#our ciri is all grown up

[geraltofriviacollection]

Chapter Nine

Paring: Geralt x Reader

Summary: Reader is thrown into the Witcher's world. Will she survive?

A/N: Guys we’re are getting to the end of season 2 with two more chapters left!!!! Please enjoy this next chapter. I have not edited or proofread. Please do not repost, translate or copy my work without permission. Please leave comments! ❤️

At some point during the ending stretch to the temple I manage to fall asleep as Geralt carries me there. The first thing I notice when I open my eyes I see a warmly, lit room. I look around and see geralt with his eyes closed sitting in a chair next to my bed. I move the covers as quietly as I can to not wake him so I can sit up. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Geralt rumbles softly. I chuckle reminded back to our first conversation. He opens his eyes and focuses on me. He gives me a slight smile before helping me sit up straight.

“Where’s Ciri?” I ask him as sits back down. 

“Ciri’s fine. She is in the library practicing trying to figure out her first lesson.” He explains. “It took some convincing for her to leave you while you slept.” I smiled at hearing this. 

“How long have I been down?” I ask him looking down, noticing that I am in clean clothes. I look at Geralt wondering if he was the one to change them. That thought has my face feeling warm. 

“Few hours. Blood loss is why you slept so long. How do you feel?” Geralt looks at me and something about his face seems softer now. 

“Tired and sore.” I wince trying to get comfortable again. “What have you found out?” 

Geralt sighs and closes his eyes briefly. “We’re fucked.” He grumbles out. 

“Fairly certain that has always been a given.” I chuckle. Geralt narrows his eyes at me before responding. 

“We can’t help Ciri until we find out what is missing from her.” He sighs leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. I see all the weight he feels in this moment and it tugs at my chest. I lean over to Geralt and place my hand on his arm. 

“Listen, are we a little bit fucked right now? Sure. The bright side is we are fucked together. Being fucked with someone is better than being fucked alone. So we’ll find out what’s missing and then we will be less fucked.” I explain. Geralt looks at me as if I have grown a second head.  To be fair that is not my most eloquent pep talk but I’m running on E right now.  “That’s the best I got right now.” I shrug looking back down at my hands. 

“You rather be fucked by me than fucked alone?” He says. My eyes go wide hearing that and my head snaps up to look at his face alight with amusement. 

“That’s not…. I didn’t mean…” I try to finish a sentence. “You’re not funny. You know that?” I say glaring at him a smile threatening to take over my face. He chuckles and leans back into his chair.  

A chill runs through me just like it did when Triss arrived. A weight comes over me and plants itself in my chest before moving to my head. I suck in a sharp breath at the feeling. 

“What is it? Geralt asks moving to sit on the bed. He places a hand on my arm. I squeeze my eyes shut as the pressure grows. I bring my hands up to my head groaning in pain. Just as my head feels like it's going to pop, the pain stops abruptly.  I open my eyes to see Geralt in front of me. Both of his hands are cupping my face. 

“Are you alright?” He asked me with his eyebrows furrowed in concern.

 I place one of my hands over his nodding yes. I’m still too shaken to speak. He tilts my face to his and his lips meet mine for a split second before the door opens. We both pull away from each other as our heads swivel to the door. 

I feel geralt go stiff beneath my hands as he sees a woman standing in our room. Dark hair and violet eyes, immediately I know I’m looking at Yennifer of Vengerberg. She looks over his face as if she can’t believe what she’s seeing. Then her her eyes roam over to find me in a rather intimate position in Geralt's arms. Something in her face changes from surprise to disappointment. I give Geralt's hand a slight squeeze and he looks back down at me I nod to him. He squeezes my hand before pulling away from me. 

Yennifer eyes shift back to geralt as she watches him stand to meet her. He walks closing the space between them. 

“How is this possible?” She whispers looking at him. He pulls her into a hug. I feel myself tense this time lookin gat the two of them. ‘Don’t like that’ is the only thing rolling around in my head. The embrace which is probably only a few seconds when Ciri comes in. 

“Geralt, I’ve been waiting hours, I want to see…” The words die as she looks at Geralt and Yennifer. They move away from each other. “Sorry.” she says awkwardly moving backwards. 

“Ciri, this is my dear friend. This is Yennifer.” He says. Turning her to introduce to me as well. Yennifer looks at me and I stare back unyielding. 

“You’re Yennifer?” Ciri asks as Ciri walks further into the room walking to me but glancing at Yennifer as she sits on the edge of my bed. 

“And you must be his…Child surprise. But who might you be?” She ask with a tone change I’m not sure anyone else is catching, turning back to me. 

“Just another dear friend.” I say with a smile I don’t feel. She hums before focusing her attention back to Geralt.

“Why don’t we all have dinner? I’m rather famished.” She says looking at Geralt who gives her a small smile. “I’m sure we have a lot to catch up on.” She winks at Geralt. That wink is what sent all the commen sense out my head. 

“That sounds fantastic. I’m starving myself.” I say starting to move. Ciri gives me her hand helping me stand. I feel the room spin a bit. I open my mouth to ask to speak to him alone to tell him not to trust her. That invisible force strains me as it wraps around my throat. 

“Are you sure you shouldn’t rest?” He whispers looking down at me softly. I will myself not to say anything more. I nod before replying. “There will be time for rest later. I want to get to know our new dear friend.” I say grinning. 

Dinner goes by without any hiccups. I find myself likening Yennifer. Under different circumstances I might like her. Hell, I like her now. Trusting her though now that is a different story. Ciri laughs at something Yennifer says. The conversation carries on for a bit before Ciri announces she’s going to bed. 

“This place is a maze. I’ll walk you.” Yennifer offers as she stands.

“No need, I'm going to head that direction. I’ll walk back with you.” I stand quickly. The room spins again Geralt put his hand on my arm to steady me. I watch Yennifer’s eyes track the movement. I smile at him in thanks before moving away and over to Ciri. She takes my hand and we walk back. She helps me back into bed before getting in her bed. We both say good night.  I’m so tired, I’m sleep before my head hit the pillow. 

My dreams are filled with screams of terror. So much hatred and pain. The laughter of a women. Flashes of red light, a hut in the forest, and sand. Women screaming in agony, wailing. I wake in a jolt. 

I hear a tussle in the distance. I try to get out of bed but unable to move, that same invisible force is holding me down. I try to lift my arms but pain erupts, keeping me pinned in place. “FUUUCCKKK!” I scream in pain and frustration. “Let me go!!!” Scream. The pain lifts and I jump from bed, my wounds scream at the sudden movement. I run through the halls closer to the noise. 

A man tackles me to the ground as I see Geralt fighting 4 others. My body hits the floor and take the breath out of me.  He’s got his forearm against my throat. The beginnings of panic start to tingle in my chest before I feel the warm glow begin. I place my hand in his side and push all the energy I have in to that area. I feel a pop and a splat before the man face slacken and he falls on me. I roll him off to see I damn near tore him in half. His blood drips from the ceiling. I stand up panting. Trying not to voimit at the sight when I see a man with a fucked face burning a door.

I run feeling the glow take over my body knowing Ciri is behind that door. I raise my hands and fire just as geralt throws his sword at the man. A portal opens and the fucked face man gets pulled though but not before some of the best I send makes its way in. Geralt glances behind me before moving to the door ciri is behind. 

Geralt stands there speaking words I can’t hear as I make my way to him. The door is still so hot that it’s melting. I look through the holes in the door to see no one is there. 

“Where is she?” I hear the shrillness in my voice. “Geralt, Where is Ciri?!!” I scream. I know shouldn’t be blaming him for this. Everything has happened as it should. This failure is mine. I push him out of the way. He pulls me away from the melting door.  I fight him until he puts me down. I push him away and walk back to the scattered body’s on the floor. 

I turn the corner to see a women stands in front of me with a shaven head in a red dress. She rushes over to me.

“ Are you hurt, my dear?” she ask softly. I look down to see my white dress stained red with blood. 

“It’s not mine.” I explain pulling away from her. I hear Geralt’s footsteps behind me. I turn to see him bend over and pick a coin up from the grown. The woman next to me whispers her failure to the temple goddess.

 Geralt walks over and talks to the woman in hushed tones. I stand to the side looking at the carnage all around. My anger with Yennifer grows. I feel the warm glow of my power getting brighter. Geralt must notice and come to my side tugging my hand and in his and the warmth of power fades. 

“Ciri needs more help than you can give her now.” She say softly walking to us. 

“I swore to protect her!” Geralt growls out. “Nenneke, I will not sit back and wait for something worse than a rouge mage and his aganda to happen to her.”

“Do you believe Yennifer means to harm the girl?” Nenneke ask. The sound of her name and the warmth returns with a fury. I rip my hand from Geralts. 

“I don’t give a good goddamn what she means to do. She took Ciri from us.” I say to Nenneke. I turn to Geralt. “When we find your dear friend, there is nothing that will stop me from ripping that bitches throat out with fucking teeth.”

@purplegardenwhispers @freegardenbanananeck @kas0417 @lillianacristina @mxtokko @wonderlandfandomkingdom @lovemesomuchhh @novaacanee

Tag list is open!!

#geralt fanfic #geralt x reader #geralt of rivia #geralt x you #the witcher #geralt and ciri #butcher of blaviken #geralt x y/n #witcher geralt #geralt

[thequietesthing]

THE WITCHER SEASON 3 VOLUME I - REVIEW

SPOILERS AHEAD

YOU'VE BEEN WARNED

Okay so this season felt different than the previous two, maybe for the best. I am not that into the original witcher lore (books and games) that i’m that fixated on canon events so i’ll just judge what i’ve seen on screen.

Geralt: my darling mr. Cavill you are the brightest light in this show, I don't think that anyone will be able to understand and portrait Gerald better than you. Now said that, I don't think Geralt has been very Geralt-y this season (pls don't kill me for saying this). Yes, he should have changed by the power of love and family but they didn't show it. I assume that this magical transformation, that has started in season 2, should have continued and evolved in the 6 months in which Geralt, Yennefer and Ciri live together, of which we see incredibly little. Yes, the letters (very nice touch btw), yes the nice dinners together and Yen's grovelling but not very much on how this affects Geralt intrinsically. So we end up six months later that he is a mostly changed man, and good for him but I wish we could have seen more of a development. Also this season, now that we have finally placed all of our pieces on the board, inevitably focuses less on Geralt and his moods and adventures and more on the general plotting of the entire cast. Also they didn't give my man enough monsters to hunt (maybe the budget was cut seeing how many actors they had to pay). However I loved when he went to Annika's house and the moment when he recounted his childhood and the relationship with Visenna; I feel that in that moment the true talent and acting ability of Henry came through. I thoroughly enjoyed how uncomfortable he was at the mages ball; he's always so put together and firm that it was extremely funny seeing him a bit out of his depth. Anyway as long as it's played by Henry Cavill, Geralt will be always a 10/10 for me.

Yennefer: Contrary to common opinion I liked Yennefer last season. Yes she was selfish, yes she's willing to sacrifice Ciri and betray Geralt to get her magic back, but people don't seem to understand where she's coming from, and I think that a bit of explanation is given in this first part of the third season, through conversations that she both has with Ciri and Tissaia; this is not the place to write an entire apology of Yennefer but the core is this: to her, before, magic was everything; she was mistreated as a child, she never felt in control of her life, and the only way she found her way out of that was through her magic, of the power that she discovered within herself that helped her to finally stop feeling like a nuisance, to finally matter. Once she meet Ciri and she gets to know her however her priority shifts (as often happens with motherhood) and she finds out that she doesn't care whether she is powerful or not, as long as her child is safe. Now, with this out of the way, I loved Yennefer this season (as always). Anya Chalotra has grown so much into herself and her acting in these three seasons and it shows. Her relationship with Ciri is just beautiful (I was skeptical about it before because of the close age between the actresses but they embodied the mother-daughter bond perfectly), her and Geralt will never not be my favourite (I wish they had more scenes tho) and her and Jaskier are hilarious (also, more scenes pls!); but what I found very fascinating about Yennefer is the relationship she has with the other mages, of which we have always seen stunningly few. I found interesting the accusation Ciri moved to her when they were in that spa(?) to which Yennefer responds that that is the version of herself she "needs" to be around those people (strong, uncaring, playing the centuries old politics game of saying one thing and meaning another), and I really liked that because before Ciri was only "coddled" by witchers who are authentic and never had the need to play politics because they stay well away from them. Digression aside, Yennefer with other mages was really nice to watch, how she plays in the duality of who she is and who she needs to be and how she doesn't trust anyone between her peers, only Tissaia that has assumed a kind of a mother role for her. So, long story short, I love Yen and I always will.

Ciri: this poor girl has been through so much. Everyone wants her and she doesn't know what to do with herself. I felt like in this part of the season things just have been happening to her, rather than her having an active role (being dragged around the whole Continent like a package by a Witcher and a mage certainly didn't help) but it seems so me like her developing story and the general plot are going at two entirely different paces: she's still unsure of what to do, of her magical training, while the rest of the story feels almost like is at it's end and she's still there. Anyway, other than her most obvious relationships (Geralt and Yennefer) I liked her relationship with Jaskier this season; he's very protective of her and they act like he's a young uncle with his niece. Also I liked how her spending a lot of time with Yen and Geralt is starting to filter through her character, as she has become a sassy, brave, curious, know-it-all, but still she sometimes acts impulsively or foolishly as apt for her age.

Jaskier: We see him for more than 3 episodes! I would count this as a win already. I genuinely like Jaskier, I feel like he's always been the most relatable and funny character, and this season is no exception. I think Joey Batey is a comedic genius and his acting, and singing, skills are really unparalleled. I loved his journey with Radovid (who to be honest I didn't like at first, even though he is played by Hugh Skinner), they are very cute, especially their scene before the kiss, I was like awwww. Also Jaskier rivalry with Valdo Marxx is iconic, when they meet on the ship and he has a whole band backing him up and Jaskier only has Geralt and Ciri, it was really funny. Also finally Jaskier gets some well deserved love from Geralt, after 3 seasons he calls him "Jask" ♡.♡ (man, our standards are low)

Anyway, you'll forgive me but I'll give a rapid view of all the other characters because otherwise we'll be here all day.

Francesca's role this season has been practically null, other than making the final alliance with Nilfgaard she's going after Ciri (like everyone) and we did not see any repercussion or regret for the murder of hundreds of babies which had me like... ok.... Fringilla is freaking hilarious but I have also not understand her point in the story for now Cahir goes back to his murderous master after killing his elf friend, but I still like him; I think the actor is jumping through hoops trying to show us the duality of this character and how what he does actually affects him Emhyr, other than scheming and burning family pictures he seems to be doing nothing else (for now) Triss is the smartest in the freaking room, also the only one who cares about those poor girls! Everyone is like Ciri,Ciri all the time and she's like what about those poor vanished girls, I love her, but please don't let her have a romance with Istredd, who still after 3 season is going after that freaking Book of Monoliths; I hope that now that he's found it he will find peace and a good barber Tissaia and Vilgefortz I don't trust either of them, even though at the end of this part we find that is the latter and not Stregobor to have taken the girls, and if I'm honest until that scene I believed that "the woman with the funny voice" was Tissaia; also Vilgefortz is also leading on that poor Lydia... nope don't like the man Philippa Eilhart is a legend, didn't like her at first but she's smart as a whip and I think she's playing Dijkstra like a violin (also if they don't show the creation of the Lodge of Sorceresses I'll riot)

One more thing before I shut up, just a quick thought on the last episode: the idea was very well thought, to switch up the linearity of narration by including some back and forth between before and after as Yennefer and Geralt recount the night's event to each other and us (a bit Ocean's 11 style) but the execution.... I didn't particularly enjoy how it was done; maybe I need to see it again but while the change of camera angles through the same scenes helped (so that except for two moments maybe, we heard the same lines but the cameras were in different positions) it felt very repetitive and stagnant. The only positive thing was the music!! That fucking song is now stuck in my head forever: all is not *thud thud* as it seems *thud thud*, stuck all night in my head, anyway also very appropriate lyrics lol.

Ok, I think I'm done(?) I'm sure I've missed something but if it comes to mind I'll edit it in later

#the witcher #the witcher s3 #the witcher spoilers #the witcher netflix #geralt of rivia #yennefer of vengerberg #cirilla of cintra #jaskier #geralt x yennefer #jaskier x radovid #netlix #triss merigold #philippa eilhart #tissaia de vries #jaskier the bard #personal review #books #booklr #ramblings #spoilers

[blackberrywars]

Campfire - Jaskier/Suffering

SFW prompt fill for day 2 of the @witchersummercamp event!!! Many thanks to my lovely beta @hellinglasses and a big fuck-you to netflix

Rating: T

Words: 2848

Pairing: Pre-Relationship Jaskier/Geralt/Yennefer, Geralt/Yennefer, Jaskier & Ciri

Tags: Angst, Arguing, Self-Worth Issues, Emotional Trauma, Physical Trauma, Hunger, Protective!Jaskier, Toxic Relationships, Parenting, Geralt Always Says The Worst Possible Thing, Yennefer Is Defensive

Summary: Jaskier has a front-row seat to watch the two people he loves most destroy each other, and as much as he hates it, he can’t leave Ciri alone when Geralt and Yennefer are so destructive. He lights the fire himself and gives them a piece of all of our minds.

Read on AO3

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Sometimes, Jaskier misses his jail cell. The guards had been tasteless, tactless bastards, to be sure, but Martin and Polly had been good little gentlemen and even better companions to him, tiny and furry though they were. He hopes that they’re well. They listened to his songs and his words and his pain. With them, he could speak about his heartbreak until he made something useful out of it, or at least was able to put his own stupidity out into the air —how foolish he’d been to fall for two immortal beings who, even now, regard him as a plaything at best. Even now, he wishes to talk to the little mice. Tell them how terrible it is, to watch the people he loves love each other and hurt each other and ruin each other right in front of his eyes. Just as in the cell, it might give him a bit of peace while Geralt and Yennefer bicker.

“I lit an entire army aflame, witcher, for fucks’ sake, I can handle this.”

“Hm. And then right after that, you lost your magic. You’re still weak.”

“Gods, you’re insufferable. Don’t you hear yourself, you self-righteous prick?”

The witch and the witcher. As gorgeous as they are powerful, as lovely as they are dreadful, as pretty as they are petty. Jaskier admires them from his stump across the large clearing, memorizing the sharp planes of an especially frustrated Geralt’s face and the unfairly lustrous swish of Yennefer’s hair as she turns away from him, groaning with irritation. They’re awfully beautiful. He has and will again go on about it in the future when they decide to behave less fucking immaturely than the skinny, nervous seven year-old beside him. The past few weeks hadn’t exactly been quiet between the two, but such a squabble was inevitable. If they don’t argue over some trifling bullshit at least once every two weeks, he’s convinced they’ll explode. And probably take it out on him again. He sighs, turning to look at Ciri, who watches, just as fascinated. 

The poor thing.

Four parents dead, and all she has left are these two, who, while certainly good people at heart, have clearly never had decent examples themselves of how to parent or be parented. She has him too, he supposes. An uncle, of sorts, or perhaps a kindly older cousin, like the ones he’d grown up with in Lettenhove. Not an outsider or a stranger, but not quite a mother or a father either. He can’t replace the parents Destiny decided to gift her —he doesn’t fuck about with Her or Her wishes anymore, gods know he’s learned his lesson on that particular front— but at the very least he can show them how it’s done. Lowering his voice to a stage whisper, the kind Geralt would hear if he wasn’t so occupied with his grunting, he nudges the girl’s shoulder.

“And they call me dramatic.”

She huffs out a giggle, tiny but genuine.

“No, really. I swear on my lute, I punch one alderman, and suddenly I’m making a ‘fuss over nothing,’ and being called ‘bard’ again instead of my name!”

“But aren’t you a bard?”

“Yes, but that isn’t the point. The point is that even with all that power between them, a witcher and an ex-court sorceress, they can’t solve a minor disagreement! Either they skipped their etiquette lessons, or both Kaer Morhen and Aretuza are woefully inadequate educational institutions —I’ll have to teach you myself once we get to the Blue Mountains.”

Remembering his own classes on the subject, Jaskier can’t help but smile when Ciri groans. He’d spent more than his fair share of days hiding from his own private instructor, avoiding all talk of how to run a household, conduct business, and behave himself in public around people of every station. And all that as a two-penny count’s son. A princess, and more than that, the only princess of Cintra, would have had far more to learn, with far stricter teachers than old Garam. Even as young as she is, there’s no possible way she escaped it. Not with a pout like that.

He’ll teach her to hone that too. She already has the face for it, round and cute as a button, but the art of big, sad eyes is one he excels in, and he’d be remiss to not pass on his knowledge. Especially when, more likely than not, she’ll be aiming them at the very same target. Geralt, for all his many foolish pretenses at stoicism and apathy, already melts into a puddle around Ciri and would certainly fetch the moon for her if she asked it of him. Not that she would. She’s too good for that, always calm and placid, so much so that it worries Jaskier more than a little. The dear girl had lost everything in the space of a few weeks and she’d yet to even cry about it. Geralt and Yennefer might appreciate that, but Jaskier knows better. It’s unhealthy. For anyone, really, semi-immortal or not, but for a child without even eight winters to her name… he likes it even less.

“Well then. Tell me, Fiona, which lessons did you enjoy in Cintra?”

Immediately, her eyes lit up, pale eyebrows shooting up her forehead. They’ll have to dye them soon, but not yet. Let the girl get used to her new name, start processing all that has shifted in her life before changing her appearance.

“The sword lessons!! Grandmother and Grampa Eist gave me a big, big sword for my last nameday!! It’s only wood, but it’s tough, and I already learned the first forms.”

“Knowing the Queen and King, I believe it. They were some of the finest warriors alive.”

“Yeah! Grandmother was too busy to teach me herself, but Grampa’s really good too! His sword is really heavy though.”

“Yeah? What other things did they teach you?”

She’s happy to ramble on about it, and Jaskier lets her, interjecting with careful hums and nods and chuckles and questions where appropriate. Talking puts some life in her sallow cheeks, when she goes on about learning to read at Moussack’s knee until she graduated to asking him to pull the heavy tomes down from the palace library for her. He encourages it with appropriate nods and noises, drifting his senses back to the pair behind him. And, oh, what a blessed fucking surprise!

“I can light a simple fucking campfire! Just because you finally decided to take Ciri as your daughter doesn’t mean you have to mother-hen all of us to death, Geralt!”

“I’m not mother-henning, just let me handle it! Why does this even matter to you?”

They’ve graduated from an argument to a unnecessary, vicious row. 

“It doesn’t!”

“Like fuck it doesn’t! One Igni and the problem’s solved, but here you are, dragging it like a corpse!”

“Oh, I’m the one dragging this out? You kicked your feet for so long avoiding your Child Surprise that I’m hardly shocked Destiny killed her whole family —it was the only way to make you take responsibility!”

He focuses back on Ciri, who, thank the gods, is still talking about her life in Cintra. The last thing she needs to hear is her new mother being cruel or that her father hadn’t exactly wanted her in his life, albeit for his own reasons, right and wrong. 

“Sometimes I could sneak out to play in the square, but Ser Danek would always drag me back to the castle before I was done. I miss him.”

“I know, dear heart. But it’s always good to have things you miss. It means you have things to love. What else do you miss?”

“Oh! I miss Grandmother and Grampa. And Moussack and Ser Lazlo and Marina and all the horses! Grampa never let me go see them alone, but they’re so big! And I miss the food…… I don’t like being hungry.”

As if on cue, her stomach rumbles. A sad, tiny little sound, and all Ciri does for it is tucking a skinny arm over her belly, shushing the noise with a finger pressed to her lips. And Jaskier’s heart breaks. Geralt and Yennefer keep screaming in the background of his mind, over petty shit, all while their little girl hasn’t eaten since the gods know when. Immortals. They forget about lowly humans and their needs, always either pushing them past the limit or dropping them like deadweight, but Jaskier won’t let them do either, not with him and not with her. So, he does what he does best. He talks. Asks Ciri more questions, takes over the conversation when their companions get too loud, and keeps her as distracted as he can while he reaches for his own flint and steel. 

