open post;

[choicely]

---

open post for pic prompts, starters, and texts. f/f + f/m for shipping.
please link nsfw images.
compliant through season 4 of the witcher.

Comments

( some hazy time in season 1 )

[blamedestiny]

( he waits until the too clean companion she's with excuses himself to do fuck knows what before peeling himself out of the dark corner he's been watching them from and takes the seat that the other man's just vacated.

he doesn't know how long it's been since they've seen each other but he brings a tankard of something strong with him and pushes it across the table for him. there are things to say but he's never been one to talk.

instead, he settles and he watches her, trying to gauge her reaction to seeing him once again. he sips his drink and then sits back, glancing in the direction of the man she'd come in with. )

He looks spry.

( that's the nicest thing he could say, he supposes. he knows that whoever this man is, she most likely needs him for something. unfortunately, he can't figure out what it is. )

[choicely]

[ It's been years since the last time she laid eyes on him, but time passes differently now for those of them who do not show their age — at least not written in their faces but perhaps still displayed in their eyes, including the golden ones that stare out at her now from across the tavern's table once he slides himself into the seat that's only just been abandoned. Its previous occupant will be back, but Yennefer imagines he won't be too distressed about finding his place taken if Geralt is still sitting in it, especially since the witcher is hardly willing to play nice with others.

It would honestly be just like him to step out of a dark corner where he's obviously been lurking, to approach her after years gone and act as if barely a minute has transpired — and Yennefer simply watches him with calm neutrality, the only reaction betraying her in the quiet arch of a brow. ]

Is that what you think I concern myself with these days?

[ She's using the man for an entirely different purpose, but she's very nearly tempted to let Geralt believe what he will about who warms her bed now. ]

[blamedestiny]

( geralt looks back in the direction of where the man's disappeared and shrugs one shoulder before he turns his attention back to her. )

I don't know what you concern yourself with these days.

( since it's been quite some time since they've seen each other. she doesn't look away from him, he doesn't look away from her but he's the one who breaks first. )

Besides, being spry can mean he's good at a great many things. It's you who presume I was speaking of that, not me.

[choicely]

No. You wouldn't.

[ And she doesn't appear to feel any strong emotions about it, but even if she did, it's nothing she would let on that immediately to — not here, and not in front of him. Yet she does experience something that resembles... disappointment, almost, when he's the first to glance away from her, drawing in a minute breath. ]

When has it ever implied anything else? [ She manages to be amused by that, a disbelieving chuckle emerging in the rhetorical, but her gaze sweeps down to the tankard he's holding and then back up towards his face. ]

Have you actually acquired any coin this time, or are you still on the hunt for your next source?

[blamedestiny]

( in response to her question, he reaches inside of a small pouch against his hip and drops a cloth bag. a faint jingling can be heard before he sits back once more. )

I'm resting.

( as much as someone like him can rest, that is. he'd done a job a short while ago and while he'd survived it, he'd had to admit to himself that he'd had to take the time to come back from it. so, that's what he'd been doing. it's not his fault she'd come into the same place. )

There might even be enough in there to buy you and your...dear friend something, if that's what you want.

*throws two incongruous canons into the anachronism blender and sees what happens*

[aurable]

There wasn't a soul alive in any social circle that knew his real name. As far as anyone knew, the lord of Light Circle Hall was a murky shadow behind such a title and the pejorative epithet he wryly adopted: Drift. Stories behind the name were largely apocryphal now, but what was agreed upon was that he blew in sometime near the end of the latest civil war plaguing the Continent. Drift was a foreigner from some extinct polity that didn't survive the war, but his wealth had. Adding fuel to the rumor mill had been his marriage to a celebrated surgeon and war hero with whom he operated a modest but successful practice on the estate. As it always did, idle gossip and innocent curiosity soured when his much-beloved wife passed away on their estate two summers ago.

Drift had never been a social man, but his status as a widower drove him further into the background. The only people who had seen him frequently in the past two years were the skeleton crew of only a gardener, the estate's housekeeper, and the doctor and nurse. The latter two rarely came to the estate, only to see the few patients his departed wife left behind. Neither indulged prodding questions and only reiterated ad nauseam that they respected the lord's privacy, even as the Hall began to diminish. Like a hulking beast left limping back to its den, something once mighty curling up in the dark to go out with a whimper.

