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fandomweekly2021-01-08 03:23 pm
quicksilverfox3) wrote in fandomweekly2021-01-08 03:23 pm
Entry tags:
[#080] he is all and he's more [The Witcher]
Theme Prompt: Opposites Attract
Title: he is all and he's more
Fandom: The Witcher
Rating/Warnings: Teen/Swearing
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 922
Summary: Jaskier performs, and Valdo Marx sees a perfect time to speak to Geralt.
“Ah, Witcher!”
Geralt grunted, twitched, his ever-present scowl only deepening in hopes of driving away whichever noble — emboldened by drink or song — would leave him alone. It had worked only an hour previously as the woman, cheeks pink and the flush spreading across her neck and shoulders, squeaked in fright, changing course so abruptly that she nearly crashed into a dancing couple. But this man would not be so easily dissuaded.
Valdo Marx didn’t walk, he strutted, the motion calculated to draw attention to the golden thread that twisted through the embroidery on his doublet, and Geralt couldn’t help but think of Jaskier.
His bard was wearing his best doublet. Geralt had seen him carefully pull it out of their packs that morning — the scent of lavender spilling out along with the carefully maintained fabric and Geralt had watched the water run down the curve of Jaskier’s spine, droplets darkening the fabric — but they both knew eyes lingered on the embroidery that covered the worn patches and the space where a clasp had fallen off.
“Must be my lucky day to find you here,” Valdo grinned, but it failed to meet his eyes, cold and empty like a dead fish, and Geralt felt his lip curl in revulsion.
He had promised Jaskier though, and it was that promise — the sensation of Jaskier’s hands so warm in his own as the bard had squeezed them tightly — that caused Geralt to simply sigh low in his throat, and continue staring out over the crowd.
Jaskier moved through the crowd as if he had been born to do so, his smile never leaving his face as he sang; and when his eyes met Geralt’s, it was as if his chest was filled with liquid sunlight at the way Jaskier’s grin only brightened, eyes alight.
“It is about our mutual friend,” Valdo drew out the word as if it repulsed him, reclining onto the wall next to Geralt and lifting a drink from a passing servant’s tray, “that I wanted to speak to you about.”
Geralt glanced at Valdo out of the corner of his eye, one hand rising to grip the curved knife at his belt. “What about Jaskier?”
“Julian was always an odd sort.” Geralt bit back a growl, only growing tenser at the almost conversational note in Valdo’s voice. “Always running around with his head full of flights of fancy and adventure. Hardly suitable topics for the son of a lord, but he was always stubborn.”
Geralt watched Jaskier through a gap in the crowd, the way he bowed to a passing gentleman and winked with an ease that Geralt could never possess. The song grew and swelled, shifting into a familiar refrain.
“When a humble bard…”
“Oh dear.” Valdo laughed, a cruel note twisting through the sound, and Geralt’s grip tightened on his knife, his arm beginning to tremble with the strain. “I suppose if he only has the one known song, then it makes sense that he would sing it here, rather than in the taverns and whorehouses I’m sure he’s used to.”
“Get to the point,” Geralt growled, his voice dipping into a lower register that rumbled through his bones.
Valdo flinched, a sheer animalistic reaction, and Geralt couldn’t help but smile, the action all teeth.
“Why him?”
Geralt turned to stare, pinning the other man with his gaze as easily as he would a knife. This close, he could see the faint sheen of sweat that was beading along his hairline where the powder didn’t cover, could smell the sickly sweet scent of wine that rolled from his breath.
“You’re a Witcher, you would be welcomed at all the finest courts, live in luxury as payment for your services, and have the greatest bards sing your exploits rather than,” Valdo scoffed, glancing over at Jaskier dismissively, “some two-bit hack.”
He moved closer, placing a hand on Geralt’s arm. “Why not travel with me instead?”
Jaskier was everything Geralt was not — even if he protested when Geralt said that, warmth in his voice even as he argued against him — and he still didn’t understand why Jaskier had chosen to travel with him year after year. That Jaskier loved him — and that he let Geralt love him in return — was incomprehensible, and Geralt was grateful for every touch, for every kiss.
“Jaskier is more to me than you will ever know,” Geralt hissed, roughly yanking his arm away. “There is nothing you could say to make him any less to me.”
Jaskier was the sun in Geralt’s world of night, and as such, Geralt always knew where the other man was when they were together.
“Valdo! You shit-eating bastard!”
Geralt moved back half a step to give Jaskier the room he needed to swing his lute — borrowed for this event, a heavy piece of wood, covered in careful engravings — at Valdo. It broke with a resounding crash, silence settling like a fog over the event.
Jaskier’s grin was sharp, shoulders heaving. His hair had fallen loose and hung like spears over his forehead. “I think we can leave now, Geralt.”
The crowd parted as they moved through, whispers erupting in their wake, and Geralt twisted his fingers into Jaskier’s, drawing their joined hands up to press a careful kiss to Jaskier’s knuckles the moment they were out of sight. Jaskier laughed, a helpless nervous chuckle, but pulled Geralt down into a kiss, smiling against his mouth.