Quickly, he arranges the wood and sends Ciri for Geralt’s saddlebags. There won’t be much, mushrooms and dried meat, but he has his spices and there was a patch of wild onion less than a minute’s walk back. Three strikes light the tinder, and by the time Jaskier has a pot perched on top of a makeshift spit, the damned campfire burns as brightly as any other he’s made for himself in Geralt’s absences. Ciri returns, trotting back with a skip in her step, promised pack in hand. He pours in his waterskin, emptying it, and hands Ciri a small scarf.

“Alright, dear. We’ll eat soon, and though I can’t promise it’ll be anywhere near as good as Cintra’s best, I’ve made enough trail stews that you should be able to at least get it down. But I need you to do one last thing for me.”

Ciri nods solemnly.

“Good girl. Just outside this clearing, you see that big tree over there?” He points to the one in question, with the creeping vine crawling over it. “About five trees in that direction, you see some hollow green shoots on the ground. Those are wild onions, and you have to pick them —but don’t eat them. Bring them back so I can look them over.”

“Okay.”

Her eyes slide over to Geralt and Yennefer, still screaming at each other, then back to him. Clever girl. Of course she’d heard them, and figured out what he’s trying to do by sending her away into the woods —another thing to scold the pair for. He nods at her, pressing the scarf further into her little hands.

“Go. There’s nothing in the woods that can harm you, not with those two here, no matter how foolish they’re being now.”

Blessedly, she accepts it, leaving Jaskier to deal with the couple of the hour. Yennefer’s skirt flares out just as her hair does, but it’s less pretty, with a hungry girl in the woods. Geralt’s jaw tightens, and he can’t find the line of it as handsome, not when Ciri just shushed her own rumbling stomach like the noise would get her punished. Stalking across the clearing should alert them, or at least make them stop for long enough to look his way, but instead they escalate in their usual way, stepping closer until the spittle flying from their mouths hits the other’s cheek. He thinks of the mountain. He thinks of the mountain and how they ruined each other so fucking quickly, dissolving their relationship like it meant nothing at all, and throwing the remains at his chest. Two people this fucking old ought to know better. But instead, they just make the same mistakes for longer.

By the sound of it, the water hasn’t boiled yet, but he has. 

This time, when he puts himself in between them, he reaches out only with his hands —already burnt and broken as they are, easy enough to sacrifice— and not his heart. He knows better now. Never again will he stand outside a shattered window and struggle not to weep. He won’t be sent away down a mountain, alone in the cold with every rock digging into his feet through his thin soles along the way. Before either of them can stop him, he puts one arm across Geralt’s chest and a hand at Yennefer’s shoulder. 

“Shut the fuck up. Both of you.”

For about a second, it occurs to him that he ought to be more cautious, saying that to a powerful sorceress and a witcher, both of whom have cast him aside before. He tells the thought to fuck off and turns to level a glare at Geralt, who flinches.

“You. All those heightened senses, and yet you can’t figure out that the witch here is trying to heal herself and prove her worth, after, as you put it so delicately, losing her magic. She lives and dies on Chaos. But you don’t even try to understand her pain. And despite how fucking poorly it’s gone for you in the past, in case you don’t remember your idiocy in Rinde, you just keep making decisions for her safety, disregarding her wishes entirely. I don’t care about your intentions, and neither does she.”

Yennefer huffs, turning her face away but not breaking out of his hold. 

“And you. Yes, Geralt has been supremely irresponsible about Ciri. But if that was your issue right now, you would have had the sense to not scream it at him right in front of her. Do you think she needs to hear that? So she can feel unwanted and unloved? But instead of facing the actual issue of your power being gone, you deflect away from your own weakness, treating whoever you hurt in the process as collateral damage for your own pride.”

He steps aside, gesturing towards the fire he’d lit all on his own, no magic or cantrips required. The whole fucking situation is proof that sometimes all you need a simple person and their pracice, tools, and love.

“There’s your fucking fire, so you can stop using it to cover your own asses. Now, your little daughter is hungry, and she’ll be back any minute. Geralt, go find a rabbit to feed her. Yennefer, magic her up a bowl and a spoon if you have the strength.”

Amazingly, then don’t protest. Yennefer scoffs at him and Geralt swears under his breath, but they separate, off to their assigned tasks. Excellent timing, when Ciri comes running back with both little hands full of onions for him to clean so they can make a proper soup out of it all. Yennefer produces three bowls and three spoons, since only Geralt has his own, and though it takes her longer than it should, it lines up well with Geralt’s return, skinning a fat hare as he walks over. Jaskier takes the carcass, butchering and cleaning out the insides as fast as he dares, with his shaking hands. Within the hour, Ciri’s eating like she hasn’t been fed in days, and Jaskier relaxes, looking to the other side of the fire.

The witch and the witcher. What fucking fools, both of them, sat on opposite ends of a log, eating silently. Jaskier watches them again, how they chew their food just a little too long, shrink into themselves in between bites just to puff back up before retreating again. In between them, he can see where their boots still touch. But he’s fine with that. Time and heartache have taught him wisdom, but more importantly, they taught him patience. He waits until Ciri hands him her bowl, asking him to tuck her in, and she sleeps peacefully in his bedroll with his red coat pulled up to her chin, dwarfing her little body. He waits some more, watching the fire dwindle into embers, for Yennefer to speak.

“Jaskier. We’re… we’re sorry.”

“You can apologize to her tomorrow.”

“Not the point, bard,” Geralt says, lip twitching downwards and knee pressing closer to Yennefer’s thigh, “You shouldn’t be the one looking after her.”

“Someone has to.”

It hurts, even though he’s sure Geralt doesn’t even realize what he’s said. But he keeps his eyes on the dying flames, trying not to see Yennefer return the witcher’s touch, shuffling over on the small log. Brown wood, gray ash, yellow fire. All are safer to look at than Yennefer’s black hair next to Geralt’s white, or the way their hands press against each other, warm brown and ghostly pale. Geralt tries again.

“You’re good at it. Better than either of us, with children, and Ciri needs your help.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

He forces enough levity into his voice to make it convincing, trailing it into a yawn. Ciri needs his help. That’s not what Geralt had said, when he’d swept him up and away from the jail cell with his sad yellow eyes and soft voice, but it had always been like him to deny any mention of dependency after the fact, no matter how much proof existed of it. Beside him, the witch nods, and they’re off to their own pushed-together bedrolls, leaving Jaskier to doze with his head pillowed on his pack, letting the embers soothe him to sleep.

——————————————————————————————

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]

#witchersummercamp #witcher summer camp #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #jaskier #geralt #yennefer #ciri #pre- #geraskefer #self-worth issues #angst #arguing #bittersweet ending #yenralt #yennskier #geraskier #berry's fics

[lockejhaven]

locket's fairytale friday

I'm going to try to post something fairytale related each Friday, if I can! I might miss a week occasionally, but I hope to keep it going!

↪ fable : morgaine (draft one)

My younger stepbrother was not always so corrupted or cruel. He came along with me when I first arrived in Caervyon. We were both young, and naive. As one would expect of a story like this. Luckily Cirys met us at the gates and ushered us inside. She knew our parents; our magykal DNA. She also knew we would be killed if anyone found out.

I took it better than Morgaine did. I could tell he was angry, even if he kept quiet about it. What I had no idea about, was how much that rage manifested. I continued to help Cirys heal castle illnesses, while Morgaine sulked in his room and refused to come out. 

It was many circles of the story before he got truly cruel. He would spend hours in the library, sneaking in at night to search for restricted books on magyk and enchantments. I assumed he wanted to at least learn more, rather than stay cooped up alone, so I indulged him. 

The first time I saw him act out was when a young druid found their way to us. The King had ordered they be put to death the next day, and Morgaine was furious. He came to me asking for help in aiding the druid in escape, and, seeing no other ethical choice, I agreed. Kyarrah warned me that the druid would lead to Artwyn’s downfall, and yet every single time I helped them escape. I hesitated the first few times, and Morgaine noticed. Even after I stopped hesitating, he seemed to resent me for it, even though I was certain he did not remember the past story circles.

As he improved in his magyk, so did I, with Kyarrah’s guidance. She provided me resources, and I picked them up quickly. Morgaine seemed jealous of this. I offered to teach him, but he refused. He wanted to learn on his own as I had. Although we both picked up magyk from all types of sources, he tended to use his power to wreak havoc and take revenge on those in power. I started to notice his absences more often, and it was not long before I found the first enchantment pouch hidden under Prince Artwyn’s bed. 

I tried to reason with Morgaine, not once blaming him for wanting to take revenge on the King by taking his son, but he refused to listen. 

After that particular circle, he grew more and more aggressive in his attempts. Around this time, Kyarrah warned me that I must choose between him and Artwyn. A choice I made rather easily, I must admit. I had grown close to Artwyn, even if he would never say so, and Morgaine had only grown more corrupt. Each attempt I thwarted enraged him more. I knew he would be caught, sooner or later. He framed me multiple times, brought in other enemies, but each time I prevailed. Soon I knew the plot like clockwork. 

The night after he was caught, Morgaine escaped the dungeons. He never tried to claim he had not used magyk; he banished himself from Caervyon, knowing I would refuse to help him stay. Unfortunately, he only grew more powerful out on his own where he was able to practice his magyk freely. When he never appeared during the next cycle of the story, I realized something important I had missed. Morgaine had never been reset like the others. Just like me and Kyarrah, he remembered. Which meant he may have surpassed me in ways I could never imagine.

Those he sent after Artwyn became more powerful and I found myself struggling to keep my magyk hidden. Artwyn found out a few times during different cycles, however, he always forgot by the next one. 

Until the last cycle, in which Morgaine and I became the sole survivors of our world. In which I found that Morgaine had not meant to break the King, nor Artwyn, but me. 

 -

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#lockejhaven #morgaine #king arthur #fairytale retelling #merlin #wip: fable #fables and feathers

[witch-and-her-witcher]

not another teen fic, part one

“Here we are, Aretuza Academy.”

Ciri brushes her ashen blond fringe from her eyes. Taking in the massive, brick campus sprawling in the middle of Oxenfurt in front of her, her heart catches in her throat. The wrought iron gates at the entrance seem to be the harbingers of her new life as a regular high school student and all that implies to a teenager.

She turns back to her parents. They’ve just accepted research positions at the University of Oxenfurt, finally hitting big with the work they’ve been toiling away in Ofier the last decade to accomplish.

Yennefer, regal even when she was constantly sweat drenched and donning a boonie hat, looks perfectly in her element within a city with her designer scarf stylishly poking out of her black peacoat and thigh-high black leather boots elongating her frame.

Always her mother’s perfect opposite, Ciri’s dad, Geralt, hasn’t changed from his edgy, casual professor attire he maintains in any temperature. Shoulder length white hair pulled half up, wire rimmed glasses endearingly slightly crooked, unbuttoned top layer of a flannel rolled up to his elbows to reveal the large, snarling wolf’s head tattoo on one forearm and a beautiful raven holding a purple lilac in its beak on the other.

“Try not to reveal right away just how well you’ve been educated by your parents up ‘til now, hm?” Yennefer says with a wink, taking her daughter’s hands in her own and giving a gentle squeeze. More nervous for the separation than Ciri herself.

Geralt doesn’t hesitate to pull her into a bear hug. “Don’t listen to your mother. Blow them away, kid.”

“Ugh, Dad! Someone will see,” Ciri says, feigning embarrassment and pushing away to restraighten her uniform.

There is a steady stream of similarly uniformed students milling in the front courtyard of the school and entering through the gates. Ciri can feel the prickle of their curious gazes. Drink it up, she can’t help but think in challenge. Neither parent has raised her to back down from a new experience, no matter how active the butterflies in her stomach.

“So dashing,” Yennefer comments. They were both supportive of Ciri opting for the trouser uniform bottom instead of the strongly suggested skirt for female students.

Geralt’s gaze narrows on a few of the groups of students. “Are these kids really highschoolers? They look like grown adults.”

“Oh, hush, it’s just selective breeding and mummy and daddy’s lush bank accounts giving them the appearance of maturity." Yennefer hooks her arm in Geralt’s before he’s tempted to question a few of the closer, unsuspecting youths. “We should be off to our first day as well, dear.”

Ciri grins. “Don’t let the big kids pick on you!”

“Don’t do drugs,” Geralt calls back as her mother drags him away. Yennefer knows she must rip the band aid.

Smiling after her doting parents, Ciri takes a moment to breathe deeply, before placing her hands securely on either strap of her backpack and turning to face the gates again. Taking her first steps into Aretuza Academy, Ciri reminds herself she’s a nobody transfer student and not everything is as dramatic as a teen movie.

And then the most beautiful, well sculpted teenager she’s ever laid eyes upon steps into her path. Jet black hair tucked behind a pointed ear, sharp green eyes looking her up and down in cool assessment, and perfectly white, straight teeth shining in a half smile (maybe a snarl?).

“You must be the new girl we’ve heard so much about.”

-----

this is all @something-more‘s fault XD

#not another teen fic but actually it is #self indulgent mini series #witcher fan fic #high school AU #ciri #geralt #yennefer #my writing

[chaptersinprogress]

explore | @ciriweek 2022 | ciri & dandelion | mentioned character death

Kelpie snorted and stomped as the horse and her rider landed in Oxenfurt, having jumped through space and time itself.

"This should be our world," said Ciri as she looked around. "Certainly feels like it."

They'd arrived in a shadowy alleyway, a short distance away from the famed Academy. Twilight had fallen, and the noise of students carousing at the bars and taverns nearby mutely filled the air.

"Come on, let's go," she told Kelpie, then set them off in a brisk trot towards the faculty housing.

"Excuse me, is Professor Pancratts in?" she asked the young guard falling asleep at the entrance.

The—boy, really—leapt to attention. "W—who?" he stammered. "Who's asking?"

Then he caught sight of the fearsome scar on her face, her ghostly pale features, the twin swords on her back and the black horse she rode on, then blanched sheet white.

Ciri was fully prepared to leap down from her horse in case he fainted to catch him. It was not the first time she'd had to execute such a maneuver.

"Professor Pan-cr-atts," she enunciated slowly. "Ciri's asking."

"Y—yes, sir! I mean m—ma'am!" he squeaked. "Please wait a moment!"

And so Ciri waited while the guard hastily confirmed that yes, Professor Pankratz was indeed in, and a 'Ciri' was listed in the book of approved visitors.

"Shall I take your horse to the faculty stables, sir? I mean, ma'am!" the guard rushed out.

"Yes, you may," she told the boy, and swung down. She handed him the reins and a silver. "Make sure to take good care of my horse."

"Yes, sir! Ma'am!"

Ciri sighed and waved him off, and the guard scampered away in relief.

Cracking her back, she stretched, shook out her muscles, sighed again, then headed off to Dandelion's quarters.

Once she arrived, she knocked smartly on the door twice.

"No more consultations, you numpties!" came Dandelion's shrill voice. "Stop bothering me! If you fail, you fail! Good fucking night!"

Ciri snorted, then cleared her throat.

"What if it's me dropping by for tea instead, Dandelion?" she called through the wood. "You wouldn't leave Geralt's only daughter alone out in the freezing cold, would you?"

She heard the patter of slippers and then the door swung open to reveal Dandelion.

"It's the height of summer, you scamp," he deadpanned.

The two of them stared at each other for a moment, then burst into laughter.

"Come here, you rotten child," Dandelion said with a smile. "Give this old bard a hug, huh?"

Ciri grinned at him and stepped inside to engulf him in a painfully tight bear hug, lifting Dandelion right off his feet as he sputtered and squeaked.

"I miiiissed youuu~" she sing-songed, then finally placed him back down on his feet.

Dandelion harrumphed and straightened out his nightclothes.

"Rotten child, I tell you," he said, wagging a finger. "Off! Off with you! Make the tea!"

"Yes, sir!" Ciri tossed him a jaunty salute and then bustled off to prepare the pot.

"Here you go," she said, carefully handing him the cup.

"Many thanks," said Dandelion, then peered up at her. "Have you, perchance, grown taller?" he asked suspiciously.

"I don't think so," Ciri replied, bemused. "I think you grew shorter though, Dandelion."

"Pah, pah," the troubadour-turned-professor spat and shook a finger at her. "I may be old but I'm not that old!"

Ciri hid a laugh and nodded seriously.

"Bring that chair here," Dandelion ordered. "Sit by me, tell me what all trouble you've gotten up to this last year. Knowing you it must've been loads of it."

"Guilty," said Ciri with an unrepentant cheeky grin, and began to tell him all about her adventures and misadventures over the past year and a half.

The two of them talked long into the night, catching up on all the interesting things that had happened. Soon enough, Dandelion was yawning frequently and his eyes drooping shut.

He kept waving away her insistence that he go to sleep in his bed comfortably, determined to spend as much of the one night she would be in this sphere with her. And so Ciri kept talking to him until he gently drifted off to sleep.

When she was certain he was deep in slumber, she put away the pot and cups, rinsing everything out and returning them to where they belonged.

After, she wandered over to the bedroom to fluff up the pillows the way Dandelion liked them and pull back the blankets. She then made her way back to the sitting room, and with all the care she had, gently picked up Dandelion in a child's carry.

The professor felt incredibly light and fragile in her arms, and she made sure to navigate the path back to the bedroom slowly and very carefully.

Ciri gently laid the poet down on the bed and pulled the blankets back over to tuck him in. She felt a sudden pang of dread that she might look away and never see him again.

He was just so old and breakable.

And so she stood over him for a long while, watching over him as his chest rose and fell with steady breaths, fighting down the flood of emotions threatening to drown her.

As the light of dawn began to creep over the sky, Ciri finally moved from her place of vigil to smooth down the blankets and press a light kiss to his forehead.

Then she slipped out of his rooms as silent as a ghost.

Two weeks later, Professor Julian Alfred Pankratz passed away in his sleep peacefully.

Ciri would only find out a year later.

#chaptersinprogress #ciri week 2022 #the witcher books #cirilla fiona elen riannon #the witcher ciri #dandelion #ciri & dandelion #cirilla #fanfic #fanfiction #of emerald eyes and flaxen hair #I had much fun writing this fic!

[fortheloveofdeaddove]

Making Room

Warnings: See Making Room master post for warnings.

Summary: Part One: Christmas Day

Chapter 16

Ciri was awoken by the sound of her door creaking open. Disoriented for just a moment, she lifted her head and saw Julian tiptoeing into her room. 

“Merry Christmas, sis!” he whispered.

Ciri gasped and remembered, scrambling to sit up.

“Whoa! Whoa! Slow down! You’re gonna mess up your canopy. We can’t go downstairs until we’re all ready, remember?”

That was right. Her daddy had given them strict instructions not to come down until they had showered, brushed their teeth and hair, and put on their special Christmas morning clothes.

Normally she and her brother might have some fun in the shower, but this morning they hopped in together and raced to finish without any fooling around. 

For Julian’s outfit, he had candy cane knee-high socks, some pretty red lace underwear, and a matching choker with a shiny, golden Christmas bell on it. He was still wearing gauze over his piercings, so his top was nothing but a red, stretchy band of fabric that went around his chest, but didn’t put too much pressure on him. Kind of like a super-tiny tube top, she’d thought. Ciri liked his outfit a lot. Sometimes she wondered if Julian was actually prettier than her. If daddy thought he was prettier than her. Ciri kind of thought so.

Ciri’s outfit was exciting, too. Her daddy had gotten her another thong. She felt so grown up wearing it, and she hadn’t been permitted to wear another one since her trip to Santa Catalina. Her outfit was green, which had upset her at first (red was sexier ) but when Julian pointed out that it made them a matching Christmas set, she came around to it. Besides, a thong . 

She also had a choker and bell just like Julian’s, but in green, and green-and-white stockings and a tiny, sheer bikini top to match. 

The last couple of days had been rough, but her daddy had promised her that today they were putting her punishment and the incident behind them for now, and they were going to focus on Christmas. She was feeling 100% better, aching to have her daddy’s cock inside her since he’d deprived her of all touch as a part of that punishment. That, and Triss had been around the whole time for some reason, so there hadn’t been a chance even if she wasn’t being punished. 

Most especially she was ready for Christmas. Apparently it lasted a whole week around here.

Julian put some tinted lip balm on her and smiled before kissing her forehead. They giggled and raced downstairs.

They followed the smell of food, but went straight past the kitchen and into the living room where, overnight, a tree and all sorts of wonderful Christmas decorations had gone up. Ciri couldn’t help but admire them - yesterday the place had been completely normal, and today it was as if a Christmas bomb had gone off. Every available surface and wallspace had a bright decoration in red or green or gold or silver or blue. Aside from the food, Ciri could smell that wonderful smell of Christmas, of cinnamon and oranges and - 

“Oh my gods, Triss!!” Ciri shrieked, dashing back to the hallway and covering herself, her heart beating a thousand miles a minute.

“ Shit , forgot to tell her. Keep working. Ciri? Honey? I’m sorry you got spooked. You don’t have to hide around Triss.”

Her daddy appeared in the hallway, a sorry look on his face. “She’s safe, honey. Come on.”

He held out his hand, and she looked at him like he was nuts. 

Her daddy sighed. “She’s just like Uncle Lambert, or Papa Ves. You haven’t seen her around much like that because I’m trying not to throw everyone at you at once, remember? But I needed the help the last couple days getting ready and getting the decorations up, and she was kind enough to volunteer. I did say you’d be spending this kind of special time with quite a few new people this Christmas, remember?”

 “Yeah but… how big is our family?”

Geralt chuckled, still waiting for her to take his hand. Julian popped his head around the corner.

“Remember, Ciri? Casual nudists anyway? Triss has always been a part of that.”

Ciri blinked. 

Was she doing that weird emotional thing, again ? 

“I… uh… I’m sorry, daddy,” she quickly apologized and took his hand. “I didn’t mean to ruin Christm-,”

“None of that, nothing is ruined,” he smiled gently at her.

Then she took in her father’s appearance.

All six feet of him was dressed head-to-toe in a Santa costume, minus the beard. She snorted and covered her mouth, but she couldn’t stop the laughter that burst forth.

“Merry Christmas, you little brat. Come see your stocking… FULL OF COAL!” Geralt roared and snatched her up over his shoulder and carried her into the living room. Julian was waiting impatiently for them by the pile of presents by the tree. Triss was busy sorting out boxes of outdoor decorations.

“You’re not Santa! You’re Krampus!”Ciri squealed as Geralt spun in a circle.

“I don’t know what that is, but sure! I’M KAMPUS!”

“Put my sister down or I’ll sic the Yule Cat on you, dad!”

Her daddy sighed, defeated, and slowed to a stop. “Very well. I have no idea what you kids are on about but you’ve convinced me.”

___

Geralt pretended like he was going to drop Ciri but caught her instead, delighting in her fearful whoop that dissolved into giggles before setting her down on the carpet by the tree. Julian hmphed haughtily and booped his daddy’s nose in reprimand, before sitting down next to his sister and holding her hand possessively. If his son could have cuddled her into his lap without hurting his chest, he probably would have. What an insistent little white knight, Geralt mused.

“Good morning kids, and Merry Christmas! I’m sorry I startled you, Ciri. You both look stunning in your Christmas outfits.”

Ciri smiled shyly at Triss. “No, it’s my fault. I’m still getting used to all this. I’m so glad you’re here with us for Christmas. Thank you for all your help.”

Triss just smiled sweetly at her and went back to sorting decorations.

Triss had been involved in family get-togethers for all Julian’s life so, ostensibly, Julian knew his daddy fucked Triss. Everyone fucked Triss, that’s what she was for . Julian just really didn’t like it when Geralt went off and fucked anyone without him privately. And, of course, Ciri didn’t know yet. However, Geralt had needs, and difficult as it had been to find moments of privacy, he’d certainly made good use of Triss since she’d arrived.

It was only day one of Christmas Week and he was already ready for all the hassle to be over. Alas, that was one of the tragedies of adulthood.

The last couple of days went as well as could be expected though, what with trying to make all the last minute arrangements for Christmas. Thankfully presents and clothes and catering had been arranged well beforehand. That usually left the more domestic things for the last minute, such as decorating the house. There was Uncle Regis’ arrival, and furnishing the room in The Basement. He’d made sure the guest house was aired out and ready for Coen. Triss had helped manage the kids while he needed to be away, and took care of wrapping all the presents he’d been stashing over the last few months.

