lovelybottom: (tilted smile)
Geralt of Rivia ([personal profile] lovelybottom) wrote2020-04-28 05:30 pm
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[personal profile] rollstoseduce 2020-04-29 01:58 am (UTC)(link)
We're not friends. How many times has he heard Geralt say that? Jaskier stops counting after a while.

He should've listened. But nooo, he gets cocky, lets the way Geralt allows him into his stories and his scars, shares his food and his rooms and protects him from angry husbands get to his head, feed his ego. Obviously Geralt cares about him, right? He's just an actions-rather-than-words kind of guy. Life has been rough for him, he doesn't know how to communicate. So many excuses has Jaskier made for Geralt's behavior through the years, thinking of himself to be so smart for figuring out what he calls Geralt-speech.

He should've listened.

If like could give me one blessing...

The words play on repeat in his head over and over as he makes his way down the mountain - tired, dirty, alone. Hurting. "See you around, Geralt" had been an answer spoken from shock, but with every step he takes with heavy feet, pain and anger build in his chest until they finally explode. Two decades, the best years of his short human life, his best songs... all wasted on this son of a bitch.

He really should've listened, he thinks again when he stops by a river to wash his face, not wanting to reach town with his eyes red from tears spilled over the biggest asshole in the world. He truly is a fool.

(He gets drunk that evening, and sings and dances for the local tavern until his feet and throat are sore. Drinking songs, naughty songs, adventure songs. But not a single song about the White Wolf.)

Oxenfurt seems to be the most logical step, so he stays there for a while, trying to put himself back together. He finishes "Her Sweet Kiss", adding to it a new bitter twist that didn't have before ("gorgeous garroter"? "lovely garroter"? how about neither). Half of the dinner hall cries when they hear him sing it for the first time. And it's the only song about Geralt he sings when he goes back to the road.

There's war coming, people need bards to help them forget. Oxenfurt may be home (in a way Lettenhove never was and never will) but Jaskier is still Jaskier, and he grows restless easily. He needs adventure, he needs his freedom. So back to the road he goes, jumping from inns to taverns, from courts banquets to weddings, singing for both pleasure and coin. People keep asking for the songs of the White Wolf, he deflects the best way he can - it's hard to escape his reputation.

The three soldiers that kidnap him from his room definitely don't let him forget.

They don't believe him when he says he doesn't have any idea about Geralt's whereabouts. They ask him about princess Cirilla as well, because they know he's played in court before. Bloody hell, if their information gathering is so good, how come they don't know Jaskier hasn't seen that asshole of a witcher in over a year? If they've been tracking him, surely they would've noticed the lack of very specific songs?

Jaskier tells them that after the first day. Obviously being afraid and obeying doesn't change anything, so if he's going to get hurt anyway, then at least he wants to use his tongue as it deserves. They think the whole separation deal is an act - Jaskier snorts.

If only.

They hit him and whip him, they keep him chained and only feed him some water and bread in the morning that he gets to throw up later when feet connect with his stomach. They don't ask about Geralt's location any longer, changing the tactic to wanting to know the witcher's secrets and weaknesses. Those Jaskier does know. He still doesn't tell. He tells himself it's because he doesn't want Nilfgaard to win.

The truth is, even now, he's still a loyal fool.

They leave guards outside. A waste of soldiers, because nobody is coming for him. Geralt isn't coming for him, but this part he keeps for himself - the guards possibly shitting themselves at the chance the White Wolf may come for them is the only little pleasure he can get from this situation.

It seems there's some commotion outside tonight, but he isn't paying attention. Jaskier stays in the corner of the cell, face and clothes covered in blood, pants reeking of piss, hugging his legs and waiting for sleep to come - if it comes at all. When the door opens, he whimpers in fear and tries to make himself smaller.

Jaskier has never been afraid of Geralt. For him, all the time. Of him? Never. Yet he reeks of it now. And when blue eyes finally look up and see who it is, they widen, filled with shock. Part of him thinks he must be dreaming.

"...Geralt?"

The voice is barely a murmur, sounding tired and broken... and the smell of fear starts disappearing, only leaving a faint touch under a racing hearbeat. Because he's still a loyal fool. Because even if he wants to throw something at the witcher's head and tell him to fuck off, he knows he's safe from Nilfgaard now.

[personal profile] rollstoseduce 2020-04-29 04:01 am (UTC)(link)
For once in his life, Jaskier stays silent. And that speaks volumes of his current state of mind.

