Bukakami

"the trees are now turning from green to gold..."

Это я пытаюсь в иллюстрацию 🙃 (вдохновлялась картинками из интернета, каюсь, авторам спасибо).

Трудно даются те вещи, к которым ты никогда раньше не имел отношения 🥲 Вот и рисовать - это не моя сильная сторона. Но мне так нравится это делать 😂

Почти что

“I need no one. And the last thing I want is someone needing me.”

some soft sweet geraskier for @nicestmeangirl

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biker boys in love for @veritasrose​ (also please drop the link to the biker au!!!!)

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Log 2

The silmarillion fanart log 1

P1-P3 Fingon 

Fëanor 

Fingolfin 

Maedhros

He doesn’t mention his hand when the dust settles.

There are bodies to clear away, people to mourn. Jaskier steps back for that- he’s not a Witcher. He doesn’t know these men but he does know what they meant to each other and he knows he has no part in whatever mourning they need to do. So he steps back to allow their rituals.

He finds a bucket and scrub brush and gets to work clearing the blood from the stones while the others are gone. He can be useful in other ways.

His hand burns every time he dunks it in the hot water but he ignores it for as long as he can, scrubbing until the water is dirty but the floors are mostly cleared of blood.

He’s trying very hard not to think about how it’s getting harder and harder to move his index and middle fingers as the days pass. It’s the cold, he tells himself. It’s got to be. Every other part of him is stiff and cold and trembling just a bit with the way the wind howls through the newest holes in Kaer Morhen’s walls. He’s only human. Of course he’s affected by the cold.

Jaskier uses his left hand to scrub when the burn gets to be too much, his right to steady the bucket as he washes the blood away. Yennefer could probably magic the stains gone but she’s only just gotten her chaos back and she’s still a bit unsteady. Besides, she’s healing up the surviving Witchers. Jaskier can do this for them if nothing else.

He’s careful to remove himself from the hall before they come back down the mountain. He doesn’t want to be in the way if they’re going to drink and mourn and fight out their feelings. He might get caught in the crossfire or worse, interfere.

The Witchers are people and they’ve lost brothers tonight. Jaskier will not do anything that upsets their grieving process.

Yen narrows her eyes at Geralt as she's shoving him out the door. “Aren’t you going to take some supplies for your precious bard?”

He blinks. “Why would I do that?”

She looks at him as if he’s stupid. “So you have food for the road.”

Geralt scoffs. “It’s one human, Yen. How often do I need to feed him?” He rolls his eyes. “Every day?”

Yen says, “Uhh.”

-

“It’s only a little further to the next village,” Geralt says, full of confidence. “If we push on through the night, we can be there by morning.”

Jaskier’s lip wobbles. His everything wobbles. “I’m trying here, I am,” he says, big eyes wide and pathetic. “But I really need to sleep.”

Geralt squints at him. “What, again? We just slept two nights ago.”

Jaskier looks, horrifyingly, like he might actually cry.

“Fine, fine,” Geralt says quickly, stopping and laying out a bedroll. “Just don’t get all weepy on me.”

-

The autumn is fading fast, and the nights are getting longer. Jaskier is bouncing up and down on a log in front of the fire, his seemingly endless energy bubbling through the skin.

The log is jittering and it’s making it difficult for Geralt to sharpen his swords. “Still sit,” he growls, putting a heavy hand on Jaskier’s leg. “You’re jostling me.”

“Sorry,” Jaskier says, teeth chattering together, “but it’s so cold.”

Huh. Geralt tilts his head to one side. It’s not as if it’s snowing, or there’s a blizzard out. There’s only a thin layer of ice on the river. But now that he looks, he sees that Jaskier’s skin is pale and his lips are tinting blue. Ahh.

He digs in a saddle bag and finds his winter cloak, the one he only uses on the road to Kaer Morhen. “Here,” he says, handing it over.

“Thank the gods,” Jaskier says quickly, wrapping himself in the cloak and sighing happily.

-

“Can’t you just,” Geralt waves a hand vaguely, “not be ill?”

Jaskier looks up at him from his mug of tea, eyes watery, forehead clammy, sniveling pathetically.

He says, slowly, like it’s taking the last of his patience, “That’s not how it works, Geralt.”

How tedious. Humans really are sickly little things.

-

Geralt had been unsure about bringing Jaskier to Kaer Morhen at first. But seeing his bard here, surrounded by his fellow Wolf witchers, brings a smile to his face and a warmth to his chest.

They’ve said their greetings and they’re settling in for a first evening’s cheerful drinking when Lambert lunges across the table at Jaskier.

“Hey!” Lambert knocks the drink out of Jaskier’s hand. “You can’t drink that!”

Geralt frowns at Lambert while Jaskier cowers. There’s no need to be rude.

“White Gull is deadly to humans,” Lambert explains. “And all our ales are laced with it.”

Oh. Well. Jaskier better not drink anything from the kitchen then.

“I can’t believe I’m the sensible one here,” Lambert grumbles.

-

Clearly, something had to be done. Geralt had consulted with his brothers and Vesemir, who proved surprisingly well-informed in the ways of humans.

The result is this: A big basket which Geralt delivers to Jaskier’s room. In the basket is the thickest, warmest blanket he could find, as well as some little woolen mitts he’d knitted. They are a little misshapen in places, because he still hadn’t quite got the hang of short rows, but they left the fingers uncovered so Jaskier could play his lute.

There's also a generous bag of dried fruits and meats, and some tea bags he’d made from the loose tea in the kitchen so Jaskier could make himself a mug without having to brave the cold. He’d even found some untainted beer at the very back of the storehouse and popped that in as well.

Finally, there is a little card on top on which Geralt had written, in his very best attempt at calligraphy, “For Our Human Friend :)” Eskel had drawn the smiley face next to it.

Jaskier looks at the basket. He looks at Geralt. His face does the scrunchy, wobbly thing which warns of tears incoming.

“Oh, no no no -” Geralt starts, because he’d meant this to be nice, he can’t cope with Jaskier crying, but then Jaskier flings himself at him and wraps him up in a hug.

Jaskier snivels into his shoulder and says, wetly, “Thanks, Geralt.”