A gloomy stage was set for the shocking announcement of his recent engagement. Every affluent clique in the city was clucking when word spread—avoiding the scandal of a by-blow with a young lady whose prospects for a decent match were now ruined was the popular rumor. Some resurgence of Drift's rumored ties to dangerous forigen factions seeking to infiltrate decent Continent society was another. As always was the case, the truth was ordinary and not too exciting. A woman named Yennefer of Vengerbeg sought to avoid rumors about her singleton lifestyle at some twenty or so years. One mutual acquaintance between them by the name of Tissaia de Vries reached out to possibly the only man left among the already slim pickings, and Drift agreed without ever laying eyes on the woman.

"Car or carriage?" Those were the first words Drift had spoken to his fiance, and they held all the warmth of a neglected fireplace.

Drift stood in the great hall of the Aretuza academy where Yennefer had been boarding and teaching. A tall, broad-shouldered man whose forty-seven years were only apparent in the flecks of grey at his temples and the severity of his expression younger men couldn't muster. Beyond his cheery disposition, what also stuck out was his attire. Outside there was a warm summer storm blanketing the city in a fog, but warm weather nonetheless. Only Drift was covered from the neck down, even wearing thick gloves of glossy black leather but seemed not only comfortable like this but making the academy servants around him suddenly feel cold and woefully underdressed.

"As I understand it, most young women are uncertain about automobiles," Drift continued in that flat affectation of his. "Fascinating machines but understandably daunting to the unfamiliar. I can summon whichever you prefer."

At no point had a greeting or so much as a smile crossed his mouth still set in that tight, inscrutable line. The widowed lord looked solidly at his bride-to-be and only offered her whatever would make this first leg of the journey less tiresome.

here we go

[choicely]

Yennefer has known, since she was old enough to possess an awareness of such things, that her life would not be dictated by her own choices, but by the choices that would be made for her. There is a feeling of equal parts confinement and curiosity that stems from such a lack of freedom, though she has never been confronted with the possibility that her future will take such a dramatic turn until now. There is less of a conversation about it, and something closer to an instruction when Tissaia de Vries takes her into her sitting room and simply informs her, matter-of-factly, that she has found a solution to Yennefer's most pressing problem.

Marriage, as of now, is a necessary pursuit for her — the longer she goes without being wed to anyone, the more suspicion her status will elicit until the consensus reached will be that she is unsuitable to be anyone's wife, that she must be deficient in some way, and therefore any proposals that may have even been entertained by men in possession of a certain wealth will inevitably dry up altogether.

She has never even laid eyes on her betrothed until the announcement of her being affianced reaches the newspapers — now she is confronted with the sight of him, severe and statured, with a well-trimmed beard many noblemen would seethe in jealousy to grow themselves, his hands covered in black leather gloves that make her own uncovered fingers twitch in awareness behind where they're hidden by the full skirts of her dark dress. She is in possession of no real finery, even the gown she wears for teaching in a more modest silhouette, but her eyes may be the most striking thing about her — deep violet in color, set in a darker complexion that has prompted many a muttered comment about her true origins over the years.

The first quality of the lord that she realizes she had been unaware of until now is his age, the greying at his temples and the subtle weathering in his features alluding to a maturity that even her prospective past suitors, little though they'd been, had never owned a whit of and could likely never hope to.

The second is that he's actually addressing her, though it takes her an extra moment to discern what he's just suggested in the wake of placing him on the receiving end of her own scrutiny.

"The car, then," she finally decides, with little hesitation, followed by the sheer determination to not allow him to place her firmly in the category of most young women. If nothing else, she will distinguish herself, even if her aim, as Tissaia had insisted, is to be as unassuming as possible, to not draw any undesired attention to herself, and to simply be an obliging wife, one that he will not find any cause to take issue with. "I am not opposed to the unfamiliar, my lord."