I'm here, the asshole says, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, as if they had just drank together some piss-tasting ale the night before. It's so much, too much to be exact, even for Jaskier, who usually isn't overwhelmed by emotions. He's used to feeling a lot, but not this, definitely not like this. Pain, fear, tiredness, thirst; his body and mind are already trying to navigate them all. He can't let his heart add all his anger at Geralt now.

He can't let it long for the gentleness on that voice that for once is showing care.

And now he's starting to feel dizzy.

A short sob escapes his lips, a mix of relief at being saved and his other emotions creating a hurricane in his chest, but he swallows the rest down when Geralt reaches out to touch him. Not right now, not like this. He can't help flinching, not because it's Geralt, but because his body still hasn't caught up with the fact he's free now, he's safe. These fingers aren't here to hurt him.

(This one does it with words.)

Jaskier lets him check anyway, because he isn't sure himself - his whole body is screaming in pain, he wouldn't be able to tell his injures apart even if he tried. Thankfully there is nothing broken - they're all bleeding cuts or purple bruises, and he does whimper when Geralt touches those, but at least his bones are fine. (They did threaten his tongue. Jaskier isn't sure he would've wanted to be saved if they had come through.)

Geralt's comment gets him a nod, then a shrug. Can he stand? He isn't sure, but he's going to try. Hands grab the wall and Jaskier raises slowly, the back of his legs showing more gashes from whipping there. The answer to the question? It's a no. His whole body starts shaking and with a painful fuck! he falls to his knees, fire burning through his veins, making it hard to breathe.

"Geralt..." Pride and anger forgotten for now, Jaskier begs in between pants for the only thing he desperately needs right now. "Please take me out of here."

[personal profile] rollstoseduce 2020-04-29 09:27 pm (UTC)(link)
His whole body aches when Geralt picks him up, the pain burning him from head to toe, eliciting the sharpest groan out of him. He needs a distraction, to put his attention on something else. But that would mean being extra aware of Geralt, of his body around him, of the fact he's being kind and helping him without complaining about him getting in trouble again. It would mean being aware of Roach, the good old girl who has carried him once before and it was during the whole djinn disaster, and that's one memory he doesn't need to revisit right now.

At least the feeling of her mane in his hands is familiar. Comforting. Jaskier tries to concentrate on that, on afternoons spent braiding flowers in her hair.

Don't think about the pain, he tells himself under the pressure of his body's wounds.

Don't think about you incredibly complicated feelings for Geralt, the man his brain wants to push away and his heart wants to cuddle under his protection, like the traitor it is.

At least the trip is short, and Jaskier suddenly finds himself very grateful for Geralt's cloak hiding him from the city's curious eyes. As social as he is, interacting with people is the last thing he wants to do right now - the first being finding a bed, crawl under the sheets and sleep for a whole week.

Those aren't Geralt's plans, however. He sits Jaskier on the bed but only to start inspecting him to check his wounds. Awkwardness slips in then - never in twenty years Jaskier had trouble meeting Geralt's eyes (unless he's failing to be sneaky when asking for a favor) yet now he can't stand the heaviness of that golden gaze. Jaskier may find care in them if he does, and Melitele knows it would be extremely foolish to fall for that again.

So he looks away instead, taking in every detail of the room they're in. Not their-- his, Geralt's usual cheap inn.

"You don't have to stay." His voice is rough when he finally speaks again, and he knows he probably shouldn't do that in the first place, but he can't stand the silence. It leaves him alone with his own mind, and it's not a pretty place to be at right now. "You can send a healer and go. It's not--" He swallows a sob. "I didn't tell them anything. You're safe to leave."

[personal profile] rollstoseduce 2020-04-29 10:43 pm (UTC)(link)
Three words. Just... three little words, words that he's heard thousand of times before coming from multiple people, words that were always favored by a very particular witcher. Hearing them right now, when he's feeling so emotional and vulnerable, is like getting punched in the stomach again.

Fuck this asshole of a witcher. At least his heart syncs up with his mind now, not wanting to seek Geralt's kindness anymore. Anger returns and, if he had the energy, he would scream.

"Didn't shut me up in two decades, witcher. Not going to start working now."

His tone is bitter, his lack of will power to say Geralt's name obvious. Not his best comeback, he admits, his sentences are choppy and lack dramatics, but it's the best he can do at the moment. Being sassy is all he has, his only weapon, the one he used against the soldiers when he realized being quiet and obedient wouldn't earn him better treatment.

(They did threaten him with worse, way worse. But he's no soldier, he's weak and wimpy, they were afraid anything would kill him, and they needed the information urgently. They threatened his hands and tongue as well. Jaskier yelled at them, tell them that damaging those was equal to actually killing him. They got the idea, but he has to wonder how many days would've passed before they would've decided to stop being careful.)