In addition to hosting Christmas Week as usual, there was Ciri’s progress to keep in mind. This was the week he’d been working towards this whole time. She wasn’t quite where he’d thought she’d be at this point, but he wasn’t at all disappointed in where she was at, either. In his mind’s eye that day he’d received the phone call, he’d imagined she’d at least had sex with Vesemir by now. But who knew how the week would unfold? Then there was the New Year’s orgy, or gala (as Eskel and his father insisted on calling it) at the end of the week. He was really looking forward to that. He wanted Ciri in pearls that night.

He had to suppress a shudder.

He drew himself back to the present. Speaking of present…

“Julian, number one, that’s a holly leaf and berry, not mistletoe, so put that down and get your tongue out of your sister’s mouth. Number two, both of you sit on the couch and wait for me to bring you both a plate and you can eat your Christmas breakfast there.”

“But daaaaad-,”

“Do we have to do breakfast first, daddy?”

“No buts, and yes. We have a big day planned and I’d like to have some special time as a family after presents, and not have to worry about breakfast,” he explained as he dished them up both plates of sausages, scrambled eggs, orange slices, and mini pancakes.

They dashed to the couch and silenced their complaints after that, and Ciri especially was determined to eat quickly. When they finished, they took their plates to the kitchen and rinsed them. Before they could dash to the presents, Geralt insisted they stand for pictures.

“You’re going to be all mussed after I’m done with you,” he explained as he adjusted some settings on the digital camera, “so we better make these memories now. Your grandfather will lecture me until my head falls off if I don’t. Triss, could you please?” He handed her the camera. 

Normally they’d be happy to put on a photoshoot, but with the siren’s call of presents and special time with daddy, the kids merely tolerated standing for a few regular poses with just the two of them. Then Ciri blushed (and Julian grinned) as Geralt pulled his cock out and began to stroke himself to hardness. Ciri’s eyes darted back and forth between Triss and Geralt several times, but this time refrained from even saying anything. 

Good, very good.

“Can I, daddy?” Julian asked, eagerly.

“Sure, baby.”

Geralt then joined his children in front of the tree and presents, and Julian fell to his knees to suck his daddy’s cock. 

Santa Geralt encouraged Ciri to look at the camera and smile.

“Say Merry Christmas !” Triss trilled.

“Merry Christmas!”

“M-merry Christmas!”

“Mmmff!”

Geralt didn’t let Julian do that for long before he had him stand back up. He tucked Ciri under his right arm and Julian under his left, giving them a quick squeeze and a grin before looking at the camera. 

“Alright, say Santa is the best!” Triss cheered.

The final picture was of Ciri and Julian in their skimpy Christmas day outfits on either side of Santa Geralt, who stood proudly with his hard, spit-slicked cock out. After, their daddy tucked himself back in his pants and had the kids sit back down on the couch so he could pass out presents.

___

When presents were done, Julian was excited for family time, but Ciri was hesitating again because Triss was there. She was just cleaning up the wrapping paper - she wasn’t even watching them - but ever since daddy had sat down between them on the couch and pulled his cock back out, Julian could tell she was really nervous. 

He’d noticed Ciri admiring Triss on their trip to Disneyland. Probably just her body, as the lady didn’t have very many brain cells in her pretty head, even Julian knew that. Even if his sister was unsure around her, she was probably still really curious about her body. As long as she didn’t feel insecure, maybe…

When Triss left to go clean up the breakfast mess in the kitchen, he decided to go for it.

“Daddy?” He interrupted the man from leaving an impressive love mark on his neck. Ciri was laying on her belly, working their dad’s cock with her mouth as Geralt played with her ass. It wasn’t with her usual enthusiasm.

“Yes, baby?” Geralt panted, distracted.

Julian wanted to roll his eyes. Trust daddy not to care as long as he was getting his dick sucked.

“Would it be okay if I used Triss’ chest? My nipples hurts sitting like this, and I think I’ll feel better if I just hump something.”

“Am I squeezing you too hard?”

“A little,” Julian lied. He wasn’t, not in the slightest, and he winked at his dad while Ciri had her head down.

Geralt tilted his head curiously, then grinned. “I’m sorry, Jules. Of course, if Triss wants to join us.”

Julian almost snorted. Triss had already started stripping in the kitchen and was coming around the half-wall that separated it and the living room.

___

While Ciri still wasn’t looking, Geralt motioned with a nod for Triss to lay down on the carpet parallel before the couch. Julian peeled off his panties then climbed on top of her to straddle her ribs, and  Geralt was pleased he’d kept his candy cane stockings on. It made a deliciously obscene picture. She pressed her tits together for the boy so Julian had a channel to fuck. Geralt tossed his son some lube.

“Here, Ciri, that’s enough of that. You’ll make me come too quick, sweetie, and I want to make you feel good, too,” he lied. He really just wanted her to watch.

He had her lay on her side across the length of the couch facing Julian and Triss. He got on his knees on the carpet in front of her and bent over first to kiss the distracted look off her face. With one hand he groped her still barely covered breast, flicking and pinching her nipple beneath the flimsy green material while he licked into her mouth. He slid his other hand from where he was cupping her chin, down to the back of her neck to gently, briefly, fist his hand in the back of her hair. Her breath faltered just for a moment, almost a gasp. Then he released her locks and slid his hand further down along her spine until it rested over the small of her back, his thumb gently caressing the fabric of her thong.

He slowly pulled back from the kiss. She was pleasantly flushed, and he felt her chest rise and fall rapidly as he continued to massage the budding swell of flesh on her prepubescent breasts.

“Do you like daddy’s presents, baby?”

“Yes, daddy.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

“That makes Santa very happy. Be a good girl for daddy and watch Jules and Triss while I make you feel good, okay?”

The crease in her forehead didn’t go away, but she nodded obediently.

Geralt stood and at last rid himself of the ridiculous Santa costume. Finally naked, he sank again to his knees before his baby girl. He had kisses for her again, but not for her mouth. He lifted her thigh, admiring the green and white striped stocking against her creamy skin for a too-brief second before he moved the thong aside with his thumb. The wetness already there made his cock jump, her hairless little pussy spread and ready for him to devour. He descended on her greedily, eyes rolling to the back of his head when he heard her sweet, breathy little cry. He was heavy handed, or tongued, as it were, and he lapped at her from clit to hole and back, flattening the top of his tongue on the way down, and using the softer bottom of his tongue on the way up. Again and again and again and faster and faster until her thigh was trembling and his baby girl was panting and clutching at the couch.

He pulled back, licking her slick from her lips and chin, unwilling to give her an orgasm just yet. 

Then, Geralt gently encouraged Ciri off the couch and down onto the floor on all floors, perpendicular to where Triss and Julian were. 

“That’s it, baby girl. Daddy wants you to watch your brother come all over Triss’ tits while I fuck you from behind. You’re gonna be a good girl and do exactly what daddy says, and I promise it will feel really good.”

She looked back over his shoulder, her cheeks stained red. She looked embarrassed, but eager to please him, and she nodded.

He slicked up two fingers with lube and took the time to stretch her. There was no point working her right back to the state she’d been in two days ago. Her walls almost grabbed at his fingers to pull them in, and gods she was tight again. Like, first-week-of-fucking tight.

“Oh Ciri, you’re even prettier than everyone said,” Triss cooed from just about a foot away where Julian was fucking her tits with suspicious leisure. Geralt wasn’t exactly sure what the boy was aiming for, but by now he’d learned to trust Julian’s instincts.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look so cute while Geralt fingered them,” the red head pouted playfully.

“Ah ha ha…” Ciri panted and tried to laugh shyly at the compliment at the same time. Geralt added another finger. “Ah! That’s…”

“Oh, you sound so lovely , sweetheart, I just knew you’d be perfect for your daddy and brother.”

Geralt sucked on two fingers of his other hand, coating them in spit before he reached under Ciri to massage her little clit. He groaned brokenly as she tightened and clenched around his fingers even further.

“Isn’t she though?” Julian agreed.

“Oh absolutely,” Triss replied. “Now that Geralt has you both, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so happy.”

Geralt noticed that Ciri’s gaze was locked on the mesmerizing bounce of the red headed woman’s breasts. Julian’s cocklet had disappeared underneath them, but the motion of his son’s hips as he humped her wearing those stockings was… fuck he needed to stick his cock in something.

“Ciri, baby, Triss sure is saying some very nice things about you, isn’t she?”

“Haa ah ah y-yes daddy-,”

“It’s polite to thank someone for complimenting you.”

“Thank-,”

“No, no, baby,” Geralt sped up his focus on her clit and thrust faster and harder into her soft, wet cunt with his fingers, “I think Triss would really like it if you thanked her by showing her how well Julian taught you how to kiss.”

“You’re such a pretty little girl Ciri. I’d love to kiss you. Are you going to come right now? That adorable little face you’re making-,”

“AAAAAH!” Ciri cried out and her walls clenched uncontrollably around his fingers, a rush of slick adding to the lube and mess. Her arms gave out as her orgasm crashed over her. 

“Heavens Geralt, she’s even perfect when she comes,” Triss sighed.

Geralt couldn’t help his smug grin as he reluctantly pulled his messy fingers from her velvety soft channel.

“Yes, she is,” he agreed.

He gave her about half a minute to gather her wits, and he was impressed when she rose back up on her hands before he had to prompt her. She sniffled cutely, tucked her hair behind one ear, and crawled over to Triss.

Fuck. He needed to dedicate some film time just to her crawling away from him in a thong, apparently. A messy, soaked thong.

Geralt couldn’t see much of the kiss from his point of view, but he didn’t need to. His brain knew what she was doing, and that was enough for his cock. He crawled forward to crowd in behind her, sharing a fond, hungry grin with his son. He reached over and kissed the boy soundly. 

He pulled back and Julian lowered his eyes, batted his lashes, and asked quietly, “Have I been a good boy this year, daddy?” 

“The very fucking best, Julian. Better than I deserve. And I’m going to make sure you get everything you deserve, sweet boy.”

Julian’s smile was damn near smug as his own.

Geralt reached for the lube and slicked himself up, mindful not to be a brute about it. Ciri had a task to do right now - one which she had really taken to with enthusiasm it seemed. Ciri’s hand had sneakily made its way up to gently cup Triss’s breast. If he jerked her all over the place with his thrusts, there was no way she could do a good job at her task of thanking the woman. 

He placed the head of his cock at her wet entrance and slowly pressed in. Ciri sighed loudly, and (probably) unconsciously squeezed Triss’ breast. Julian’s hand quickly joined hers, dragging it up from the side to rest atop, over Triss’ nipple, where their fingers interlocked and he encouraged her to massage.

Geralt continued to press in with agonizing slowness, and it was probably for the better. Her little cunt was so fucking tight, despite his prep. 

He wasn’t really able to bottom out without some real force, so he settled for a nice, slow fuck and allowed the ambience to take him. The sound of the delicate chime from the bells on his children’s chokers and the slide of lube-slicked skin against lube-slicked skin lulled him into an almost-trance. The wet noise of kissing coming from Triss and Ciri, and Julian’s sweet little sighs, were something he could listen to all day. The indecent noise of his cock slipping into his little girl’s tight cunt again and again - Geralt couldn’t have asked for a better way to spend Christmas morning.

At some point, he draped himself over his daughter and reached around to grope at her tits, kissing her neck, her ear, her temple, her cheek. No one spoke, allowing the gasps and whimpers and moans to communicate for them. 

There was a turning point for Geralt, and suddenly he felt mindless, and he was on all fours over Ciri thrusting into her for four, five, six hard thrusts, and then he was flying for a while.

When he blinked back to awareness, he’d collapsed to the side with Ciri still cradled to his chest, still inside her, though she and Triss were sharing desperate kisses - on the mouth, on each other’s cheeks and eyelids. Geralt chuckled quietly, but not unkindly. This was good. Better than expected. He looked up to assess Julian’s state.

The boy was in a daze, grinning like an idiot atop Triss, swaying slightly. There was cum all over her chest and Julian’s crotch was a very nice mess indeed.

After a moment, he pulled out of Ciri and sighed. “Alright. We have a whole day ahead of us. No time to waste. Julian, head to the shower. I’m right behind you.”

Julian, thankfully, obeyed without backtalk. Once Geralt had heard the tell tale footsteps going up the stairs, he sat up, but shook his head at Ciri who tried to do the same.

“I want you to stay here with Triss and let her clean you up. Then you two can shower together, and she can help you get dressed for the day. The two of you can meet me and Julian out front, coats on ,” he said firmly, “to help Uncle Coen and Uncle Regis get their bags unloaded when they arrive. Do you understand?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Triss, use your mouth to clean Ciri up and make her come again, then both of you take a quick shower. Meet me out front by 10:15.”

“Oh, but daddy, she doesn’t have to-,”

“Honey,” Geralt frowned, “it’s Christmas. This is part of our tradition. I do my best to make sure I give you kids as much fun as possible. I know it’s new to you, it may seem a little weird, but… Imagine if I gave you less presents than Julian. Imagine how I would feel if, even though I tried to give you the same amount of presents, you wouldn’t take them?”

Ciri looked shocked. Then she hung her head. “I’m sorry, daddy.”

“Now, now, don’t do that. It’s okay,” he reassured her. “This is your first Christmas. What did we say about firsts?”

“That I can’t know everything?”

“Right. So we have to learn. And you’re doing an amazing job.”

Ciri smiled.

“So will you let Triss give you my next present?”

“Yes, daddy. Thank you.”

“That’s my girl.”

___

There had only been measurable snowfall in the state of Washington on Christmas nine times in the past 127 years, but the light dusting across the ground and the gentle flakes dancing around in the mid-morning sky were certainly charming, even Geralt had to admit. Ciri and Julian twirled and tried to catch snowflakes on their tongues and attempted a couple snow angels. Triss was single-mindedly focused on arranging snowman statuettes on the stairs leading up to the front entrance. She’d already mounted the decorative wreath on the door, keeping busy as he’d requested.

Coen arrived first. Julian was glued to his side the moment he stepped out of his van, nearly vibrating with excitement, tugging at his arm and pulling him around to the back of the vehicle in a rush to get to meet Toby. Ciri had gravitated to Geralt’s side, clingling with one hand to the back of his coat and partially standing behind her father, peering at her most mysterious uncle yet. 

“I know you’re excited to meet Toby, Julian, but we have one other introduction to take care of first,” Geralt reminded him fondly.

Coen ruffled Julian’s hair with a grin and stepped forward to meet his niece. 

“Hello, Ciri. My name is Coen. It’s really nice to finally meet you.”

Geralt gently encouraged Ciri forward. She was looking Coen up and down rather shrewdly, and her assessment seemed to settle on pleased . Her inability to school her expression was so  amusing - like having the cheat codes to his favorite video game. She just made it too easy. It was obvious when she looked at Uncle Coen, his daughter liked what she saw. 

He couldn’t blame her.

“Nice to meet you, too, Uncle Coen. Do we get to meet your dog?”

Coen looked at Geralt in faux outrage. “Why did I even come this year? I should have just sent Toby. Who even needs me?”

“Aaaaaw Uncle Coen -,” Julian said.

“You big baby, you’re the one who brought him,” Geralt teased.

“Oh!” Ciri squeaked. “That was rude, I didn’t- I’m sorry-,”

“Don’t sis, he’s just screwing with you! Uncle Coen, stop being a toad! Let us meet Toby or go home!” Julian demanded.

Coen threw his head back and laughed, and Geralt smiled and shook his head.

“Alright, alright,” he relented, digging for his keys. “When I let him out, the rules are no screaming or jumping or being too hyper, okay? We all stay nice and calm while he gets used to new people and new places.”

The kids nodded. Another car was coming up the drive - Uncle Regis.

“Uncle Regis is pulling up. Let me handle getting the luggage sorted, you just get the kids and Uncle Regis inside and Triss will get some coffee and lunch going. I don’t want him out here trying to haul shit around.”

“You got it, pretty boy.”

Ciri giggled. Geralt scowled and rolled his eyes. He ambled towards the approaching vehicle as Coen released the hound.

___

“So, Miss Cirilla, tell me how you’re progressing with Lara Dorren?”

Ciri blinked as she set her spoon down in her piping hot tomato soup, and looked curiously at the elderly gentleman sitting across the dining room table from her. He was smiling kindly at her. She glanced briefly again at her daddy who was sitting next to her. He put his hand on her thigh and squeezed it reassuringly. 

“Um, we’re doing well. She’s perfect, of course. I’ve never ridden a horse like her,” she chuckled nervously. Uncle Regis reminded her a bit of some of her grandmother’s old friends, or acquaintances, as the woman herself would have said. Though Uncle Regis seemed a great deal friendlier. He was still stately and refined, though, and Ciri couldn’t help but remember that old feeling of wanting to perform well for her professors in order to get her grandparents’ approval, and the approval of the people who moved around them. Back then, it seemed like there was someone who she was supposed to become, and that it was possible she could fail. If she didn’t impress the right people, her grandparents wouldn’t support her someday, for something. She’d never been quite sure, it was all more just feelings and impressions.

She didn’t know why she had a similar feeling with Uncle Regis, because he seemed awfully nice.

“I find that hard to believe but also entirely believable at the same time. I know Moussack saw to it that you kept up your equestrian training, which would have afforded you access to many fine horses, yet being Calanthe’s granddaughter, she would have done her best to avoid investing in it to the point of inconveniencing herself.”

“Er, Uncle Regis…” Her daddy interrupted.

“Oh, dear. You’re quite right, nephew. Forgive me, Cirilla. I do not mean to speak ill of your grandmother.”

“You didn’t. All you said is that she didn’t want to keep horses, just in a fancier way, and that was true. She didn’t.”

Uncle Regis smiled at her, and Ciri felt a thrill run through at the look of sheer approval. 

“You are obviously very wise, and I would expect nothing less of Pavetta’s daughter. With Moussack always going on the way he did, I couldn’t help but suspect him of exaggerating your good qualities from time to time, but I do believe now that he was being entirely honest.”

Ciri looked down at the table and tried not to smile. “Well, Moussack is like family. He has to say nice things.”

Uncle Regis chuckled fondly. “Ah, but you see, for Moussack to consider you family, and he does, then you must be a very special person indeed. For Moussack is actually a very grumpy individual and does not make friends easily-,”

There was an echo of agreement from her daddy and Uncle Coen.

“-yet speaking highly of you is one of his favorite pastimes, it seems. He dearly wished and tried heartily to arrange to be here for this Christmas, but he is still tied up with your grandparents estate. He hopes to be able to visit in the spring, however.”

Ciri felt a bubble of hope and longing well up inside her, but it was quickly followed by a nervousness she immediately tried to squash. Surely her family had a plan for when outsiders came to visit. She’d be able to see Moussack without him finding anything out, right? She couldn’t bear the idea of never being able to see her old friend again. She’d always just assumed it was only a matter of time before she did see him again. He’d told her before Geralt had come to collect her that he’d be busy sorting out the estate for many months to come, but that he would eventually come see her, and to be patient.

Her daddy squeezed her thigh again, looking at her with a question on his face. She smiled at him and shook her head. She would ask him later.

___

Ciri and Julian had bundled up and taken Toby to the backyard to play fetch when daddy, Coen, and Uncle Regis had pulled out a boring old photobook. 

Things between them had been better since the day after The Incident, as they were calling it.

Julian had been entirely out of the loop until Geralt had taken him aside the next morning to give him a brief rundown. His daddy had said that Aiden had taken advantage of Ciri while Uncle Lambert’s back was turned, but Julian wasn’t stupid . 

Uncle Lambert’s back had been turned alright. Probably turned so that his stupid face was looking at a monitor while Aiden had sex with Ciri. Gee, he wondered whose idea that had been.

Maybe he’d still been stupid before Yennefer. He was still trying to get the hang of this with Ciri, so it’s not like he was super smart about it, yet . He knew he was still a kid. But this was Ciri . That wouldn’t have happened to her unless daddy let it happen to her. Daddy probably was watching, too.

If daddy thought that was best, well, then that was what was best. Julian just had to figure out what his role was. Ever since Ciri had run off to the woods all those weeks ago, her older brother was determined to be one step ahead of the situation like his daddy always seemed to be. He didn’t like feeling like he didn’t know what to do. The grown ups always made everything okay, no matter what. So if he just did the right thing, too, it would help keep Ciri here, and happy, and close to him.

Did he really care that he hadn’t gotten to be the next one to fuck his sister? Not really. No one else got to be her brother. No one ever would. He’d always assumed Papa Ves would be next. And knowing how this happened, he didn’t exactly feel jealous. He was more pissed, and just wanted to help Ciri get past it. Sometimes the things the grown ups wanted weren’t exactly convenient for the kids. He hadn’t minded it before when it was just him, but he really didn’t like seeing Ciri cry.

“Um, I… before everyone comes over tonight. I… it’s stupid, sorry. I don’t mean to bring it up again. I just wanted to tell you… I was wrong,” Ciri muttered as she threw the ball out for Toby and watched the giant, slobbering floof-beast tear off after it again.

“About what?” Julian asked.

“About Aiden. I… don’t want see him right now, but I know I have to. I want to be good and get along with everyone. I don’t want to ruin Christmas. But I want you to know… even if I’m being friendly… I’m still mad at him.”

Julian nodded, and he looked at the snow-covered ground 

“I’m mad at him, too. I got your back tonight, sis. And forget about what happened. Our first time is gonna be amazing. That prick didn’t even make you come, and I’m going to hold that over his head for the rest of his life ,” Julian spat.

Ciri looked at Julian with wide eyes, apparently not expecting her brother to be angry on her behalf. “I… I don’t want to make anyone fight.”

“Don’t worry, sis. I know how to deal with Aiden without fighting with him or getting in trouble. You know how daddy punishes us? How its… kinda good and bad at the same time?”

Ciri nodded. Julian grinned.

“I can do that to Aiden, and I’m really good at it. And you and I are going to come up with a plan, and we’re going to punish Aiden. And he’s going to like it so much, he’s not going to complain. But make no mistake, it will definitely be a punishment.”

Ciri thought she liked the sound of that.

#House of Rivia #Making Room #The Witcher fic #dead dove do not eat #Geralt/Ciri #Geralt/Jaskier

[tibo30]

“Our little Witcher's grown into a young lady”

#she’s as tall as Anya now 😭 #our ciri is all grown up #i’m crying #i miss them all so much! #anya chalotra #freya allan #geralt x yennefer #yennefer of vengerberg #cirilla fiona elen riannon #ciri #the witcher

[angst-fairygodmother]

Could you maybe write soneting where the reader and Lambert are together at Kaer Morhen, they are together and the reader helps out Ciri a lot. But the reader is later wounded when the Voleth Meir posesses Ciri? 🌚✨🗡

A/N: I sort of skipped the first bit, because a little Lambert/Reader hurt/comfort felt right, here. I hope you enjoy! Word Count: 1783 Rating: T - canon typical language, canon typical violence, The Witcher season 2 spoilers, descriptions of pain/injuries, innuendo and implication

“Y/N, what are you doing?!” Lambert hissed, even that sound seeming to boom in the eerie empty halls of the witchers' keep.

He grabbed your wrist as you tried to push your way past him, refusing to simply sit in the room you shared and do nothing while he and his brothers risked their lives. The hold was gentle, easy enough to yank out of while you glared at the big redhead.

“Going to Ciri,” you snapped as if it were obvious (and it should have been). “She needs me, needs us.”

“Are you mad woman?! She would have slit all our throats as we slept if she hadn't been interrupted.”

“You said yourself that that thing isn't her. Except the part that is,” you sighed and ran your hands over your face. “We don't have time for this. You know how close she and I have become, closer than anyone else here. If Geralt can't get through to her, can't help her break whatever's doing this, maybe I can.”

“You could get hurt,” he said, voice plaintive and almost broken. “You could be killed.”

“So could you. Every time you go off to fight a monster, just like now. Have I ever tried to stop you?”

“Well no but...I'm a witcher. That's my job.”

