PEN / PAPER

❛      whether you wear it with pride or not       ,      you do not shy away from it.      you do not claim      ‘      THAT IS NOT ME      ’       nor should you       .       OUR ACTIONS SHOW WHO WE ARE.       ❜      she does not blame him,      how could he be at fault if he were played?      so has she been.      everyone has been a pawn in someone else’s story.      the brotherhood’s hands are stained with blood      (      like her very own and like her,      )       he now he has to suffer with the consequences of his actions too.      but he is not a cruel heartless man those who reside in the continent and beyond deem him to be.

❛      i could summon him if you wish.      allow you to seek out your vengeance      .      .      .      or would you prefer i call it justice instead      ?      ❜      a ‘brow is raised in question.      ᵖᵉᵒᵖˡᵉ ᶜᵃⁿ ᶜᵃˡˡ ⁱᵗ ʲᵘˢᵗⁱᶜᵉ       ,      ʳᵉᵗʳⁱᵇᵘᵗⁱᵒⁿ      ,      ᵃ ᵈᵉᵇᵗ ᵒʷᵉᵈ                   whatever they fancy.      BUT IT IS COLD REVENGE.      that is all it will ever be.      ❛      fear is what people allow it to be.      fear has no place in my life                ❜      not anymore,       is what she means,       i have suffered enough.      in silence and not.

but then they’re back into that game they seem to play whenever they meet.      granted,      it has been once,      but it seems to be a dance they find themselves in.      heated,       passionate,      on the edge of      .      .      .       something.       &&      yennefer feels an unfamiliar and all consuming tug,      nothing like what she had like with istredd.       THIS IS DIFFERENT,      THIS IS TERRITORY SHE FEELS LESS IN CONTROL WITH.

❛      and here i thought you couldn’t teach a witcher new tricks.      you seem set in your ways,     ❜      eyes drift momentarily to the hand by her hip,      a smile teasing in nature lifts her tiers ever so slightly.      ❛      .      .      .      perhaps you need a teacher.      ❜      but the playfulness dies down,      first once jaskier is mentioned but also when he picks up on the momentary lapse of control she’d lost.      ❛      and you decided to leave him alone?      ᵖᵉʳʰᵃᵖˢ ʸᵒᵘ ʷⁱˡˡ ˢᵉᵉ ʰⁱᵐ ˢʷⁱⁿᵍⁱⁿᵍ ᶠʳᵒᵐ ᵗʰᵉ ˢᶜᵃᶠᶠᵒˡᵈⁱⁿᵍ.      ❜      the conversation is to be veered away from what he’s focused on.

it is not her intent for their conversation to become so                 involved.      ❛      do not get in my way again,      geralt.      this mission      .      it will be handled my way.       am i understood?      ❜      whatever it is.      she will use it to her advantage.      she will find a way,     come hell or high water,       to become the mother she was destined to be.

“My actions? If only it were true. Our kind--Witchers and mages--are hated because we’re feared. I don’t think it matters how much good I do. How many villages I save. One look at my eyes is all it will take for them to form an opinion.” Yet he shrugged. “Stopped caring some time ago.” It was a lie he repeated often to himself. 

The suggestion of summoning that damned sorcerer was tempting, though. Geralt wasn’t prepared for a fight with a mage, but he’d love a chance to scare him at the very least. The man was a coward to his very core. A cunning coward--the worst kind. 

Her teasing earns another smile from his lips. Thumb gently brushes the soft texture of her dress. Just barely, he can detect the heat of her skin beneath it. His thumb has traced that bare hip before. Though not nearly enough to his liking. 

“Jaskier can deal with the consequences of his own follies. I’m not his babysitter.” Another lie that needed repeating. Though the bard had a stroke of unusual luck. No doubt he’d run into the bard again and find him either richer or narrowly escaping the fingers of death.

When she brings the topic to the reason they’re both there, his brows furrowed. “If it saves your life, I will,” he told her plainly. “You can try to stop me.” And his eyes glint at the idea, catching the fire. But business forces him to step back and remove his hand from her hip. 

