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scrawnytreedemon · 3 years

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Zelink for the ship bingo? :0 any game!

OH GOD, THIS IS?? Gonna be a doozy. Buckle in.

SkSw:

WW-PH: Link/Tetra:

Spirit Tracks(in theory! I haven't seen the game yet, can't speak personally):

Nearly all other instances:

RIGHT! getting onto individual analysis,

1, SkSw: By far my favourite of the bunch, and a longtime delight. Whether you construe their relationship as romantic or not, doesn't matter-- They've got such a wonderful arc of trust and unbreakable love. Zelda starts off incredibly worried for Link, constantly fretting and deeply unsure of his abilities. She steps in to defend him, willing to go up against Big Boys like Groose to do so. As the game progresses, however, and Link grows, in strength and in character, Zelda, and everyone else for the matter, put more trust in him-- By the end of the game, they're on equal footing, and, oh god, oh man, I'm gonna crybhfgjfhdgkjdjd--

2, WW-PH: Nothing to say except, tough girl, sweet boy? Phuck yeah!

Jokes aside, Link and Tetra's arc is also one of trust and vulnerability, but from a different angle. Tetra's a hard-as-nails, independent, morally dubious young girl who's landed herself as captain of a ship full of Big Boys, and sees Link as little more than a useful, if rather weak coincidence she can use to her advantage. However, as the pair grow,(really as Link grows and Tetra is thrown out onto the sidelines as her royal heritage is revealed and she's forced to take on a 'princess' role, one that notably feminises her and lightens her skin), again there's that theme of growth of trust! They take down Ganondorf together, build a new Hyrule together, and isn't that just what dreams are made of?

3, Spirit Tracks: Nothing much to say, other than the dynamic looks super sweet, and there's an interesting play with gender and presentation on Zelda's end? Love it to bits, 12/10.

Now... Onto the potatoes of this, I think. Get your gravy.

This... There's going to be more objective analysis and criticism, obviously, but alot of this is also going to be deeply coloured by my own personal experiences of heteronormativity and alienation. This isn't a commentary on anyone else's enjoyment of the dynamic-- I hope I've made that clear --But, just... I guess I should get to it.

Link and Zelda,

Zelink.

As one anon put it, the vanilla icecream of shipping.

Mild, sweet,

And incredibly heteronormative.

The Golden Relationship; the one toted by fans and Nintendo alike as "the ship".

Everything else, anyone else, is a deviation. It slots neatly into the expected hero-damsel dynamic that we've had, since, well, the beginning of time, almost. It's almost as dust of the earth as it gets. The issue for me being... They don't spend time much, really. Link is barely characterised half the time as little more than a slightly lackadaisical vessel for the player, and Zelda is a sort of guiding light; a dignified keeper of the plot, Righteous Guardian of Hyrule--

The culmination of all Hyrule presents itself as: wise, smart, beautiful, dainty but compitent, ready to lead a charge should need be... but rarely unruly. Rarely ever. Always right.

Obviously, it goes without saying how Breath of the Wild's iteration of this duo changes it up immensely. Zelda is a far more flawed, and in her attempt to put on a strong face, a far more emotionally vulnerable character than any of her gentle predecessors could ever hope to be. While this pairing and her character fail to hit that particular sweet spot in me, it's deeply intriguing, and I hope, perhaps vainly, that they'll develop her and her relationship with Link even more in the sequel-- Honestly, when it comes to this? An equality between her and Link is, I think, what would be best. A mutual understanding; vulnerability.

I think that's what puts me off from Zelink, on the whole. Link is bound to her, by destiny, by guidance, ever-performing his knightly duties, and Zelda is bound to him for strength, for protection. There's little emotional substance, half the time, save for small, precious moments, many with another face, because it's a dynamic inherently dependent on the war-- On danger.

It's all impartial, situational. There's nothing personal here.

And if that were it, if this were truly explored from that angle(as it is, to an extent, in BotW), then I think I'd like that-- Especially if it weren't romantic, I feel.

But that's not the vibe we're told to get: not from the fans... not from Nintendo.