You reached up to cup his bearded cheek in one hand, smiling fondly as he leaned into your palm. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, like he was memorizing your smell or looking for something in it before exhaling in a sigh.

“Please Lambert. I need you to trust me.”

“I do trust you, Y/N. It's her I don't. And me, if something ever happened to you.”

You stood on your tiptoes, the height difference still meaning you were barely eye to eye. You leaned in, feeling the way the coarse hairs scratched familiarly against your own face. His breath ghosted over you, a strange comforting feeling before your lips pressed together. Your hand slid back along his jaw, tangling into the long locks at his temple and his clung to your hips, holding you against him like his life, or yours, depended on it.

“I'll be okay,” you promised. “How can I not be, when I know you'll be watching my backside the whole time.” You winked, drawing out that deep, blessed laugh that you loved so much.

“Damn right,” he growled playfully. “And when this is over, I'll be dragging it back here and keeping it in bed with me for a week.”

“Only a week?”

“Oh it'll be longer if you let me.”

“Well then, I suppose we had better go find Ciri and settle this, yeah?”

He hesitated, reminded of the reality of the situation outside your teasing, of how momentarily terrifying the little girl had been when he caught a glimpse of her fleeing. You gave his hand a comforting squeeze and he nodded solemnly, words lost in his throat. And then you were gone, slipping through his grasp like smoke as you headed for the Great Hall and Ciri and he made for the armory and his brothers.

~

It was easy to lose track when your home, a place that should have been impenetrably safe, exploded into a battlefield. Even easier was losing hope as you watched a child you had come to care for slaughter the people you'd grown up beside, known all your life. Add being battered by a basilisk like a cat with a toy mouse, and no one could blame Lambert for not being at his best. Except Lambert.

Y/N approached Ciri, hands held out to her, inviting her to take them. She called Ciri's name, voice somehow carrying over the noise of the fight and the cyclone that was building up around the younger girl. Everything seemed to stop as the eerie, unnatural green eyes considered her. A chill certainty washed over him that the thing that had taken over the girl was wholly evil, and had fixed it's intent on his lover. He turned his sword away from the monsters and toward her, determined to reach her or die trying.

~

“Ciri,” you spoke softly, calling to the princess. “Sweetheart, can you hear me? Let me help you.”

“Help me?” The voice that wasn't hers echoed through the room and your mind followed by a cruel laugh that twisted your stomach. “How could you help me? I have more power than you could ever dream.”

“You're right. But that doesn't mean you can, or should, do everything alone. Ciri knows that, and even when she's stubborn, she relies on her friends, her family.”

“That's what made her weak.”

“No. We made each other strong.”

You took a step closer, unwavering despite the hatred you could feel rolling off the girl like a physical force.

“Ciri, I know you're in there. And whatever she's doing, it can't be good. But you have to fight. Be strong.”

Suddenly, the unnatural green eyes narrowed and something grabbed you by the throat, invisible claws digging into flesh as it squeezed.

“I am going to enjoy destroying you.” The voice reverberated. “Your pain will make so much more.”

Your feet lifted from the floor as you struggled helplessly. And then the room was rushing past faster than you could process, before you slammed into something solid and blackness overtook you, too quickly to feel any pain.

~

Someone was screaming...no roaring. Like a wounded bear. It didn't even register to the redheaded witcher that it was him as he launched into a second rage, on top of the one caused by the elixirs, and cut through Ciri's monsters like they were bags of straw.

He wanted to get to the girl, to make her suffer, no matter what affection he, or you, had felt for her before. But Geralt and Vesimir and more basilisks stood in his way. He felt trapped and helpless, feelings he hadn't since he was a boy, and his vision seemed to narrow.

No longer registering the dangers in the room, he ran to Y/N's side, cradling her limp body against his chest.

“Wake up, damn fool woman,” he growled, trying to bury pain in anger. “Why the fuck did you put yourself in danger like that?”

He was still holding his love close, shielding her with his body and listening carefully to her unsteady heart and labored breathing when Vesimir placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Take her to the infirmary, we cannot help her here,” his mentor said softly, tiredly.

“Can you help her at all?” He asked in return, not daring yet to move.

“I don't know.”

~

When you woke, you were staring up at a ceiling that told you nothing about where you were. Rough wool scratched at the underside of your arms where they rested beside you and there was a heavy weight pulling at one side of the material, stretching it tight across your lap.

You groaned weakly, body aching in so many ways that it was impossible to identify one or trace and pinpoint them. Suddenly the tension released, making the blanket snap back into a rumple that barely covered your legs.

“Y/N! You're awake!” Lambert shouted, shooting up into a seated position beside you, his volume making you wince as your head throbbed.

“Unfortunately,” you grumbled.

A split second later the air was knocked painfully out of your lungs as he crushed you into a hug. His face pressed into your neck and you were shocked to realize that it was damp. Grimacing, you did your best to return the hug, running a comforting hand across his shoulders.

“Dammit woman, you scared me,” he murmured, only audible because of his proximity to your ear.

Before you could answer and apologize, another voice cut through.

“Oi! Lambchop! Suffocating the girl isn't a good way to make her rest,” Coen teased as he approached.

Lambert leapt back from you, face as sheepish as a kid caught stealing cookies from the baking tray. You smiled softly at him before Coen's hand clapped down on his shoulder.

“I don't know what you've done to this off Y/N, but he hasn't left your side since the battle. How are you feeling?”

You felt your cheeks warm in a furious blush under the sudden, intent focus the two men turned on you.

“Honestly, awful,” you answered with a rueful chuckle that became a cough. “But I'm alive apparently, which is better than I thought the result would be, in the moment I had to think.”

Coen laughed, while Lambert scowled with worry.

“Well I'll let the others know, and leave you two lovebirds alone,” he paused, glancing around at what you assumed were other beds with injured witchers in them, and shrugged. “Alone-ish.”

He threw you a wink as he turned and strolled away again, and you tried to cover your heated face with your hands. A silence settled over you and Lambert as he seemed to study the threads of your blanket.

“Hey,” you said softly, reaching out to cradle his cheek in one hand, forcing yourself into a semi-seated position in the process. “Lambert, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” He frowned, even as he leaned into your touch.

“I should have listened to you. I didn’t stand a chance, and I…I hurt you by getting hurt.”

He laughed, the sound warming your heart even though it seemed out of place here and now.

“Only you,” he shook his head. “Would almost die and be worried about me.”

“Well…of course. I love you.”

“You what?”

Blood rushed in your ears and you felt dizzy. You couldn’t be sure whether it was the after-effects of your injury or the words that had slipped out of you so naturally. You closed your eyes to steady yourself.

“I love you Lambert.”

He brushed a soft kiss against your lips, the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile. He gently cradled your head in one of his hands, the other supporting his weight so that he didn’t hurt you. You looped your arms around his neck, trying to hold him close as he drew away with a groan.

“I love you too, you mad infuriating woman,” he said with a smirk. “And gods damn it all, if you weren’t still hurt, I’d show you just how much.”

You smiled back at him, teasingly. “I’m sure I can find a way to make it up to you later.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Y/N. But for now, rest.”

“Will you stay with me?” you meant it as a joke, but he nodded, gaze intense.

“I wouldn’t dream of going anywhere else.”

#The Witcher season 2 #The Witcher spoilers #Lambert x Reader #Lambert (The Witcher) #The Witcher fic #new character alert #but it's not post and run #although I am going to bed so I guess it is... #this was an excellent test-prompt #because it comes with a pre-set scenario and I just have to find voices not a plot

[pillage-and-lute]

Prompt: fake realtionahip/marriage, whoever you like!

Ooohoho! This has been chilling as a draft for ages, now I have completed it. *mildly evil laughter*

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The funny thing about Geralt, Jaskier thought as he did up the buttons on his best doublet, was that he really didn’t lie. He said things that weren’t true, but they were usually things he believed, or thought he believed because he was tired or grumpy. Sometimes he told half truths. He didn’t lie though.

It wasn’t even as if he didn’t have a poker face, Geralt’s face was all poker face, he just hated lying. Normally it wasn’t an issue, but tonight, Jaskier reflected, it wouldn’t be ideal.

Jaskier had heard through some whispered words at a pub that a bunch of Nilfgaardian nobles were having a gala, and the temptation of finding out what political secrets they could was two strong for their odd little family. So Geralt and Jaskier were going undercover.

There had been quite a bit of debate about that. Jaskier was obviously going. He’d grown his hair longer and had a bit of scruff going, and to be frank, all a bard really needed to disguise themselves was a new name, people saw the clothing and heard the music, but rarely remembered the face. Yennefer would have been the ideal partner in crime except for a crucial thing.

When Yennefer had been changed by magic, her eyes had been left the same. Somehow, the transformation had solidified them, and no spell would change them. Her eyes were too distinctive, and so she would stay behind with Ciri. That left Geralt, and since the ball was only for the nobility, he would be the fiance of Julian Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.

Damn.

See, Geralt didn’t lie, and that was bad enough. Jaskier wouldn’t be able to rely on Yennefer’s in-depth knowledge of the nobility and that was worse. Worst of all though, was the fact that Jaskier would have to spend a night full of wine and dancing pretending to be in love with, and engaged to, Geralt. Who he loved.

And who had, not three months ago, blamed Jaskier for every bad thing in life.

Since then Geralt had caught up with him half-way down the mountain and there had been some grumbled words about how Jaskier ‘wasn’t actually, exactly, a total curse’. Not a glowing review, but then Cintra had fallen, and they had Cirilla and they’d found a wounded Yennefer and it had all gotten so very busy.

Jaskier cast a last look in the mirror as the door to his room creaked open. He turned, expecting Geralt, but it was Yennefer.

“I suppose,” she said, eyeing him. “That this is as good as you get.” It could have been said cruelly. A year ago it would have been. Now, though, the words were fond. 

“I like the kohl, it goes well with the wrinkles at your eyes,” she winked. He smiled. There were no more wrinkles now than had been twenty years ago, and they both knew it.

“I wasn’t sure about the eyeliner,” Jaskier said, trying to sound haughty. “Overdramatic eye looks are your thing.”

Yennefer chuckled and sat on the end of the bed. “A tiny smudge of eyeliner is hardly overdramatic.” She studied him approvingly, then looked at him. Her expression was frighteningly soft.

“Have you told him that you love him?”

“Never,” Jaskier said, fiving his cravat in the mirror.

“Why ever not?”

“It would only be the mountain all over again,” Jaskier sighed. “I tried, you know. I spent years trying, and then on the mountain, I thought I was being clear...”

“What did you say?”

“I asked him to leave it all, just for a little while, with me. I thought we could go to the coast.”

“The coast,” Yennefer said from her spot on the bed. “As in Lettenhove? You wanted to show him where you grew up?”

“Partially. I could explain the immortality business easier if he met my sister, but mostly I just thought it would be peaceful.”

Yennefer snorted. “With Geralt? Peaceful? He’d spend the whole time fighting drowners and telling you not to write about mermaids because they’re vicious.”

Jaskier smiled wanly. “That’s pretty peaceful for him.”

“But he said no?”

“He didn’t say anything,” Jaskier said. “Then he, well, you know, he spent the night in your tent.”

“Ah,” Yennefer said. “For what it’s worth, I hate that it happened too.”

“He doesn’t though!” Jaskier cried, whirling around to face her. “He wants it to happen again! And you! You don’t want him but he wants you while I want him!” The frustration of the whole situation and nerves for what was to come were overwhelming. “And you’re here, trying to help me,” he said more quietly. “Why?”

“Because I like you,” Yennefer said, simply, standing from the bed. “And I like him. I also never, ever want to kiss him again. The djinn is sitting, somewhere in my chest, telling me I love him, but the feeling is...sick. It feels like love, as well as I can remember, but it’s poisoned and twisted and I want no part in it.”

Her purple eyes pinned Jaskier to the floor.

“And that poison pales in comparison to how much you love him. He deserves that.”

She swept out the door, tossing a “Sort it out,” over her shoulder.

Well.

The next knock at the door was Geralt, Ciri in tow. Jaskier hoped the witcher hadn’t heard any part of his and Yennefer’s conversation, but he suspected that no one overheard conversations that Yen didn’t want them too. 

“Dandelion!” Ciri said, leaping at him and using the name she’d first met him under. “You look nice! Like a prince in one of your stories!”

Jaskier blushed and thanked her quietly as he scooped her up and tossed her, laughing, onto the bed. 

He looked at Geralt for his opinion.

Oh he looked so good too. Yennefer had charmed him so that anyone else would see a different man in Geralt’s place, but to Jaskier he looked just the same. But he was wearing white. 

A white chemise, the collar and cuffs with fine red embroidery, with a cream colored cape, half length so it fell just to Geralt’s hips. It was embroidered too, green and pink and so many other colors, despite being overall still mostly cream. The pants were the same creamy fabric with a stripe down each side. Dark boots and a wide, decorative, dark belt completed the look.

“Wow,” Jaskier said.

“Rivian traditional clothing,” Geralt muttered. 

“I thought you’d hardly actually been to Rivia,” Jaskier said,.It was a better choice than the other thoughts in his head, which were half-formed screams about how absolutely skin tight those pants were.

“I haven’t been, but my...character is.”

“Right,” Jaskier said, dragging his eyes above Geralt’s shoulders. “My fiance, Ludomir of Rivia.”

Geralt said nothing.

Jaskier kicked himself for mentioning the fiance thing.

“We should go,” he said.

And they went.

The lord’s castle was small, as castles go, and the guards at the gate didn’t even bother to check their invitations. With all the other lords and ladies streaming past, no one would guess that the pair were out of place. Jaskier and Geralt enterred the ballroom and Jaskier felt his stomach drop straight through to his shoes.

The walls were positively lined with Nilfgaardian soldiers. Geralt’s shoulders stiffened too, but they steered themselves to a feast table as if nothing was wrong.

It took them almost a full circle of the tables to find the two little cards for ‘Viscount de Lettenhove’ and ‘Guest’. Getting onto the guest list had been laughably easy, and Jaskier just sent up a silent prayer of thanks that the stupid title was finally useful for something.

They sat in their places and guests populated the seats around them. There was a lady next to Jaskier who already smelled of the strongly alcoholic sherry that was being served. Her hair, probably a wig towered, and was strung all over with so many pearls and little tiny golden ornaments that when she stepped outside she must surely be attacked by magpies.

“My lady,” Jaskier said, as chivalrous as he could around a mouthful of her rose perfume. “I’m afraid we haven’t had a chance to be introduced.”

“Oooh,” she giggled, “You’re sweet, I’m Dame Au’Vigne, and I can see by your card that you are the Viscount de Lettenhove, I knew your father.”

Yes, Jaskier thought. I remember, he turned down your proposal. Jaskier had been a lad then, barely eight years old, but he remembered through a child’s eyes a mountain of lace and perfume who had offered to marry his father while actually at his mother’s funeral.

“It’s a pleasure,” he said. Heinous bitch, he thought. He remembered rumors too, which are always a bard’s stock and trade, that Dame Au’Vigne’s husbands were always wealthy, usually handsome, and all of them had shockingly short lifespans. 

Rumor also had it that she was backing Nilfgaard financially and had been playing the shipping stock with insider knowledge of their movements. A very good person to be seated next to tonight. 

“May I introduce my fiance, Ludomir of Rivia,” Jaskier said, gesturing to Geralt. Geralt nodded and hummed, somewhat politely.

“How handsome,” Dame Au’Vigne stage whispered. “Where ever did you find him?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Jaskier said.

The lord of the castle stood up and gave a droning speech. It was full of euphemisms about ‘upholding standards’ and ‘fostering strong relations’ that boiled down to ‘I’m an untrustworthy bastard who believes that allowing the deaths of my people en masse is fine so long as I make money.’ It was depressing, too, as Jaskier looked around the ballroom to see so many people nodding in agreement. 

Traitors and bastards, the lot of them.

Geralt’s face hadn’t changed even an inch.

“So,” Dame Au’Vigne said as the appetizer course was served. “You two aren’t exactly in a honeymoon phase, are you?”

And she was right, for a couple, newly engaged, Jaskier and Geralt hadn’t acted the part yet at all.

“I’m afraid,” Jaskier said, inventing wildly. “That we’re both just a touch nervous, the engagement is so new, you see, and this is our first event,” he took Geralt’s hand, above the table, so Dame Au’Vigne could see. “As a couple.”

“Oh how sweet,” she said airily. “You know, they’ll have dancing between the courses, it’ll be a great way for you to wet your social feet. Sir Erdin and the lady in the lavender dress,” she pointed across the ballroom. “They’re newly engaged as well.” She lowered her voice.

“Sir Erdin is very supportive of the cause, word has it he’s in with the very inner circle,” Dame Au’Vigne giggled, as if being in the inner circle of a murderous group of intruders was as delightful as a recent engagement.

“How interesting!” Jaskier said, affecting a jealous and impressed tone. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Geralt’s eyebrow twitch, the way it did when he was listening hard.

“Oh yes,” Dame Au’Vigne said. “And Lord Snapcase, in the corner, he...” and she went on, was the marvelous thing, she couldn’t seem to help herself but gossip about everyone. And she had all these details about how they were helping ‘the cause’. Destiny must have finally decided to throw Jaskier and Geralt a bone.

Then the appetizer course was finished and Jaskier felt much less lucky. Dame Au’Vigne was ushering him and Geralt out of their seats to dance. It wasn’t one of the quick, hopping around, switching partners dances either. No, the band seemed insistent on only slow, romantic music. 

Awkwardly, Geralt slid one large hand around Jaskier’s waist and they turned in slow circles on the dance floor. The witcher’s face looked like a thunderclap.

“Try and look like you’re having fun, darling,” Jaskier said. Please don’t look at me as though holding me is torture, his inner self begged.

“Hmmm,” Geralt said. Jaskier leaned in.

“Really dear heart,” he leaned in even closer, lips almost touching Geralt’s ear. “People are going to suspect something,” he said in the barest of whispers.

“Let them,” Geralt hissed back in the same fashion. “We’ve got the information, we can leave.” 

Jaskier, keeping up appearances, tossed his head back and let out a delighted shriek of laughter, as if Geralt had just told him a joke or, perhaps, made a wonderfully indecent proposal.

“Later, perhaps,” he said, stage-whispering for the sake of those around them. Leaning in again he whispered for real, “We can’t leave until the party’s over, no one else will, they’d send some of those soldiers after us for sure.”

The music changed, and Geralt and Jaskier’s slow circles changed speed with it. 

Geralt hissed in his ear again, “I don’t see why I had to be your,” this close Jaskier could see Geralt’s jaw working with distaste. “Lover.”

“Fiance,” Jaskier said, trying not to let his heart sink. It couldn’t possibly go any lower. “There’s a difference.”

They said no more to each other, and after the second dance, declined the third to sit back at their seats and await the arrival of the soup course.

The man sat beside Geralt was some old military man, mostly mustache and the rest of him was a rather musty and very old fashioned uniform. It had gold braid and a colonel’s insignia. The hat that sat next to his chair had a plume. 

He leaned over to Geralt and said, rather loudly, in a voice that implied tone deafness, to both volume and social situations, “Just marrying him for the money, eh?”

People to both sides of Jaskier and Geralt looked around. Dame Au’Vigne looked at them askance.

“Hmmm,” Geralt said. It was a negative answer to the colonel’s question, but the man didn’t take it as such.

“Often is the way,” the man nearly bellowed. “My missus hated me right up to the day she died.”

Jaskier curled in on himself. The role of Viscount wasn’t a big one, mostly administrative and, these days, completed by his sister Rowena, who was better at sitting behind a desk. Still, argued a battered part of his long ago but still proper upbringing. The name of Pankratz was being dragged through the mud. Lots of these people would know the name too, these sour, vindictive, unpleasant, murderous people. And they’d know the gossip, would have taken part in the gossip about ‘Young Julian running off to be a bard,’ (this generally said with the same tone as is usually leant to slave trader) and how ‘he’ll never find a good marriage now,’ how he was ‘a disgrace to the name.’ 

And here was their long awaited confirmation. Jaskier-Julian, couldn’t find a good marriage, was being wed only for his money. Of course, more than half the pairings here were only in it for the money, but to have it said, so loudly too, and before the wedding had even happened, it was social condemnation.

Jaskier looked down at the table cloth, his face hot. He’d faced social condemnation before, of course, he’d survive. What hurt was that Geralt wasn’t really protesting, Geralt couldn’t even pretend to like Jaskier, not for a single evening. Twenty years he’d done a good enough job of acting to convince even Jaskier, mostly, apart from the punches and the insults and...maybe Jaskier had been a little blind to the truth but still. 

It was ruining their cover though, so he protested quietly. “Not just for the money,” he said, patting Geralt’s hand where one fist wrapped around his goblet. “My fiance is just shy, that’s all.”

The damage was already done, but the old colonel hiccupped. “Well lad,” he said, giving Geralt a slap on the back. “This ale’s pretty good so drink up. Got me through three years of happy marriage, strong ale did.” The man took a slug of his own drink. “And fourty seven more unhappy years.” He guffawed hugely and unpleasantly, little drops of ale flinging from his mustache. 

Wherever the soul of the unpleasant man’s dead wife was, Jaskier felt sure she was happy to be away from this miserable old drunk.

Geralt, however, was looking at Jaskier. Their eyes met. Jaskier knew he probably looked as hunted as he felt, and his cheeks were probably still burning from the embarassment. Still, it seemed as though Geralt was about to say something. His golden eyes were full of emotion, but Jaskier couldn’t parse out what kind. 

Whatever kind it was, it caused Geralt to take the colonel’s advice and drink like there was no tomorrow. 

Great. Jaskier had driven his companion to drinking. 

He felt a little like doing so himself. 

The soup course was good, hot and savory, but underspiced. Geralt slurped it up gratefully. Jaskier knew that rich food was usually too much for his senses if it was spiced to Jaskier’s taste.

More dancing. Jaskier didn’t stand, at first, assuming that Geralt would rather sit and drink more. There were some snickers as people judged him. Geralt stood though, and he offered a hand and led Jaskier to the dance floor.

“You need to act drunk,” Jaskier whispered in his ear. “If you were a normal man you would be.”

“I am acting,” Geralt rumbled.

“You’re very steady for a drunk,” Jaskier sniffed.

“You said I was shy, now I’m less shy,” Geralt whispered. “And I’ve been drinking. So...drunk.” It was torture, being held like this, having that voice in Jaskier’s ear. That hand, so warm cupping his own. He wanted to cry.

A couple whirled past them. It was the Dame Au’Vigne, gossiping to some new dance partner. A snippet of her words caught them.

“-de Lettenhove. Entirely loveless of course. Unlovable, his father said once, of course as a bard-” then the tide of conversation and other dancers stole the rest of the words.

Jaskier sagged. His father hadn’t been a nice man, and unlovable wasn’t the worst of what he’d been called in his life, but now, with Geralt so close and so disgusted by the prospect...well, it hit a little close to home. 

“Laugh,” Geralt whispered in his ear.

“What?” Jaskier hissed.

“Like before, laugh like before, but...more so. Pretend I said a dirty joke.”

Jaskier did, heads turned as he pretended to laugh, half scandalized and half delighted at something Geralt said.

Geralt even chuckled along with him. Then his hand crept down Jaskier’s back to his hip. It wasn’t dirty. It was just so,so spine tinglingly close to dirty.

It was almost worse. If Geralt had gripped his ass that would have been bad, but this, Jaskier was left to speculate. He had a very active imagination. The couples next to them were giggling and tittering, scandalized, but not too much, at the pair.

They danced all three dances. During the second dance Geralt spun Jaskier out and then back in flashily, dipping him over one arm like a dainty maiden. Jaskier, who was no dainty maiden, knew the strength that elaborate dip must have taken and his head spun. The third dance was slow, and once again they simply held one another and turned in slow circles. Except Geralt pressed their cheeks together in a way that was so intimate that Jaskier finally gave in. Just tonight he had Geralt, all of him, his attention, his warmth. 

There was only so much a bard could take, and Jaskier gave in to the fantasy.

“I wonder how Yennefer is,” Geralt whispered. “And Ciri.”

