#and you also know what. the way we see beauclair. is FROM a dream. from condwiramurs' intentional oneiromancy | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hanzajesthanza · 6 months

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it really does matter so much that fringilla vigo is nilfgaardian, beauclairoise, for many reasons, but let's start here:

her entire role is that of an illusionist; one which she would not be were it not for her family lineage, rooted in beauclair:

There was a corridor in Beauclair Palace, and at the end a chamber, the existence of which no one knew about. (...) The corridor and the chamber, disguised by a powerful illusion, were known only to the palace’s original elven builders. And later–when the elves had gone, and Toussaint became a duchy–to the small number of sorcerers linked to the ducal house. Including Artorius Vigo, a master of magical arcana and great specialist in illusions. And his young niece, Fringilla, who had a special talent for illusions.

and since her talent in illusions is well-defined in the series, as it is her who grants geralt the very silver-mounted chrysoprase amulet which saves his life in the final fight against vilgefortz:

Geralt clenched Fringilla’s medallion in his fist. The bar fell with a clang, striking the floor a foot from the Witcher’s head. Geralt rolled away and quickly got up on one knee. Vilgefortz leaped forward and struck. The bar missed the target again by a few inches. The sorcerer shook his head in disbelief and hesitated for a second. (...) ‘I didn’t know …’ Yennefer said at last, scrambling out of a pile of rubble. She looked terrible. The blood trickling from her nose had poured all over her chin and cleavage. ‘I didn’t know you could cast illusory spells,’ she repeated, seeing Geralt’s uncomprehending gaze, ‘capable even of deceiving Vilgefortz.’ ‘It’s my medallion.’ ‘Aha.’ She looked suspicious. ‘A curious thing...’

that talent is something which cannot, by far, be separated from her character. and returning back to her lineage, it is again her familial relations which place her in beauclair.

she was positioned there, ready to intercept geralt, as early as the autumnal equinox in september, by which time geralt had barely just left the town of riedbrune:

The world over, the autumn Equinox was a night of spectres, nightmares and apparitions, a night of sudden, suffocating awakenings, fraught with menace, among sweat-soaked and rumpled sheets. Neither did the most illustrious escape the apparitions and awakenings; (...) In the huge castle of Montecalvo the sorceress Philippa Eilhart leaped from damask sheets, without waking the Comte de Noailles’ wife. The dwarf Yarpen Zigrin in Mahakam, the old witcher Vesemir in the mountain stronghold of Kaer Morhen, the bank clerk Fabio Sachs in the city of Gors Velen and Yarl Crach an Craite on board the longboat Ringhorn all awoke more or less abruptly. The sorceress Fringilla Vigo came awake in Beauclair Castle*, as did the priestess Sigrdrifa of the temple of the goddess Freyja on the island of Hindarsfjall.

* Slight correction - As explained in Chapter 3 of Lady of the Lake, Beauclair is not a castle, but a palace.

and she's only invited to beauclair in such a capacity because she is a relative of the duchess:

‘I’m in Beauclair because the largest, best-stocked library in the known world is here. Apart from university libraries, naturally. But universities are jealous of giving access to their shelves, and here I’m a relation and good friend of Anarietta and can do as I wish.’

(whom, you may note, she stands by and jointly receives geralt with at their first meeting, and participates in the festival of the vat with)

and therefore, she was in a perfectly strategic position to delay geralt, keep him captive:

‘(...) Please at least tell us … has the Witcher calmed down now? Are you capable of keeping him in Toussaint at least until May?’ (…) ‘No,’ she answered at last. ‘Probably not until May. But I’ll do everything in my power to keep him here as long as possible.’

because fringilla is not just an illusionist literally, as in the magic she is naturally gifted at, but 'illusionist' is her entire identity as a character.

and as her family hails from beauclair, this specific identity is compounded with the fact that beauclair itself is the center of illusions, a dreamland, a fairytale:

‘There’s something bewitched about this place, this fucking Toussaint. Some kind of charm hangs over the whole valley. Especially over the palace (...) no two ways about it, there’s something bewitched about this bloody Toussaint.’

fringilla is an illusionist because she is beauclairoise. she not only hails from a long line of illusionists, but hails from, is related to the ruler of, the very city of illusions and dreams.

she is the illusionist not just in a literal sense, but in the entire narrative role of casting an illusion over our hero, because it is the illusion of love which keeps her and geralt in beauclair. (the tricky trick is that geralt, taking a page out of yennefer's playbook of seduction, cleverness, patience, was able to cast an illusion upon the mistress of illusions herself, free himself from the witch's spell, awake from a pleasant dream to face the harsh reality).

(sighs) and even if you want to forget fringilla's beauclairoise identity and erase her entire positioning as the illusionist which poses a threat to our heroes, entices them to complacency, her role as nilfgaardian in the sense of her academic identity and imperial service also defines her.

because it is also fringilla, the illusionist who casts the wool over people's eyes... who blinded yennefer at sodden hill.

‘We’ve already met,’ Yennefer spoke again. ‘I don’t recall,’ Fringilla said without looking away. ‘I’m not surprised. But I have a good memory for faces and figures. I saw you from Sodden Hill.’ ‘In which case there can be no mistake,’ Fringilla Vigo said and raised her head proudly, sweeping her eyes over all those present. ‘I was at the Battle of Sodden.’ (...) ‘Occasionally one happens to see another person for only a split second, right before going blind, and one takes a dislike to them instantly.’ ‘Oh, enmity is considerably more complicated,’ Fringilla said, squinting. ‘Imagine someone you don’t know at all standing at the top of a hill, and ripping a friend of yours to shreds in front of your eyes. You neither saw them nor know them at all, but you still don’t like them.’ ‘So it goes,’ Yennefer said, shrugging. (...)

fringilla's (proud!) participation at the battle of sodden is a crux of the lodge, because she alongside her good friend, the scholarly assire, they are nilfgaardians who, owing to their nationality, find challenges meshing with the northern sorcereresses. the lodge brought together representatives of magic across nationalities in the midst of a raging, bloody war between them all.

and it's so integral to fringilla's character that she has imperial biases, that she approaches even the international lodge with an imperialist view.

with no factual basis, she initially exotifies and sexualizes the northern sorceresses, despite her own prior denial of these base stereotypes:

Fringilla Vigo was putting on a brave face, but she was anxious and stressed. She herself had often reprimanded young Nilfgaardian mages for uncritically yielding to stereotypical opinions and notions. She herself had regularly ridiculed the crude image painted by gossip and propaganda of the typical sorceress from the North: artificially beautiful, arrogant, vain and spoiled to the limits of perversion, and often beyond them. (...) Her untrammelled imagination offered up images of impossibly gorgeous women with diamond necklaces resting on naked breasts with rouged nipples, women with moist lips and eyes glistening from the effects of alcohol and narcotics. In her mind’s eye Fringilla could already see the gathering becoming a wild and depraved orgy accompanied by frenzied music, aphrodisiacs, and slaves of both sexes using exotic accessories.

