#really like Doublet so I ended up using all the rest of it too | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thebreakfastgenie · 1 year

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Directors commentary on the play's the thing 👀? (which I meant to ask this morning and then didn't, please forgive me)

I did this one before and got carried away so I had to think of something I didn't talk about there.

I mentioned the line about sleeping perchance to dream before, but that was the payoff for this line, which I didn't talk about:

How the hours between studying and sleep keep growing longer, and it’s not because he’s studying less. How even with the extra lab, he’s finding himself with too much time on his hands.

He's not sleeping, or he's not sleeping well, or enough. We see Hawkeye have issues with sleep in the show, and while that could easily be just a product of the war, I like the idea that he had problems with sleep on and off before, too. A lot of that is, admittedly, projection, but it also goes with the idea of Hawkeye as someone who's a little off because people who want to be surgeons tend to be a little off. And here, he's not being destructive, at least in the short term. He's doing extra work and studying and leading the class and taking on an extra hobby. Eventually, he'll probably collapse. Or he'll start sleeping better again.

Brian Thompson (Polonius)’s apartment. He closes his eyes and imagines it. Polonius has a phonograph, a good one. Claudius—what was his name? Greg something

“Hey,” a voice calls out. “There’s Hamlet!”

He gazes up at Ophelia looming over him, her breasts exposed, her hair loose around her shoulders.

She pulls back again, this time to tug at his shirt. It’s a doublet, really, he hasn’t changed—he’s still dressed as Hamlet.

These lines all go together, the recurring theme of the boundary between play and reality getting a little fuzzy. I had a lot of fun with that, especially using it intermittently.

The scene between Hawkeye and Gloria includes Hawkeye quoting some lines from Hamlet and when I first wrote this I just searched for some Hamlet-to-Ophelia lines to use as placeholders. When I looked more closely, I ended up keeping almost all of them! I think I just tweaked the order a bit so it would make more sense.

The interjections, beginning with "There's rosemary, that's for remembrance–," were @hamiltonsteele's suggestion, especially because I already had the "Her perfume smells like wildflowers," line, and I was so skeptical. But I tried it and it ended up being great. I'm glad I did it.

Speaking of interjections, the limited parts that are from other POVs being parenthetical is something I've never done before (or since, but I would do it again if the fic called for it) and I really love how it turned out. It started as a practical thing, because I wanted to stick with Hawkeye's POV, and I didn't have any full scenes from other POVs, but there were a couple of things I simply could not leave out. The original one was John Grable seeing the play:

He recognizes the skull, but not the student--

I think I decided that scene would flow better with more than just his reaction, if I was doing the parenthetical scene. And I think I came up with a second one fairly early on and wanted to fill it out. It was also important, I think, to show how people reacted to Hawkeye as Hamlet. So I wrote all those little OCs and the hardest part by far was coming up with names. I always use my relatives for Maine people and I'm running out so I had to supplement. I had fun with the rest of it.

She reaches for one, covertly, but the movement draws the man on the stage right to her.

I always felt like I could have written this a little more naturally, but this was the best I could get it. That moment of eye contact is really striking in my mind.

Doing the parentheticals also allowed me to give that little moment to Gloria. I really wanted that, Gloria telling the host "there’s a freshman in the bedroom who’s had too much to drink" because we know and in my opinion, though this is up to interpretation, she knows there's something else going on, but she doesn't know how to explain that. She's also trying to be tactful, because everyone understands a young guy drinking too much at a party, and she doesn't use his name.

I had at least one commenter remark that it was sad that Gloria didn't know who his friends were, but I never thought of it that way. I honestly just saw it as Gloria going to a different school and not really knowing these guys outside of the play (she meets Hawkeye to go over lines, but she wouldn't do that with most of the others). So that comment was really fun because it was a different perspective I hadn't anticipated!

He hears whispers, people asking if that striking young fellow is playing the lead again, and it doesn’t occur to him until later that they were talking about him.

I really liked the idea that Hawkeye doesn't really know what that was all about with the play, so of course he doesn't realize they're talking about him, but I also wanted to hint at the way other people might feel. What was the impact of this kid doing this incredible performance as Hamlet and then just disappearing?

“No kidding.” Sidney stares at him, and he has a funny feeling he can see all of it.

Sidney sees right through him, of course. That's what causes the "sudden attack of stage fright." This fic was finished and maybe even posted before I realized the parallel between Gloria thinking he has stage fright at the beginning and the sudden attack of stage fright here.

“You’re a great actor, Hawk, but you’re a terrible liar,” he said, but he laughed, and they got on with rehearsal.

I wanted to pull in "I lied to you about Hamlet,” because I fully believe (obviously, given the fic) that he was lying then. And it clearly doesn't work, because Sidney still wants him to participate in the reenactment. So, you know, he's a bad liar. We don't see Hawkeye lie often, so I found that believable. The exact meaning of the last line, and of it ending there, is unclear to me. It feels like it means something. So if you have an idea, I'd love to hear it.

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spencer-reid-in-a-pool · 3 years

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It Was You All Along (Part 7)

Author’s note: So that wasn’t much of a break, but I couldn’t resist! Here is the next installment of the series, featuring a meme I made myself to reflect the vibes of the first half of this part! And yes, it is supposed to be that pixely. It adds spice. Also, I tried to be as vague as possible describing reader’s outfit towards the end so that you could imagine it the way you wanted! As always, feedback is appreciated, and I hope you all enjoy! Link to my ask box!

Tags: @ayyyyitswednesdaymydoods @blackjay04 @weaselbee04 @bravelittlesunflower @mxsmwndr

A voice called for me, but I didn’t quite process it. I was too busy trying to fix this gigantic, gaping hole in Geralt’s trousers. Melitele knows if I don’t do it, he would just walk around with it decorating his attire.

The voice called for me again, but this time I ignored it on purpose. If I lost concentration, I would prick myself with the needle...again. And I didn’t really want to turn my fingers into more of a bloody mess than they already were.

I heard footsteps beside me, but I didn’t realize how close they were until a rush of coldness surrounded my body. Not only coldness, but wetness. A bucket of ice cold water had been dumped on me, causing me to scream and drop what I was doing as I stood up in shock.

“Julian!”

His real name still felt unfamiliar on my lips. I had taken to calling him that every so often, usually when I was angry with him, or when I was messing with him. It was for that reason, I think, that he froze so suddenly when I spoke. He wasn’t used to it either, even though he was the one that suggested I start using it more.

The bucket made a small thump sound as it hit the ground beneath us, and Jaskier raised his hands up in an apology. But he also backed away like a scared animal. I almost felt bad for him. Almost, but not quite.

“Now, (Y/N)...I was just trying to get your attention is all. It’s quite important, you see.”

I gathered my skirts in my hands and stomped towards him, scowling and shivering the whole way.

“What could possibly be so important that you couldn’t wait until I was finished? And what made you think dumping cold water on me was a good idea?”

I didn’t give him a chance to respond before I starting running towards him, my clothes making a sloshing noise against my skin. A string of curse words left his mouth as he took off trying to get away from me. He could be quite fast when he wanted to be. But no way was I going to let him get away from me that easily.

As soon as he picked up speed, so did I. He wove through the trees surrounding our campsite, going in between them like a maze. Eventually we made it back to where we started. My spot was near a tree and the pants I had been working on were visibly in a bunch on the ground. But behind that was the river that I’m assuming the idiot got the water in the first place. I wonder if I could lead him back there... and “accidentally” knock him in.

As luck would have it, I didn’t even have to put that thought into action. He had made his way to the edge of the river, and turned quickly on his heel trying to run away from me again. But he slipped on the muddy bank, and fell right into the water himself.

Coming to a stop, a sharp laugh came from my chest suddenly. And I laughed even harder when he bobbed above the surface, hair sticking to his forehead and his fancy doublet soaked.

“That’s what you get!” I yelled to him between bouts of laughter.

While Jaskier pulled himself out of the water unceremoniously, I heard more footsteps behind me followed by a thud. Geralt must be back. Only one man I know could walk and sit down that heavily.

I turned towards the sound, and sure enough, Geralt was sitting down on the log he had claimed as his earlier. He took one look at me and one look at Jaskier who was now standing on the bank of the river, shivering like his life depended on it.

“I don’t even want to know,” said Geralt with a twitch of his eyebrow and a roll of his eyes.

Night had fallen now. I couldn’t help but reflect on the past few months since that attack at our camp. Things had been pretty boring since then honestly. But I guess I couldn’t complain. Being bored was better than being in danger.

Geralt was asleep and snoring at an unholy volume. This of course caused a glance between Jaskier and I, and sent us into a fit of silent laughter together. The kind of laughter that had your stomach hurting and your mouth open with no sound. The kind that had you grabbing onto your friend for dear life. Which is precisely what the two of us were doing right now. I had such a grip on Jaskier’s arm, I thought he surely must be in pain. But if he was, he made no mention of it and kept laughing with me.

However much time had passed, it seemed to only be a few minutes. And I still had my hand on his arm, although my grip definitely lessened. He didn’t notice this either, and simply looked into the dying flames with dried tears from his laughter on his cheeks. My gaze lingered a moment too long on his cheeks, and I began to think about how gentle his eyelashes looked against his skin as he blinked.

Heat rose in my cheeks and I silently withdrew my hand from his arm. This seemed to catch his attention though.

“Composed yourself now? Don’t need to steady yourself from anymore laughter?”

There was a glint in his eye as he asked me the questions. I had to keep from smiling.

“That depends. Got any jokes?”

He stood suddenly and rested a hand on his chin, making it seem like he was deep in thought.

“You look as if you are composing a new song, Julian.”

“I’m a musician, my dear, I am always composing.”

He paced around the fire, which was even lower than before. The way he took everything so seriously was something that entertained me, and I couldn’t help but smile to myself because of it.

Suddenly, he opened his mouth in a silent “Aha!”

“(Y/N), why must you never use a broken pen?”

I paused for a moment and scrunched my face in thought, trying to come up with an answer. But before I could, he delivered the punch line.

“It’s pointless, darling.”

I snorted at the same time Geralt groaned. The fucker was awake.

Jaskier almost jumped out of his boots at the sudden noise, which only caused me to laugh again. The pain in my stomach from earlier was back, but I couldn’t keep from laughing.

“Have you been awake this whole time, Geralt?” Jaskier yelled in surprise.

“Long enough. Don’t you have anything better to do? Like sleep?”

Jaskier open and closed his mouth a few times before settling on a simple, “Right,” in response. He then took his spot a few feet away from Geralt and laid down for the night.

“Goodnight, Geralt.” Jaskier said with a stifled yawn.

Geralt simply grunted in return, rolling over so his back was facing Jaskier.

“Goodnight, (Y/N),” Jaskier called in my direction.

“Goodnight, Jaskier. And goodnight Geralt!”

“Hmph,” was all I got in response.

There was a silence over our camp now. But it was too quiet. The kind of quiet that felt like it would be broken at any moment now. Jaskier’s voice was what broke it, of course.

“Goodnight, Roach.”

“Oh, yeah! Goodnight, Roach and Lily!” I called out excitedly.

“How could I forget Lily? Goodnight, Lily!” Jaskier parroted.

“Oh, for the love of-” Geralt groaned loudly, sitting up and gathering his things. He promptly moved farther and farther away from us, settling on a spot under the cover of darkness in the trees.

I snickered to myself as I got my things ready to lay down. Annoying Geralt had become one of our favorite things to do together over the past few months.

It became silent again, and I could hear Jaskier’s even breathing now, signalling that he was asleep. I had the feeling I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Call it instinct, I guess.

I laid down on my back and stared up at the sky. Jaskier and I were closer than ever, and it was so nice. But I needed more. I craved more. They say time heals all wounds, but my heart was still shattered after all these months had gone by. I was still so in love with my best friend that it hurt. Even more than it did before.

Jaskier had been acting differently lately though. He called me more nicknames, and he was even more of a flamboyant disaster than when I first met him. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen him with any random women in bars or taverns anymore. Could he-? No. No way. I must be out of my mind.

My fingers instinctively went to the dagger Geralt had given me a while ago. Sometimes I would run my hands along the inscription, trying to remind myself to be brave like it said. I could almost laugh at myself right now. I was being anything but brave when it came to Jaskier.

“Could you please calm your nerves down? I can feel them from over here,” a gruff voice said in the distance. Geralt. Of course.

“Sorry to disturb you. Maybe you should move to another new spot, even farther away. Oh yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask. How is Yennefer?”

I didn’t have to have Witcher senses to feel how that comment landed.

Morning came much more quickly than I was hoping it would. It meant today was the day we had to get moving, which meant we would be moving closer to the situation I had been trying to avoid thinking about. The ball.

I seemed to be the last one awake, and I could feel the energy as soon as I had rubbed the sleepiness from my reluctant eyes. Geralt sad brooding in the corner of our camp, and Jaskier was flitting about getting everyone’s things together. It was easy to see who was excited and who was not.

“Today is the day, you sad sack of...sadness,” Jaskier vocalized in regards to Geralt.

“I know. Don’t remind me.”

I almost laughed as I sat up from my spot on the ground. Geralt wasn’t looking forward to this, and truth be told, I wasn’t either. At least part of me wasn’t. The other part couldn’t help being excited in a childlike way. I had never been in a castle before, let alone a ballroom. Although I couldn’t help but feel like I would be out of place, and painfully so.

“Don’t look so excited, Geralt.”

“You weren’t there. You don’t know what happened at the last one.”

I winced and realized that he was right. Although Jaskier had told me some of what happened, I was almost certain that he watered down the events of Pavetta’s betrothal ball in doing so.

The man in question turned to look at me, apparently just now realizing I was awake.

“There you are! Come on, we are losing daylight!”

“Jaskier, do I even really need to come? Geralt is only going to be your body guard, so I don’t really have a purpose.”

“Don’t be silly. You must come! We couldn’t just leave you by yourself for hours at a time. These things do tend to take a while.”

I rolled my eyes and stood, stretching as I did so.

“I am a grown up, you know. I can take care of myself. Afraid I might get kidnapped?”

Jaskier scoffed and continued packing, mostly ignoring my comment. But it was true, I could take care of myself. Geralt had taught me some things with the dagger over the past few weeks, and I felt confident in my abilities.

“Well if I must go, at least be careful with my dress and things. I’m sure Yennefer paid good money for them.”

“The witch probably stole them, more like.”

I watched as Jaskier carefully started packing my things, and tried not to cackle when Geralt made a comment about shoving his foot somewhere it didn’t belong in reference to Jaskier.

Today was going to be quite...something.

Since we had done most of the travelling yesterday, what was left for today didn’t take long. We made it to the castle in no time it seemed.

Lily and Roach were tied up in the stables, in the same stall actually. I was quite happy that the stable master was willing to do that. They always seemed to enjoy each other’s company.

I sat in my borrowed room getting ready, and I was assuming that Geralt and Jaskier were in their own rooms doing the same thing. But that thought was at the back of my mind now as I looked at myself in the mirror. Or at least, what I think was myself. I didn’t really recognize the woman staring back at me.

Yennefer had picked out the most beautiful, elegant, and intricate floor-length ballgown I could ever imagine. It was sleeved as well, with lace adorning them to match the bodice. The skirt was made of layers on layers, it seemed, and with every move I made it swished gently to follow. It was even in my favorite color. I wonder how she knew? I don’t remember telling her...

She had also gotten me some jewelry to match, and the metals and gems complimented my skin tone perfectly. How did she know all this? I had only met her once, and it was very briefly. I would have to thank her for all this later.

Not long after I had finished getting dressed, jeweled, and made up, a knock sounded at my door.

“Come in,” I called.

Jaskier entered in his outfit for the night. It was a dark, silky purple with golden accents along the doublet’s center, and my breath hitched in my throat when I saw him in the reflection of the mirror I sat in front of.

“You look breathtaking, darling,” he said in a whisper as he approached me.

Hopefully he didn’t notice the blush creeping up the sides of my neck. I don’t think I would ever get used to his names for me.

“You don’t look too bad yourself. Compare that to when you fell into the water yesterday and looked like a dying animal, you basically are a different person.”

Jaskier feigned anger, but I could tell he was amused.

“Do you like your clothes? I made sure to tell Yennefer all your favorite colors and shiny things.”

My heart skipped a beat. He had told her all of that? I didn’t even know that he knew those things about me.

I stood before really thinking about what I was doing, and turned to face him, the shock evident on my face.

“You told her all that? I didn’t know that you knew such trivial facts about me...Thank you.”

He chuckled and ran a hand through his hair.

“Of course I know. And it was no problem. I had to make sure she didn’t dress you in an unflattering way.”

I tilted my head in thought, almost as a reflex, and it caught his attention.

“What are you thinking about, (Y/N)?” Jaskier asked me quietly with a crooked smile.

“I seem to be thinking about everything and nothing at once...but I am mostly wondering how you convinced the people hosting this ball to let me in. Geralt is your security, of course, I get that. But how did you get me in? I’m no one special.”

He was silent for a moment and stared at a spot past me, for almost so long I didn’t think he would reply. But then he did, with an odd look on his face that showed happiness and some other emotion I didn’t recognize.

“I told them you were my muse. A musician cannot perform without their muse.”

My mouth twitched as if to fall open in shock. but I didn’t let it. I didn’t want him to see how this affected me.

“I’m your what?”

“My muse. You know, inspiration?”

I shook my head furiously, matching the speed at which my heart was beating.

“I know what it means. But why did you tell them that? You couldn’t have come up with a better excuse to get me in here? You didn’t have to lie to them.”

You couldn’t have come up with a better excuse in order to keep me from getting my hopes up?

He looked at me with a smile. But it was a pained smile. Then for a second, it looked like he might speak. Until Geralt passed by the open door way and told Jaskier it was time to go. The crowd was waiting on him.

I stood frozen in the same spot I had been in, and I watched them leave. First Geralt, then Jaskier following behind him. At the last second before leaving the doorway, he stopped, placing a hand on the frame.

Finally he turned to me, and looking over his shoulder, he simply said:

“I didn’t lie.”

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bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher · 3 years

Text

And Tomorrow, Too.

I'm back!

Much love and many thanks to @stinastar @hailhailsatan @newnamesamecharlotte and @veritasrose for helping me yank this thing out of my brain!

Please enjoy this hurt/comfort that ends with glorious, glorious fluff.

TW: Blood, canon typical injury, infection

Jaskier was having a very rough day, objectively speaking.

He’d just finished dressing after a dip in the river when a lone bandit surprised him, shoving him to the dirt and kicking him in the ribs to keep him down. Having dealt with a gut-punch from a Witcher, Jaskier had recovered faster than anticipated and tackled the stranger to the ground.

“Foolish troubadour,” the bandit snarled. There was the quick flash of something silver and a sudden white-hot pain shot up the bard’s side from his hip to his ribcage.

“Shit,” Jaskier gasped, clutching desperately at his slashed doublet. The panicked bandit scooped up the largest of the bard’s travel bags and darted into the woods, leaving his bloodied weapon lying atop a pile of leaves beside his victim. When Jaskier pulled his hand away from the wound on his ribcage he grimaced; that was more blood than he’d been hoping to see. “Fucking cock.”

After he stripped to the waist and rinsed off in the river a second time, Jaskier took inventory of himself. The cut started at his left hip and slid up his ribcage to just beneath his left shoulder, and it was practically impossible to bandage; any attempt to wrap the upper half of his injury made him bite his lip to keep from screaming in anguish.

It was agony to move more than a few inches in either direction, since the twisting motion pulled at his torn skin and stung like hellfire. All he could really do was apply a loose poultice of chewed mint leaves to ward against infection and tie his shirt around his torso in lieu of a bandage. His cloak would have to work even harder than usual to keep him warm until Geralt arrived.