“Have you been told what this Lord wants?” Geralt turned away from her, inspecting the portraits on the walls and books on the shelves. “I was just told Lord Timothy wished to hire me. Told me to come here.” 

she’s touched a nerve and she knows it.      it doesn’t require physical eye contact but the way he responds.      HOW HE RESPONDS.      it is telling enough.      ❛      just geralt.      &&      here i thought you did not run from what you have accomplished,      geralt.      ❜      a hand raises to brush aside the loose curls out of her face and neck.      ❛      stregobor can be quite      .      .      .      an asshole.      believe me,      you should have slaughtered him too.      that bullshit he spews is his way of staying relevant.      ❜      of course she would know the story      ,      stregobor’s pride and ego had him telling the entire brotherhood.       HOW HE BESTED THE WITCHER,       THE BUTCHER OF BLAVIKEN.  

what he had failed to mention however,      something that yennefer could see in his eyes,     was the fear he felt.      knowing the last remaining      cursed girl of this fucking tale      he kept telling himself about,      was hungry and out for blood.      ˢʰᵉ ʷᵃⁿᵗᵉᵈ ʳᵉᵛᵉⁿᵍᵉ,      ʲᵘˢᵗⁱᶜᵉ,      ʰⁱˢ ˡⁱᶠᵉ.      &&      yennefer could not blame her.     fear was something yennefer was forced to endure.     enough for a thousands lifetimes.      ❛      𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦.      to keep us pinned and in constant need of men.     ❜      

his compliment is one she knows is not empty words.     not used to curry favour with the famed mage who turned her back upon aretuza.      but rather what he truly thinks of her,      yennefer glides towards him.     hands that hold power,      chaos,      control      .      .      .      wind into his silver-white locks bringing his gaze up to find hers and hold it.      ❛      𝙛𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙜𝙚𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚      ,      GERALT.      ❜      though his comment about what humans believe witchers to be      :       inhumane,      unfeeling,      empty.       THAT SHE KNOWS ALL TOO WELL.      witches,      like her,      remade by magic.      into something no human could ever begin to comprehend.

❛      i happen to recall that you felt quite a bit during our brief,      naked and somewhat fun time together.      ❜      the last comment is merely aimed to bruise his ego a little.      (      after all      ,      hers was bruised      ,      waking up alone.      )      though she’d never admit it aloud.      it reminded her       ,       you do not know him,       you cannot trust him.       even if a voice somewhere deep inside whispered the opposite.      TRUTH IS, WE ARE TWO SIDES OF THE SAME COIN.      that he could       ,       would       &&       does understand her.       though she does not dwell on that thought long.

❛      you won’t babysit lords       ,       but you will babysit bards     ?      ❜      she arches a single ‘brow in question.      ❛      where is your little pet anyway      ?      bursting the eardrums of the court or                    did you ALSO grow bored and leave him      ?      ❜      a slight crack in the facade as her hand withdraws from his locks,      but she does not move.      she wants him to feel the electricity,      the heat,      the unwavering gaze she possesses and holds over him.

“Accomplished? No. I don’t consider that an accomplishment. Just a foolish job that an even bigger fool decided to take.” Meaning himself, of course. The incident at Blaviken was something he’d never forget. For one, because no one would let him. But mostly because he couldn’t. To do so would be a disservice. 

When she mentions his name, his lips pull into a tight line of distaste. “If I ever see Stregobor again, he won’t leave the encounter alive.” Of that, he was certain. They had a score to settle. 

As she made her opinion about fear known, he shrugged both shoulders. “Men need women just the same when they’re afraid. They just won’t admit it. But I see your point. Fear can be a shackle.” 

She comes to him then, and he feels that carefully controlled pulsing of his heart beat just a bit faster. Yennefer can rouse him in such a way that few fights could. His pulse may rise a few notches during a heated skirmish or when encountering a truly skilled foe. Yet nothing made his heart beat faster or ache more . . . than the sorceress before him. 

Those delicate fingers that could kill a man with a mere gesture shift through his silver hair. Yellow eyes half-close. If a man could purr, he’d be purring. While she had made him bristle before, so quickly does she soothe him into a state of playfulness. It’s remarkable. 

“Somewhat?” he repeated, lips turning upwards into a hint of a smile. “If you have complaints, I am open to learning them and rectifying. Can take as long as we like.” This time, he advances, a step nearer to her and removing his arms from their position over his chest. He doesn’t touch her just yet. Instead, fingers linger near her hip.