she even has a difficult time understanding why the northern sorceresses are upset about the nilfgaardian invasion, believing it to be a boon to their society. only through their discussion does she just barely begin to grasp the meaning of "invasion" and why she wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of it:

Some were clearly anxious about the close proximity of Nilfgaard. Fringilla had mixed feelings. She had assumed that such educated people would understand that the Empire was bringing culture, prosperity, order and political stability to the North. On the other hand, though, she didn’t know how she would have reacted herself, were foreign armies approaching her home.

all of this indoctrination into imperial beliefs, at the same time that she is an educated woman, and herself, as an imperial sorceress, known for being rebellious and an upstart within her own culture:

‘Stop staring,’ Assire said, touching her bouffant and glistening curls. ‘I decided to make a few changes. Why, I just took your lead.’ ‘I was always taken as an oddball and a rebel,’ Fringilla Vigo chuckled. ‘But when they see you in the academy or at court…’

this is such a chaotic rambling post, but all i want to say is that fringilla's character, like most of the minor characters in the witcher series, was not invented through random generation, a roll of the dice, a spin of the wheel. her specific traits - such as her nationality, lineage, talents - all relate back thematically. everything is relevant, specifically chosen to create a specific character.

if once changes her backstory (e.g., to place her at aretuza... though i don't know who would do such a thing for no reason) they would change her entire character, the series' commentary on imperialism, and because of her role she takes later on, even the entire ending of the story.

#fringilla vigo #c: fringilla #the witcher books #book: lady of the lake #listen i don't enjoy her character as in i don't think about her 24/7 but i am begging my fellow fans to not just throw her #entire character out because they don't like her or what she does or they think it's just a matter of preference if she goes to aretuza #because these specificities define her entire character which define the entire stay in beauclair which define the assault on stygga castle #which define the entire ENDING of the saga which define the MEANING of the saga #these little guys (fictional characters) are like dominos or jenga blocks. if you move one little thing it changes everything #like there's so much meaning and symbolism to the wintering in beauclair it kills me to see people throw it out the window #bro they were caught in a dream a pleasant dream #and you also know what. the way we see beauclair. is FROM a dream. from condwiramurs' intentional oneiromancy #it's literally a dream about dreams #AUGH i lose my shit over the fakedeepness of lady of the lake #also her name is the latin for chaffinch. she's a little bird: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fringilla #which i am... guessing... relates to the wintering theme... perhaps...#analysis

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measurelessdreamer · 3 years

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Start And Never Stop II geralt x jaskier

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28620474

For my dear friend and sister I chose @darknessyuu who is always there for me and keeps me sane <333333

Summary: Sometimes there are days when you bind yourself to someone else by Destiny even if you never believed in it. Sometimes there are days when you shout and push away that one person who deserves it the least. And sometimes there are days when you piss off a particularly skilled fae and end up being thrown into the future. Geralt of Rivia has indeed seen it all and fewer things could still surprise him. That is until he wakes up in Beauclair of all places in a bed that strangely feels like his, with a vineyard everyone keeps acting like is his and wedding preparations that Jaskier insists he gives his opinion on for reasons that make Geralt's head hurt and heart shatter at the implications of this whole mess. It shouldn't be like this and no matter how hard he tries he can't figure out why, after everything, it still is.

Additional tags: Time Travel, Post-Episode:S01E06 Rare Species, Fix-it, Mutual Pining, Idiots in Love, Corvo Bianco

Based on this amazing superbat fic

Geralt woke up with a start, head pounding hard. This was definitely the last time he'd taken up a contract that the people refused to give him enough clues on to actually determine what he was facing. Just his damn luck that it had to be a fae, kidnapping people, out of all possible threats he'd learned to recognize. Even better, it was a fae powerful enough to send him only gods knew where before he could reach for any of his swords although he was fully aware that would do nothing to help.

But he supposed he should count himself lucky. He was still alive and still him after all.

His eyes flew over his surroundings. Walls decorated with paintings and trophies, a bed that was undoubtedly the most comfortable thing he'd ever slept on, all of it was pointing toward the bizarre scenario that whoever owned this place had far more money than to just get by. He definitely was no longer in the village where he'd gotten that contract, then. Judging by the sun shining brightly through the windows, he wasn't even in fucking Temeria.

And yet... somehow it didn't exactly seem like he was out of place. It was hard to explain, but after so many decades venturing the Path, never really staying in one place for long, he knew what it was like to feel like a foreigner like he didn't belong. Over the years, he'd learned to mute it, to fully ignore it because it was just everywhere he went. But it wasn't here. He had no idea where he was but still felt like he should know because the place meant something to him. It wasn't exactly home per se, but it came incredibly close to resembling one. Just like Kaer Morhen always would but different.

He let out a huge exhale. It seemed like the fae didn't just teleport him away, she also must have done something to his head.

A gentle knock on the door startled him and made him sit up. Huh. That was odd. Most people would usually opt to pound hard or never bother to do anything else besides barging their way in. This knocking was resolutely different from everything he’d known, though.

"Yes?" he let out on instinct anyway. He didn't know what exactly he'd expected, but a man dressed in colors so bright that would put even some of Jaskier's clothes to shame and with a look that was anything but spiteful and threatening to kick him out at this instant, was definitely not it.

"Are you alright, Sir? I know how you value your privacy, but I was just passing by and I couldn't help overhearing the noise. You were shouting in your sleep, I’m afraid," the man said with an accent Geralt would recognize anywhere. Toussaint? Was that where the vile fae had sent him? Possible, but that still didn't explain the weird vibe he got from the place and why this man he'd never met before was looking at him as if Geralt's presence didn't bother him at all.

"I'm fine," he retorted when he realized he was still supposed to give the man an answer and cursed under his breath, hoping he wouldn't have to address him by name anytime soon lest he wanted to make a total fool of himself. Had he lost some memories along the way? Was that why he couldn't remember what his surroundings meant to him? Or was this merely a dream?

"Did I-" he cleared his throat, trying to sort out the mess his mind was, but the man didn't look put off or annoyed, just attentive and with patience Geralt thought he'd never get to see on anyone's face again after becoming a witcher. It was baffling. "Did I hurt my head recently?"

The man frowned in thought. "Not to my knowledge, Sir. It's been a while since your last injury, but it was of mild nature and had absolutely nothing to do with your head. But you did express you were feeling particularly tired today and decided to rest for a bit, which is how we got here."

"Hm," Geralt said, suppressing a curse. He definitely didn't have any recollection of that or even the slightest bit of idea how much time must have passed ever since he'd met the fae. Months? Years? How much had he actually missed of his life?

"I think I need some air," he pretty much rasped, feeling weaker than ever when he realized that for all he knew Ciri could have grown up or even died already and he didn't remember. Had he and Jaskier ever managed to patch things up? Is he dead now too? They couldn't be, Geralt reasoned, but time was rarely merciful on witchers. Much less when a fae was involved.

