Turns Out Reddie Is A Thing

turns out reddie is a thing

so I hate horror movies and have never seen It but HO BOY have I learned a thing this week

WHAT on earth do you mean, “finished not perfect”? This looks pretty perfect to me! Really though, this reminds me so much of those paintings by Tomislav Jagnijic that circulated back in the old days. It was all based on that one named “yo bro is it safe down their in the woods? yeah man it’s cool.” It’s fucking etherial. 

This thing has been rotting in one of my wips folders for ages, so in the spirit of “finished not perfect” I decided to give it some final touches and spitting it out :P So here you go: normal tuesday evening for the Witcher family :3  

This isn’t related to my blog in the slightest, but this thread is worthy of the greats

actually when I was in 8th grade and obsessed with twilight my master plan as a twilight vampire was to sit around in famous shipwrecks like the super deep ones where they can only send robots with cameras from their submarines and when they sent one down i’d be sitting there, pretending to drink out of an old tea cup you know for the drama of it all and the guys in the submarine would know what they saw and that it was real footage but who else would believe them? no one important.

but it didn’t stop there. at the next party they threw to celebrate one of their latest finds, some museum-y banquet idk I was 13, I was going to show up. I was going to show up and make eye contact with them one at a time from across the room and they were going to lose their goddamn minds and then before the volturi could catch wind i was gonna be back in the ocean. how could they find me?

the drama. the theatrics. i can’t believe i didn’t realize i was gay right then but that’s another story, also involving vampires,

Honest Hands to Welcome You Home

Being alive is a lonely endeavor, and Witchers live for a very long time. Sometimes, though. Sometimes fate is kind, and the loneliness eases, just for a bit. Sometimes the harsh reality of the path is dampened, chased away, and the aching muscles, joints, and scars are soothed by gentle hands. Geralt has been fortunate, has managed to steal more of these moments than most Witchers.

Renfri’s hands were strong, hard earned calluses and firm grip holding together his edges when they gripped his arms, his back, his heavy shoulders. Underneath that strength, though, was soft skin and delicate bone structure. After all, in some long-dead life she was royalty. The blood, her blood, streaming down her arms and dripping off of those same fingers, featured frequently in his nightmares. Nothing had quite managed to make him feel like a monster, not his scars, his hair, his eyes, like the weight of that death.

Yennefer’s hands were larger than Renfri’s, but more elegant by far. She was competent, she was smart, she was powerful. She was effortlessly beautiful, and no part of her body could ever be caught bearing any strain. It was a statement. The world was at her feet, and she didn’t have a single callus. Those hands could gentle him into a peaceful sleep like they were made to. It was effortless, like the rest of her. Geralt loved her with a kind of idol worship. He wanted it with a desperation fitting a soldier crying out to his goddess on the battlefield, lifeblood dripping steady and drowning to the earth below.

Jaskier’s hands were different from anything he had experienced before. They were ink stained and calloused from lute strings and hard travel. They were soft, groomed, and well cared for. His hands were his livelihood. There was pride in their power, their talent, their muscle memory. They were honest, above all, honest, and they loved him in a way he didn’t understand.

They were busy hands, plucking and scribbling and gesturing and always reaching, reaching for his arm, his hand, his cheek. Geralt had never been reached for before. No one had ever needed him like he needed them. No, that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t a need. It was a want. A pure enjoyment in his presence. The way his face would light up when they met after long winters apart. The way he would lean into Geralt’s space when telling a story, catching every drop of his reaction. Jaskier’s hands didn’t just hold his edges together, didn’t just gentle him to sleep, they shared with him. They shared food and comfort and firm, unflinching touch.

It was fitting. It was fitting because the two of them shared their lives, their years with each other, and they always came back. Jaskier never made Geralt stretch for him, never held himself out of reach. He was there and he was happy and he was his best friend.

It was those same hands that pulled oil through his hair in the bath. He picked through knots and monster filth and volunteered himself eagerly for the job every time. Geralt was used to it, used to it, what holy thing did he do to gain this privilege of being used to it, to him, and melted under his touch as soon as Jaskier’s fingers slid through his snow white roots. Geralt allowed himself to wash slowly, allowed himself to warm the water again and again, allowed himself to bask in the touch and the comfort and the companionship of this ritual.

Jaskier washed his hair twice, braided it for the pleasure of the activity, then unbraided it again. Geralt liked to keep his hair loose when he could. Jasker knew. When Jaskier was done he moved away and sat against the side of the bath. It couldn’t have been particularly comfortable, sitting on the rough, wooden slats of the floor, especially knowing the bed was just on the other side of the room, but he lingered. He sang to himself softly, or maybe he was singing for Geralt, something soft and young and intimate.

All at once Geralt was struck by the beauty of this man. The flickering light of the candles played across his shoulders and neck, turning his chestnut hair a glowing gold. Geralt reached out to touch, because he was allowed, and how could he not. He took up a lock of that chestnut gold hair, so soft and well kept, and held it between his fingers, gently rubbing his thumb back and forth over the miracle of it. Reveling in the touch, in the quiet wonder of this togetherness.

Jaskier, for his part, never faltered in his song, but after a moment tilted his head into the touch. “I hear you,” it said, “I feel you, and I’m here.”

Geralt was rumbling before he had fully decided to, “Come, bard. Bed.”

Jaskier opened his eyes lazily, and tilted his head further into the touch of Geralt’s fingers, peering up at his face with an easy smile. “Alright, dear heart, if you’re ready.”

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The guys in classy outfits