“Alright, well,” he muttered to no one as he accounted for the rest of his scattered clothing and supplies. “I need to find somewhere to rest and gather what wits I still possess… somewhere that’s still close enough for Geralt to find me. Shit, this isn’t good.”

The bard thanked every god he knew when he managed to find a small cave less than a hundred yards from the enormous oak tree where he met Geralt every year. He limped his remaining belongings into the slightly cramped space and deposited them against the left wall.

---

Fortunately for Jaskier, the idiot bandit had declared his beautiful elven lute “too bulky and annoying to carry”, and had left Sexy well enough alone. Unfortunately, the ruffian had still made off with all the bard’s coin from at least two months’ worth of contracted performances, most of his medical supplies, and most of his rations, as well.

But Jaskier had spent years at Geralt’s side and the Witcher had taught him how to deal with emergencies of every variety. Jaskier wasn’t about to disappoint his companion by flailing about ineffectively like some noble-born dunce at a time like this. No, Jaskier was determined to be healthy and ready to travel again by the time Geralt arrived in Kaedwen to find him. They only had a week or two together before they separated again for the winter and he wasn’t going to lose a single precious second in Geralt’s presence due to some silly highwayman.

Lovelorn fool that he was.

The bard used his remaining strength to gather a few armfuls of firewood and light some dried leaves with his flint and steel. He laid out his bedroll against the back wall so that he could see clearly if anyone approached from outside and wrapped his arms around Sexy to keep her safe. He re-wrapped his wound with more crushed mint and laid down to try and get some sleep.

Hopefully Geralt would arrive soon with his medical supplies and more water.

Hopefully.

---

After two long days spent huddled in a miserable lump at the back of the cave, anxiously scanning the horizon for any sign of another bandit (or Geralt) and unable to gather food or kindling, Jaskier was exhausted from lack of sleep. The wound in his side ached and burned far worse than it had on that first afternoon, aggravated by sweat and debris that had crept through his makeshift bandages.

Any added pressure around the edges of the cut made the skin nearly creak with the building strain of infection. He whimpered involuntarily every time he took a breath and trembled at any shift in the autumn breeze. It seemed as if his very bones were aching as his body flashed between the white-hot and freezing cold of a raging fever.

Slowly, and with a great effort on the part of his illness, Jaskier succumbed to the injury and sank into the quiet warmth of unconsciousness.

---

“Jaskier?” Geralt called, guiding Roach around another circuit of the old oak tree. “Are you there, Jaskier? We need to make it to the fork in the Pontar before the harvest ends and I’m in no mood for practical jokes.”

Nothing.

All his Witcher hearing picked up on were leaves twitching in the wind and a few rabbits foraging off to his left. Not even Jaskier could stay so still, even for a joke; his heartbeat and the uptick in his breathing would give him dead away.

“Well, I’m going to town.”

Geralt was about to wheel Roach back toward the road in search of a nearby inn when he caught a whiff of something on the wind - something that sent his heart plummeting into his boots.

Blood.

Jaskier’s blood. And it wasn’t fresh.

He dropped silently from the saddle and gave the signal for Roach to stay put. After a few careful breaths and some shuffling through the autumn leaves, Geralt discovered the bandit’s discarded dagger, still rusty-red around the tip and left edge.

“Fuck! Jaskier!” Geralt called, glancing around the small copse in the woods. “Jaskier, where are you!?”

The Witcher closed his eyes and tilted his head back to better clear his airways. He took a deep breath in through his nose and focused every one of his heightened senses on locating the bard. There it was again to his right, but slightly stronger. “Fucking hells.”

Geralt did his best to follow the trail without panicking. It wouldn’t do either of them any good if he lost his head while the bard was in mortal danger. If the bard was in mortal danger, he tried to reassure himself.

But if Jaskier had recovered he would have been waiting at the oak. Geralt knew that. He knew it with every fiber of his being, though he wouldn’t admit anything aloud. Jaskier’s long autumn absence had already set him on edge when he’d caught the blood-smell. “Gods-dammit, bard. Please be alive. Please, Jaskier, I can’t-”

Geralt bit his tongue and continued to follow the bard’s weak scent into the woods. After too many minutes - perhaps five or six at the speed Geralt was moving - the Witcher reached a small cave. The mouth of said cave was nearly covered-over with dry leaves and Geralt could tell, even from this distance, that Jaskier was not faring well at all. The whole area smelled like rot. Like decay. If it weren’t for the bard’s fluttering heartbeat echoing faintly from within the tiny cavern, the Witcher would have fallen to his knees and wept with despair at his untimely death.

When Geralt ducked inside and reached to pull Jaskier into his arms, the bard struggled weakly. “No, please,” he rasped. “D-Don’t kill me.”

“I’m not going to kill you, Jaskier,” Geralt replied softly. He shifted the thick leather strap of Sexy’s case over his shoulder and hefted the bard into his arms in one swift movement. Those usually brilliant blue eyes looked up at him in utter confusion. The irises were dull and foggy with sickness; the Witcher’s heart lurched in his chest and he turned back to the path, doubling his speed in his hurry to reach Roach. “You don’t have to worry any more, sweet Julek. I’m going to get you to safety.”

“If you must kill me-” Jaskier continued, muttering frantically as if Geralt hadn’t said anything at all “-then p-please do me one last f-favor. I need you to p-please find a Witcher. F-Find the White Wolf. Tell h-him… Tell him that I…”

Then the weight in Geralt’s arms seemed to increase by a fraction and the bard went silent. The Witcher shook the sweating, shaking bundle in his arms but Jaskier remained quiet.

“What do you want to tell him, Jaskier?” Geralt glanced down. His eyebrows furrowed deeply when he realized the human had fallen unconscious. The hummingbird pace of Jaskier’s fluttering heartbeat began to hammer even faster and his breaths were far too shallow. The Witcher rumbled out a determined, desperate plea the universe to save his darling songbird, followed by a quiet but emphatic, “Fuck.”

---

“Eskel!” Geralt kicked down the door to the kitchen of Kaer Morhen with one solid boot. He hadn't slept in two days and his body ached from sprinting up the path with a full-grown man in his arms. “Eskel, Vesemir, please!”

“Fuck, is that Geralt!?” Eskel came whipping around one corner at a sprint. Lambert and Vesemir were close behind, Lambert with a sword drawn and a scowl on his face. He lowered it when he saw that Geralt wasn't being pursued.

“Please, Ves, Eskel, please, help him to survive because I can’t- I can’t-” the White Wolf, for all his bravado and stoicism, was panting furiously. His kinsmen knew that he'd be crying if he had the capability to do so and crowded closer to help. Geralt immediately handed a warm, damp bundle to his Eskel with incredible gentleness and care. He looked up at the slightly taller Witcher and begged with all the strength he had left: “Please. I can't let him die.”

---

Jaskier woke up with a sharp gasp. His side radiated a dull, persistent kind of agony and he felt sick to his stomach. With a low groan he turned to retch off the side of the bed, into a conveniently placed bucket. He shouted when the movement made his wound ache all the more. “Fuck!”

The bard heard a heavy thud from his left followed by some clattering and a quietly whispered, “Shit.”

“G’ralt?”

“Jaskier!” the Witcher appeared at his side in a flash. Geralt leaned over him with a damp cloth in hand and wiped at the corners of his mouth. “You’re alive! Melitele be thanked. Do you need to be sick again? Would you like some water?”

“You’re o-oddly verbose,” Jaskier managed to half-smile.

“Was worried.”

“There’s my monosyllabic Witcher,” the bard grinned through his blinding pain. “It hurts, Geralt. Rather terribly.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I don’t- We’re all Witchers so it’s not…” Geralt sighed and turned away to rinse the cloth in a bowl of cool water that had been resting on the sill. “We didn’t know which kind of herbs were safe for humans and which weren’t.”

“We?”

“How’s the patient?”

Jaskier's snapped to the doorway and his body automatically jerked in surprise. He whimpered at the reaction it elicited from his injury, his ribs blooming with a sharp sting. “Shit!”

“Fuck!” the red-headed man in the door replied, slamming his hands over his face. “I’m so sorry. Shit in the fucking nine hells.”

“Uh…”

“Jaskier, this is my brother Lambert. Lambert… This is Jaskier.”

“Ah yes,” the shorter Witcher smirked. “I’ve heard so much about you, Master Jaskier.”

“That I’m a royal pain in the ass?”

“Quite the opposite, really. In fact, when the two of you arrived, Geralt was nearly-”

Lambert’s statement was interrupted by a small wooden bowl to the side of the head, chucked across the room by a grim-faced Geralt.

“Nevermind. Anyway, glad to see you’re awake. I’ll let the others know that he's no longer going hand-to-hand with Death.”

“Others?” Jaskier glanced between Geralt and Lambert with wide, confused eyes. “Am I… Am I in Kaer Morhen!?”

“Aye,” Lambert winked. “And you slept through the first two days of snowfall, so I’m afraid to inform you that you’re stuck at Kaer Morhen for the rest of this season. I’ll let you and Geralt hash the rest of the details out in private. Tootles, Buttercup.”

And just as suddenly as Lambert had appeared, he was gone.

The bard turned to make eye contact with the White Wolf and blinked owlishly. “Wh-What did he mean about being here all winter?”

“I’m afraid he wasn’t lying,” Geralt returned to the stool beside Jaskier’s bed and sat down slowly, as if waiting for Jaskier to order him out of the room entirely. “Your injury was heavily infected and you were close to death when I found you in that cave at the base of the mountains. I ran the Killer in two days instead of one and brought you to Eskel and Vesemir for healing; they were the closest people I could think of who knew what to do to save you. I’m so sorry for trapping you here for the season when you should be teaching and composing in Oxenfurt. If you’d like, I can try to contact Yen or Triss and have them portal you back to the University before Yule.”

“Nobody would want to inconvenience a sorceress on their behalf,” Jaskier answered. "Myself included."

“So you don’t mind staying?”

Jaskier glanced up through his lashes, more self-conscious than Geralt had ever seen him before. “Were you really worried about me dying? Did you really carry me up the path all by yourself? In two days?”

“...Yes.”

“Why?”

Geralt felt his heart shatter to pieces in his chest. All these years spent thinking that if he was too obvious about his feelings he’d hurt Jaskier... and Jaskier had simply been waiting for any confirmation of his affections, friendly or otherwise.

"Because I..." the Witcher stood again and started to pace. "Because, Julek, I love you. I can't bear the thought of being parted from you. It's even worse because I know, I know that you're human and that I'm going to lose you too soon no matter what happens. Illness, age, injury... No matter how many years we have together they will never be enough."

Jaskier sniffled and Geralt turned on his heel to face the bard, hands already outstretched to offer comfort. "You enormous fucking idiot."

"Huh?"

"I have loved you since the moment I saw you sitting in the corner, brooding away," Jaskier grinned. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks and dripped onto the blanket. "Why didn't you tell me? You couldn't even look me in the eyes and call me your friend..."

"Witchers aren't very good at romance, if you haven't noticed," Geralt laughed humorlessly. "I knew I was going to hurt you eventually. It was only a matter of time."

"Well now we have all winter to figure things out," Jaskier offered, sliding his hand across the mattress to twine his fingers with Geralt's. The Witcher's skin was cool against his own and it felt glorious.

"Hmm."

"No! No going silent on me now, you fucker!"

"Get some rest," Geralt smiled, leaning forward to press a kiss to Jaskier's sweaty fringe. "I will be here when you wake."

"And tomorrow, too?"

Geralt smiled oh-so-softly and kissed him again, on the lips.

"And tomorrow, too."

192 notes · View notes

reinvent-and-believe · 4 years

Note

48 from dialogue prompts + 50 from wordless i-love-yous for geraskier?

Dialogue Prompt 48: “You make me want things I can’t have.” Wordless I-love-you 50: buying them a special treat when you go out shopping

It catches Geralt’s eye while he haggles over an outrageously priced jar of alchemy paste with a none-too-impressed herbalist on the outskirts of Novigrad, a buxom widow with thick-braided auburn hair by the name of Irmina.

“This for sale too?” He picks up the brooch from the countertop where it rests in a beam of golden light streaming through a dingy window. He examines it. It’s simple enough metalwork, a brass oval with a scalloped edge, but inlaid in its face is a single pressed yellow flower framed by tiny white blooms encased in resin.

The herbalist’s dour demeanour brightens immediately. “It is indeed!” she answers, her brown eyes shining in a plump, suddenly pleasant face. “Made it myself just last week. It’s something of a hobby of mine, making pretty knick-knacks from the flowers we can’t sell. Got plenty more like this if you’d like to peruse ‘em, master witcher! Forget-me-nots and arenaria, hellebore, violets, any flower you might like.”

A buttercup, he realizes belatedly. That’s the yellow flower in the center.

“No.” He sees Irmina’s brow furrow in offense, so he hastens to appease her. “No need, I’ll take this one. I...I’m partial to buttercups.”

Her freckled face breaks into a sly, knowing smile. “Oh, aye, I’m sure someone is partial to buttercups.” She winks, waving away his stammered attempts at an answer. “Never you mind, I know a man besotted when I see one, and it seems a witcher’s not so different. Tell you what. Fifty crowns for the paste and I’ll throw the brooch in for only ten.”

Leaving the herbalist’s shop with an overpriced paste, a lighter purse, and a useless trinket, Geralt curses himself for a fool.

He’s not sure why he bought it.

He knows buttercups are Jaskier’s favorite, of course. “None but the noblest of flowers for my sobriquet!” Jaskier had squawked indignantly when Geralt once made the grave mistake of referring to the pesky things as weeds after he’d stopped Roach from chomping on a patch of the bright, poisonous blooms.

They are weeds, buttercups. They serve no function. They can’t be used in any of the potions, decoctions, or oils Geralt brews, nor do they have any particularly helpful curative properties for humans.

“As ever, my dear witcher, you have no sense of poetry,” Jaskier had sighed in a most put-upon voice when told as much. “Their function is they’re pretty. Their function is to enrich our lives through the beauty of the natural world.” He’d looked to the sky, tip of his tongue between his teeth showing through his frown as was his custom when puzzling through the right way to turn a phrase. “From a strictly utilitarian perspective, perhaps the buttercup has less value than, say, moleyarrow, or verbena, or chamomile, even. Some plants provide nutritional or medicinal or alchemical qualities of various sorts. But some exist to make life worth living! To transform the banal into the sublime.” He’d plucked a buttercup from the roadside, twirling it between his long fingers. “It’s graceful and balanced, effortlessly beautiful. It’s vibrant, bright like...like sunlight, on a summer afternoon! And when you see it growing alongside the various and sundry flora, it fills you with the loveliest burst of warmth, like a lover’s smile.”

“So...it’s a pretty weed.”

“You’re incorrigible, witcher, that’s what you are.” Jaskier had huffed dramatically before tucking the buttercup behind Geralt’s ear, his face alight with a delighted grin.

Like sunlight on a summer afternoon.

The Kingfisher Inn is crowded when Geralt arrives. He goes to the bar, orders an ale from Olivier, and leans against the counter to take a look at the stage.

Jaskier loves playing the Kingfisher. In many of the inns he plays across the Continent, he’s relegated to a corner to try to sing over the clang of dinner, his only option to win the common folk over a raucous drinking song or a filthy ditty. And while the bard doesn’t shy away from such vulgarities, the patrons of the Kingfisher tend to be of a more artistically inclined ilk, responding with appropriate gusto to the virtuosic art songs that he rarely performs outside of competitions or Oxenfurt.

Or so he’d explained to Geralt when he’d suggested they meet up at the inn.

Jaskier sits atop a tall stool on a rather large stage framed by crimson curtains, his sky-blue doublet a vivid contrast. The audience, enraptured, listens to his ballad, a melancholy tale of a fair maiden who’s violently killed before she can profess her love to a farmhand in her village, a beautiful, strong, kind man whose hair shines like a blaze of pale fire in the sunlight. Her love for him tethers her to this world, and her spirit—bitter, weary, and endlessly yearning—calls the men working in the fields to join her dance at midday, when the sun is in its zenith, hoping against hope for the chance to finally confess to her beloved.

In the end, the brave, noble farmhand sacrifices himself, hoping to stop the spirit’s killings by listening to her song and joining her as she beckons. And as they are reunited, as she finally kisses the lips she’s longed for in a blinding blaze of sunlight, they pass on together, their spirits becoming one.

It’s a contract Geralt worked a few years ago, a noonwraith outside Oreton—or at least something close. As ever, Jaskier has taken artistic liberties, romanticized the actual events (“Sometimes, in our pursuit of Truth, we must sacrifice the facts,” Jaskier loftily explained on more than one occasion. He seemed quite taken with the profundity he seemed to find in the statement. Geralt called it pretentious once and Jaskier hurled a chunk of bread at his head). Once it might have bothered Geralt, but he’s grown accustomed to Jaskier’s rather malleable relationship with veracity in his ballads. There’s no denying the impact of his storytelling: when Geralt glances around the inn, he sees several patrons discreetly dabbing at their eyes.

It’d been an ugly case, leaving him feeling empty, drained. Noonwraiths haunt his thoughts far longer than most the monsters he dispatches. They’re victims of circumstance more than anything, young women who’ve been transformed into bloodthirsty, violent spirits through no fault of their own, through the violence inflicted upon them. Nearly forty men had fallen prey to her before the farmhand distracted her with his kiss—though Geralt would hesitate to classify his grotesque, gruesome sacrifice as such—so the witcher had a chance to strike her down with silver. Jaskier has spun the miserable tale into something beautiful, moving, something that clearly resonates with his captivated audience, that speaks to a greater force at work than the chaotic, banal evils the witcher sees every day, and Geralt thinks he understands, for a moment, what the bard had told him of Truth and facts.

(Geralt doesn’t know what greater Truth is served by changing the beloved farmhand’s hair from the dull brown it really was to “a blaze of pale fire,” but then, Geralt’s not a poet.)

The final notes hang in the air, all eyes fixed on Jaskier for a rapt, breathless moment before the room bursts into wild applause. Jaskier stands and bows deeply, once, twice, a third time, surveying the room as he offers his thanks. When his gaze catches Geralt at the bar, his expression of showman’s grace vanishes, a flash of something that looks almost alarmed for a split second before it’s replaced by a small, gentle smile.

Geralt nods and raises his mug toward the stage in cheers, draining the remainder. Jaskier is quickly swept into the swarm of captivated fans, accepting their praises with a gracious, if distracted, smile.

The witcher turns back to the barkeep to order himself another ale along with a glass of wine.

“Geralt!” Jaskier swerves to avoid a near-collision with a frenzied barmaid on his way to join his companion at the bar. He grabs the wine glass with a groan of appreciation, taking a swig before asking, “Is this for me? Gods, but you’re a marvel, darling, I thank you.” He takes another sip and sends a disarming, roguish wink to a pair of girls staring at him and giggling to each other. “I wasn’t sure when you’d arrive, but it wouldn’t have mattered, I suppose, they only had one room to let when I checked in and it hasn’t cleared out since. You’ll share mine, of course, but I’ve been here a week so, you know, best brace yourself, I’ve quite made the place my own.”

Geralt snorts. He’s stayed in enough rooms that Jaskier has made his own over the past decade to predict with some certainty what mess he’ll soon venture into.

(Doublets draped over furniture after they’ve been discarded; crumpled sheets of paper tossed near, never in the fireplace; a few near-empty bottles of wine; a shirt hung to dry over the modesty screen between the sleeping and bathing areas; bottles of a dozen oils and perfumes and soaps scattered haphazard near the tub; an unmade bed that may well contain an abandoned undergarment or forgotten stocking left by some well-satisfied guest.)