Nintendo tends to be largely neutral on certain matters, such as pairings-- Honest to god, for the best, in my opinion-- But Zelink is that one blind spot where that ethos falls away. Here, Nintendo expects us to see it as some grand, destiny-bound romance, I feel,

And the pre-Skyward Sword manga, from what I know, cements this best.

It's why, quite frankly, I don't care for the idea of it being canon. Genuinely.

It undermines what little weight Ganondorf via Demise had on all of this, this horrific cycle of blood, pain and despair, always bracing for the next wave, of the sisyphian climb of this civilisation, and turns it all into a grand goddess' love for a boy bound to her by fate and destiny manifest.

I hate that.

For something like this, something where no one has any choice, where greatness is thrusted upon them, this endless state of being used that Skyward Sword even condemned, to be seen as good.

To get onto personal experience, before this blog, and this "persona," as it were, I used to have an art account where I largely posted TLoZ, frequented by my family. My very Christian, somewhat socially-conservative family. I would perform straightness, in the form of either pushing aside or pursuing M/F romance, because I was extremely uneasy about the types of conversations anything otherwise would arouse.

This was at a time where I wasn't even sure if I was bisexual, let alone divergent in my gender, so I felt a constant pressure to tamp it down and keep it out of the spotlight, relegating my explorations via art to DMs with the friends I'd make.

Here, on Tumblr, where peppy-queerness is the status quo, there's this tendency to gloss over unpleasant things and make them soft; sweet.

I think I've talked enough at length why that alienates me.

So, yeah... I guess, Zelink on a wider scale kinda just, sums up my unease about the often hegemonic status-quo of shipping, and on the whole I'm just kinda eh about it all.

Again, I think it should be very clear that this is not a reflection on my opinions of people who create Zelink content, who are attached to these characters. That sort of weirdly-tribalistic thinking is awful, and only brings about needless conflict-- Early 2000s-2010s kinda shit, y'feel me?

I hope this all made sense, kinda. I've just got... alot of feelings.

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cutiepatoodie · 3 years

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Floo Powder and Charades P.1

Y/N floo’s to the Burrow after a massive fight with their mother, they find themselves in the middle of the weekly Weasley family game night

Pairing: Fred Weasley x GN Reader

Warnings: abusive mother, angst, also tooth-rotting fluff

Word Count: 2k

Cross posted on ao3

You slam your door and crumple into a ball, silent sobs wracking your small body as you fight to keep them back. The urge to scream rises in your throat and you fight it back, tamping down on your fear to better hide from her. But it doesn’t seem to matter, you can hear footsteps pounding up the stairs, heavily beating in time with your rabbit-like pulse, closing in on your bedroom. And you can feel it automatically kick in, mind working to calculate how long you have before she reaches you, whether you can escape, where you can escape but-

“Y/N L/N get your ungrateful ass down here you little shit.” And you can hear her heavy breaths, dragged in through bared teeth, lips curled in a snarl. “Don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you.”

And you almost want to laugh because this seems like anything but talking.

“After everything, I've done for you and you have the gall to disrespect me? Get out here filthy bitch!” The door rattles as her heavy-handed fist fights to twist the doorknob, violently slamming it back and forth as the locking mechanism holds true. “Open the goddamn door or else I'm knocking it down myself!”

Stumbling away from your door you know that there is no escape. Your mom is going to force her way in no matter what you do to stop her. Fresh waves of tears were making rivers down your cheeks but the idea of wiping them seemed too exhausting, mind already resigned to your inevitable fate. Blearily looking around you remembered the small box you kept on the mantle on the other side of your room that Ron had given you for your birthday. Instinct takes over and struggling to overcome your leaden feet you rise, stumbling to the boarded-up fireplace. Your hands grip the wood and try to pry the boards away, mind desperately catching onto the sliver of hope. This was your only chance to get out of this house. Having to go to Azkaban for improper use of magic at this point seemed better than staying locked up in her house.

The banging on your door was getting louder and more repetitive and as your nails scrabble to find purchase on the aging wood, digging in with the strength of survival fueled desperation. Finally, after what felt like forever you hear a crack and one of the boards break giving you more leverage to take down the rest and you clear just enough for you to climb through.