She simply clasps her hands together before her, looking up at him with a subtle note of expectancy — she is under no illusions that he will so much as offer her an arm to the car, once it arrives, or assist her further. In fact, she has the keenest sense that he would rather not be preparing to wed her at all, if not for mutual necessity.

gf phone call things.

[maltreats]

[ yen can enjoy the late night call from a girl who sounds a little too delightfully sly from her end. ]

You said you were grading tonight. I thought my voice might make it less boring for you.

[choicely]

[ she had said as much — the week ahead of finals means there's a reason she hadn't been able to summon illyana to her room as planned — but that tone gives her pause. ]

And are you sure this doesn't have something to do with you being bored tonight?

[maltreats]

I had drinking plans with Kitty. [ and because it's yen, she's not hesitant in telling that to a professor. though, really, she'd probably have said it to any of them. ] But the traitor ditched me for my brother.

[choicely]

Oh? [ she at least has the ability to sound interested in whatever classmate drama is going on, as the rustle of papers can be heard. ]

Something going on between the two of them, then?

a post-season 2 moment

[songquips]

why don't you label your little potion bottles?

[choicely]

So bards with sticky fingers don't go poking around where they shouldn't.

[songquips]

first, i do no such thing!

second, this is more of a situation where a handsome bard needs to figure out what someone else who should haven't been poking around consumed.

[choicely]

I see.
And is this someone else experiencing any adverse effects at the moment?

late night drinking

[songquips]

[ honestly, it's not surprising that they end up drinking together more often than not. geralts off--- doing what geralt does. moping, jaskier thinks, and training ciri as best he can. they're more alike than jaskier realised at first, more stubborn in their own ways.

the girl's geralt's match for sure, in a different way than the woman sitting before him. yennefer is a beautifully terrifying mystery, a bad decision. but both he and geralt can be called fools for different reasons.

yennefer and he are the only ones in the castle's main hall, seated close to the fire that warms the too large space. kaer morhen is frigid in the winter months, though jaskier is certain that it bites at the bones even ass winter melts away into spring. there's alcohol at least to warm the bones, when company from the near by town is hard to find.

alcohol, fire, and other company. for all he doesn't admit it, yennefer is amongst favoured company. maybe it's not as great of a secret any more as he refills their cups of wine to the brim, holding out one for the mage to take. he pulls it back when she reaches to take it, grinning. clearly, he has forgotten that he is still playing with fire. ] Now, now. Where are your manners?

[choicely]

[ There isn't much to do in Kaer Morhen — when she isn't taking Ciri's training into her own hands, that is — other than drink. The best scenario would be to enjoy these drinks alone, but Jaskier seems to have a knack for digging them out of whatever corners he can find, and what's more is that he's foolishly willing to share them with her most of the time.

The rest of the hall is empty at the moment, most of Geralt's brethren either having gone into the closest town to enjoy warmer bodies and warmer beds or passed out snoring in their own rooms — as for the White Wolf and his latest charge, Yennefer suspects he's putting Ciri through her paces in some sort of night training. Which, inevitably, leaves her alone with Jaskier and at least three bottles of wine to make their way through.

She's not drunk, necessarily, but she is feeling enough of the effects of the wine that her lips part in subtle unamusement when he snatches her cup away from her, out of reach, prompting her to slant forward into his space with slowly narrowing eyes. ] Where are your manners? It's bad form to deny a lady anything.

An Unfortunate Arrangement

[madaboutit]

What a fucking farce. Sweeney’s not convinced this even constitutes a real marriage, given how foreign the ceremony was. Instead of a canopy of trees, they’d been caged in a box of stone and wood. There was no ribbon binding their hands. Strange words were recited. It’s like a nightmare he can’t seem to wake up from. At least he’d been allowed the dignity of wearing his hair long, adorned with braids and gold beads, and carrying a knife at his side. It's ornamental, but that doesn’t make it any less effective, should the need arise.

