#gaskier

Geralt, snapping awake: What is it?!

it's grumpy bear/sweet with pretty hair

something about it just scratches this itch in my brain like nothing else.

chief examples:

tormund/jon from game of thrones (peak of this trope/pairing)

geralt/jaskier from the witcher

andrew/neil from all for the game (this one is very loose they're both grumpy)

jean/jeremy from all for the game

erik lehnsherr/charles xavier from x-men (specifically the newer/alternate timeline ones)

bones/jim from alternate timeline star trek (see my favourite series western skies by anruiukimi on ao3)

dean/castiel from supernatural

ghost/soap from modern warfare (yes i fell for that trend sue me it's hard to find non-explicit content for these two anyway)

regulus/james from marauders era (they both have pretty hair, this one is very loose)

alfie solomons/tommy shelby from peaky blinders (these two? yes)

p.s. yes im aware these are all m/m ships, no i am not fetishising gay relationships. im an amab agender and asexual individual myself and i just like reading fluffy stories about people who love each other, and prefer ships i can relate to. bugger off.

Witcher 3 + Netflix / This part is rated M for discussions of fucking / Incomplete

A/N Hey hey friends: thank you for all the kind words left on my other posts <3 Unfortunately, since this is a side blog, I can’t directly respond to your comments but feel free to DM me <3 A special thank you to @thefox-and-thegrapes, @frostedwitch, @unseeliebastard, and @mimeticeternity who left rlly rlly nice comments that made my heart warm and made me want to write more 

Witcher 3 + Netflix / This part is rated T for briefly mentioned sex / Incomplete

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She was getting better at dismissing the flutter down her body that drew her closer to Geralt- she was. After the damned dragon hunt, she'd braced herself against it and had an infuriating two months where her spine was tauter than a nocked bowstring ready to sail her back to her witcher.

In retrospect, she really should have known better than to coil the tie herself in: there was a reason the rectors of Aretuza imparted the early lesson of accepting the impact of a blow and relaxing back into it. Rather foolishly, it took a private drunken bender for her to lick her wounds and realize that trying to banish the pull was only hurting her more. In her mind she could see it, now that she knew what to look for, and she slowly began stretching and spinning the bond until the hazy wooly ropey thing transmuted into a thin thread. Finer and more elastic than spider silk. She was proud of it, she wondered if Triss would find it a pleasing use of her skills.

She wondered if Geralt's side was still thorny and strong or if it truly was like roving spun into thread between them: if the twisting and stretching on her side extended all the way in the gulf between them. She doesn't even think of him most weeks now, which brings a strange kind of relief when she thinks of it, there'd been a period where she couldn't go more than a month or so without a torrid night of his teeth on her breasts.

Still, she's a reasonable woman: she's sorted this out on her side and she needs to know if glancing on the witcher's face is going to reverse all her hard work. If the world isn't big enough for her to avoid Fringilla, it's certainly not big enough for her to avoid Geralt forever. She'd rather know now if this is going to forever be a work in progress (the kind of project she hates, but can't deny the necessity of). Yennefer had a fortnight before she's due to harvest some Skelligan woodlice, the perfect task she could do while re-spinning the connection if she has to, she could smash a few too if Geralt really pissed her off. 

She thought about tugging on the thread to figure out where Geralt was, but decided that ran the chance of pulling him to her, so instead she picked through a chest of hers until she found a shirt he'd left behind ages ago. Yes, she could still feel the faint tether of ownership she could use to guide a portal. She brewed a cup of milky sage and sassafras and peered into the depths- oh he was at a fair, how delightful, how odd. It was good she checked ahead, she'd rather not tromp through the mud in slippers.

She folded the shirt as small as she could and set it in the bottom of her basket, she took a long steady breath, and stepped through the portal she called forth-

to find herself across the stream from a fete in the Brugge backwoods. A rather dangerous place for Geralt to be if her memories of the pogroms are correct (and they are), not particularly safe for her either but with her simple frock and portaling beside a rather gorgeous willow... well.

She drew her shawl further over her hair and strolled over the hopping stones into the crowd.

The crowd seemed unusually large for a handful of pageant wagons, but as she drew closer she could hear the rounded lilt of Redanians. It must've been the Oxenfurt caravan- a novelty this far west especially so close to Lammas. She hedged her way through the fair ground, nimbly jumping over the wheat husks strewn among the audience as was customary, glancing around the market stalls which had cropped up and the archery contest and the puppet shows and wagon stages. She idled for a few hours, drifting between watching men emerge from the tents for the different competitions and the steady stream of newcomers that left the fields as twilight fell over them and peering through the crush of dancers.

No signs of Geralt.

She brushed her hand over the shirt again and conjured the slightest breeze to guide her gaze-

Straight to the fucking bard. Perched on the most obnoxiously colorful wagon she'd seen outside the circus. She restrained the urge to smack her own face. How did she not see that thing first? And why didn't she guess those numbskulls shared shirts?

