It’s the ghoul dashing near you that rouses you. Your heart starts thrumming even faster, as if your mind has finally comprehended the fact that there’s not only disgust but danger here, and you grab the bow and attempt to do what you know.

In, out. In, out. You notch an arrow and take aim. These are natural movements, ones you’ve repeated, and they should come with ease - but this situation is anything but natural. The thing keeps running in circles, distracted by Ciri, who evades its attacks with clean, fluid movements. 

She’s clever, steering clear enough to give you a good aim, letting you predict its movements without worrying about hitting her. She’s putting herself in danger for this, and waiting for you, and you need to shoot. 

So you do. You line up the ghoul in your sights, take one more deep breath, and your hands shake like a leaf as you finally pull the trigger. A split-second later, there’s a horrific, sick sort of noise, a terrible splatter that you can’t bear to watch. You keep your eyes on the ground and tremble in silence.

“Well done!” Ciri says. “Excellent shot!” 

When you look up, the ghoul is dead. You'd actually hit it - something you didn’t think you could do - and on your first try, at that. You give a weak smile at Ciri’s enthusiasm, but can’t turn away from the ghoul’s body. 

Blood is spilling onto the ground like dark wine, sickly metallic in the air. The uncannily humanoid face is twisted up in agony, frozen in death. And, worst of all, it’s laying a few feet from the corpse it’d been eating. This close, your gaze takes in every terrible detail. Your throat goes tight.

These are scraps of someone, someone who was like you, now laying in the dirt. Someone who lived, breathed, loved, someone now unidentifiable, rotting and alone. What a terrible way to remain in this world - nothing but a bloody, stinking mass of bones on the roadway. And, for the life of you, you can’t look away. The image burns deep into your mind even as you shut your eyes.

It’s become hard to breathe. The scent of death is burning through your nostrils, choking through your senses. You’re shaking worse than ever. Geralt is saying something, but you can’t hear him - your heart is thundering in your ears, and your stomach is turning again, and all at once, you bend over and vomit up your breakfast.

Geralt swings off Roach and is instantly at your side, gently patting your back. “Hey,” he says soothingly, softly. “You alright?”

You can’t manage an answer. Your knees don’t feel steady. You have to fight the urge to reach out and grab onto him, choosing to plant your hands on your knees as you retch instead. 

Ciri is quick to join the two of you, sheathing her sword. “Not to worry,” she says, her tone bright as ever. “That’s the adrenaline, Bee. You’ll adapt over time.”

You spit the acrid taste out of your mouth and wipe your face with your sleeve, tearing your eyes away from the corpse with all the strength you have. You’re still trembling.

What you want is a hug. You really, really just… want to be wrapped up in a warm pair of arms and held. Squeezed tight, like Priscilla had squeezed you. But neither Geralt nor Ciri can read your mind, neither of them have really hugged you before, and you’ve just been vomiting up your breakfast - so of course they don’t hug you. 

“What - what were you saying?” you ask Geralt, voice as shaky as you feel. “Before? I didn’t hear you.”

“Told you that was a good shot,” Geralt says. “Gotta aim higher, though. Hit it a little low.” He’s taken to rubbing your back instead of patting, and the action feels so nice that you’re half tempted to lay down in the dirt with your exhaustion and let him keep doing that. 

But the smell of death is still in the air, and if you don’t get away from here soon, you’re sure you’ll throw up again. 

“Thank you,” you shakily tell Geralt, attempting to straighten up.

He watches you closely, tensing - as if he’s waiting to catch you. “Could take a break, if you need,” he says. 

You quickly shake your head, starting shakily back toward Mead. “Not here.”

He must understand - he can smell it too, after all. Stronger than you can. Much, much stronger. How does he stand it? But, from the look on his face, maybe he doesn’t stand it at all. Maybe he simply survives it, because he must.

Geralt gives a nod, helping you up onto the saddle with a firm hold that seems to sear into your skin. “C’mon, Ciri,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.”

It’s not much longer before Ciri’s time with you comes to an end. 

You can hardly believe it, when she pulls to a halt and announces that this is where you must part. She hasn’t said it, but the fact that she’s parting with you instead of going all the way to the caves, it’s clear - this is urgent business. 

Gods, are you going to miss her. It seems as though just yesterday you’d been at Dandelion’s inn, sipping on honeyed mead, saying your goodbyes. Yet, here you are, and you’ve arrived at Ard Carraigh, and she’s going. Can this be real? Had those days - a little over a month, if you’re counting correctly - slipped under your fingers so quickly, unnoticed? 

Yes, they must have, because there’s a numb, aching loss in your chest that only could have come from coming to know her. Worst of all, there’s a terrible feeling that you’ll never see her again - one that pulls deeply at your gut. You can’t stand it. You’re so tired of regrets that you pull her close without thinking and hug her, and she hugs you back tightly.

“Thank you for letting me travel with you, Bee,” she says. “I hope we’ll meet again one day.”

“We will,” you stubbornly tell her. “I’m sure we will.”

She pulls away and gives you a smile, and you watch fondly as she steps over and hugs Geralt. 

“Take care of yourself,” he says softly.

“Always,” she replies, grinning at him. She steps back, grabbing the reins of her horse, Kelpie, then swiftly mounts up onto the saddle. “Good luck, you two!” she calls, waving. “I’m sure you’ll sort everything out, and Dandelion will have a lovely ballad to sing!”

You wave goodbye and watch as she rides off, leaving you and Geralt behind. And, in her absence, there’s a large, gaping hole.

You and Geralt do your best to fill it, but you can tell it’s still there. Furthermore, you can tell Geralt is constantly tense - and that does nothing to soothe your addled nerves. You two still have a ways ahead of you, and despite your newly formed skill with the crossbow, your unease remains.

Mostly, you spend the days quiet, and struggle to sleep at night. Geralt does the same. You miss Ciri’s chatter, her warmth, her ease of getting you to speak. Without her, everything is strange and much too silent, much too eerie.

During your night shifts, you keep alert, rubbing warmth into stiff hands. With clouds covering the stars, you often turn your eyes to Geralt - murmuring things in his sleep, brow creased. Sometimes, you’ll catch a few words, a repeated whisper as soft as the wind. Ciri. Yen. And, only once, another name - Visenna. 

When he jerks awake, hand automatically reaching for his sword, you scoot back from him - not afraid, but a little space won’t hurt. After a long moment of staring at you, realizing there’s no danger, Geralt relaxes and takes over the shift from you. And you don’t sleep any better than he does.

Three days after Ciri has gone, the two of you come upon more danger. It’s in a small town, one reeking of trouble, and you’d be tempted to shy away from it - if the growling in your stomach wasn’t so prominent. The two of you are riding through when you see him - a boy, no more than eighteen, laid on the ground. He’s surrounded by a small crowd, face red and pained, blood soaking his tunic. 

And, for reasons neither you nor the gods can explain, you don’t think for a second before you jump off your horse and dash toward him. Thankfully, Geralt is right behind you. 

“What is it? What happened to him?” you ask breathlessly. 

“Bandits, likely,” someone replies, voice hushed. “Been worse than usual, of late. The lad came riding up, yelling something about being attacked. Slumped over. Fell straight off his horse into the dirt.”

As you push further in, the crowd starts to separate, people fleeing back into their homes for safety. But you can’t leave this boy here. You can’t. There’s a voice at the back of your mind, shouting out something you should remember, but you can’t hear it past the rush of blood in your ears.

When you lift up the boy’s tunic, you find a great deal of bruising, surrounded by a deep, seeping wound in the abdomen. Without hesitation, you scramble for the bandages in your pack and press them against the wound, applying pressure. 

The boy yelps in agony, hands clawing at yours hard enough to draw blood, tears coursing lines in the dust on his face. “Stop,” he groans, “stop it! Gods, it hurts - stop!”