“Have you eaten? Shall we? I’m starved, felt jittery all afternoon and didn’t eat a damned thing which was all well and good until I got onstage and suddenly wished for a fainting couch. Or we could take your things up to the room first, of course. Oh! We could have them bring our dinner up to us, it’s awfully crowded down here tonight and I’m not sure I’m up to socializing all evening, to be honest, I’ve been dreadfully out of sorts, did you notice, Geralt, that I’ve…”

Jaskier continues his ramblings, and the witcher can’t help a twinge of worry for his friend. It’s not unheard of for Jaskier to be in a heightened state over a particularly important performance, but usually afterwards the nerves dissipate and he seems more himself. Not to mention, why would playing in an inn prompt such anxieties? Even if the Kingfisher clientele trends toward the more refined than the country folk he often plays for, it’s still rather a low-stakes environment to trigger such stress.

“New song?” he asks casually. Jaskier always beams when he notices such things, when he makes an effort to ask about his music.

Instead, Jaskier blushes, looking away with an expression that almost seems guilty. “Ah, yes, well, I wasn’t certain when you’d be arriving, of course, I thought I might try out something different, a sort of test audience, as it were, to feel out the piece before I use it for anything important.” The look he’s fixed on Geralt seems almost wary. “Did you...like the song?”

Geralt shrugs. “Not quite how it happened,” he grumbles, out of habit more than anything.

A smile, genuine and rueful, breaks out on Jaskier’s face. “Gods, I’ve missed you, my friend,” he says, shaking his head and looking away quickly.

“Hmm.” He reaches quickly into the coin pouch at his side, thrusting the trinket from the herbalist into Jaskier’s hand with a brusque, “Here.”

“Whatever have we got…” He cuts off as opens his palm. “Oh.”

There have been so few times over the years that Geralt has seen Jaskier speechless that he begins to worry he’s offended him. He turns the brooch over in his hands, once, twice, his thumb swiping gently over its smooth enamel face. He doesn’t look up.

Even in the crowded room, Geralt can smell the shift in his demeanor, the muted sickly-sweet anxious smell becoming something sharp, metallic, pained, like he’s been stabbed. “You’re upset.”

“I...no.” Jaskier shoves the brooch into his trouser pocket, a tense smile on his face, not at all reaching his eyes. “Thank you, Geralt, it’s lovely. Shall we take your bags to the room now?”

“I didn’t...I didn’t get it to upset you.”

Jaskier laughs, a broken thing, and Geralt grows even more alarmed. “You didn’t, it isn’t that, sometimes I want things I can’t have is all.” He grabs the saddlebag sitting at Geralt’s feet, not meeting his eyes as he rushes past him up the stairs to the last bedroom in the hall.

Geralt follows after a moment, giving his companion a respectful distance. There’s a tightness in his shoulders, a knot in his gut that only grows as he watches Jaskier’s hand tremble on the key as he unlocks the door.

It was a stupid idea. He knew it was stupid when he bought it, yet he bought it anyway, somehow ruined everything anyway.

“Here we are.” Jaskier’s voice is filled with a forced cheer as he sets the bag down, hand never leaving the doorknob. “I’ll go fetch us some supper. Or, actually, you know, now that I think of it, I’ve a few errands to run before it gets too late, meant to do it earlier but you know how it goes, lost track of time…”

“Jaskier.” Geralt moves toward him but stops himself, helpless. “Please. I’m sorry I upset you.”

Jaskier stands in the doorway for another moment. He takes a deep breath, closes the door, and walks slowly to the writing desk in the corner. He pulls the chair out, moving the doublet strewn across it before sitting. He doesn’t look at Geralt.

“You didn’t.” Every word is calculated, deliberate. “What kind of ungrateful wretch gets upset over...over an exceptionally thoughtful gift from a friend after a time apart?”

Geralt sits on the edge of the bed. His elbows rest on his knees, fingers locking together as he stares at the floor. “You’re not a wretch. The fault is mine.”

“Dammit, Geralt, there isn’t fault, I only—why did you bring me a gift?”

Geralt frowns. “I’ve bought you things before,” he says slowly.

“Things, yes!” Jaskier vaults from the chair, pacing listlessly about the room, no longer trying to mask his inexplicable distress. “Lute strings when I broke a string and I was low on coin. The lute is my livelihood, it made financial sense for you to replace the string so I could pull my own weight, help you when we pass through several towns in a row with no contracts. Boots when you noticed the hole in the heel of my old pair, because I slow you down limping about in footwear that’s falling apart. Room and board, sometimes, because you know I’m good for it, I’ll cover you the next time.” He’s stopped pacing, stares silent into the fireplace.

“Wasn’t keeping a tab.” Geralt’s voice is quiet. “You needed strings and boots and food and a room.”

Jaskier doesn’t turn to face him, but Geralt sees his hand slip into his pocket, pull out the brooch. His head bends, studying it.

He’s not offended or annoyed or angered by the gift. He’s hurt. But why?

Except...

Jaskier looked guilty when Geralt brought up the song. Like he’d been caught red-handed. Did you like it? he’d asked. Incredulous.

The noonwraith singing her song in hopes that her beloved hears her confession. That he’ll hear her song of longing and come to her.

Hair like a blaze of pale fire, not dull brown.

Sometimes I want things I can’t have.

“Geralt?”

The witcher snaps back to attention, eyes fixed on Jaskier, finally facing him.

“Why did you get it for me, Geralt?”

Geralt frowns. “It’s...pretty,” he starts lamely. “I thought you might wear it when you play. You wear gaudy things.”

Jaskier snorts, a small, crooked grin on his lips.

“It made me think of you,” he confesses quietly, his eyes tracing the wood grain of the floor. “Sometimes...things don’t have to have a function. It was a buttercup and it was pretty and it…made me think of you.”

When Geralt dares to raise his eyes, Jaskier’s staring at him, brows drawn together and mouth slightly agape. After a moment, he walks toward the witcher, sitting carefully beside him on the bed. He reaches his hand towards Geralt’s and presses the little brooch into his palm.

“Will you pin it on me?” he asks softly.

Geralt nods.

His fingers feel thick and clumsy as he fumbles with the delicate clasp. The top few buttons of Jaskier’s doublet, as ever, are undone, but it closes neatly just beneath his exposed neck. Geralt slips a finger beneath the satin fabric to pull it away from his throat, cautiously piercing the fabric with the thin pin and sliding it into its slot, locking the clasp with shaking hands.

His hand doesn’t move from Jaskier’s chest. A sword-calloused thumb, seemingly of its own volition, grazes lightly over the bobbing Adam’s apple.

“Geralt.”

He looks up, almost pulls away but for the flushed cheeks, the tongue that darts out to wet pink lips, the hooded eyes beneath dark lashes fixed on Geralt’s mouth. Jaskier’s breath is warm against his face. When did they draw so close?

“Are you going to kiss me, Geralt?” The breathy whisper is laced with wonder.

And he didn’t...didn’t buy the brooch to entice Jaskier into anything, didn’t mean to solicit any sort of reward, and he opens his mouth to tell him so, yet as his rough hand moves to gently cup the back of Jaskier’s neck the words that tumble out instead are, “I’d like to.”

And Jaskier throws back his head and laughs, a euphoric, intoxicated sound, as his lovely hands cradle Geralt’s face. He brings his forehead to rest against Geralt’s as they still, breathing each other for a moment before Jaskier surges forward to capture his lips.

His kiss tastes like sunlight.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #the witcher fic #the witcher #my fic #anon asks #prompt fill #thank you so much for this absolutely lovely prompt!!!!! i'm so sorry it took me months to actually filling it!!!

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1ddiscourseoftheday · 3 years

Text

Mon 10 May ‘21

LOUIS NEWS-- label and tour!! First, Louis has announced (or, well, Simon Jones PR has anyway, no word from Louis direct and yes, SJPR is still in the picture) that Louis is “partnering with BMG to release his second album globally”, an interestingly specific/ limited reveal. Fans are eyeing the wording and questioning whether he actually signed with them as a label (which they are) or just for publishing rights or distribution (which they also do, unlike most other labels)- the mention only of a ‘partnership’ supports the possibility that it’s something other than his new label, but it isn’t definitive and the simplest explanation of the press release is that BMG will be his label for LT2, as well as distributor and publishing company. The fact that they are small (relatively speaking; not one of the “Big Four” record labels but they’re hardly tiny) and somewhat new as a label does not to me seem like a reason why Louis wouldn’t have chosen them, as some are suggesting; there’s something to be said for being the big focus of a label rather than just another act, and Louis already chose that route once before when he signed with Arista (who are umbrella-ed by Sony but themselves not one of the big four) just after their relaunch, making him their biggest act by far. Also vague: “global” in this context doesn’t necessarily mean BMG has replaced Arista (his U.S. only label), it just for sure means UK plus the ‘international’ market, ie most of the rest of the world. It could mean U.S. too! Or not. We have reason to believe Louis was still with Arista as recently as a few months ago, and no evidence to suggest otherwise. The official press release says “recording is already underway” on LT2, and quotes Louis as saying: “I’m very excited to start the next part of my journey with BMG”. BMG- a new company founded after splitting from older label SonyBMG in 2008- claim to be “a new kind of music company” who are “not just a music publisher or a label” (they instead combine both of those things) in which “service to artists and writers is key,” and as part of that combine label services with holding publishing rights for their clients, often handled by separate companies and an area where songwriters tend to get screwed. BMG’s press also mentions their involvement with new technology a lot, and they represent Kings of Leon who have been at the forefront of the music industry use of NFTs (including releasing their next album as an NFT on a special NFT label despite being BMG artists). BMG’s twitter following more than doubled [edit: tripled now] in the hours after the announcement, and they followed Louis and tweeted to welcome him aboard from three different twitter accounts, including the U.S. one.

Slightly more commentary from Louis about the updated tour dates though mostly still press release style-- “Let's try this one last time!” he said, “All shows on my world tour will be moving back to 2022 and I’m excited to announce the first wave of new dates. I can't wait to see you all soon, it's going to be special!” and what should be the final dates for tour dropped, all in Spring ‘22- including a London show at Wembley, holy shit! Not every rescheduled date has been announced but those that are mostly have one thing in common-- much bigger venues than they were originally booked into. At at least one show so far fans will have to buy tickets again which sucks, but they are offering a pre-sale for previous ticket holders so at least those buyers only have to fight each other and not all the fans that joined the scrum in the time since the tour sold out. “After all this time and years of waiting this tour is going to be incredible, I can't wait!” said Louis and he’s not wrong!

And that’s all for serious news, over in Harry land things are...a lot sillier. A “bardcore” version of Watermelon Sugar was added to Harry’s official Spotify, LOL, and it is even more ridiculous to listen to than it is to imagine! I don’t picture it topping the charts anytime soon but it’s certainly an entertaining twist I was NOT expecting over the quiet weekend. The idea of Harry and friends deciding that needed to be legitimized on the official 36 million follower page is PRICELESS, and I would love to see Harry in a Gucci doublet and hose (or a nice laced bodice), but sadly it seems that the addition of the 2020 cover song to Harry’s account is a fuck up on Spotify’s end, as acknowledged by the Bard himself (no not Harry or Shakespeare, the person who did the weird cover- they do lots of covers in this style, it’s like a whole Thing. Medieval style covers of hits.) Meantime OUR bard was seen on the My Policeman set in a t-shirt reading “don’t ruin my fantasy”. New merch? I’ve never seen something more perfect for harries, they should consider it! This shirt though is from a designer with a focus on gender neutrality who donates to queer youth charities. And Kid Harpoon said, about WS (modern version) “at first, and I get this quite a lot with his lyrics, I thought, that’s kind of weird. Then you’re like, man, it’s brilliant. I remember thinking that with this. Harry’s so good at lyrics, he’s really growing into his own thing.”

Meanwhile Niall reposted (to insta AND facebook) the same outfit of the day video post he posted and deleted yesterday but left it up this time. It is clearly NOT today’s outift- damn Niall is my whole life a lie?! What can we trust in this treacherous world?? NOT YOU I GUESS. He also popped up on twitter to claim “no idea what you’re talking about” wrt him and Anne Marie teasing their collab without offering any actual clues about WHEN-- mhmm, like I said...

#louis tomlinson #harry styles #niall horan #Arista is a Sony label and Simon Jones is a Simon Cowell associate who was PR for 1D and has been for Louis since he went solo #and who sucks a whole lot. That said I know very well that the reason people are so obsessed with Louis cutting all ties with his old labels #etc #is that they believe all stunts will immediately be canceled on that day and I have to say… I don’t really think so #and arista being somewhat tied to sony isn't actually particularly meaningful #still distance from the old teams is always nice to see and at this point Louis has very few threads left tying him to them #10 may 21 #bmg #bardcore #lttour #louis label #arista #anne marie #it's very early to post but I don't wanna have to rewrite this whole damn thing in an hour lol #even if we get more clarity later there are parts of the NOW discourse I want to address which there won't be space to do if more info #comes to light #I had to do RESEARCH this better get good notes and correct some misinformation going around #besides now I can focus on other things like FUCKING HELL I have to buy tickets for LA Again??? BOOOOOOOO #I ALREDAY DID THIS #AND IT SUCKED #AND i HAD GOOD TICKETS #arrgh #I don't usually do this but you know what? PLEASE REBLOG THIS #I just saw someone say that louis definitely signed a distro only deal and that syco was going to profit off it #i... don't even know where to beg #begin #syco literally no longer exists fro starters...

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rebrandedbard · 3 years

Note

Hi! Can I ask for 30. “It’s not what it looks like…” from the drabble list?

Oh, it’s you! Welcome back! Here for another order at McDrabble? Very well then, I am obliged to use the good serving platter for the sake of continuity:

30: “It’s not what it looks like…”

wc: 1991 (Wow! That’s a year!)

No Modesty Among Thieves

Geralt finds Jaskier tied up in their room after returning to the inn and all their things have been stolen. He has an unexpected family reunion when he goes to find the burglar.

Kidnappers would have been easier, Geralt thought, than dealing with burglars. Had Jaskier been kidnapped, someone would have left a note and ransom. They would be waiting somewhere easy to find. A burglar did not want to be found, which meant he’d have to track them down, which meant more work. He’d had a long day and all he wanted to do was crawl into bed. The moment he’d opened the door of their room, those lovely plans of rest and relaxation had flown out the window, and he was suddenly wide awake, his heart racing, for he found Jaskier tied to the bed frame, completely bare, blindfolded, with a gag in his mouth. He gaped a moment before the smell of fear hit him, then he hurried to the bed and tugged the blindfold from Jaskier’s eyes.

Jaskier sagged with relief at the sight of him. As soon as Geralt removed the gag, the words came flooding out. “It’s not what it looks like…” he sighed, knowing very well what Geralt’s first impression must have been. He shifted uncomfortably, glad of the pillow thrown over his lap. At least the burglar had been thoughtful enough to provide that before clearing out.

“What happened?” Geralt asked. As he worked the knots above Jaskier’s head, he cast eyes about the room. It was completely empty; all of their belongings had been taken.

“Burglar caught me in the bath, blindfolded me, tied me up, and gagged me. Took all of our stuff and booked it.” He rubbed his wrists and shook them out to get the feeling into his arms again. “I’m so glad you got home when you did; my arms just about lost all feeling. I’m already sore from the fight with the gargoyle last week. The second-hand blast knocked me halfway across the room, remember? Burned the doublet right off my back! Singed my shirt, too.”

“I remember,” Geralt replied. He inspected Jaskier’s arms with care. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

“Only my pride. I thought I could tell you from the sound of your footsteps, but evidently, I was wrong. The way the fiend came striding in here, confident as anything like they belonged—well! I thought it could only be you,” he grumbled. “Anyone else would have tried to sneak up behind me instead. They strode right in! And I know, I know; I ought to have kept the door locked, but I swear, Geralt, that I had locked it. It’s a faulty lock, that’s what I think. This inn is cheap and ready to fall to pieces when the wind next blows, and that’s the truth.”

Geralt tossed the blanket over Jaskier’s shoulders for modesty’s sake. “Stay here. I’ll take care of it.” He sniffed the air and announced, “There’s only one trail; pretty strong, too. Likely another patron somewhere down the hall.”

It was an easy game, stealing from other travellers. There were plenty of rooms to hide in. All one had to do was pretend to flee out the door, hood down, pass a few witnesses, then sneak back to their room calm as anything. It was a play Geralt had encountered before.

His brow creased as he scented the room again. It smelled … familiar. He crouched, following the scent from the bed over to the bath, to the corner where he’d left their bags. Meanwhile, Jaskier stumbled out of the bed, the blanket wrapped clumsily around him. He peeked beside the bed and circled the tub. With a huff, he dropped onto the bed once more and sat grumbling.

“Might have at least left the pants, if not my trousers. Not any money in selling those. Rotten thieving bastard.”

Geralt turned to look at him. “They took your clothes?” he said.

“Not that I blame them, really. People are trying to get in my pants all the time,” Jaskier quipped. He resumed his sulking after when he considered how much they’d cost him to buy in the first place.

The smell was stronger as soon as Geralt opened the door. He groaned, the pieces clicking into place neatly. “I’ll be right back,” he growled.

The door slammed shut behind him as Geralt stalked down the hall. He followed the scent to the every end and thrust the door open. And there the prick was, sitting on the floor, Jaskier’s stupid hat on his head, flipping through Jaskier’s notebook with one hand and helping himself to one of Geralt’s dried apple slices with the other. Lambert didn’t even bother to look up as he entered, merely smiling as he popped the slice into his mouth.

“Still hiding your snacks among your potion kit,” Lambert said. “A wonder your bard hasn’t found them yet. His smell is all over your things; one would think he’s always in and out, fetching things for you.”

“Pack it up. I’m kicking you out of here as soon as you’ve helped me carry this shit back.”

Lambert ignored him, rolling over on his back as he flipped to a page closer to the front of the notebook. “Is this one about you? ‘What amorous sight I scowling see, the sweet delights he flares in me, with eyes the gods have wrought of gold, for men to weep and thus behold?’”

Geralt snatched the book from his hands, ears burning hot. “You’ve no right to be prying into others’ things,” he snarled.

“Ah, so you haven’t read his poetry, I take it.”

Lambert hovered over Geralt’s shoulder as Geralt started shoving things into Jaskier’s bag. He grabbed the hat from Lambert’s head and gathered it with the rest, careful not the bend the feather. Of course he hadn’t gone snooping. Jaskier’s notebook was private and Geralt respected privacy, unlike some who felt entitled to anything not bolted and locked.

“How did you like my present?” Lambert asked, flopping onto the bed. He raised his arms above his head in a mockery of the position he’d left Jaskier in. “Oh, what an amorous sight!” he cried, smirking. “Did you weep? I know you to be a weeper; heard enough whores gossip about the white-haired witcher crying in their arms after a tumble. Or did you not unwrap my present? He smelled pretty good for a minute there—aroused by danger, is he?”

Geralt picked up a pillow and smacked him with it. “Don’t go sniffing my bard,” he said.

For once, Lambert made no retort. He only raised one cocky brow at him and smiled.

Geralt found Jaskier’s clothes folded messily on a chair. He put them away carefully in Jaskier’s bag piece by piece. He was about to put the chemise away when Lambert plucked it from him. He flapped it in the air, gave it a light sniff and said, “Kind of smells like you, you know. You two share a bed or something?”

The speed with which Geralt snatched it back was all the answer Lambert needed. In addition, Geralt took back his bag of apple slices. He shoved them in a bag and collected the rest of their things. Last of all, he slung Jaskier’s lute over his shoulder.

Before leaving, Geralt seized Lambert’s own bag and stole from it a package of dried cod. Lambert hated cod. And Geralt knew why he had it. “Stay out of my room and away from Jaskier,” he said, “Or I’ll find your cat and shave him.” He tossed the bag back at Lambert and slammed the door in his gaping face.