“What’s all that noise in there? Y/N open the fucking door.” And finally, the lock gives way with a groan as your mother bursts inside, hair tangled and chest heaving, flexing with rage and fury. This is it, she’s finally going to kill me this time. The small box heavy in your hands is the only thing grounding you. The thought of your mother crossing into the only place in the house you felt remotely safe from her taunts and screaming makes your chest tighten, breath leaving your lungs in a panicked whoosh. You can barely feel your fingers as they fumble with the box’s delicate clasp revealing the small amount of glittering powder inside. Throwing the powder into the hearth you choke out a small “the burrow” before being zapped into the floo network.

And even before the flames have properly cleared you can smell farmland, the rich, earthy scent of hay, grass, and freshly turned soil laden underneath the softer scent of warm vanilla, cinnamon and something uniquely home. There were so many voices. Blending together, some words appearing clearer than others.

“Not knowing how to dance!”

“Good one Georgie but I’d say He’s outrunning a Moose!”

“Maybe he’s trying to swat a fly?”

“What if Dad’s trying to play quidditch?”

“It’s probably some muggle thing anyway. Do you know what he’s on about Harry?”

“Uhhh, it could be… Y/N?” Harry yells, astonished, while looking straight at the fireplace where his friend had just appeared.

“What do you mean Harry? Y/N is staying with their mother over the break.” Hermione is quick to reply as silence falls over the living room. Everyone turns towards the fireplace to see you caught like a deer in headlights, disheveled and unexpected in the Weasley’s living room.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t know where else to go. I can floo back home. You know what nevermind, I can just leave. Where do you keep the Floo Powder?” You were rambling now going off apologizing for coming in unannounced. You know your voice is cracking and fighting against the fresh sting of tears that prickle at your eyes.

“Oh, don’t worry darling you can be on the twin’s team. Arthur was just about to tell us if we had won or not.” Molly’s voice is so soft and comforting. She gestures to the open spot between her and Fred in front of the couch. Without much thought, your legs bring you there sitting down, back pressed to Hermione’s legs as she reaches down to put a kind hand on your shoulder. Molly pats your knee with reassurance and the game continues.

“All of you were wrong, I was swimming!” Arthur announces, pleased to have won the round.

“If that’s how you swim it’s no wonder we never go to the beach.” Fred chortles, clutching his stomach and leaning into George for support. The familiar tug of a smile pulls at your lips and soon enough you are laughing the tension out of your muscles. As the beams from the setting sun started to cast a peachy pink glow around the room Molly stands up and excuses herself and Arthur to start putting dinner together. A familiar tension grew thick in the room. No one wants to be the one to bring it up but everyone is thinking it so Ron finally speaks up.

“Who’s up for a quick scrimmage in the backyard before dinner? We’ve probably got another two hours before the sun sets.” The seven of you make your way to the shed in the back yard to grab the brooms. Upon reaching the doors Harry pulls you aside.

“Hey, I know I’m not the best with feelings but… if you need anything, from any of us, we’re here.” Harry awkwardly pats you on the back, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Thanks, Harry, but really I’m okay. I’m just stressed about that potions project Snape assigned for us to have done when we come back in April and I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t the only one going crazy over it.” You let out a breathy laugh and Harry can see that the smile plastered on your face in no way reaches your eyes. He looks at you, seeming to weigh the worth of calling you on your shit before relenting with a huff. “Yeah Snape never misses a chance to be a damn prick.” You know that he doesn’t believe you, but it does not matter since he’s not pushing it.

The teams were decided, Ginny, Ron, and Harry, against you and the twins. Hermione was reffing and made sure to agree to settle any fight that came up over scorekeeping. The three on three went on for about an hour before Fred caused a distraction so that you could catch the snitch. Returning down to earth your knees buckled and you decided to lay on your back for a bit before standing up again. Everyone followed suit, laying in the fresh grass covered in drying sweat and a few scrapes and bruises.