He’s thrashing about with so much force that you can barely keep the bandages on him, much less apply the pressure you need. Blood is pouring out of him, staining the grass under him.

“Geralt,” you pant. “Help me - hold him down!”

But Geralt doesn’t. He simply stares at you, unmoving, an indiscernible look on his face. 

“Help me!” you cry, attempting to press harder. “He’ll bleed out!”

When he finally kneels next to you, you sigh in relief, watching as he grips the boy’s shoulders and holds him still. Finally able to apply the pressure you need to, your mind spins, trying to remember if you have a needle with you. A wound like that… it’ll need to be cauterized, too. Stitched up as quickly as possible.

But the boy’s face has gone blue now, and he’s started gasping. Too much blood loss - no, no, no, please. His body shakes with spasms, breathing going ragged. You desperately try to staunch the bleeding, to keep what blood he has left in him from spilling out. “Stay with me,” you tell him, muscles wound so tense you can barely breathe. 

But after another horrible round of jerking, the boy’s breathing falters, and he goes still. And then… then, there’s silence. Only silence. Not even the call of a bird, or the stir of the wind. Just… nothing.

The unbearable quiet is interrupted by the soft sound of Geralt saying your name. Slowly. Cautiously, as if he’s testing the waters of your reaction. Then he releases the boy’s shoulders and rises to his feet.

“No,” you say numbly, refusing to look at him. You keep your eyes only on the boy. “You can’t go - I won’t let you!”

Fiercely blinking back tears, you start a series of resuscitation compressions, pushing strong, even movements into the boy’s chest. “Stay with me,” you say helplessly, panting out the words. “You can’t go!”

You work methodically, desperately, waiting for the boy to revive, praying for it. But the body stays motionless under your hands, lifeless, still warm. Your arms are searing from the effort and tears are streaming down your cheeks, blurring your vision. 

You can’t fix this, your mind is telling you. There’s no chance.

But you can’t stop. You can’t.

Suddenly, there’s a pair of arms behind you, pulling you off the body. You start clawing, lashing out like a wild animal, screaming and kicking with all your might. “Let me go!” you shriek, wriggling around, beating your fists out until they make an impact on something. “Let me go, you - you bastard!”

“He’s gone, Bee,” Geralt says calmly, his voice soft in your ear. “A wound like that? Nothing anyone could do. C’mon. Gotta get you cleaned up.”

But his soothing tone only makes you more wild, more feral. You scream and kick and claw some more. He gently sets you in a sobbing pile onto the ground, and by the time you come into contact with the soft, fragrant earth, his words have set in. The truth of them, that deep down you already knew. You pull your knees toward your chest and weep.

Kneeling down next to you, Geralt places a hand on your back, rubbing slowly - the way he had after the event with the ghoul. You’ve realized what your mind was screaming at you, now. You wish you’d listened. 

“There’s - there’s something wrong with me,” you sob softly. The words are bitter in your mouth, acrid. Tears are choking in your chest, slow to die out, leaving you wracking painfully. “Everything I touch… That’s why I can’t go back to Oxenfurt. I just make things worse.”

Geralt’s touch pauses for a moment at your words, but only briefly. He goes back to rubbing your back. “Did all you could,” he says gently. “Didn’t make it worse. He would have died anyway.”

You shake your head. “I hurt him. He needed comfort, and I hurt him because I wouldn’t stop. And it wasn’t only him,” you choke. “It’s everyone, Geralt. I try to help, but it hurts people. I should just stay out of it. I try to, I really do, but it still just… happens.”

“People getting hurt like that, dying - that isn’t your fault,” Geralt says. 

“And how can you know?” you ask. The words are bitter, spitting from your tongue like venom. You regret them, but the anger doesn’t die away.

Geralt sighs, letting his hand go still on his back. “Know it because I used to think like you,” he murmurs. “Never got involved, if I could help it. Thought I made things worse. Maybe I do. Don’t know, sometimes.” He pauses for a moment, contemplating his words, inhaling sharply. “Couldn’t stay away, though,” he says. “Figured it was better to try.”

His words shock you into complete silence. They carry such an intense vulnerability that it numbs you down, every nerve, every sensation. You lay on the ground, stiff as a board, taking it in. He’s never talked to you like this, so openly. Your sobs shudder to a halt and you close your eyes, breathing heavily. 

He knows, then. He knows what it’s like. Not everything, of course. Only you could ever know that. But the sickly, squirming pit of guilt in your stomach - Geralt knows what that’s like. And he’s somehow lived with it for decades.

“C’mon, Bee,” he says. “Gotta get you cleaned up. Ought to bury the body, too, before the necrophages smell it.”

Oh. Bee. He’d called you that several times now, hadn’t he? In the midst of everything? You hadn’t quite processed it then, but now that your brain is working… it’s always been Ciri, calling you that. Geralt has never called you Bee before today. 

You give a nod at his words, feeling a little calmer, intending to sit up. Your muscles are slow and aching, and you’re still trembling. Geralt shifts and reaches toward you, and you reach back, thinking he’s offering you a hand up. What you’re not expecting is for Geralt to lift you into his arms and carry you. But that’s what he does. 

He picks you up like you don’t weigh an ounce and carries you to the nearby inn. His arms are strong and sure, and you lean your face into his chest, too weak to resist the temptation.

“Need a room,” he tells the innkeeper.

They don’t argue with him.

You don’t take in much of what happens right after that. You know you’re set on a bed, and the innkeeper comes and goes a few times before Geralt kneels in front of you, dabbing a clean cloth into a bowl of water. 

He keeps searching your face, looking for something. You only start registering what’s happened when he finally starts speaking.

“What you said before…” He pauses, hesitating. “At Blaviken. I felt like you do, afterward. Kept thinking - should have stayed out of it. Tried to, before that. Tried for a long time after, too. Guess, in the end, I couldn’t.”

He takes your hand in his, gently scrubbing away some of the dried blood. “I was passing through, on the way to Yspaden,” he starts. You sit unmoving, afraid you’ll break the spell of his words. 

“Stopped at Blaviken on the way,” he continues. “Brought in a kikimora, hoping there’d be a reward. There wasn’t. But the alderman told me to bring it to the wizard - Stregobor. I’d met him before. He didn’t pay me for the kikimora, but he invited me in. Wanted to ask for my help. Wasn’t exactly on friendly terms with him, but I listened.”

He sighs heavily, looking up at you. “Ever heard of the Curse of the Black Sun?” he asks.

You blink in surprise. “I… I have,” you reply, swallowing hard. “I read about it. It was a prophecy, wasn’t it? During an eclipse, sixty girls would be born, made servants of the goddess Lilit, and bring the end of the world?”

He nods. “Yeah. That’s the one.” His face tightens with anger - just a flash, but enough to jar you. There are so many situations where he’s been completely composed even in the face of chaos, of pure frustration. What on earth could have made him so angry?

“These girls,” he slowly goes on, “people were convinced they were demons. Stregobor talked about mutations, insane tendencies… changes in the internal organs, unidentifiable tissue, cruel and aggressive behavior. People who believed the prophecy used it as a justification for murder. They did autopsies, studying the corpses, claiming it was for the greater good. One of them… they vivisectioned her.”

Your reaction is instantaneous. You jolt as though you’ve been slapped. Vivisection? What the hell were they thinking? They’d murdered and tortured these girls just because of the day they were born? Frankly, you couldn’t care less about their internal organs or behaviors. That doesn’t sit well with you.

“Gods…” you say faintly.

Geralt’s jaw clenches. “The girls - they weren’t easy to pick off. After a time, they started locking them in towers, instead. Isolating them. But some would escape. Others died.” He stalls, lost in thought for a moment. “Stregobor had once been sent to supervise one of these girls - a princess of Creyden. Renfri.” 

Pain flashes over his eyes at the name, as if it wounds him to say it. Perhaps it does. Even so, he continues.