With a sigh and trembling arms, Jaskier starts undressing, slowly, painfully, whimpering whenever a particular wounded muscle is pulled the wrong way. At least this doesn't feel like a big deal, considering he and Geralt have seen each other naked many times before while washing in rivers or lakes. It does bother Jaskier, however, that this probably means there's no healer coming - the witcher plans to take care of him himself. Fantastic.

His legs have gotten the worst of the whipping. They kept mocking him, asking him to dance. Jaskier doesn't stand up to remove his pants, he lies down on the bed and raises his butt, which thankfully is only required for a couple of seconds, because he doesn't have the energy for more than that. He doesn't sit up after it either - the bed is comfortable. The cuts on his back are bothering him, and he feels like tearing his skin off, but the tiredness wins.

"...it's cold." He murmurs, his whole body shivering on the matress.

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modern au, give me that dilf

[personal profile] rollstoseduce 2020-05-22 04:22 am (UTC)(link)
Aah, the big city. A dream come true.

Jaskier has always loved the city - all the sounds, the people, the different styles merging together in just one neighborhood. You never get bored in the city, and most importantly, it's full of opportunities. After spending his childhood in the family estate (where he's promised to never step again) and his young adult years in the college town he studied at, Jaskier has finally saved enough money to rent his own flat in the city, and it means a lot.

More and better paid tutoring jobs. More and better gigs. More and better various spaces to record cover videos at. And hopefully, a better chance at being discovered.

His online presence is nothing to laugh at - it's what's gotten him the money to move out, after all. He's not exactly famous, but he's well-known enough to get sponsors and occasionally be asked for a selfie in the street. All his social media has that lovely little tick next to his name that confirms he's someone. Sadly, even in this modern era, a contract with a record company is still the sign that a singer has really made it. But he's getting there, he can feel it. It's destiny.

All his excitement, however, doesn't make up for the fact that moving sucks. So many boxes! So many things to put in place! So much shopping for necessities to do! And no friends to help, which is the part that sucks the most. Jaskier is a people person, and he'll have to start from zero here. He still texts his sister during the whole process, for sure, and sharing the journey with his followers through pictures and short videos makes it a little less lonely, but it's still not the same.

Yet when Friday comes, he doesn't hit a single bar in the area, which shows how truly exhausted he is. He needs to unwind and recover energy before he can peacock around town. And that's when he remembers something: one of his followers mentioned a horse ranch near the area. Huh, that actually sounds perfect. He hasn't gone riding since he was a child, but he remembers enjoying it a lot. And one of the many reasons why he's chosen this city is because as big as it is, it's also really easy to quickly drive past the limits and finds trees and birds. A city boy he may be, but Jaskier also likes having some days out with nature every now and then, enjoying the sights and letting inspiration come from a sunset. It's like going on a little adventure.

So here he is on a Saturday morning, getting out of an uber with his guitar on his back and a satchel filled with his song notebook and some sandwiches for lunch, wearing comfortable yet fashionable clothes. The place is huge and well taken care of, and Jaskier is feeling the nostalgia hitting him already - this has been a great idea. He needs to remember to thank his follower later - although, didn't she mention her dad? Maybe he'll find her here as well.

Headphones are moved to his neck, sunglasses are hanged on his sweater and a picture of the entrance sign is taken before Jaskier finally takes the path up the house.

"Excuse me? Hello!" He says as he knocks on the door. "Good morning! I've been told I could rent horses here?"

[personal profile] rollstoseduce 2020-05-22 10:34 pm (UTC)(link)
Jaskier turns to the sound of a very deep voice, already noticing the lack of greeting in return (Jaskier doesn't need clerks to go out of their way to be over the top welcoming, but would a "hello" really hurt?) but the little frown on his face barely lasts two seconds when he sees who exactly is in charge of his place.

A bloody adonis.

He worries his worry lip as he feels his throat going dry at the sight. The man is big and incredibly well built, thicker and stronger than a brick house; the hair is white and long, making Jaskier wish he could run his fingers through it. He's a father, too, which means this is his first time meeting a true DILF, one that apparently loves animals and has a voice that probably could make you come just by talking dirty into your ear.

Hopefully the lack of greeting was only a slip and he isn't actually rude, otherwise he'll have to text his sister and go through his bisexual crisis for the second time in his life.

(If you ask Elizabeth, she thinks her brother goes through a bisexual crisis every other day.)