“I can’t believe we beat the famous Potter in a game Y/N. You have to tell Cedric that when you go back to practice.” Fred said, lazily punching your shoulder. You didn’t mean to flinch. It was an accident but by how tense Fred was on the grass beside you, it was obvious he had noticed.

“If you’re going to ask if I’m okay, just don’t. You did nothing wrong, okay Freddie?” Your voice felt distant as you tried to reassure the lanky beanpole to your left. You sat up feeling a bit more clear headed and yelled. “I call the first shower!” before running back into the comfort of the Burrow.

The water rolled off your body as your muscles finally were able to relax. The familiar sounds and smells of the Burrow were doing wonders for your anxiety. You poured some soap into the palm of your hand and absentmindedly scrubbed dirt from your skin. While washing your mind began to wander through the events of the day. Thoughts of your mother tried to creep back in but suddenly there was a banging on the door as it swung open.

“Close the curtain Y/n I need to take a leak and Georgie is taking forever downstairs.” Fred called before the sound of a zipper rang through the bathroom. Your heart was pounding as you tried to bring yourself back to the world around you. The toilet flushed and the sound of the sink was barely audible through the beating of your heart. The doorknob started to turn and before your brain could catch up the words were out of your mouth.

“Can you stay?” It came out so softly Fred could have sworn he made it up. His cheeks dusted pink and thank goodness for the obnoxious shower curtain Molly insisted on putting in their bathroom which covered him from your gaze. He cautiously sat on the toilet seat afraid that if he made too much noise you’d try to push him away again.

“Do you want me to ask around for some clothes you can change into? I mean if it were me I wouldn’t want to put my quidditch clothes back on.” Fred scratched the back of his neck staring down at the floor.

“Oh yeah I didn’t even think that far ahead to be honest. I mean if it's okay just like a hoodie and a pair of shorts would be awesome. I’m almost done in here anyway.” Your voice sounded more like you than it had all day. Fred released a breath he did not realize he was holding. He just wanted you to feel safe.

“Yeah of course! I’ll uhh go and grab some clothes and a towel and uhh yeah meet you back downstairs when you're dressed is that okay? I know that you wanted me to stay but I kind of have to leave if you want me to get ya some clothes. Or I mean I can always text Gin and see if she can bring some….” Fred devolved into muttering about what the most effective way to grab you some clothes and not leave you alone longer than is comfortable.

“Freddie it’s okay, I’m not going to break. Your room is right across the hall and I already have a towel in here with me.” Hearing the teasing smile in your voice calmed down his nerves. Why did he feel so nervous anyways. You had been around the burrow for a while and it shouldn’t be making him this nervous. With a quick be right back he slipped out of the door. Grabbing a pair of shorts and his newest Christmas sweater his mother knitted for him last year he padded back to the bathroom. The water wasn’t running anymore so he figured he probably should just set the clothes outside.

“Hey Y/n I’m just gonna put these outside the door. So uhh whenever you're ready I'll see you downstairs.” He placed the clothes in a neat pile and scuttled to the head of the stairs.

Pulling Fred’s sweater over your head made you feel way calmer than you first had expected to. It was warm and cozy and smelled of firewood and smores. It was quite big on you but that did not matter. Drying your hair one last time with the towel you left the bathroom hearing the voices of your friends from all the way down on the main floor. A smile spread to your lips knowing that no matter what happened next did not matter because right now you felt safe.

#fred weasley #fred weasly x reader #harry potter #harry potter fic #fred weasly fic #fluff #angst #Mays Masterlist

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ruffboijuliaburnsides · 4 years

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more voiceless jaskier AU

https://bygodstillam.tumblr.com/post/613282643525697536/okay-so-i-have-written-800ish-words-ofApparently the middle of the night is when I write this. Though to be fair “the middle of the night” is also just when I’m awake right now.

Reminder that this is entirely self-indulgent, which means people will be giving in to their hearts even when in canon the almost certainly wouldn't. :)

Still pretty angsty, but we're starting to inch towards the soft comfort part of this h/c!

(Part 1) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10) Now on AO3

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The second night after finding himself voiceless, Jaskier ate.