“Her stepmother, Aridea, had been told by one of Nehalania’s Mirrors that Renfri would kill her and a number of others. They sent a huntsman to kill her. She escaped. Tried to kill her multiple times after that, too. Poisoned apples. Assassins. They failed. 

“When Renfri came across Stregobor again, she recognized him - knew what he’d done. So she pursued him, wanting revenge. Tracked him down to Blaviken, where he’d locked himself in a tower at the edge of town, used a spell to keep anyone out unless he wanted them to get in. He asked me to kill her. I refused.”

As if he’s just remembered what he was doing, he goes back to cleaning the blood off of you - but it’s clear his mind is still far away. “I met her,” he says. “Renfri. The alderman couldn’t arrest her - she was protected by King Audoen. But she wanted to talk to me. Snuck into my attic later that night, told me what happened to her. Asked me to kill Stregobor. Told me it was the lesser evil.” 

He shakes his head. “Stregobor told me that, too - when he asked me to kill Renfri. But I told her that I wouldn’t kill Stregobor. And that I wouldn’t stand by, letting her slaughter innocent people to get to him. I asked her to leave Blaviken; to stop seeking revenge, because she wasn’t going to kill Stregobor. She gave in. Told me she would leave the next morning and never return.”

His expression has gone permanently pained now. His hand rests on your arm, frozen mid-action. “The next day, I told the alderman that Renfri and the gang she’d brought along with her were going. And he told me… told me one of her men had been at the massacre at Tridam, three years before. Hadn’t heard of it, but he told me what happened.

“A group of thieves were captured by the Baron of Tridam. The remnants of their men seized a ferry of innocents - demanded he set them free. When he refused, they killed hostages one by one until he finally released the prisoners. And… Renfri had mentioned that to me. ‘The Tridam ultimatum.’ I hadn’t known what it meant at the time, but… when I heard it, I realized what was going to happen. And I ran for the market.”

Geralt’s face has gone deathly white. “When I got there, Renfri’s men were waiting for me. All of them except her. She’d gone to the tower to talk with Stregobor. Left a message for me, though. ‘Choose. Either me, or a lesser.’”

He finally sets the cloth down, too distracted in his story to clean. His words sit in the air, tinged with a regret you can almost feel in the air, thick, and heavy. But why? you think. Surely it had been right of him to do? You listen to him go on, scarcely breathing.

 “I made my choice. I killed them. All of them…” he says. “After it was done, Renfri showed. Asked me if I was sure I made the right choice. I told her it wouldn’t be another Tridam. She told me that it wouldn’t have been. Stregobor had refused to come out. Even told her she could butcher Blaviken and the neighboring villages, but he still wouldn’t leave his tower… I told her to go. She wouldn’t. We fought…” 

He closes his eyes and shakes his head, unable to finish. You don’t need to hear it to know.

“People stoned me, afterward. The alderman stepped in. He asked if… if that was my idea of lesser evil. What was necessary. I told him it was… Didn’t know what else to say.”

He inhales sharply, looking out the window. “He told me to leave, to never return. And I did.”

His words fade into silence. Something in your chest aches so deeply that you can’t even speak. It throbs, pitching amidst the knots of guilt built into your ribs. The Butcher of Blaviken. That’s what they call him, now. Because of that. It haunts him, everywhere he goes.

“Geralt,” you finally whisper, resting a hand on his arm. He inhales sharply and stands, gently pulling from your touch.

“We should bury the body,” he says softly. You follow him without a word out to the grass. 

You’re still mostly covered in blood, and now you’ll be covered with dirt. The sun is brutal and the air is sticky, and you can still smell the iron on you, sharp and nauseating. The two of you find shovels and take to digging, your hands reddening from the effort, sweat dripping down your neck. Tears course down your cheeks. And you don’t stop digging until it’s done.

A makeshift grave, marked by a pile of rocks. You hadn’t even known his name. He’d been so young… The town members are still hiding in their homes. No doubt watching you, though.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur to the grave, hoping the boy can hear you wherever he is now. “What you sought in life, may you find it in death. Rest peacefully.”

After a long moment of silence, you and Geralt go back to the inn, this time to properly wash off the blood and dirt. The guilt cannot be scrubbed with it, but it pains you less. Maybe because it doesn’t pain you alone.

The next morning, the two of you are off again. There’s quiet between you, but not uncomfortable. Both of you are grieving. Your thoughts go over Blaviken again and again. Then, hesitantly, over your own past.

You’re going to have to tell him. You don’t know how, or when, but you will. Now that he’s told you about Blaviken, it’s as if something’s come loose. You can no longer keep it in, the way you’d once resolved to. You keep catching yourself opening your mouth - trying to find a way to speak. But the timing isn’t right. It just isn’t right.

The further into Kaedwen you get, the colder it is, and it’s especially brutal that night. It may be blistering hot in the days, but the nights turn icy as death, unnatural and unsettling. The chill bleeds into your bones. Makes you want to curl into a ball and never move again.

And, of course, there are no inns around. You set up your bedroll and try your best to keep warm, but even with the fire Geralt makes, shivering takes a hold of you. It’s not long before your teeth are chattering. You ache for the Chameleon, for the warm, soft feather bed you’d slept on. Your eyes grow heavy, but sleep won’t take you.

When Geralt rests a hand on your shoulder, you jump about ten feet into the air, startled.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says. “You’re shivering.”

“I’m alright.” It comes out between chattering teeth. You don’t need to see his face to know he doesn’t believe you.

“Come here.”

You force yourself to sit up, giving him a look. He raises his brows, patting the bedroll next to him. Surely he doesn’t mean… no, that can’t be it. It’s closer to the fire, that’s all.

With frozen fingers, you pull your bedroll toward Geralt, laying it next to his. It’s a little better now. 

Geralt lays down next to you, tilting his head up to look at you. “Get over here,” he says. “Got me worried you’ll freeze to death.”

Your heart starts racing. Fuck. If only he couldn’t hear it. If only the warmth of his arms wasn’t so appealing. You crawl over, resting yourself at his side, and he automatically wraps an arm around you and pulls you closer, into his chest.

Gods, he’s warm. Heat practically radiates off of him. You can’t stop yourself from sighing in relief, tucking your face into his neck. This close, you can smell the smoke on his skin, the hints of wood and earth and sweet leaves, mingled with hints of his sweat.

It’s already overwhelming enough to have him holding you like this. You practically stop breathing when his hand goes to the back of your neck, wrapping it in more warmth, callused fingers that you truly believe could rival silk on your skin. His thumb rubs a slow, soothing motion in the space behind your ear, and you inhale sharply.

Him touching you like this - well, it’s making you cry. Tears start to spill onto your cheeks and you try hopelessly to stop them, terrified that he’ll pull away, stop what he’s doing. But, even though he must know, he doesn’t stop. He keeps touching you, the way you’ve so desperately needed to be touched, and you relax little by little. 

After a few minutes, your brain is barely there - melted, as though your body has become liquid. Your thoughts swirl into the heavy grip of sleep, and the world slowly fades away.

For once, you don’t have nightmares.

When you wake the next morning, you’re still in his arms. You can hear the crackling embers from the dying fire behind you, and you can feel Geralt’s breathing - even, steady. His hand still rests on your neck.

You never want to move. You know you’ll have to, but you don’t want to. For a while, you close your eyes and lie there in a meditative state, so content you’re practically purring. Then, Geralt jerks awake, and to your absolute dismay, he lets go of you and sits up, looking alarmed.

The explanation for that comes very quickly. There’s a group of men on horseback riding toward you. You can’t see them, but you hear them, crashing through the trees, clearly not caring if you know they’re coming.

“Geralt-”

“Grab your bow,” he says, pulling out your sword. His voice is low and firm. “Get behind me.”

