#henry bird

[mlobsters]

the great british bake off series 10 episode 6: desserts

[hairycelebs]

[wherethereareoctobers]

Re-watching GBBO 2019, and. Henry wearing Helena’s rhinestone spiderweb pendant on his apron the week after she goes out is really the encapsulation of everything about the show at it’s best, huh.

[shunshuntaiga]

This little potato has saved my life more times than I think people realize, and he's definitely the reason I'm still around right now

[nibblyssacrifice]

I forgot how hilarious Henry is but his opening quote is just down right historical and relatable: “I wouldn’t say I’m a high achiever. I’d say I’d achieve certain things in the sort of same way that you can achieve… a hangover.”

[fantastic-nonsense]

[the-evil-clergyman]

Nymphs in a Forest by Henri Adrien Tanoux (1898)

[dozydawn]

snake v bird makes for some of the sickest photos

[squash1]

“yOu HaVeN’t rEaD tHe cLaSsiCs”

oh. i’ve read the classics.

[babacontainsmultitudes]

Folks, I come with important news from a dndads patreon monthly discord chat.

Anthony thinks Terry would crochet.

This has been a public service announcement, thank you.

[kineticallyanywhere]

anyway her fantasy name is Burr Dy'Oak, biological citizen of New Oakvale. And Bird.

[mlobsters]

the great british baking show s10e1 (c7e1)

[sidetongue]

who else could be this handsome with mud smeared on their face

[life-imitates-art-far-more]

Henri-Guillaume Schlesinger (1814-1893) "Girl with Dead Bird" (1890) Located in the Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna, Austria

[kiritella]

Birds and Stones

Pairings: Geralt of Rivia x Fem!reader

Words: 3.1k~

Warnings: A monster fight (rather non-descriptive), a little blood, hypothermia, worried Geralt

Author's Notes: Sorry this one is a bit off my usual and if it is weird. I recently powered through The Witcher on Netflix and had a thought. Writer's block is still rough, but getting better!

-------------------------

“Geralt—”

It wasn’t his name that cut through him like a jagged blade when the kikimora’s talon hit his chest, it was the scream that came with it. It was the sound of her voice shifting from complete confidence in him to utter terror. The look in her eyes as she fell from the remains of the collapsing bridge, his hand wrenched from hers, the hope in them dying into realization. He couldn’t save her. This was his realization. Harrowing pain ripped through him when her body plunged into the river and her heartbeat, once a constant reminder of her presence, became indistinguishable from the rapids and ice carrying her body downstream. The kikimora took hold of him as her body vanished beneath the water, and a sound he hadn’t heard himself make in years tore from his throat: desperation.

Flung by the creature, his body collided on the other side of the fallen bridge, cushioned by the thick layer of snow. His head snapped back as the beast lunged for him, its blood staining the ground from its severed arm. Geralt’s hands tightened around the sword’s hilt as pain twisted out of his chest and sank into his limbs, turning his vision red and black. His mind didn’t register the fight, only a vague sense of movement as he swung his sword, a burn in his lungs, his muscles moving of their own habits and years of experience. His sense of time dulled as each second pulled out a year’s worth of life from him. He hadn’t heard her gasp for air. The red and black slipped out of his mind when his blade sheathed through the kikimora’s throat, retrieved only to cut off its head. Then he ran.

The rapids sent white mist up into the air when he found his way to the base of the cliffside, the sound of rushing water invading his ears to the point it was difficult to hear anything else. He scanned down the bank, but for as far as his eyes could reach, he saw nothing. No body, no footsteps, no indication she had pulled herself from the icy water. His breath came in short as he tried to focus, eyes becoming wild as he started downstream, his steps becoming quicker with each second passing that he couldn’t see a trace of her. 

Focus.

The body goes into shock when it hits the water, forcing you to gasp for breath. If she wasn’t careful, she could inhale water or fall into a spell of rapid breathing, losing control. She would need to control her breathing in under a minute.

After 10 minutes of immersion she would lose the ability to fully use her limbs. However, body heat would be lost faster the more she moved. She would need to flow with the current and glide herself to shore using as little movement as possible. How long had it taken him to kill the monster? How many minutes was that?

In under an hour, her body would become too weak and cold, forcing her unconscious and—

His jaw clenched. It wouldn’t take that long. Still, though he knew in his mind without a doubt, he would find her, he couldn’t settle the cold hands clenching around his lungs. The fear gripped at his chest like nothing else and drove his feet to move faster, his eyes to strain a little farther. It was a fear known only for those who were his.

