there is only me

          THE REFLECTED WORDS INEVITABLY DRAW A WINCE FROM HIM, and he frowns. Destiny. No, never. Never Destiny. Not that it matters. And she reflects words from his Thoughts, which he’s asked her to refrain from, time and time again. She does it regardless. Not that it matters. He swallows hard, frowns hard, everything Hard. Such is the nature of this Love – in not so many words, because he cannot bring himself to Love in so many words. Not that it matters.

          There is nothing in the Witcher, Hollow and Stripped.

          “A job, then,” he mirrors, easily. In spite of everything, it’s familiar. Comfortable. And he’s at ease. “I haven’t taken a Contract. Formally. The Common Folk call it a Tortodragon. It’s a Chelonodrake. Very large. But you knew that, undoubtedly.” And she must know that it is something that he simply won’t risk his life for, because this beast is large, and the Common Folk would not be paying him nearly enough to dispose of a Draconid the size of a small Mountain. 

            They walk, and he is silent, for a time. He does not let himself yearn for her too openly. She will read it, read Him, and she will be put off, he thinks. He takes it easy, if such a thing exists with them. And he looks at her, and he Aches. But he remains Hollow and Stripped. And talk of the Job-That-Isn’t-Truly-A-Job returns. Somewhat.

         “Yen,” he says, softly, barely audibly. “Undoubtedly, you know, too, then, that it’s fabled that a Chelonodrake’s organs, rare as the Beast is, can cure—-” A hard pause, then.

            “—- that which is Incurable. Am I mistaken?”

She watches him, curious; she had almost hoped to get a rise out of him, but watching his response only makes her tired, and a little regretful. She does so enjoy picking at old wounds, and then cursing the Yennefer of the moments before who’d drawn blood. She wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him but more than that she wants to tuck herself comfortably into his side and say that the silence between them has stretched long enough. She wants to be with him, near him. Wants him to have said it. Wants him to say it now. Wants, wants, wants, as if there’s nothing else for her to do but want, and she wonders if this wanting makes her weak.

     Yennefer lets herself enjoy his company in a way she hasn’t for too long, but then he speaks again, voice so quiet she almost misses it entirely. “You are not mistaken,” she says finally, and she keeps her voice neutral. It takes some practice. No; he’s not mistaken at all. 

     A topic they’d once discussed with some openness; now, it feels like he’s the one drawing blood, to feel herself laid so bare before him. I have no secrets from you, she thinks, eyes flickering to meet his, no secrets at all, and it makes me feel naked in the most wretched ways. 

     “Fabled, yes. There are no guarantees. There rarely are. But if the rumors are wrong, then there’s no harm done, and I have time enough to waste on false leads. If the rumors are true, then — ” She trails off, shrugging one shoulder, not wanting to dwell. What would she do? She’s never gotten close enough to it to have to consider what her next steps would be, but...

     now, the implication is very clearly that yennefer’s been commissioned for this; maybe the mayor brought guests, maybe she sent a sign-up sheet around town. there is nothing to indicate that this is a non-consensual orgy except a few of the extras looking uncomfortable, which: 1.) if you were in the middle of a sex party and you were suddenly unable to perform, you might be embarrassed too; 2.) there are two new guests who hadn’t been invited, and who the other guests didn’t know; and 3.) these are extras performing in what i can only imagine is the lest comfortable and most weirdly-choreographed day of their careers so far. in fact, this lines up very closely with yennefer’s appearance in “the last wish,” when she’s living in the mayor’s home at his behest and is, apparently, his lover, and is providing him and the townspeople with magic. 

          THE WITCHER DOES NOT REACT, resigning himself to silence for now. It is a Gentle affair, somehow. He does not offer up bitter remarks, sarcasm. She is burning with something. He would very much like to hold her, cure her of her Ailments, if just for tonight. He would very much like to be Tender with her, in spite of everything, in spite of themselves, simply because it is what the situation demands. He sighs. In spite of everything. 

          “Yen…” He pleads with her. It is all so unnecessary: the getting puffed up like a Peacock, and This, the grand and big and all-encompassing This, because the Night will begin anew, and the Night will end, as it always does. He frowns. He would very much like to hold her. She must sense it. And it must very much be torturing her, as it does him. Because he does not want to misstep, want to renew that which is doomed to fail. It needs not be Belleteyn again. Yet, inevitably, he longs for her. He wishes to hold her, to kiss her, to make Love with her, to smell of her, to have that smell on him for days afterwards, and then feel utterly Rotten when the smell, gradually and suddenly at the same time, dissipates, replaced by the smell of Horse and Monster alike. And he Desires her, with his whole Heart. With his Heart stripped of Emotion. In spite of everything. 

