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fandomweekly2021-09-26 09:55 pm
quicksilverfox3) wrote in fandomweekly2021-09-26 09:55 pm
Entry tags:
[#110] the growing is slow [The Witcher]
Theme Prompt: #110 To The Library
Title: the growing is slow
Fandom: The Witcher
Rating/Warnings: PG
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 990
Summary: Jaskier is brought in for a very important mission, one that only he can complete. He is more than happy to help.
“Bard.”
Jaskier turns, a reflexive bite of fear sparking in his chest at the sudden voice, and finds the motion continued, strong hands on his waist spinning him back around. This close, he could smell the warm scent of hay that clung to Eskel like a memory of summer, but the absence of anything else—no residual heat from his touch or the rumbling sound of his breath—would have been unsettling.
“Jaskier, Eskel, dearest.” It is a gentle correction, a dance they fall into every year since Jaskier started joining Geralt at his home during the winter. The slow sound of breathing and the rustling of fabric filters into the edges of his senses as they start walking, the sound of Eskel’s footsteps joining his after a moment’s more of silence.
“Jaskier.” The Witcher’s voice lingered on his name, his slight hesitation as obvious as a shout, and Jaskier tips his head to catch his eye, and grins. The answering smile, small and barely-there, breaks at one corner, revealing the curved fang beneath and Jaskier can’t tear his gaze away.
He loves his Witchers, and their transformation every year was fascinating. He should try and fit it into a song, pull in some of the new poetry Priscilla was quite fond of that was gaining ground in Oxenfurt this season… and that new melody, the one that had unfurled into his mind as they had travelled through the road cut into the mountains, sunlight just brushing against the trees and catching on the lingering morning mist—
“Jaskier.”
“Yes?”
Eskel pauses, a wider grin passing over his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners and oh— There are the beginnings of permanent lines lingering there, records of joy rather than hurt.
“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”
Jaskier feels his cheeks burn but raises his head and winks at Eskel regardless, pulling another snort of laughter from the Witcher.
“One more time, love?”
Eskel draws another cup from a high shelf, the edges of it worn but the impression of pattern could still be seen and places it on the tray in front of him. Warmth brushes against Jaskier’s skin from the roaring oven set into the back wall and he catches sight of Lambert, flour covering his hands and the muscles in his back corded as he works the dough against the board.
“Geralt is researching what the encampment in Broadberg is likely to be, given the reports vary so much.” His hands are steady on the herbs, the knife adding a discordant beat beneath his words before he adds them to the cups. A breath, his dark eyes scouring the shelves, before he stretches up—Jaskier’s gaze dipping to take in the curve of his stomach, a dark trail of hair exposed for a moment—and plucks another jar. He adds it to one cup, stamped with a wolf’s head, tapping it. “This is Geralt’s tea. Can you bring it to him and make him take a break?”
“And you’re asking me because?”
The tray is heavy in his grip, solid in the way things made to last are, and he wavers for a second before regaining his grip.
“Because you will get him to take a break. I will get drawn into the research and then neither of us will move. Vesemir asked if we could not have a repeat of the ‘this is a library, not a debate hall’ incident.”
Lambert’s laugh is unexpected, a hissing crackle that echoed across the ceiling like broken glass. “That was fun. We should do that again.”
“No.”
Jaskier takes his leave, tray cradled carefully to his chest as yet another argument brews and bubbles behind him. The scent of bitter healing herbs rises up to meet him as he walks, slipping through the featureless halls of Kaen Morhen without a moment’s hesitation. When he first arrived, everywhere looked the same, the same grey stone and the same towering walls, but he learnt and he thrived.
The library doors are dark, the bottom corner scuffed from countless generations of boots kicked into it to push it closed, and they swing gently in the thin biting breeze. Jaskier nudges it open, adding his own mark on to history, and is greeted with a beautiful sight.
Geralt is curling over a huge tome, the pages yellow and curling with age, the light from a single candle reflecting off the golden glasses resting low on his nose. His hair is loose, fallen from his braid and curling across his shoulders and down his spine, and Jaskier’s fingers ache to run through it, to twist the captured moonlight across his hands.
“I brought you tea and you’re going to take a break and drink it with me.” Jaskier stumbles as he steps forward, raising the tray to watch his feet amongst the towering stacks of books and scrolls.
He doesn’t hear Geralt’s steps, but he is there in an instant, hooking a hand around Jaskier’s waist and pulling the tray from his grasp, every movement steady and certain.
“Thought you would still be composing.” Geralt dips down to kiss Jaskier, stilling the desperate thrum of notes in the back of his mind for a moment in favour of the cool press of Geralt’s mouth and the sharp curve of his fangs. They were filed down in the summer months, but in the winter, the mutations burst forth like spring flowers and were able to bloom.
“I needed some inspiration.”
“And you came to me.” Geralt’s voice twisted between gentle surprise and fierce satisfaction as he tipped his head to kiss Jaskier’s temple, breathing in deeply. The slight press of air sends chills down Jaskier’s spine as if someone was stepping on his grave and he leans into Geralt’s touch.