It was like having cold water poured all over him. Jaskier’s fantasy shattered as soon as it had formed. Of course Geralt wasn’t enjoying this, of course his mind was elsewhere. He had a beautiful sorceress to think of, even if they weren’t sleeping together. Geralt and Yennefer and Ciri made the perfect, happy family. Where did Jaskier fit in to that?

He pulled back a little, already missing the warmth of Geralt’s cheek against his own. They finished the dance stiffly.

Back at the table, squished between Dame Au’Vigne and the colonel, the main course was awful. Jaskier couldn’t judge it on the food, which he barely tasted. Dame Au’Vigne and the colonel, however, had apparently come to the conclusion that Geralt or, Ludomir, rather, was marrying Jaskier for the money and the sex. They tittered, loudly and drunkely, to those around, and Geralt leaned in.

“Surely we can leave after this course,” he whispered.

Desperate to be rid of the charade, Jaskier thought. To not have to be engaged to me. “Can’t,” he whispered. “Have to stay for dessert and more dancing, else it looks suspect.”

“Hmmm.” It was a displeased hum.

“And, there will be small talk, with dessert. You need to say something, people will think you’re mute.”

“You two twitter into one another’s ears all the time,” Dame Au’Vigne said loudly. She was fully drunk off the sherry and very loud. “But not one kiss,” she lowered her voice, as if trying to be discreet. It didn’t work. “Is it truly as loveless as they say? I know you aren’t waiting until marriage.”

As who say? Jaskier thought. The only person quite that invested seems to be you.

“Not loveless,” Jaskier said. It seemed weak even to his ears.

“Surely you’ll join the dancing again, then,” Dame Au’Vigne said. 

“No,” Jaskier said, fiddling with his napkin. “I’m feeling quite too full to dance, ate too fast, I’m afraid.” He hoped she was too drunk to notice he’d picked at his plate. It seemed she was.

“Lovely little veranda, get some air there,” said a man who, according to Dame Au’Vigne, was shipping weapons to Nilfgaard behind the backs of multiple heads of state.

Jaskier nodded,stood, bowed, and made his escape. He sighed, but wasn’t surprised to find that Geralt had followed along behind. Of course he wanted to escape the party too, but Jaskier wanted to escape...him.

To his shame and surprise, he found tears in his eyes. The pressure of sitting in a room chock full of people who wanted to kill him, combined with the fact that every last one of them reminded him of being bullied in school, and add to that that he was supposed to be fake engaged to Geralt...it was too much. Fake engaged and even in their fake engagement Geralt didn’t like Jaskier. 

Jaskier’s rational brain knew that Geralt did like him, mostly. He just didn’t love him.

Jaskier leaned his elbows on the railing, overlooking some moonlit gardens, and felt the tears roll down his face.

“They think I don’t like you,” Geralt said quietly.

“Yes,” Jaskier said. He knew Geralt could smell the salt of his tears or whatever, but still turned his face away so the witcher couldn’t see.

“I danced with you though.”

Jaskier chuckled wetly. “Nobles dance with people they hate all the time.”

Geralt was quiet for a minute then, very gently, he took one of Jaskier’s hands. “I don’t hate you.”

It was too much, Jaskier started crying in earnest, sobbing.

“C’mon, Jaskier, I like you. A lot.” Geralt was, for him, panicking clearly. Jaskier almost smiled. He was so bad at dealing with other people’s emotion. And his own.

“You’re my friend,” Geralt said, a little stuntedly. “You know I’m not a good liar.”

Too much. Twenty-two years and he finally said the word ‘friends’ and Jaskier wanted more. He whipped around to face Geralt.

“Tell me the truth, then, Geralt. Tell me you love me, it doesn’t have to be the truth for forever, but can you love me just for a night? Can you make it the truth for tonight?” Jaskier’s tears were ugly and blobby and drying up fast but he continued.

“Because I’ve loved you so long I don’t know any other truth,” He leaned forward and planted his forhead on Geralt’s collarbone and sniffled through the last of his tears, curling one, shaking fist into Geralt’s lovely pale cape as he cried. “Just this one night, Geralt, love me back.”

He hadn’t meant to say any of it, was half expecting Geralt to toss him off the low balcony into the bushes below. 

Instead Jaskier was lifted by two strong arms and sat down on the railing. Warm, delightful lips pressed against his and suddenly he was being kissed within an inch of his life. 

“The truth, you want,” Geralt said, pulling back and panting. “Is the only one I can give. I can’t pretend to love you.” Here Geralt looked into Jaskier’s eyes, like being struck by lightning. “I only love you, no pretending, I swear it.”

“But-” Jaskier was cut off.

“They think I don’t like you,” Geralt said, furiously. “I think you think I don’t like you, Jaskier I like you, I love you so much I don’t know what to do and I’m...I’m not good with words. Or emotions.” Geralt’s shoulders dropped a little. “I just am, and the way I am is... The way I am is better with you.” 

Geralt’s face screwed up with anguish. “And I’m the reason you think I don’t like you, it’s my fault and that feels so...so bad. Yennefer’s been working with me on the feelings thing and always says ‘bad isn’t a feeling’ but I can’t tell you what all the feeling is.”

Jaskier was staring, mouth open, as frustrated, stilted, fumbling words left Geralt’s mouth. They sounded angry, but only at himself. Geralt was looking up at him as if seeking benediction.

“Tell me you love me again,” Jaskier said.

“I love you.”

“Again.”

“I love you.”

“Again.”

Jaskier giggled as Geralt lifted him and spun him around before tucking him in close and kissing his forehead.

“I,” he said.

A kiss to Jaskier’s nose. “Love.”

A deep, breathtaking kiss to his lips. “You.”

There was nothing left for Jaskier to say except, “wow.”

Geralt smiled, that lovely warm little smile he saved for special times and offered his arm to Jaskier. “Shall we?”

They paraded back into the ballroom and danced the final dance of the set. Geralt whispered a suggestion of what he’d really like for dessert and this time Jaskier didn’t have to fake the scandalized giggle. “Back home, perhaps,” he said.

Dessert meant more conversation with Dame Au’Vigne, which was of course unbearable. There was plenty of Champagne though, which was pretty good, and the bubbles seemed to fill Jaskier all the way up. He took pleasure in picturing the downfall of all these horrible people when Nilfgaard was finally defeated for good.

He especially enjoyed sticking it to her gossip when he fed Geralt a strawberry with cream from his fingertips and recieved a kiss in thanks. Geralt was clearly enjoying himself too. He had a sweet tooth, and that certainly helped, but his hand that never left Jaskier’s under the table was a much better clue.

They walked back to the inn, flushed and warm in the cool night air, bidding farewell to the other drunken lords and ladies all filtering to finer inns or grand coaches. 

Then they were alone on their path back, Geralt’s witcher senses confirming their isolation. Then, Geralt, who never told lies, whispered sweet nothings into Jaskier’s ear the entire way home. Jaskier believed every single one.

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It’s done, this one’s quite long and I loved writing it. Geralt is useless at playing pretend, but very good at loving Jaskier in his own way. I imagine his emotion lessons with Yennefer must have been rather intense. 

#the witcher #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #fake dating #getting together #fluff #fluff and angst #tiny amount of horniness #read with caution

[rebrandedbard]

If you are still writing 14?

Okay so this one accidentally went from a drabble to an actual fic whoops. The cure is totally inspired by the Rapunzel fairy tale, spoiler alert, where the prince falls in the thorn bushes around the tower and Rapunzel’s tears fall into his eyes, curing him.

14. “Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always.”

wc: 4444 which is an awesome number I’m so happy lol

Robbed Blind

Someone botches a spell to steal Jaskier’s artistic vision and he’s cursed with blindness. Thankfully, he falls into the company of Ciri and Lambert. They journey safely to Kaer Morhen, but what could be the cure to his affliction?

-

She had found him, tripping over the strings of destiny, in Drakenborg. He’d been on his way to Oxenfurt when the curse took hold, and he had gone no further. Jaskier was haggard, gaunt, and looked quite worn. His hair lay flat from constant fussing. It was a habit Ciri remembered well from his visits, always combing a nervous hand through his hair before a performance. She had never seen it look so lifeless. He needed a mirror, she thought. She would soon realize that a mirror would serve him no purpose.

He was blind. He startled when she ran to him, throwing her arms around his waist. She’d been so relieved to see a friendly face that she’d run right into his arms, nearly knocking him from the stool in the corner of the tavern. Why should he not catch her as he’d always done? He’d been looking directly at her; she thought he’d merely not recognized her beneath the mud and hood.

“Let me go! Who are you? Stop—stop this now or I’ll give you such a wallop, I’ll—!”

“Jaskier!” Ciri cried, shocked. She flinched away from him as he elbowed her roughly against her temple. She rubbed the spot, standing out of reach.

Jaskier straightened up at once. “Is that—? Little cub, is that you?” he asked. He turned his head as if searching for her and reached out a hand, feeling the air. It was nowhere near.

Ciri took his hand. During their long weeks of travel, she refused to let it go again. She became his eyes, and together they started for Oxenfurt and the safety of its halls.

He’d woken up blind one day, he explained. No warning or explanation. The mage had told him what magic was at play. Someone had tried to steal his artistic vision and the enchantment had gone wrong, stealing from him his very sight.

“Is there not a cure?” Ciri asked.

Jaskier shook his head. “The mage said it was a botched spell. There’s no telling what will fix it, only that it must have something to do with artistic vision. The mage suggested it might be cured by the old methods: kisses and the like; gazing upon true beauty.”

He squinted and took her face between his hands. “I’m looking and looking at you as hard as I can, and I remember you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen when you were first born. So what do mages know? Have you become a pox-faced adolescent or scraggly Medusa? Ah,” he chuckled, “but you’d still be a fairytale princess in my eyes if you had the face of a basilisk.”

She laughed and squirmed out of his hands. “You were always very good at Blind Man’s Bluff. Do you remember when we used to play it? Back then, you were always stumbling; you aren’t stumbling as much anymore.”

“I’ve grown used to it, I suppose. But you are a princess—do you suppose a kiss from you might cure me? How are you with frogs? Ever wake a sleeping prince?”

“No, but we may try it. There’s magic in me of a sort, I know. Here, kneel a moment.”

Jaskier knelt on the dry road and closed his eyes, tapping the lid. “Right here. Give it a go,” he said encouragingly. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll practice on a frog and work our way up.”

Ciri kissed both eyes to be sure. “Alright. Open them. Do you see anything?”

She tried not to get her hopes up, watching Jaskier squeeze his eyes tight. He opened them, blinked several times, and gave her a sad smile.

“Not to worry, we’ll find a pond in no time,” he joked, trying to keep the mood light.

-

“Well! I go to find a cat and find a lioness instead. And a songbird. Must be my lucky day.”

Ciri put herself between the stranger and Jaskier, waving a large branch in warning. “Keep away,” she growled. “If you come any closer, I’ll scream.”

The scruffy man put his hands up and grinned. “I’ve heard what sort of screaming runs in your family. Trust me, I would rather not be around for one of them. Heard it knocked pretty boy flat on his back at your mother’s little Surprise party.”

Jaskier put a hand on Ciri’s shoulder. “Wait a moment,” he said. “I know that moniker. Geralt complained of it before.” He was quiet a moment, stirring up a memory. Then, he lit up, asking excitedly, “Did you say you were looking for a cat? A cat witcher, by chance?”

“Why? Find one up a tree?” the stranger pressed.

Jaskier patted Ciri’s shoulder and strode forward, extending a hand. “You must be Lambert! I’ve heard—” his hand buckled against Lambert’s chest, his stride clearing the distance too quickly “—oh, my apologies. I’ve heard about you before. I was hoping to see you under better circumstances if I ever got the chance. Or to see you at all, really. Damnable timing.”

Lambert looked at him, then took his hand. Ciri watched as the understanding settled in, for Jaskier was staring straight at the man’s forehead, a near lucky guess of his eye line. Lambert wore an expression of pity freely, knowing Jaskier could not see it, though his tone was light and cocky as before. “I always wondered what you saw in that sourpuss, following him as long as you did; now I know you didn’t see anything after all,” he joked.

Jaskier snorted. “It’s new.”

“Ah, so you’ve been blinded by love, have you?”

Jaskier flapped his hand until he felt the brush of Ciri’s sleeve at his side, then he tugged her forward and presented her. He cleared his throat, a tad flushed. “May I introduce Her Royal Highness, Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, the Lion Cub of Cintra. Geralt’s child Surprise.”

Ciri tossed her branch aside. “You know Geralt,” she said.

“They’re brothers.”

Lambert sneered. “He got all the looks, Eskel got the talent, but I got the brains.”

“What little there were to be had,” Jaskier added.

“Oh, ho! You’ll fit right in at the keep, talking like that.”

There was a pregnant pause between the three of them. Jaskier nudged Ciri gently forward. “She’ll be safe there. And her wit is more cutting than mine.”

Ciri turned at once to protest. “But what about Ox—”

“And so would you,” Lambert cut in. “A dull knife and a dull wit can be sharpened, and I’d rather keep two knives in my belt than one, whatever their make. Don’t start that maudlin shit with me; you’re coming along.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to protest and Lambert raised a hand. Then, realizing how ineffective that was against one who could not see it, he recovered and smacked the side of Jaskier’s head to shut him up before he started.

“Come on; it’s a long and dull road we have ahead of us, and you’re my entertainment. I want to hear every embarrassing story you can supply. I’ve long run out of blackmail and I’m in need of fresh material. Besides, what better bait for a cat than a twittering bird? If you sing loud enough, we might pick him up along the way.”

-

They were all together in the great hall when at last he came. The figure stood in the doorway, a black dot against the stark white of winter outside. A pair of bags dropped with a thundering bang upon the floor, the sound echoing throughout the room, and the figure bundled up by the fire started awake in fright.

Jaskier patted the blanket beside him, made frantic by his sudden awakening. “Ciri? Ciri!” he called, for she had been asleep next to him what seemed only moments ago.

She paused only a moment to stare at the imposing figure in the light. Something in her shouted, compelling her to go to him. But Jaskier called for her in that voice wrought with panic once more. She flew from the circle of wolves to his side, abandoning her hand of cards, disregarding the man of destiny at the door.

“I’m here,” she said, taking his hands. “Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always. I’m not going anywhere.” She and the others looked at each other, looked at Geralt, and said not a word.

Jaskier settled and took a deep breath. “I heard something crash. I dreamed—but never mind that.” He sighed, pressing his head to their joined hands. “I’m sorry. I know it’s safe here. I’m just not used to you wandering off just yet.”

“I know.” She stroked his hair gently. It was soft again, though not as silky as before. Lambert and Eskel had drawn him a bath for the first time in a long while, but he had not his customary soaps and oils. He was … less bright, his appearance dulled with his mood.

Vesemir had examined him. Countless hours, the wolves had huddled together in the old library, trying to find a cure for Jaskier’s condition to no avail. As time went by, the reality of his situation weighed on Jaskier. He could no longer read his notebook, nor write his music to be remembered. Ciri read his notes aloud and studied the art so she might transcribe them for him, but it was obvious how he felt.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” he’d said.

And now he gave her that same false smile, the one that failed to meet his eyes. She missed the lines in the corners and wished they might come back. Perhaps they’d flown off with the crows, frightened of the winter snow.

“Go back to your game,” he whispered. “I’ll head up to bed.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” she offered.

He shook his head. “I know the way now. If someone will take me to the stairwell?” he prompted, raising a hand.

Ciri looked at Geralt. There was so little she knew of him—stories and songs … words spared in rumors and stolen from conversations where she lingered unnoticed to listen. What she knew of the wolf and bard she had pieced together with care. For all the tales Jaskier would tell, he would not disparage Geralt before her, and he would not tell the story of the dragon hunt. But dwarves talk. Stories travel and lesser bards would imitate the songs of greater. Witchers collect news of other witchers, and two adults would speak as adults when ale made easy speech. Jaskier had confided in Lambert those tearing words once flung at him upon the mountain. And thus she had put the final piece into place of the great mystery between them.

‘If life could give me one blessing…’

“Who will take him?” she asked. She kept Geralt’s eyes as she rose to her feet. “Who will take him into his hands?”

It was only the barest movement, but she swore she saw the wolf of legend flinch.

Jaskier sat up with a huff. “You make it sound so dramatic. Are we playing at a quest now? Very well, who is my knight errant? The princess has thus decreed a quest is in order: a quest up the perilous tower steps, my-my! Such a task!”

“I should think a white knight is the one suited best for the task,” Vesemir grunted. He shuffled his hand, eyes narrowed at Geralt.

The white knight in question let his cloak fall. He shook the snow from his arms and dusted them slowly, looking at each watching face in turn. His hesitation was clear. When none moved to claim Jaskier, he stepped forward cautiously. Without a word, he took Jaskier’s hand and lifted him to his feet.

Jaskier clapped an arm around his shoulder, hands patting the edge of his long hair. “Ah, thank you, Vesemir,” he said. His hand slipped from Geralt’s armour and he made a face, flicking his wet hand in the air. He prodded the armour curiously. “You’re soaked; I thought you said you’d sent Eskel for the firewood.” He prodded again and bumped against Geralt’s shoulder pad. He pinched it between his fingers, figuring out its shape. He hummed curiously. “What are you wearing? Did you go hunting?”

Geralt stared. Jaskier was not looking at him. Geralt looked at the circle of men by the fireside and there sat Vesemir in silence, watching. He was struck dumb. What … game was this?

“A knight needs a knight’s armour,” Lambert called.

Jaskier laughed. “Oh, of course. Such a soft touch; did you get all dressed up for Ciri? Have I woken in the middle of a game?”

Eskel tossed a card in the middle of the circle. “Yes,” he answered, “but we’ve just started on another, different game.”

“Very cold and calculated,” Ciri agreed.

“Cold and calculated. So a snowball fight has become a snowball war, no doubt born of the most complicated strategies. Shame on the lot of you. You ought to let your elders warm themselves before sending them on tasks. You’re young; you’ve got legs,” Jaskier scolded.

“It was his idea,” Eskel replied.

Vesemir nodded, keeping silent as the game unravelled.

Jaskier looped his arm through Geralt’s and stood straight and tall in an affected manner. “Come, my good knight,” he said, “and let us bid good night to these slacking youths.”

He started to walk in the general direction of the stair, Geralt turning them with truer aim. Geralt looked over his shoulder at the others, frowning. This was not the sort of confrontation he expected when next he saw Jaskier. If he ever saw him. And here was his child Surprise in their midst without a word of greeting or explanation, and the bard, the two of them together and settled within the walls of the keep.

It was too perplexing for him to puzzle out. And Jaskier was acting strangely. Where were his speeches? Geralt had expected him to argue on sight, or else to pretend all was right and greet him, “Geralt! How good to see you,” or, “Fancy meeting you here,” and play off the mountain like it never happened. Or at the very least to ignore him. But to call him Vesemir and take to his arm? What joke was he playing at?

The answer came as Jaskier dodged the first step and nearly fumbled upon the stair. He clung to Geralt’s arm with a cry and his other hand shot out to grope the wall. He flailed for it, feeling his way from the step outward, then sliding his hand up the side of it. He turned his head, looked at Geralt and laughed. “I’m still not used to these uneven steps,” he said. “Give me time and I’ll be able to find my way around unassisted. By next week, I’ll be able to navigate every pool in the hot springs, then you four will never see me fully dressed again!”

Geralt raised a hand to Jaskier’s face. He rested a thumb just beneath his eye. They were as blue as ever, nothing seemed amiss, and yet …

Jaskier’s smile weakened. He closed his eyes and pushed the hand away. “I know the three of you are working hard to find a cure. I know the jokes fall flat. But I must make them. If I don’t … Vesemir, if I can’t make light of it, the darkness I see will be all I have left.”

He turned toward the stair again, hand firm on Geralt’s arm, the other on the wall. “Right then. Up we go. Just one at a time,” he said. He stepped tentatively forwards, prodding his foot before him until he nudged the base of the first step. “Got it. First is always hardest, isn’t it?”

They carried on. Two steps, three, one after the other slowly. They were uneven by design: a final defense against those who would try to invade their stronghold. The spiral stair favored those who walked it every day, gave advantage to the men who would be at the top, swinging their swords to fight back those who would dare trespass unwitting. It was difficult enough for any stranger with sight. With Jaskier, it was a quest in itself.

Midway up, Geralt thought to carry him. They were going so slowly; it would have been easiest that way. He nearly offered, but stopped. If he spoke, Jaskier would know him. He began to reach an arm out to simply lift him, but Jaskier fumbled once more, his knee hitting the step with a mumbled curse. And Geralt heard him muttering through his teeth as he crouched upon the stair.

“I will learn,” he hissed. “This will not stop me. I refuse to be a burden to anyone. Never again.” He touched his forehead to the step and Geralt put a hand to his back. He was trembling.

When Jaskier rose again, he did not take Geralt’s arm. He reached out and took hold of the wall on either side, arms stretched wide to hold himself up. He proceeded to climb the stair alone. When Geralt reached out to help, Jaskier waved him away.

“No,” he whispered. “We’re nearly at the top. Just let me do this much. Please.”

And Geralt let his hand fall away.

Jaskier reached the landing with a powerful stomp, expecting a final step. He breathed a sigh of relief and sagged against the right wall. Geralt followed behind and patted his shoulder. Small congratulations. From there, Jaskier walked down the corridor, tapping when he came upon a wooden door. He passed three, tapped each with his knuckles, counting. When he reached the forth door, he opened it. In this space, he walked with ease away from the wall. He flopped confidently upon the bed and rested a moment as one does after a long journey.

He shucked off his doublet and loosened the laces of his boots. He set these aside at the very foot of the bed where they might easily be found again. He undid the back lace of his trousers, paused, and inclined his head toward the door.

“Are you still there, Vesemir?” he asked.

Geralt did not know how to respond. He stood fixed in the doorway, but dropped his eyes to his feet modestly. After a moment’s wait, Jaskier finished undressing and climbed beneath the heavy furs. A memory stirred—that was not the final task of the evening. What was the last of their routine each night? What was left undone that made this finality seem so abrupt? Geralt realized it in the darkness of the room. He had no candle to blow out.

The truth struck Geralt sharp as a blade to his gut. He stole through the door, walking quietly toward the bed. He sat on the edge, the furs rumpled beneath him, and listened to Jaskier’s breathing. He was not yet asleep—would never be, so soon—but he did not stir.

Geralt took his hand gently.

Jaskier squeezed it back.

“I only wish that had not been the last I’d seen of him,” Jaskier whispered. “I try to remember his smile now. For all my poetry, I can’t remember it clearly. His smiles were so rare, but I don’t suppose you need me to tell you. Or perhaps you do. I don’t know if he smiled here; I know nothing his life in this place. Were you so fortunate that they were commonplace?”

Silent footsteps creeped up the stair. Ciri had waited long enough to follow. Geralt heard no sign of her under the ringing words of Jaskier’s speech. Though he spoke no louder than the breath of the wind, every last syllable echoed like a clap of thunder in his ears.

Jaskier slipped his hand free and turned on his pillow, hugging it close. “I wish I might at least see Ciri now, know how she’s grown. They change so quickly at that age. Does she look like her mother? Does she look like him? Destiny makes strange things of those it touches. She was beginning to look like him, I once thought.”

She saw him well enough, looking through the open door. She crouched behind the wall, listening as she always did in secret, for the things he would not burden her with.

“I always did wonder what you looked like. Geralt spoke once to me of his brothers, his mentor. You’re still stories to me in ways. I know you have long hair, grey with age. I know Lambert is shorn, Eskel is shaggy. I know your voices, your height, and a hundred other things. But do you share his eyes? What color is the armour you wear? How does the sun set over the mountainside? The carpets before the hearth—what pattern is woven there? What thousands of stories do you keep in that library? What do the monsters look like illustrated in the great bestiary?”

He buried his face in his pillow. His voice was muffled, but both Geralt and Ciri could hear the husk in it. “I won’t feel sorry for myself. It doesn’t mean anything—just idle curiosity. It doesn’t matter how the carpet is woven or if you wear brown shirts or red. I’ve seen a lifetime of sunrises and sunsets and stars. I don’t want them!” he barked. He writhed on the bed, his face falling from the pillow, stained with tears. “I don’t! I never needed them, not one! I don’t care—I don’t! None of them are important!”

