You ask Zuko to do doggy ONE TIME and he loves you and is willing to try anything once with you, but he is absolutely dreading it. I’m talking you are laying there, ass up, and he’s only half hard. You’re whining and all he wants is to be able to see your face while you whine, the noises are one thing but it’s your expressions that really get him going.
He eventually just flips you over and fucks you so hard to prove to you that you don’t need doggy. he can satisfy you way more when your face is in front of him, telling him everything he needs to know.
so like obviously no team (apart from williams ahem) is gonna broadcast that their car sucks before the season has even started.
but it seems like most of the big teams are doing well, and i am NOT ready for a 5-way championship fight. can somebody PLEASE fumble soon. for the plot guys.
i have just realized i’ve definitely got a thing for the ‘person falling from a great height gets caught by the love interest swooping in’ trope. i blame comics
Honestly I had a bunch of fun with both of these. Clearly I’m more comfortable drawing Link than I am Ganon, but what can ya do?
I’ve just been imagining a scenario where Link and Zelda are in Gerudo town to meet with Urbosa (who’s Chief) and Ganon (who’s going to be Chief). Link gets there early, to scout out this Gerudo “King,” then proceeds to rip his earring out of his ear after he gets a bit handsy. Causing the entire palace to be in uproar. (Urbosa thinks its hilarious and her little nephew deserves it.
Where people receive two soulmarks on each of their wrists - one soulmark for the person whose life you’ll change, one soulmark for the person who’ll change yours. Two people bound to you by Destiny forever.
I’m not actually sure if i’ll ever fully write this fic, but here’s an excerpt of what’s sitting in my drafts. Geraskier with a side of Jaskier & Yen friendship, because this has absolutely become my brand. Also a heavy dose of idiots in love, because i am a huge sucker for that trope. More below the line!
Jaskier is eight years old when his first soulmark appears.
It’s younger than most - usually, a person’s first soulmark appears closer to puberty, with the other one following closely after. Very rarely do they appear at the same time. No one knows why, only that this is what Destiny has commanded.
Two soulmarks. One bears the name of the person whose life you’ll change. The other, of the person who’ll change yours. It’s impossible to know which is which, unless you meet both. But the feat has become rarer and rarer across an increasingly dangerous Continent.
But Jaskier is eight years old, studying quietly in the library with his tutor watching over him, when something that feels like fire shoots up his wrist and he lets out a startled gasp, dropping his quill, eyes welling with tears. His fingers automatically come up to squeeze his left wrist in an attempt to lessen the pain.
“Something the matter, Master Julian?” The tutor asks, eyebrows knitting in faint concern.
“My - my wrist,” Jaskier gasps, still squeezing. The older man steps closer; gingerly unfurls the boy’s fingers from his wrist and sucks in a sharp, pleased breath.
“Not to worry, young Master. Your first soulmark has appeared - and at such a young age too! How exciting.”
Jaskier blinks up at him in surprise. “A soulmark? Already?”
“It seems that way, yes. Why don’t you read the name?”
He tilts his wrist up to the sun; pain momentarily forgotten when he indeed finds a name written in brilliant purple script on the inside. Jaskier is only eight years old, but is absurdly pleased as he takes in the elegant swoops and curves of the name.
“Yennefer,” he says slowly, sounding it out on his tongue. He looks up to meet the eyes of his tutor. “Do you think this is who I’m meant to fall in love with?”
“Hard to say, young Master. After all, it is very rare that a soulmark forges a romantic bond.”
“Really?”
“Why, yes. Destiny binds each of us to two souls that are meant to stay with us until the end of time. While sometimes soulmark are romantic, they usually denote a strong, affectionate, familial bond,” the tutor explains, and taps on Jaskier’s wrist. “This is a person whose life you will change, or who will change your life for the better. You’ll be bound to each other for eternity no matter what.”
Jaskier nods slowly. His eyes, unbidden, return to the newly nestled soulmark on his wrist. “But I won’t fall in love with her.”
“Perhaps you won’t. Or perhaps you will. Who knows, young Master? Maybe you’ll be fortunate enough to fall in love with your soulmate.”