"Of course, Sir, I shan't keep you," the man said and stepped away to let Geralt pass. When Geralt did so gingerly as if outside the room awaited him nothing but a lurking monster, of course, the man noticed right away. "Are you sure you're alright, Sir? Shall I call for Master Jaskier?"

And Geralt froze and let out a gasp as the words dawned on him, partly in relief because Jaskier was alive and he was here, and partly in frustration because while it answered a few questions, it did cause another load of them to pop up in his pounding head. But never mind that when he didn't have to contemplate on missing the last moments of Jaskier's life, on missing earning the forgiveness he in no way deserved but yearned for regardless. Jaskier was here, alive and well. Judging by the house the bard apparently owned, he was more than well. And while the thought of seeing him again terrified Geralt more than anything, he found himself incapable of saying no.

The man, it turned out, didn't actually have to do anything because just at that moment they both heard footsteps and Geralt was met with a pair of cornflower blue eyes that were cheerful and full of hope and never failed to see right through him.

"Oh, good, you're awake," Jaskier beamed before going very serious in an instant. "We're in a very dire situation, Geralt. Lives depend on it and I need your honest opinion." The bard came up to him and held out two small rolls of blue cloth that looked identical to Geralt and asked: "Which do you think is better suited for the wedding?"

If Geralt had been of a weaker nature, he might have collapsed right then and there. But sometimes being a witcher did have its merit. At least in some areas anyway. "Aren't they the same?"

Jaskier gasped and pressed one of the rolls against his chest in indignation in such a him way that Geralt couldn't help but smile. "How dare you, witcher? All this talk about your superior senses and then you say these two completely different shades of blue are the same? Can you even see anything?" The tone in his voice was teasing and Geralt basked in hearing it again after months spent contemplating about the mountain and all he'd said, shouted, and wished so desperately he could take back. Jaskier's eyes now shone brightly with affection and happiness, nothing like the raw hurt he'd left in them when his own heart had been roaring under the weight of everything he'd regretted the most. Could it be that he'd managed to make it go away with time? Or was this merely a dream?

"You see what I have to put up with, Barnabas-Basil?" Jaskier asked the man but his smile was still playful as he rolled his eyes. "Maybe you could help us with this."

The man, Barnabas-Basil Geralt remarked for himself, offered a look of total understanding as if he too was wondering from which tree Geralt had managed to fall this time before he replied: "As much as it would please me to help, I'm afraid I might be running short on expertise when it comes to something as intimate and important as someone's wedding."

Jaskier accepted that without any hard feelings and thanked the man anyway before Barnabas-Basil excused himself to go tend to his duties. Jaskier looked deep in thought as his eyes roamed over the fabric in his hands before he gazed back at Geralt. "I know what you're going to say. Go ask Regis. He's already in charge of the wine and helped out in many different ways already, he surely has an answer to this too. And you might be right, but call me old-fashioned, I do actually agree with Barnabas-Basil on this. Other people are just running short on expertise. It's your wedding and your opinion I care about."

Geralt was absentmindedly wondering who the fuck Regis was, when all of a sudden he blurted out: "My wedding?!"

And Jaskier, honest to gods, actually laughed and beamed, completely oblivious that Geralt was quite possibly losing his mind. "I'm sorry, I know I keep saying this, but it's just less surreal telling it’s 'your' wedding. But you're right, it's not just yours. It's ours."

Geralt had only a split second of reminiscing how soft the last word sounded coming from Jaskier's mouth before the bard took a step right into his personal space and placed a chaste kiss on his lips as if it was the most trivial thing and not one of Geralt's deepest desires he'd never managed to believe would actually come true one day. But it happened and it was taking everything in him not to touch his lips as if that would make the sensation stay and engrave it in him for good. What had that damn fae done to him? What had she done to Jaskier? Brainwashed him into thinking that this was what he wanted when it couldn't possibly be further from it?

"Geralt," Jaskier said, frowning and reaching for Geralt's arm, "what's wrong?"

Geralt didn't flinch at the contact, but it was a very close thing and took away all the strength he got left to be able to look this man he'd hurt so much in the eye. "I- I just need some air."

He hurried out of the house, ignoring everyone he passed by even though they were smiling at him, calling him Master Witcher of all things as if the whole situation he was in couldn't get any more ludicrous and stopping only once he reached a tree on a hill overlooking the villa. He sat down, back leaning on the huge trunk and arms left dangling over his knees, and stared aimlessly ahead willing himself to wake up if this was a dream and to get ahold of himself if it wasn't. He'd never seen anything like this, never been fooled to this extent. Could it still be an illusion if his medallion wasn't even humming? On what ground was he supposed to reverse what the fae had done? Was there even a way to reverse it?

"Hey," he heard Jaskier's voice and forced his eyes to focus on the man sitting down on the grass before him and setting the two rolls of blue cloth aside before his eyes went back to Geralt. "This is going to sound weird and insane, but it's not like I made it up so I ask you to bear with me and take my word for it. Because if you don't, no one will. You said something similar to me a while back when we were at the same spot we're right now. But then again, you don't remember that... do you?"

"No," Geralt murmured so wistfully he almost winced.

Jaskier offered a sympathetic smile. "And what's the last thing you remember?"

"Running into a fae somewhere in northern Temeria."

"When was that?"

"In spring."

"And the year?"

"1264," Geralt replied and watched Jaskier gape at him as if he'd just grown a second head. "What?"

"It's the 12th of June. 1275. Your last memories are from eleven years ago."

This time, it was Geralt who openly gaped. Eleven years left out completely blank. Erased. Gone. How...

"Seems like you're one of the few who got to experience traveling through time," Jaskier finished and Geralt stopped breathing at once.

"That's-"

"Bizarre, I know. Believe me, I thought the same thing when you told me."

"I told you?" Geralt asked as if that was the most insane part about the whole thing.

"The future you did. Obviously not in many words because you avoid details like the plague, but you did explain the basics. I may not have known which year you got sucked out of, but I do know this is not permanent. You'll get back to your time before this day ends and it'll be like you never left."

Except he had left, gotten a glimpse of his own future, and discovered what it felt like to be kissed by Jaskier. All that being a result of those eleven years that would be waiting for him once he got back. And as much as it did put his mind at ease that his stay here wasn't permanent, it also reminded him how many things had gone wrong and how many more could still follow. There was no way this was set in stone. And he could ask so many questions, hope that at least half of them got answered, about Ciri, Yennefer, Eskel, Lambert, Vesemir, why they were in fucking Beauclair of all places, but then he looked at Jaskier and was once again reminded of how everything his actions on the mountain and before had left on Jaskier seemed like it wasn't even there anymore when he knew Jaskier remembered. Geralt had fucked up hard, had been given shit about it continuously by everyone who knew, but none of that had ever come close to actually seeing Jaskier walk away and all the remnants of the dangerous hope he'd been harboring despite knowing better crushing down on him once he'd come back from the mountaintop and found Roach alone with Jaskier and his things long gone.

But now they were here, eleven years later, Jaskier looking at him as if he had nowhere else to be even though Geralt wasn't the one Jaskier had forgiven and found it possible to fall in love with. Instead, he was the one who had sent the bard away. In the harshest way, there was.