Geralt had tried, most of the day, to talk to fill the silences. He'd failed horribly, the silences were still long and painful, but the attempt was not lost on Jaskier, and it was enough to melt him out of the petrified, empty shock that had consumed him the night before. Their progress away from the lake had been in the opposite direction of Rinde, even though it was the closest place to go for news or supplies. Jaskier couldn't help but be glad - if he never saw that town or the lake again, he'd be grateful.

"If we keep making good time, we should reach the next village in three days or so," Geralt was saying as Jaskier picked at the dried venison stew, wishing he hadn't emptied his flask already days ago. Or that they didn't have to make good time, so he could put off carrying his lute as long as possible in the mornings and take it off (and carefully, so carefully, set it down a safe distance away from the fire) as soon as possible in the evenings.

There was a slight shift of movement in the corner of Jaskier's vision, where Geralt sat, and a subtle glance revealed that Geralt was failing to hide that he kept glancing over at Jaskier, not eating, with a concerned frown. Jaskier lifted the spoon and took a bite. It wasn't too bad, and... well, to be honest now that he'd forced himself to take a bite, he was pretty hungry. A few bites later and the frown had settled back into the usual one, directed into the fire.

Laying in his bedroll that night, Jaskier didn't cry, to his great relief. That wouldn't last, he could tell, but he stared up at the shadows of leaves and branches over the sky, the peek of stars between them in the breeze, and thought about what happened, and didn't cry.

He couldn't remember the entire course of events that led to the djinn's attack on his throat - he'd been a lot more drunk than he would like to admit, burned from being dumped by his most recent lady love, his attempts to flirt ignored by Geralt, and he just felt lonely. He remembered needling Geralt, who was clearly in a worse mood than usual, and doing so beyond what he normally would've. Prodding him until he lashed out, and then taking it too personally. It was fuzzy, but he remembered Geralt shouting that he just wanted a little peace, and then pain, and--

And Geralt's face, immediately panicked by what was happening. Whatever he'd been feeling, he hadn't wanted Jaskier hurt, or dying.

And really, when you thought about it, Jaskier had known, even drunk, that Geralt was exhausted and more volatile than usual. For one of his more obnoxiously annoying drunk idiot mistakes, the fact that he was still here, alive, was more than he'd generally hoped for throughout his adult life. He'd always sort of assumed one day he'd piss off the wrong person and die to that. He'd done it, but then that person had done their best to save him anyway, and succeeded. It was a second lease on life, even if the near-death had never been Geralt's intention.

Maybe that's how he could get through this, learn to live with this silence: by viewing it as a kind of gift.

The third night, Geralt was restless and grumpy. He still hadn't quite given up attempting to fill silences, but had clearly found it even harder than the day before. In desperation, he'd started singing some folk song, and Jaskier had gotten lightheaded and couldn't breathe, and it was stupid because other people singing shouldn't make him feel like he was being crushed to death by his own chest, and after he'd gotten back under control, sitting in the dirt of the road, Geralt had all but forced him to ride Roach the rest of the afternoon.

The whole thing had put Geralt off of speaking, apparently; either that or he was running out of whatever fuel he used to create speech at all, because to Jaskier's ear it sounded like he was forcing the words out with every ounce of willpower he had, when he spoke.

"I'll fix it," Geralt grumbled. Jaskier nodded in response, then shrugged. Oh, he was hoping beyond hope Geralt could find an answer, and soon, but he was still trying to cling to his thought from the night before, that this was the cost of a second chance. Not because of Geralt, nothing to do with Geralt, but because fate herself was trying to tell Jaskier not to be so much of an ass. Geralt frowned deeply at that response.

"It's important," he insisted. "I will fix it. It was my wish, it's my responsibility." And Jaskier knew he didn't mean it like that, like the only reason he cared was because he felt obligated, because you couldn't spend large chunks of over a decade with a man and fall in love with him and not be able to pick out when he truly cares about someone or something. Jaskier knew that Geralt cared, that was why he'd gone to find him in the first place, that day: if nothing else he was lonely and needed to be around someone who gave a shit.