Snapping himself out of it by clearing his voice, Jaskier hurries in direction of the man, reminding himself that this isn't a bar and the ranch looks like a place he'd like to visit again in the future, so he can't fuck up. For the sake of his lovely follower, as well. So his charm will be on, but not overly flirty. Gotta test the waters first - hell, maybe the man is as straight they come.

"I have! I used to ride all the time when I was a child." When he reaches the adonis' side, Jaskier gets a better look of his face and ugh, those eyes are as golden as the flower that names him and that jaw could smash rocks. How can one man be so unfairly handsome? With his best smile on his face, he offers a hand to shake. "Hi, I'm Jaskier. I recently moved to the city, and your daughter I believe? Recommended this place on Twitter."

[personal profile] rollstoseduce 2020-05-23 01:04 am (UTC)(link)
Still no hello, but the guy introduces himself (even his name is manly as fuck, bloody hell) and accepts the handshake, which means he isn't rude, just kinda awkward. Limited human interaction over living with horses, perhaps? Honestly, it comes as a relief, so maybe things can go well after all.

...or maybe not. The question confuses him, since he's already explained how he knows the girl (through Twitter!) and then shock comes when Geralt adds the rest. Going extremely pale, Jaskier gasps and takes a step back, his voice reaching a high pitch when he replies with obvious nervousness.

"...bollocks. No! Nonononono, it's nothing like that!" He explains as he shakes his hands. "I'm a musician! She likes my music! She's a fan. How could I-- Ah, wait, just give me a second--"

He reaches into his pocket to take out his very extra looking phone (how does he keep it in those very tight pants, nobody knows) and proceeds to open Twitter, finding the thread with the girl quite easily since he liked it to have the ranch information at hand (but he stills murmurs fuck over and over during the whole process).

"Here, see? I don't even follow her back." He shows Geralt the conversation, then taps on the girl's username to access her account. A blue button offers to follow the account, and he's obviously not pressed it ever. "She likes my tweets and occasionally comments to discuss music or a funny meme. I don't even know her age or if that's her real name. That's all, I can swear on my guitar."

And that's one hell of a swear, because his guitar is his fucking life.

[personal profile] rollstoseduce 2020-05-23 03:09 am (UTC)(link)
"It will, I promise." He says with his best innocent face, both hands up in surrender. "In fact, I can come around when she isn't home, if that helps. You're just protecting her, being a good father. I can respect that."

Because yeah, now the initial scare is wearing off and the conversation replays in his head, he understands how the misunderstanding happened. In fact, he would've reacted with suspicion too if it had been about his sister. So this first impression? Far from bad. Not the best, for sure, but not enough to scare him off either. Geralt is a good dad, already showing more care in a couple of minutes that Jaskier's own father has ever shown for him in his entire life.

So he isn't only a DILF, he's a sweet DILF. His heart (and his dick) won't survive this.

Business talk is back, and Jaskier considers it a good sign, so he comes closer again, both to hear him better and to have a better look of those amazing eyes.

"English style. Always leisure riding, I was never one for competitions or polo. Blegh."

He pulls a face at the idea of sports, obviously this is the artist of the family. No, polo has always been his brother's thing, perfect handsome Frederick with his perfect beard and his perfect manners and perfect boring girlfriend. Some times Jaskier has to wonder how he and Lizzie are related to him.

"And that's what I'm looking for now as well. To unwind. To get on a horse and relax for a few hours, have lunch while lying on the grass and maybe compose a bit if inspiration strikes."

If that's allowed in the first place, but he figures that if the guitar was a problem, Geralt would've already told him so the minute he saw it. It's not exactly a small object to go unnoticed, now is it?

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golden_oriole: (Geralt of DILFia)

for rollstoseduce

[personal profile] golden_oriole 2020-06-10 10:54 pm (UTC)(link)
It had taken some time to transform Corvo Bianco from a run-down, overgrown nobleman's villa into a vineyard with some semblence of its former glory. The majordomo, of course, was a great help, organizing the renovations and reconstructions necessary to make the estate functional again. The vineyard needed pruned and replanted, the olive groves rehabilitated-- and while these things were well within the expertise of Barnabas-Basil, the matter of the insides of the house was something for Geralt to deal with. And, as his only home had been a dilapidated witcher fortress in the mountains, he had no earthly idea of how to decorate a household.