The monstrosity, Yennefer could privately admit, was a fucking fortress on wheels. She could only imagine how many hedge witches and nearly mages and druids and maybe even real mages he conned or paid to enchant the thing because it was a mess of finely crafted wards and roughly thorned spells. In fact, she was nearly certain she saw Triss's playful brush strokes under the window right next to some backwoods talisman that involved... three duck beaks? Besides that, she could recognize the fine craftsmanship: elegant and sturdy metal strakes through the wheel and a gentle responsive sway that signaled an unusually nimble carriage. 

The thing probably didn't even stink of magic to other people, she guessed because she only caught the barest overwarded syrup smell: in fact, when she cast her mind out, there was more of a... haze where the carriage should've been. It was a clever spell, probably the one hit wonder of some half mad hedge witch, that redirected suspicion away from the foggy spot the wagon is. Like seeing packs of wolves that occasionally adopted an abandoned dog: it was so nearly normal, you mind just glanced over it. 

Gods, what she wouldn't have given to take a sledgehammer to the thing just to see what happened. Would it hit its mark? Bounce right off the window? Turn into a shrieking goose? She had no idea but something in her itched with a childish urge to try and destroy it.

She had half a mind to storm off and try tracking another object. But, her mind supplied, every other gift Geralt had given her was useful. Something she's already wiped the traces of him from. 

It was just as well she found the bard, she doubted he wanted her anywhere near Geralt and would tell her what she needed to know to settle this once and for all.

Instead she puttered around the faire, which was distinctly more drunk now that the smaller children had been herded back to the town, and let herself be charmed into buying some honeyed pears. Jaskier was not so bold as to dance on top of his wagon in the torch light but he was deliciously expressive and emotive sitting on the edge of the roof; gaily swinging his legs and playing his heart out as his juniors stomped out the rhythm on the unfolded platforms. 

The other bards on his wagon must have been his students, because none of them take the lead after Jaskier though they all seem to have minutely memorized the lead ins Jaskier gives them to break out into their own little trilling solos: notably the violist, piper, and concertina player are very good. Just like his strange wagon, it was easy for her to forget Jaskier was a rather accomplished academic.

After a few more songs, including a rather rousing estampida that rounds off the chain of dancers and finishing on the newest crooning installment of his... star knight ballad, a pair of rather strapping vielle players lowered him from the roof of the wagon and helped him collect the coin. Yennefer looked to the sky and realized she'd somehow whiled away the hours enjoying the fair and now it was just past midnight. The crowd had been draining out to finish their celebrations at the local shrines (or more likely fucking in the trees) and Jaskier spent a while thanking the lingering well wishers that flocked to him as the rest of the caravan closed up their wagons and the vielle players flipped the stage back up and dragged a crate to the center of the clearing. 

A few members of the caravan brusquely went over to the crate and started counting out their purses for the night, continuing some intense argument about whether or not wisterias were trees or vines (apparently citing “Modes of Koviran Flora” had been a gamble that did not pay off). The rest of the caravan must have been waiting on the cash, for most of them dozed on the steps of their wagons or from bedrolls under tarps stretched between them. When he spotted a lull in the bickering, Jaskier begged off the last stragglers and stumbled over- joining the counting. In short order, a ledger had been pulled out and a moderate sum was locked in the communal coffers- the rest carefully portioned out to the caravan members that appeared to line up in seniority.

The whole affair took about an hour and Yennefer was peculiarly touched that none of them had pocketed a few extra coins for themselves (though there had been genuine confusion about the current exchange rate of the lintar- just thrown into the coffers for good measure). The ledger, the coffers, and the crate were carried off, the purses were locked up, the torches were dampened, and the caravan passed out for the night.

Yennefer stretched and groaned and strode through the dark to Jaskier's wagon, which had been drawn closer to the treeline after the stage was raised. She smoothed the hair that crept loose from her braid and gave a firm rap on the door.

After a long moment, where she heard a quiet swear and rattling, the door didn't open. But the peephole did.

Jaskier's blue eyes peered out of the darkness: carefully guarded.

"Well?" he asked, after a long silence, "on with it, what are you here for? Geralt's not here."

"I know that, wouldn't be here if he was, and it's good to see you too bard," she hummed, a strange relief flickered in Jaskier's eyes. She grabbed the door knob and jiggled it. It was real silver, rather at odds with the gold trim, "clearly joining the circus has done wonders for your manners-"

"Gods, witch," Jaskier huffed an exhausted moan, he closed the peephole, but threw the lock and opened the door, "is it too much to ask for a bit of peace so close to dawn?" She strode in and he locked the door behind her, he leaned against the wall, "if it's an emergency, I can't help you. If it can wait till a reasonable hour, you're welcome to the hammock or the bed if you haven't any well-bred lice."