Title: he is all and he's more
Fandom: The Witcher
Rating/Warnings: Teen/Swearing
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 922
Summary: Jaskier performs, and Valdo Marx sees a perfect time to speak to Geralt.
“Ah, Witcher!”
Geralt grunted, twitched, his ever-present scowl only deepening in hopes of driving away whichever noble — emboldened by drink or song — would leave him alone. It had worked only an hour previously as the woman, cheeks pink and the flush spreading across her neck and shoulders, squeaked in fright, changing course so abruptly that she nearly crashed into a dancing couple. But this man would not be so easily dissuaded.
Valdo Marx didn’t walk, he strutted, the motion calculated to draw attention to the golden thread that twisted through the embroidery on his doublet, and Geralt couldn’t help but think of Jaskier.
His bard was wearing his best doublet. Geralt had seen him carefully pull it out of their packs that morning — the scent of lavender spilling out along with the carefully maintained fabric and Geralt had watched the water run down the curve of Jaskier’s spine, droplets darkening the fabric — but they both knew eyes lingered on the embroidery that covered the worn patches and the space where a clasp had fallen off.
“Must be my lucky day to find you here,” Valdo grinned, but it failed to meet his eyes, cold and empty like a dead fish, and Geralt felt his lip curl in revulsion.
He had promised Jaskier though, and it was that promise — the sensation of Jaskier’s hands so warm in his own as the bard had squeezed them tightly — that caused Geralt to simply sigh low in his throat, and continue staring out over the crowd.
Jaskier moved through the crowd as if he had been born to do so, his smile never leaving his face as he sang; and when his eyes met Geralt’s, it was as if his chest was filled with liquid sunlight at the way Jaskier’s grin only brightened, eyes alight.
“It is about our mutual friend,” Valdo drew out the word as if it repulsed him, reclining onto the wall next to Geralt and lifting a drink from a passing servant’s tray, “that I wanted to speak to you about.”
Geralt glanced at Valdo out of the corner of his eye, one hand rising to grip the curved knife at his belt. “What about Jaskier?”
“Julian was always an odd sort.” Geralt bit back a growl, only growing tenser at the almost conversational note in Valdo’s voice. “Always running around with his head full of flights of fancy and adventure. Hardly suitable topics for the son of a lord, but he was always stubborn.”
Geralt watched Jaskier through a gap in the crowd, the way he bowed to a passing gentleman and winked with an ease that Geralt could never possess. The song grew and swelled, shifting into a familiar refrain.
“When a humble bard…”
“Oh dear.” Valdo laughed, a cruel note twisting through the sound, and Geralt’s grip tightened on his knife, his arm beginning to tremble with the strain. “I suppose if he only has the one known song, then it makes sense that he would sing it here, rather than in the taverns and whorehouses I’m sure he’s used to.”
“Get to the point,” Geralt growled, his voice dipping into a lower register that rumbled through his bones.
Valdo flinched, a sheer animalistic reaction, and Geralt couldn’t help but smile, the action all teeth.
“Why him?”
Geralt turned to stare, pinning the other man with his gaze as easily as he would a knife. This close, he could see the faint sheen of sweat that was beading along his hairline where the powder didn’t cover, could smell the sickly sweet scent of wine that rolled from his breath.
“You’re a Witcher, you would be welcomed at all the finest courts, live in luxury as payment for your services, and have the greatest bards sing your exploits rather than,” Valdo scoffed, glancing over at Jaskier dismissively, “some two-bit hack.”
He moved closer, placing a hand on Geralt’s arm. “Why not travel with me instead?”
Jaskier was everything Geralt was not — even if he protested when Geralt said that, warmth in his voice even as he argued against him — and he still didn’t understand why Jaskier had chosen to travel with him year after year. That Jaskier loved him — and that he let Geralt love him in return — was incomprehensible, and Geralt was grateful for every touch, for every kiss.
“Jaskier is more to me than you will ever know,” Geralt hissed, roughly yanking his arm away. “There is nothing you could say to make him any less to me.”
Jaskier was the sun in Geralt’s world of night, and as such, Geralt always knew where the other man was when they were together.
“Valdo! You shit-eating bastard!”
Geralt moved back half a step to give Jaskier the room he needed to swing his lute — borrowed for this event, a heavy piece of wood, covered in careful engravings — at Valdo. It broke with a resounding crash, silence settling like a fog over the event.
Jaskier’s grin was sharp, shoulders heaving. His hair had fallen loose and hung like spears over his forehead. “I think we can leave now, Geralt.”
The crowd parted as they moved through, whispers erupting in their wake, and Geralt twisted his fingers into Jaskier’s, drawing their joined hands up to press a careful kiss to Jaskier’s knuckles the moment they were out of sight. Jaskier laughed, a helpless nervous chuckle, but pulled Geralt down into a kiss, smiling against his mouth.
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