For being a prince of a people known for their Luck, he can’t help but feel like his has come up short. He’s not even the one that’s supposed to be stuck in this fucking place. Sweeney can’t get the taste of bitterness off his tongue; it was his brother’s son that was meant to be bound in this contract, not him. Last minute changes, of course. A better match. Of course. He can’t help but wonder if his brother took umbrage with his success in the field. Maybe he was worried that Sweeney might get overly ambitious and attempt a coup. Better to send him across the sea where such desires might be applied to a new kingdom, one with far more neighbors. A ridiculous thought; Sweeney had no desire to put his people under the threat of a civil war. And yet, he hadn’t managed to escape the trap he’s now tangled in.

Perhaps that’s the reason they’d put him at the end of the aisle before he’d been allowed to see his bride; they’d been worried he’d change his mind. As if he would abandon his duty, as unwelcome as it is. At least she’s not a burden on the eyes. At this point, Sweeney wouldn’t have been surprised if she was, just to add insult to injury. Of course, he’s barely heard more than a few words from her lips, and those were prompted. For all he knows she’ll be dull or tedious or shrill. There are a lot of shapes for shit to go sideways.

And now they’re here, in a great hall full of strangers peddling odd-smelling food on fancy plates. There’s no honey in the wine, but at least there’s still actual alcohol. It’s something he’s very grateful for. That said, it’s not enough to take the edge off his nerves. Perhaps if the people are as weak as their spirits, getting through the days won’t be a constant misery.

The high collar of his doublet is stiff, a reminder of the shackle he wears, no matter how ornate. He does his best to keep his focus, to remember the lessons he’d taken on. The last minute substitution had left him rushed to prepare for the whole thing, and he’d been lucky enough to already have a passable knowledge of the language, though he’d learned it for war and diplomacy, not for romance and poetry. His education in the customs are far more lacking.

Seated at the high table next to his new bride, Sweeney’s tight posture can’t help but read of his displeasure. His people are known for their Honesty, and as such, he’s shit at passing for anything less. He swallows and shifts, his shoulders rolling in the constrictive clothing. Sweeney doesn’t look at her when he speaks, his voice low in an attempt at privacy; something he expects he won’t ever be afforded again.

“I know yer not happy ‘bout the trade either.” His accent is thick. “Know ya were ‘xpectin’ someone younger.” And in the proper line of succession to a kingdom.

[choicely]

Yennefer isn't exactly fond of this little arrangement, either — but as the only daughter of marrying age, even if the truth of her parentage is a lesser-known secret, she's the only one who could have been promised into it. As far as the rest of the kingdom is concerned, she's a legitimate heir, but what has remained hidden for the entirety of her existence is that she's the result of an affair, her mother the queen's dalliance with an elven man when she found herself unhappy in her own arranged marriage to the king. It's why Yennefer's eyes are a shade unlike any other's in the House of Vengerberg — a vivid violet that she has rarely permitted anyone close enough to examine — and why the king has very few qualms about promising a daughter not of his blood to a man she has never met, the prince of a rival kingdom.

Of course, it isn't until her wedding day that Yennefer discovers she's not going to be wedded to the young prince, but instead his uncle — the king's brother, himself a legendary warrior of renown and a man who has certainly built a reputation for being fearsome in combat. Whether it was a decision made to remove this brother as a potential threat to the crown or to foist him off into an undesired political marriage in order to spare the next in line to the throne, it matters little in the end when she is the one standing across from this tall man who wears his hair flowing long and untamed rather than the shorn style most often favored at court.

They mean to marry her to a barbarian, she thinks, as his large hand closes around hers, feeling at once as though she's been maneuvered into a glorified prison sentence as much as she has the bonds of marriage. But she refuses to let her voice waver for even an instant when she utters her vows, even if she firmly yanks her hand free of his hold the moment the ceremony ends.

She has no intention of consuming a drop of alcohol at the feast that follows — the last thing she wants is for her guard to be lowered, her judgment to be affected, by letting herself become too drunk to even stand, especially when they're meant to consummate the wedding mere hours from now. Instead, she ensures that her goblet of apple juice is kept readily filled, gripping onto it until the bones of her knuckles are tight beneath her skin.

The only words she and her new husband have uttered to each other happened within the ceremony itself, and now they've barely shared more than a handful of glances since — so when he finally addresses her, for a moment she's not even convinced he's speaking to her directly.