"I suppose I could wait a little while," she said, looking around the interior and prodding the wards with her magic.

"Don't suppose it's too much to ask that you turn around so I can dress for bed? Not all of us can just magic a night dress," he snarked sleepily.

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A/N- This is a pretty rough unfinished draft but I wanted to share more wagon-content because I love her 

Encouragement and kind words will always make me more excited to write stuff <3 and feel free to dash off a message to me! I haven’t really made any friends in the fandom yet :3c 

Thanks for reading, friends!

Rough and tumble ragged drafts on tumblr here: actual fic varieties of exile

Witcher 3 + Netflix / This part is rated G / Incomplete

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The first time he had the dream, somewhere before the road to find Cirilla, he didn't think much of it. 

He knows it’s a dream from the start because everything’s just a little too ideal. His soft memories always have a fond edge to the problems of reality- the snap of a chill in the air or weary relief to a smile. 

Jaskier’s there, playing a song Geralt doesn’t remember, it's a strange one: soft and vulnerable and mature.

It’s after the third or fifth or twentieth repetition that he starts to wonder where the dream comes from. It's recurring, though not terribly often. Wonders if it’s some kind of illusion sent to confuse him: the work of a Doppler and a mage perfectly designed to lull him into a deeper rest, to distract him from reaching his child surprise. He tries to free himself from the dream for a while after that, before he realizes it’s not the work of a Doppler at least. The Jaskier in his dream isn’t a copy- the perfect replica of a person. It's not that any of it is wrong, but the Jaskier he sees isn't the real Jaskier.

After a while, he realizes the Jaskier in his dream is Jaskier’s favorite parts of himself and their journeys. His lute is the tawny color he fancied when it was re-lacquered a decade ago (no luther had been able to match that color since). His sleeves are rolled up higher than usual, displaying evenly colored forearms free from pox scars. Jaskier’s face is framed by the softest loose curls that only formed when there was ocean in the air. 

They’re walking along an impossible road, swells of rolling hills bereft of the dots of civilization or sprawling wilderness, though Geralt would place it in Redania. The full richness of spring in the air- the perfectly temperate breeze carrying the heady scent of pollen in the air mixed with the sweet fragrance of nearly-autumn pear. He’s on Roach, her withers gleaming brightly as they do when she’s had a thorough brushing, and eating a black walnut. The treat doesn’t even stain his fingers- though he can feel the juices running down his palm to his miraculously dry and unblemished shirt cuffs. 

Sometimes he has the presence of mind to look around more; absently noting where the sun is in the arc of the sky and the planets that are mere specks in the daylight, turning the fruit over in his hand to see the spotted flesh, relishing the perfect lack of thirst or hunger. 

He starts to welcome the dreams: he’s always well rested after them. After the mountain- he craves this borrowed time with Jaskier. Stolen, really. He never should have stolen so much of Jaskier's fleeting time on earth, but the dream can't hurt Jaskier more than Geralt already has. 

He takes time to relish all the details he didn’t notice before- the way Jaskier’s voice is intimate and echoing, the perfect acoustics that only existed in Oxenfurt’s graduate halls somehow manifesting in the rolling pastoral landscape. The routine is always the same even if he has a measure of control over the minor details; the dream eases around him like a dip in the springs and he hears Jaskier’s tuning carefully morph into the opening chords of the song.

If he teases Jaskier about a flat note, the bard will stick his tongue out and grouse about “literal superhuman hearing” before he starts to croon into the open air. If he slows Roach’s pace; Jaskier will continue on ahead, walking backwards after a few steps so Geralt can see the lightly teasing roll of his hips and the lopsided smile overtaking Jaskier’s face. 

He tries, a few times, to dismount and tell Jaskier to cool off in the stream with him- hoping he can somehow stretch out the escape from waking reality- but the bard walks on and sings as though Geralt hadn't said a word. Merely croons, as always: 

Every word sounds like a siren Into the town, breaking the silence It's a good life, wait and it's over Everywhere, ever, oh

We never would have in mind Here for next time

If there was doubt It's getting colder In a new light I'd turn it over I can't decide If there's another Hand on your fate, never

We never would had mind Here for next time We never would had mind Here for next time

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A/N- Thank you all for the kind things you’ve said and tagged! They really made me want to write and I really really appreciate the encouragement! (so keep it up if you’d like more ;) )

I didn’t expect y’all to actually like this so heads up: I did put it on ao3 here but looser drafts are going to find their way on tumblr first so like bits and bobs that aren’t always ready to be a chapter will be shared here. I’ve got a bit written out that’s already cross posted, but tumblr is where unedited things will probably appear first 

On my blog the chapters/drabbles will be tagged “actual fic varieties of exile” because the tag “varieties of exile” already has inspo stuff in it too  

This rockstar made a song and played it. And it's just the sweetest. (The fanfic and the fansong both.)

https://youtu.be/I0JJqFCiOuM