Luckily for him, Dandelion had been all too willing to lend a hand. And, of course, after the house had been made properly homely, it was quite late in the year, and it was out of the question for his dear friend to try to trek north. The winters in Toussaint were mild and agreeable, and all the roads to Oxenfurt or Novigrad would surely be miserable and snowed over, and Geralt had plenty of room. It was only sensible for the bard to winter at Corvo Bianco, keeping Geralt company with song and good conversation over well-aged bottles of wine. He even managed to convince Geralt to go to some country noble's new year's banquet, a lavish affair that Dandelion enjoyed greatly despite the fact that he wasn't the bard for it. Perhaps even more so, because he sat at Geralt's side for at least half the night, getting increasingly soused on fine vintages and regaling him with his scathing critique of the entertainment.

It was a good winter. A good spring, too, as Dandelion claimed the delightful scenery had inspired him to write a few volumes of pastoral poetry. And then a good summer after that, as Geralt got news of a leshen a little ways to the south that needed to be taken care of, and Dandelion simply had to follow along, since he'd never had the pleasure of observing the witcher hunt for one. And then fall was wine season, Geralt, you surely wouldn't send your dearest friend away at the grandest time of year?, and once that was over, it was winter again.

Spring is, of course, fast approaching. The olive trees in the grove have budded and will soon be in full bloom; the early mornings are still cool, but the weather warms enough after the sun begins to climb to make taking Roach for a ride a pleasant affair. After months of comfortable living and being fed the best oats and hay that a famous vineyard could afford, she could use a little exercise-- so could Pegasus. If the bard would rouse himself before noon, Geralt might even entertain taking him along.

The blanket-wrapped lump that he'd left in bed that morning is gone when Geralt goes to check. Nor is Dandelion in the bath, or the kitchen, or even the study where he does his serious writing. Geralt makes his way outside to look for him-- perhaps he's decided that a little early rising would be good for the creative juices. And while a witcher wouldn't know much about that-- Geralt leaves all matters of the creative in Dandelion's capable hands-- he'd have few qualms with a bard that rouses himself when there are still a few hours of morning left.

[personal profile] rollstoseduce 2020-06-12 07:43 pm (UTC)(link)
See you around, Geralt.

That's what he says. Why? Because that's how it usually goes. They argue all the time, it's nothing new. And yet this time, it feels different. With every step he takes down the mountain, the shock slowly fades to leave room for other stronger emotions. Hurt. Sadness. Betrayal.

Anger. At Geralt or at himself for being such a fool? Probably a bit of both.

He had thought himself to be so smart, so good at reading Geralt, to see the real meaning of his actions behind the wall of brooding and grunts. He had thought we aren't friends had been Geralt trying to deal with his witcher logic by pushing away the things that mattered.

He was wrong.

And here he is now, with a broken heart and tears he can't stop from falling anymore when he hugs Roach after taking his things back. His favorite girl in the world gets one last sugar cube before they part, and he could swear she doesn't want him to leave. If only her master would agree.

That night, Jaskier spends it at a tavern, getting as drunk as he can. Bare feet jump on a table and he sings until his throat hurts, songs about everyone and everything, but not a single one about the White Wolf. Twenty years spent on that asshole, the prime of his youth - wasted. No more! The White Wolf can go fuck himself. Jaskier has plenty of other things to sing about.

(The fact he finishes Her sweet kiss with a new bitter, angry twist, is irrelevant.)

Sadly, the rest of the world hasn't caught up with this update in the bard's repertoire. His reputation follows him around, impossible to escape. His mind doesn't have enough of those creative juices either, this is worse than when he broke up with the countess. He needs a break, needs to rest, needs to bury himself in art and forget.

He needs Oxenfurt.

It would be a long trip, which he would usually not mind, but he isn't in the mood for it. Besides, war is getting closer, and he shouldn't be walking so freely while being an associate (ha) of the witcher that claimed the Cintra heir. So Jaskier, for once, swallows his pride and pays a sorceress to open a portal for him.

Judging by the look she gives him, she's reading his mind. Bloody hell, are all witches out to get him after all?

"You don't need Oxenfurt, songbird. You need something else."

He doesn't have time to ask what she means when the portal swallows him, only to drop him... somewhere. Definitely not Oxenfurt. A villa of some kind, it looks like? Fuck, if some guards were to find him here, he would be screwed. Jaskier hugs his lute to his chest and, with worry and anxiety taking over his scent, proceeds to explore the place as carefully as he can, staying behind walls and trees for hiding.

A vineyard. The aromas are nice, and the place in general is well kept. In other circumstances, he wouldn't mind spending time here, drink some fine wine and bring a lady to lie down with him on the grass. But alas, what he needs now are answers, and possibly a way out. The smell of (literal) horseshit suddenly hits his nose, and Jaskier decides to hurry in that direction - stables could mean a stable boy, one young and innocent that would help instead of yelling and kicking him out.

What he finds instead, however, kicks him right in the guts. Metaphorically.