Which was why when the next time his mouth opened, the only thing that came out was: "You're here."

"Of course, I'm here," Jaskier said and scowled before his eyes momentarily widened. "Wait. When was the last time you remember seeing me?"

"The mountain."

Jaskier blinked and his whole face turned red. "The mountain? For fuck's sake, Geralt, the last thing you remember of me is that and you still let me kiss you?"

"Not like I knew that was about to happen."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't. Gods, I wish the future you would've given me some kind of heads-up so I would actually know how to deal with this. But the horse's arse said no. Leave it to me to make a total fool of myself by kissing the man who wants to have nothing to do with me."

"That's not true," Geralt emphasized. "It’s not how I feel."

"I know that now. It took some time, but... wait. You telling me about this whole mess means that you will remember what happens here, which... You absolute delinquent fool. I can't believe you made me wait for so long before you let me experience for myself what it was like to kiss you while you already knew! You're so lucky most of the wedding preparations are already sorted and paid for or we would be having a completely different conversation right now."

Geralt sighed. Lucky didn't even begin to cover it. All this talk about the future him, weddings, and kissing didn't sound like the world he'd gotten used to through all the hardships that had come with it. It sounded like one of those fairytales he'd stopped believing in the moment he'd realized he would never see his mother again. Where was he supposed to fit in all that?

"You don't believe..." Jaskier trailed off and waved with his hands around, "all of this is real. I know it's a lot to take in. Especially since... here you are, probably still in love with Yennefer, and looking right into your future and seeing... me instead."

"Yennefer has nothing to do with this," Geralt cut him off, not even surprised that most of what usually held him back from speaking his mind had no power here where there was no such thing as consequences since none of this had happened yet. Jaskier could read him perfectly regardless and if this was a way how to give him the truth he rightly deserved after so many rounds of lies littered with indifference, then Geralt was going to give it to him.

"You're saying... that you don't love her like that anymore?" When Geralt nodded, Jaskier let out a soft chuckle. "I guess that makes sense. Even after over three decades, you can still find ways to surprise me."

"The last time I saw you, I hurt you and forced you to leave. So none of this makes any sense to me."

"Knowing you it will take those eleven years for all of it to make sense. But it will take much less for me to forgive you."

Geralt swallowed and looked away. "How?"

"Since when am I someone who gives away the ending before its due time?"

"This isn't one of your tales you sing for money, Jaskier."

"You're right. It's so much more than that because it's our tale that my heart sings for me. It's the most special tale of all and it's worth to see it through to the very end, Geralt."

"I don't even know where to look for you," Geralt said, voice wavering. "Can't you-"

"Give you a hint?" Jaskier asked and sighed. "Believe me, it's taking everything within me not to tell you exactly where I am in your time so you could come and sweep me off my feet because, in spite of everything, that is what I still want you to do. But that's not how it works, Geralt. It works in ballads and tales because they're meant to give people hope, to make them see beyond reality. To imagine and dream. It's why I could never make them accurate the way you want me to. Because that would just defeat the purpose of them."

But Geralt didn't want accurate. Accurate meant realistic and realistic meant hurt. And he hated the irony more than anything. "And this is the tale you decided needed to be accurate?"

"In all its glory," Jaskier said and smiled. "Not all of it was perfect, but looking back at it now, I know it was right."

"What if I change something and prevent this future?"

"You won't."

"You can't know that."

"You're missing the point, witcher. Out of the two of us, I have the memories of how this happened. I'm the only one who knows that," Jaskier claimed and shifted so he was now sitting next to Geralt. "Give me your hand."

"Why?" Geralt asked but gave it anyway.

"So I can read your future to you and for once be able to say that I was right about everything," Jaskier scoffed as if that had been obvious right from the start before he grew serious again and locked their eyes, not wasting even a second to look at Geralt's hand and "read" from it and just holding it between his own. "You are going to find me. It will take a while, but you will. And when you do, just have patience with me and I promise I will have patience with you too."

"You shouldn't."

"And that's supposed to mean something because I'm the epitome of doing what others tell me to do?" Jaskier deadpanned but ended up giggling before swatting him. "Geralt! I'm telling you I am happy. With you. Why are you trying to ruin that?"

"Because I know you also hardly ever do what's good for you."

"True, but this is different. And I'll keep saying it until you believe me. Reaching this point won't be easy for you, but it's worth it. It really is. And you deserve it, Geralt. As for my forgiveness, you just have to start. And never stop."

Geralt didn't need any clarification on what exactly that entailed. In his own heart, he knew where he had done completely wrong by Jaskier, and even if despite all this Jaskier was telling him he wouldn't earn forgiveness in the end, it didn't mean he shouldn't try. Not because this was the future he wanted to have, but simply because he owed so much to the one person who had refused to leave him alone until he himself had given them no other choice. It could never be repaid, but starting and never stopping sounded like he would be on the right track and even if that track turned out to be never-ending, he wouldn't mind one bit.

"This is the part where you say something," Jaskier said, still looking right into his eyes. "Preferably not those grunts that sometimes can barely be called human, but as you know, I'm not particularly picky."

And because Geralt wasn't the epitome of doing what others told him to do either, he leaned in and kissed the bard instead. Jaskier let him and reciprocated just as enthusiastically as he did everything else, carrying it out for as long as their lungs could take, and even when their lips parted, the two of them barely moved, leaving their foreheads pressed against each other in embrace Geralt didn't wish to see end.

"I take it that was meant to be a yes," Jaskier broke the silence with a smile. "Starting and never stopping?"

"Something like that," Geralt agreed and mirrored the smile. Out of the corner of his right eye, he managed to spot the two rolls of blue cloth Jaskier had left behind and relished the irony that he now knew why they were indeed completely different. One was the color of Jaskier's eyes, while the other one was shamefully not.

"Cornflower blue," he said and smiled even wider when Jaskier just gaped at him. "For the wedding."

Jaskier narrowed his eyes in contemplation. "Bold of you to make that decision since we aren't practically engaged."

"You did ask me and I know he will say the same thing."

"That's fair. I wish you didn't have to wait eleven years to see the result, though."

“Hm,” Geralt dismissed, remembering eleven was only a number that normally wouldn’t count for much since time was a fleeting thing anyway. It would never stop just because he wanted it and his prolonged life wasn’t making that truth any easier. If anything, those eleven years would fly by just like the rest and make him feel even more yearning for something no magic or power could grant him. It was something he would always know, but the promise of those eleven years with Jaskier being part of it, of the most special tale of all playing right in front of his eyes, did bring a sense of closure he’d never sought but was glad beyond measure he had now. Those eleven years were yet to pass and even when they did, he would make sure they had countless more.

Nothing that odd when you were a witcher, but when you were a human, the same rules refused to apply. Or did they? "You haven't changed. Even after more than three decades, you still look the same."

"That’s… true," Jaskier admitted awkwardly. "It will be explained in due time too. As much to you as to me. So I’m afraid my lips are sealed."