You do as he asks. Your hands are shaking, but you force yourself to breathe slowly, readying an arrow. You try not to imagine what sound it will make, if you’re forced to kill.

As the men crash out of the woods, you can see that there are three of them. They circle around your camp, whooping and shouting before they come to a halt, grinning down at you with a smile that makes you want to recoil. You step closer to Geralt.

“Look at this, lads. A camp!” one of them says. “What’ve we got here?” He casually rests his hand on his sword, and you can see Geralt stiffen. The speaker is missing an eye, and he reeks so badly that you can smell him several feet away - sweat and whiskey and gods know what else.

You wait for Geralt to respond, but he says nothing - and what could you possibly say?

“Oy!” one of the others shouts. This one is wearing a red vest, stained with something that looks terribly like blood. “You fuckin’ deaf? We asked you a question!”

Still, Geralt says nothing, but his hand tightens on his sword.

“Won’t speak to us, eh?” the third asks. With the authoritative way he talks, he’s clearly the leader of the group. He leaps from his horse, bounding with nimble steps toward you and Geralt. His teeth are black and his hair is matted, and a jagged scar runs down his neck. “I’ll make you talk,” he says. “Could use some entertainment, couldn’t we, boys!”

“Aye, we could!” the man with one eye says, sliding off his horse to join the leader. “Been nothing but sniveling cowards, lately. I bet that grey one would put up a fight.”

And put up a fight, Geralt does. 

He slashes so fast you barely see the blade move. All at once, the one-eyed man is crumpling to his knees, blood pouring down his abdomen. The leader draws his sword and leaps back, snarling. 

“A lot of nerve, you have!” he says. “You’ll pay for that!”

And, suddenly, everything turns into chaos. The leader strikes, and instantly, the air rings with the sound of blades. The man with the red vest urges his horse on and gallops around, yelling out insults, slashing in your direction. You barely manage to dodge them.

Geralt is preoccupied, so - despite your shaking - you turn your bow toward the red vest and shoot. It hits his shoulder, and he cries out. His horse startles, bucking below him before it throws him off, vanishing into the woods. You’re hoping he’ll stay down, but he gets to his feet all too quickly, favoring his right leg and spitting insults.

You grab another arrow and try to load it up, but you’re too slow, too slow, why couldn’t you have just taken that dagger-

In a moment, he’s on you, shoving you to the ground and knocking the wind out of you. The djinn is tugging, tugging - Geralt’s dancing the line of acceptable distance - and you blindly scratch at the man’s face, gouging your nails into flesh until you hear a scream. His grip slackens, and you prop your feet up on the ground and force your hips up, throwing him off of you - one of the moves Ciri taught you. 

Gasping and stumbling to your feet, you dart in Geralt’s direction, but a hand catches your shirt and drags you back, momentarily choking you before he pins you to a tree.

Blood is streaming down his face. “I’m going to fucking kill you,” he says. “I’m going to tear you into pieces, you hear me? You’ll wish your mother never popped you out!”

In the midst of your panic, you have the sense to knee up into his bollocks. Pain radiates through your leg, and despite the howl he lets out, he doesn’t let go. More crashing comes from the woods - more bandits, presumably. The look on his face practically spells it out.

For a moment, he’s distracted, slightly tilting his face toward the woods and easing his grip. Taking your opportunity, you slam the base of your hand into his nose with as much force as you can possibly muster. His knees buckle and he stumbles back, cupping a hand over his face.

Limping away, you catch a glimpse of Geralt - standing over the now-dead leader, panting but seemingly unharmed. More men pour in from the trees and slink in, raising weapons, and he readies his sword - but you know there are too many, just too many, and as a hand snatches around your waist and pulls you away, the world begins to crumble.

Nausea sets in, a turbulent dizziness, the world crumbling apart - too far! He’s too far! Something cold slices your arm, and the smell of blood hits you. You throw your elbow backward and make contact with bone, stumbling away and vomiting, knees buckling as the djinn’s wish takes hold. Your palms hit the ground.

Geralt lets out a cry of pain - the kind that can only mean he was hit. You call his name and helplessly crawl forward, trying desperately to get closer. Then, just as the djinn’s symptoms stop, something strikes the back of your head. 

Blinding pain erupts through your skull, and Geralt shouts with you as you crumple to the ground. Everything has gone blurry - the voices around you are muffled, but you can see Geralt, laying on the ground and barely moving.

We’re going to die, you think, cheek pressing into the soft dirt under you. Colors spin before your drooping eyes and the urge to vomit again comes and goes. We’re going to die, and it’s my fault.

 A heaviness takes over you. The pain is lulling you away, taking you somewhere far from this place. In the last moments, as the world fades, you hear screaming - multiple men screaming - and noises that can only mean death. 

Then, everything turns to darkness.

tags: @henryownsme @madamemelancholysstuff @fullmoonshadowwrites @darkscrossfire @beforethepen @julijal @ailynyan @ivuravix @enrapturedbythemoon @angie2274

[ghostlylicious]

hc dandelion is a fanfic writer (i mean he alrdy is when he changes the events of geralt's adventures but like):

*he writes steamy geralt x yennefer fanfiction for a play! very important for the play!*

*he writes priscilla x reader fanfiction where she's a princess and the reader's a knight au only HE can read*

*he writes a harem fanfiction of his various girlfriends for specific personal reasons*

*he writes geralt x reader fanfiction bc a certain red-haired mage requested it (and she didn't think he'd take it seriously)*

he makes some nice coin that way

therefore, dandelion, u should rlly lean in to ur fanfic writer side more to become EXTRA famous !!

[high-on-the-dying-sun]

Drinking song for the socially anxious

Part 1 out of 3 

READ ON AO3

Summary:I'll see you around Geralt.” Those 5 words might haunt Geralt until the end of his days.

a Geraskier modern Au first meeting fic set to Drinking song for the socially anxious by The Amazing Devil

It wasn’t that Jaskier didn’t like crowds of people, in fact he regularly enjoyed them. But something was different like something was pulling him away from it all. So not even an hour after arriving he was searching for a place to be alone. He just wanted to be alone for 5 minutes so he thinks fast. Every party has a bedroom full of everyone’s coats there he could be alone. Jaskier stepped into the dimly lit room and a rush of autumn air runs up at him. Jaskier walks to the side of the bed and falls backwards onto it and closed his eyes.

Geralt wanted to leave. He doesn't understand why Yen drags him to these things. They were always too bright and loud. And it didn't help that his eyes and hair always brought unwanted attention. He wanted to grab his coat and run. When he finally arrived in the room that held the coat it was quiet and dimly lit. It was perfect. He stood in the doorway and there was a person lying down on the bed. They looked peaceful and in all honesty Geralt thinks he is cute. "You know that your lying on some coats." He informed the person. They looked up at him and frowned. 

"You know that your lying on some coats." A deep voice calls Jaskier tilts his back to stare at the man. It was Geralt. Him and Jaskier haven't officially met but Jaskier knows of him due to having mutual friends. He frowns at being called out of his almost sleep-like state "I know, it's just sometimes nice to feel what it's like to be in someone else's coat." He says Geralt walks to the bed and lays next to him and the only response he gets from him is a "Hmm."Geralt gets it he wishes every day that he was a different person. He wishes he was in somebody else's coat. “I’m Jaskier,” “Geralt.” “Hmm, Well it’s nice to finally put a face to the name.” Geralt turned to Jaskier and raised an eyebrow but Jaskier remained silent. 

“So what do you do?” Jaskier asks, trying to break the Metaphorical Ice “I work with horses.” "Oh so you're an animal guy, well I hope you know I have a cat!” Jaskier responded sitting up to prop himself up on his elbows. Geralt smirks “What do you do for work?” "I'm a musician.” He sounded happy to talk about his profession. 