Geralt rushed forward and took Jaskier in his arms. Jaskier struggled, beating at his chest, and refused to be coddled. “No!” he wailed. “Don’t comfort me, I don’t need it! I don’t want it! I will not be pitied!” But for his hard words, he clung to Geralt’s armour, sobbing against his shoulder. “It’s unnecessary. It’s just a bunch of poetry. Useless poetry and songs.”

Jaskier pulled away, Geralt’s hands trailing from his back to his shoulders as he sat up. Geralt held him there before he could retreat more. Before he could think twice of it, Geralt leaned in, his hands cupping Jaskier’s face on either side.

“Vese—”

Something warm and wet fell onto Jaskier’s lashes. He heard a shaky breath, felt the warmth of it upon his face. Another hot tear fell into his other eye and he blinked in surprise, for it was not his own. He sat perfectly still in shock, blinking the falling tears away.

“They were never useless,” Geralt said. “They were always important—all of them.”

Jaskier twitched, raising his head by instinct up to look at the man who held him now. “You were—!”

“I’m sorry. For not speaking before. For … not speaking then. After. And for saying what I did that day.” He wiped the tears beneath Jaskier’s eyes away, an expression of pain twisting his hollowed features. “If I’d not sent you away—I don’t know what’s become of you, but I might have—I could have tried to prevent it. You would still have your sight.”

Jaskier covered Geralt’s hands. “No, Geralt. This is none of your doing. You can’t—”

A loud bump from the hall startled him. Jaskier turned at once to look.

“Ciri,” he breathed.

Ciri had a finger to her mouth and was glaring up at a tall man. They both cowed back, being caught. Jaskier looked between them as Geralt’s hands slipped away. He stood, walking toward them. He looked at Ciri, gaping, their eyes perfectly aligned. Jaskier fell to his knees before her and took her hands without fumbling.

“Ciri,” he said. “You’re so … my good gods, you’ve grown.”

All were still as he reached out, touching her face as though she were made of glass. He smoothed her hair away, taking all of her in. He laughed, new tears falling as he pulled her close and crushed her in his arms. “You’re so beautiful!” he cried. He stroked her hair, cradling her against him as tight as he dared. “And you!” He looked up at the witcher in the hall, reaching out to him and taking his hand. “Which one are you? Say something now, quickly. Let me hear your voice and know you.”

“Eskel,” he answered. And then Jaskier was up on his feet, pulling him into another embrace.

“Eskel!” Jaskier cheered. “Eskel, you look even more heroic than I ever imagined! Oh, let me look at you. Oh, oh! Lambert! Vesemir! Where are you, come forward!”

He dashed into the hall, only to turn on his heel for another look at Eskel, for just one more eyeful of Ciri. Over her shoulder, he saw Geralt sitting there on the bed, his yellow eyes wide, the tears still clinging to his chin.

“Oh,” Jaskier whispered. “Oh, I see. I see.”

He walked forward, gliding a hand beneath Geralt’s jaw. He touched his eyes with his other hand. Carefully, he wiped the last of Geralt’s tears away. It dangled, a little drop at the tip of his finger and he brought it close. He closed his hands around it, cradled them to his chest.

Geralt stood slowly before him. And he smiled.

Ciri tugged at Jaskier’s shirt, her head turned away politely. She cleared her throat and said, “Jaskier? Lambert and Vesemir are on their way up. And you’re … well, you’re not at your most presentable.”

Eskel averted his eyes, his back turned to the scene, however touching. “You might want to get a bit more dressed. And quickly,” he added, for Jaskier was standing in his smallclothes.

Jaskier snorted. “All of you, turn away for decency’s sake! We’re having a moment, here.”

“And what about me?” Geralt asked. “Shall I look away?”

It was nothing but empty jest and Jaskier smiled. “No,” he replied. “No, you’re looking where you’re needed. But I suppose to be fair …”

He clapped a hand over Geralt’s eyes. He leaned forward, whispering against Geralt’s lips. “There. Now no one can see. No one … but me.”

There were no witnesses to that first kiss. It was a secret Jaskier kept for himself.

However, the second, third, and forth had quite a startled audience, as Geralt and Jaskier both fell deaf to the clatter of footsteps in the hall. Ciri took it upon herself to usher the others from the room, explaining on the way. After all, with the curse lifted, she no longer needed to be Jaskier’s eyes. His mouth, however, was currently occupied.

-

Send me a drabble prompt!

#my fic #drabbles #witcher #the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #cirilla fiona elen riannon #lambert #eskel #vesemir #I'd tag aiden but he's really only mentioned in passing #ew I came back to look at this and the scene breaks did not transfer over #fixed it now

[candied-cae]

Yennefer Returns to Vengerberg

Chapter 1/1 - - - Read it on AO3

Word Count : 3,097

Summary : Our lovable bard just can't help it. He likes fixing things, even things that don't necessarily need fixing. So, when there's a moment to stop and talk, he asks a certain question of our witch.

"Yennefer, have you ever thought of your family?"

And once that jar is opened, it can't truly be closed. It's time Yennefer finds what became of the family she lost decades ago.

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

A few months passed Voleth Meir, spring was breaking out across the Continent, and the band of four have grown closer in the time. Apologies were more properly given, acknowledgment of past behavior made, promises forged. One of the more surprising bonds was the one between the bard and the witch. The aggression they’d given each other for nearly a decade had all but melted into loving cheek tossed with deep respect, unspoken but understood. Then, as the morning sun opened up in the sky, Jaskier takes an opportunity while Geralt and Ciri practice their sword technique a distance away to lean close to Yennefer's side and ask her a question.

"Yennefer, have you ever thought of your family?" he wonders, keeping his gaze set on the two dancing with blades across the glade, trying to keep the question somewhat casual.

Yennefer also holds her eyes to their travel companions' activity, choosing not to risk vulnerability by properly turning in response.

"Some of them are here, a few are at Aretuza," She says nonchalantly," You're all constantly popping up everywhere, so of course, I think about my family. But what of it?"

"Awe- you've included me in-"

Yennefer cuts him off," If you say another word about it I'll never say a kindness in your direction again. And I'll conjure a snake into your lute case when you’re least to expect it."

"Alright, my pester will be abandoned," he says with his hands raised in surrender before softening his tone a bit," But that's not who I mean. Not the three of us here, not the mages you trained with… I'm asking about the ones that came before any of this; your blood family."

Yennefer stiffens her back and takes a quick breath in before sharply answering," I have no memory of the people to which you are referring to."

"Yen, even you were a person. Under everything, before you became a part of all of this-", he motions to her figure dressed in another long black gown," witchy-ness, there were people. You can't have really forgotten them. I mean, surely how old could you really be?"

"Bard..." she cautions.

"I just... wondered if you thought of them. I think about mine sometimes." Jaskier admits," Everybody back at Lettenhove was alright the last time I saw them, but even that was years ago. So my mind lingers back to them, and I worry. And my visit was far more recently than you to yours, I’d wager. So I wanted to ask if you ever supposed about them."

The witch turns her eyes to him for a moment, then back to the two training," I haven’t wasted my senses on them since I was 14."

Jaskier sits silently for a moment, looking at the woman beside him," I don’t believe you." He dares, earning a snide look from her," Want to know why?"

Yennefer closes her eyes and lets out a sigh of vexation," Do share with me how you presume to know my mind with far greater intimacy than I."

He shifts, to bump his arm into hers for a moment," Because even though I’m quite sure your veins run cold with harsh venom... You’re a person, Yennefer. And everyone wonders about the people they were born to… Ciri asks about Pavetta and Duny sometimes, Geralt's called for his mother when he's badly injured. It's not a weakness, you can remember that part of your life. You can spend time on their memories... Just some food for thought."

He walks away leaving Yennefer to ponder what he's told her while he calls back," Even you can bend a bit, Yennefer of Vengerberg. You won't break."

She doesn't like the question that Jaskier posed. Why should she spend her free time on that subject? She had things to do, people to be here for. She should be focusing on how to help Ciri with Chaos; on keeping an eye on her own Chaos; on brewing potions; making plans; proving her devotion for the three. Those were the things that deserved her attention. Those were the things that didn’t betray her. She couldn’t say the same of her… those people.

Four Marks.

She was ripped from that home, thrown away to a witch, sold as less than livestock, less than half. As a beast, Tissaia had called her. That home looked at her and saw a broken creature unworthy of life. They knew her fate would be pain. They suspected it, and she knows her father longed for it. She could've died within Aretuza's walls, and they would’ve never minded. Not one bit.

Four Marks.

In the years following, she just let it all go. She pushed through the teachings. Earned her scars, her power, her respect. She was beautified, her aching back was straightened, her blood was a secret well kept by the brotherhood. She bled and earned more than that whole town than all of Aedirn could’ve been worthy of. She caught it with her own hands and held onto it like lightning in a bottle, stronger than nature’s most destructive forces.

Four Marks.

She had no interest in dwelling on the weak, pitiful girl who lived on the pig farm. What she used to be when she didn’t know herself. When she didn’t know she could weld power. That girl died on the farm. The girl who went to Aretuza and walked out taller was not her. There was absolutely not even a spark of desire to spend time thinking about the family who didn't want her. And yet…

Four Marks. Four Marks. Four Marks.

She couldn't stop. Curse the bard and his idiotic questions - because now she couldn’t stop thinking and wondering and recounting and remembering. She remembers the rage and pain and defeat when she was sold. She remembers the hollowness that took root in her heart when she slit her wrists. She remembers the frustration and betrayal that seemed to follow her. She remembers all the victories and how they never quite felt enough… And she also remembers the birthdays with her mother and the good days when their father was gone. She remembers that her family did love her once upon a time. Beyond the cretin of a man her mother remarried, that home made her feel safe and warm. But now… what if it’s too late?

A few days following, Yennefer approaches Jaskier and pulls him aside," Alright bard, if you’re so smart and know my mind so well, answer this. If I did think about my family, and I'm not saying I have, but what would I even do about it, if I did?"

In a hushed tone, he asks," Well, what family do you think you might have?"

After some hesitation, Yennefer releases her bite on her cheek and answers," Four younger half-siblings."

"How old might they be?" Jaskier questions gently, worried just a bit that they might be lost to time already.

The sorceress clenches her jaws, she knows exactly how much older she was than them, it took only seconds for her to do the math," Oldest would be 67, Youngest 63"

With some relief, Jaskier confirms," So, they could very well be alive, right?"

She sets her eyes away from the man and instead finds interest in the sun setting on the horizon," ... Maybe."

"Do you want to find out? Where and how they are?"

Yennefer's mind pounded with conflict. Her expression simmered with the fact that she didn't know. She wasn't sure, and Yennefer was never unsure. She turned away from the bard, her back separating them like it would protect her from all the bad that admitting her feelings could bring.

She didn't want to think about them, not after all the hurt and after all the time. She didn’t. Not the happy family who couldn't wait to get her out of their lives, at any cost. But now she remembers helping her mother get the young ones to bed, telling them stories, feeding them meals, playing in the grass, back when they were so little they didn't even notice how everyone in the town looked at her. They grew and figured it out, but even though their father so openly hated her, they never treated her as anything but their big sister. They still hugged her, climbed into her bed when scared, pressed their cheeks to hers, and called her their Yennie. And now that she's wasted so much time… if she dared to miss them, or long for them... she could find that they've already died while she was busy. Because she didn't want to care about them sooner.

"I have a friend in Aedirn. I could have him try and find them if you want. He could let us know where they are if you ever decide you want to do something about the thinking." Jaskier offers, breaking her from her lonesome spiral.

After a long moment of silence, Yennefer answers, in the softest voice Jaskier's ever heard her use," alright"

Jaskier seems to keep quite capable associates in his circle, in just over a week they receive a letter. And after flipping it between her fingers for a period, she opens it. Yennefer’s oldest half-sister, Annifer, still lived on that same farm. She lived there with her daughter. Yennefer had a niece. Jaskier doesn’t pressure her to do anything with the information, but he offers his support in whatever she decides to do. She chose to request his company on her voyage back to Vengerberg. They tell Geralt and Ciri they’ve got business and will be gone for just a few days. Yennefer portals them to town, but they stay at the Inn for the night, Jaskier can feel the anxiety coming off her in waves. She would deny it had he asked, but she was worried. It’s been nearly 60 years, after all, things could’ve changed. The darling girl who loved her despite their father might’ve grown to hate her just the same as he did. She could hate her. What does she do then? Would it be better not to know?

“It’s good that we came. If nothing else, you’ll know how much you survived. For better or worse, you made it out of here and came to find a lot of people in this world who love you.” Jaskier says, absentmindedly while he leans out a window. As if he’d just told her the weather and not reached into her mind to give her the very assurance she needed.

The next morning they board a horse-drawn carriage and leave the city streets for the rural farmland, passing wide acres of pastures and gardens and barns. Most of them haven’t even replaced a single board, all looking exactly as they did when she was young. Each place a witness to the torment of her youth. There she was shoved into the earth and sat on. There they rubbed her clothes in the mud till she caught a cold. There she was harassed until she conjured her first portal. And as they came upon her childhood home... there she was sold for four marks.

There was a grown woman with the pigs, pouring down the slop for them to feed. There were more now, dozens more than her father ever managed to rear. As the horse pulled to a stop, the woman turned around, with long amber hair, dark brown eyes, and warm skin. She was pretty. Nothing could really compare with Yennefer's own gifted looks from Aretuza, of course, but she was pretty. The woman approaches, slips out of the gate, and sets the pail down, wiping her hands on her apron before she holds it out to them.

“I’m Yire. Of Vengerberg, clearly.” She said as they shook hands with her in greeting.

Some part of Yennefer swelled at that. She was named Yire, the same first letter as her own. Perhaps her half-sister did still carry some love for her… perhaps.

“I’m Jaskier. I had a message dropped by yesterday to let you know of our arrival. Did you receive it alright?”

“We did - Well, I did. I haven't mentioned it to mother yet, wasn’t sure if it could really be true. But to look at you… Please, come in. She’ll really want to see you, too” Yire motions to the front door as she steps to it. Yennefer hesitates. This is it. The moment where she has to decide which side she places her heart on. Does she gamble all her hopes on this venture? There’s a lot of risk to assume if she did-

But Jaskier places his hand to her elbow, the gentle touch assuring her once more that as terrible as things could possibly go in that house: she’s got people. She’ll always have people. She isn’t alone like she was back then. She isn’t young like she was back then. She is not just Yennefer of Vengerberg anymore. She is Yennefer of Aretuza and Yennefer of the White Wolf, the Song Bird, and their Starlight. She had people.

She walked up the steps with Jaskier close behind, and Yire opened the door into the humble home. It was cleaner than it was when she was small. They had more things now too. Yire strides into the room comfortably and kneels by the dining room table. Where sits an aged woman hunched over and covered in a shawl.

"Mama, we found Yennefer. She’s come to say hello," she says gently.

The elder turns in her chair and looks at Yennefer, who stands in the doorway, her image blinded by the in pouring light," No, no you haven't. Yennefer had a hunch on her back, on her left shoulder." She insists, turning back away from the guests.

"Her vision isn't well," the niece says as she motions for Yennefer to come closer," Please, Mama, look again."

The mage walks into the room and comes to her half-sister’s side.

The woman growls out," I tell you, you’ve got the wrong one. That's not her! I told you, Yennefer had-" she stops her rant the second their eyes meet," purple iris’... they were purple like fresh spring pansies..."

The older woman's lips quiver as her hands reach out to gently hold Yennefer's cheek," Yennie?"

There were more than a few tears shed in the room, the first fell from Annifer, but once she wrapped her arms around her long-lost older sister, Yennefer’s began to flow. They hugged so tightly that they barely shook through their laughs. They sniffed and brought kisses to one another’s faces. They missed each other for so long. Yire’s hands came to her open mouth as she backed away from the scene. Jaskier offered the niece a handkerchief to wipe her eyes while they excused themselves to the front yard, to give the sisters some time together. They simply looked to the shining sun stretched over the horizon and agreed that what they just witnessed might’ve been one of the most beautiful things to ever occur on the whole Continent.

When they both regained their senses, Annifer told Yen everything that happened after she had been taken away.

“Mother wailed for days, was so heartbroke she couldn’t bring herself to the kitchen to cook for us. Father was worse off. If he were pleased by his actions, it soothed his rotten soul only barely a moment, he was still cruel. All four of us kept asking when you were to come back. I don’t think we really understood quite what we'd seen. It was a confusing, sorrowful four days. But early on that fourth morning, after mother woke from her cries, she simply walked into the kitchen where I was making snack, frighteningly calm. She was still-faced, eyes puffy and tear-stained, but there was not one readable emotion in them. And she took the meat knife from the cupboard and returned to her and father’s room, where she sliced him up. Four neat cuts to his throat before she was done and just walked away.”

That was the last thing Yennefer had expected. Her meek, mouse of a mother, who was always so dependent and scared… took the life of the man who sold her. She left four marks on him. A return on what he did. It didn’t wholly fix it. She’d never get that time back, what she lost while her mother let her be thrown away. But knowing it truly hurt, that it changed her too… It meant something.

“From then on, she was a bit of an outcast. The whole town was sure she was mad. To have killed her husband for the child they all abhorred? Not even soon enough to save the daughter, but in her honor did it anyway? It seemed ridiculous, but they never charged her with anything, he wasn’t the town’s favorite either. And the pig farm kept running. She never gave up on you, never stopped believing you were out there. Every day she was at market, she’d ask,‘ Have you seen my daughter? She’s 14, short black hair, tall, purple eyes’, a humped back. Please, have you seen her?’. She was always sure, no matter what.”

When Yennefer joined Aedirn’s court, the name of their country’s mage never reached them. Simple pig farmers never got that sort of news. But until the bitter end, her mother loved her. She was loved... the whole time she was loved. Even when it felt like everyone she knew was working against her, a world away her mother sat in this home, loving her and hoping she was happy. She found out too late that her mother never gave up faith. But she still had a chance here, with the blood she had left.

“All the family gathers here for Yuletime each year. Nalla, Daskeh, and Safni, all their kids and partners. We gift give, feast, and remember. You’re welcome to come this year, they miss you dearly too.”

“I will. I’ll come, as long as you’ve also got room at the table for my family. They’re quite unconventional, a mismatched set anywhere else, but they're all good, all the way through.”

“Of course, they are welcome. They all played a part in getting you back to us. They are family, too.”

And that year, and the many years after, Yennefer, Geralt, Jaskier, and Ciri would find the time to portal over to Vengerberg during Winter’s Yule to spend time on a pig farm, to reforge memories of the home with love.

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

My Other Works ❤

Feel free to go and leave it a kudo on ao3 too, if you want ❤

#Cae Has Lots of Feelings About The Witcher #Yennefer Siblings AU stuff #Jaskier is a goddamn therapist for emotionally traumatized magic people #I said what I said #I just wanted some feel good stuff #Let the witch be soft please #There is so much pure angst #I am def part of the problem #but I think we deserve a lil bit of just happy stuff #this is pretty much pure fluff with some anxiety #The Witcher #The Witcher Netflix #TWN #The Witcher Season 2 Spoilers #Jaskier #Julian Alfred Pankratz #Yennefer #Yennefer of Vengerberg #Geralt #Geralt of Rivia #Ciri #Cirilla of Cintra #Yennskier #If you Squint #The Witcher fic #The Witcher fanfic #Yennskier fic #Yennskier fanfic

[babylooneytoonz]

The Vessel [ Pt. 10 ]

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Fem! Reader

Summary: You go back to Cintra, back in your kingdom and back amongst the people that love you, and your two companions go back with you.

Warnings: Idek?

A/N- Although I decided to have Ciri in my story, Ciri actually does not have any powers in this one, and the reader does. For some reason, Pavetta's bloodline could not have the elder blood in it.

[My Masterlist] [My Witcher Masterlist - Read the other parts here!]

Calanthe had a tight lipped smile etched to her face; this celebration was making her feel claustrophobic and the crackling cords of the lute gave her a headache. On one side sat her husband, the King of Cintra, Eist Tuirseach of Skellige and on her other side sat her granddaughter, the blonde haired blue eyed beauty, Cirilla.

"Spare me the festivities, I can't wait to retire and sleep off all night," she muttered under her breath, her fake smile still plastered on her face, as she acknowledged the lords that bowed their heads in her direction in greeting.

"Calanthe, love, it's her anniversary, you can atleast pretend to have a good time," Eist smiled, his fingers curling around the goblet in front of him as he lifted it and brought it up to his lips, taking a sip.

"Would someone even bother asking me if I like it?" Cirilla scowled, rolling her eyes. If there was one thing she couldn't do, was pretend, unlike her grandmother and her husband, who could give a 1000 watt smile on even the gravest of days.

Eist scoffed, but was met by a glare from his wife, as she turned towards Ciri with a stern look on her face, but not one with hatred, "Ciri, when will you learn?"

"Oh stop it grandmother, not again."

Calanthe let out a deep shaky breath pummeling from deep within her lungs as she sat back, trying to get more comfortable when she spotted one of her soldiers speaking to Mousesack by the gate. She squinted her eyes, bringing her index to her chin as she leaned forward, letting her chin be supported by it. Mousesack's expressions screamed at her that the discussion was not a common one; something was up.

Mousesack craned his neck to his side, discreetly and looked at her, her eyebrow instinctively shooting upwards in inquisitiveness and he blinked, slowly striding towards him until he was leaning next to her and whispering something into the Queen's ears; Eist and Ciri watching them with their eyebrows raised.

"We need to see Calanthe," Geralt said to one of the guards at the massive gates for the fifth time, and the guard asked him for the fifth time back what their purpose for visit was.

Geralt pursed his lips shut, and turned towards you. He looked at you in the eye, and you sighed. This wasn't working. There was no way on earth they were going to let you go in unless you told them what the truth was, but you couldn't risk it. What if they didn't believe you?

"Guards, back away. Let them in. The Queen wants to see the three of them." Mousesack's voice rang from behind them and they turned around immediately, moving out of the way until you came face to face with the a man with greying long hair, although way shorter than Geralt's. He had a pleasant, kind look to him but still, he had caution in his eyes.

"Follow me," He said, his voice not wavering a bit.

You turned towards Geralt who was stiff, and alert too, his eyes scanning the man in suspicion. When you didn't follow him, the man turned and his expressions softened, "I am Mousesack, Queen Calanthe's confidant. I mean you no harm."

"Geralt, I think we should?" You asked, and he blinked in approval, his lips clenched together.

The three of you entered the palace, slowly following the man in front of you. The hallways were elegant and beautifully lit, and a faint sound of a lute filled the hallway. You slowly turned towards Jaskier, and saw him in a daze just like you had expected him to be.

"Jaskier, I'm sorry about your lute," you sighed, and he looked away for a bit, in sadness, his hands held together in front of him.

"You know? Lovers may come and go, but she was forever loyal to me."

"I'm sure you'll find a new one," Geralt grumbled next to you and you gasped, elbowing him in his side.

"Geralt, can you please not?"

He grumbled something again, but you chose not to entertain the Witcher. Instead you linked your hand with Jaskier's, sliding it against his arm until you were holding it and walking, leaning against him.

"I don't think Yennefer will take my revenge on your lute."

Geralt snorted next to you, and Jaskier threw his arms in the air, dramatically and you giggled teasingly.

"I thought you were on my side, [Y/N]. But I see that your priorities have changed."

Jaskier wiggled his brows dramatically and flush crept on your cheeks, your insides flaring up once again. Your heart almost felt like it stopped, and you couldn't bring yourself to take a look at the brooding man walking next to you. Finally, you mustered enough courage to look at him, but when you did, you realized that he was actually grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"You too?" You growled at him and he stopped smiling.

"Jaskier isn't always wrong."

"Hey! I am NEVER wrong—"

"Geralt, I supported you. You're siding with him now?"

The three of you were talking at the exact same time and Mousesack abruptly stopped, turning towards you and all three of you stopped bickering, looking at him with embarassment on your faces.

"We all thought you were dead, Princess."

