vexley

[vexley]

the atlantis version because honestly what else did you expect from me (sg1)

[vexley]

Yennefer gives Jaskier a new set of writing tools and says she just “found them lying around somewhere”. And Geralt waits for Jaskier to go show off the set to Ciri, then he comes up next to Yennefer and goes, “Isn’t that the set we saw in that one shop window a couple weeks ago that Jaskier liked so much?” And Yennefer goes, “Quiet you.”

Due to a mishap with some drowners in a river, Jaskier had had to choose between saving his lute or his rucksack. As a result, most of his spare clothes, his toiletries and most importantly, his notebook, had been carried away by the current. 

He was still sulking about it days later, muttering about the song he was writing, the chronicles of something or another which would have become his next masterpiece, now lost forever to the pitiless depths of the Pontar.

“Is it really such a great a loss ?” Yennefer finally snapped, meaning, of course, that Jaskier could probably have rewritten the song thrice over in the time he had been whinging. 

Jaskier opened his mouth, then closed it. The expression on his face as he glanced away was … hurt. 

Yennefer frowned. Jaskier had always answered her barbs with, admittedly clumsier, returns of his own. This was new. And annoying.

The downturned corners of Jaskier’s mouth nagged at her until she portaled to Oxenfurt, and found herself to a stationary store which she remembered Jaskier frequenting on occasion. 

The next morning, Jaskier presented himself at breakfast with a peculiar look on his face. 

“Something the matter, Bard?” Yennefer asked archly, and Geralt looked up from his truncheon. 

“Do you know what these were doing on my nightstand?” Jaskier asked, presenting in one hand a drakeskin leather bound journal in butter yellow, and in the other, a red velvet roll, which when unfurled, revealed a set of quills cut from black swan feathers, and a pot of ink.”

“How curious,” Yennefer said, ignoring the raise in Geralt’s eyebrows as he glanced at her. 

“Well,” Jaskier said, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips, the first he’d worn since his loss in the river. “So long as its not some trick gift by a fairy which will sweep me to a dark dimension if I accept it.” 

“I suppose I can check for curses, if you are so worried,” Yennefer said, and made a show of running putting her hands on the offered items, her fingers brushing briefly, warmly against Jaskier’s skin. “Unfortunately mundane,” Yennefer concluded, flipping her hair behind one shoulder. “Though the notebook has been spelled to resist water, interestingly enough.” 

“Interesting indeed,” Jaskier said gravely, flicking his eyes over Geralt, then Yennefer. “Well, if you come across anyone missing these clearly expensive, unused writing implements … do not send them my way because I’m keeping them.” 

With a smile and a jaunty swing to his hips, Jaskier walked away, whistling. 

Yennefer sipped at her cool juice and allowed the silence between her and Geralt to unspool. 

“Should we be worried?” Geralt asked, his tone dry. “Some mysterious, perhaps sinister being is breaking into inn rooms to leave … oddly well-chosen presents for our bard.” 

Yennefer raised one shoulder. If she had presented the gifts to Jaskier directly, he would react with suspicion, or, worse, gratitude. This was a silly little game, perhaps, but she was counting on Jaskier’s uncertainty over the extent of her fondness for him versus Geralt’s equal likelihood to arrange something like this to stave off any sort of mushy confrontation. 

They traded a look of quiet understanding, and Geralt stood from the table. 

“The song he was writing,” he called over his shoulder. “It was about you.” 

It was Yennefer’s turn to open her mouth and close it, feeling suddenly, strangely flustered. 

[vexley]

Witcher Ladies Appreciation Week: Favourite Minor Character ↳ Renfri/Shrike

I could have become so many things.

[vexley]

Rodney’s always loved the stars.

Loved what they represented, loved the science behind them, loved the possibility they held.

So when John Sheppard sits his ass down in a chair built by actual aliens, and Rodney says “Major, think about where we are in the solar system,” Rodney kind of can’t believe his luck when it lights up, a map of the solar system, right in front of his eyes.

Rodney’s always loved the stars, and John Sheppard can summon them from thin air. He makes worlds that Rodney’s dreamed of since he was a kid possible.

Who wouldn’t fall in love with that?

[vexley]

oh god it's that time of the year again, so here are some quick reminders:

The content allowed on AO3 is legal according to American law. This is a sensible place to draw the line when your explicitly stated aim is to have a fanfiction site where the content is not subjected to random purges for obscure reasons

AO3 is run by a non-profit organisation. Nobody is making any money out of this, and when the donation drive goal is exceeded, excess money will go to running the site in the future and fighting potential legal battles for the right to create fanworks

It's possible to donate to AO3 and various charities etc, stop acting as though every cent donated to AO3 is a cent taken from "people who need it more"

"Fiction affects reality" yes but the fiction that actually has a societal impact is the latest heteronormative, subtly racist, mass marketed drivel from Disney, not that one properly tagged incest PWP fic with 150 hits and 40 kudos on AO3

[vexley]

The first time Jaskier meets Lambert he’s been chained up in a prison in Vizima for two weeks.