“Hmm, I would have never thought that.” Geralt tells Jasker with full honesty “why's that?” Geralt sits up to look Jaskier in the eyes. “Well the few musicians I have met love the spotlight but you, on the other hand, hang around in dark rooms.” He explains "Well I do love to be in the spotlight but something felt off. But hey who am I to say, maybe it was destiny.” “Destiny is a load of shit.” Geralt knows things about destiny, it rarely turns out in your favor. Jaskier opened his mouth like he was about to try and change his mind. Before he could get a word in, his phone started beeping. “Oh crap, I have to give my cat her asthma medication.” Jaskier jumps up from the bed and picks up his coat. “Can I get your number?” Jaskier asks, standing in front of Geralt. Surprisingly, Geralt held out his hand asking for the phone. Jaskier opens his contacts app, presses the plus icon and hands Geralt his phone and Geralt hands his own phone to Jaskier. When Geralt and Jaskier receive their rightful device back, he sees Jaskier trying to suppress a smile. “I'll see you around Geralt.” Jaskier informs him before walking out the door.

When Jaskier opened the door to his apartment the last thing he expected was for someone to be in there but he was wrong. “Hi Jaskier.” Priscilla says looking up from her computer “I thought you wouldn’t be back from tour until next week!” he says running up to her throwing his arms around her. Priscilla was his lover but they broke up about a year ago, but they were still best friends. Additionally, when they are both in town, they perform as a duo.

“How was your night?” Priscilla asks from beside him as they were now seated on the couch sharing a bottle of wine. “Priscilla. I think I met the love of my life.” “You say that about everyone you meet.”

It was true. Jaskier had a habit of falling in and out of love. Nothing would work out. Work would get in the way or he would fall for another or well you get it. “I know! But you should have seen him! Okay, he was tall, had a deep Sexy voice, plus he had beautiful white long hair! Okay and we have something in common!” “like what?” “He works with horses, I have a cat!” Jaskier explains. Priscilla takes a sharp breath in and claps her hands together “that's not remotely the same." "They are both animals.” Jaskier shot back.  

“True, but-" Priscilla was cut off by Jaskier covering her mouth with his hand. “Can you please just let me tell you about him?" "Mhmhmh" Jaskier could decipher what she was saying so he pulled his hand back. “That's difficult to do when you're comparing a horse and a cat.” “Okay, that's fair.” Jaskier Laughs 

 “I'll see you around Geralt.” Those 5 words might haunt Geralt until the end of his days. After Jaskier left Geralt laid on the bed until Yennefer came to fetch him. “There you are, I've been looking for you for almost an hour!” Yennefer said in what Geralt deemed her mom voice. But he has ever heard her use it at Ciri only when he and his brothers get in some stupid situation. “Fuck what time is it? I need to put Ciri to bed.” Geralt feels stupid he had to stop staying out for so long. Between working night shifts at his job and being dragged out by Yennefer he hadn't seen his daughter all day.

It was kinda a long story of how he got custody of Ciri. He couldn't even remember going to Pavetta's wedding. However, according to the social worker Pavetta put him down as Ciri's guardian if anything

were to happen to her and Duny or even her parents. But after a fatal car accident Ciri was the last of the Riannons.

Geralt got into the driver's seat and Yennefer slid into the passengers. Once the car started and they began driving it remained silent until that stopped at the first red light. Yennefer turned her head so fast that Geralt was sure she would have got whiplash. “So what kept you in the coat room for over an hour? And don’t say you lost track of time. I know you better than yourself.” It was true Yennefer was just like that. A nurse by day and a witch by night. Geralt paused before talking. He really did like Jaskier. Something awoke in him during their short time together “I met someone.” he mumbled Yennefer gasped dramatically “So you're getting over me finally, What's their name?” “Jaskier” “Jaskier. Oh my god! You two would be so cute and Ciri would absolutely love him,” Yennefer rambled.'' Well it seems you know him well.” Geralt grunted “IS THAT JEALOUSY I SMELL?" she was getting way into this they didn’t even know that well. Geralt let his mind drift back to Jaskier's words. After all, Jaskier did say he was going to see him again. Maybe it was destiny but who was he to say?

Geralt pulled into the parking garage that was below his apartment building. He and Yennefer got out and walked to their apartments that just so happen to be across from each other. “Geralt” He turned away from his door to look at her. “You are going to call Jaskier and plan a day and take him on a date.” and in typical mom Yennefer fashion she put her hand on her hips and glared at him “fine, Goodnight Yen.” he says as he walks into his apartment.

Geralt barely made it into his apartment before a small body crashed into his leg. He wanted to reach for the knife he carried in his belt but he looked down to see that it was just Ciri. “Cirilla, you're supposed to be in bed.” It was almost twelve in the morning. She was only 4 she couldn't have a shitty sleep Schedule like everyone else in the family. “Uncle Lambert said I could stay up.” she informed him. Geralt picked her up. “Well I guess me and him are gonna have to have a chat after I put you to bed.” Geralt shot a glare at Lambert who was lounging on the sofa. “She said you let her stay up!” He attempted to defend himself "Oh did she” Geralt turned his attention back to Ciri who promptly tucked her head into the side of Geralt's neck and let out a yawn.

Ciri's green lights were soft, making it much more bearable to lie with her to make sure she would be okay. However the fact he was laying a small bed that was made for children was not. It was extremely cramped. Carefully he fished his phone out of his pocket, attempting not to wake the child that was resting on his chest.

 Geralt opened his contacts and thought long and hard about what to say. But settled on doing the first thing that came to his mind.

GERALT: Hey this might sound weird but, do you wanna see a movie next time you're free? 

Geralt pressed send and laid his phone on his chest next to Ciri. Maybe destiny wasn't that bad.

[ladymarinamart]

[marietta-kerdzevadze]

Watercolor🎨

More my paintings on Patreon and Instagram Welcome❤

[alex-iltempo]

So, after all, Henry is leaving the Witcher after season 3 🥺 ...😔 and Geralt is gonna be played by Liam Hemsworth 😳... 😔 ...

[pillage-and-lute]

Pins and Needles

Part 1(here),  Part 2

There is not enough cute little AU’s in this fandom. (There’s never enough) so I decided to be part of the solution, rather than the problem. Fluffy flower shop/tattoo shop au. +Bonus Bookstore owner Yenneferm (eventually)

---------- 🌷 🐺 🌷----------

The storefront across from Geralt’s family shop had been empty for months. It used to hold a small accounting firm but the firm had merged with another one and the little show was empty. It was a good space, Geralt had thought. The windows maybe weren't big enough for a display for, say, a bakery, but it was a good spot. 

And, of course, it was right across from Morhen Floral Arrangements, the best florist shop in the whole damn city.

Geralt contained a proud smile as he trimmed a sunflower stem. He’d worked hard to get his shop to where it was. Just recently they’d bought a greenhouse on the edge of the city and Eskel was happily buying as many types of rare and tropical flowers as he could find at various nurseries all around the state. Vesemir, who insisted constantly that he was retired, was keeping the rosebushes in the greenhouse at a painstaking state of perfection.

Along with their partnership with Aiden and Lambert’s event planning business, everything was perfect. Ciri was busy with school, ice hockey, and judo, but picked up weekend shift in the shop when she could. Geralt had life completely figured out. 

The fact that they were going to have new neighbors wasn’t going to throw a wrench in anything at all. Nope. Geralt wasn’t anxious or anything. 

Eskel had teased him about the vulture-like way he’d been watching the workmen in the shop across the street. They’d been putting in new floors and counters, painting the walls, even changing the front door. 

Today, a pretty blonde and a svelte but hirsute man were struggling up on two small ladders, trying to put up a new, eye-peelingly yellow, awning by themselves. 

Geralt swore under his breath as he saw them struggling. He had his phone in-hand in case of an emergency as the ladders rocked. Why on earth hadn’t they just had the workmen put up the awning too instead of these obvious amatures?