The very first thing Jaskier did upon Geralt’s return was check his lute for damage, forgoing his awkward wrap in his hurry to get to it. His cry of relief filled the air and he cradled the instrument close. Geralt waited until Jaskier had put it safely away in its case before tossing his trousers at his head. Jaskier laughed and hugged them close, but rather than dress, he resumed his bath, the water warmed by courtesy of Geralt for his troubles. Geralt sat on the other side of the room, reordering their things as he told Jaskier the truth behind his unpleasant encounter.

Dinner was ordered to their room a half hour later, an apology sent along with it in the form of two baked pears. They ate it together on the floor, Jaskier in a towel, and Geralt kept his eyes on his food, trying in vain to forget the bit of poetry Lambert had sung for him.

“I’ll have to repay him one of these days and run his clothes up a pole,” Jaskier said. “If he’s ever in Oxenfurt, be prepared to spot them flapping below the university’s flag.”

“You’d get nowhere near them,” Geralt replied, cutting himself a bite of pear.

“I don’t know. He seemed eager enough to get my clothes off earlier. Should be easy to tempt him to do it again, then scoop his up while he sleeps.”

Geralt quickly abandoned his pear, apatite gone. He offered Jaskier his plate and returned to his organizing.

After eating, Jaskier stood. He stretched and dropped his hands to his hips, then swayed back to where he’d left his trousers. As he dressed, he looked around, humming to himself.

“Geralt?” he called. “Do you know what became of my undershirt?”

“Lambert doesn’t have it,” Geralt answered.

“Fuck, did he lose it? I haven’t got one spare.”

After another minute of rummaging, Geralt cleared his throat. “You can wear one of mine,” he offered. He produced a large black shirt and held it out to Jaskier at arm’s length.

Jaskier beamed and made a grab for it. “You’re a dear! I shall not wander cold and bare on the road, thanks to your generosity.” He pulled it over his head and smoothed it down. “Hm, very worn and soft. It’s quite comfortable, actually. You sure you don’t mind?”

“Can’t have you walking around half naked,” Geralt grunted.

“Quite right. It may take some time to get to a decent tailor. Be warned: by then I may be disinclined to return it to you. You know how attached I get to my clothes.”

Geralt shrugged. “I can get another,” was the only reply he offered.

Jaskier smiled and bounced happily into bed. “In that case, say your goodbyes now. I’ve never owned anything black but for my hat—it’s quite an attractive color. I’m sure I look as raffish as you! Perhaps more so for the novelty of it. What do you think?”

Whatever it was that Geralt thought, Jaskier was not to know. Geralt gave no answer the next morning, even as Jaskier pranced in front of him, fishing for a compliment. Geralt kept his opinion buried in his throat, almost as secret as his bag of dried apples. And tucked beneath them, he kept another secret folded neatly at the very bottom of his bag. He’d forgotten it in his haste to leave Lambert’s room that night. But Jaskier looked well in his shirt. So the chemise remained where it was, tucked away. After all, if Jaskier intended to keep his, it was only a fair trade.

Jaskier danced another turn in front of him and bowed, the shirt billowing at the end of his arms. He stood upright once more and posed. “Come now, Geralt. You’ve got to admit it makes for a pleasant change.” He flicked the end of one feather from his hat and winked. “What say you? I think we go perfectly together.”

Geralt looked at him, bathed in the early morning light, the very picture of radiance. He nodded, giving Jaskier a small smile. “We do,” he whispered, so soft that no human could ever hear.

“Did you say something?”

“No,” Geralt replied, a startled blink. “Nothing.”

Jaskier looked at him a moment, then shrugged, striding the path ahead. They would get there, he thought privately to himself. They had all the time in the world.

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geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde · 3 years

Text

Let It Be Me

Hello all! It’s finally time to post my Novigrad Exchange fic! Big thanks to @ohnomybreadsticks and @jaskiersvalley for taking the time to organize this! <3 And of course thanks again to Socks for the beta help <3 <3

This is for the incredibly talented @journeythroughunknownlands

Geralt overdoses on potions and the most efficient way to burn them off is with an orgasm (or two... or more). Queue Jaskier, loyal best friend who is always willing to lend a helping hand (or other body part 😏). Seasoned with a hearty sprinkle of pining.

This will be cross posted on AO3 later today.

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: frottage, blow jobs, anal sex, bottom Geralt, multiple orgasms, pining, requited feelings, happy/hopeful ending

3.9k words

Geralt felt the potions burning their way through his veins, lighting him on fire; he had taken too many. The endrega colony was much smaller than anticipated and the fight was much shorter than it would have been otherwise, far too short of a fight to help him burn off the toxins in his blood.

His skin felt pulled tight, and he knew just what he would look like. His paler than normal complexion would be marred with black veins, his eyes would look like pots of ink, the color of ichor, he would look every bit of the monster humans thought him to be.

Fuck, if he didn’t find a good way to let off some steam and work this out of his system, this would take hours to wear off. He was out of White Honey and didn’t have any honey suckle on hand to make more, and he doubted he would be able to find any.

Looking around the clearing he was in, he quickly dismissed the idea of getting himself off. He was painfully hard in his trousers, and a quick wank would be the most efficient way to burn through the toxins, but this wasn’t the place for it. There was far too much noise in this particular forest, making him wonder what curious creatures would come to investigate. He also didn’t bring any of his… toys with him. He didn’t need them, of course, but they made things a bit more enjoyable and typically sped up the process. No, he needed to get back to town and figure something else out. It was unlikely he would be able to find a whore willing to lay with him, no matter the coin offered, and he really didn’t have much to offer.

He could always try to sleep through it or take care of himself back in his room where his toys were, though that would mean making his way through the inn looking like he did, if the innkeep would even let him up to his room.

Sighing and deciding that he really had no good option, he turned, his trophies in hand, and began the trek through the dense trees back to town.

Geralt really should have stayed in the forest. He had known better but ignored the small voice in the back of his head trying to talk sense into him. Instead, he allowed himself to return to town despite everything he ever learned at Kaer Morhen, despite every bit of real-life experience reminding him that exposing himself to humans in this state was an awful idea.

If the toxins in his blood felt like fire, the horrified stares were even worse, like daggers stabbing into his already sensitive skin.

Thankfully, he managed to get to the inn without incident, despite the stares, despite the hatred and fear he could smell emanating from everyone he passed. And despite the shocking waves of pain and pleasure shooting through him as he walked with his erection straining against his trousers. The silence in the inn was unsettling though, all speech coming to a halt as he stepped through the door, and he had to push down a wave of embarrassment, knowing that everyone would be able to see his erection. Silence, though, meant he wasn’t being kicked out and allowed him to make his way up the stairs and to his room.

His room that he was sharing with Jaskier.

Fuck.

He hadn’t thought about it until he opened the door, it hadn’t even crossed his mind. Jaskier’s presence had become such a normal and routine part of his life that he hadn’t even thought about the bard being there, about having to deal with Jaskier in this state.

There was no way he would be able to stay in the room like this. He had to fight back his arousal for the bard in the best of times, and this couldn’t be called the best of anything. The bard’s scent was already one that intoxicated him, and now with all of his senses heightened, there would be no way he could stay in the room with him, it would be pure torture if he tried. Quickly making up his mind as Jaskier stared at him in surprise, Geralt stomped across the room to grab his bag of toys, there was no chance he would be able to ride this out with Jaskier not even ten feet away, smelling and looking the way he did.

Geralt could hear Jaskier’s voice clearly, though his racing mind couldn’t parse out the words. He could smell the bard’s confusion, hear it in the tone of his voice, but he couldn’t bring himself to even grunt out an explanation as he made his way back to the door. All Geralt could focus on was the sudden need to go back out to the woods and take care of himself. It had been a long while since he had last gotten the opportunity to use some of his favorite toys, so he might as well make the best of an awful situation.

As he reached for the knob on the door, he felt a sudden tug on the bag in his hand and he spun around just as it ripped, the contents spilling on the floor. Geralt couldn’t think of a time in which he had more desperately wished it was true what they say about witchers, that they felt no emotions. Geralt let out a frustrated growl, the absolute mortification within him warring with the anger he was feeling at Jaskier for trying to stop him just led to more desperation for a fix to his situation. He had just wanted to escape the inn and take care of himself, solve the problem in the relative privacy of the woods, but no, nothing ever went that simply for him.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice was tentative in a way that it normally wasn’t, far more hesitant than the rather direct bard ever bothered being. Geralt’s eyes snapped up to meet Jaskier’s as the witcher willed himself to remain calm. He was sure his face would be turning red from embarrassment if it wasn’t for the poison affecting his complexion and he sent off a silent thanks to whoever was listening that at least he was spared from that.

“Geralt? Are you okay?”

Geralt wasn’t sure he understood what Jaskier was asking. He had expected Jaskier to be more afraid of him in this state, having never seen his reaction to taking potions before, and far more concerned by the toys now scattered across the floor, rather than if he was okay.

“Fine,” he finally grunted out, hoping Jaskier would stop looking at him with such concern. It wasn’t a look that he needed directed at him, he would be fine if he could just leave.

“Fine?” Jaskier squeaked, “You don’t look fine! You look like you’re dying! Geralt, are you poisoned? Are you dying? Can I help? What do I need to do?”

Taking a deep breath and nearly choking on the scent of the bard, even more overwhelming this close, Geralt finally managed to motion to the floor, littered with his rather extensive collection, “Potions. Those… help.” There was no way he would be able to say more, not about this subject, not in his current state. Possibly not ever.

He watched as Jaskier stared at him consideringly before looking down at the floor, and then back up at Geralt. His eyebrows were furrowed in confusion, but Geralt didn’t know how to explain it any better.

Jaskier reached up, touching at Geralt’s face hesitantly, “This is because of your potions?” Geralt nodded, leaning into the touch. It was just this side of too much but it felt so good.

Humming softly, Jaskier glanced back at the floor, “And those… help?”

Geralt nodded again, still relishing in the contact of Jaskier’s hand pressing gently against his face. There were so many feelings thrumming through him, embarrassment and worry and arousal but Jaskier’s touch seemed to almost calm them. Unfortunately, it seemed that it couldn’t last and Jaskier pulled away, making Geralt whimper at the loss.

“How do they help?” Jaskier asked as he knelt down in front of Geralt. The witcher watched in horror as Jaskier meticulously gathered the contents of the now destroyed bag before placing them on the small table in their room. “Is it something about the toys themselves? Or is it just the… result.”

Geralt could feel his throat closing up as he choked out, “Result.”

Watching Geralt closely, Jaskier made his way back across the room, concern still written clearly across his features, “Where were you going?”

“Woods.”

“Do you… normally take care of this in the woods?”

“Yes,” Geralt felt just as weak as his voice sounded suddenly, he felt exposed like a raw nerve and it hurt.

“Can I help you?”

Geralt felt his entire body seize up as his mind slowly caught up with Jaskier’s question. Letting out a whine, he found himself reaching out for Jaskier before he even knew what he was doing, before he had even made a conscious decision.

Jaskier stepped closer, allowing himself to be wrapped in Geralt’s arms as the witcher buried his face in Jaskier’s neck. The bard smelled so fucking good and Geralt wanted this so badly, had wanted it for years. But Jaskier didn’t, surely. Geralt should let go.

But Jaskier’s hands were suddenly trailing up and down Geralt’s back comfortingly, and Geralt couldn’t let go, it felt amazing, like nothing he had ever allowed himself to experience before, and he couldn’t give it up. With any luck, the bard wouldn’t hate him for his actions tomorrow.

Inhaling deeply and letting the bard’s scent wash over him, Geralt made up his mind. He would get whatever he could from Jaskier tonight and then spend the rest of his life making it up to the bard.

He felt Jaskier start to pull back and he only gripped harder, clenching Jaskier’s doublet in his hands. Jaskier made a soft sound, “Hey, it’s okay, but we should take this over to the bed, okay?”

Geralt could hear the logic in Jaskier’s words, but he didn’t want to let go. Instead, he shuffled forward slowly, his face still buried in Jaskier’s neck, until he could feel the impact as the back of Jaskier’s knees hit the mattress. He urged Jaskier back on the bed, settling himself into Jaskier’s side, still hiding his face.

Jaskier’s hands began running through Geralt’s hair, making the witcher let out a purr and Jaskier chuckle, “I always knew you liked your hair played with. Is this what you want, darling? To lay here and cuddle until you feel better? Or do you want more?” Geralt didn’t think he would ever want to let go, but he needed more. As nice as this felt, he could still feel his cock, hard and heavy and uncomfortably pressed against his pants.

Whispering his answer, Geralt practically begged for more.

Suddenly, Geralt found himself on his back, Jaskier hovering over him. The bard’s scent was now tinged heavily with his own arousal and Geralt couldn’t hold back another whine as he bucked his hips, seeking friction. Jaskier smirked down at him, lowering his body until they were pressed against each other. Geralt could feel Jaskier’s own hardness pressed against his and he groaned out at the sensation. How many nights had he dreamed of this same thing? Of being pressed up underneath Jaskier, desperate for pleasure to be wrung from him, at the mercy of Jaskier’s talented hands.

And mouth.

Gods, he’d had so many fantasies about the bard’s mouth, taking him apart, bringing him damn near to tears. And now here he was, with all of those fantasies in arms reach. His lust had completely fogged his brain, completely overpowering the potion-induced fire in his veins, replacing it with an even more powerful burn.

“Is this what you wanted?” Jaskier asked, his voice low.

All Geralt could do was nod, his hips still grinding up desperately into Jaskier’s. The fire was raging inside him now, completely overwhelming him. He wasn’t sure exactly how Jaskier managed to get both of their clothes off, but the next thing he knew they were pressed together, skin to skin. Geralt was crying out from the sensations, both too much and not enough, as Jaskier kept talking to him. The whispered words doused the fire just for a moment until Jaskier’s lips chased his words, reigniting the fire to burn even brighter. Geralt had never understood poets when they said they had found themselves out of their mind with pleasure but then again, he had never experienced this.

He was unbelievably hard, his cock ached and throbbed where it lay, pressed between him and Jaskier. It could have been seconds or hours that he spent rocking against Jaskier for friction before he found himself so very close to the edge of orgasm.

Jaskier licked a stripe up Geralt’s neck to nip at his ear, “That’s right, Geralt, take what you need. You look so beautiful like this, just take what you need.” It was Jaskier’s words, whispered like a filthy secret in his ear, that finally tipped him over just as he asked, “Are you going to cum for me?”

Geralt let out a mewl as his body shook under Jaskier, his orgasm hot and intense, feeling as though it may never end. He felt hazy almost, the once intense fire settling down to a manageable smolder even as Jaskier trailed kisses down his body. Watching closely, Geralt found himself enraptured at the man above him, groaning as Jaskier continued down, licking up Geralt’s spend as he went.

“Fuck, Jask,” he gasped out as the bard continued on, his tongue lapping at Geralt’s still hard cock.

The bard smirked, “Ready for another round so soon?”

“The… potions. They keep me… excited.”

“Well then, we’ll just have to work them out of your system.”

Any response Geralt might have thought of was lost as Jaskier promptly wrapped his lips around the head of Geralt’s cock. Geralt could barely stop himself from thrusting forward, fucking into Jaskier’s mouth. It looks so pretty, stretched obscenely around Geralt as he bobbed up and down.

Geralt gasped as he felt a finger probing at his hole, circling it slowly, applying a slight pressure but never pushing in. Just as suddenly as the contact had started, it stopped, Jaskier pulling his mouth away as well, making him keen, his arms already reaching toward the bard, desperate. “It’s okay, darling. Let me just get some oil, okay? This will be much more enjoyable that way.”

Oil. Right. If he was going to be fucked, then oil would make it better. That made perfect sense to Geralt, but still he followed Jaskier’s form greedily and he hurried over to the odds and ends now strewn across the table in their room, picking up a small bottle, and heading back over to the bed, a small smile on his face as he positioned himself between Geralt’s legs.

Geralt made a satisfied noise as Jaskier set a hand on his thigh, stroking up and down, “Is this what you want darling, what you need? Want me to fuck you?”

“Please.” The plea was ripped from Geralt’s throat almost as if it weren’t him speaking. But it was him and he had never before felt so desperate. He wanted Jaskier fucking into him, wanted their bodies writhing together. He wanted the best kind of fire back, lust and passion burning his veins as he looked into Jaskier’s eyes. Fuck.

Thankfully, Jaskier needed nothing more from Geralt, and wasted no time, slicking his fingers and going back to toying with him, “Look at you, so needy for this, I bet I could slip right into you with no prep.”

Fuck, Geralt couldn’t help but groan, “Please, anything, please.”

“Shh it’s okay, soon. I want to make this good for you,” Jaskier’s voice was soft as he leaned forward, locking his lips with Geralt’s as he pushed a finger inside. He hadn’t been wrong, Geralt took the finger easily, more than ready for the feeling. Rocking his hips, Geralt searched for more.

Pulling back and smiling at Geralt, Jaskier’s eyes crinkled up at the corners in the way that always made Geralt want to smile with him. “Are you feeling good? Ready for more?”

Geralt tried to speak, he really did, but all that came out was a needy sound as he ground down on Jaskier’s hand.

“I’ve got you, darling, I’ve got you.” Soon after, Jaskier was pressing another finger inside him, thrusting in and out and it was so good Geralt could do nothing but pant and whine as he moved in time with Jaskier, seeking his own pleasure.

It was so good but it was still just a tease of what was to come.

“Jaskier, please, fuck. Fuck me.”

“Okay, just one last thing.” Before Geralt could even register the sentence, Jaskier had leaned down, wrapping his lips around Geralt’s cock again, just as he curled his fingers, pressing against that spot inside him.

Geralt cried out, his body shaking as he came so hard he saw stars. Relaxing back onto the bed, Geralt whimpered helplessly as Jaskier released him, his fingers slipping from his hole.

“Do you still want more?”

Opening his eyes was a struggle but he managed after a moment, shooting a glare at Jaskier, “Fuck me.”

Jaskier chuckled, “Alright, alright, I’ll get on with it, then.”

Geralt watched in a daze as Jaskier pumped his own cock, covering it with slick. The man was large and it would certainly be a stretch. His own cock was already hard again, twitching as he thought about how good that would feel inside of him. Moving forward, Jaskier lined up and began to push in, gasping as he did so.

It had been so long since Geralt had been fucked. Typically when he was out wandering the continent, all he had with him to relieve this particular want was his bag of toys, and fuck it felt so much better when it was the real thing.

Geralt watched as Jaskier sunk into him, their hips meeting softly as Jaskier panted above him. The stretch was amazing, just the right amount of pressure to make it overwhelmingly good. Geralt tried to stay still, he did, but after a while he had to move. The roll of his hips pulled a grunt from Jaskier as he threw his head back in pleasure.

“Just a moment, fuck, you’re tight.” Jaskier was breathless, gasping out his words, sweat beading on his brow.

Geralt had never seen him look more amazing.

Jaskier began thrusting in and out of him slowly, the burn of the stretch and the feeling of fullness sending sparks of pleasure through Geralt. It wasn’t long before Jaskier sped up, shifting more until finally, he moved just right, drawing a yelp out of Geralt as he hit his prostate. A smirk lit up Jaskier’s face as he pulled out and thrust back in, his aim precise as he once again hit that same spot again and again. The bard kept going, sending Geralt into a frenzy of begging and crying out. The fingers of Geralt’s hand were threaded with Jaskier’s, held down above his head. Geralt’s other hand was gripping at Jaskier’s back, his fingers digging into the soft skin as Jaskier kept thrusting.

“Won't- last,” Jaskier gasped, his free hand coming up to wrap around Geralt’s cock.

