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fandomweekly2020-02-28 01:59 pm
quicksilverfox3) wrote in fandomweekly2020-02-28 01:59 pm
Entry tags:
[#042] Drink Your Fill of Light (The Witcher TV)
Theme Prompt: 042 Winter Nights
Title: Drink Your Fill of Light
Fandom: The Witcher (TV)
Rating/Warnings: General Audience
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 957
Summary: Jaskier was never going to let Geralt arrange a holiday again. (Or was he?)
“When you said rustic,” Jaskier spat out through chattering teeth, “I didn’t think you meant no heating.”
Geralt tipped the book — a heavy leather bound thing with spidery handwritten text that made Jaskier’s head ache — he had been pretending to read for the last ten minutes down just enough that Jaskier could see the very pointed glance he threw towards the fireplace.
It was a nice fireplace, small and wreathed in intricate iron decorations. It would have been even better if it was being displayed on a TV screen while Jaskier relaxed in a house with heating and a blanket and far more alcohol than he had thought to bring with him.
Jaskier pouted, trusting that Geralt could see the expression even if he wasn’t strictly looking. It was a helpful skill — one of many that Geralt possessed — but his boyfriend seemed intent on ignoring him for now.
Jaskier sighed heavily, pointedly, and sank further down onto the sofa, springs protesting beneath his weight. He jammed cold fingers into his armpits, shivering so badly he thought he was about to bite through his tongue, all the while glaring at the cover of Geralt’s book.
The flight had been long, compounded by Jaskier’s fans appearing at every turn until Geralt’s nerves had been frayed and his growls dipped into a register that could barely be heard, rumbling through Jaskier’s bones as he was steered through the lines. Little by little, his shivering ceased, warmth from the fire rolling over him despite the persistent numbness in the tips of his fingers and toes. Sleep stole upon him like a thief in the night, and Jaskier fell asleep between one blink and the next, barely even realising he was doing so.
“Finally,” Geralt said softly, to no-one, gently setting his book down on the floor. He took a moment to study Jaskier in the soft golden light of the fire.
He seemed impossibly young in sleep, the normal lines of worry or joy that normally left their imprint on his skin wiped away. Geralt kept an eye on Jaskier’s social media accounts, they were a strange comfort when work took Geralt far away from where he longed to stay. He was well aware of the rumors about Jaskier’s youthful appearance, ranging from vampiric influences to the fae. He was always very aware of how long it took Jaskier to get ready in a morning, his luggage carrying more potions and tinctures than Geralt’s had been.
But now, the firelight turned his skin to gold, highlighted the bronze in his hair and the faint smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose like fallen stars. If he was awake, his eyes would be hypnotic in their beauty, but they twitched behind closed lids, lost in dreams. Jaskier delighted in purring them into Geralt’s ears at inopportune moments, one hand loosely wrapped around the back of the Witcher’s neck like a brand to hide the flush climbing up his skin.
Jaskier shifted in his sleep, and Geralt froze in the act of moving away. Had he woken him? Jaskier sighed heavily, settling down further into the divots in the sofa, one hand blindly reaching out for Geralt, who fell in love all over again. Jaskier’s hand was so small on his arm, only bearing callouses on the pads of his fingers from his constant plucking of whatever instrument was near him. Geralt shrugged off his coat with a quick mechanical shrug of his shoulders, and carefully tucked into around Jaskier, before daring to step away again.
⁂
“Geralt?”
Jaskier didn’t want to open his eyes, cocooned as he was in equal parts warmth and the peculiar tang of iron that clung to Geralt’s skin.
“Jaskier,” Geralt answered, a note of amusement in his voice. A kiss was brushed across Jaskier’s forehead, but Geralt stepped away as Jaskier reached for him, steps silent across the wooden floor.
There was no other choice but to open his eyes.
Geralt took his breath away, as he did everytime Jaskier looked at him. It was still a mystery to him why Geralt had chosen him, out of everyone that had sought his affection. Firelight played across the dips and curves of his muscles, shifting beneath his skin as Geralt saw Jaskier’s gaze roam over them. His attention was quickly diverted — and that was no mean feat — by the spread Geralt had laid out in front of the now roaring fire. Small mouthful sized pieces of bread lay heavy with meat and cheese, pastries sat groaning with sauces all expertly cooked to a flaky golden brown and fruit of all kinds sat glistening with ripeness despite the snow lying heavy on the ground outside. Geralt watched him intently as Jaskier slipped off the sofa, tugging his coat further up onto Jaskier’s shoulders and passed him a full glass, the wine fruity and delicious.
“How?” Jaskier breathed, stunned into silence.
“I thought you would like it,” Geralt answered, gaze soft.
“And you chopped firewood,” Jaskier said, slightly disappointed that he had missed it. He loved watching Geralt work, the single minded focus was beautiful despite the sadness of his job.
“I’ll chop some more tomorrow,” Geralt chuckled, “And you can watch with whatever wine is left over.”
“I love you,” Jaskier said. He’d said the words countless times, and he’d meant them fully each time, but with Geralt it felt different. He could tell Geralt he loved him a thousand different ways and yet it would never be enough. But, as Geralt pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth and immediately followed up the gesture with a pastry, Jaskier could be certain Geralt knew and felt the same way.