"It's hardly your age that's the problem," Yennefer replies, barely moving her lips enough for it to be visible to any of their guests, although she lifts her goblet closer to her face so that she can speak behind it without anyone else discerning her. "It's that I didn't exactly have a choice in the matter."

[madaboutit]

It's not as if he expected she'd volunteered for the thing. Perhaps she thought he was in a different situation. There's some logic in that assumption, he supposes; Sweeney assumes that men might be the ones to define such things in her culture as well. And given his indirect path to his native throne, he might have jumped at the opportunity to claim another.

He presses his lips and swallows.

"Nor was it mine."

Sweeney needs her to understand that, if nothing else. He's not the one inflicting this on her; he's just another pawn on the board, moved around by those who can do so without care for the feelings and opinions of those who might suffer for it. A slow breath gives him time to come up with a thought and make the effort to translate it properly.

"I'll try not ta ask anythin' more of you than I hav'ta."

It's attempted as a compromise, something to show that he's not unempathetic to her situation. It's the best he can offer. There will be expectations, of course, some of which will be tonight. Neither of them will be spared that obligation.

[choicely]

It’s unclear, even in the moment, why such a remark would elicit a response from her that feels unsettlingly close to stinging. While she’s more mollified by the revelation that he’s as trapped in this as she is, rendered helpless by duty and obligation, for a moment it sounds as though he would have preferred any choice apart from the bonds he now finds himself tied to.

Still, she keeps her gaze trained on his face unflinchingly; she wants it known that she won’t be the sort of wife who cowers, who lowers her gaze deferentially, who will be expected to submit if that’s what he’s more accustomed to.

“So you have no intention of demanding your rights as husband?”

What’s meant to transpire hours from now looms in the back of her mind, and she can’t necessarily ignore the possibility that she’ll have to embrace expectation, that she’ll need to prove the marriage has been successfully consummated. Until then, words are all that prove anything, but words won’t be sufficient enough. And he can very well assert himself in that regard, she thinks, based on his impressive size relative to her own.

A Family vacation

[madaboutit]

Prep work done, Sweeney’s grateful to have the time to enjoy a cigarette before they get here. Every corner and dresser had been checked; paths of egress established and accounted for. All of the potentially required equipment had been cataloged and stowed, out of the sight of a pretty lady who doesn’t need to have every contingency shoved in her face. He’s been given a stern explanation that she shouldn’t learn anything about how the sausage is made unless it’s absolutely necessary.

It’s not like she’s completely ignorant; no one in her family is; but there’s the effort to find that sweet spot where plausible deniability and restful sleep meet. There’s a difference in seeing the shoulder holster tucked beneath his tailored coat and facing down a roll of plastic sheeting propped up in the corner.

As the headlights come into view, Sweeney pulls a long, last drag before flicking the remnants of the cigarette into the darkness. He holds the warmth in his lungs long enough to rake one last finger-comb through the crest of his hair. He exhales the smoke out the corner of his mouth and gives his coat a quick tug to ensure clean lines before he walks over to meet the car.

Sweeney hasn’t seen her in a while; their spheres barely overlap. He isn’t sure if the assignment is meant to be a compliment as to his trustworthiness or a statement as to how he’s being sidelined for a bit. He’s doing his best not to go looking in the mouths of any gift horses. An easier gig would be a nice break, even if it still requires constant vigilance. He just needs to get her and her luggage upstairs.

When the car comes to a stop, Sweeney steps forward to open the door for her with a practiced professionalism that speaks to the ample years he's been in this line of work. You have to be good, but you have to look good, too. Formality matters, down to the details. That's where the devil is, after all.

[choicely]

Yennefer's entirely aware of the tenuous position she holds, but she's been pleading with her father to allow her to take on more responsibility for years; of course it would be on the cusp of when she'd be considered marriageable age, when she's intended to serve the family more in the position of a wife, when he finally agrees to let her attend a meeting on his behalf. Even she's not ignorant enough to pick up on the fact that this is his version of letting the leash out by a limited length, so to speak, but she'd bit her tongue and agreed this time around.