It was likely only seconds but it felt like hours when finally he felt himself falling again, his orgasm rushing through him, his body relaxing into a boneless mess as Jaskier thrust once, twice more, freezing his motions and shaking as he spent inside of Geralt, finally collapsing on top of him.

“I don’t know if I can move,” Jaskier said, his voice muffled from where he had buried his head in Geralt’s chest.

“Mmm. Don’t.”

“Okay.”

And then Geralt was asleep.

The first thing Geralt noticed was how dry his mouth was. It wasn’t unusual, not after a hunt. His potions would have that effect on him most of the time, particularly if he struggled with burning them off. He went to shift, suddenly noticing the heavy weight on top of him. Opening his eyes, Geralt couldn’t see anything but a mop of brown hair. Inhaling deeply as he tried to gain awareness of his surroundings, he was assaulted with the scent of Jaskier and himself and sex.

Oh fuck.

Geralt shifted slightly under Jaskier, making the bard startle awake on top of him. Jaskier seemed to gain awareness quickly, rolling off of Geralt quickly, his cheeks blooming a brilliant red on his otherwise pale face.

“Ah,” Jaskier cleared his throat, his eyes darting around the room, “good morning. I trust you’re feeling better.”

Geralt nodded, sitting up and reaching for the pitcher beside the bed, drinking straight from it. He felt some of the water spill out, dripping down his naked chest, but paid it no mind as he tried to wash the dryness from his throat.

Fuck. He really came back to the inn with potions burning through him and let himself fuck Jaskier. Well, let himself be fucked by Jaskier. Well… begged to be fucked by Jaskier.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Putting down the now empty pitcher, Geralt shot a furtive look at Jaskier, feeling the guilt pooling in his stomach. Jaskier was loyal to a fault, something Geralt had taken for granted for so long, and now here he was, after a night of going out of his way doing something he had no interest in doing, looking at Geralt with nothing but concern for the witcher. Jaskier was too good for Geralt, he didn’t deserve to have to deal with situations like this.

“I’m sorry.”

Jaskier looked taken aback, “For what?”

“Making you feel like you had to help me last night. I appreciate it but… I’m sorry.”

“I… Geralt I offered to help. I never felt obligated and you never did anything to make me.”

It couldn’t possibly be that easy, could it? Geralt’s needs had been far more than anyone could be expected to help with. Jaskier should have sent him on his way and spared himself the trouble.

“Geralt?” Jaskier said softly, moving closer and reaching up to cup Geralt’s cheek, “Thank you for trusting me with this. I’m glad I could help you.”

Whether it was the earnest sound of Jaskier’s voice or maybe just Geralt’s need to believe that someone really did want to be there for him, he was unsure. All he knew was that he never wanted to break Jaskier’s gaze. His eyes were so incredibly blue, bright pools of crystal clear water begging for someone to dive in and Geralt found himself ready to jump.

Before he noticed what was happening, Geralt had already leaned into Jaskier, making his eyes widen, surprise written across his face. But he didn’t pull back. No, Jaskier’s eyes flicked down to Geralt’s lips before once again meeting Geralt’s gaze. Geralt wasn’t sure if it was him or Jaskier that initiated the all encompassing kiss that followed, all he knew was it was something he had wanted for so long and felt so right.

Maybe, next time potions were burning through his veins and he wanted to crawl out of his skin, Jaskier would meet him and apply this affection like a balm, soothing Geralt in a way he had never before experienced. Maybe from this moment forward, he wouldn’t wait for Jaskier to realize he deserved better and move on. Maybe, just maybe, Geralt had really found happiness.

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#novigrad exchange #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #fanfiction #the witcher fandom #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geraskier

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eskelstits · 3 years

Note

Okay okay so hear me out:

Jaskier has been acting odd lately, though the bard was either too shy or too stubborn to acknowledge it. At the very least, he was stubborn fool for thinking Geralt, of all people, wouldn’t take notice. Jaskier had suddenly become adamant about more generous rations for his Witcher, started to insist on larger dinners at taverns, and was always quick to suggest another round of food and drink— only to insist that Geralt finish it. The witcher pretended not to notice the way Jaskier watched intently while he ate and hid his wry amusement when the bard hurriedly looked away upon being caught. Geralt had so far played along with these antics in feigned ignorance, admittedly feeling a small thrill as his body started to bulk and strain against his armor. And now that he was paying closer attention, he found himself fond of just how delicate his bard looked by comparison. Armed with his suspicions of what Jaskier is up to, Geralt decides to satisfy his curiosity by embracing the bard’s antics and seeing just how much he can him squirm.

I was thinking some stuffing and size kink ~ with increasingly daring taunts thrown from both sides of the table bc let’s be real neither of the boys would give in easily.

THANK YOU i definitely had fun with this prompt

[ masterpost - ao3 ]

"Are you ill?" Geralt asked the question hunched over the plate of eggs and bacon he was enjoying for his breakfast.

More accurately, Jaskier's breakfast. Geralt had already finished his own serving, but then Jaskier had deftly stacked his own half-full plate on top of Geralt's empty one. To be fair, as it turned out, that particular tavern did tend to dish out surprisingly hearty portions, and Geralt had to remind himself that Jaskier was not a witcher, and therefore did not have the appetite of one. It was not the only occasion on which Jaskier had passed off a good fraction of his food to Geralt, however.

In fact, it seemed to be happening more and more frequently lately. He would demand seconds, larger portions, extra bread or more ale, only to immediately claim that he was full and offer it up to Geralt. After a tough life of fighting for survival, Geralt was a rather opportunistic eater, and so he always took advantage of Jaskier's leftovers. It was … strange, but Geralt could not say he exactly minded it. He did like going to bed warm and satiated rather than starving, tossing and turning and kept awake by his growling stomach. The only thing that really puzzled Geralt was the staring. Jaskier would look at him like Geralt was the most fascinating thing on the Continent whenever they sat down together to eat, but as Geralt had recently discovered, Jaskier would always quickly look away the moment Geralt met his eye.

Jaskier gaped and sputtered for a moment, eyes wide and hand settled over his chest as though Geralt had just viciously insulted him.

"Ill? Geralt, you wound me. I will have you know that I'm positively glowing with good health," Jaskier huffed.

Geralt grunted. Eyes narrowed, he examined Jaskier for just a brief moment longer, then bowed his head again to continue eating. Out of the edge of his vision, he could see Jaskier watching him.

Geralt had been willing to ignore the odd behavior up until his trousers started feeling tight. He still was not quite upset. It was not an overly drastic change, just a slight layer of padding over top of his muscles, making him look more like he did after he had been settled for a while over the winters he spent at Kaer Morhen, but there was a definite difference. Jaskier seemed to be noticing, too. Though he had not said anything about it, he still stared, and whenever he and Geralt fell into bed together, the bard's hands smoothed all over him, wordlessly worshiping Geralt's fuller frame.

Geralt enjoyed it, too. He had always been broader than Jaskier, but putting on a bit of weight had only highlighted that contrast. The day before, Geralt had caught a glimpse of his reflection looming behind Jaskier's in the mirror as the bard stood there checking over his own outfit for the evening's performance, and he had looked almost … delicate in comparison to Geralt. The sight had ignited something deep and primal and exciting in his core, and he wanted to chase that thrill.

No, he was far from upset. He was curious, though. While he had pieced together what was happening, there was still one more question: Was Jaskier doing it on purpose? Geralt supposed he could simply ask, but the thought of setting himself up for vulnerability like that was horrific. He had to find some other way to weasel out the truth. He had to beat Jaskier at his own game.

"Do I look different to you?" Geralt dared to ask that evening while they waited for the barmaid to come back with their dinner order. Jaskier looked anxious for just a brief second, but then he relaxed again and hummed inquisitively as he scanned Geralt's face.

"Is that a new doublet? Oh! Have you trimmed your beard?" Jaskier said.

Geralt hummed. By trade, Jaskier was a performer, but Geralt knew him well enough to be able to tell when he was lying -- or 'acting,' as Jaskier often corrected him. Two could play that game. Feigning ignorance, Geralt nodded and falsely agreed that he had gone to a barber, and he watched Jaskier decompress with relief. When the barmaid returned and set a full plate down in front of each of them, Geralt cleared his throat to get her attention.

"I want another," he said, pointing to his own plate.

"Ah … Another leg of chicken?" The barmaid looked a bit confused, like she was hesitant to believe that Geralt had been referring to the entire meal.

"No. Another plate," Geralt insisted. A brief pause, and he tacked on, "Please."

The barmaid blinked, but she chose not to argue. Rather, she nodded and scurried back to the kitchen. When Geralt looked back towards Jaskier, the bard was staring. Again.

"... Hungry, are you?" Jaskier questioned.

"Very."

Geralt held Jaskier's gaze for a moment longer and watched as just a hint of color began creeping over the bard's cheeks. Without another word, Geralt began to eat. He tore into the half chicken and the hearty portion of roast vegetables he had in front of him, and each time he glanced up, he found Jaskier trying and ultimately failing to be subtle about the fact that he was watching Geralt like a hawk. Geralt thought that he would have wanted to shy away before he managed to get his questions answered, but that was not the case. In reality, he actually liked the attention, those enraptured eyes fixed on him making him feel alight with a strange mixture of pleasure and shame. The barmaid came back with the rest of the food Geralt had requested, and she set it down quickly almost as though afraid of getting bitten if she ventured too close. Geralt grunted his thanks around a full mouth. Jaskier had been uncharacteristically silent the entire time, all the way up until Geralt finally broke for air and a drink of ale.

“Are you … sure you’re going to be able to finish all of that?” Jaskier sounded both tentative and almost laughably eager.

“Yes,” Geralt answered.

He met Jaskier’s eye again, his gaze dark and smoldering. The bard’s throat bobbed enticingly when he swallowed, and Geralt only barely held back a smirk. Whether or not Jaskier had been feeding Geralt up on purpose, it was obvious that he enjoyed the show, and it was always fun for Geralt to try and get him flustered.

“Ah, yes, well … I suppose you have had quite a healthy appetite lately,” Jaskier said. He spoke hesitantly, testing his luck. Geralt pushed right back.

“Someone has to eat all your leftovers.”

“Mm, yes. You are rather good for that.”

Geralt made it about halfway through his second plate before Jaskier was getting restless again. The bard still had some food remaining on his own plate, and judging from the way he kept glancing between it and Geralt and tapping his fingers anxiously against the table, he was hoping to see the witcher finish it off for him.

“Going to eat that?” Geralt spoke around a mouthful of chicken.

He had inched past satisfied a few bites ago, but he could keep going comfortably enough, and he so desperately wanted to see how Jaskier was going to react to his more deliberate goading. Geralt watched while Jaskier blushed and tried his best to act as though he had not been hoping to hear that exact question. It had been painfully obvious. Their many years together had given Geralt the ability to be able to read Jaskier like an open book. Sometimes, it was useful, likely saving Jaskier from some fights when Geralt was able to pick up on the body language that meant foolish determination or rising anger, but other times, like in that moment, it was simply amusing.

“Come now, love, you can’t possibly still be hungry,” Jaskier teased. Somewhat unexpectedly, it sent a jolt down Geralt’s spine. The witcher made a noise somewhat like a little growl, and his pupils widened. Jaskier did a much poorer job of veiling his own smirk. Perfect. Geralt was baiting him, and he was falling for it so easily. “I know you’ve been eating a great deal lately, but honestly … you’re getting greedy.”

Geralt’s heart fluttered nearly as quickly as a human’s as Jaskier scraped the rest of his food onto Geralt’s plate. By then, Jaskier seemed to have accepted that it was useless to hide his interest. He sat with his elbows braced against the table and his jaw cradled in his palms, alluring blue eyes fixed unwaveringly on Geralt. Near the end of his meal, Geralt was at last starting to struggle, the fact that his armor clung to him a bit more than he would have preferred only keeping it pinned in the forefront of his mind just how full he was. Jaskier’s reddened cheeks had only grown more vivid, the color even dusting the tips of his ears. Geralt rarely saw the bard so silent, so unwaveringly focused, usually only when he was in the middle of a fit of intense writing inspiration, and while Geralt felt scrutinized, he was actually enjoying it. Feeling bold, he grunted around his last mouthful and then reclined back in his chair, hoping to give Jaskier a glimpse of his distended belly where it strained against his clothes. Judging from the look on the bard’s face, it had worked.

“Are you finally satisfied, then?” Jaskier asked, and something about his tone of voice had something hot and exciting churning in the pit of Geralt’s stomach. He sounded almost condescending, but in the most deliciously arousing way possible.

“Mhm.” It was little more than a grunt.

Jaskier evidently had very little regard for how sluggish Geralt was looking. Lithe fingers curled around Geralt’s wrist and tugged insistently, and although Geralt easily could have kept himself planted in place if he had truly wanted to, he allowed Jaskier to haul him up onto his feet and lead him upstairs. Such a short trip normally would never have affected him, but with a full stomach weighing him down, Geralt found himself panting softly by the time he and Jaskier had reached their room. Distracted by the unfamiliar feeling of his trousers digging into his skin so tightly that it was almost painful, Geralt had little time to react before he was suddenly backed up against the closed door and drawn into a heated kiss.

“Jask --” Geralt breathed, cut off abruptly by yet another kiss.

Clearly, he had guessed right. Jaskier did enjoy that display, even more than Geralt had been anticipating. Soon, Geralt gave up on speaking, and he yielded to the kiss, lips parting for a teasing swipe of Jaskier’s tongue through his mouth. There was a pleasant warmth against Geralt’s middle that he soon recognized as Jaskier’s hands, kneading gently through stiff leather.

“Look at you,” Jaskier murmured. Geralt bit back a dry remark about how it was difficult to do that with the bard plastered up against him. “You’re getting so big.”

A thrill ran through Geralt at that. He curled his hands around Jaskier’s slender hips and squeezed, drawing him in closer, and Jaskier gasped against his lips. In truth, Geralt did not look too terribly different than he usually did, but there had been a little tone of hopefulness in Jaskier’s voice, a subtle but unmistakable hint that he wanted more. The next few seconds seemed to blur together, but somehow, Geralt had ended up spread out on the bed, staring up into Jaskier’s darkened eyes where he had perched himself on Geralt’s hips. Jaskier’s usually agile fingers trembled with anticipation as he worked Geralt out of his armor, putting him on blatant display. Where he had once been all sharp angles and overly defined muscles, he had accumulated a small layer of padding, and most noticeable of all at the moment was the rounded curve of his belly, warm and full and demanding Jaskier’s complete attention. His hands smoothed over it, rubbing and exploring, interspersed with little appreciative pats and scratches.

“Knew you were doing it on purpose,” Geralt said. Much to his amusement, Jaskier actually looked shocked. “Weren’t very subtle about it.”

“Yes, well --” Jaskier paused, seeming to be struggling to decide on what to say. Eventually, he just huffed, then decided to deflect and taunted, “Are you sure you aren’t just a glutton?”

Geralt smirked. Without any warning, he rolled over, pinning Jaskier beneath him. He heard Jaskier’s pulse flutter. A heated fantasy sped through Geralt’s mind, thoughts of how easily he could subdue Jaskier, how much stronger and bigger Geralt was, how much deep trust it took for Jaskier to lay himself out so vulnerable for a witcher, a predator. Jaskier’s arms snaked around him, and his hands splayed out over Geralt’s shoulder blades. Geralt laid heavier against him and growled in his ear just to feel Jaskier squirm. Jaskier would be unable to get away even if he wanted to with Geralt’s full weight holding him down. Oddly, that was a deeply pleasurable thought, and Geralt had very quickly decided that he would take no issue with it if Jaskier wanted to keep feeding him, making him broader and heavier still, only further exaggerating that contrast between the two of them. If the way Geralt could feel Jaskier’s hardening cock digging into his thigh was any indication, they were in agreement on that.

“Going to get me something good for breakfast tomorrow?” Geralt purred into Jaskier’s ear.

Jaskier groaned, hooked his legs around Geralt’s waist to grind their hips together, and moved one hand to tangle into the witcher’s hair. His opposite hand snuck downwards, and he pinched at the slight, growing plushness at Geralt’s hip.

“Certainly. You’re just wasting away.”

Geralt’s mouth was far too busy then for any proper response.

#fic #prompt fill #HI THIS WAS FUN TO WRITE #thank u :)

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officerjennie · 3 years

Text

Title: As the Clouds Whisp Overhead

Summary: Jaskier gets off on Geralt's soft thighs and tummy. Literally. Geralt relaxes back and lets him, enjoying the show. Weight gain spoken of positively. Pairing: Geraskier. WC: 3.5K+

CW: smut, brief mention of weight loss due to difficult times (past)

It had been a rather easy spring, all things considered.

Geralt lazed in the field, not really watching the clouds that drifted overhead, his eyes closed and breaths deepening into an almost meditative state. The smell of wine and cheese was almost drowned out by the wildflowers about them but it was still there, as was the scent of apples, salt, the road, and the lingering oils that Jaskier had insisted on wearing ever since he’d discovered Geralt’s nose was sensitive to the others that he used to reek of.

Said bard was currently shuffling their lunch about, putting most of it away for later, humming one of his newest tunes as he folded back up the blanket he’d apparently bought for just this occasion. Though they’d eaten plenty of meals without it or the basket he’d purchased at the market as well, Jaskier had insisted that a picnic was a special affair and deserved the right accessories to make it just right.

Geralt had just let him do as he wished, not worried about his friend’s coin purse - and not worried about his own, for once. Usually the end of winter spelled a time of heavy work for him but he’d lucked out on a couple of easy and well paying jobs right off the bat - so he thought a bit of down time wouldn’t be the end of the world for them.

The song on Jaskier’s lips was one he hadn’t quite finished yet. Geralt had already heard several different renditions of the first verse alone, lyrics tweaked here and there, the exact lilt of his voice changing back and forth as he tried to settle on what he believed would sound the best. And despite his occasional grumbling over the repetition it was a rather relaxing tune, one he didn’t mind listening to.

Beyond that, there was a sort of...intimacy that came with being trusted with Jaskier’s unfinished works. The knowledge that Jaskier wasn’t always his best around him, was able to fuck around with a song and riddle the air with curses of “bollocks” and “cock” while he tried and failed and tried again to make it just right. That Geralt could see him like this and not the perfected performance that he was to the rest of the world, the mask that was firmly in place right up until the moment he didn’t want it to be.

And that moment just so happened to frequently involve witchers, whether directly or indirectly. How many times had he gone feral on someone for just saying the wrong thing about one of Geralt’s colleagues? Just early that spring he’d jumped someone for spitting on the ground over Lambert’s name, and Jaskier hadn’t even met him yet.

Something like pride welled up in his chest at the thought, though it was a quiet thing. Jaskier should be more careful, he shouldn’t be fighting their fights - but it meant the world to him all the same that he wanted to. Especially for his brothers.

“You know, I’ve never been one for cheese and crackers as anything more than a snack, but that was simply delightful.” Jaskier’s voice came closer as he talked, and the flowers and grass were disturbed next to him as the bard flopped over at his side, quickly snuggling in when Geralt moved his arm to make room for him. “We’ll have to go back and ask again what the name of that cheese was. Never have I ever given so much thought to pairing and wines and all that stuff - my youngest sister was always more interested in that sort of thing, and really if I heard her say one more time that my palette wasn’t refined enough I might have had to hide frogs in her bed again.”

Jaskier settled in nicely at his side, slotting in like they were made for each other, fit perfectly together. He chattered away and Geralt mostly tuned him out, something Jaskier loved to fake hurt over though they both knew it was just that: fake. Over the years Geralt had perfected hearing what he needed to hear and simply listened to the tune of Jaskier’s voice, the song of his highs and lows, his sighs and breaths and every heartbeat becoming the song that was his bard.