The man’s ladder rocked again and Geralt set down his sunflowers with a thud. One or both of the idiots was going to get themselves killed. He crossed the street at double speed, eyes locked on where the ladder was set on uneven pavement and rocking dangerously. 

Above, the man reached back, trying to stretch the canvas around the corner of the frame. His heel slipped off the step of the ladder and he let go of the awning with a shout.

Geralt dove the last couple feet, catching the man bridal style before he could hit the ground.

His eyes were so, so blue. 

His shirt was also undone just unethically low, giving more than a glimpse of the chest hair Geralt had noticed, even from across the street.

He set the man down hurriedly and stuck out his hand. “Geralt,” he said.

“Gesundheit,” said the brunette man, grinning.

“No, I mean, it’s my name,” Geralt rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. The man laughed.

“I know, I’m Jaskier.”

“Gesundheit,” Geralt returned, just to hear that lovely laugh again. 

“So,” said the blonde woman, stepping off her ladder. “You’re the florist?”

Geralt shrugged, “that’s me.”

“How lovely, we’ve been dying to meet you. I’m Priscilla.”

Geralt looked up at the awning, still flapping awkwardly. It read Pins and Needles Body Art.

“Tattoos?”

“And piercings,” the blonde, Priscilla, said. “I do the piercings and any American Traditional or Japanese Traditional tattooing, Jaskier does all the rest of the tattoos.”

“Priscilla did her apprenticeship in Japan,” Jaskier explained, obviously proud of his maybe-girlfriend.

“That’s very nice,” Geralt said, at a loss. “Can I help you with the awning?”

With Geralt steadying the ladders, the awning went up in no time, and Geralt was given a very warm thank you by Jaskier which made the back of his neck heat up. 

He spent the rest of the day feverishly putting together bouquets and very much not thinking about pretty tattoo artists or their frightening and talented girlfriends.

---------- 🌷 🐺 🌷----------

This will be a little series, but I don’t know how long or how frequent the updates will be.

[wolf-and-bard]

The Geraskier Soccer Parents AU of my dreams (in an early morning strike of weird-brain):

-Geralt knows he isn't the best dad ever. He tries so goddamn hard, but his job is demanding and consumes so much time and even with Ciri being seven already, he still has essentially no clue what he's doing. He sometimes falls into bed, half-dead, and she is the one to give him a good-night kiss. He sometimes forgets she prefers cheese and puts ham on her sandwiches. He is sometimes too happy to have her sleep over at her friends rather than invite them to their house. He doesn't read her all the children's classics, doesn't go trick-or-treating with her, doesn't even pretend Santa Claus is a thing. He isn't the best dad ever. He tries.

-There is one thing he never, ever fails to do and that is take Ciri to soccer practice. Ciri picks up and drops hobbies, interests, even tastes by the week, still unsure what she wants to pursue, but soccer isn't only her favourite pastime, it's theirs. Practice is twice a week and they have a ritual for it. Geralt picks her up from school and drives her there, she tells him about what the dumb boys in her class said, how her art project is going etc. Geralt is there throughout practice, tucked in between Foltest - a guy who is constantly worried for his daughter Adda to get hurt and also very much anxious for her to do well - and Tissaia - a woman who has not one, but three girls in Ciri's age group and several more in others, and knits like a magician - and watches. He takes notes, silently cheers for Ciri.

-After their games and while Ciri changes, Geralt chats with her coach Vesemir - who used to be Geralt's coach, but now prefers to train the girls' teams - about the progress of the team, upcoming tournaments etc. Sometimes when Vesemir is indisposed, Geralt even leads the practice. When Ciri is all done, Tissaia usually has another hat or mitten finished and Geralt and her drive with their girls to whatever food place the girls are in the mood for. They have an early dinner in which Tissaia lectures the girls on their form and in which Ciri is sometimes allowed to sit on Geralt's lap - but only if Fringilla or Yen don't tease hear about it - but in which she definitely gets to steal his milkshake (Geralt hates milkshakes). Geralt only praises her when they're back in the car and Ciri tells him he's too much of a softie with her and should be more like Tissaia. Should maybe marry Tissaia. They both laugh because that is never going to happen.

-Life is good that way. It's not perfect, it's not without bumps, certainly not without tears and scrapes, but whatever the job, whatever injury Geralt carries with him, however long he has to drive, he never, never ever misses soccer practice.

-The season's just kicked off in the year of Ciri's eighth birthday when Geralt and her arrive early on the field to find the stands empty save for a girl in the most ridiculously colorful excercise clothes and blond hair that is braided intricately around her head. With her is a man, maybe five years Geralt's junior. Ciri bolts towards them with a bright grin and Geralt is hesitant to follow. He knows neither the girl nor the man, but from what he can gather she wants to join the team which is just what they need as they're one girl short this season. "Hi, I'm Ciri, I adore your braids." Geralt holds back on the eye-roll. It's nice Ciri can make friends this easily, but his house already is a shrine for role-playing and board games, dolls and random DVDs and another friend means more things Ciri will want to try out. "Thank you," the girl replies and tilts her head to better show them off. "My uncle Jaskier braided them for me, I'm sure he can do yours too." Both girls look up expectantly at the man and Geralt only really notices him then. He is averagely built with bright blue eyes and an even brighter smile. His floral print shirt has three open buttons and his pants barely reach his ankles. He has the look of a flippant music teacher or a hipster coffeeshop owner. His eyes meets Geralt's and, wait, did he just wink? "I'd love to, dear," he says in a smooth voice that absolutely does not go straight to Geralt's guts. Geralt turns on the spot and decides to pressure check the balls, but he can hear the others giggling as Jaskier braids Ciri's hair. "I'm Priscilla by the way. What's up with your dad?" - "Oh, don't mind him, he's bad with meeting new people." - "Very intense." That's Jaskier. Oh, Geralt will show him intense.

-Ciri invites them to their after-practice dinner. Geralt wants to begrudge her that, but she and Priscilla have latched onto each other in record speed and Jaskier actually fights Tissaia on some of her more strict stances and he braids Yen's and Sabrina's hair too, only Fringilla doesn't want him to touch hers which he respects. Geralt and Tissaia glance at each other. Come to a silent agreement. They may not befriend Jaskier, but he's sunny and so good with the girls and they can use someone like him among their ranks, someone who doesn't have Calanthe's tendency for swear words or Crach's tendency to break out beer in the middle of practice or even Nenneke's tendency to relate everything to the workings of god.

-Jaskier is as faithful as Geralt, perhaps the only one who shows up every time without fail. Shani's parents only drop her off and Crach switches between  Cerys' and Hjalmar's practices and Tissaia sometimes texts Geralt to pick up her girls. Jaskier is there, every time, earlier than any of the others. He chats with Vesemir about his day-to-day, brings home-baked cookies for everyone, he cheers and whoops and tries very hard to understand soccer even though it's evident he doesn't. Geralt never wonders why it's him and not Priscilla's parents that come, it's none of his business. He begins to tolerate Jaskier, but he knows that is where he has to draw the line. He has his hands full with Ciri and his job and his brothers too. He can't afford friendships that extend beyond the field.

-Jaskier doesn't let him off though. He always takes the spot next to Geralt (technically an improvement over Foltest's sweaty visage) and prattles on and on, at least until the game begins. When it does, Jaskier divides his attention between the girls and the stack of paper on his lap which he annotates during practice. It's often either sheet music or the illegible scrawl of pre-teens or wonkily drawn instruments. Jaskier already told him, but from that too it is obvious that Geralt's hunch was right, he is a music teacher. Geralt finds his eyes darting to Jaskier's long fingers, nimble and calloused from the various string instruments he plays. Finds himself glancing at where Jaskier's tongue peeks out in concentration. He listens to the man's ramblings and hums his replies and comes to dislike the days when Vesemir isn't there and he has to focus all his attention on giving the girls a good practice. Not that he doesn't want to, it's just that having Jaskier at his back unnerves him.