When she mentions Jaskier, he grumbles. “That was a one time job,” he clarified. “And I never told him he could join me. He just . . .” he paused, “doesn’t leave.” Though deep, deep,  in his heart of grumpy hearts, he knows that he enjoys the bard’s company. Usually. 

“He had business elsewhere. I think he’s trying to fuck some earl’s daughter,” he waved it off. “I’m sure I’ll find him in a jail cell or singing atop a scaffold at some point.” That was Jaskier’s true gift. Always being exactly where he needed to be. 

Yet Geralt hadn’t missed her particular use of a certain word either. “What do you mean, ‘also’?” he asked, eyes narrowing. 

a life bound to a family who abused her      .       a council       .        a coven       .      .       .      &&       she was done playing by others rules.      it was time to rewrite history.       her history.       yennefer of vengerberg would be known across the continent,       the seas.       from the far north all the way to the south.      &&      ˢʰᵉ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ᵇᵉᶜᵒᵐᵉ ᵃ ᵐᵒᵗʰᵉʳ.       her ambition,      her drive,      her desperation was a fatal mix       :      (       for both herself and others.     )       but the gods help anyone who dares to stand in her path.

&&      that was one reason.      small as it may have been where there was relief when she woke to find geralt gone.      but also,      something she wouldn’t admit aloud.      an ache.      but finally he had given her a new avenue to search to accomplish her goals       :       EVERYTHING.       she had told tissaia de vries once,       I WANT EVERYTHING.      and soon the world will know.       𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘴𝘩 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘺      :       𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘨𝘢𝘻𝘦 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮.      she has been kept like lightening in a bottle      ,       a funny coincidence.      almost as if her past had come knocking for she is       enthralling,      enchanting,      volatile.      

but she is torn from her thoughts once she hears movement.      half expecting to be told she would be waiting longer for the lord.      she’d bite her tongue,      smile coyly,      play the dutiful mage.      but then HIS SCENT fills every cavity,      every crevice,      every pore.       her name on his lips like poetry      .       though she does not allow a genuine smile to grace her painted red tiers but instead an enticing smirk.      ❛      GERALT OF RIVIA,      the white wolf       .       .       .      ❜       a pause      &&      then she continues with a touch more edge in her tone.       ❛      the        butcher       of        blaviken.      ❜

she does not move,      instead languid and fluid movements as palms flatten on the bed beneath her     :     fingers stretching out over the black silk and fur,     legs purposely crossed now whilst watching him now he is no longer hidden in among the shadows.      SHE IS A PREDATOR,       long has the time gone where she was     ᵖʳᵉʸ ᶠᵒʳ ᵒⁿᵉ ᵖᵉʳˢᵒⁿ ᵃᶠᵗᵉʳ ᵗʰᵉ ⁿᵉˣᵗ.      ❛      you believe because you have been inside me       ,       that you KNOW me      ?      ❜      violet hues burn into cat like ember ones      ,      perfectly sculpted ‘brow arched.      almost,      she is almost tempted into a smile once he does,      instead yennefer brings herself to her feet.      ❛      𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐇𝐈𝐌𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅.      ❜

yennefer understands how best to use honeyed words hidden behind veiled interest.       she knows that beauty and intrigue holds power.      that in particular the power women hold       ,      right between the apex of their thighs      ,      if they know how to use it      !      a woman’s heart is enough to start wars.      &&     yennefer of vengerberg     will     reign supreme until she has what she seeks.      ❛      he required a mage who is unafraid.      he chose me.      ❜      she is elegance and havoc personified,      the air all but crackling around her,      as she nears the mirror to give herself a once over,      violet finding his face through the reflection.     ❛     &&      it seems also you.     ❜

Of course she’d be draped on the bed like some damned siren. Except not the kind of siren that he killed for a living. Rather, the ones in the tales that ensnared men with their mere song and beautiful faces. Close to the helots he killed, but not quite. Yennefer was a species all her own. Never a more dangerous predator had he ever encountered--because she was the only one who could truly, deeply, hurt him. 

She fringes on wounding when she gives him that title. The black cloud that never ceases to follow him wherever he goes. “Just Geralt will do,” he replies, his voice lowering in pitch. Not quite a warning, but a hint that her words displeased him. No doubt exactly what she was going for. She always chose her weapons carefully. 