"...Roach?"

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Is he here? Is that why the witch sent him this way instead of Oxenfurt? He can't stay, he just can't. And yet... he can't help coming closer to pet her. It's barely been a month, but he's missed her (well, not just her, but he doesn't want to think about the implications of that right now). She seems to be confused by him at first, but soon she gives in, accepting his stroking of her fur.

"My sweet girl, how come you-- oi!" Jaskier jumps in surprise when a second horse comes closer as well, bumping its head against his tired body. It's a lovely shade of white, and Jaskier finds himself thinking this the kind of horse he would pick for himself. "Easy there! I don't have anything to give you!" The white horse starts nibbling on his doublet, and Jaskier squeals as he tries to pull his sleeve away. "Oi, oi! Don't-- let me go, you beast, I need to go before he finds me!"
golden_oriole: (where's my dumb bard)

[personal profile] golden_oriole 2020-06-12 08:27 pm (UTC)(link)
Geralt strolls the grounds, dressed comfortably in his white shirt-- made of some soft fabric that Dandelion had insisted that he get-- and those very tailored trousers that everyone always commented on, keeping an ear out for his wayward bard. He's nearing the stables when he hears the soft murmur of a familiar voice, pitched lower as though its owner is trying to remain unheard.

So that's where he is. Dandelion's sneaking apples and sugar cubes to the horses again, spoiling their breakfasts. That's how he got into Roach's good graces in the first place, bribing her with treats until she liked him best. As he'd said before-- her affections are for purchase, my dear, and I aim to buy.

He stands in the doorway of the stables, leaning against the frame. Dandelion's back is to him but his scent is unmistakable-- a little different today, but the base of it is the same. A more floral perfume than his usual woody, spicy scent. His hair is shorter, as well-- he must have really gotten up early if he'd already cut it, and that's a surprise-- and his doublet is more subdued. More like the clothes he would wear earlier in their friendship, when they traveled hard and all of his frippery would've never lasted.

"You may be a little late for that, my friend," he says, his voice warm with affection. "You've been found."

He's carrying his lute, as well, as his bags, as though he is about to go traveling. Had he meant to leave before Geralt woke, without even saying good-bye? The witcher steps a little closer, concern furrowing his brow.

"Dandelion?" Surely his dearest friend-- more than just friend, really, though they hadn't quite put the words to what they were yet-- wouldn't just steal away like a thief in the night. "Is everything all right?"

[personal profile] rollstoseduce 2020-06-12 09:18 pm (UTC)(link)
The sound of that very deep and familiar voice turns his anxiety up to eleven, and so Jaskier is too distracted by his own stomach making a turn to notice the affection in the man's tone, or the use of the f-word. Instead, he closes his eyes and lets out a very hearfelt-

"...fuck."

-just like Geralt (indirectly) taught him. Just his luck.

A mix of sadness and anger fills his scent as he turns around, ready for a confrontation, but confusion takes over instead when he sees what he's in front of him. His own brow furrows as well when blue eyes take in the details - the voice matches, so do the eyes and the hair - that jaw, as well, he would recognize anywhere, sharp enough to destroy rocks. Handsome as the day he met him, except... except it is all so wrong at the same time. The eye scar, the medallion, the beard, his age. What the fuck is going on?

"What-- how-- who--" There are other witchers in the world, he knows, he isn't that stupid. But only one wolf (because even if the medallion is all wrong, that's what it claims he is) is recognizable because of his white hair. Geralt once mentioned an old teacher living in Kaer Morhen, but supposedly he never leaves the place. Besides, Roach is here, that cannot be a coincide. That only leaves one explanation: magic. And so Jaskier's scent starts adding fear as well. "Bloody hell. Doppler? Glamour? Did that witch put you up for this-- this-- piss-poor impression?" Hugging his lute again, he starts walking back, ignoring Pegasus and hiding by Roach's side, finding her presence familiar and at least a tiny bit comforting. He doesn't want to depend on Geralt anymore, not after the mountain, but there's nothing he can do if a monster is involved. "I don't know what you want but when he finds out you stole his horse, he--"

Both his movement and his words freeze, though, when the creature calls him that. The one nickname he hasn't hear since he was a little kid - dandelion. His grandmother would compare him to flowers all the time, buttercups and dandelions being her favorite to use because of his sunny personality. When the time came for Jaskier to choose his new name, he knew exactly what to go for.

How dare this monster to rob such a beloved memory from him.