"And I assume you won't tell me why Beauclair either?"

"It's not like I picked it. That's all on you, though you won't see me complaining. But don't worry, if two higher vampires who wear nothing but dark and gloomy clothes can be happy here, so can an old brooding witcher like you."

"Now that I think about it, I do see some of your hair going grey," Geralt teased and laughed when Jaskier swatted him in retribution. Even if he was meant to disappear from this time right in that moment, there would be no regrets on his end. Jaskier was happy and Geralt could question it all he wanted, but there was no erasing that from his memory now that he'd seen it so openly.

They ended up kissing a few more times after that and when the sun was setting and shining on Jaskier in the angle that was just about right, Geralt admitted that living in Beauclair of all places did have its benefits.

Jaskier didn't stray from his side the whole time. Not even when Geralt asked him to sing something, the bard resolutely said it would have to be without the lute since he had no idea when Geralt was meant to return to his own time and Jaskier didn't wish to miss his last moments here. Geralt remained completely speechless after that, but Jaskier just smiled at him and begin to sing.

Somewhere along the way, when the light was dying out, Geralt felt his eyes closing and the last thing he remembered was the gentle squeeze of his right hand and softly whispered words that would serve as his anchor for the near future awaiting him.

"See you soon, dear heart."

*******************************************************************************************

He wasn't surprised when he managed to find Jaskier only a few months later. Time had always been a relative concept when it came to the bard and "a while" could mean only a few days just as much as it could mean years. Jaskier was resolute on ignoring him the first few weeks, but Geralt vowed to leave only if Jaskier asked him to. No such thing happened even after a few rounds of shouting he rightfully deserved, though. Geralt started and never stopped. Just like he'd promised.

When it was time to return on the Path and Jaskier said he was coming with, Geralt used proper words to thank him.

That same year, Geralt asked him to come to Kaer Morhen with him for the winter. It took some time for it to truly sink in when the bard said yes.

They shared their first kiss in the library of all places since they were completely alone and the light of the candles illuminated Jaskier so perfectly that Geralt could no longer help it. It only took a few more minutes before Jaskier called him "dear heart" for the very first time. And when he received a handful of comments from both Lambert and Eskel about it the next day, it was with a warm smile that he rolled his eyes at them.

He found out Jaskier was part fae a year later when the bard ended up kidnapped by another fae that seemed far too familiar once Geralt got closer and saw her smirk at him.

"Still kidnapping people, I see," he said.

"Please, they're far too boring for me to stick with them. I stopped right after you."

"Then why did you kidnap him?"

"Because I happen to know he's not completely human."

Words weren't enough to describe how he felt after that even though he'd known Jaskier's mortality wouldn't be a problem for decades to come. Words were rarely enough most of the time, but he used them anyway. Especially, when he knew that Jaskier needed to hear them.

They still had moments of weaknesses when stress took over and they ended up fighting, but throughout it all, they stayed and figured it out. Together.

They headed to the coast to get away for a while and it worked just like Jaskier had said it would.

Geralt eventually lost count of how many times Jaskier made him a chaplet, but he never turned any of them down. Ciri caught up fairly quickly and always made one for Jaskier too so they would match.

It was Jaskier who proposed. If blurting out the idea right after performing for a wedding they happened to attend since it was in the village where they decided to spend the night could count as a proper proposal, that is. No Beauclair or Toussaint in sight, but that had never been a factor in this decision anyway. Geralt said yes in a heartbeat and completely ravished the bard the same night.

Even years after, there were still times Geralt would dream of being back on that mountain, but the place no longer haunted him like it used to. It was merely a reminder of something he wished never to repeat.

And it didn't. Because he'd started. And never stopped.

Those eleven years passed and more followed. The most special tale of all indeed turned out to be worth seeing it through to the very end.

-The End

A/N: I hope you enjoyed. Thank you so much for reading!

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #the witcher #witcher netflix #my fic #my writing #hopefully it's not that bad

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midwinter-fox · 5 years

Text

Paint

First Chapter

Previous Chapter

Days passed like a strangely pleasant dream - the kind that makes one wonder when the nightmare would rear up and shatter the tranquility. Every waking moment Dettlaff spent either with his flock or in the arms of his lover. The sudden change had Regis in a state of titters when he found out, so delighted was he that his dear friend was finding a place for himself that wasn’t secluded in a dark cavern in the mountains. When Dettlaff expressed his desire to stay with her, it was all the better for all three.

Regis was absolutely elated for his friend, and while Leonore was just as happy, it also meant they had to make her practically empty home a little more livable for more than one person. She expressed her desire to purchase more furniture - including a much larger bed - but Dettlaff convinced her that it wasn’t necessary. When his newfound lover departed for work, he took to his craft with renewed vigor. Never had Dettlaff been both so excited nor so anxious about his artwork, but now he had to earn Leonore’s approval for the furniture he planned to make himself. It was better this way, both so he could make everything a comfortable size for a man of his height and so he could hopefully receive his beloved’s praise. He’d be a liar if he said he wasn’t doing this solely for her admiration.

He’d had to ask her what she required for her house, but only because he wasn’t entirely certain what was and was not necessary in a typical home. Regis’ wasn’t much of a reference considering there were additional pieces of furniture in place of usual ones to accommodate for both his medical and cosmetic professions. The bed was a given, but had she not expressed her desire for an actual dining set, he’d have probably neglected to make one. After all, he ate in his room or with his pack, and Regis ate while he worked. On top of that, she was in need of a separate wardrobe to accommodate his clothing, but when he actually thought about it, a sudden realization hit him.

He was leaving.

To live with Leonore.

Even with Rhena, he’d only ever lived with his pack or with Regis. That both were so close was a great reassurance, but something akin to fear was rising up and he didn’t know how to calm it. Rather than dwell on what could be causing these tumultuous feelings, he busied himself with preparing to build the necessary furniture for what was to be his new home.

The basement of Regis’ house was both where the distiller for his mandrake brew was kept and where Dettlaff saw fit to keep the tools of his trade. There was a little workbench where he would keep the toys and trinkets he worked on as well as various tools for larger projects. There wasn’t much any more after abandoning most of his belongings in Beauclair, but that no longer bothered him. With the death of Rhena, he almost never felt any desire to do much of anything any more, least of all anything that would make him happy. That had begun to change since meeting Leonore, which was quite evident with his insistence that he provide for their home.

Theirs. He wasn’t sure why the thought almost overwhelmed him.

Dettlaff wiped away the dust from a stack of papers, all of which contained sketches of various items he’d repaired and, at times, small doodles that he just didn’t have the heart to toss. The books he’d purchased to mend were here, but being recent additions, they were still free of grime for the time being. Those he would try to work on later if he still needed something with which to distract him from his usual dark thoughts and repressed memories.

After a bit of sifting through the various carving instruments he kept, he found the ones he searched for beside a worn and torn teddy bear. Every tool he kept in here had been acquired after departing from Toussaint, but only because Regis wasn’t quite as gifted when it came to woodworking; as such, repairs were usually made by Dettlaff’s hand. Tools found, he turned to go back up the stairs leading out of the cellar, but his eye caught something lurking in a far corner.