Amber eyes don’t move away when she bluntly recalls their intimate encounter. “In my experience of such matters, a man rarely knows anything about a woman. Particularly when he’s inside of her.” Though he’s beginning to understand her. Something about her soul is familiar to him. It’s similar to his own. Tired, used up, and on the defensive. 

It’s when she calls the Lord both gracious and wise that twists his expression into one of disgust. Another Lord simpering over her. Just what he needed. “Mmmmm. Gracious, perhaps. Wise?” he shook his head. “I’m not sure yet. It isn’t wise to utilize the services of anyone who doesn’t feel a little bit of fear. Fear keeps you alive. Keeps you from doing something stupid.” A slight intent gaze was given at those words, referring to her decision to house a damned djinn. 

“He should have chosen you because you’re the most powerful sorceress in the land,” he stated simply. As she moves to the mirror, he looks away and takes in the room instead. Warm fire crackling away in the stone fireplace. A bed neatly made despite the few lumps where Yen had perched herself. Furs on the walls and on the floor. A typical Lord. 

“Mhm,” he acknowledged when she pointed out that Lord Timothy had also hired him. “Must be because he heard Witchers don’t feel anything.” The words are spoken sarcastically, though softened by his guttural voice. There’s annoyance in the words though they’re not directed at her. Only at the lies used to blind the people about the truth of his kind. 

“Although if you’re here, I can’t imagine why he’d need me, too. I don’t babysit Lords.” And he was becoming very, very, very tired of the nobility forgetting that. He had Jaskier to blame for that. Geralt moved to a trunk that rested in front of the bed and perched himself on the edge. Elbows rested atop his knees. 

“How’ve you been, Yen? Been a few months since I saw you last.”

A wry smile can be seen forming on her lips. “The almighty and I have a complicated history.” However, she can see his point in confiding in her that he is a Catholic, Vanessa appreciates it greatly.

She inhales deeply and while she exhales she starts to tell him about her youth, her friendship with Mina, catching her mother have sex with Sir Malcolm and how it awakened something dark inside of her. The whispers she heard, the way she betrayed Mina. Her time in the hospital and what they did to her, her recovery, her headaches, her visions. Her time with the cut wife and how she died. Tears started to fall while she talked and she took a sip of her drink.

Then she started to talk again. About finding Sir Malcolm and living with him, Mina’s death, about the vampires, the witches. And Ethan, how she had started to fall in love with him and how he had left her. How everyone had left her alone with her own demons. How she now fights against loneliness.

Teary-eyed she looks up at him when she is done talking. She has no idea how much time had passed, but all she knows is that it feels good to talk to someone about it all, even if he didn’t believe her. At least she shared.

The words were clearly bursting at her tongue. Silence is one of the cruelties humans can do to one another, he has found. To not give one another an ear, a confidence, one instead has to bottle up the feelings, the trauma, the memories. It’s enough to drive anyone insane. And dear Vanessa has had quite the story to tell for some time. 

Abraham listens. Some parts of the tale, he knows well. It takes some effort to conceal the relish of being part of those moments. Of sharing something so intimate with her as being privy to her demons. He was her demon. She talked of loneliness, the poor dear, but she had never been alone. Not truly. He’d made sure of that. 

The parts of the tale that he had not been privy to were fascinating. She had a great affinity for telling stories. Their children would likely love to curl up between them and listen to her tales. Between taking bites out of the world, of course. 

“That is quite a tale of woe, Miss Ives,” he surmised when she concluded. “Yet even with the inclusion of vampires, witches, and demons, your melancholy derives from nothing more or less than the basis of human nature. You’re lonely. Humans are . . . social creatures, Miss Ives. When we start to build walls and lock ourselves behind doors, we really only wound ourselves.”

 His fingers remained intertwined, held just below his chin as he leaned back in his chair. “I’m not sure how much you follow zoology, but I’ve found the recent experiments on chimpanzees to be fascinating. They’re quite similar to us, you see. Some even believe that we are descendants from some great ape. I’m sure you’ve heard of Charles Darwin.” He unlocked his fingers to wave it. “The particulars don’t matter. What does is a recent experiment on isolation. A young chimp was kept in an enclosed room. Food was given to it through a small slot, but it received no chance for social interaction. Do you know what happened?” he paused. “It killed itself.”

