#fair warning

spamtenna animatic from a few weeks ago…… i hate them

David Lee Roth

Spirit Mountain Casino, Oregon

WE ARE GOING TO HOLD HANDS AND SING HAPPY SONGS AND BE JOYOUS AND STRESS FREE

SO

ANYONE WHO WANTS TO JOIN, MOOTS OR OTHERWISE, HERES THE GIMMICK:

1: FRIENSHIP CIRCLE YAY

2: draw your sona, yourself, or whatever representation of you in one of the placement circles!

2: if you cant draw for whatever reason, thats okay! just tell me what you want to look like, and which circle you want to be in, and ill add you myself!

3: make sure that no one else has chosen a circle before you draw choose it. this works the other way too! meaning that if you choose a circle, make sure you give warning that its been chosen so other people dont chose it mistakenly! EDIT: im trying to keep an updated list of taken circles in the comments!

4: anyone can join! i dont know if i even have 10 art moots so even if you can draw or were not moots, then you can join if you want!

5: have fun!! its just silly doodles!!!! were drawing our little representations in a circle holding hands (or equivalent), its not that serious!

anyways tags for my art moots

Geralt frowned down at Yennefer a final time, before making his way to his pack. He pulled out the bandages and salve he would need, scenting the air and wincing at the familiar smell. The bard had been injured enough in the past that the witcher could easily identify the man’s blood, which made it convenient to follow.

He didn’t like leaving Jaskier in the woods while injured, anymore than he’d liked leaving the bard with Yennefer, smelling of fear as he had been. He knew how the bard felt about the woman, had known since the first time he’d gone running out of that cottage after she’d saved his life, practically begging to just leave. But they’d needed him to hunt for food, having run out of rations, and he’d never considered—he should have realized—

Geralt frowned as he came across a bush that reeked of vomit, walking a bit faster at the clear indication the bard was worse off than he’d thought. He’d have liked to treat Jaskier first, to have him rest in the man’s bedroll as Geralt sorted things out with the mage. But he knew intimately the cornered look in Yennefer’s eyes, understood that having the bard there for the discussion would only have made it worse.

Not that it helped much, Geralt considered as he finally spotted the bard, sitting on a rock next to the river, much too close for the witcher’s liking. Hadn’t the man learned anything over the years he’d traveled with Geralt? He shouldn’t be so close to the water, not when he didn’t know—

Geralt froze as Jaskier’s head whipped up, the scent of fear spiking even as the man winced at the pain the sudden movement had brought. Geralt waited for a moment for the clean, fresh scent of contentment the bard always had upon seeing Geralt, his frown only growing when the fear lingered.

“Just me.” He rumbled, making it clear that he hadn’t brought Yennefer with him. He stared at the red bandages around the bard’s head, wondering if he should offer to look at it for him, to see if it needed stitches. It would be better to use clean cloth, but Jaskier was still looking at him like—he didn’t know what, but the smell of fear was still there, and he didn’t understand—

“Guess we should head back,” Jaskier said, lacking all of his usual grace as he rose to his feet.

And Geralt wasn’t—he was torn. He wanted to get the bard back to the campfire, to the bedroll waiting for him where Geralt could offer to treat the wound someplace more comfortable and safe. But he couldn’t deny the sharp spike of terror he’d smelled from the bard at the very notion of going back to camp, back to the mage. He didn’t know what to do, besides—

“It’s safe,” Geralt said, words that never failed to relax the bard, to take away the tightness in the man’s shoulders.

“Right,” Jaskier muttered, glancing up once, quickly, before looking back at the ground as he retraced his steps. If anything, the bard had tensed up more at Geralt’s assurance, and the witcher bit back a growl as Jaskier stumbled over a root.

The bard was being so difficult. Why couldn’t he just—

Jaskier stumbled again, and the witcher could see as he struggled to keep his balance, quickly reached out a hand to steady him and—and—

Jaskier flinched.

The bard paled even more than he already had due to blood loss, and Geralt couldn’t help the way he froze. Couldn’t help the way he breathed in sharply, taking in the acrid scent of fear that still hadn’t—

Geralt swallowed hard, heart thudding violently in his chest as he realized just why the scent was still there. As he realized that, for the first time in fifteen years, in all the time he’d known the bard, Jaskier was—he was—

“We—we better get back. Before dark.” Jaskier stuttered, and that was—Jaskier never stuttered, never tripped over his words, never—

“Jask—”

“I’m sure Roach is very eagerly awaiting our return.” Jaskier continued, voice a little stronger as he plastered on the smile he used for courts.

It was—it was wrong. Jaskier never smiled like that in the woods, not when there were no other people around to impress, not when it was just he and Geralt. He wasn’t—he didn’t need to pretend, not in front of Geralt, never in front of Geralt. He’d not felt the need to for at least a decade, and Geralt felt keenly, like a dagger to the chest, the sudden loss of the connection, the trust—

“Jask, please. I didn’t…”

He reached out, slowly, projecting his movements and giving the bard the time to move away if he wanted. Jaskier eyed the witcher’s hands skeptically as they fell on hunched shoulders, and Geralt forced himself to step forward, ignoring the urge to back away from the fear, the anxiousness, the pain—

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice suddenly hoarse.

Jaskier frowned, stubbornly looking at some point in the distance to the left of the witcher’s head. “You didn’t do anything, Geralt. It’s not your fault the wi—that Yennefer lost her temper.”