She was his.

—

Her body struggled when her hand gripped onto the jagged rocks along the bank, her vision spotting as she heaved her chest out of the frozen water. Her lungs coughed up the remnants of the river behind her, limbs collapsing as they lost feeling. The pins and needles once sparking beneath her skin were gone, though her body shivered uncontrollably. It was a good sign, at least, the shivering, but the gust of deep winter air cut around her and she wondered how much longer her body would hold out against it. Rocks dug into the palms of her hands as she crawled further out of the water, her feet at last pulled onto the ground as the weight of her body grew. A cry broke against her teeth as pain erupted up her leg, curling even into her belly.

It had to be broken. Given the height she fell from, she wasn’t entirely surprised. It did, however, shatter her hopes of walking out of there, of finding Geralt. Gritting her teeth, she pulled herself up and looked around. Cliffs rose on either side of the river, leaving maybe a rod’s distance of graveled land between her and the nearest wall. Ice grew along the waterline, building up along the cliffs and its ledges as snow mounted upon them, and if she hadn’t been frightened of the cold allowing it to exist, it might have been beautiful. Perhaps if her mind wasn’t hazy and her vision growing dark, she would have admired them, but with growing numbness it was all a miserable shade of gray taunting her stubborn will to live. There were divots, though, small, but enough to shield her from the brunt of the wind if she could reach them. It was a bit of luck, she supposed. She smiled grimly, but it quickly dissolved when a shrill sound echoed through her memory.

Geralt. His hand gripping her wrist when the kikimora appeared, the bridge shaking under the creature’s weight, the sheathing ring of Geralt’s sword, the old ropes snapping—and weightlessness. So close to the ledge, to solid ground, and then nothing but a yank of her wrist as his hand was ripped from her by the swing of the kikimora’s arm. The sound that had ripped from his lungs—pain, desperation—she had never been cursed with the knowledge of it until now. Frustration, annoyance, gentleness, and care, those were the sounds she had a loving collection of, but this one—it sent violent tremors through her body. Fear. Fear for him. All at once, the pain in her leg, the weakness of her body and mind were insignificant. She dragged herself to her feet.

She huffed on a choked breath, her eyes squeezing closed against the wind as she hauled her body toward the cliffside. Her cries echoed along the stone when she stumbled against the wall, using its rugged face as a crutch to lean her weight on. Stubbornly, she walked, limping past the pain as she forced her numb legs to move, to find purchase, but all too soon she collapsed. Overtaken by the cold and the slippery, frozen ground, she fell to her knees near the mouth of a small cave, her head colliding with the wall to leave her more dizzy than she had already been. Just as quickly as the strength to stand had come to her, it left, leaving her hollow.

“—ralt…” she mumbled, his name sounding wrong coming from unfeeling lips and a heavy tongue. She huffed in frustration as pain swept over her skin with the wind, collecting the powdery white snow on her clothes.

Her clothes....

Clothes.

Shit.

Limply, her hands clawed at her soaked tunic, attempting to pull it over her head but failing miserably. Groaning weakly, she tried again, the garment slipping from her grasp as her fingers couldn’t hold onto the material, sliding over her body instead and falling to the ground. How long had she been out there? In the river? It was in this she noticed the stillness of her hand, and her heart sank. It wasn’t moving. She wasn’t moving.

When had she stopped shivering?

—

“Fuck—” Geralt cursed, his voice raw like the ground edges of a stone, his wide eyes latched on her collapsed body, snow beginning to pile upon her. His knees dug into the gravel as he dropped to her side. “Dove?” 

She was limp, her skin descending into a pale grey-blue as he rolled her onto her back, cradling her head. Clotted blood trailed down the side of her face as his hands flew to inspect the gash along her temple, his thumb sweeping over her cheek. The vines twisting around his chest tightened when her half-lidded eyes shifted, trailing up his body to meet his eyes, empty, lacking a sliver of recognition before they closed entirely. His lips pressed tight as he glanced to the mouth of the cave some distance away, and he hastened.

“Forgive me,” he spoke, laying her head back on the ground as he began to strip her body of her soaked clothes, his hands lingering along her skin to leave a trace of warmth in his wake. He paused at her legs when a purple swelling wrapped around one of her calves. Broken. He swallowed thickly and removed his cloak, wrapping her body within it and pulling her up against him.