It still felt like a knife twisting in his chest, and his lips twisted in a weak attempt at a smile and waved Geralt off. It wasn't very believable, but he didn't want Geralt to feel obligated.

"It's not fine," Geralt snapped, more or less accurately translating from Jaskier's vague gesturing. But to answer that no, it wasn't, but the idea of obligation made him feel ill? That no, it wasn't fine, but at least he was alive? Jaskier couldn't figure out how to explain that silently without writing, and the only paper he had was his journal. His songwriting journal, the most recent of many, half-full with notes and ideas and scraps of lyrics and the working drafts of his songs. No, he couldn't bring himself to use it for this. So instead he just spread his hands helplessly.

Geralt grumbled wordlessly and stood. "Stay here." He strode into the trees, and Jaskier was left sitting by the fire wondering if Geralt was going to just go scream into the trees or try to find a bear to wrestle with his bare hands or something. That could make a good song, the bear wrestling, but Jaskier shook his head to try to clear that thought from it. Maybe, if Geralt couldn't find some sort of magic that can undo this, he could write again one day anyway. But not yet.

Geralt came all but stomping back into the clearing after a few minutes and jerked his head for Jaskier to follow. Not having anything better to do, Jaskier went.

A few yards through the brush was another small clearing, not big enough for a camp, but with a large flat area of loose slightly damp earth, not so loose as to be sandy, that had clearly been brushed free of leaves and sticks. Jaskier frowned, and turned to ask-- no, to look confused at Geralt, but found a sturdy but narrow stick held out to him.

"Write," said Geralt. "If you need to."

Jaskier swallowed hard, fighting tears despite himself. Geralt's response to Jaskier being unable to communicate a clear thought was to find a way for him to express it, and if Jaskier hadn't already fallen in love with the witcher years ago, he would have now. He nodded and crouched, considering the space he had and the words he wanted to say.

Thought my mouth kill me 1 day, he wrote carefully in the dirt, cutting out words he didn't need, grimacing a bit at his mangling of language. It couldn't be helped, but it wasn't fun. Least not dead? Good.

"It wasn't your-- it was my fault," Geralt said, clearly frustrated. "I was an ass." And yes, it was technically Geralt's fault, in that it was his wish that caused this. If he wanted to, Jaskier could blame him. Part of him wanted to. Most of him thought Geralt wanted him to. But really, Jaskier couldn't find it in him to be angry at Geralt. Not when he saw Geralt's face when he couldn't breathe, heard the panic in his voice demanding someone tell him where to find a sorcerer to fix it.

Jaskier smoothed the earth, tamped it down a bit with his foot. Not intentional. He paused, then underlined it. He could faintly hear Geralt make a displeased noise, and added, Didn't know you had wishes.

There was a moment's pause, then Geralt said softly, "And yet, here we are."

Jaskier couldn't think of anything to say to that, not that he could fathom writing in the dirt, so he just reached over to pat Geralt's arm, in comfort or reassurance or forgiveness? He wasn't sure. Geralt just frowned deeper and sighed. Jaskier didn't like that frown. It was a sad frown, a guilty frown, one that made him think Geralt was internally flogging himself over something he hadn't tried or intended to do.

Not. Your. Fault. Jaskier wrote, after smoothing the ground again. Rather be alive. Other people maybe let me die. But not you. Better.

Geralt put his hand on Jaskier's, stilling his scrawling in the dirt before he can try to add more. "I'm still going to fix it," he said. There was a long pause as Geralt fell silent again, and Jaskier itched to write more, to fill the silence with even the idea of his words, but he could see more words trying to order themselves in Geralt's mouth, and he didn't want to spook Geralt into not saying them.

"I'm sorry, Jaskier," Geralt said, eventually, almost too soft to hear. He cleared his throat and continued a little louder. "You're not a pie with no filling. Not you, not your singing. I was... I wanted you to go away, stop telling me the truth about how I was avoiding the real problem." Jaskier knew, he did, that it had been a cruel barb meant to try to get him to storm off in a huff. But it had still hurt, and it still soothed some little wound in his heart to hear it. "When I was trying to save you," Geralt continued, "I kept thinking I couldn't let that be the last thing I said to you."