You looked at him in disbelief; he knew?

"My apologies, I didn't meant to startle you. I'm, uh, a druid. I know things, and I can feel powers. The minute you stepped into Cintra, I felt your presence," you blinked, "and Tissaia de Vries might have told me you would come?" He smiled at you.

"Does she know?" You asked, your voice coming out weaker— as though something was lodged to your throat.

He smiled, and nodded, "She does. She has been waiting to see you ever since the sorceress paid her a visit and told her you were alive."

As Mousesack stopped talking, you looked up to see that you were in a richly furnished chamber but it wasn't the chamber that surprised you, it was the woman that sat nervously by the edge of the king sized bed, her fingers nervously toying with each other. Another young girl stood in a corner, excitement glimmering in her eyes.

"Your Majesty, she is here," Mousesack announced.

Calanthe looked up, her eyes brimming with tears. She glanced at you from top to bottom as though she was trying to fit your memory into her mind. She blinked, ignoring how thick chunks of tears now flew from her eyes and she stood up, almost trembling like a leaf.

"Come here, sweet child?"

You didn't know what came over you. Maybe, it was the fact that you didn't ever experience the love of a mother. Or maybe, you were going to be a mother yourself, so you knew what a mother's role was. You ran towards her, and she almost choked on a smile as you ran into her arms, burying your face into her chest as her fingers began stroking your hair.

"I can't believe it's you, sweet child. I never thought..I'd get to hold you in my arms. Look at you. You're.. grown up," you pulled back, and her palm came to rest against your cheek, her thumb stroking it gently.

"What's your name? I never.. got to name you."

"It's [Y/N], mother."

Ciri awkwardly walked up to her grandmother's side, her fingers clenching the Queen's garment, her blue eyes looked at you.

You looked down at her and raised an eyebrow.

"Meet Ciri, [Y/N]. Your niece."

You sat back, trying to get more comfortable in the utterly soft chair on the Queen's table; your back hurt like a bitch.

Calanthe nodded at one of the lords who took her hand and plastered a kiss against her knuckles and she gave a fake smile before turning to you and muttered, "The child giving you trouble?" Her words ended with a glare towards the Witcher and you bit your lip.

"I'm fine, mother."

"I can't believe you brought that wretched bastard with you, [Y/N]. Men like those, treating our bodies like we are nothing but a fucking commodity."

She took a sip of ale, her eyes not leaving Geralt who stood in the farther end of the hall, drinking ale from a pitcher himself. Jaskier had taken the lute from the bard, borrowed it actually, and was now entertaining the guests.

"Mother, he isn't.. I mean.. I know this all doesn't paint the right picture, but Geralt has been kind to me."

"Kind? You would call a man who used your body just for the sake of having a child? And look where it got you—" She hissed.

"Mother—"

"Calanthe, my love," Eist intervened, and you swallowed the lump forming inside your throat, your eyes fixed on the Witcher.

"Fine but he needs to leave. Before I ask him to leave myself," Calanthe growled.

Your heart sank at this, and to make this worse, Geralt was right there in front of your eyes and your heart aches to go talk to him but you didn't want to anger your mother, especially when you had met her for the first time in your life.

You sat up in bed, drenched in your own sweat, your chest heaving up and down. You had seen the sorceress in your nightmare and she was smirking, holding your baby in her hands. What made it worse was the fact that Geralt was next to her, holding her by her waist, as he bent down to kiss the forehead of his child.

You swiped your palm over your face as reality sank back in and you realized that it was just a nightmare— you were in Cintra. You were safe.

You laid back down in bed, closing your eyes so you could fall back into a deep slumber yet again, only hoping that the sorceress wouldn't torture you in your dreams again.

For a few minutes, you kept tossing and turning in bed, your body churning in discomfort. You couldn't sleep.

You sat up once again, rubbing your belly, trying to comfort your unborn baby, until something struck your mind.

You decided to explore the palace, for this was your first time you had actually been to one, and ironically, this was your home. You slid into your robe, tying it securely around your blossoming waist as you stepped out of the chambers, holding just a candlestick to help you look around.

You wandered aimlessly through the palace confines for a few minutes, exploring.

It was only after fifteen minutes or so, you decided to check out the other tower. Only, you had no idea that the other tower was the guest tower where Geralt and Jaskier were staying the night.

Geralt frowned, squinting his eyes as he threw back his head, downing the contents of the pitcher in one go. He looked at Jaskier, who had a blonde woman curled against his lap, his fingers fondling her thigh. Shaking his head, the Witcher slammed the pitcher onto the table and pushed himself up.

He pushed his way through the overly drunk guests at the celebration, his only goal now to reach his own chambers for the night so he could get a peaceful sleep before the dawn came the next morning.

The hallways were quiet this side of the palace, and Geralt could practically hear the sound of his feet as he climbed the staircase towards his room.

Strangely, his eyes fell on you— you were sitting on the topmost staircase, staring at your hands, a look of exhaustion draped over your face.

"[Y/N].." Your name shot out of his lips like a prayer and he saw you look up, a look of relief reflecting in your eyes.

"Are you okay?"

The concern in his voice was like a sharp knife cutting through your heart, hurting just the right amount. You blinked, giving him the weakest of your smiles as you nodded and stood up. You were now on the top most step, and Geralt was on a step below you, so the man was just the same height as yours.

His eyes were golden, a fire lurking within his irises, his eyes although hollow and devoid of any emotion, for others, you could see a flicker in them, that made a warmth tingle inside of you somewhere.

"Couldn't sleep.. "

"Is it the baby?" He frowned, still looking at you, an inexplicable look on his face. It was only then that you felt something. When you lowered your eyes, you saw his palm pressed to your stomach.

It felt oddly intimate. It was just the two of you, in that hallway, and Geralt had his warm palm protectively draped over your belly— and as though the baby already knew who his father was, you felt a flip in your stomach.

"No, the baby is okay."

Relief filled him, and he gave you a flicker of a Ile before he placed his other hand on your arm and pushed you slightly towards the wall to step up the topmost stair, so he could tower over you.

"She haunts my dreams," you blurted out, although you didn't know why you said it and Geralt looked thoughtful for a bit.

"Mine too."

"In what way?"

Despite the crispness of the weather in Cintra, you could feel your blood running cold and your toes begin to tingle, not in a good way. You could feel the jealousy rise inside of you, and your nostrils flared.

"I see her as a monster."

"Not your lover?" You mumbled.

Geralt took a step closer, and you instinctively took a step backward, until your back was against the wall. The proximity between you two was almost that of a finger length, but you didn't mind.

He shook his head as he took a deep breath.

He smelled of ale and the forest— of nature.

"You're safe now. And so is our baby."

"Until when?"

It was all rainbows and sunshine, until thick black clouds fled up the sky, hiding the sun and it was all dark.

"I—" Geralt began speaking, but almost immediately, he fell quiet, and you blinked, waiting for him to speak but no words came out of his throat.

"What?" You asked.

"Do you regret this?"

The question pulled you off guard as you were least expecting it. Your eyes went from widened to confused, as you tilted you head slightly and placed your palm against your side, parallel to the wall and using it to support yourself.

Did you regret it?

"Which one? Having you use my body to find yourself a motive in life?" You asked, bitterly.

"Meeting me I mean."

"We didn't exactly meet in the best circumstances, Geralt," you chuckled nervously, bringing your palm to your front, your fingers hooking to his locket, as your fingers began toying with it, your eyes fixed on his, "the thing I remember, you fucked me on the Great Mount."

Geralt grunted under his breath, but he still leaned closer, letting his face dip, ever so slightly so that his lips were inclined to yours, aching to be pressed to them. He parted his lips, letting his tongue swipe over his bottom lip, as your fingers began trailing upwards, his locket now forgotten.

Geralt closed his eyes, the instant he felt your fingers run against his chest up to his neck, as you suddenly grabbed a fistful of his collar and pulled him closer, your noses now touching, and your chests heaving out of control.

"Tell me, Witcher, do Witchers dream?" You suddenly asked, your hand flying up to your head as you absentmindedly tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear.

Geralt's lips twitched, and his eyebrows creased slightly, as though he was thinking hard. Finally, his face moved slightly, just a light bob, signalling a nod.

"What do you dream of? What did you dream of most recently?"

He blinked, tilting his head, "I saw you. You were in the woods."

You were captivated by him; frozen on spot, and he didn't even touch you, or hold you. It was like there was an imaginary force binding him to you, drawing the two of you together.

"There was a woman long time back, I met her in Blaviken."

You bit your lip hard, a taste of metal flooding your tastebuds. Why was this making you jealous?

"I think I should go." You stepped away abruptly, and immediately took a step around, your hand flying to your heart, as you began fisting your fabric into a ball, your cheeks still heated up. Your steps were fast, and you didn't stop until you were at the end of the hallway when Geralt's voice rang out behind you, and you paused, just for a second but didn't turn around, only to let his words sink in. "Her name was Renfri. And she said something to me— The girl in the woods will be with you always. She is your destiny."

You gasped at the realization, his words slowly sinking into you, settling into everywhere in your body— your mind, your senses, your heart. You didn't look back, and instead you began running, towards the confines of your chambers, for you knew if you didn't, you wouldn't be able to stop yourself from falling into his arms.

The Vessel Taglist:

@kawennote09 @viking-raider @raspberrydreamclouds @pterodactylterrace @singeramg @historianwithaheart @miss-emilia-cavill @ayamenimthiriel @crazynocturnalkiki @xxxkatxo @coffeebreathy @fanaticnae @kmuir1 @little-jana @pineapplemama @auds24 @sassy-pelican @bitchynicole @cavillsim @ragamuffin285 @hista-girl @oliviali0930 @introvertedmouse @madbaddic7ed @libbymouse @nerra75 @maxineswritingcenter @superawesomegeek @waifu4lifeu @funalpaca @petitefirecracker10 @marantha @vikingsbifrost @babypink224221 @jessyballet @strrynigxts @rn7rocks @theroyalbrownbarbie @amirra88

#geralt of rivia x y/n #geralt of rivia works #geralt of rivia x you #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia #the witcher x y/n #the witcher x reader #the witcher #henry cavill x reader #henry cavill

[abluescarfonwaston]

forget viscount, Jaskier is a secret royal prince au!

Aaaaaaaaaaayeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!! Was just thinking about this!!!! This is what happens when you dig through the wiki. (Ie the school of the cat and wolf were both sponsored by Kaedweni and eventually the king decided nah. Had the cats murder the wolves and then sent soldiers to finish the cats) This… Might be a bit more than 5. To the story I will never have time to write!

1. When Julian was born his hair was golden, even though his parents’ hair was black. Mages could find no fault in his paternity. A blessing some said. A sign he would reign in a golden age of prosperity. A curse said others brought on by his grandfather, King Radowit II, for the massacre of Witchers; cat and wolf alike. Gold like the eyes of the monsters he slayed.

2. A witcher once attempted to murder Julian as payback. Or at least it started out that way. His little blue eyes opened to look at them. “Are you okay?” Their swing stuttered to a halt. “What are you doing?” 

“You’re family slaughtered mine.” 

“Oh. I’m sorry. That must hurt.” 

“This will hurt more” They were going to say. But Julian wrapped his little arms around them and they couldn’t do it. They fled. Julian still remembers those golden eyes. The pain he’d have done anything to alieve.

 3. When Julian was seventeen he realized he couldn’t do it. Any of it. He couldn’t. So he cut his golden curls and dyed them brown. Made it all the way to Posada before his coin ran out. Saw beautiful golden eyes. He’d been trying out lots of different names but it’s not until that night, when Geralt finally asks, that he becomes Jaskier. Buttercup. Golden. Toxic. It seems a fitting warning.

4. Geralt doesn’t know why the kids so damn scared of the Kaedweni coat of arms (He hides in their room or the stables every time he spots it), probably slept with some noble and has a death warrant out on him. But he doesn’t object to another reason to avoid that cursed nation.

5. With all the songs and jobs Jaskier gets the wolves (and witchers in general) he’s practically their new patron. He spends a lot of time with Geralt, sure, but plenty of other witchers end up buddying up with him too. Eskel, Lambert, Coen, Aiden and so so many more. When paths cross and tensions run high bringing up Jaskier becomes an easy way to diffuse the situation. He’s gotten them all so many drinks. Saved so many of their lives.

6. Jaskier’s father, Henselt, grows ill and the hunt for the Heir apparent increases in its fervency. Jaskier, run ragged after the mountain and his father’s pursuit is captured. He’s eventually rescued by Eskel who takes him to Kaer Morhen to wait out whatever madness this is. He shoves his hair into a cap and never takes it off no matter how sweetly Eskel kisses him. The roots have grown out. Golden.

7. When Kaer Morhen comes into view it not at all what he expects. It’s a crumbling ruin. Barely even that. This is what his family has wrought. This is what his family has done to the people he loves most. “I can’t. I can’t be here Eskel I can’t!” He cries. Because of Geralt, Eskel thinks, as Scorpion hauls Jaskier up the final pass.

8. At least the springs under Kaer Morhen are undamaged. Jaskier washes the last of the dye from his hair. Gold curls around his chin. A reminder of how his family slaughtered theirs. He pulls the cap back on. “Vesemir wants to see you.” Eskel tells him. Of course Vesemir wants to see him they both think in very different tones. Of course.

9. “Privately.” Vesemir scolds, looking out the window. Eskel closes the door behind him with an affectionate eye roll.

He pulls off the cap, falls to his knees and readies himself for what’s to come. “I do not ask for forgiveness and I do not ask for mercy.” He starts. His voice does not wobble or shake even as he freezes against the stone floor.

“For I know what my family has done to yours.” You’re family has slaughtered mine he hears distantly. He now knows exactly how true that is.

“I only hope that you are as kind as your sons and will make this quick.”

10. The sword doesn’t come. Instead he is lifted into Vesemir’s embrace. “Thank you. For keeping my boys safe.”

“Don’t you know who I am?” His hands clutching the air. “I’m Julian Alfred Pankratz.” He cries.

“You are Jaskier. And you have saved my sons lives more times than Lambert can count.” A joke wrapped up in honesty. It is only then that Jaskier hugs back. “Welcome home son. Welcome home.”

11. Geralt comes back with Ciri. There is drama. When the first news of spring arrives it brings with it heralds of his father’s death. He is to be king.

12. He returns. Claims his birthright. The castle becomes a home for not just the wolves but all the Witchers he’s come to call friend.

13. Aiden and Lambert are finally allowed to be together (HA. No more ban on cats DAD)

14. His sisters, who have actually been trained to run a kingdom do a bang up job. They usher in an age of prosperity and acceptance unseen on the continent. Humans, Elves, Halflings, Dwarves. They live in relative harmony. Between the army of Witchers, the mages they’ve befriended, and the populations dedicated to maintaining their sovereignty Nilfgard is pushed back.

15. Geralt and Jaskier still go on adventure together. His golden hair does not grey with time. A blessing and a curse. Your fate is tied to ours. When the last golden eye closes so will yours. “Then, I suppose, you shall have to live a very long life.” Jaskier says, kissing him under the stars. “A very long life indeed.”

#Jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #eskel x jaskier #the witcher #writing #vesemir #5+ Au Headcanons game #feel free to send more in if yall want #I want to write this fic just so for the Vesemir scene #could you tell? #Also Aiden x Lambert FOREVER #Yes Jaskier has a witcher harem in this obviously

[asweetprologue]

me lámh le do lámh - Part VIII

First | Previous | Next | Masterpost

They left the next day just after the sunrise broke watery through the clouds still lingering overhead, not wanting to overstay their welcome. The walk back to the nearby village was an easy one, the air still cool from the recent rain. The innkeeper hadn’t given their pre-paid room away to other guests despite the fact that they hadn’t used it for anything more than storage, which was a surprise. It was noon by the time they made it back, and they were easily able to secure the room for another evening so early in the day. Jaskier agreed to play at dinner, so they even managed to get a slightly reduced rate.

When they made it up to the room, Jaskier flopped immediately down on the bed, throwing an arm over his face. “Melitele, I could sleep for a week,” he groaned, slightly muffled. “I haven’t been this sore in years.”

“Good for you to finally get some exercise,” Geralt smirked as he checked on their belongings. Everything was where they’d left it, luckily. Geralt let out a breath of relief to see his potions all secure in their bag, the oathstone nestled amongst them.

Jaskier lifted his arm enough to glare at him. “As if walking day in and day out at your side isn’t work enough.”

“You’ve ridden Roach more than I have over the last week,” Geralt pointed out.

Jaskier put his arm down, head tilted to the side to look in Geralt’s direction. His hair spilled messily across the pale sheets. “I suppose I have,” he said, a small furrow appearing in his brow. The easy energy he’d had since they’d woken this morning was gone; now he seemed tense. His eyes lost their focus, his mind clearly going elsewhere.

Geralt didn’t know what to make of it. Clearing his throat, he said, “I’m going to go and see if they have any contracts for me. We won’t be stopping much over the next few weeks.”

At this Jaskier refocused, curious. “Where are we going next? We have all the pieces for the ritual, right?”

Geralt nodded. “The last piece is a location. We’re going back to Posada.”

*

The journey from the Brokilon to the Blue Mountains was one of weeks, rather than days. At this time of year the River Sodden and her many roads were wide open, and they were able to easily pass south under the Mohakams. This far south, spring was already giving way to summer, the warm vestiges of the Nilfgaardian desert winds finding their way to the pockets and hills of Angren and Rivia.

It should have been a pleasant journey. It was one they’d taken many times before, once Nilfgaard was no longer an issue, and they were both well familiar with the area. They kept the river to their south and traveled during the cooler parts of the day, stopping often. The wide river offered a constant source of beauty and convenience, and they were able to wash and fish regularly. Rivia, though not Geralt’s home by any stretch of the imagination, was friendly and offered plenty of places for them to stop and rest at the halfway point.

It should have been downright delightful, but instead it was… tense. Jaskier was quiet and contemplative much of the time, reserved in a way Geralt had rarely known him to be. He barely touched his lute, to the point where Geralt asked after it, only receiving a vague and unconvincing answer about saving the strings from the humidity. He spent the evening hours scribbling away in his journal, or simply lying and staring up at the stars. Sometimes, disconcertingly, he watched Geralt, especially when he seemed to think Geralt wasn’t paying attention. The furrow between his brow had grown to be near constant, and his shoulders had lost their easy swoop. When they spoke, something about Jaskier’s words felt needling, as if he was testing the waters for something. What, Geralt couldn’t even begin to guess.

He wanted to ask about it, but he found himself unable to find the words to do so. Jaskier didn’t seem mad at him—he knew what that looked like well enough, and this wasn’t it. He wanted to ask, but if he did it seemed possible, probably even likely, that Jaskier would admit that he’d figured out that Geralt was hiding something from him. He might even have realized the extent of Geralt’s feelings, or what the ritual really meant. Maybe Silvandrel had said too much, or Geralt had been too expressive, or too generous. Whatever it was, Jaskier was smart, maybe the smartest man Geralt had ever known; it wouldn’t take much for him to put two and two together. As he found Jaskier’s eyes lingering on him more and more frequently, it seemed also more and more likely that Jaskier was just trying to find a way to let him down easily.

Still, it wasn’t unbearable. Traveling with Jaskier in a mood was still better than traveling alone, and as always Geralt relished the chance to spend such uninterrupted time together. It was the best in the evenings, when their camp was already set up and the heat of the day had dispersed, and they had nothing better to do than sit and talk before both of them grew too tired to stay awake.

“What’s it like?” Jaskier asked one evening, lying on his bedroll with his ankle propped up on one raised knee. His lute was in his hands, a rare thing nowadays, but he wasn’t really playing it, just plucking a tune here or there. Testing the waters, it seemed.

Geralt was sitting with his back propped against a ragged tree stump, charred at the top where lightning had once struck. He looked up from where he was examining Roach’s tack, taking too long to reply as he was caught up in the image of Jaskier in the firelight. “What?”

Jaskier swiveled his head to look over at him, looking uncharacteristically pensive. “Being immortal. Or—not mortal. What do you even call a witcher, anyways. Semi-mortal? How long do you usually live? I’ve never gotten a straight answer about it.”

Geralt shrugged, the bridle dangling between his knees as he set his elbows to rest on them. “No one really knows,” he admitted. “Vesemir is… three hundred? We’re not sure, that’s based on references he makes, but Lambert swears sometimes he says things just to throw us off. Witchers don’t really… die of old age.”

“Surely some of you must retire,” Jaskier insisted. “Maybe not lately, but in years past…”

Geralt shook his head. “If they did, I haven’t heard of them. The Path is our life; we meet our end while on it. I know we can live for several human lifetimes, at least. I was older than you are now when we met.”

Jaskier’s mouth twisted in a smile that ached with bitter nostalgia. “I must have looked like a child to you.”

“You were a child,” Geralt laughed.

Jaskier threw something at him, and it bounced harmlessly off his knee. An acorn; the entire area was thick with oak trees. Clearing the ground beneath their bedrolls had been a pain. “Ass,” Jaskier chidded, but he was chuckling too. “I suppose we must all seem rather young to people like you though. Yennefer is the worst, she shouldn’t be allowed to poke fun at my very dignified salt and pepper and then turn around and call me an infant the next moment.”

Young man, Silvandrel had said, with that odd patronization that came only to those who would outlive most people they met. “It’s… not exactly like that,” Geralt allowed, studying Jaskier’s profile painted in orange and gold and dark dusky blue shadows. “Age isn’t the same as experience. There are eighty year olds who have done less in their lives than you had at twenty-three.” Jaskier looked over at him again, with a distinct expression of surprise and awe that Geralt was beginning to recognize as his reaction to Geralt giving him a compliment. He pushed on, turning his own gaze back to the tack in his hands. “I just mean, you don’t seem young, or inexperienced—at least not anymore,” he added, unable to resist throwing Jaskier a quick smirk.

“So Yennefer just calls me a toddler for her own enjoyment,” Jaskier said, squinting at him.

“Well, yes,” Geralt snorted. “But, it’s—you’ll understand. After. It’s not that you all seem young, necessarily, it’s just that you all seem sort of… I don’t know.” He shrugged. It was difficult to articulate the strange sense of fragility and youth that he associated with all humans, no matter their age.

“Temporary?” Jaskier offered, and Geralt grunted an affirmation. Of course Jaskier would be able to identify the feeling without ever experiencing it himself. Jaskier hummed in acknowledgement, and was quiet for a few moments, as if mulling that over. His fingers played over his lute strings, picking out a melancholy tune. After a while, he said, “It sounds a bit lonely. Knowing that almost everyone you meet will die a hundred years before you do. That they’ll never understand the way you view the world.” His eyebrows were knotted together as he contemplated the night sky.

Geralt bit his lip. “It… can be. Even amongst ourselves, we never know who’ll make it back after a year on the Path.”

Jaskier’s foot tapped the empty air where it hung over his knee. “Everyone I know, went to school with, taught with in Oxenfurt. They’ll all be gone before I will, if this works.”

Geralt felt dread unfurl within him, but this wasn’t something that he could deny Jaskier. This was the reality of Geralt’s offer, of what he was asking Jaskier to do. “Yes,” he said. But you’ll have me, he didn’t say, even though it burned at the tip of his tongue. You’ll have my brothers, and Ciri, and even Yennefer, and you’ll have me, always. That’s the point.

Jaskier looked over at him, eyes bright. He looked like he could hear Geralt’s thoughts, like maybe he was thinking the same thing. And then he grinned brightly and said, “I’ll outlast Valdo Marx by a century.”

Geralt couldn’t help the startled bark of laughter that left his throat. Jaskier launched into an excited diatribe against Valdo Marx, something about destroying his legacy after death, and Geralt allowed the babble to wash over him as he went back to fixing Roach’s tack.

After a while the conversation turned to other things, and they spent the rest of the evening in relative quiet. Eventually it was time to bed down for the night, and they banked the fire and crawled into their respective bedrolls. Just as Geralt was on the edge of sleep, Jaskier’s voice slipped through the quiet darkness around them.

“I don’t think I’m going to be.”

Geralt shook himself, turning to squint at Jaskier’s grey form, two aching feet away from him. His entire body itched to roll closer, but he focused instead on Jaskier’s words. “Hmm? You won’t be what?”