He tried not to focus on how cold and limp she was, her nose like ice against his throat, or how still she was, not a shiver trembling within her, her chest hardly moving with each breath. Rather, he leaned his head over hers to hide her from the wind, tucked an arm beneath her knees and hauled her into his arms entirely. Lifting her with him, he rose to his feet and carried her the last bit of distance, into the mouth of the cave. He was quick, feet rushing as the snow storm grew, the afternoon sky darkened by the swells of ice in the atmosphere, spiraling down to the earth like a curse.

The wind howled as he pushed past the dead vines trailing over the cave’s entrance, taking her to the back where the air was still, settling himself on his knees a few feet from the furthest wall. Holding her, he reached out a hand in a sign, igni, and fire erupted violently over the stone. Lacking kindling, the flames soon died out, but their heat remained to act as a furnace. Carefully, he laid her cloaked body on them, an unsettling frustration building in his throat as her body limply settled.

He stormed off, returning after only a minute, her clothes tossed to some edge of the cave as he tore down the vines and bramble, the fallen branches at the foot of the cliff. He brought them beside her, using igni to get the wet wood to ignite, forcing them into a roaring flame. Shifting the sign once more to the rocks, he reheated the floor, sparks and flames blackening the stone. Quickly, his leather jerkin was removed, his tunic to follow before he brought her closer to the flames. Letting the cloak lie beneath her, he settled against her bare skin, his arms and legs wrapped around her with the flames at her back and the warm floor beneath them. 

“Come on now, dove,” he said, and it was now, as he was unable to do anything more than hold her and pray, that he was overwhelmed. His nose buried in the crook of her neck, his arms curling around her tighter, his fingers digging into her skin as his jaw set and released. His golden eyes squeezed shut as he listened to the only sound keeping him tethered: the gentle thump-thump dwelling in her chest—too slow to give him any true comfort.

He hadn’t realized he had shifted, his leg sliding over her hip to pull her closer, his arm tucked beneath her head and crossing over her back as he rocked them back and forth. The movement was hardly perceptible, his gentle sways as he tried to soothe the ache growing within him.

“It’s alright, you’re safe now.”

Thump—thump

“You’re too stubborn to give in to some cold water.”

Thump…..Thump

“Come on…”

Thump………..thump

Too slow—too slow, too fucking slow—

Geralt strained as pain ripped through his chest, tearing through his body and escaping him past grit teeth. He curled into her, hands gripped tight enough to leave bruises in their wake, pulling her into him as if he could sink into her, give her every last bit of himself. His warmth, his strength—everything. Again, the desperation took hold.

His voice was wretched and marred. “Come back. Damn you, come back to me.”

He waited. He waited and waited and waited, casting igni over and over until the floor radiated heat like a summer’s day. Sweat rolled down his back, both from the heat and physical strain of casting so many signs. His body ached, his mind warped, but as time collected minutes like gold, he heard it. Her heartbeat steadied, slowly increasing, her body warming. Relief flooded him, and his whole body went lax. Lifting his head from the crook of her neck, his eyes trailed over her. Her skin was shifting back to its normal hue, and her chest moved with every breath now passing her parted lips. Though her brow was furrowed, she shifted, and he didn’t care that the first sound she made was pained. She’d moved. The heavy breath caught in his lungs released, fanning over her cheek as her eyes cracked open.

—

Gold. It was the first thing she saw, two eyes so familiar and close she thought she was still dissolved in a dreamy haze—granted it had been a rather painful dream. The rest of him slowly formed in the blur, Geralt’s face framed by his dirty white hair, sweat beading along his hairline. One of his arms rested beneath her head, his other was wrapped snugly around her waist—her bare waist, she realized. Steadily, so very slowly, her memories trickled in and the fog lifted. A sigh escaped her as her eyes closed, fighting back the tears welling in them. 

She opened them again when Geralt’s hand cupped the side of her face, fingers reaching to the back of her neck. His jaw clenched, his body rigid as if the notion of her eyes being closed once more pained him. She could see it in the way his eyes flicked between hers, his breaths shallow.

“Hey there, handsome…” she said through heavy lips and tongue, and Geralt softened, huffing out a short laugh before his forehead leaned in, resting against hers.

“You’re delirious…”

“‘M not.”

“Confused, then.” He smiled, a narrow, crooked sort of thing just touching the edges of his lips with a slight tug. “Are you warm?”