         “Just passing through. Chance, I said.” A job, to be certain. And perhaps Something More. An Aching, a Longing, a Compulsion, and here he finds her, again. Destiny? In spite of everything. And endlessly Bound, endlessly Separated. He yearns, perhaps, for something that will never be. Because entangled destinies do not alone produce Love. And they will part. They always part. He clears his throat, then. And he frowns, as if losing confidence, as if the rest of the words are stuck in his throat, and die there. 

            He stares at her, into her eyes. Deeply.  

She wants to feel something other than this — something hollow and sad and very, very lonely. But anger is out of the question; she can summon it up only for the most fleeting of moments, but it fades. And she’ll be damned if she lets him see her as she is right now: wounded and feeling emptier than she thinks she should. He calls her Yen and she can all but hear how badly he wants to reach for her; she allows herself the momentary pleasure of remembering those scarred hands splayed out over her back, those calloused fingers toying idly with her curls, the absent press of his lips to her bare shoulder. 

     It is harder, much harder, than it should be to shake herself free of the memory, and the surprisingly potent joy it inspires, but Yennefer is a woman accustomed to control, and she will not allow from any insubordination, even — especially — from herself. But he calls her Yen and she remembers, too, the pleasure she felt the first time he called her that. And she hears him think Destiny? and she bites sharply at the inside of her cheek and even the rush of copper over her tongue isn’t enough to keep her in check.

     She wants to feel something other than this but nothing will stick except, well, affection, and sorrow, and missing him missing him missing him.

         SHE IS FAMILIAR, uncomfortably, painstakingly. What am I doing here? Aching, longing, unintentional. Deeply unconsciously finding his way to Yennefer, perhaps. Or Destiny. No, no, never Destiny. Because there are only two unambiguous certainties: him, and Death. They say the Lady dogs his footsteps, but no more. But there is no such thing as Destiny, he knows. He swallows hard, and looks directly into her eyes. 

          “Would you believe me if I said that it was chance?” He knows not the truth himself. He will never know the truth. But he knows that he would never have came remotely close to here were he completely aware of Yennefer’s presence. But he knows that there is comfort and discomfort in his Heart, in finding her again. And here he stands, achingly uncomfortable, yearning to touch her black curls again, or kiss her soft lips, or hold her in his arms once more. To make Love in the night, and hush her, because there are no words needed with them, never any words. But that is neither here nor there. He sighs.

         “You look well, Yen.” He doesn’t break his stare at her, his eyes tired, Longing. He does not say to her that it hurts to be both With and Without her. Because it is utterly pointless. Nothing will come of it. Thus, what am I doing here? And he smiles, small, nearly imperceptibly. 

         “Are you angry?”

She doesn’t laugh but she wants to — none of this is particularly funny but she, who is so sure, she, who is so confident, is utterly lost. Has it always been like this, with him? ( Yes. ) Has she always been thrown so quickly, so neatly off-balance, with him? ( Yes, yes. Always, yes. ) 

     Say something, she wants to scream. Say what you won’t say. Tell me you finally came for me. She believes that it was chance and she hates him for it, but she shakes her curls from her eyes proudly and she turns the cold violet towards him and she arches a perfect brow, telling herself not to think of all the times he’s watched her paint her lips red or draw the outline of her eyebrows or line her eye with kohl, watched her as if she were something magnificent. To be desired is not strange; she knows what it is to be desired. She had only begun to learn what it was to be consumed.

     “I always look well,” she says, and there it is — a desperate bid to sound as though she couldn’t care less. She has never been more grateful that he isn’t privy to her thoughts the way she is to his. She Listens again and she hears hurt and she isn’t sure if it’s her own. 

@acrasia.

          IT IS TOO MUCH, to be naked to the world. To bear the weight of his Emotion. To bear the weight of atavistic remnants, and aching, and pining. Longing, crushing his ribs, crushing What Could Have Been, What Could Be, What Will Never Be. Senselessly, he thinks, he knows, he sighs. Too much to be naked to this world in which he does not belong. Archaic, defunct. Yearning for more. Yearning for her. Senselessly, he thinks. And he frowns. 