Meditation came easier around Jaskier than it did anyone else. Even around his own family it was a struggle. Lambert was a little shit at the best of times and Eskel simply existed larger than he wanted to, and Geralt was always tuned into his brothers, paying attention to them because he knew just how limited theri time was together. But with Jaskier, he could rest, relax, simply let himself be like he’d never experienced with anyone else.

His arm rested at Jaskier’s back, hand loose on his side, barely hanging on and feeling his bard breath in and out as he spoke. Jaskier’s fingers tapped a rhythm where they were rested on his chest, though eventually they moved, sliding down to rest against his stomach and making Geralt hmm at the pleasant warmth they brought.

They’d stripped earlier to bathe in the nearby river and had mostly dressed, though Jaskier had forwent his doublet as Geralt had his armor. It was nice, being out in the wild, away from the faux sense of safety that inn rooms allowed them and yet still able to be this content without his armor on. Just their loose clothing, not enough to be considered decent in any sort of societal setting, simply existing and being and just…

Geralt was content, and he didn’t consider that a bad thing. Not in the slightest.

A breeze rustled the field about them, loose silver hair tickling his face though Geralt didn’t have the bother in him to brush it out of the way or tuck it behind his ear. The air smelled nice for once, no clogging dust on the wind, no rotting anything nearby nor farms to make his nose want to clog itself. Since the summer was still a ways off the sun wasn’t too harsh on his skin, his chemise enough to keep any possible chill away though it was warm enough in this part of the country, everything pleasant and not too much.

There was also a lovely set of fingers that had wormed their way under his chemise. Jaskier hadn’t bothered to push it up, had just scooted his hand underneath, and with very gentle circles had begun to rub patterns into the soft flesh there. It was enough to make Geralt melt beneath him, a soft hmm on his lips accompanied by a sigh as he felt his every muscle relax at the touch. The winter had been extra good to him, Eskel having returned with more coin than expected from his path which had meant more meat for their stews, and the lot of them had eaten extra well.

Jaskier had never shied away from letting him know exactly how much he appreciated it when he ate well. There had been a few times on their own path that food had been scarce, and despite witchers having an accelerated metabolism Geralt had always done his best to see after his bard first and foremost - so when times were tough his body showed it, and Jaskier had played his fingers raw when he saw the worst of it just to make sure the both of them could eat their fill.

But there had been no such worries or struggles yet this year, what with the good winter and the well paying contracts that had followed. Geralt’s stomach was full and soft, protecting the muscles and other important organs underneath, and the rest of him was showing the spoiling as well. His thighs had grown softer, somewhat straining against the material of his pants but it wasn’t quite uncomfortable yet - he knew well enough to keep his clothes somewhat baggy, to make room for the waxing and waning that came with the path. His chest, too, had grown softer, encouraging Jaskier to nuzzle into it at any given opportunity.

Those calloused fingers found some of the scars that ran across his belly, caressing them gently. Some stretch marks veined their way across his skin as well, hidden at the moment by his chemise but Jaskier felt his way across them all the same, giving off a gentle sigh as he snuggled in closer and traced his love wherever he could reach.

Geralt could not have thought of a more peaceful way to spend the afternoon. The clouds blurred as his eyes slid closed at the tender affection, his breaths deepening. Deep breaths in through his nose, smelling the wildflowers. A rabbit was nearby, chomping as quietly as it could on some grass, its hops barely whispers as it braved further away from its burrow. Geralt could hear the gentle chuffing of its babies hidden away, the call of a hawk overhead that sent the rabbit scurrying. The scent of budding trees, of a little mouse that had found some seeds to munch. The scent of his bard, his oils and shampoo and the hint of river on the both of them, and the growing scent of-

A snort brought them both a bit out of the peace, and Geralt cracked his eyes just enough to smirk down at the startled confusion growing on his bard’s face.

“Really?”

Those pretty pink lips pouted up at him as if Jaskier wasn’t fully aware of what was growing in his pants. Geralt made a show of raising one of his eyebrows, raking his gaze down, down his bard, straight to stare at his crotch just long enough to get his point across before flicking his eyes right back up.

It took a few seconds for his bard to catch up, Geralt watching the thoughts clear as day on Jaskier’s face, until red spread pretty across his cheeks and darkened the speckle of freckles there. Jaskier sputtered a bit and Geralt had to bite back a wider grin, starts to words that had no finish dropping between them before Jaskier cut himself off with a whine, ducking in to nuzzle into his chest and push the rest of his body closer.

“That’s not fair, Geralt - what, can you, I don’t know, smell it or something?”

Geralt didn’t respond to that, just reached up to tug a stray curl back behind Jaskier’s ear. His bard peeked up at him with another adorable pout jutting out his lower lip, his nose scrunched up as he waited for his ‘ridiculous suggestion’ to be shot down.

But it wasn’t shot down. And Jaskier frowned, and then he squeaked, climbing on top of Geralt to straddle him and poke a very firm finger straight into the chest he’d just been nuzzling.

“You and your- your entirely unfair witcher ways! Are you telling me you could tell all this time? Every time?” Geralt didn’t stop his grin this time and the indignation just grew, hand gestures growing wider. “That is- Geralt, how am I suppose to walk through life knowing you can smell my erection? How am I ever supposed to get up of a morning knowing my every waking naughty thought will be given away? Which yes is entirely too often but you’re entirely not fair, have you looked in a mirror in the past decade? Cruelty, unfair, entirely too sexy for your own good, for anyone’s own good-”

Jaskier went on like that, ranting like only he could, while Geralt eventually tuned his words out just to listen to the lilt of his voice. And the bard made a rather pretty picture himself, straddling him like that. His chemise was loose, showing off curls of dark hair that Geralt could run his fingers through for an eternity and never be bored of it. Broad tanned shoulders, a soft stomach barely hidden underneath his clothes, his pants a wonderful shade of green that fit in with the waking world around them.

A very pretty picture, but a noisy one at the moment. Geralt sighed but Jaskier went on, wildly flourishing his hands as if it was the end of the world that Geralt could smell his arousal. An arousal that had notably not died down, still pressing against the fabric of his pants, catching Geralt’s eyes and making him tilt his head in that way that Jaskier insisted was ‘adorable’ - though Geralt didn’t think he was capable of such a thing.

His thigh twitched with a rather mischievous thought, and as Geralt’s gaze traveled back up to Jaskier’s face, cheeks still stained pink from his rather unnecessary embarrassment, he thought there perhaps that voice would do better singing for him than ranting about his dramatics.

He’d been called an asshole before, and Geralt had never disagreed with the label. But he was lucky enough that Jaskier for the most part never minded - and he greatly doubted Jaskier would mind his next movement.

As Jaskier waved one of his delicate looking wrists in the air, dandelion seeds drifting on the wind about them, Geralt shifted beneath him until he had room to lift up one of his thighs. Before Jaskier could catch his movement it pressed up into him, cutting his bard off with a gasp, his eyes fluttering as Geralt’s smile showed teeth.

“That’s-” Jaskier pressed right down onto his thigh, his hands coming down to support him, and he didn’t waste any time in making it more enjoyable for himself. Shifting down, one hand placed on Geralt’s chest to support him, Jaskier straddled his thigh and slowly ground down onto it. A pretty moan escaped his lips and his tongue darted out as if to catch it.

It was a lovely show, watching as Jaskier pressed down onto him, sought out his own pleasure by rubbing against his thick thigh. Geralt pillowed his head on his arms and just watched, not moving his leg, letting Jaskier set his own pace and feeling pride bubble up in his chest at how pretty he sung for him. On a particularly rough grind Jaskier whimpered and rutted against him faster, making Geralt’s own cock twitch - but he wasn’t really in the mood for pleasure, so he ignored it in favor of the show.

Though he made for a beautiful picture, back lit by the sun and clouds, a pretty blue above that couldn’t quite beat the beautiful blue of his eyes, Jaskier wasn’t purposely looking good for a show. He didn’t touch his own skin like he did when he rode Geralt, didn’t skim his hands down his chest and stomach to show it off. Didn’t bite his lip or run and tangle his fingers into his curls. The emotions that crossed his face were not stressed or controlled, his noises slipped out without thought, his body moving without any purpose beyond pleasuring himself - and it made it a moment Geralt wanted to sear into his memory forever. That Jaskier could let go like this for him. That he trusted that Geralt didn’t mind, trusted that Geralt did not judge him for his desires. How human Jaskier allowed himself to be, imperfect and all the more beautiful for it.

“Fuck,” Jaskier cursed on an exhale, his movements already shaking, his cock dripping enough precum that it soaked into the front of his pants. Geralt could almost feel it wetting his own. “Geralt I- fuck you’re gorgeous, so gorgeous, I want to-” his hips stuttered, breath catching on a moan, brown curls caught on the wind and dancing. “Can- can I get off on your stomach? Gods it’d be so soft, feel so good, I- fuck.”

That was something he’d never requested before. Geralt quirked an eyebrow, belying another twitch of his own cock, but he grunted out “If you must.” And he had to bite back a chuckle at how quickly Jaskier’s fingers went for the ties of his pants.

Jaskier’s cock was leaking profusely though that wasn’t anything he didn’t already know. It looked like it was aching from it, hard and red and angry when he fished it out of his pants and smalls, and Jaskier whined as he couldn’t help but stroke himself a few times. His hips bucked with it, a greedy and wanting noise slipping from between his wet lips - but then he was slipping down Geralt’s leg to straddle his hips, and his cock was pushed against the soft skin of his stomach.

It didn’t slide against him very easily. The precum leaking from the tip helped, but Jaskier didn’t seem to care, holding onto his cock and gently rubbing it against him, jaw wide and loose like it was the single most pleasurable act Jaskier had ever experienced. Geralt cocked his head and tore his gaze away from Jaskier to watch his cock rub circles on him, precum dribbling faster and catching in the hair that curled white all over his abdomen.

Honestly, Geralt didn’t quite understand it. Wasn’t entirely sure what had Jaskier’s breath coming so fast, his heart beating so quick at rubbing against his soft stomach. But he didn’t really care. Jaskier’s hips jerked and he fought to keep himself reigned in, to keep his movements steady and slow, and Geralt just watched him and let him. Let him take this pleasure, smelling the arousal coming off of him in waves, listening to the rhythm of his breaths and body and heart. And Geralt memorized every little detail, from the flutter of his long eyelashes to the way his fingers dug into Geralt’s side, nails just at the edge of biting him.

Jaskier whimpered, long and shaking, when he came. It was desperate, his face scrunching up, eyes shut tight as if he was grasping onto the pleasure with all of his might. Geralt reached out to take hold of one of his hands, letting Jaskier clench his fingers as hard as he needed, bringing them up to brush his lips against the knuckles as Jaskier spilled all over his stomach.

His bard almost collapsed onto him, but Geralt moved him before that could happen, bringing him down with a shush at his further whimpers and letting him rest once more in the crook of his arm. And Jaskier came down slow, heartbeat eventually matching the rhythm of his deepening breaths, eyes still scrunched up tight as if he didn’t want to let go of what he’d been feeling.

When Geralt ran his fingers through his curls, they were damp with sweat. He hummed, not minding, just holding him close as he melted against him.

Eventually, Jaskier stretched, letting his arm flop against Geralt’s chest and legs tangle with his once more. He almost made an effort to open his eyes. Almost. Instead he frowned lightly, nuzzling into Geralt and as he moved impossibly closer.

“Want me to return the favor, love?” His words were light things that could have been carried off by the wind if Geralt’s hearing had been even slightly worse.

In truth, Geralt was turned on. How could he not be when Jaskier had ridden his thigh and stomach so beautifully? But he thought it over for a minute, the cool breeze tickling his face with a few stray white hairs, the scent of wildflowers coming back to him as the one of arousal dissipated.

“No,” he said finally, pulling Jaskier closer to kiss the top of his head. Despite the interest his body had shown he found he wasn’t in the mood himself, content enough to let Jaskier have his pleasure and leave it at that.

Jaskier just hummed, not questioning him further, and a small smile tugged at Geralt’s lips knowing there would be no hurt feelings over it. His bard’s fingers eventually went back to lazily tracing patterns into his skin, though he made a bit of a yucky face when they found the sticky mess he’d left of Geralt’s stomach hairs. Still they were both far too content to clean up just yet, not even wasting the energy to tuck Jaskier’s softening cock back away in his pants as they laid there, relaxed, enjoying the non-harsh sun and the clouds that lazed across the sky overhead.

“Coin for your thoughts?” Jaskier whispered into his chest after a time, and Geralt grunted, not even opening his eyes to look down as he responded.

“A bigger food budget.”

A moment later, and Jaskier’s laugh filled the field around them, sharp and uncontained, a laugh that was so far away from the performance he played that it drew a chuckle out of Geralt as well. That they could be themselves around each other, that they could be so carefree and human, was the most joyous thing Geralt had ever found in his long, long life - and that they’d discovered a new way to have fun was exciting, and Geralt was certainly going to take advantage of this new discovery. How could he not, when his reward was a well-pleased bard melting in his arms.

#why did I give this smut piece such a poetic title?#geraskier #geralt #jaskier #the witcher #fanfiction #mywriting #lemony #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geralt of rivia #geralt/jaskier #jaskier/geralt #gerskier #and now back to writing the stuff I'm supposed to be working on

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valdomarx · 4 years

Text

Untouchable

Octoberfest day 31: cursed

“Fuck! Geralt! Help!”

Geralt rolls his eyes as Jaskier comes skidding to a halt in front of him. He dreads to imagine what trouble he’s gotten himself into now.

“Something terrible has happened! I had an, umm, unfortunate encounter with a sorcerer.” He blushes, pink creeping over his cheeks. “And he put some horrible curse on me and portaled away, the bastard.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “Hmm.”

“And now I can’t touch anyone. Look!” Jaskier holds out a hand to stop a passerby. He goes to shake the confused man’s hand, but the moment their skin makes contact Jaskier gives a yelp of pain and leaps back.

That reaction isn’t feigned, Geralt is sure, even as the man gives them both an odd look and leaves.

“When you touch someone, does it hurt badly?”

Jaskier’s bottom lip wobbles. “It really does.”

He sighs. A lack of touch might be a mere annoyance for him, but he knows it’s more than that for Jaskier. “I’ve heard of a mage who specialises in lifting curses. But he’s all the way in Kovir, and that’s no small journey.”

Jaskier turns big, pleading eyes on him. “Please, Geralt, I’ll do anything. You have to help me.”

As if he could ever refuse him anything. “Alright,” he grumbles. “We’ll head to Kovir.”

At first, Jaskier appears as bright as ever. Yet as the days pass, more and more often he chews his lip in a nervous habit, and he rubs his fingers together when people come too close. He smells of anxiety and restlessness.

Each evening, once the dinner has been eaten and the sun has set, they lay out their bedrolls by the embers of the fire. The scent of anxiety is replaced by one of loneliness and Jaskier will curl in on himself, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. It’s sad, how much lesser Jaskier seems to feel without touch.

Geralt is used to being shunned, to going months without a friendly clap on the shoulder or shake of the hand. But Jaskier isn’t, and the curse is taking a toll on him. Geralt wishes he could help, that he could provide some comfort, but he knows right now all he can cause Jaskier is pain.

They need coin for their journey, so Geralt takes jobs along the way. He’s on a contract to clear a nest of nekkers and he has, for some unknown reason, allowed Jaskier to accompany him. Jaskier had wheedled and pleaded and in the end Geralt had found himself unable to say no.

It should be fine. A nekker nest is an easy job, and as agile and springy as the creatures are, they’ve no stamina and they’re easy to kill.

That must be why he allows his concentration to slip when he’s approaching the nest, his eyes darting to the side to check Jaskier is safe behind a rock. The momentary slip lets one of the foul little things bounce up to him and sink its teeth into his gauntlet, more of an annoyance than a real threat. He shakes it off with one hand and uses the other to cut more of the creatures down with his silver blade. His gauntlet goes flying, but no matter, he can collect that later.

He rounds on the last few of the creatures who are nickering angrily. As he circles them he sees Jaskier peeking his head over the rock and then creeping closer, trying to get a better look.

Fuck. He kills two of the nekkers quickly, but the last three have picked up on Jaskier’s scent and are eyeing him with interest. Geralt sees two leaning back on their hind legs, preparing to leap at Jaskier and cut him to shreds with their sharp claws.

He has a split second to make a decision: Grab Jaskier and risk hurting him himself, or leave him where he is and watch the creatures go for his chest. It’s no choice at all really, so Geralt sends up a quiet word of apology and grabs Jaskier firmly around the neck with his ungloved hand and shoves him out of the way.

The last two creatures leap into the air, but with their target gone they’re easy prey. Geralt cuts them down with minimal effort and turns, expecting to see Jaskier writhing on the ground in pain.

He’s not though. He’s sat in the mud with a puzzled expression on his face.

“That didn’t hurt,” he says, seemingly mystified. “Well, being thrown to the ground was not the most delightful experience, but when you touched me - it didn’t hurt.”

That is strange. Geralt had been sure he’d triggered the curse.

Jaskier gets to his feet and regards Geralt quizzically. Very carefully, he reaches out and touches his fingertip to Geralt’s bare hand. He doesn’t flinch back or gasp in pain. Instead, he takes Geralt’s entire hand in his own, and a beautiful smile blooms over his face.

“I can touch you! But how?”

Geralt stares down at their joined hands, unsure why he feels unsteady. “Witchers are immune to magic?” he guesses. “I suppose that could be -”

He’s interrupted by Jaskier throwing his arms around him and hugging him close, happy little sounds of joy and relief spilling from him. “Oh, Geralt, thank the gods, I was losing my mind.” He snuggles deeper against Geralt, rubbing his face into his neck and hanging on tight.

“Oh. Well.” It seems the only thing for Geralt to do is to hug him back, so he puts his arms around his shoulders and draws him in.

Jaskier keeps touching him all the rest of the day. Whenever he bumps their shoulders or grabs Geralt’s hand, he breaks out into a wide, goofy smile, like it’s novel and fun every time.

Perhaps the curse has worn off? The next traveller who passes them by, Jaskier finds an excuse to stop him and shake his hand. But the moment their hands touch, Jaskier yelps in pain.

He’s still cursed then. But he can touch Geralt. Strange.

And Geralt can’t help but indulge him, even though he knows Jaskier is touching him because he’s the only option, not because he really wants to. He reminds himself that Jaskier would surely rather be off with some pretty lady, not grasping at a crotchety witcher for comfort.

But still, every time Jaskier brushes their hands together and smiles, he feels a little wobbly inside.

That night, he watches as once again Jaskier curls in on himself, small and sad by the fire. The further north they travel, the colder the weather grows, and the more distressed Jaskier becomes.

“Hey.” He keeps his voice soft, and Jaskier turns to look at him with big, wide eyes. “Join me?” He lifts a corner of his bedroll and waves him over; an offer, not a command.

Jaskier immediately scurries over and burrows into him, all hands and hot breath and happy murmurs. He settles into Geralt’s chest with a contented sigh, and Geralt wraps his arms carefully around him.

This, at least, he can do. Jaskier will find someone else to warm him soon enough, but for now, he has Geralt.

Geralt is on his way back from a job when the sound of raised voices makes him quicken his step. Outside the inn where he’d left Jaskier, he spots a distinctive bright blue doublet in the midst of a gang of angry-looking locals. They’re poking at him and taunting, and Jaskier is gasping in pain.

“Look at this precious little thing,” one of them sneers. “So delicate he can’t even bear to be touched by us lowly folks.”

The man reaches out and grasps Jaskier firmly around the wrist, and Jaskier screams, raw and excruciating. The sound reaches into Geralt’s chest and twists painfully, and he breaks into a sprint.

The next thing he knows, the man is on the ground before him, sobbing as Geralt twists his arm to the point of breaking. The others have fallen back, trying to hide behind each other, and Jaskier stands off to one side cradling his wrist.