Another pause. “If a mere chimp went mad due to loneliness, how long can a human survive? We are . . . ‘evolved’ as society likes to tell us. Geniuses of the animal world. Yet if we were to lock one of our own in an enclosed room and keep them from interacting with anyone . . . I can’t help but think they’d cave sooner than the chimp did.”

Abraham leaned forward in his chair, eyes locked on hers. “You’ve been abandoned countless times before, Vanessa. By the man who has become a father figure to you--even with his sordid past with your mother--by the man you wanted as your lover, by your friends, by your bosom sister, and by God. It’s no wonder you feel like tearing your skin apart. What kind of soul can bear such grief?”

Glancing outside, he saw that the sun had long since set. She’d been talking with him for at least four hours. A good thing he hadn’t scheduled anyone after her. Still, he was sure Renfield was eager to get home. “I’d like us to talk more, Vanessa. I’ve more questions for you about your past, but we’ve gone well past the time I typically afford my patients.” He raised his hand, “not that I minded extending the hours.” 

Rising to his feet, he gestured for her to join him at the door. “I have a very simple task for you to complete this evening, Miss Ives,” he told her, fingers gently brushing her shoulder to guide her. Pulling out his pocketwatch, he checked the time. “It’s nearing supper. Instead of taking your own meal in a dark and empty house . . . I want you to choose a pub down near the docks. The occupants can be a tad dangerous for a woman alone, but I have a sense that you can take care of yourself.” A small, charming, smile pressed to his lips at this.

“Eat there. Though rough, I’ve found that the company of those who live tough, but simple, lives to be the most exciting and welcoming of strangers. Surround yourself with its loudness. Take a few chances. Then we’ll discuss the evening tomorrow.” Abraham lifted his chin. “Can you do that for me?” 

So, when he received a letter that asked for his services with generous pay, he was obliged to accept. Though when he also took the time to notice the quality of the parchment and the elegant handwriting, the misgivings immediately began. Nobles. 

The nobleman in question, a Lord Timothy, had requested that Geralt arrive at his summer castle posthaste. There had been some mention of wearing something appropriate for an evening ball. He’d chosen to forego that particular hint. If the man wanted to hire a Witcher, then he’d dress as one. Lord Timothy could purchase the services of a costumed fool somewhere else. 

Upon arriving at the castle, he did, however, surrender his two swords. Though not the dagger in his boot. The servant at the castle led him into a study. It was a busy castle. Geralt could feel the life bouncing against the stones. A party. The sooner Lord Timothy told him about the job, the sooner he could leave and miss drunken idiots. 

Yet when he arrived at the study, he found that he wasn’t the only one waiting for Lord Timothy’s arrival. The scent hit him first. Familiar in a way that Roach’s scent is familiar. Lilac and gooseberries. 

Walking into the room, shoulders squared, he didn’t even look for her. “Yennefer,” he murmured all the same. Their last encounter had ended . . . pleasantly, he supposed. If one could call an abrupt departure after a rather intense bout of sex pleasant. He’d awoken from his well-earned and well-needed nap to find her gone. All trace of her, in fact. Yennefer of Vengberg knew how to hide her steps. 

Not that he was looking for her. 

It appeared that he didn’t need to, anyway. Geralt crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his back against a shelf. The musty scent of the tomes tickled his nose. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he stated, amber-colored eyes finally finding her purple. 

“Though I guess I should have suspected. If there’s a party, you won’t be far behind.” A small twist of his lips conjured up a half-smile. 

1. This is a multimuse blog. More muses may be added as they strike my fancy. 

2. I’m an exceptionally busy person, so this blog has low-activity. I’ll be working on replies as soon as I can! All I ask from you is patience. My delay has nothing to do with your writing capabilities or my interest in the plot, I’m just very busy. RP is my escape, not my job.

3. Mature content is present. If you are not at least 18 years old, then I do not recommend that you follow this blog. While I adore writing smut, I will only do so if the chemistry between the characters is present, and under a Read More. While I will tag nsfw material as ‘lemons,’ I won’t be tagging any other content unless my writing partner specifically asks for something to be tagged.

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