Jaskier couldn't help but laugh, though it was just a brief, silent huff of air and shake of his shoulders. The last thing he remembered Geralt saying to him that night was some nonsense about apple juice. He didn't point that out, even in writing, because really, that wouldn't have been much better, and also because he knew that wasn't what Geralt meant.

He couldn't let the last thing he'd said to Jaskier before they were in crisis mode, the last thing he'd said that he'd remember later, be something cruel.

Thanks, Jaskier wrote. Appreciate you tried.

"Wasn't good enough," Geralt rumbled under his breath, but he looked at least slightly less like he wanted to throw himself into a lake as penance, and Jaskier would take that. He smiled up at Geralt, weak but at least sincere, because it did mean a lot to him, that Geralt was that desperate to try to save him, and was this torn up by his failure to save all of him.

"Well," Geralt said, apparently uncomfortable with the implied forgiveness Jaskier kept offering, "do you need anything?"

A voice? Jaskier thought, his smile fading and his shoulders drooping slightly. An identity that isn't built around my words? The ability to undo everything I did to provoke you? But nothing Geralt could actually give him came to mind, so instead he shook his head. The light was fading, and they still needed to make supper and eat, so Jaskier pushed himself to his feet and right into Geralt's chest, not having noticed the larger man move so much closer to him. Geralt caught his arm to keep him from losing his balance and then, looking almost uncertain but deeply determined, pulled Jaskier into a hug.

He was trying to be comforting, working off of an uncertain and ill-used script, but doing his best for Jaskier's sake, and Jaskier choked on the tears that tried to well up in his eyes. He would not cry, even though the physical affection and comfort was something he hadn't realized he needed so badly. He just pressed his forehead to Geralt's chest and breathed in the smell of sweat and horse and leather and Geralt, willed himself to not fall apart, and tried to drink in what might be the only chance he'd have to be this close to the man he loved more than reason itself. He couldn't stand it for too long, for all he needed the embrace, and he stepped back with what he hoped was a grateful smile before jerking a thumb back over his shoulder toward camp and miming eating stew.

"Fine," Geralt said, and started to walk back, pointedly keeping Jaskier in front of him for some reason. "Get settled, supper soon."

Jaskier waited, after supper, for Geralt to fall asleep, or at least lay down silently long enough that Jaskier had to assume he was asleep, before curling in on himself and letting himself cry out all the raw emotions that Geralt's hug had pulled back up. Not the quiet still tears of that very first night but sobs, for the loss of his voice, the loss of his independence (because how would he survive without Geralt at this point, he had no skills to speak of besides music), the loss of the very core of his identity. He felt lost and isolated and the fact that he could sob so hard and the only sound was the faint exhalation of air made everything even worse.

He wasn't sure how long he cried, until it petered out into sniffles and he had to blow his nose a few times into his handkerchief, even if the sniffling didn't stop. He tried to steady his breathing, stop the silent hiccuping breaths that he associated with small children crying themselves sick, and didn't hear the sounds of Geralt getting up and moving until suddenly he felt Geralt laying down behind him on his bedroll, on top of the blankets, an arm slung over his waist. Where the embrace earlier had forced him to fight back tears, this contact - as unexpected and bizarre as it was - settled Jaskier almost immediately, his trembling breaths slowly evening out to match steady rhythm of Geralt's breathing.

He was exhausted, and quickly found himself drifting off to sleep, wondering absently if he wasn't asleep already, to get to feel secure and soothed by Geralt's solid presence at his back.

He definitely imagined, as he let go of that last scraps of consciousness, that he felt lips press against his hair.

(Part 1) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10)

Now on AO3

#the witcher #geralt #jaskier #geraskier #voiceless jaskier au #my fic #...lest anyone be blindsided if i actually get that far: there WILL be a yen eventually #and there will be nice poly threesomes because i love me a good triad #just...in case that's a dealbreaker for anybody?#embrace the geraskefer #that's a horrible namesmush

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