Geralt shifted until Jaskier was forced to look at him, or have to obviously turn his head away. “I should have listened to you, though. I never thought Yennefer would hurt you, and I never would have left her alone with you if I thought that was even a possibility. But I should have trusted you, and your instincts. If I had, none of this would have—you wouldn’t be—”

Geralt clenched his jaw tightly, trying not to wince at the way the bard’s pupils were two different sizes.

“She…she should be gone. By the time we get back.”

Jaskier blinked, the movement unusually slow, and Geralt fought the urge to growl at the obvious sign of the bard’s head wound. He really needed to check on it, to make sure—

“What?”

Geralt’s frown deepened.

“She needed a bit of time to gather her things and make a portal. We can—we can find somewhere else, to stay for the night. If that would…” Geralt trailed off, both not sure how to finish the sentence and concerned at the confused expression the bard now sported. He wondered if he could get away with carrying the bard back, the symptoms the bard was displaying only alarming him more and more—

“I don’t…what?” Jaskier’s eyebrows scrunched up even more, “but the…the thing. The plant.”

Geralt shook his head. “I can find a replacement for it. It’ll be a bit harder, but there’s nothing for it.”

If anything, Jaskier seemed even more confused at Geralt’s words.

“I don’t…why?” The bard asked, clearly struggling to find the words, in part due to the pain practically pouring off of him.

“It would take far too long to find without Yennefer,” Geralt explained, trying to stay calm for the bard’s sake. It was easier, now that the stench of fear had lessened some, ever since he’d explained that—

Geralt’s eyes widened, mouth opening and closing, though no words came out.

Jaskier didn’t think—he didn’t—

“But…you need it. Need witch.” Jaskier said, tilting his head just a bit.

“Jaskier, you know I wouldn’t—she hurt you, Jask. She could have—” Geralt shook his head fiercely, refusing to even entertain the notion. “You know I would never—I’d never risk—”

Geralt stared into the bard’s hazy blue eyes, stared at the man who still seemed so utterly, hopelessly lost, and realized suddenly that Jaskier didn’t know. That the bard had thought Geralt would—would drag him back to camp, would leave him alone with the mage, still bearing injuries she herself had given him. That he would leave him at her mercy—

“Jask…”

For a moment, Geralt just looked at the man across from him. Jaskier’s face was pale, which the witcher could put down to his head wound, but there was a lifelessness to his hair, dark patches under his eyes, that spoke of a weariness days in the making.

And suddenly, Geralt realized that if he had been in the bard’s shoes, it never would have gotten this far. How many times had Jaskier started a fight, because a barmaid or stall owner refused to sell to the witcher? How many times had Jaskier walked out of a tavern, because they didn’t have a room for someone like him? And how many times had Jaskier stood up for him when others called him a monster, inhuman, butcher?

And yet…Yennefer had spent the last four days degrading the bard every chance she got. Had spat at him insults that Geralt knew hurt the bard in ways he didn’t show, except for when he was very deep into his drinks. Not to mention the sparks the mage had threatened when she thought he wasn’t looking, which should have been sign enough that she would escalate if given the chance.

Geralt carefully pulled Jaskier into his arms, lifting him gently and shushing him as he let the bards head fall into his neck, shielding his eyes from the light. He walked steadily, doing his best not to jostle the younger man, the small whimpers he let out like long needles being stabbed through his chest.

Because he could no longer fool himself into thinking this wasn’t his fault. It was him who agreed to this journey with the witch, who didn’t even bother to ask the bard’s opinion. It was him who neglected to stop the fighting earlier, to defend the bard when the mage was the one starting the fights a good 90% of the time. And it was him who—who ignored Jaskier’s terror time and time again when it came to Yennefer, until finally the bard had been proven right.

And that was…

Geralt almost jerked to a stop at the realization of how little the bard truly feared. Of how, even when face to face with the creatures of most men’s nightmares, the bard very rarely reeked of the acrid scent, as if he knew he had nothing to worry about. Not when he wasn’t facing the monster alone, not when he had Geralt there to protect him.

And yet, every time since that first encounter with Yennefer, when they’d run across the mage, he’d put on a brave mask while his heart thudded violently in his chest. He’d used the only weapon in his arsenal, never once looking to Geralt for help, as if he knew this was a monster he would find no aid with, a battle he would be left to fight on his own.

Which was—it wasn’t—

Finally stepping into the small clearing where he’d left Roach, he breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of mage present. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if she hadn’t left of her own volition, but it wouldn’t have been a pretty fight.

He glanced down at the light weight in his arms, the tension between his brows easing a bit at the realization the bard was sleeping. While not something he could risk a lot of with his wound, Jaskier’s breathing was steady, and the witcher could give him a few more minutes before waking him to tend to it properly.

He eased himself to the ground slowly, thinking once again about how strange his life was compared to when he started out on the Path. How different his journeys were, now that he had a rambling, colourful bard following after him, who could barely handle a dagger, let alone a sword.

And maybe Jaskier could never defend Geralt physically, like the witcher could for the bard. Jaskier would likely never go to battle with a Leshen, or a Bruxae, never stand in front of Geralt as he ran away like Jaskier often had to when the beast came a little too close to the human.

But as Geralt watched the steady rise and fall of the other man’s chest, he had no doubt that if Geralt truly was in danger, the bard would be the first to come running to his rescue, likely armed with little more than his lute and a shipload of courage.

No, Jaskier would never be a fierce warrior, someone to fear standing across from on the battlefield. But there were very few the witcher would trust to watch his back as much as he would the bard.

And he was beginning to realize that that trust, that loyalty, was a bigger gift than he’d ever understood.

new dating sim characters added!! crowe and sol from the kid at the back