Look we all know Jaskier is basically the same size as Geralt, and very much made of muscle. He'd have to be because Geralt gets hurt more times than Jaskier is pleased or comfortable with, and well someone has to pick Geralt up off the ground and carry him to Roach/Camp/Town.
Geralt knows this of course, he just forgets because Jaskier tailors his clothes to hide the muscle.
But... but his brothers don't know.
Geralt takes extreme pleasure in watching a very reluctant Jaskier tossing Lambert with barely any effort...
2K notes
·
View notes
Your name is FailWhip. Second child of the Grimlands royal family. Your older sister’s name is GeminiTay. She will become the Countess. You will not.
Growing up, your sister Gemini was always held to high standard. She had special classes and tutors, she had a schedule and a calendar with which to keep track of it all. She had training in sword fighting and archery, as well as leadership and diplomacy.
You did not.
When you were very young, you asked Gemini why she was always so busy. She told you that she was gonna become the ruler of the Grimlands. She seemed excited.
You once asked your parents why she was so busy and you weren’t, why couldn’t you go with her? They waved you off, told you that you had no business getting in her way.
Spending time at the forge became a welcome reprieve from your home. The blacksmith seemed willing enough to ignore you, and you tried to stay out of the way. You enjoyed watching them work, occasionally tinkering with some loose scrap metal, when you could.
(You’d always wondered why you were named that. You could never bring yourself to ask, not wanting to hear the answer.)
When you were nine, Gemini called you into her room, late at night. She looked tired. She said she’d thought of a fun nickname for you, asked if you wanted to hear it. From then on, she called you fWhip. You started calling her Gem, and it seemed to make her smile.
She started looking more… exhausted. All the time. It looked like she hadn’t had a good nights sleep in weeks. You started doing her chores for her.
You’d gotten pretty alright at working the forge, over the years. It was better than staying in the castle— you always felt like you were in the way, at home. Like your parents wished you weren’t there.
(It wasn’t hard to figure out.)
When you were home, you tended to stay in your room.
Gem started sneaking out at night. You noticed, of course. You never said anything. Sometimes she would give you things, when she got home, in the early hours of the morning. Usually, the things were just little trinkets or machine parts.
The last time, she gave you a small purple crystal.
When you were fifteen, she ran away. Only a year before she was to become Countess.
All at once, the entire empire’s eyes were on you. You started taking all those classes that you wanted, all those years ago. You didn’t want them anymore. It didn’t matter what you wanted.
At sixteen, you got a nasty gash on your arm, from the sparring you were forced to do. You could feel the disappointed gaze of your parents constantly on your neck for the next week, while you recovered.
You always hoped Gem would come back, keeping that last gift tucked away safely in your nightstand. You were beginning to understand why she left. You couldn’t blame her for it.
At seventeen, a terrible sickness ravaged the Grimlands. You recovered. Your parents did not. The funeral was in the depth of winter, the ceremony long and cold. The whole empire mourned.
At seventeen, you became the youngest ever Count of the Grimlands. You were never supposed to. You sat upon one of the grand thrones, and wondered how you were supposed to do this alone.
At seventeen, you had to prove to the world that you were worth it. You didn’t even know where to start.
600 notes
·
View notes