“Oh, another midnight torture? What a surprise, bring it on!” Jaskier snarls at the dark figure standing at the door of the cell. “Come on, Master Henchman, bring on the Scavenger’s Daughter, bring those thumbscrews to torture an innocent troubadour–”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls from the ceiling where their torturers chained him up about a week ago when he nearly bit off a guard’s finger. “Shut up.”

“Excuse me, but I’m not going to suffer this–” Jaskier gestures with his hand wildly, his chains clinking. “This preposterous parody of justice silent! Show your face at least, coward!” he spits at the cloaked figure. “Let me see the cruel and foolish man, who fears not the punishment Destiny harbours for those, who hurt the innocent! Let me know the name of the man, who brings my doom, so with my last breath I can curse him.”

Despite his daring words Jaskier’s mouth slams shut when the cloaked man steps closer and moves his hand. However, in the end he only reaches up to lower his hood. Yellow, cat-like eyes, much like those of Geralt look at Jaskier with an amused squint in the dim light.

“What a lovely introduction for little old me. I’m touched.” The man grins and looks up at Geralt. “Is he always so wordy?”

“Always,” the witcher confirms from the ceiling.

Jaskier looks between Geralt and the stranger confused, then he says, tentatively,

“Are you– Vesemir?”

The cloaked man lets out a bark of laughter at that.

“Should you ever meet the old man, don’t tell him you said that. He’d be offended.” He shrugs off the heavy cloak to the floor, revealing a stylishly sewed leather jerkin and gives Jaskier a theatric little bow. “Lambert dol Angra, at your service,” he says, and picks out a small tool from a pouch on his belt to duck down to tinker with the lock on Jaskier’s handcuffs.

“Lambert of Dol Angra?” Jaskier repeats watching as the man frees first his right then his left wrist.

“No, no ‘of’,” Lambert huffs, with the air of someone, who’s already explained something about a hundred times, which is, considering the lifespan of witchers, actually quite likely. “Dol Angra, the Elven name of the city next to the River Angra literally translates to ‘of the Angra’, which with an extra ‘of’ in my name would make me ‘of of the Angra’. And that would be just silly, wouldn’t it?” he asks, flashing a bright smile at Jaskier as he takes the cuffs off his sore wrists.

“Wouldn’t be the stupidest thing about you,” Geralt chimes in from the ceiling, making them both turn their heads up at him.

“That’s rich, coming from a man chained to the roof,” Lambert retorts snidely, but despite his biting words he’s quick to stand on the creaky bench (the only piece of furniture in their cell), so that he can work on the locks holding Geralt restrained. “Remind me, what were you arrested for? Spanking the alderman’s son, hm?”

“I was mind controlled,” Geralt grits out. The kick towards Lambert’s face once his leg’s freed is definitely not just a muscle spasm. Lambert dodges it easily though and moves to pick another lock. Once he frees the last chain he swiftly catches Geralt in the air before he’d land on the ground.

“Hello schmuck,” Lambert murmurs, effortlessly holding Geralt in a bridal carry as if that was his gods given job. “Long time no see.”

“Prick,” Geralt says as a greeting, wiggling out of Lambert’s arms with a ferocity as if that was his personal quest bestowed upon him by the very same gods.

“Aw, won’t you let me carry you over the doorstep?” Lambert crows, and Geralt’s just about to say something biting to that when Jaskier loudly clears his throat.

“I hate to interrupt, gentlemen,” he says flatly. “But I think we should, you know, get the hell out of here preferably before the guards notice us.”

Two pairs of golden eyes blink at him surprised.

“Well, you heard your bard,” Lambert says eventually and then without warning he lets Geralt go. He lands on the ground with a thud and a groan, which quickly turns into a snarl as Lambert casually steps over him to walk out of the cell.

“Oi, you bastard, you can’t just drop a poor man like that!” Jaskier calls after him before he rushes to Geralt’s side. “Are you alright?” he asks earnestly, holding out a hand for Geralt. The witcher makes a point of not taking it and scrambling to his feet on his own.

“I’m fine,” he grunts, dusting off his trousers. After two weeks rotting in a prison cell it doesn’t do much, but still, at least it makes Geralt feel a little more like himself. He’s just about to step out of the cell when Jaskier grabs his hand, the unusual physical contact making Geralt’s head snap back.