          “Yennefer. Yen,” he corrects. She is familiar in his mouth. Dangerously. Her eyes blaze violet, he notes. Dangerously. And his eyes are heavy with Longing, with Yearning. Dangerously. For she is not his. Was she ever? It’s pointless, he thinks. And Dangerous. For she will read his mind, undoubtedly. What is she doing here? What am I doing here? The coincidence to end all coincidences. She is as beautiful as ever. What am I doing here? 

             There are words he would like to voice, but cannot. For it is utterly senseless. For what is the Purpose? Words will not change a thing. His eyes shine in the dim light. Sadly. Like a Monster. Like a Viper. Like a Cat. Like a Mutated Beast. But familiar. And sad. 

            “It’s nice to see you.”

If she is asked she will not say that she’s missed him. She will not say that she has clenched her hands into fists until her palms were decorated with bloody half-moons at the thought of him, of what’s been said and unsaid, of how much she can feel the tangible loss of him, the heat of him on cold mornings, when she would have tucked herself against his side, the white hairs caught in her clothes. If asked, she will not say that she has missed the taste of his name on her tongue, because she tries not to speak of him now. 

     She will not say that she’s missed being called Yen. 

     She does not expect him — how could she? There is a whole continent for them to explore, and by all logic it should be easier for them to avoid each other than this. ( But destiny, a part of her mind warns her, in a voice that sounds like a hollowed-out version of her own. Catastrophe, says another voice, louder, one that reminds her of the dragon. ) She hears his voice and she listens ( and she Listens ), and her chest aches, and there’s a pain in her throat, and she feels the arches of her feet and the palms of her hands tickle uncomfortably. 

     She will not say that she has missed the rasp of his voice. She will not say that she has missed the alien beauty of his eyes. ( Not destiny, not catastrophe. Just the thing she won’t say, and she the silence of it echoes in her mind, echoes in her own voice. )

BEFORE INTERACTING

About the writer: Marianne, she/her, 26, EST. Full-time grad student, working two jobs. My time is limited and this is for fun!

This is a private and selective YENNEFER OF VENGERBERG blog based primarily in the books, but with a show verse and show influences. This blog will feature triggering material, including plot-appropriate violence, sex, drug/alcohol use, discussion of abuse (several characters are survivors), and other potentially triggering content. I will tag all common triggers, and anything I am asked to tag. Please take care if you follow!

Please tag sexual violence of any kind (including ‘dubious consent’ and somnophilia), and images of spiders.

ON INTERACTING & FOLLOWING

This blog is mutuals only. This is a sideblog, and so I will follow back from worldevoured; if we’re mutuals there, we’re mutuals here. The only exception to this is for members of group verses. If I follow you, I want to write with you! OCs, multimuses, and crossovers are always, always welcome!

I reserve the right to not follow, unfollow, or block users as I see fit, including for the following reasons:

You are under 18, or have no mention of your age/age range on your blog. All minors who follow this blog will be softblocked.

You are inactive for more than six weeks. (If you come back to your blog, please message me so I can refollow!)

You repeatedly ignore my rules.

You don’t seem interested in writing with me, and have a pattern of not responding to my attempts to interact (repeatedly ignoring starters, memes, etc.)

You romanticize Nazis in any way, shape, or form.

You write “dark themes” such as abuse in a disrespectful manner. It’s possible to write on a “dark theme” without romanticizing or fetishizing it.

You engage in racist, sexist, cissexist, homophobic, ableist, or otherwise harmful behavior.

You guilt and/or manipulate me or any of your followers.

I feel distress or unease writing with you, engaging with you, or seeing you on my dashboard.

Regarding cisswapped characters: I will not follow or interact with cisswapped characters written by cis writers. (I’m cis; it’s not my place to tell anyone who isn’t how to approach gender.)

Regarding “overpowered” characters: I don’t enjoy writing with characters that are completely devoid of flaws, vulnerabilities, or weaknesses – it’s just not fun for me when there aren’t any real stakes, and the rules of whichever universe we’re playing in don’t apply to one of the characters involved.

Feel free to write greeters, send memes, turn memes into threads, and message me to plot! Please don’t write me unsolicited starters otherwise.

I don’t require reblog karma, though I don’t like being used as a meme source if we never interact.

Regarding duplicates: I am typically totally on-board with duplicates, but Yennefer is very new to me, and I want to get a better grasp on her voice before I follow other Yennefers. I think you’re amazing and I love your taste in characters, and I hope we can write together soon!