It was a canvas, the last one he’d attempted to use upon settling in Dillingen. Someone had removed the sheet he kept over it, revealing the half-painted silhouette of his past lover. As loathe as he was to be reminded of her transgressions, he could never dispose of the damned thing. There was too much sentimentality that kept him from doing anything more than letting it sit in the basement and collect dust. Maybe one day he might get some new materials with which to finish it or maybe even the heart to finally rid himself of it, but not until he could look at it without his gut twisting horribly. So far, that had yet to happen.

With a shake of his head, Dettlaff returned above ground and ventured around the side of the building to where a pile of wood sat. It would take a while to have it all finished, but if he started with the bed, he could have the most important pieces done by nightfall. The day was warm and quiet, so he removed his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and set to work.

Regis watched his companion from a window, though he wasn’t sure if Dettlaff knew whether he was being watched. It was always a treat to observe such an artist at work, and to see how skillfully the wood was inspected, cut, and carved reminded him of just how talented his friend was. Such a shame such talent went to waste those days, for Regis could remember many times in which new paintings would be proudly displayed upon finish and how happy Dettlaff would be with the results. The barber-surgeon really didn’t need another reason to curse Syanna’s name, but here it was. He hadn’t seen a new painting since the unfinished piece hidden in a dark corner of the cellar, and even then it was of the very woman that had become Dettlaff’s muse then crushed his heart.

A knock at the door distracted Regis from his thoughts momentarily, but now he wondered who would be there so unexpectedly. There were no appointments for that day, so that he would have a visitor was unusual. Upon opening the door, he couldn’t help but grin.

“You know, Dettlaff is actually outside at the moment. You can go around the side to find him,” Regis commented to a smiling Leonore, though her arms were full of parcels. “If you’d like, you can set those down in here before you go to see him.”

“Actually, I’m here to surprise him,” she whispered, knowing full well that if Dettlaff was anywhere nearby, he’d have no problem hearing her.

As soon as Regis stepped aside, she walked in to set the packages down on a table. To protect her little secret, he went to the window out which he could clearly see the other vampire and drew the curtains closed. Curious, he returned to Leonore to see what she’d brought.

“I take it these are for him?” he asked, to which she nodded. “May I ask what’s in them? I warn you, Dettlaff is incredibly receptive to gifts. You’ll not be able to keep him away from you if you plan on presenting these all at once.”

“I’m not opposed to that,” she shrugged, “but I told him I’d be getting these for him anyway. I don’t think he’s expecting it though, which is why it’s a surprise. I finished my deliveries especially quick today so I could bring them.”

“You still haven’t said what they are.”

“Oh! Sorry.” She blushed. “It’s painting supplies. Brushes, pigments, and I’ve got an easel here too, but he’d have to put it back together first. I also got about a dozen or so eggs so he can make his paints himself.” When Regis’ expression fell a fraction, she frowned in response. “What..? You don’t think he’ll like it?”

“Oh no, I think he’d adore anything you gave him, but I’m afraid he hasn’t touched a brush since we arrived here a few years back.”

“Oh, I know. He told me he’d lost his muse, but I thought that maybe if he actually had the supplies, when he does feel the desire to paint again, he actually can. And, if he decides he’d rather not for the time being, then you have eggs you can eat.”

This brought a smile back to his face. She was thoughtful, though a bit irresponsible with her funds. With how many small parcels were there, he didn’t doubt she had spent nearly a fortune on it all. There were about five packages there, but he didn’t see anything that could hold a small canvas.

“Did you happen to bring something on which he can paint..?”

She stopped and stared at him for a moment, face slowly getting ever redder. That answered his question quite effectively before she even had the chance to groan and smack herself in the forehead. The display made Regis snort.

“I’m such an idiot! I’m standing here all proud of myself and I forgot the damned thing he’s supposed to paint on in the first place!”

“Oh, I’m sure you two will figure something out. He’s still bound to be grateful that you got him anything in the first place.” He was still chuckling at how hilariously adorable she looked when angry. Her cheeks made her look like a grumpy chipmunk, but he wouldn’t say as much.

The sound of a door opening shook her from her internal punishment of herself, but Regis just stood and smiled as Dettlaff strode into the room, wood shavings stuck to some of his clothes as well as the hair of his forearms though he’d tried brushing most of it off. Upon seeing Leonore there, he paused.

“What are you doing here..? You were not to be back before dusk I thought.” The confusion written across his face was concealing his underlying concern. Why would she be back so soon if not for something important?

“Would you like some privacy? I’m sure you know where his room is by now,” suggested Regis, knowing full well just how emotional Dettlaff could get when given gifts. After all, he’d been the one to give his friend the first he’d ever received.

“Sure,” she responded briefly before gathering up the parcels and trotting off down the hall in which the room was. When Dettlaff hesitated, she poked her head around the corner. “Are you coming?? I’ve got something for you!”

Dettlaff exchanged looks with his friend, but when Regis shrugged and grinned, he decided to follow, bits of wood shavings leaving a small trail on the floor as he went.

“You wanna close the door?” Leonore asked as Dettlaff walked in the bedroom, though her back was turned to him as she set up the packages on the covers of what was soon to be his old bed. He shut the door behind him, but eyed all of the parcels now set out with a sort of wonder.

“What is all of this?”

“It’s for you! Go ahead and open them. These ones here would probably be best first,” she gestured to the smaller two, “or you can save them for last. It’s up to you.” She was radiating excitement with how she bounced on the balls of her feet and smiled at him expectantly. It was effectively rubbing off on him, for he was smiling before he even knew what it was that lay within the parchment packaging.

Carefully, he used a claw to tear the paper that covered the first parcel. It was the smallest, but it was about a foot in length. As soon as the wrapping fell apart, he picked up the paint brushes that lay within like they were made of glass. The larger handles were polished and yet shaped in a way that they fit perfectly between his fingers while the thinner brushes were sturdy despite being perfect for the most intricate of details. Vair hair bristles tipped each brush; the mere thought of how smooth the lines would be with each stroke made him all too eager to test them.

“You.. bought these..?”

“Well, yes and no. Some things were easy enough to find out in nature, but yes, the brushes were purchased.” Leonore picked up a second parcel and held it out to him. “This one I was able to gather myself.”

This package was larger, and when he tenderly set aside the brushes to take it, he noticed it was lighter than it looked as well. He opened it much quicker this time, then lifted the wooden lid of the box that lay inside. There were several compartments inside - about ten in total. Each one held a different colored powder.

“Pigments. How did you find such a vibrant purple?”

“Wild indigo, dried and ground. That one was probably the hardest to find simply because purple is such a rare color. I hope it works well.”

Awed, he slowly closed the box and set it just beside the brushes, but he didn’t bother opening another gift. Rather, he took Leonore by the arms and pulled her to him, holding her against his chest in a crushing embrace. She did her best to return it, though her arms were pinned to her sides.