Title: Drink Your Fill of Light
Fandom: The Witcher (TV)
Rating/Warnings: General Audience
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 957
Summary: Jaskier was never going to let Geralt arrange a holiday again. (Or was he?)
“When you said rustic,” Jaskier spat out through chattering teeth, “I didn’t think you meant no heating.”
Geralt tipped the book — a heavy leather bound thing with spidery handwritten text that made Jaskier’s head ache — he had been pretending to read for the last ten minutes down just enough that Jaskier could see the very pointed glance he threw towards the fireplace.
It was a nice fireplace, small and wreathed in intricate iron decorations. It would have been even better if it was being displayed on a TV screen while Jaskier relaxed in a house with heating and a blanket and far more alcohol than he had thought to bring with him.
Jaskier pouted, trusting that Geralt could see the expression even if he wasn’t strictly looking. It was a helpful skill — one of many that Geralt possessed — but his boyfriend seemed intent on ignoring him for now.
Jaskier sighed heavily, pointedly, and sank further down onto the sofa, springs protesting beneath his weight. He jammed cold fingers into his armpits, shivering so badly he thought he was about to bite through his tongue, all the while glaring at the cover of Geralt’s book.
The flight had been long, compounded by Jaskier’s fans appearing at every turn until Geralt’s nerves had been frayed and his growls dipped into a register that could barely be heard, rumbling through Jaskier’s bones as he was steered through the lines. Little by little, his shivering ceased, warmth from the fire rolling over him despite the persistent numbness in the tips of his fingers and toes. Sleep stole upon him like a thief in the night, and Jaskier fell asleep between one blink and the next, barely even realising he was doing so.
“Finally,” Geralt said softly, to no-one, gently setting his book down on the floor. He took a moment to study Jaskier in the soft golden light of the fire.
He seemed impossibly young in sleep, the normal lines of worry or joy that normally left their imprint on his skin wiped away. Geralt kept an eye on Jaskier’s social media accounts, they were a strange comfort when work took Geralt far away from where he longed to stay. He was well aware of the rumors about Jaskier’s youthful appearance, ranging from vampiric influences to the fae. He was always very aware of how long it took Jaskier to get ready in a morning, his luggage carrying more potions and tinctures than Geralt’s had been.
But now, the firelight turned his skin to gold, highlighted the bronze in his hair and the faint smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose like fallen stars. If he was awake, his eyes would be hypnotic in their beauty, but they twitched behind closed lids, lost in dreams. Jaskier delighted in purring them into Geralt’s ears at inopportune moments, one hand loosely wrapped around the back of the Witcher’s neck like a brand to hide the flush climbing up his skin.
Jaskier shifted in his sleep, and Geralt froze in the act of moving away. Had he woken him? Jaskier sighed heavily, settling down further into the divots in the sofa, one hand blindly reaching out for Geralt, who fell in love all over again. Jaskier’s hand was so small on his arm, only bearing callouses on the pads of his fingers from his constant plucking of whatever instrument was near him. Geralt shrugged off his coat with a quick mechanical shrug of his shoulders, and carefully tucked into around Jaskier, before daring to step away again.
⁂
“Geralt?”
Jaskier didn’t want to open his eyes, cocooned as he was in equal parts warmth and the peculiar tang of iron that clung to Geralt’s skin.
“Jaskier,” Geralt answered, a note of amusement in his voice. A kiss was brushed across Jaskier’s forehead, but Geralt stepped away as Jaskier reached for him, steps silent across the wooden floor.
There was no other choice but to open his eyes.
Geralt took his breath away, as he did everytime Jaskier looked at him. It was still a mystery to him why Geralt had chosen him, out of everyone that had sought his affection. Firelight played across the dips and curves of his muscles, shifting beneath his skin as Geralt saw Jaskier’s gaze roam over them. His attention was quickly diverted — and that was no mean feat — by the spread Geralt had laid out in front of the now roaring fire. Small mouthful sized pieces of bread lay heavy with meat and cheese, pastries sat groaning with sauces all expertly cooked to a flaky golden brown and fruit of all kinds sat glistening with ripeness despite the snow lying heavy on the ground outside. Geralt watched him intently as Jaskier slipped off the sofa, tugging his coat further up onto Jaskier’s shoulders and passed him a full glass, the wine fruity and delicious.
“How?” Jaskier breathed, stunned into silence.
“I thought you would like it,” Geralt answered, gaze soft.
“And you chopped firewood,” Jaskier said, slightly disappointed that he had missed it. He loved watching Geralt work, the single minded focus was beautiful despite the sadness of his job.
“I’ll chop some more tomorrow,” Geralt chuckled, “And you can watch with whatever wine is left over.”
“I love you,” Jaskier said. He’d said the words countless times, and he’d meant them fully each time, but with Geralt it felt different. He could tell Geralt he loved him a thousand different ways and yet it would never be enough. But, as Geralt pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth and immediately followed up the gesture with a pastry, Jaskier could be certain Geralt knew and felt the same way.
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