ON CANON & FANDOMS

Yennefer is primarily book-based, with some show elements, including her face claim. I am currently reading Blood of Elves, and so all interactions, at the moment, are set before the beginning of the series proper, and during the timeline of the short stories. 

I am not yet familiar with the games, but plan to play at some point. I enjoy the show but there are certain elements of the show that I think don’t work totally well, and some elements of the show I plan to carry over, particularly regarding Anya’s mannerisms as Yennefer.

There are only a handful of fandoms I will not interact with, due to my own comfort. I may interact with the characters in AUs if I am comfortable with the writer. Find the list here.

ON RELATIONSHIPS

I love playing with established relationships. If our characters have a relationship in canon, come and chat with me, and we can plot something!

I do want to point out that, while Yennefer flirts, has sex, and engages in all manner of relationships outside of her relationship with Geralt, he is, canonically, her other half and her soulmate. Yennefer may not be fond of the idea at first, but she and Geralt love one another very much, and are connected even before Geralt’s last wish. While I’m open to discussing shipping, please note that in Yennefer’s canon verse, Geralt is, always, her endgame. Any other ships in a canon verse will be short-lived. Shipping in other verses is, however, open. 

I love shipping, and am always interested in exploring new dynamics. With that said, I reserve the right to limit or refuse any plot that makes me uncomfortable. I won’t write incest (relationships between third or greater cousins is fine, but nothing closer than that), and while I am very comfortable writing complicated relationships, I won’t romanticize abuse or toxicity, or write explicit abuse scenes.

It’s important to me that whatever our ship is, we as writers can appreciate one another’s characters as individuals as well. Ships need to involve give-and-take, and effort on all sides. Please only approach me to discuss a ship if you’re comfortable with making that effort, and are interested in my character as a character on their own and not merely as an accessory for someone else’s development..

PLEASE NOTE – I know that statements like “stop saying your muse is bisexual when they’re straight and you just want ally cred” are meant well, but the suggestion that you, especially if you’re not bi yourself, are the arbiter of legitimate or illegitimate bisexuality based on the gender identity of someone’s past or present partner(s), is itself pretty biphobic, even when well-intended. I’m very bi and very tired. Please stop making me read that in your rules.

ON CONTENT

Please understand that the source material I draw from deals with potentially triggering material, including (but not limited to) violence, sex, institutional oppression, drug/alcohol use, political violence, and abuse. All of these topics will be dealt with on this blog. With that said, I do reserve the right to refuse to write anything for any reason, especially my own comfort.

I am a legal adult and am comfortable writing legal adults having consensual sex. I will not write smut with or about anyone under the age of eighteen. I am perfectly comfortable with and willing to write scenes fading to black or time jumps. I will not use visual aids of any kind in replies involving graphic sex and ask that you do the same. All NSFW images and text will be tagged as #nsfw;

My formatting is minimal – typically sub text and 100x100 icons. I can’t read double small text and will change it in my reply to a size that I can see.

English is weird, in spelling and grammar. Do your best; if I need clarification, I’ll ask! Excessive purple prose is confusing and frustrating for me, and is something I’m likely to avoid.

If you are uncomfortable with anything you see here, please let me know. I am not perfect and I am sure I’ll make mistakes; if that happens, and you’re comfortable, tell me, and I’ll make every effort to fix it and to be better in the future, in the case of me doing something harmful.

EXCLUSIVITY

Notes – If I am exclusive with a particular portrayal, please do not approach me to write with other versions of these characters on this blog. Please also know that I’m unlikely to drop exclusivity for any reason besides extensive (two or more months) inactivity, or breaking mutuals. Threads which ignore or disrespect my exclusivity will be dropped.

Exclusives:

Geralt of Rivia ( book-based ) – triales

Draco Malfoy – potterstillstinks

CREDIT & DISCLAIMER

All page credit left intact. Any blog formatting credit will be reblogged and tagged #( credit ). Mobile header by . Icon by packs-stuff. All icons used for RP made by me. 

I am not, nor do I claim to be, the character presented on this blog, or any of the face claims used here. I do not own the Witcher franchise; all credit for the franchise goes to Andrzej Sapkowski, and all credit for the universes within which crossovers occur goes to their creators. I do not own any of the graphics or images used on this blog unless otherwise stated, and I own nothing but my own writing. Nothing on this blog is used for financial gain or profit in any way.