His eyes don’t stray from his soulmark, expression becoming thoughtful. Family would be nice - Jaskier is only eight years old, but the noticeable absence of both his parents all the time is a heavy weight he already bears.
But love - romantic love -
Jaskier is only eight years old, but yearning so sharp and so sweet fills his chest all at once.
“I sure hope so,” he murmurs, before his tutor bids him to resume his studies once more.
***
Jaskier is fourteen years old when his other soulmark appears. He is less startled by the pain this time, although it is just as intense as he remembers.
Shooting up from his bed, brow dripping faintly with sweat, he peers over the inside of his right wrist; looks at the way the name Geralt is scrawled there in near-perfect cursive, the ink this time dark as midnight instead of the vibrant violet dotting his other wrist.
“Huh,” he says to himself, tilting his wrist back and forth, watching how the moonlight from his bedroom window catches the letters. A smile blossoms onto his face - both soulmarks at fourteen years old, when most at his age would be lucky enough to have one! He wonders what this means, and finds himself thinking that his soulmates must be incredible people indeed.
Jaskier is fourteen years old, and the yearning that’s been burning in his chest since he was eight intensifies. He wants to meet them. He desperately wants to meet them.
Family, he has come to understand, is a valuable currency, one that continually eludes him. He seldom sees his parents now, having been raised mostly by gaggles of maidservants, tutors, and cooks, before being shipped off to Oxenfurt to study. He still wants to fall in love. The kind of love that quickens breath, weakens knees, sends the heart racing. But he wants to change a life, and have his life changed - to be part of something bigger than he is, something bone-deep - more.
It won’t be long before he strikes out on his own. In just a handful of years, he’ll be able to leave this unbearably lonely estate and travel the Continent, trusty lute on his back, quill and notebook in his bag, and heart full of hope.
He falls back onto the bed, eyes already closing. The last thought he remembers before sleep overtakes him is this:
Soon. I will find you soon.
***
Jaskier is eighteen years old when he meets Geralt of Rivia.
His eyes find him across the tavern almost of their own volition, and his breath catches. He’s heard stories of the white-haired witcher but he’s never dared hope that it could be the Geralt tattooed on his wrist. But there he is, just several steps between the two of them.
Jaskier is moving before he’s realizing it, heart a wild, fluttering mess in his chest. Sits across from the witcher who wants to be left drinking alone in his corner, undeterred, asking for feedback on his song.
“I know who you are,” Jaskier says, his breath catching because his heart is in his throat, “you’re Geralt of Rivia.”
There’s a flash in those golden eyes, but nothing else.
“I’m Jaskier.”
“Hm.”
There is no recognition, no acknowledgement, and Jaskier is eighteen and momentarily flummoxed, rooted to his spot as the witcher gets up and leaves. It sends him scrambling to follow him outside, and he nearly trips over his own feet.
“Geralt. My name is Jaskier,” he repeats.
The Witcher pauses; raises an eyebrow. Jaskier can only describe his expression as deadpan. “So you’ve said.”
“I - really?” Jaskier is, for the first time in his eighteen years, struggling for words. Stumped. Stunned. Utterly bewildered. “It’s - it’s not ringing any bells?”
“No.”
Huh.
Jaskier continues to stare as the Witcher fixes up the harness on his beautiful, chestnut horse, wrapping her reins in one hand as he begins to lead her on the dusty, rubbled path. He’s feeling an odd mix of confusion and disappointment. Did he have the wrong Geralt? He’d been so sure -
He shakes his head. No matter. He still knows an opportunity when he sees one.
“Geralt. Wait - Geralt! Let me come with you,” he offers quickly. “Your reputation needs a little, shall we say - sprucing up a bit. And I need material for my songs. If you let me, I’ll compose a ballad so great, so magnificent, people will forget you were ever known as the Butcher of Blaviken.”
Geralt says nothing, but he doesn’t push Jaskier away either, so the bard takes that as a good sign. He has a feeling the Witcher isn’t one for many words anyways. So he tightens the strap of his lute more firmly across his shoulder, and falls into step beside Geralt and his horse.
He tries to ignore the way his right wrist is prickling with static, and starts humming a song to distract himself.