“You don’t touch him,” Geralt growls, and the man before him pales even further. “Understood?”

The man nods frantically, babbling apologies, and as much as he’s tempted to break a few bones to drive home his point, he knows Jaskier wouldn’t want that. He drops the man’s arm and snarls, “Go.” He and his friends beat a hasty retreat, leaving the street empty but for him and Jaskier.

“Jask,” he says, and it breaks his heart to see Jaskier so pale, a tear running down his cheek. “Are you alright?” He’s wracked with guilt - he should have been here to protect him.

Jaskier smiles sadly. “I’m fine. My own fault, really.” He reaches out as if to touch Geralt’s hand before faltering, unsure.

He’s clearly in need of comfort, so Geralt pushes his own uncertainties aside and steps closer. He brings up one hand to wipe away the tears from Jaskier’s cheek, and cradles his face as gently as he can. “It’s okay,” he says in the tone he uses to reassure Roach when she’s frightened. “I’ve got you.”

Jaskier blinks up at him with watery eyes, but his smile is more genuine now. “Yeah,” he sighs softly. “Yeah, you do.”

Jaskier still insists on performing as they travel, and as much as the thought of him among all those grasping hands sets Geralt’s teeth on edge, he does understand. For all the times that he’s been injured and insisting on continuing to work, it would be hypocritical of him to deny that to Jaskier.

He sways carefully around the tavern as he plays, and to a stranger he’d seem relaxed and at ease but Geralt knows him well enough to see the anxiety in his rigid movements. Each time a hand reaches out toward him he flinches, though normally he’d be luxuriating in the attention.

Each flinch has Geralt’s grasp on his mug of ale tightening, until the wood is groaning beneath his hand and he has to shake it loose lest he crack the mug and send ale flowing over the table.

Jaskier can take care of himself. He’ll be fine.

He certainly does seem fine, and by the end of the evening he’s caught the attention of a pretty girl with voluminous curls spilling out from the dainty handkerchief tied around her head. When Jaskier is done with his performance she buys him a drink, and she leans over the table to giggle as they speak in low voices.

Geralt watches from his corner table and scowls. He tells himself his foul mood comes from concern for Jaskier, from worry that this woman might hurt him unintentionally. He almost has himself convinced it’s true.

There’s no point skulking in the shadows all night, he knows, so he finishes his ale and heads upstairs to their room. As he lays down, the bed feels strangely empty without Jaskier’s bustle and scent and colour. Wondering when he became so damn soft, he slips into a meditation.

It’s not long before he’s revived by the sound of Jaskier creeping into the room and hurriedly undressing.

Geralt rubs his eyes, dispelling the lingering wooziness. “I thought you’d spend the night celebrating,” he says, trying to keep his voice light. “With that nice young lady.”

In the low light, he sees Jaskier shrug. “It got rather awkward when she kept trying to touch me and I kept having to run away.”

“Too bad.”

“Yeah.” He settles into bed next to Geralt. “It’s just -” Geralt can smell the mixture of exhilaration, arousal, and frustration on him. “It’s frustrating. Wanting something and not being able to have it.”

“Hmm.” Geralt knows that feeling all too well.

“I’m -” Jaskier turns his head away a fraction, and Geralt can see a blush spreading over his cheeks. “I’m not used to going so long without… you know. It’s making me antsy.” He rubs the palm of one hand against his crotch, shifting awkwardly in the bed.

“Hmm.” He inhales again, and the scent of arousal is sharper, more prominent. He rolls onto his side, tentatively places a hand on Jaskier’s thigh. “I could help,” he offers. “If you want.”

He’s expecting to be told no. He’s expecting Jaskier might even push him away, disgusted. He’s not expecting the way Jaskier sucks in a breath, the way the scent of arousal blooms, the way Jaskier squims beneath his hand.

“You’d do that for me?” Jaskier’s voice is breathy.

I’d do anything for you, he thinks but doesn’t say. Instead he places his hand on top of Jaskier’s and guides it to the fastenings of his trousers. Jaskier unlaces himself in a clumsy rush which Geralt can’t help but find endearing, and then he’s working his cock free, rubbing gentle strokes with their two joined hands.

It’s nice like this, where Geralt can let Jaskier guide him, show him what he likes. His fingers tease along the soft skin on the underside of his cock, the delicious slick at the head. As he strokes, Jaskier shakes in his arms, gasping and writhing. When he comes, it’s with a soft, gentle sigh of contentment that Geralt wants to bottle and keep forever.

Jaskier makes a tokenistic effort to wipe himself down with a shirt and collapses back into bed. “Should I…” He chews his bottom lip. “Would you like me to return the favour?”

Geralt’s cock is pressing against his trousers like iron, and Jaskier must be able to feel it. But he didn’t do this with the expectation of recompense. He just wants Jaskier to feel good.

“No, it’s okay,” he says softly.

“Oh,” Jaskier sounds disappointed, almost. “Okay.”

They fall asleep like that, curled up close together, but a feeling of uncertainty hanging between them.

In the weeks after that, Jaskier takes to touching Geralt even more. They sleep close together every night, and they find pleasure in each other when they need to. Geralt makes his peace with this unspoken arrangement: he is a hand to Jaskier when he needs it, and Jaskier returns the favour as a politeness.

The first time Jaskier kisses him while they rut together, his heart is fit to burst out of his chest. Trading favours is one thing, but the surge of love and heat and affection that erupts in his chest when Jaskier brings their lips together can’t be denied. He could kiss Jaskier every single night and never tire of it, he thinks. Late at night, as they move together, Geralt feels himself falling.

It’s not everything he wants, but it’s enough.

It has to be enough, because soon they’ll make it to Kovir, and then they can lift the curse, and then Jaskier won’t need him at all any more.

Geralt catches himself wishing that the curse won’t be lifted, and then he’s disgusted at himself for being so selfish.

Kovir is beautiful. Sharp, snow-dusted mountains dart up into the sky, and great rivers flow with fresh water through green, lush lands. The city of Pont Vanis is breathtaking, with spire towers reaching up toward the heavens and rich mosaics of glasswork covering every surface. Each new corner seems to hold some elegant delight of artistry, and Jaskier grabs his hand to pull him along each new street to behold some fresh wonder.

But they are not here for gawping, Geralt tells himself, and he steers them toward the address of the mage he’s heard is an expert in curses.

Once inside, the Koviri mage stares at the pair of them.

“A curse, you say?” He raises an eyebrow.

Geralt stands protectively behind Jaskier, ready to leap to his defense should the mage prove troublesome.

“Yes. Whenever anyone touches me, I feel horrendous pain.” Jaskier grimaces. “Except for Geralt. For some reason, he can touch me and it’s fine.”

The mage nods. “I see. Did you perchance anger a magic user?”

“Ahh.” Jaskier looks at his feet. “Well. There was a mage whose acquaintance I made. He seemed… less than happy when I declined his offer of companionship.”

The Koviri mage shudders. “What monsters southerners can be. Cursing someone because they rejected you, what hideous behaviour.”

Geralt is warming up to this mage already.

“Let me see what I can do.” The mage closes his eyes and reaches out his hands, holding them a few inches from Jaskier’s chest.

He opens his eyes again and squints curiously. “Strange. I can’t feel any curse upon you.”

He reaches out, and pokes Jaskier in the chest. Geralt leaps forward, ready to defend his bard from this onslaught, but he’s stopped in his tracks by Jaskier’s voice.

“Huh.” He sounds perplexed, not pained. “That’s odd. That didn’t hurt at all.”

They reason perhaps it’s because the mage is a magic user too, so they bring in the mage’s servant. He touches Jaskier’s hand and again he’s fine. Then they try the washerwoman next door. That’s fine too.

The mage shrugs and smiles. “It seems that the curse has worn off. Some weaker enchantments only last a matter of days.”

Jaskier’s eyes go wide. “You mean… all this time, I’ve been fine? I could have been touching anyone?”

The mage hums, eyes sparkling. “So it appears.” He looks at Geralt, and his gaze is penetrating. “Perhaps it has not been such a loss for you though, hmm? There are many paths to knowledge.”

They stagger out into the weak Koviri sunshine and Geralt is consumed with guilt and relief and worry. Surely Jaskier will hate him now. Hate him and leave him, now they’re no longer tied together.

“Jaskier-” he begins, just as Jaskier turns to him to say, “Geralt-”

They stare at each other a beat too long.

Geralt’s shoulders slump. Let the end come if it must. “Go on,” he says, bracing himself.

“Thank you.” Jaskier is giving him that soft, quiet smile that he loves. “For taking care of me.”

That doesn’t make any sense.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “I should have known better. I understand if you want to leave.”

Jaskier shakes his head and takes his hand. “Come on.” He leads Geralt toward one of Kovir’s elegant public parks. “Let’s walk.”

They stroll beneath a series of wooden archways, woven thick with roses. The sunlight peeks through in dappled spots on the springy grass.

“I don’t regret it,” Jaskier says. “These last weeks. I don’t blame you. You’ve done nothing but try to help me.”

“But you could have been with anyone.” Geralt’s stomach twists at the thought he’s been keeping Jaskier against his will. “You could have touched anyone. Kissed anyone. Found anyone else to bring you pleasure.”

“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier stops and tenderly brushes a stray hair from Geralt’s face. “I didn’t want anyone else.”

Geralt barely dares to breath. Hope rages within him, frothing and exuberant. “You mean-”

“I didn’t want anyone else then, and I don’t want anyone else now.” He leans in and presses the softest kiss to the corner of Geralt’s mouth. “I always just wanted you.”

His heart feels like it could beat out of his chest. “So you’ll stay with me? Even now?”

Jaskier strokes one finger down his cheek, and his entire world narrows to the joining of their bodies. “Always,” Jaskier promises. “There’s no one I’d rather be with.”

#obsessed with touch... me... hahaha. it's fine i'm fine.#geraskier #the witcher #my writing #octoberfest #we did it folks!! 31 fics in 31 days!!#i enjoyed writing this one especially

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valdomarxxx · 3 years

Text

Ah, today's @whataboutthebard theme is role reversal. Tricky, tricky...

Perhaps he should talk about me for once… but alas, I am under no false impressions about why you are all here. Hearing him spill my secrets would no doubt be far less interesting.

Yesterday we touched upon the topic of comforting, in a way. I worry that oftentimes these little stories are perhaps painting one or both of us in a light that is, at best, obscuring what is really there. I certainly know I am biased towards myself - but who isn’t? I often berate Julian for his many and various flaws, and I can understand why many of my readers would find themselves wondering why I’ve remained attached to him for so long. I hope this goes some way towards explaining.

This is from, oh, perhaps seven or eight years ago? I was settling into my summer residency at the Academy, and Julian - quite happily established as Jaskier, then - appeared out of the blue one evening. He looked uncomfortable, wearing his doublet buttoned high around his neck despite the sweltering heat. He gave us some line about needing some time away from the road, and quickly found accommodation in the city.

With lectures on the horizon, a festival mere days away, and a burgeoning love affair with someone who will remain nameless for the purposes of this tale, I was too busy to probe into his reappearance despite my curiosity.

And then: disaster, and heartbreak. The morning of the festival, my capricious lover informed me they were sick of me. That they were in love with someone else. I am sure many of you know the feeling; the horrible, bone-depth realisation that they are in love, but not with you, and the way the world shudders beneath your feet.

But I had lessons to transcribe and songs to polish and so much work to be done. I did not stop. I did not stop, until I had to.

I bumped into Julian - in the most literal sense - as I was making my hasty way to the festival stage, late and exhausted and in a state which I am sure made me look more like a travelling troubadour than a respected professor of the arts.

My first reaction was to curse him. And I did - thoroughly and colorfully and wildly. I cursed his name, his face, his stupid, gods-damned fucking feathered hat. And he just stared at me. And then - the worst crime of all - he asked if I was all right.

I did not make it to my performance. He dragged me away, a sobbing mess, not to our usual tavern but to one right on the edge of the city, near the river. We watched the Pontar glitter in the sunlight over a bottle of mead that he purchased for us both. I told him what had happened; about the rejection, about being cast aside for another. He listened in silence, his hand resting close to mine on the tabletop.

“It hurts,” I said, “to know you’ll never be them. To know that you are lacking, but cannot tell what it is you lack.”

His lips were shining and sticky with mead. “I know,” he said. I think he truly did.

We finished the bottle and made our way unsteadily across the bridge towards Arette, heading for the tavern there, bumping against each other in the summer heat. He finally removed his doublet, and in the yellow light I could see a new scar snaking across his neck. I asked what had happened - what new mischief he had found himself in - but he ignored my question, pointing instead towards the water.

“Have you ever seen a siren, Valdo?” He asked, mouth drooping. “I heard a story once about one who lost her voice. She was rejected as well.”

“I thought they seduced men and lured them to their deaths?” I said, lost in the conversation.

He looked at me, eyes shining. “That too.”

We never quite made it to the tavern. We sprawled instead on the grass beside the slow-moving river, laying on our backs, staring up at the sky as it turned red. When I leant my head against his shoulder, he did not push me away.

“It will be all right,” He said, after a long silence.

“Will it?” I replied.

“In the end,” he said. “Everything will work out. It has to.”

I shuffled a little closer, the grass bunching beneath me. The backs of our hands brushed. I thought of what I’d lost. Of what he had lost too, but was refusing to name. Tomorrow, I would be forced to apologize for missing my performance, and return to my work. But tonight seemed like it might last forever.

I took his hand. His palm was sweaty. His fingers squeezed my own.

I sighed into the air. “I hope it will.”

#jaskier #what about the bard #proof that it can - sometimes - go the other way #it is not all bitching and complaining #although I will admit to falling into bitching and complaining the very next day #you should have SEEN the hat he wore to the second day of the festival--

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samstree · 3 years

Text

Snowball Effect

Geraskier, hurt/comfort, accidental injury, soft Jaskier, Geralt is self-conscious about his strength, angst and fluff and feelings

cw: panic attack, minor injury

Rated T, 2.3k, read on AO3

Geralt has never been scared of a little roughhousing with Jaskier.

He knows humans are not as sturdy as witchers, but really, tackling him into the thick snow and starting a snowball fight is just a little harmless fun during the never-ending winter of Kaer Morhen.

Eskel hisses nervously the first time he sees the bard getting pinned under Geralt's bulk, but soon the human laughs and rolls back on top of Geralt to retaliate. The other two witchers sometimes join in too, though Lambert keeps playing dirty and the bard soon picks up.

Jaskier, the cheeky bastard, keeps stealing kisses from Geralt to distract him from the attack of his brothers. Every time, the witcher falls for it.

Jaskier is a physical being from the start, tactile, unafraid of Geralt's difficult exterior. He’s always been comfortable, at home with Geralt, long before they tumbled into bed together. Later, years of learning about each other’s body and rhythm has taught Geralt everything about the bard, his strengths and limits alike.

That's why it takes Geralt a second to register the snap of a bone.

Immediately pain fills the air around the bard, who has just been tackled to the ground with a squeal and tried to get away from the snow melting into his collar.

"Fuck," he curses under his breath as a panicked whimper escapes Jaskier's lips.

It's his arm, the one Geralt is not holding. The bard now cradles his left forearm, the one supporting his weight a moment ago.

"Shit, buttercup. Are you okay?" Lambert appears in Geralt's peripheral, crouched beside the injured human. Eskel's concerned voice reaches Geralt too but he can't seem to focus on the words.

His world narrows down to Jaskier's pained gasps and rabbiting heart, soon joined by the salty tang of tears.

Geralt scrambles back as if burned.

No. His thoughts are coming in all at once. He hurt Jaskier.

Geralt has never thought – oh but he should have. Why didn't he hold back? Why did he allow it to go this far just because the bard is blind to the danger Geralt could put him in?

Jaskier would never even bat an eye if Geralt threw him to a griffin as bait, because he has no self-preservation instincts like that. Because he trusts Geralt like that.

The world continues to narrow, choking the air out of Geralt. In his blurred vision, Geralt can see his brothers helping Jaskier up and securing what seems like his broken wrist. The bard hunches over in pain and the image overlaps with the incident he desperately tries to forget – Jaskier choking on his own blood, gasping for air.

Geralt's legs almost give out as his breaths hitch and trap in his lungs. In the flurry of snow, the blue of Jaskier's eyes fixes on Geralt, wide and worried.

"...G'ralt..." Jaskier's mouth moves. "...need to breathe..."

Geralt can't seem to hear the call as if it's from miles away. Or is it a plea?

Suddenly, amidst the crisp cold air and the faint smell of smoke, there’s a whiff of fear. Jaskier’s fear.

It’s too much.

"...I'm so sorry," he murmurs with words that sound like someone else's.

He needs air, so he turns to leave the courtyard, and flees towards the northern tower.

Behind him, Eskel's soft voice ushers three sets of footsteps inside. Someone's gaze remains on Geralt's back, burning a hole into it.

The wind at the top of the tower cuts sharply on Geralt's face, but it washes away the panic.

The rumbling of noise subsides in Geralt’s mind as he uses the breathing exercise Eskel taught him in their teenage years to calm down. The older witcher helped him the first time he got overwhelmed by the sharp senses, and he’s forever grateful for it.

Now that the storm of emotions has passed, Geralt can recognize the episode he just had. It’s not often that he has a panic attack in Jaskier’s presence – it’s so much easier to ground his senses when the bard is around with his constant chatter or floral scents.

First he breaks Jaskier’s wrist, one of the most important things for a lutist, and then the attack. No wonder Jaskier was scared, as he should be of Geralt’s unstable mind on top of his witcher strength.

He really should apologize. He hurt Jaskier and he just up and left, not knowing the extent of the bard’s injury. Worry creeps in, almost tipping the calm that just settled.

Geralt’s legs take him down the tower in a frenzy when he almost runs into his brother on the stairs.

“There you are, wolf,” Eskel says with ease, “We were wondering where you went –”

“How is he?” Geralt searches Eskel’s face but the older witcher only looks relaxed.

“Just scared.”

Blood runs cold in Geralt’s veins. Of course. What was he expecting? Jaskier will always fear him now, and maybe it’s best if he can leave the bard somewhere, maybe Oxenfurt –

“He’s scared for you, wolf.” Eskel softens, clasping Geralt’s forearm from where he’s standing a few steps down. “You had quite an episode there. Scared me too.” he squeezed gently. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine.” Geralt tries to shake off Eskel’s hold and concern. “I broke Jaskier’s arm and you are asking if I’m alright?”

Eskel pauses for a moment before giving him a tight smile.

“His wrist is only fractured. He’ll be fine, wolf. Though you should talk to him. Gods know how he freaked out and won’t let Vesemir patch him up until I promised to come and fetch you.”

With that they walk down the rest of the stairs. The urge to see Jaskier bubbles in his throat.

Inside the potion room, Vesemir is tying up the end of Jaskier’s bandages while the bard holds his wrist out on the worktable. From a distance Geralt can’t discern the subtle heaviness in his expression, so he knocks on the doorframe.

Immediately the most beautiful blue fixes on Geralt with relief. Jaskier’s shoulders sag with a shuddering breath, his lips quirk up into a tiny smile.

“Hey,” he says.

Geralt remains silent and only holds his gaze for a moment before Vesemir draws Jaskier’s attention.

“You should be fine in a month or so. Take it easy in the meantime.”

“Thanks, Vesemir. Guess I’m not getting out of my library duties after all.” Jaskier smiles to see the other witcher collect the supplies and leave. When he passes Geralt in the doorway, Vesemir only pats him on the shoulder in silent reassurance.

Jaskier still sits there, alone and tense, until he pats the chair next to him expectantly.

With the utmost carefulness, Geralt approaches Jaskier as he would when Roach is startled and sits down. Their knees are separated by a hair’s breadth, but it feels like miles.