"How--" He gulps, hands trembling where they hold his lute. "How do you know that name? Stay out of my mind!"
golden_oriole: (young lady you're grounded)

[personal profile] golden_oriole 2020-06-12 10:05 pm (UTC)(link)
Dandelion turns around, his scent suddenly full of fear and anxiety in a manner that Geralt had never smelled on him before. The concerned furrows in his forehead get deeper, and when the bard lays eyes on him-- everything is clearly wrong. The face isn't the same, more boyish than Dandelion's, and without his carefully trimmed facial hair. He's a little shorter, as well-- the bard that Geralt knew was just an inch or so taller than him, and this one was perhaps just an inch or so shorter.

But his eyes-- his eyes are the same, that unmistakable cornflower blue. Geralt would always know his bard by his eyes.

(He had, once when he was very deep in his cups, spoken to Dandelion about how all the very important people in his life had remarkable eyes. Yen's violet, the bard's cornflower blue, Ciri's brilliant green. Dandelion had spouted off some rubbish about windows to the soul and how all of his loves must therefore have brilliant souls, and Geralt had kissed him just so that he'd stop talking.)

"I'm not sure how I'd go about stealing my own horse," he says, only stepping close enough so that he can still see not-Dandelion. "But if it'll make you feel better, I can say I'll be mad at myself later for it."

There's a pang in his chest when the bard accuses him of being a doppler or a monster or something that isn't his cherished friend and muse, but there is something clearly going on here, so Geralt tries not to take it to heart. What he does know is that his friend-- even if he doesn't look like the friend that he remembers-- needs his help, and quite desperately. And he could never leave Dandelion's side when he needs help.

"I'm not in your head. I know that name because it's what you call yourself," he says, his voice low and soft, the same one that he uses when calming spooked horses. "You told me that your grandmother used to call you Dandelion, and sometimes Buttercup. You thought about calling yourself Buttercup instead, but decided that no one would take you seriously."

At the time, Geralt had told him that no one would take him seriously regardless of which flower name he used, and Dandelion had just puffed himself up in mock offense and stole his ale. He'd forgotten his irritation by the time he'd gotten to the bottom of the pint.

"Look, we can check, all right? You have a silver knife on you, don't you? I know I gave you one."

He can only hope that whatever... place this other bard came from, whatever Geralt had been looking after him, that he'd had the same concern for his friend's safety. Gods, though, this whole thing is Ciri's kind of business, not his-- she's the one who can go between worlds. He'll have to get word to her somehow, maybe through Yen.

Geralt holds out one of his arms; the sleeve is rolled up to the elbow, his scarred forearm bared.

"Monsters react to silver. Touch me with it and you'll know for sure."

[personal profile] rollstoseduce 2020-06-12 11:24 pm (UTC)(link)
For every step the creature takes towards him, Jaskier takes one back, feeling the traitor that is his heart beating furiously. He's nervous and scared, he wants to run, and yet he can't stop his ears from tingling at the sweetness of that voice speaking to him like that - like he's something precious to be protected.

Sadly, it doesn't last long. The next words are a knife twisting in his chest, and anger starts boiling inside him. He wants the monster to stop mentioning his beloved grandmother, he has no right!

"Oh, do shut up, you're terrible at this! I've never told anyone-" Eyes widen at the rest, and Jaskier being Jaskier, dramatic even in the face of (what he thinks it's) danger, puffs up, offended as he can be. Not taken seriously? The nerve! "EXCUSE YOU! There's nothing wrong with my name, you bloody wanker!"

Stop speaking to me as if you knew me, he wants to say as well, but he freezes once again when the creature exposes his arm for him. The metaphorical knife twists once more, dragging his heart through agony at the memory of having Geralt trusting him with his scars. Because of course he recognizes those scars, most of them at least - it's not strange for Geralt to have a couple of new ones every time they meet. He can name the story behind them all, and yet, these feel wrong as well. The position is correct, but they haven't healed right...

As if nobody has taken care of them.

Monsters react to silver, a lesson Jaskier learned early on. He's still anxious as hell, but there's something obviously going on here - even if the creature has gotten some details wrong, it still knows enough that makes Jaskier curious. Especially the details about his grandmother. He has no knife, but there's something silver with him that he could use. Another fond memory that he'd rather not bring into this, but beggars can't be choosers.

He opens the case of his lute to retrieve a little shiny something he hid in a pocket he sewed himself inside the case - a buttercup brooch, a gift from the Countess de Stael herself. Oh, if she could see the use he's giving it right now, she would probably feel incredibly smug. Gods, he wishes he could be in her arms right now.