“Take a break with me?” Jaskier pauses, watching Geralt’s irises expand and flood the gold. “Please, dearheart?”
“I can’t say no to you. My own weakness.”
Title: the growing is slow
Fandom: The Witcher
Rating/Warnings: PG
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 990
Summary: Jaskier is brought in for a very important mission, one that only he can complete. He is more than happy to help.
“Bard.”
Jaskier turns, a reflexive bite of fear sparking in his chest at the sudden voice, and finds the motion continued, strong hands on his waist spinning him back around. This close, he could smell the warm scent of hay that clung to Eskel like a memory of summer, but the absence of anything else—no residual heat from his touch or the rumbling sound of his breath—would have been unsettling.
“Jaskier, Eskel, dearest.” It is a gentle correction, a dance they fall into every year since Jaskier started joining Geralt at his home during the winter. The slow sound of breathing and the rustling of fabric filters into the edges of his senses as they start walking, the sound of Eskel’s footsteps joining his after a moment’s more of silence.
“Jaskier.” The Witcher’s voice lingered on his name, his slight hesitation as obvious as a shout, and Jaskier tips his head to catch his eye, and grins. The answering smile, small and barely-there, breaks at one corner, revealing the curved fang beneath and Jaskier can’t tear his gaze away.
He loves his Witchers, and their transformation every year was fascinating. He should try and fit it into a song, pull in some of the new poetry Priscilla was quite fond of that was gaining ground in Oxenfurt this season… and that new melody, the one that had unfurled into his mind as they had travelled through the road cut into the mountains, sunlight just brushing against the trees and catching on the lingering morning mist—
“Jaskier.”
“Yes?”
Eskel pauses, a wider grin passing over his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners and oh— There are the beginnings of permanent lines lingering there, records of joy rather than hurt.
“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”
Jaskier feels his cheeks burn but raises his head and winks at Eskel regardless, pulling another snort of laughter from the Witcher.
“One more time, love?”
Eskel draws another cup from a high shelf, the edges of it worn but the impression of pattern could still be seen and places it on the tray in front of him. Warmth brushes against Jaskier’s skin from the roaring oven set into the back wall and he catches sight of Lambert, flour covering his hands and the muscles in his back corded as he works the dough against the board.
“Geralt is researching what the encampment in Broadberg is likely to be, given the reports vary so much.” His hands are steady on the herbs, the knife adding a discordant beat beneath his words before he adds them to the cups. A breath, his dark eyes scouring the shelves, before he stretches up—Jaskier’s gaze dipping to take in the curve of his stomach, a dark trail of hair exposed for a moment—and plucks another jar. He adds it to one cup, stamped with a wolf’s head, tapping it. “This is Geralt’s tea. Can you bring it to him and make him take a break?”
“And you’re asking me because?”
The tray is heavy in his grip, solid in the way things made to last are, and he wavers for a second before regaining his grip.
“Because you will get him to take a break. I will get drawn into the research and then neither of us will move. Vesemir asked if we could not have a repeat of the ‘this is a library, not a debate hall’ incident.”
Lambert’s laugh is unexpected, a hissing crackle that echoed across the ceiling like broken glass. “That was fun. We should do that again.”
“No.”
Jaskier takes his leave, tray cradled carefully to his chest as yet another argument brews and bubbles behind him. The scent of bitter healing herbs rises up to meet him as he walks, slipping through the featureless halls of Kaen Morhen without a moment’s hesitation. When he first arrived, everywhere looked the same, the same grey stone and the same towering walls, but he learnt and he thrived.
The library doors are dark, the bottom corner scuffed from countless generations of boots kicked into it to push it closed, and they swing gently in the thin biting breeze. Jaskier nudges it open, adding his own mark on to history, and is greeted with a beautiful sight.
Geralt is curling over a huge tome, the pages yellow and curling with age, the light from a single candle reflecting off the golden glasses resting low on his nose. His hair is loose, fallen from his braid and curling across his shoulders and down his spine, and Jaskier’s fingers ache to run through it, to twist the captured moonlight across his hands.
“I brought you tea and you’re going to take a break and drink it with me.” Jaskier stumbles as he steps forward, raising the tray to watch his feet amongst the towering stacks of books and scrolls.
He doesn’t hear Geralt’s steps, but he is there in an instant, hooking a hand around Jaskier’s waist and pulling the tray from his grasp, every movement steady and certain.
“Thought you would still be composing.” Geralt dips down to kiss Jaskier, stilling the desperate thrum of notes in the back of his mind for a moment in favour of the cool press of Geralt’s mouth and the sharp curve of his fangs. They were filed down in the summer months, but in the winter, the mutations burst forth like spring flowers and were able to bloom.
“I needed some inspiration.”
“And you came to me.” Geralt’s voice twisted between gentle surprise and fierce satisfaction as he tipped his head to kiss Jaskier’s temple, breathing in deeply. The slight press of air sends chills down Jaskier’s spine as if someone was stepping on his grave and he leans into Geralt’s touch.
“Take a break with me?” Jaskier pauses, watching Geralt’s irises expand and flood the gold. “Please, dearheart?”
“I can’t say no to you. My own weakness.”
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Aww