“How’s –”

“Are you –”

The bard exhales and gestures for him to go first.

“How’s your wrist?” Geralt asks with concern, still smelling a hint of pain and anxiety in the air. Now that he’s close, he can see the slight redness around Jaskier’s eyes, like he just rubbed them dry to hide the tears.

But Jaskier only holds up his bandaged wrist with a wink. “This old thing? It’ll be right as rain in a bit, like Vesemir said. Really, it doesn’t even hurt that much.”

No matter how good a liar Jaskier believes himself to be, Geralt can detect the lie in the slight quiver of his voice.

“You don’t have to say this to make me feel better, Jask.” The love Geralt feels for his bard is overwhelming. Jaskier shouldn’t be the one comforting him now. “I – I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you. I shouldn’t have gotten carried away.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier answers softly. “It’s okay. It was an accident. Sometimes things like this happen. It’s you I’m worried about, okay?” the bard reaches out but hesitates like he’s not sure the touch is welcome. “Can I?”

Geralt nods. As if there will come a time when he denies Jaskier anything.

With that, Jaskier cups his jaw gently with his uninjured hand. Leaning into the solid contact with a sigh, Geralt feels the weight in his chest seep away.

“I’m so sorry.” He covers Jaskier’s hand to keep it there.

The bard chuckles tightly. “You are completely forgiven, darling. Always.”

They sit in companionable silence for what feels like a long time, but cannot be more than a minute. The crackling of the hearth is the only sound in the room.

“Now, will you tell me what just happened?” The worry remains in Jaskier’s hushed voice, his calloused fingers massaging Geralt’s temple. Funny he didn’t even realize the headache building himself.

“I panicked.”

“I could see that,” Jaskier encourages softly, “Why? It wasn’t anything worse than what I’ve had before. You keep insisting humans are not as strong as witchers, but you know how tough I am. I’ve certainly had worse.”

“Exactly.” Geralt’s heart sinks again. “I’ve done it again. The djinn, the mountain. Jaskier, I promised to never hurt you again, to do better. And you were hurt because of me…again.”

“Oh.” Jaskier sounds shocked, anguished even. “That’s why you freaked out like that? My heart, you shouldn’t have. I know you wouldn’t do it on purpose, and I – Oh, if only I knew.”

With a screech of chair, Jaskier desperately gets up and throws himself into Geralt’s embrace. The movement is sudden and clumsy, and eventually they settle into their usual form – with Jaskier in Geralt’s lap and cuddling his neck. It’s so warm and solid, Geralt didn’t know he missed Jaskier this much until this point.

“I’m sorry you felt like that.” His breath brushes against Geralt’s neck. “I know you would never willingly hurt me, dear heart, or anyone. It was just a silly accident, partially my fault even. I think landed on my arm the wrong way. Really, I didn’t even think too much about it, but then you started to panic.”

“I smelled fear on you. I thought you were afraid of me.” Geralt presses his nose on Jaskier’s doublet and breathes. Thankfully that particular stench is gone. In its place is the pungent salve they use for bruises, so out of place among Jaskier’s floral notes.

“I was afraid because you were hyperventilating.” Jaskier pulls away to look at him in seriousness. “I know you get overwhelmed sometimes, and it looked really scary for a moment there.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Jaskier looks at Geralt in all earnest before placing a kiss on his forehead with a pop. “All these years I’ve never been –” another kiss on his cheek, “– scared of you, and –” another between his furrowed brows, “– stop blaming yourself, you big oaf. You are the best man I know.” on the tip of his nose, “You protect me, all the time. To me, you are the safest person on the Continent.”

The blue of Jaskier’s eyes glistens with soft adoration, and Geralt melts into it. With every passing second, the hint of pain dissipates around them. The injured wrist rests on Geralt’s chest, so he cradles it in a gentle hold, his thumb running circles on the tight bandage.

“I love you, Jask.”

“I love you, too. So next time, don’t just run away when you feel like freaking out.” Jaskier’s plea softens with apprehension. “Stay with me so I can help. Seeing you like that when you wouldn’t let me near you was scarier than being kidnapped by those asshole mages last year. Please?”

“Sorry for scaring you.” Geralt threads their fingers together.

“Stop apologizing. Just promise me you’ll stay.”

The idea of Jaskier being there at his most vulnerable would have made him self-conscious a few years ago. But now, it just warms him to think someone will always be in his corner. “I promise.”

The grin that breaks out on the bard’s face is so precious that Geralt has to capture those soft lips and kiss him senseless and leave them both panting into the air between them.

“Are you still in pain?”

Jaskier presses their forehead together and shakes his head, the tip of his mussed hair still damp from the snow. “But I will need you to wait on me for the next month or so, my love. In fact, I believe it’s best if you carried me around the keep all the time.”

When Geralt pulls back, the mischief has returned to the bard’s eyes. Geralt raises an eyebrow in challenge.

“It’s only your wrist, Jaskier. You can still walk,” he deadpans.

“Oh but I’m sure it’ll hasten the recovery.” Now Jaskier is full of drama again. “You know I read in a book that being carried by a handsome man is good for your… joints. And shirtless too. You should be shirtless more often – it’ll help with the healing of my soul – and tend to my every need, darling. After all, I have been gravely injured and it puts me in a very delicate state.”

“I thought you were fine.”

“Gravely.”

“Mmm-hm, and what else do you need?” It’s hard to keep a straight face.

“What else –” Jaskier smiles and pecks the corner of Geralt’s mouth. “Kisses. And cuddles, in bed.”

That’s an idea.

Geralt shifts his hold under Jaskier’s knees, and stands up in a swift motion, taking the bard’s full weight with him. Jaskier lets out a graceless yelp and clings tighter.

A laugh rumbles out of Geralt’s chest as he walks towards their bedroom. “This what you wanted?”

“Yes, my dear,” Jaskier says cheerfully. “You are all I wanted.”

Maybe Geralt should indulge him a bit. It’s been a long day after all.

#geraskier #geraskier fic #the witcher #witcher fic #geralt of rivia #jaskier #hurt jaskier #hurt/comfort #insecure geralt #soft geralt #soft jaskier #jaskier whump #geralt x jaskier #sometimes my writing #is cheesy #but i'm fine with it

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currently-kraken · 3 years

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Theon Greyjoy’s Costumes by Michele Clapton

I saw a post that asked about a piece of Theon’s clothing and I wanted to see if I could help with this. I have Michele Clapton’s Game of Thrones: The Costumes book so I thought I’d share the info and pics (some from the internet, others from the pics of the book my low res phone can provide lol) for Theon (+ Yara) for whoever needs it :)

1. Theon (Alfie Allen) wears an ornate doublet intended to indicate that he is rather conceited.

At the beginning of the story, Theon (Alfie Allen) is full of himself—a weak, unpleasant boy who bears a grudge against Ned Stark for making him his ward and taking him away from the Iron Islands. That sense of having been wronged by the Starks compels him to make terrible choices. He leads an assault on Winterfell in the name of the Greyjoys but later loses control of the Stark homestead to the sadistic Ramsay Bolton (Iwan Rheon). Theon pays an unimaginable price for his failings.

Initially, Theon's costume has elements of the classic Stark look but in the Greyjoys’ colors—his loyalties divided from the start. In early episodes, he wears an overly ornate doublet that hints at his pretentiousness and sense of entitlement, but his cloak is thin and his collar is a simple one made from rabbit fur. He wears a Stark shirt underneath his doublet.

2. Theon’s (Allen) cloak is thin and made from lesser materials, indicating that, as a ward, he isn’t as well cared for as the members of the family who are related by blood.

3. Theon (Allen) may look like a Stark, but his loyalties are divided—his cloak features the Greyjoy kraken sigil.

Theon is taken prisoner by Ramsay later in the storyline and subjected to horrific tortures that fundamentally change his character. To humiliate Theon, Ramsay renames him Reek and dresses him in the same manner as the rest of the servants in Winterfell. He wears a long, apron-shaped tunic made from layers of ragged linen. His finery—and his nobility—are stripped away entirely. But during Ramsay’s wedding to Sansa, Theon is dressed in an outfit that gives a slight nod to his former status. Theon wears somber tones of gray and black with a silhouette that’s very traditionally Stark. He’s also wearing brocade, which is a callback to Catelyn’s Stark’s influence, but Theon’s fabric doublet is shorter than in should be. The fact that it’s slightly ill-fitting makes him appear more servile, the poor tailoring indicating his low status.

4. Theon’s “Reek” costume is made from ragged layers of black linen.

5. As “Reek”, actor Alfie Allen wears a simple collar around his neck to emphasize his subservient status.

6. For Sansa’s wedding to Ramsay, Theon (Alfie Allen) wears a finely tailored brown doublet; his shirt sleeves and his cloak are both made from brocade, an homage to Catelyn Stark.

7. The costume includes a brocade cloak with cross-body straps and an embossed brown leather belt.

After Theon escapes from Ramsay, he begins to reclaim his identity as a son of the Iron Islands. Most notably, he adopts a much more traditional Greyjoy costume that includes a doublet prominently featuring the house sigil, the kraken, a suitably intimidating sea monster. As with all the Greyjoys, we slashed a very graphic kraken image directly into Theon’s armor—I wanted it to look like something they might do themselves using a blade. Still, the Stark influence can be found in the straps near the neck of his armor. The colors, too, denote his allegiance: Instead of rocky gray, he’s in Northern brown and black. Theon is willing to atone for his past mistakes and sacrifice everything to regain his honor—which he does in the end, giving his life to defend Bran from the Night King.

8. TOP Theon (Alfie Allen) embraces his Iron Islands heritage with a costume that includes all the hallmarks of the Greyjoy look.

9. BOTTOM The Greyjoy kraken sigil adorns his belt.

10. LEFT This costume features Theon’s traditional Greyjoy cloak, which is essentially made from a rectangle of waxed cloth.

11. TOP RIGHT The kraken sigil is prominently featured on Theon’s doublet, the symbol appearing as though it has been slashed into the leather.

12. BOTTOM RIGHT The kraken appears once more on Theon’s scabbard.

BONUS: YARA

13. Gemma Whelan as Yara Greyjoy.

Theon’s sister, Yara (Gemma Whelan), is a natural-born warrior who embraces every aspect of the Greyjoy way of life—she is determined to follow in her father’s footsteps and rule over the Iron Islands from the Salt Throne on Pyke. She grew up entirely apart from Theon—they are essentially strangers when they meet as adults—but nevertheless the love she feels for him is profound. Even when Theon seems completely lost to her, Yara goes to great lengths to save him, acting out of honor, duty and compassion.

Whenever she appears on-screen, Yara is dressed in some version of the primary costume that I designed for her. As a true Greyjoy, her wardrobe would have changed little, so her clothing always remained consistent. The waxed fabric of her doublet is the color of stone and features the standard Iron Islands lacing. She wears lived-in leather trousers that were broken down and aged to give the impression that she rarely takes them off. She has very high boots that stop above her knee. I wanted her to have swagger, and giving her these high leather boots changed her gait in a way that says a great deal about the character. She walks with an attitude and is cool and confident. The boots were also suitably practical for an experienced captain who often finds herself at the center of armed conflict.

Yara’s costumes are quite androgynous. She dresses in a similar fashion to the men of Pyke, which felt like a logical choice for someone who commands a fleet of men. Ironborn sailors wouldn’t follow a woman who appeared overtly feminine, even one as intelligent and fierce as Yara. She would always have to project strength because weakness is anathema to her people. Her strength is really unassailable—you can see it in her actions and in her costumes as well.

14. Yara’s long-sleeved doublet and trousers are made from waxed linen to appear waterproof.

15. OPPOSITE TOP LEFT Yara’s doublet is intended to be the same color as the Iron Islands themselves and is closed with waxed laces that appear waterproof.

16. OPPOSITE CENTER LEFT Shoulder detail of Yara’s doublet.

17. OPPOSITE BOTTOM LEFT Close-up of the laces used to tie the doublet, which was studded with metal for protection.

18. OPPOSITE RIGHT Yara’s (Whelan) signature look includes striking boots that go over her knees.

Tagging the people on the original post @sing-for-theongreyjoy @selkiewife @attaining-fic @robbeonsa

Hope this helps, guys!! 😁🦑

#Game of Thrones #Costume Design #Michele Clapton #Theon Greyjoy #Yara Greyjoy #Greyjoys #Ironborn #Alfie Allen #Gemma Whelan #Squid Squad

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wyvernsandwitches · 3 years

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What The Water Gave Me

Finally posting my first fic and obv it's gotta be a mermaid!Jaskier and it really was not meant to be this long but these idiots got away from me.

“They don’t exist,” Geralt of Rivia says, expressionless. “The creatures in your song. And the one before about the merfolk. They can’t mate with humans. There are no half mermaids.” “Ah, you’re wrong there, my friend. I myself am part merfolk,” Jaskier answers with a smile.

Or: Five times Jaskier tells Geralt the truth about his heritage and one time he shows him.

Destiny is a funny old thing, Jaskier thinks when he stumbles across Geralt of Rivia in Posada. He’d left Lettenhove behind with ease, relishing the look he imagined must have been on his father’s face when he found his dresser empty and his lute gone. There is nothing for him there. He needs adventure. And oh boy, does Geralt of Rivia positively reek of adventure.

“They don’t exist,” Geralt of Rivia says, expressionless. “The creatures in your song. And the one before about the merfolk. They can’t mate with humans. There are no half mermaids.”

“Ah, you’re wrong there, my friend. I myself am part merfolk,” Jaskier answers with a smile.

The witcher rolls his eyes and stands, leaving a coin behind on the table which Jaskier quickly pockets. He makes a quick decision and packs up his lute, following the man out of the tavern.

It takes almost no time at all for Jaskier to fall head over his heels for him.

Geralt is wrenched from sleep by a pounding on his door. The fire in the hearth is down to embers and the almost full moon shines in through the threadbare curtains, casting the room in an eerie glow.

He recognises Jaskier’s heartbeat outside his door a moment before Jaskier hisses his name.

Geralt sighs and gets out of bed. He throws another log on the fire and casts a quick igni to relight it, before he pulls open the door and Jaskier falls in.

“Oh Geralt, thank the gods! Shut the door, quickly!” he whispers.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls.

“Shh! They’ll hear you!”

“Who?”

Jaskier’s answer is interrupted by a fist at the door.

“I’m not here, okay? You haven’t seen me since dinner. And for goodness’ sake make it believable, Geralt, please!” he whispers again and darts under the bed.

Geralt rolls his eyes and opens the door again.

“You, witcher. You were with the bard that was here this evening, weren’t you?” A middle-aged man with a ruddy face hidden behind a large curly brown beard stands outside the door. His breath stinks of ale and his knuckles are cluttered with scabs. Geralt recognises him as the landlord of the tavern across the street they’d been in earlier.

Geralt hms.

“You seen ‘im?”

“We parted ways after dinner. He’s on to the next village as far as I know.”

The man grunts. “If you sees ‘im, there’s a pretty reward in it for you if you turn ‘im over to us. Man’s barred from this establishment from here on out. And the tavern over yonder. Give us a shout if he comes back.”

Geralt nods and closes the door. Jaskier crawls out from beneath the bed and stands. His doublet is nowhere to be seen and his shirt is undone almost to his navel, exposing an ample amount of chest hair. In the low light, with his hair mussed and cheeks pink, Geralt can’t help but think how attractive he is. He shakes his head at the thought. Those thoughts have been coming a lot more frequently lately and he needs to put a stop to it.

“Let me guess. You stuck your prick in his wife?”

“How dare you!” Jaskier points a finger at Geralt. Geralt just crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow.

Jaskier deflates and falls into the rickety wooden chair by the hearth. “Fine,” he grumbles. “Although it wasn’t his wife.”

Geralt makes a non-committal noise and moves the logs around in the fire.

“If you must know,” Jaskier begins. I didn’t ask, Geralt thinks, but he knows from experience it is pointless trying to stop Jaskier talking. “The man’s sister walked in on me and her husband in rather a delicate position.”

Her… husband? Geralt has always thought Jaskier prefers women. Although, now that he thinks about it, he’s never really paid attention to who Jaskier takes to bed. Lately, he’s had to start making a conscious effort not to think about it, lest he start imagining Jaskier with those partners, and that train of thought only ends with Geralt frustrated and searching out the nearest brothel.

“What do you mean delicate position?” Geralt asks, making sure he’s understood correctly. He can’t quite process this yet.

“What do I mea– sex obviously Geralt, as you so insightfully guessed when I came in here! Or were you asking for specifics?” Jaskier grins and taps his chin. “Let’s see, he was on his elbows and knees and I was beh-”

“No, I do not need details, Jaskier!”

Jaskier’s grin widens. If Geralt could blush he knows he’d be blushing right now. This new information that Jaskier also enjoys the company of men sends his heart fluttering. The mental image of him with the other man sends heat pooling to his face and his groin. That settles it. The next village they stop in needs to have a brothel, so he can rid himself of these intrusive thoughts.

“Can I stay in here tonight?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt scowls and moves to the bed. “Fine, but you’re sleeping on the floor.”

“Ohh, but your bed is so big! And I’m all bruised from climbing out of the window.” Jaskier whines.

“Floor,” Geralt repeats and throws one of the blankets on the bed at Jaskier.

Jaskier pouts. Geralt gets back into bed and sighs as Jaskier makes a fuss of arranging himself on the floor.

After a few moments, Geralt throws him a spare pillow. “Take this and shut up.”

“Thank you, dear. You know, you could just–”

“No.”

“Ugh, fine. Mean old witcher.”

He’s blessedly silent for a moment.

“I knew I should have gone for the woodcutter’s son. He had better arms. But the sailor kept talking about the sea and-”

“Sailor?” Geralt can’t help but ask. They are nowhere near a coastline.

“He was saying how much he loves the sea and how he’d been a sailor when he was a young man but then his family married him off and now he’s stuck with a wife he never wanted and a tavern to look after that isn’t even his. And you know I’m a sucker for a tragic ‘my family doesn’t care about my happiness’ backstory. And then when I told him I was part merfolk he barely hesitated before he stuck his tongue down my throat. Shame our little tryst got cut short. He had a really good arse as well and they’re hard to come by round here.”

Geralt mostly ignores Jaskier as he talks about the other man. He focuses his attention on the sounds he can hear, in order to stop those images of Jaskier coming back into his mind. The fire crackling. The wind through the branches outside. Jaskier’s slowing heart rate. A few long, quiet moments pass. And then something Jaskier said snags on his thoughts.

“You told him you were part merfolk?” Why Geralt continually lets himself be dragged into these conversations is beyond him.

“Mm-hm,” Jaskier answers, his voice slow and sleepy.

“And why would you do that?”

“’Cause I am.”

“Jaskier.”

“Told you when we met, Geralt. I’m part merfolk.” Jaskier yawns.

“That’s not possible.”

“Is. I’m it. Mum was part mermaid. So am I.”

“You can’t be part merfolk. You’re either merfolk or you’re human. There is no in between.”

“Whatever you say. G’night, dear.”

Jaskier really could talk out of his ass sometimes. Honestly, part merfolk! Has he come up with that lie himself or is it a childhood tale he’d been told that he still believes?

Geralt ponders on this for a while when Jaskier’s soft voice breaks the quiet, laced with sleep.

“Had nice eyes too, like a storm.”

Geralt takes a breath and tries to tamp down the jealous feeling rising in his chest.

“Not s’nice as yours though. Yours’re like honey.”

Geralt spends most of the night trying to sort through the multitude of implications that that comment leaves him with.

Read the rest on AO3!

#geraskier #geraskier fic #mermaid!jaskier #5+1 fic #jaskier x geralt #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the witcher #my writing

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