A trembling hand comes closer very slowly and puts silver against skin... nothing happens. Jaskier stops breathing for a second and stares at creatu- man in front of him, not knowing what to say (and wow, isn't that a miracle), trying to make sense of it all. Is he dreaming? He's probably dreaming - he has been drinking a lot after all. Some movement next to them makes him look away from pseudo-Geralt: Roach, bumping her nose against the witcher, then against Jaskier himself. It makes him smile just a tiny bit - at least something stays true to how it should be.

"...I know her. And she knows us both. But you aren't Geralt." He says as he looks at the man again, this time with doubt sneaking into his voice. The details are still wrong, yet those eyes and jaw he would recognize anywhere. At least he isn't being attacked either, and that helps chase the fear away - if this was an enemy, Jaskier would be dead already. "I don't understand. What on Melitele's name is going on?"
golden_oriole: (does that make him WDILF)

[personal profile] golden_oriole 2020-06-13 01:17 am (UTC)(link)
Jaskier retrieves some silver from his lute case after Geralt's suggestion, but it isn't a knife-- it's a brooch. From a practical standpoint, it doesn't matter what form the silver's in, so long as it's silver, but this means that this not-Dandelion-- Buttercup, judging from the man's reaction to his anecdote-- doesn't have a knife given to him by a witcher who was concerned for his safety. What was his world's Geralt thinking? Unless he is constantly at the bard's side, isn't he worried about whether he'll be safe on his own?

Geralt couldn't always protect Dandelion, but he had at least wanted to make sure that the bard could protect himself, if push came to shove. And possibly not by braining someone with his lute, because he'd done that before and, while effective, it was something that he could only do once.

More importantly, though, the silver brooch is inert against his skin, because he's not a monster. That seems to be enough proof for Buttercup that Geralt isn't a doppler or some other nasty creature, but he still doesn't believe that he's Geralt. The fact that Roach noses up against him without hostility seems to help his case-- Roach wouldn't suffer someone unfamiliar in the stables with her. She's been known to kick even stable boys who aren't properly respectful.

"I am Geralt," he replies, as kindly as he's able. This is obviously coming as a terrible shock to the bard, so he tries to be tactful. It's not his strongest suit, but he has managed to speak to royalty without pissing them off, so he ought to be able to manage as much with a bard. "I don't know what's going on, exactly, but I'd bet that magic's involved somehow."

Portals, probably. Gods, Geralt hates fucking portals.

"I doubt you'll find the answer in here with Roach, anyway. She's not very talkative, most of the time. Come back to the house with me and we can try to figure out what's happened after breakfast."

Things generally look better after breakfast, he's found. Especially because he's not making his own breakfasts these days, and he has much better ones than stringy rabbit cooked over a campfire.

[personal profile] rollstoseduce 2020-06-13 02:04 am (UTC)(link)
"There's always magic involved." He mumbles. "Fucking witches."

This is what he gets for not wanting to paint them all under the same Yennefer brush like a bigot? Fuck them all, seriously.

I am Geralt, the man says, and Jaskier feels a turmoil of emotions attempting to explode in his chest. Looking at him is almost like seeing a distorted picture from being dizzy or drunk, or hell- high. There's so much he recognizes yet at the same time, so much that feels wrong. It gets on his nerves. He feels confused, overwhelmed and... and...

Vulnerable.

That's it, that's the word. Vulnerable and exposed, and he hates it. This man treats him like he knows him, like he understands him, knows intimate details of his life, and he's... kind, which Jaskier wants to cling to but also infuriates him to no end. Even if he is Geralt, it's a still not good thing, not exactly. Sure, it means he isn't in any danger, but the pain from the mountain is still fresh, and he swore to himself he wouldn't give in again, he wouldn't follow the asshole around, wouldn't give him any more years of his life...

Jaskier wants to cry. He should be showering the man with questions, trying to uncover a new mystery, instead he feels anxious and helpless - wary, quiet, so much unlike himself. And that's because he doesn't know how to react without a breakdown (which he won't have, won't give this ass the pleasure). He wants to jump into those witcher arms and run away from him at the same time.

She is more talkative than you, he wants to reply out of habit. Except it isn't accurate, because this 'Geralt' has said more in a few minutes than Jaskier is used to hear from him in a whole week. One thing is true though, as much as it pains him: he won't achieve anything staying here in the stable. And food does sound nice...

Bollocks. Is it really breaking his word to himself if he doesn't have much of a choice?

"Where am I anyway?" He asks after putting the brooch back in the lute case, which he hangs back on his shoulder to follow notGeralt out, keeping more than a couple of inches between them. Even the brushing of their arms would destroy him, he's sure. "This is obviously not Oxenfurt."

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