-(Jaskier for his part doesn’t care at all about soccer, but he cares about Priscilla so he convinced her parents to let him take her; after that, she said it would be fine if he dropped her off and picked her up again, but Jaskier pretends he is super invested in the sport and the team and he is, but mostly he’s invested in charming Geralt)

-After an entire season of mutual pining and obliviousness, Tissaia decides she's had enough and rallies the other parents. She has Foltest organize a big party at his country house, has Nenneke promise to look after the girls (the woman doesn't drink) and has Crach whip out the finest spirits he has in storage. Calanthe makes a phenomenal playlist and it's Tissaia's job to get Geralt to the party (Jaskier's not a problem) and dress up nicely. Only Aridea, Renfri's stepmother, refuses to pitch in, but she's been a bitch anyway.

-When Geralt picks up Jaskier at his downtown flat he has to grip the wheel of his rover hard in order not to short-circuit. Jaskier has done something to his hair that Geralt can't name but that makes him go woozy inside. He wears a plain shirt that compliments his eyes and hugs his body just right and he looks high on life with color in his cheeks and the most dazzling smile. He's gorgeous. "Darling, don't you look dashing," Jaskier says excitedly and props his feet up on the dashboard, only after kissing Geralt on the cheek. Which is not fair. "Likewise," Geralt mutters, then blushes furiously. He didn't want that to come out, oh no. Jaskier either didn't hear or acts like it and they drive in silence to Foltest's country house. Well, aside from the songs Jaskier hums under his breath, some new composition no doubt.

-At first, Geralt thinks it's a nice enough party for someone who doesn't like parties. Foltest's grilling burgers, they all have cocktails, the music is mellow. Not that that stops Jaskier from swirling an already quite drunk Calanthe over the terrace in dazzling moves. Geralt wants to be swirled like that. "You really have it bad, don't you?" Crach comments when he notices Geralt staring. Geralt downs his beer (he's no cocktail drinker) and tries pointedly not to stare at how Jaskier's swinging his ass around.

-The buzz makes it easier and he relieves Foltest at the barbecue for a bit. But then Jaskier walks up to him, a little short on breath and grinning his most flirtatious little grin. It gives him fucking dimples. Sigh. "Hey you big strong man," Jaskier says. He smells like pineapple and coconut, but isn't even a little drunk. "Jask," he says, pointedly flipping a burger. "Foltest says he has an old karaoke machine in the shed, but it's too heavy for me. Help me?" - "...fine." Geralt gestures for Foltest to keep up with the meat and he and Jaskier make their way along a garden path that winds through thickets and by a small pond. The shed is painted blue and white and Geralt and Jaskier find it very much cluttered, but not dirty which is nice. Geralt only understands it's a trap when it's already sprung on them. The tiny click of the look is almost inaudible over Jaskier's anxious commentary of their search for the machine. There is only one small window and no light Geralt can see. Fuck.

-"Ehm, Jaskier?" he reaches out and gently touches Jaskier's shoulder which has the other man yelp and jump. Which doesn't bode well for what Geralt has to tell him. "I think we're trapped." The effect is immediate. Jaskier goes rigid, his breath catches. Is he afraid? Claustrophobic perhaps? Shit, so he can't be in on the joke. "Jask?" - "Geralt. I know we aren't the closest, but I need you to hold me right now." And he launches himself at Geralt. Maybe he is in on the joke? No, he's trembling too hard for that. Geralt catches him and does as asked. "I am absolutely going to die," Jaskier whines into Geralt's neck and Geralt can't help a small chuckle as he rubs Jaskier's back soothingly. This is... surprisingly nice for a trap. Also likely Tissaia's doing. Geralt has a rare idea. "What if I distract you until someone finds us?" he murmurs against Jaskier's hair and Jaskier draws back a little. In the half-dark his eyes glisten, widen when they meet Geralt's. "You would?" - "Close your eyes, Jaskier." Geralt feels a surge of daring, perhaps granted by the intimacy and seclusion of the situation. He catches Jaskier's lips with his own. When they part, Jaskier grins, shaking from something other than fear. "I thought you didn’t much like me," he whispers. "I thought I got on your nerves." - "Idiot." They kiss again and, faintly, Geralt can hear someone cheer from outside.

[lavenderdynasty]

I've become so numb

Прозвенел звонок, и ученики словно муравьи разбежались по кабинетам. Первая группа класса «А» отправилась на урок музыки. В небольшом помещении проходило обучение на разных инструментах. Каждый мог выбрать что-то по себе. Учительница мисс Серена Гримм умела играть на каждом понемногу. В кабинете также находились микрофоны для уроков по вокалу и мягкие пуфы вместо парт. Старшеклассники вошли в аудиторию и расселись в круг.

Эпизод 8.

Учеников поприветствовала мисс Гримм. Приятная молодая девушка 28 лет.

«Доброго дня! Надеюсь, вы хорошо отдохнули и готовы к новым творческим успехам. Присаживайтесь. Сегодня мы проведём вводный урок, вспомним прошлогодние выученные композиции. Пока нового не будем изучать, я подготовлю программу на предстоящие занятия. Но что важно, так это фестиваль «Фиеста», который состоится через месяц. В этом году он посвящён рок-культуре!» - улыбнулась педагог.

«Круть!» - воскликнули парни.

«Согласна, направление классное и многогранное, поэтому скоро начнётся формирование коллективов по разным номинациям. В каждой одиночное и групповое выступление. Всего их четыре: танцы, мюзикл, вокал, инструментал. Подать заявку может любой желающий. Фестиваль будет проходить весь день. Пока дата не утверждена, на днях объявят», - объяснила мисс Гримм.

«Мисс Гримм, репетиции будут по расписанию в актовом зале?» - спросила Кейра, которая ещё на каникулах обдумывала идеи для мюзикла.

«Да, расписание составят, когда определятся все участники. Подать заявку можно будет около досок с объявлениями. Там вывесят списки. Нужно будет заполнить и прийти потом на общее собрание в актовый зал. Пока точно по дням и датам не могу сказать, но на сайте школы всё опубликуют», - отметила преподавательница.

Мисс Гримм глянула на новенького ученика.

«Представьтесь, пожалуйста», - попросила она парня.

«Геральт Ривин», - ответил юноша.

«Геральт, расскажите, умеете ли вы играть на каком-нибудь инструменте? Вокальные данные есть?» - уточнила учительница.

«Электрогитара, акустическая гитара… Вокальные данные есть», - неловко сказал парень.

«О! Это чудесно. Мы это проверим. А пока давайте вспомним, что изучали в прошлом году. Я буду тезисно рассказывать те течение и исторические моменты, задавать вопросы. В прошлом семестре мы изучали музыку конца 19 века…» - начала педагог.

Все внимательно слушали преподавательницу. Йеннифер немного умела играть на синтезаторе. Она осмотрела стоящие сзади инструменты. В прошлом году она подняла музыкальные навыки, в этом хотела попробовать сочинить свою композицию. Дома у неё не было инструмента, поэтому она решила записаться на факультатив к мисс Гримм.

Девушка чувствовала себя неловко снова из-за того что Геральт сидел очень близко. Парень слушал учительницу, но периодически бросал взгляды на неё. Впрочем, она делала тоже самое.

«На чём играешь?» - спросил парень её шёпотом.

Йеннифер указала пальцем на стоящий сзади синтезатор. Парень улыбнулся. Он оглядел класс и заметил стоящую партию гитар. Тут только акустика. Не совсем его, хотя и не сложно. А вот свой вокал он ещё не демонстрировал никому. Хотя он знает, что голос у него приятный. По крайней мере, так говорит мама. Юноша посмотрел снова на одноклассницу. Она сидела так близко…

Пока девушка слушала учительницу, он периодически её рассматривал. Взгляд невольно опускался на её ноги. Одноклассница сидела в короткой юбке, поэтому эта часть тела была на виду. Юноша покраснел, кашлянул, поправил волосы на голове и отвернулся. Только мозг совсем не слушался и постоянно заставлял поворачиваться обратно.