There were a few precious times when Jaskier was willing to hold hands, most of which happened in the context of some awkward, but positively delicious trysts in the wilderness when they couldn’t pay for whores and a couple of times when they were in mortal peril for simple comfort.

Geralt knows how monstrous he is and Jaskier forcing himself to call for his attention by touching him has significance.

“What?” he asks sharply, his shoulders tense. Jaskier worries his lips between his teeth for a moment before he asks, quietly,

“Who is he, Geralt?”

Geralt knits his eyebrows, looking at the bard as if he thought he was a little slow.

“He’s Lambert.”

Jaskier lets out a small, humourless chuckle, his eyes a little too knowing and sad for his young age and light nature when he looks up at Geralt, and asks,

“Who is he to you?

For a moment Geralt just eyes Jaskier, trying to parse out the meaning of this questioning, for he knows it is not simply in the words, but in the way Jaskier’s hand clenches and his mouth wobbles just a little like when he’s about to cry, but tries to put on a brave face.

“He’s just a prick,” Geralt says eventually, his tone soft and warm despite the crude wording.

Jaskier smiles and nods.

A loud explosion shakes the ground beneath their feet.

“Gentlemen,” Lambert croons, popping his head in through the door. “I hate to interrupt, but the guards have noticed us, so if we don’t want to die a fucking gruesome death in about three minutes, we might want to move our asses.”

Jaskier looks up at Geralt and the witcher squeezes his hand reassuringly.

“Let’s go,” Jaskier agrees with a small smile, and they do just exactly that.

[vexley]

who keeps giving her these things

[vexley]

[vexley]

commission for @zagubionywilk  based on this joy of a post >:3c

[vexley]

Oh look it's the vaugly bi-coded optimistic character who gets treated as a joke and abandoned that I've projected all my issues on!

[vexley]

[vexley]

today im thinking about the huge buff bread guy from kikis delivery service. highly underrated guy

[vexley]

Gowns by Teuta Matoshi

[vexley]

Napping in the 9-sided tower, with magically always warm tea

My kink is self-loathing wizards finding happiness

(I’m working on my master thesis and it’s stressful so it’s nice to balance that with drawing detailed nap times)

[vexley]

Marie Kondo really isnt fucking around

[vexley]

yennefer and jaskier after the mountain breakup 🐺⚔️

[vexley]

Combine the prompts you get from pressing it 5 and 6 times! (:

Thank you!

Your prompts: Geralt having to comfort Jaskier because Jaskier just encountered a very large, unpleasant bug outside that scared him and Jaskier giving Geralt a tight hug that makes him lose his breath.

~

Geralt nearly sliced his hand clean off when he heard the scream, both blade and whetstone tumbling to the leafy floor.

“Geralt!”

For fuck’s sake. It was the middle of the night, in the middle of the woods. How had Jaskier managed to get himself into trouble here?

“What?” Geralt shouted, retrieving the sword.

“I need, ah, a little help, Geralt!”

He still didn’t get up. “What have you done now?”

“There’s this rather large… spidery… thing! If you could just–”

Of course. Of fucking course. Geralt resumed sharpening with a sigh and a shake of his head. “A spider?”

“It’s a very big spider!”

“Just go around it!”

“Ahh–” There was a moment’s silence, then another yell. “Nope! Nope, don’t think that’ll do it, I’m afraid.”

“It’s just a spider!”

“There is nothing just about–” Another scream. 

With a sigh, Geralt leant the sword and whetstone against the log upon which he was sat, stood, and started to head towards the noise.

“For fuck’s sake, Jaskier,” he called through the trees, “You’d think after fifteen years you’d be used to–”

Ah. Jaskier stood at one side of a small clearing, the kindling he was supposed to be gathering dropped at his feet, back pressed against the trunk of a tree. Advancing upon him, clicking horribly, was an arachnomorph.

And Geralt had left his swords at the camp.

Fuck.

He vaulted over a fallen tree and landed beside the enormous arachnid with a thud. It turned on him, instantly distracted, and with a flick of his fingers Geralt hit it with a prolonged blast of Igni, forcing it back. The fire caught quickly, and the creature - screeching and clacking and writhing - tumbled to its back, legs twitching.

“Fuck,” Geralt muttered, turning back to Jaskier. “I–”

His words were cut off as Jaskier slammed into him in a squeezing, breathless embrace. He gripped Geralt’s chest so hard it winded him, his pulse racing beneath Geralt’s fingertips. The touch would have been welcome, were it not for the fact that Jaskier was clearly terrified.

After a moment, Geralt wrapped his arms around the bard, pulling him closer. Jaskier muttered something against his neck.

“What was that?”

Finally, Jaskier pulled away. When he spoke, his voice shook.

“I told you it was very big.”