She hadn't even tried to argue his insistence that she be accompanied by his most trusted bodyguard, who's apparently been sent ahead to scrutinize the hotel where she'll be staying, check every possible nook and cranny for potential threats. It means Yennefer ends up flying on the family's private plane alone, taking a car straight from the airstrip. On the drive over, she briefly examines her reflection via a small compact from her purse, touches up her bright red lipstick and straightens a few strands of her long dark hair. If she's going to have any chance of being considered part of this world, she has to look the part — and does she ever look the part.

The car stops, and through the tinted windows, Yennefer only has the slightest impression of a tall, imposing figure approaching her side before the door opens. She swivels to slide out feet first, extending one tanned leg and then the other, planting her high heels firm against the pavement before stretching out a hand with lacquered nails that match the color of her lips. The request is there, wordless, for him to give her a hand out of the vehicle, and violet eyes trail appraisingly up the length of his frame as she greets him with a mild air of politeness.

"Sweeney," she greets him, closer to a soft purr, and starts walking in the direction of the hotel lobby, her hand slipping free of his. The likelihood is that he already has the key to the penthouse she'll be staying in, and she expects he'll be trailing her wherever she goes this weekend. It's even more tempting, then, to add a slightly more deliberate sway to her hips as she walks, knowing the tight fit of her dress will only emphasize it in his view. But he'll be the one who has to beat her to the door to open it, beat her to the elevator and hit the button for them to ascend. It shouldn't be a problem, she thinks; with that height, his legs are twice as long as hers.

[madaboutit]

When she leads legs first, he's suddenly reminded how they go all the way up in the most shapely of ways. Sweeney works to keep his focus. This is work. He can do work.

Her hand's request is immediately met, and he stands ready to steady her, should she need it. Not that she does; no, she's got a confidence that speaks plainly to both her heritage and her upbringing. That doesn't mean he's prepared for the full sight of her. It becomes obvious in a moment that she's here to step up her game, and she has no fear of the plate.

"Miss." He tips his head respectfully.

Sweeney instinctively laments the feel of her hand when she releases it; it will be later when he realizes how exotic such a small thing is, and how it left a residual tingle for a few seconds more.

He does make it to the door and the elevator before her, without any appearance of rushing. Sweeney keeps at her side without active thought. It just is. Of course, it's probably for the best, lest he get caught staring at her ass.

Inside the elevator, he keeps his eyes fixed on the door ahead, save for one moment when they flick to the ceiling as he licks his lip. It's a quiet trip; it's not his place to make conversation. Just get her in the room and let her have a look around to see if everything is up to snuff before her luggage is brought up. Barring anything else, that's exactly what he intends to do.

[choicely]

Of course, Yennefer had made a point to size her father's latest soldier the second she'd become aware of him. There's something about Sweeney that sets him apart from all of the other grunts on the family payroll, and it doesn't only have to do with the fact that he towers head and shoulders over most people he encounters. The shock of his red hair, naturally, is another distinguishing feature, wavy and thick in a way that she's definitely imagined running her fingers through a time or two, maybe while his head is resting in her lap.

Sleeping with him would be a mistake in more than one sense — and not just as a way of sticking it to her father, to prove that she's just as capable of winding someone as impressive as Sweeney around her artfully polished finger, but also because it would be a severe error in judgment to indulge right when she's trying to focus her efforts on being taken seriously in this playing field.

The silence that stretches between them in the elevator is long, but not necessarily uncomfortable; still, she's sure she isn't imagining the tension that could potentially be cut through by at least one of the knives he's likely wearing strapped to his body. A few levels yet remain before they reach the penthouse suite, which is why she suddenly reaches out to pull the knob to stop the elevator altogether, slowly bringing them to a halt between floors.

"Before we get to the room, I have something I've been meaning to ask you, and I want you to answer it honestly," she finally says, turning to face him, her body positioned between him and the panel of buttons. She'll wait, patiently, until he meets her eyes, holding his gaze unflinchingly, her lips pressed together into a definitive line.

"You're not going to have any problems doing your job this week, are you? Protecting me?" If she purposefully, coquettishly glances up at him beneath her lashes, it's only in part to see if she can elicit any greater reaction from his end.