Йеннифер чувствовала взгляды парня, но не замечала, куда именно они направлены. Может и к лучшему? Она несколько раз ответила на вопросы мисс Гримм, а затем шёпотом поинтересовалась у Геральта, какую музыку он любит.

Геральт рассказал, что обожает рок, альтернативу и хип-хоп. Назвал несколько любимых исполнителей. Вкусы парня понравились Йеннифер, хотя она больше любила K-pop. Но рок тоже отзывался у неё в сердце, так же как приятный шёпот юноши. Когда он слегка наклонялся к ней, резко становилось жарковато.

В течение урока молодые люди постоянно что-то спрашивали друг у друга. Геральт шутил и поднимал настроение девушки. Она мило улыбалась. Их разговор замечали сидящие рядом одноклассники. Они переглядывались и головой кивали на «парочку». Всем уже было всё понятно.

Мисс Гримм заметила перешёптывающихся учеников. Она посмотрела, куда устремлены их взгляды и заметила беседующих Геральта и Йеннифер.

Геральта пихнул Джескер. Парень оглянулся и заметил притихшую преподавательницу. Он улыбнулся, извинился. Джескер попытался перенять внимание на себя, спасая одноклассника.

«Мисс Гримм, я хотел уточнить про «Лебединое озеро» Чайковского. В основе произведения есть фольклорные мотивы. Какие ещё музыкальные средства он там использовал?» - перевёл тему Джескер.

План сработал, и учительница стала вдохновлённо рассказывать о балете. Йеннифер и Геральт больше не разговаривали, но продолжали улыбаться друг другу. Парень всё также иногда осматривал девушку.

Затем мисс Гримм предложила приступить к практической части занятия. Для тренировок выбрали несколько упражнений. Учительница предложила всем выбрать свои инструменты.

Присцилла взяла скрипку, хотя вокал у девушки был один из самых лучших в школе. Йеннифер села за синтезатор. Джескер и Геральт подошли к гитарам. Кейра не умела ни на чём играть, поэтому сразу взяла в руки микрофон. Золтан тоже был хорош только в вокале. У него был отличный голос для рок-композиций. Поэтому парень больше всех обрадовался теме «Фиесты».

Все по очереди сыграли и распелись, вспомнив технику. Мисс Гримм подходила к каждому, давая советы и помогая правильно подобрать ритм и звучание.

В самом конце педагог предложила всем послушать только Геральта, так как она хотела понять, на каком уровне сейчас находится юноша. Она предложила ему сыграть что-нибудь из любимого и спеть.

Парень слегка смутился, но затем набрал воздух и выдохнул. Он попросил Джескера подыгрывать на фоне для лучшего звучания и исполнил свою любимую песню «Numb» группы Linking Park.

Все ученики замерли. Такого они точно не ожидали. Мисс Гримм приоткрыла рот от восхищения. Золтан закайфовал.

Голос парня оказался просто невероятным. Он отлично тянул высокие ноты, но приятней всего звучал именно его тембр. Одновременно нежный и дерзкий, рычащий и мелодичный. Юноша исполнял каждую строчку очень чувственно. Песня достаточно драматичная, поэтому слова отзывались в каждом.

Когда парень закончил, все зааплодировали ему.

«Геральт, это было невероятно! Неожиданно. Вот это талант! Если не будешь участвовать в «Фиесте», я исключу тебя из школы», - рассмеялась женщина.

«Тогда у меня нет выбора», - улыбнулся парень и поставил гитару на место.

Йеннифер очень зауважала Геральта за его талант и способности. Исполнить что-то вот так она бы никогда не смогла. Парень в её глазах стал ещё интересней и привлекательней.

Геральт присел на пуф, поправил волосы и посмотрел на Йеннифер. Он понял, что девушке понравилось его выступление. Подпольные тренировки оказались полезными.

Мисс Гримм объявила, что урок закончился и попросила остаться ненадолго Присциллу и Джескера. Остальные стали собираться и выходить из аудитории.

«Всё в силе?» - спросил Геральт одноклассницу.

Она вспомнила, что он хотел её проводить. В животе у неё затрепетали бабочки. Взволнованно она кивнула и пошла за ранцем.

Мисс Гримм подошла к Джескеру и Присцилле.

«Ребята, вы у меня настоящие профессионалы своего дела, поэтому в этом году я бы хотела, чтобы вы скооперировались и создали что-то совместное», - сказала педагог.

Джескер не поверил своему счастью. Но теперь то Присцилла точно не сможет отвертеться. Он кивнул и глянул на одноклассницу. Та пребывала в оцепенении. Он был прав. Девушка не могла отказаться, хоть её и напрягло предложение учительницы. Она, конечно, уже согласилась прийти к Джескеру на встречу, но теперь сослаться на какой-нибудь инцидент и не прийти не получится.

Одноклассники вышли из кабинета и разбрелись по своим делам. Геральт и Йеннифер неловко шли рядом. Парень поправил ворот рубашки. Он волнительно подошёл ближе к девушке. Та замедлилась. Геральт положил руку ей на плечо и немного приблизил к себе.

От этого у Йеннифер замерло сердце. Трепет пробежал по телу, ноги едва дрогнули. Ладонь юноши лишь слегка касалась плеча, но девушка чувствовала силу парня. Она будто пробежала по её телу. Это вызывало очень приятные ощущения.

Парень посмотрел на неё. Он не улыбался, а наблюдал за реакцией одноклассницы. Подвинул её ещё чуть ближе. Девушка поддалась. Юноша почувствовал её волнительную дрожь. Ладонь немного сжалась. Хотелось опустить руку ниже, к талии, но он сдержался.

На таком расстоянии он смог разглядеть ближе черты лица Йеннифер. Фиолетовые глаза с огромными ресницами, пухлые губы, родинка на щеке и приятный запах у шеи. Теперь он чувствовался его отчётливо. Крыжовник и сирень…

Молодые люди пошли к выходу, перекидываясь фразами и взглядами.

начало / предыстория / продолжение  

[mangaka-devotee]

Under-rated ship I love!!

[sarah-lance]

These scars long have yearned for your tender caress To bind our fortunes, damn what the stars own Rend my heart open, then your love profess A winding, weaving fate to which we both atone

You flee my dream come the morning Your scent – berries tart, lilac sweet To dream of raven locks entwisted, stormy Of violet eyes, glistening as you weep

The wolf I will follow into the storm To find your heart, its passion displaced By ire ever growing, hardening into stone Amidst the cold to hold you in a heated embrace

You flee my dream come the morning Your scent – berries tart, lilac sweet To dream of raven locks entwisted, stormy Of violet eyes, glistening as you weep

I know not if fate would have us live as one Or if by love's blind chance we've been bound The wish I whispered when it all began Did it forge a love you might never have found?

[witcheress-of-toussaint]

My Witcher Fics

With Golden String Series

Samhain - Geralt and Yennefer. An appearance by Phillipa.

Gifts - Ciri and Yennefer

Pride - Geralt and Vesemir

Other

Another Round of Gwent - Geralt, Zoltan, and Priscilla

Druidic Lessons - Geralt and Gremist

[jaskierswolf]

Follower Celebration Drawings

A collection of drawings done for my 1.9k follower celebration! There is absolutely no consistency cos I'm still figuring things out but I had fun! 😂

Jaskier

Geralt

Dandelion

Jaskier/Dandelion

Cahir

Yennefer and Ciri

Priscilla and Jaskier

Gopher (Mount Pleasant)

Valdo Marx (banner)

[ladymarinamart]

Wedding