“Thank you, truly,” he murmured against her hair, voice thick with emotion. “You’ve no notion of how much this means to me.”

“You’re very welcome.” Her voice was a bit strained considering he was making it hard to breathe, but as soon as he heard it, he released her and apologized. “It’s fine, love. I told you I’d keep an eye out for more art supplies for you.”

“Yes, and you said you would make me aware if you found anything so I may procure it for myself. I did not think you would go so far as to acquire any of this, let alone for me.” He hugged her again, though this time he was more careful about it by winding his arms under hers. This allowed her to hold him in return.

“Alas, I forgot to grab a canvas for you. I even grabbed an easel, a palette, and some eggs for you to make the paints, but you’ve nothing to actually paint on..”

For a moment, he remembered the unfinished painting downstairs, but that wouldn’t do. No, he wanted nothing to do with the memory of his heartbreak - not when he wanted nothing more than to hold and love the woman in his arms now.

“You’ve spoiled me as it is, liefje. Think nothing of it.”

“Well you deserve to be spoiled! I’ve never felt so wanted nor appreciated as I have with you. This is just my way of thanking you for being, well, you.”

Ah, if only she knew what she was doing to him. There was no way he could be more sentimental than he was in that moment. He almost wanted to cry. Too choked up to say anything, he instead buried his face in her shoulder and held her close, relishing in her smell and her touch when words utterly escaped him.

“Don’t you want to open the rest of them..? You may not have a canvas, but we can still do some painting I think.”

When he pulled back to look at her, she smirked back up at him. Her eyes were suggestive, but what she was getting at was lost on him.

“What would you suggest..?” he asked, which made Leonore’s smirk turn into a grin.

“You’ll see. Get something we can use to mix paint in. It’ll get a bit messy, soooo you might want to take off your clothes.”

She removed herself from his embrace and picked up the largest of the packages carefully. While she took to opening it, Dettlaff decided to do as she said. When he returned with a handful of small bowls (though Regis initially protested, he promised to clean them once finished), she was already pulling out some of the eggs.

“How many did you grab?”

“Eleven; one for each color, some water, and the egg whites. The colors can be mixed on the palette for other hues.” When he set them on his nightstand, she noticed that one did, in fact, already have water in it.

“Good. Give me the empty ones.” And so he did.

She was right about one thing: this was truly a messy affair. Initially, Dettlaff planned on being very careful with such a project, but she had little regard for cleanliness. He was grateful he’d shut the door again, for she was quick to remove her blouse when she accidentally spilled some egg white on it. Alluring as the sight was, he was far too amused by her childlike excitement with helping him make paints. Before long, they had both discarded most of their clothing and had nine bowls of paint with a prepared palette. Somehow, Dettlaff had managed to keep at least his trousers clean, but Leonore had to undress down to just her undergarments. Her pale skin ended up with flecks of paint in various places thanks to her own clumsiness.

“Liefje, how are you so careless..?” he asked as he wiped a bit of black from her cheek, but she responded by dipping a finger into the red and wiping a smear across her own chest.

“Because I’m your canvas.” He raised an eyebrow at her when she grabbed one of his new brushes and handed it to him.

“You.. You wish for me to paint on you?” He was incredulous, but he took the brush and eyed her almost completely nude form with renewed interest.

“Why not? I feel bad for getting you all of this and then you not being able to use it. So, problem solved. I’m about as pale as a canvas, though admittedly I’m probably not as smooth..”

“You are perfect.” The words were automatic, like they were already on his tongue before he had to think of saying them. It effectively left her flustered. “But what would you have me paint..? This is not my preferred medium, but I will not deny that it is more exciting than the conventional means.”

“Well.. I already started it for you I guess.” There was a faint blush to her cheeks, her eyes avoiding his as she suddenly became bashful. “You um.. I mean, you may as well start with red I suppose..?”

With that as a starting point, Dettlaff dipped the brush into the vermilion paint on the palette, but on a whim mixed it with a bit of white. Since he had no real plan, he instead let his hand move of its own volition. When he touched the pink bristles to Leonore’s skin, he could see her visibly shiver.

“You are not uncomfortable, are you?” He only asked as a courtesy; his mind was already starting to wander as he envisioned what he wanted to create upon her skin. “You will have to lay here for a while and remain still.”

“I’m alright, take your time. This feels good, actually. Do you need me to remove my underwear?”

“Only if you do not wish for them to be accidentally painted.”

Briefly, she shifted so she could remove her last article of clothing, but as soon as she did, she laid herself out on the ground for him. Presented as she was, she looked beautiful in his eyes - then again, she was always beautiful to him, inside and out. She was so trusting of him, and it warmed his heart. His human canvas still once again, he once more ran the brush across her skin and watched as she closed her eyes and sighed. It seemed she truly was enjoying it, and with that reassurance in mind, he let himself paint freely.

After an hour, he’d only just barely finished her chest, the beginning of a sunset landscape spreading down from her collarbone. A few times he had to stop and get some clean water for his brush, and each time he would come back to her snoozing peacefully on the floor. As soon as the bristles touched her skin again, she’d hum and sigh in contentment. There were a few spots he found to be ticklish, so he made sure to be quick as possible so as to avoid accidentally smudging anything. This was far more engrossing than he’d initially thought, and so he was beginning to be invested in this particular piece.

It was with some difficulty that he managed to paint across the swell of her breasts, especially when her breathing kept hitching the closer he got to her nipples. As frustrating as it was as an artist, as a man and her lover, he wanted nothing more than to close his lips over each bud and lavish affection on her with his tongue. Part of him wondered if this was what she’d planned - to have him tease her with the brush then take her with his body. However, this was the first time in a long time that he actually wanted to paint and had an image in mind of what to create. Thus, he kept his mind off of the smell of her arousal and on the task at hand.

By the third hour, her torso was completed. It was fairly quick when compared to his previous works, but painting on skin didn’t allow for as much detail as he would like - not when it was a medium he was unused to. She kept fidgeting when he tickled her, so he had to be quick lest she make a mess of both of them.

He tried to limit how many colors he used initially, but the more he painted, the more ideas came to mind. Nostalgia was what inspired him, particularly the memories of Nazair as day gave way to night. The view of the setting sun behind Rhys-Rhun castle from across the Muredach was one he remembered fondly, especially when one was just high enough to view the garden that once flourished past the keep’s walls. He could recall when that garden had been full of life before the castle had been abandoned and fallen into disrepair. Now, he viewed that very scene across the expanse of his lover’s torso which ended just past her navel.

“Have you finished..?” she asked, drawing his eyes to hers. “May I move now?”

“Yes. It is unfortunate that at some point you will need to wash it off. Remind me to recreate this on a true canvas. Admittedly, you made a fairly poor one.” She rolled her eyes at him.

“I’d like to see you do any better,” she retorted before dipping a finger in the blue paint and flicking it at him. “It doesn’t help that you painting my breasts made me incredibly horny.”