Jaskier let out a deep breath into the night air, soft like a secret. “Lonely.”

*

Posada was much the same.

Geralt didn’t know how long it had been since he’d been back. He knew he had been here post-Filavandrel incident, and he suspected Jaskier had as well, but they’d not returned together to the little valley at the edge of the world since the beginning. It had to have been at least ten years since he’d last been here on his own, but the small town was relatively familiar looking still. It had grown a bit since the war, likely as refugees from the south settled in the area, and there were new houses clustered around the outskirts. Still, the bones of it remained unchanged, and the inn was right where they’d left it.

They said nothing as they made their way into the town and headed in that direction. There was, so far as Geralt knew, no other place to find rooms for the night, so they didn’t have much of a choice. Stepping inside the small downstairs tavern should have been just like stepping into any other of the thousands like it that he’d been in, but it wasn’t. Things had been rearranged, of course; the furniture had been shuffled, and now a long table sat on the far side of the room before the fire. The small, cleared out space that Jaskier had stood in to sing was gone, filled with a cluster of tables and chairs. But the lone table in the back corner was, somehow, unmoved.

Geralt turned to Jaskier and found him staring at the spot as if entranced. He brushed his fingers against Jaskier’s forearm, and the bard blinked at him, startled back into the moment. “We should get a room,” Geralt said by way of explanation, and Jaskier nodded.

The man who arranged for their stay was not the one who had done so the first time, or the time after that, but his features were similar, so perhaps this was a son. He was amiable enough, and though Jaskier didn’t make any commitment to playing he offered them a fair rate.

Jaskier did end up playing, after they’d sat and eaten a quiet meal, avoiding the table in the corner in silent agreement. His fingers had worried at the edge of his lute case for a long moment, his eyes unfocused, and then something determined had steeled over his face and he’d stood.

There was a decent crowd this time around, bigger than the last time—the first time—that Jaskier had played here. Geralt remembered the stumbling notes, the ridiculous stories that spilled from the bard’s lips, unrefined. The way that the patrons of the bar had heckled him until he dipped sheepishly off the stage. He could understand why Jaskier might be nervous about playing here; even if no one remembered him, this had obviously been one of Jaskier’s first real performances for an honest audience.

It was like night and day. Jaskier had the entire room eating out of the palm of his hand in moments, as he always did, and his voice was clear and strong. Geralt recognized most of the songs, and almost all of them were about him, though he didn’t think any of the patrons put two and two together. Whereas Jaskier normally poked and prodded at Geralt throughout a performance to let everyone know that his muse was present, tonight he was subdued, letting Geralt watch quietly from a side table without dragging him into the proceedings. He might have thought that Jaskier had forgotten his presence entirely, if not for the occasional glance he caught Jaskier throwing his way, stealing his breath each time.

When he was finally done with his set and bowed his way out to the cheers of the audience, he made his way back to Geralt with his lute tucked under his arm. Jaskier leaned against the table in the space next to him, their knees just barely touching where Geralt’s was thrust out away from the chair. Jaskier looked down at him with almost a sheepish expression, giving him a quirked smile. “So. Three words or less?”

There were so many things he could say to that. So many things he wanted to say. You’re so beautiful, he thought, his eyes catching on the way Jaskier’s fingers wrapped around the neck of the lute, how his eyes shone in the low light of the inn. I loved it. Don’t leave me. I love you.

Instead, he said, a bit hoarsely, “Definitely more accurate.”

Jaskier laughed, some of that tension he’d been carrying for weeks breaking, and Geralt felt sweet relief at the sound. “Well I’d certainly hope so, after nearly thirty years of tailing you. At the very least I know my drowners from my nekkers.”

“At least there’s that,” Geralt chuckled, passing Jaskier a tankard of ale as he sat. “Glad to see you got something out of it.”

Jaskier took a sip of his drink, leaning his cheek on his fist. His eyes were bright when he looked at Geralt, and his expression was one Geralt recognized—he was bothered about something, but trying to keep his demeanor jovial. On anyone else, Geralt expected it would be an immaculate deception, but Geralt knew him. He wasn’t fooled by Jaskier’s court masks.

“Was it worth it?” Jaskier asked, taking another sip of his ale. His eyes left Geralt’s, flitting around the room.

Geralt frowned at him. “Was what worth it?”

Jaskier looked back at him, expression unreadable. “Letting an ambitious and no doubt obnoxious bard leave this tavern with you all those years ago.”

Geralt couldn’t help it; before he could think to stop himself, he had reached out to set his hand over Jaskier’s where it still held the handle of his cup. Jaskier jerked a bit at the touch, a drop of ale sliding down over their layered hands. “Of course it was,” Geralt said vehemently, not bothering to keep the earnestness out of his tone. Jaskier had to know. Even if he already suspected that something was afoot, even if this was some sort of test, Geralt couldn’t risk letting Jaskier think that he regretted a single moment of it. “You’re… Jask, you’re one of the best things that ever happened to me.”

Geralt could hear the sharp intake of breath at that, could see the way Jaskier looked down at their overlapped fingers and blinked rapidly. A small smile stole across his face, though there was a twist to it that seemed almost sad. “I’m glad, Geralt. Truly.”

Geralt wanted to ask, And for you? Was it worth it? But the tavern goers were quickly heading out now that Jaskier’s set was finished, and it was obvious that they would soon be the last ones remaining. And he found himself afraid, as he so often was nowadays, of the possibility that Jaskier would say no, that he should have spent the last thirty years playing in noble houses and courting beautiful women, rather than trekking endlessly after a surly witcher. He knew that it would make sense for Jaskier to have regrets, but he found that he didn’t think he was strong enough to hear them spoken aloud.

So instead he transferred his touch to Jaskier’s wrist, giving it a light tug. “We should head up,” he said, and Jaskier nodded. They pulled apart, and Jaskier finished his drink, and collected his lute. As they both turned to walk up the stairs, Geralt found his eyes catching once again on the little table in the corner. It had sat empty the entire night, as if waiting for something—or someone—to fill its seats once again.

~

Almost done folks! Just two more parts, and tomorrow’s includes the last piece of art for this story! 

tags: @whereismymonsterlover 

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier #the witcher #witcher #big bang #fic #fanfic #writing #my work #me lamh #geraskierbigbang #multichapter

[fortheloveofdeaddove]

Making Room

Warnings: See Making Room master post.

Summary: Time for a trip to Katy's.

Yeah.From day one, Charlie from Katy's has been David Cross as Tobias Funke in my mind. Your welcome.

Chapter 11

Geralt encouraged Ciri to tell him how she felt about last night’s family time as they went about their morning routine. Part of normalizing sex was to get her to talk about it regularly.

“I guess it was kinda strange to see two grown ups touching each other for once,” Ciri shrugged, referring to Vesemir and Eskel. When his children had brushed their teeth, he told them to get dressed and meet him at the breakfast table.

While they did that, he called Irene to see if Katy’s had any openings that day.

“Oh, sure! There’s always a slot for the Rivia family, you know that Geralt. Are you bringing your sweet little princess back, or will it be Julian this time?”

“Both, actually, if that’s alright.”

“ Of course it is,” she gushed. “And this time Lisa is home and all the kids can meet.”

“How’s Lisa doing?”

“We’re still struggling a bit with anal. I think it’s because Charlie spoiled her so much at the beginning. In fact, I’ve been meaning to ask your brother if he’d be willing to work with her. The famed Dragon Cock could surely resolve this.”

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed. “Ekel’s never met an ass he couldn’t tame. I’m actually taking Ciri to Santa Catalina tomorrow for the big night and Lambert is piloting. We’ll be back after four days, but until then, Pops and Kel have all the kids. I’m sure he’d be happy to set up a few sessions with Lisa after that.”

“Oh, how exciting ! Santa Catalina , you boys sure know how to wine and dine these kids! I take it you’ll be shopping for her wardrobe today?”

“And to spoil Julian, just for fun.”

“You’re such a good dad, Geralt, I hope you know that. Alright, we’ve got you on the books! I’ll send your brother a message later, thanks for the heads up about his schedule.”

“No problem. See you soon, Irene.”

When Geralt came downstairs, he did so quietly, and took the opportunity to eavesdrop on his kids.

“It’s just different for me because I grew up here. Even Aiden and Deidre had it different from me. I’ve just… always had one-on-one time with my uncles and Papa Ves. And I like it, so I can’t imagine being nervous. Besides, you haven’t even had sex with dad yet, don’t worry about everyone else.”

“I know , but I can’t help it. I just… can’t picture it. And when I do, it just… makes me feel nervous.”

“Then don’t picture it! Today we’re going to the spa, and dad said he was going to see if we could get in at Katy’s -,”

“I looooooooove Katy’s! Irene is so nice and Charlie is hilarious. I liked their cat-,”

“Peter is the best. I wish we could have a pet.”

That tired old argument.

“I don’t know. I really hate litterboxes. Moussack kept a cat in his quarters, and I hated studying there because of the smell. I like cats, but I don’t want to take care of one.”

Julian agreed.

“Does Uncle Eskel really like watching Papa Ves… have… sex with Deidre that much?”

“Yeah, it’s this thing called “cucking”. It’s when it makes your dick feel really good to see someone else have sex with the person you love. Weird , right?”

Geralt sighed and entered the kitchen.

“Julian, we do not shame each other for what makes us feel good in this house. It’s okay to be confused and even disgusted or upset by what someone else likes, but what do we say in that case?”

“It’s none of our business,” Julian recited morosely. “I’m sorry, daddy. I shouldn’t have said that about Uncle Eskel, Ciri. It was mean.”

Ciri nodded slowly, also feeling shy of Geralt’s gaze just for having been a participant in the conversation.

“I know you didn’t mean to, Julian. It’s fair to say that it’s a bit of a puzzle to everyone what works for Deidre and Uncle Eskel, but we’re their family, and all we need to do is support them.”

The children nodded.

He prepared cereal for them and cut up some fruit and poured some milk and he encouraged them to eat while he lectured a little on family history.

“Your Papa Vesemir adopted Eskel when he was four, me when I was three, and Lambert when he was seven. Uncle Coen came last. We all lived together in what you now know to be Papa Ves’ house…”

___

They’d visited the spa for manis and pedis while Geralt had sat on his phone in the waiting area. After that, they had lunch. When they got to Katy’s , Geralt was grateful to see that they’d set up an entire suite, though he insisted it hadn’t been necessary.

“ Nonsense , Geralt. Most of the time customers are a chore, but when they are a treat, it is a true pleasure to set up a decadent scene,” Charlie waxed on as he led them from the front of the establishment through to the back.

There where a number of VIP suites which were attended by a highly trained assistant that retrieved clothing (or other) items and provided hors devours, or sometimes a high tea service. Charlie and Irene never let the assistants anywhere near the Rivias, and Geralt preferred it that way.

It was a light tea service this time, in consideration of their recent meal, and Irene had filled the suite with a mix of swimsuits and summer wear, lingerie, and kink gear. Thankfully he didn’t see anything that would alarm Ciri overly much. He could rely on Irene’s good sense to be considerate of such things. 

Exposure was a good tool, sparking conversations even if he didn’t leave with any of those items.

He let the kids wander around the room, inspecting the mannequins and clothing displays. Ciri cooed over lingerie immediately while Julian followed her like an eager, horny puppy. He grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and shrugged off his jacket,removed his shoes, and made himself comfortable. 

The suite was comparable to the size of his living room, a space purposefully made with no straight lines and curved, sangria-colored walls that Geralt always felt were vaguely ‘60’s-psychedelic-vibe. It looked sumptuous with black accents and was typical of the boutique style, with a large chandelier, a painted ceiling to give the room a closed-off feeling. There were garish, classical-style nude portraits that, if the children bothered to pay any attention, depicted graphic sex acts, and there was a troubling amount of peacock feathers. Charlie was quite eccentric, but he was a good friend, and Geralt realized he might be onto something when he saw Julian pluck one of the feathers from the vase and tickle Ciri’s neck with it.

There was a tacky, circle bed at one end of the room with a mirror above it that, of course, all the kids loved. It did make for good photography, Geralt just couldn’t get over how gauche it was. The view was impressive, though.

There was a towering, antique, floor-length mirror aligned strategically next to the bed. They’d also be able to try their outfits on in front of it for him.

In a charming corner by a window full of plants was a daintily set table with their tea service. 

They’d gotten around to some of the more illicit items and he heard Ciri say, “I didn’t see stuff like this when I was here last time.”

“That’s because you didn’t know about the family yet,” Geralt interjected. “You two come on over here and get undressed and I’ll explain some things, Ciri.”

What was to follow was actually an incredibly important conversation. Or, rather, the beginning of a conversation that would be critical to the protection of their family and lifestyle.

The kids raced each other over and Julian smirked when he hit the bed first. Ciri stuck her tongue out at him and started to pull her clothes off. When they were naked and sitting nicely for him on the edge of the bed, he explained.

“Our family, as you know by now, is different from other people. We’re different from the rest of the world , you could say. But we aren’t alone. There are others like us out there. And just like being a part of any other group, there are all different kinds of people like us. Some we associate with, some we don’t. Some are our friends, some are people we hire or work with to do things with us. These are people who also love their daughters and sons, and are good mommies and daddies to their kids the way we are to you. Do you understand what I’m saying, Ciri?”

“Kinda?”

“Charlie and Irene have a daughter. Her name is Lisa. You’re going to meet her today after we’re through.”

“You’re going to love Lisa,” Julian gushed. 

Geralt chuckled. “So…,” he encouraged her to continue.

“So… Charlie and Irene are… with Lisa the way… we are?” she ventured hesitantly.

“Yes, exactly. So what I’m saying, sweetie, is that when we’re around Charlie and Irene and Lisa, and there’s no one else around, no strangers , then we’re okay to treat them like family, except, of course, you don’t have one-on-one time with them.” 

Not yet, anyway. Irene and Charlie always came to the family New Years party, and he had a strong feeling Lisa and Ciri were going to be the center of attention this year.

“So I’ll be nude with them? Will… will they watch us have one-on-one time?”

“Well, they won’t be doing that today, but somewhere down the line, yes.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Good. Now, I know we have a job to do today, but I want us to have some fun while we do it. Irene and Charlie set this all up for us so we could spend the day letting you kids pick whatever you want while we make each other feel good. How’s that sound?”

Ciri’s eyes went round and looked around the room, seeing it and the bed in a new light. “Really daddy? Here?”

“No, he’s totally lying. Of course, really sis!” Julian ribbed, smiling at her. “Are you nervous because it isn’t home?”

“A little.”

“Well that’s because you haven’t learned that this is a safe place yet, Ciri. Today you’re going to learn that. I want you to feel just as comfortable at Katy’s as you do at home, because Charlie and Irene really are like family. Don’t worry, sweetie. It’s not like the dressing room at the mall. You’re safe with me and Jules, and no one else is going to walk through that door. I promise.”

Ciri nodded. 

“First things first, lets have some tea before it gets cold. Then go pick out some things you want to try on. I want you both to work really hard to put together all the outfits, swimsuits, underthings, and special clothes Ciri is going to need for the trip. Then I want you each to pick out as many outfits as you want to show me in a runway show. Once we get that all together, daddy is going to show you how he’s going to make you both feel really good.”

After tea, he puttered around and admired the bejeweled butt plugs in the cabinet of accessories while the children picked out their outfits. Briefly he imagined Ciri and Julian secured on benches in the The Gym down in the The Basement. Gags in their mouths, hands and feet bound to the rings on the floor, while light reflected off the plugs in their asses, twinkling at him sweetly. 

He sighed and moved on to the racks of clothes. Irene, bless her, had already had several outfits for Ciri in the works since Vesemir had brought her in. She was her new muse , apparently, and that was fine with Geralt. The result was a stunning, powder blue lingerie set complete with a fur-lined, sheer robe, fur lined heels, garters, stockings, all of it. The panties and bra themselves were lined with silk, but the material covering the breast and pubic area was entirely sheer. The panties had a split crotch and a sweet little bow on the front because Irene knew him well. He didn’t plan to take any of it off her when he finally fucked her. She’d be a fucking vision underneath him. And on top of him. Gods he couldn’t wait.

Thankfully Julian had been teaching her how to put it all on surreptitiously through these sexy, "secret" photo shoots they'd been doing at home. ( That was an exciting little development he couldn't wait to see unfold when they got back, and again, Julian was a genius .) He wouldn’t have minded dressing his sweet girl, but he hoped she’d dressed herself in another room that night, because he fucking loved a good reveal.

He’d told her she could choose when she was ready, whichever day on the trip she wanted, but as always, that was an illusion. He planned to get her so worked up on the plane ride over that the subsequent dinner on the yacht would seem like torture. Then when she begged him to do it then, he’d solemnly tell her that he’d hoped she’d wear this special outfit for him that they’d have as a keepsake forever. Vesemir had done it for them, and he for Julian, and so the tradition went on.

That was the plan.

In the here and now, he got undressed and made sure the bed was set to his liking, with lube and toys within reach as the kids piled more and more clothes in a heap.

It was a big ask, so he was patient. He trusted Julian to be reasonable - he’d been on many trips like this with his dad and uncles and Papa Ves, so he was perfectly aware of what she would need. After a while, though, he’d noticed they’d gotten preoccupied on swimwear, the final item she needed, and he called it.

“Alright, alright, you two need a break from that. You can make your final decisions after we’ve had our time together and had a chance to clear your head, alright?”

They both seemed to like that suggestion and he stopped them from heading straight to the runway clothes. 

“Ah, ah, ah, come here, sweethearts. That was a lot of work. Let daddy give you a reward.”

They sighed gratefully and ambled over to the bed. Geralt had noticed Ciri’s tits seemed to jiggle a bit more these days, and her form was beginning to plumpen. When she’d first come to them, she’d understandably had a poor appetite, and given all the extreme changes she’d undergone since then, he hadn’t realized that she could use some fattening up because she’d just looked lithe to him. Now that it was happening, he was fucking delighted , and could really see the difference. When she bothered to wear her bikini, he noticed it pinched her skin just the slightest around her waist.

She’d been understandably confused when he’d asked her to take her top off and just stand there as Julian jacked him off onto her belly and tits, but she’d been happy she’d made her dad feel good.

“Ciri, I want you to lay down right here, that’s right, with your butt close to the edge, yep, right there. Now lay back and pull your legs up- that’s right, perfect.”

He and Julian admired her for a moment, from the pleasant little rolls on her tummy that were created by her position, the way her delicious little tits looked squished like this with her arms inadvertently pushing her chest up, to her hairless, flawless pussy and pucker all laid out before him like a feast. Then he instructed Julian to climb on top of her to press their cores as flush together as possible.

“Daddy is going to give you special kisses down here and I want you to practice kissing, okay?”

“Yes daddy!”

Geralt got on his knees at the foot of his bed and licked a line straight from Cirilla’s asshole to Julian’s.

His son and daughter ground on each other as he mouthed and licked and sucked, their adorable whimpering and panting noises delighting him. He could only just hear the wet sounds of kissing over the dynn he was making between their legs. Julian whined so beautifully when Geralt took his balls in his mouth. He slipped a finger into Ciri at the same time and she joined the chorus.

“Ah, ah, ah, daddy, daddy!”

Geralt pulled back and slipped two fingers into Julian as well, fingering both of his children at the same time. 

“What is it, Cirilla? Did you want something?You’re supposed to be kissing your brother,” he teased.

“Please, daddy!”

“ Please daddy, what?”

“More!”

“Tsk, tsk, how did I raise such greedy little kids? I must be doing too good a job at making you feel good, now you’re addicted to it.”

“Yes daddy, you’re so good!” Ciri cried and her cunt gushed , and Geralt could tell she was close. He aimed his fingers for Julian’s prostate and hooked the fingers in Cirilla to try to find that spot that would make her squirt.

“Well a good daddy does take care of his babies.” 

He put his mouth back on them as he continued to work his fingers. They writhed under him, Ciri hiccuping and Julian whispering desperately to her how pretty she was, how he loved rubbing their parts together, loved watching daddy make her feel so good.

Geralt adored watching Ciri’s hips and thighs tremble uncontrollably when he made her come on her g-spot. He couldn’t see it now, but he knew Julian was enjoying the sight of his eleven year old little sister roll her eyes in the back of her head. He was triumphant and she squirted, and that’s what he had to look forward to tomorrow when he bounced her on his cock. Gods he couldn’t wait. Julian wasn’t far behind and he continued to hump Ciri as Geralt pressed relentlessly on his prostate, crying out loudly as his orgasm passed and he was pushed into oversensitivity.

They took a hydration break and he went through about half a package of wet wipes to clean them up. Then he helped them wobble behind the dressing screen,  carrying the pile of clothes they were going to use for the “fashion show”.

“Does anyone need a snack first? There are finger sandwiches left over from the tea.”

Ciri quickly went and scarfed two down, which he was glad to see. Julian had one as well, and then he left them to their devices and made sure he was ready to press play on their playlist when they told him to.

What followed was honestly way more fun than he expected it to be. Ciri tried to perform her first strip tease wearing this pretty, flimsy summer dress, but got stuck in the dress when she tried to pull it over her head, and Julian had to come to her rescue half dressed in the next outfit he was supposed to come out in. Then the tablet died and the music stopped and Geralt burst out laughing, as did the kids. Ciri wasn’t overly sensitive or embarrassed about her failed attempt, either, which was good. It helped to have such a supportive brother.

When they finally got the tablet plugged back in and everything back on track, Geralt managed to give himself and the kids a great time. Whenever they sauntered out in something new, he bade them come to where he sat at the edge of the bed, and he would kiss them on their mouth or one of their holes or tits indulgently, reluctant to let them out of his arms when they wandered close, but then he gave no more than that. They’d stumble a little weak-legged back behind the dressing screen to change into something new and do it again.

When Julian came out in the same dress a second time, he snatched him up and threw him on the bed while he squealed, and he manhandled him out of the dress while the boy laughed brightly. Ciri joined them instantly, and soon he had Ciri on all fours with her brother’s cocklet in her mouth, while he leaned over her back and toyed with her tits and fucked her thighs. 

When they were finally wrung out, Geralt ushered them to the shower. He much preferred to move directly to downtime after a session like that, but needs must. They still had to pick Ciri’s swimsuits and meet Lisa. He hoped they would keep it brief.

It seemed like that had been their intention, too, because strawberry blonde Lisa was sat on her daddy’s lap with his cock in her. He was fully dressed, and she wore a floral print dress and pigtails today. Irene was working on her laptop as she sat atop a sybian, also fully dressed. How thoughtful of them, to use clothes to help expose Ciri to new circumstances. It was hard to find good friends these days, and the Rivias were endlessly grateful for Charlie and Irene and Katy’s .

“We hope you all enjoyed your visit today!” Charlie said in his overly genial voice. “Next time we’ll have to set up a playdate for you, Ciri, and my daughter Lisa, here. She’s just turned twelve last month, and we’ve been really excited for her to make some more friends that are girls.

Ciri only briefly glanced at how they were situated before she blushed and smiled. “It’s kind of a sausage-fest at my house, so I’m happy to make more girl friends.”

“HEY!” Julian cried.

“I was really excited when mom and dad said the Rivia’s had adopted another girl. I love DeeDee but she’s really quiet, so I’m hoping we can do some cool girl stuff together.”

Julian gagged and Geralt elbowed him gently, frowning. “Knock it off. Your sister’s right. It’s a total sausage fest at our house and she deserves to be around civilized company, like Lisa, every once in a while.”

Julian rolled his eyes. Geralt knew Julian just didn’t like the idea of sharing Ciri with even more knew people. It had already been a bit of a blow about her crush on Aiden.

Lisa seemed extremely pleased by the compliment. 

The girls tittered some more about something on Tik Tok before the grown ups signaled each other in the ancient language of heavy sighs and patted knees, and Geralt herded his kids out the door, grateful that the bags were already in the car.

He was ready to get home and get packed. They were tired, but they still had a bit of a night ahead of them.

#House of Rivia #Making Room #The Witcher fic #dead dove do not eat #Geralt/Ciri #Geralt/Jaskier