She hummed, shivers running down her spine uncontrollably. “I’m getting there,” she whispered, lifting her heavy arm and resting it along his side, trailing her fingers along his skin. “Are you alright?”

He laughed again, but she couldn’t find the humor in the hollow sound this time. Rather, it sent an ache curling around her heart. A crease grew between her brows as she tried to sit up, stopping sharply as pain spiked up her leg. She grit her teeth, a stifled cry pushing up against them and Geralt was quick to press her back down.

“Don’t move. Your leg is broken.”

“Fuck…” she groaned, allowing herself to fall back against him. Still, her hands trailed over his torso, his chest, leading up his back and over his shoulders and arms. She hadn’t forgotten the bridge, the kikimora, the sound that had torn from him, and yet, she found few remnants of the fight. A light bruise, a cut, but no broken bones were to be found beneath her searching fingers, no true injury.

His eyes never left her even as hers wandered over his body, their intensity caressed her skin like she was about to slip out of sight, and he was desperate to remember every dip and curve. Haunted, like a nightmare on the verge of its precipice. Her breath caught when she found them, wide and gripping, almost as if—

“Geralt,” she whispered, sitting up onto her elbow. Her hand traced over his shoulder before her fingers passed over his temple, brushing back the tendrils of hair falling against his cheek, tucking them behind his ear. His lips tightened as his frightened eyes fell closed against his will, his brow furrowing with her touch—pained. “Are you alright?”

The fire crackled behind her, the licks of flames stirring with her shadow and sending waves of gold and yellow over his features. His hand swept up along her spine and over her neck to hold the side of her face, pulling her closer. The tip of his nose brushed along her cheek, his breath unsteady.

“I’m alright,” he said with a voice laced with something heavy and raw before his lips caught hers for a chaste moment. Like a grounding breath, a gust of fresh air, she was settled. “I’m relieved.”

Her hum was soft, sweet, and it washed over him, enveloped him, but not nearly as much as when she pressed her lips to his again, kissing him and solidifying him in the present. The touch of her hands, her scent, her heart—her heart—beating within her chest. She brought him back from the sharp edges of what could have been, what almost was, and gave him something soft to embrace.

Her thumb soothed the crease in his brow as she parted from him, pressing her forehead to his. And as he held her beside the fire, she grew warm. The shivering slowly subsided, the ache within her bones melted. With time, her lover, a man of too few of words to be able to tell her of his heart, was finally at ease. She could feel it as his calloused fingers ran along her skin, hear it as she laid on his chest, his heart falling back into its natural rhythm.

“No more precarious bridges for you,” Geralt said after some time, and she couldn’t help but laugh. His own was soon to follow, though she felt it more in the tremors of his chest more than she heard it.

She lifted her head, resting it on her hand as she peered up at him with a raised brow. “I would hope it is the last of precarious bridges for the both of us.”

He opened his mouth as if to argue, probably to spout some Witcher madness, but he thought the better of it. “I thought that was self evident,” he said, voice tilted in amusement.

She giggled, and this time, she was able to see the fullness of his smile as it reached out and softened every one of his features. Her fingers trailed up into his hair as she leaned in, kissing the cleft of his chin. His golden eyes held on to her as she tried to settle back against his chest. 

“You missed.”

Scoffing, she leaned over him, letting him watch as she rolled her eyes playfully. “Demanding,” she grumbled, and his smile only grew. Unable to refuse him, she brushed her lips against his. “I love you too, Geralt…” she whispered, and at last, she kissed him, knowing well the words he held in his throat, the ones he was trying to convey. She could feel them in his hands, taste them on his tongue. 

Even though the snow piled outside, the wind howling as the sun set, in that cave, in his arms, she was warm.

[thedemonofcat]

Jaskier falls victim to a mage's curse, transforming into a bird. Subsequently, he finds himself confined in a cage and becomes the possession of a merchant.

In an unexpected turn, Jaskier, now a bird, finds himself in Cintra and is purchased to become the new companion for the young princesses. Surprisingly content, he enjoys being with Ciri, appreciating her kindness and relishing the opportunity to care for Geralt's child, a duty the reluctant witcher refuses to undertake.

The fall of Cintra happens, and by some miracle, Jaskier manages to fly out before Nifflgaard can kill him in his tiny bird body. Luckily, Jaskier can find Ciri, who, in turn, finds Geralt with the three of them travelling together.

Now part of an unconventional trio, Jaskier, unable to communicate as a bird, struggles to convey to Geralt that he's undergone a feathery transformation.