“I was thinking more on the moments in which your laughter shook the brush as I attempted intricate details, but I noticed your arousal as well.” There were specks of blue in the coarse hair on his chest now, and though he tried to wipe it off with his thumb, it was far more stubborn than it was on Leonore’s body. Now they had a mess to clean up, much to his chagrin. Cleaning was his least favorite part of making art. “Will you help me clean before washing yourself..?”

“Nope. I’ve got something much better in mind.”

“It would have nothing to do with you painting me, would it?” He cocked a brow at her as she sat up and looked down at herself.

“Have you ever tried finger painting?” When he shook his head, she grinned. “I’m certain I can get you to like it.”

His curiosity got the best of him; rather than begin tidying, he watched as she dipped her fingers into the blue again and trace them along his naked abdomen. The hair that trailed down his stomach textured it rather oddly from his perspective, but he enjoyed her touch even with cool paint being left in her finger’s wake. The thought of having to clean himself wasn’t a very comforting one, but he would accept it in favor of his lover’s hands on his body. This time when she went for more, she took a handful of the green and let it drip from her palm before pressing it to his chest. When her hand trailed upward toward his shoulder, the droplets of paint rolled down his body and made him shudder. The liquid was slow and cold and thick, but the sensation made him hum in approval knowing it was her hand that caused it.

“Remove your pants.” The simple command was obeyed immediately; Dettlaff stood so he may remove the offending article of clothing, though there were already flecks of paint splattered across them. That wasn’t his lover’s concern though.

Her hand was once again being dipped in paint, this time the purple. She didn’t even wait for him to finish pushing the waistband of his trousers past his hips. As soon as his semi-erect member was freed, she ran her tongue across the head and pressed her hand to his pelvis to allow the paint to drip down and around the base of his shaft. As alien as it felt, he couldn’t help the involuntary moan that slipped from his lips. This was perhaps one of the oddest activities he’d partaken in, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

For only a moment, she suckled at the slit that tipped his member, but just as his mouth fell open in another, more silent moan, she stood and claimed his mouth with hers. Purple was smeared up across his stomach and chest, blending now with the blue and green, before the hand bearing the paint cupped his cheek. The paint on his lover’s body was still wet, and so that too ended up coating his skin when she pressed herself flush against him, but he cared for nothing other than Leonore’s tender affections. He broke the kiss to finish removing the last of his clothing, but then immediately took her wrist and dragged her down to join him back on the floor.

When he took her breast in his palm, he ran his hand up to mirror her earlier actions, now cupping her cheek with a painted hand. She pulled back to smirk at him.

“Told you I could get you to enjoy it.”

She was silenced by his mouth on hers again, but there was no protesting on her part - not when he was further messing up his masterpiece on her chest with his groping. They were both grateful that he’d not painted any lower, else their joining would be fairly uncomfortable. When his hands moved from her chest to her hips, she helped guide his cock to her entrance and sank down onto him with a low, pleased groan.

They moved and moaned together, the paint only further smearing across their bodies whilst she rode him. Dettlaff tried to take her slowly, but with how her hips rotated against him, he was quickly losing composure. He ended up laying back completely so he could better thrust upward into her, delighting in how her eyes closed in ecstasy and breasts bounced in time with their pace. His hands covered her breasts once more, fingers pinching the painted buds tipping them to make her moan ever louder. How he adored the sounds she made, but he was also focused on the sight of the multitude of colors mixing on her skin. It was entrancing though the original product was ruined beyond recognition.

Without warning, Leonore reached for another paint - the charcoal black - and poured some of it across his chest. When she leaned down to kiss him again, it was pressed into his chest hair and spread between their bodies. When she sat back up again, she ran her hands through it and up to his neck. There was no pressure applied, but the sensation of her wet hands gripping his throat made him involuntarily whine.

“I.. I’m close, love.. F-fuck– Ah~!!” Her exclamation was followed by a final press of her hips and a drawn out cry, she seated herself fully on him as her orgasm washed over her. Once again he gripped her hips, but only so he could thrust into her a few more times then follow her climax soon after. When she collapsed on top of him, he immediately ran his hand across her back and traced soothing sunset-colored circles into the skin.

They lay in bliss as the paint dried and they came down from their pleasurable high. Neither one wanted to move, but they knew they eventually needed to clean the awful mess they’d made of each other and the room. It didn’t help that the paint that was caked onto their skin was beginning to itch and crack, but Dettlaff wasn’t about to allow his lover to go walking nude through the house with another man living there, no matter if that man happened to also be his closest friend. It was all the more reason he needed to finish their furniture, but this distraction had been a very welcome one. Eventually, Leonore removed herself from his body, his seed causing further mess for them as it spilled from between her thighs. She just snorted in dry amusement.

“At least it isn’t more paint.” Her lover rolled his eyes at her humor as he stood.

“Remain here and I will draw a bath for us, though we may need to take more than one..”

“Hey, it’s more time I get to spend with you and be completely naked at the same time. I think that’s a win for both of us.” Her light-heartedness in spite of all of the cleaning they had to do made it hard not to smile.

Upon leaving the room, he made sure to close the door behind him to allow Leonore some privacy. As he made his way to the washroom, Regis spotted a multi-colored mass from the corner of his eye while he tended to dinner. The sight was, for lack of a better word, remarkable.

“Dettlaff?? What the hell happened to you?!” He dropped what he was doing to get a better look, unbothered by the other’s nudity and more concerned by the fact that it looked like a black mass was attempting to strangle him then ended up vomiting a rainbow down the front of him. Dettlaff grudgingly turned to face him.

“We.. Mh, we got carried away.”

“Please tell me you at least plan on cleaning up whatever horror of an aftermath you left behind.” The look of both disgust and unease made it clear that Regis was displeased with the situation, but Dettlaff’s nod didn’t make him feel any better.

“We do, once we’ve finished bathing.”

“If you finish bathing. I’m going to assume she looks just as bad?” Regis asked, but only got another nod in response. It appalled him how this man had no shame sometimes. “Well, I’ll ask that you try not to make this a common occurrence until after you’ve moved out. I was planning on making your room into an examination room, but if the mess is as awful as I think it is, I suppose it’ll have to wait until you two finish cleaning up after yourselves.”

“It will be done, I assure you.” Dettlaff turned to go back to setting up a bath, but paused for a moment. “I also apologize for causing you such distress. I will do what I can to remedy the issue.”

“I’m certain you will, my friend. Now please, you smell of eggs and sex, and I would really like to forget that I’ve ever had the misfortune of encountering such a foul odor.” Before Dettlaff disappeared into the washroom, he called out as an afterthought. “And wash out the tub when you’re done!”

When he heard the door close, he shook his head and sighed then went back to preparing dinner. As much as he enjoyed having the other vampire staying with him - especially when it helped his heart heal - inwardly, Regis was grateful that such sexual escapades would be restricted to Leonore’s home instead of his own; he’d no doubt be finding paint in the spare room no matter how many times he scrubbed the floors now.

#Dettlaff #dettlaff van der eretein #OC #My Tales #multi chapter #ufw

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