bakerstreet | bodyswap meme

[Really, this is less about the flouncy bard body that you are now stuck in--also: you are welcome. This is more about the flouncy bard that is now driving your body.]

Remind me to refuse Yarpin's offer for food and drink next time.

[Because whatever was in the stew---no. It couldn't have been the stew. The meat, the broth, the potatoes and carrots were all placed fine to his palette. No indication of being spoiled. Something felt spoiled. Stew doesn't make his head feel like this, no matter how old, how rotted. Geralt's tongue feels off.

And it's warm, too warm! With no warning he pulls the reins and dismounts, just shy of toppling into Jaskier. He's smart, small and spry. Sweet, dutiful and newly minted Roach stops without a rider.]

Fuck.

[The quaking in his knees, his limbs and amulet mean something. Geralt's preoccupied trying to pry himself free from leather and cloth. He is going to throw himself into the river they've been traveling close to. That is the single most logical goal he can muster.

Oh. Is the bard saying something? Is he saying something?]

[Jaskier is nearly put on his ass as Geralt hops down looking like a man who'd been waterboarded with ale. Jaskier tries to catch up to him as he heads for the river, but he can only catch Geralt by the sleeve as he strides into the water.]

Hey--wait--what about---

[There's this weird lurching feeling, they both lose their footing, and Jaskier swallows far more water than he'd like. He comes up sputtering and blind, head swimming, and gropes about blindly until he finds an elbow to grab on to.

Unfortunately, as he manages to crack an eye, he sees that he hasn't caught Geralt. He's caught...himself?]

Oh, fuck indeed.

[From one blink to the next, Geralt is wading in the water not wholly in it. That would get his attention if he wasn't staring at himself.]

...a doppler?

[The lower register of his voice is all wrong, it is the same way he always speaks and forms words but it aches. He clears his throat and his brow furrows. Looking for details, looking for Jaskier, it is all falling together one clumsy notion after the next.

He is Jaskier. Well. In one manner.]

What magic is this?

[Because this is not his body. Oh no. And if it were a doppler, there'd be more finesse. Maybe. The world is more dull, more soft to behold in details and color. His ears aren't ringing with the liveliness of the fauna and rushing water of the river.]

Did...you cross Yarpin?

[Geralt asks, which is to say Jaskier asks and Geralt's rough, gravely voice comes out in his place. It's eminently odd to hear another voice in his head, stranger still because it doesn't match with the voice in his thoughts. He hauls himself--Geralt--his body out of the water and steps back, trying to get them onto stable rocks.]

Are you alright? I swallowed a lot of water.

[His thoughts are more organized, he thinks, or at least he can turn all his focus on Geralt in his body. His words and thoughts seem slower though, more methodical. Was this why it always took Geralt so long to answer?

Did everyone not have a hive of energetic, creative bees in their head?]

No.

[Though his eyes squint and his mouth sets.]

Perhaps.

[If you'd call being very good at cards to be a way to cross someone. The stakes weren't high nor did he part with much money. Dwarven pride is a force to be reckoned with.]

Fuck.

[A shake of his head and he is reminded that there are no long locks. And the more he looks at Jaskier--himself the more he sees the unexpected dip is needed to rinse some dirt from the Path.]

It's only water.

[Not bile, not blood.]

Your clothes are so...light.

[The river water clings at whatever it can grab of his trousers and the weight feels more familiar to Geralt.]

[Jaskier listens to Geralt's quick, bouncing answers and, thankfully, has no trouble following him. The comment about his clothes gets a wide grin which is shockingly easy to do on Geralt's face. He hasn't the faintest how it looks, but if he had to guess? Unbearably roguish?]

As much silk as I can manage. Dries fast too, though you may want to take my shoes off and empty them.

[Though, now that he'd mentioned, Jaskier considers what he has on. What Geralt has on. The shirt and leggings are soaked through and made of rather dense fabric. The boots are full up of water and, by all rights, his feet should be cold. Really, he should be cold?

This stream was cold, wasn't it? Even on a hot day it ought to have been, but the discomfort is a far-flung, distant thing.

Jaskier glances back at the shore behind them--Geralt's armor is on the ground, cast off as he dove in. The swords are alongside it--]

Oh--fuck, my lute!

[He hadn't tossed it aside when he went for Geralt and, as he whips around to look at himself, he doesn't see the strap over his chest.]

[A thoughtful touch to the tunic followed by a knowing hum is about as Geralt as this body can get. His expression stays pensive, not entirely convinced that this is harmless. At least he isn't smiling.

Oh but Jaskier is. And that specific contortion of muscles in Geralt's own face would tell anyone familiar with the bard that there is likeness in the grim Witcher.

Before Geralt can take the opportunity to look for the lute, there is movement, fast movement.]

Hey. Easy.

[The shouting and splashing is normal fair for Roach. She comes to the water's edge, sniffling before taking a drink. The missing lute is precariously hanging in the reeds, it's handle resting on cattails.]

No harm done.

[Being closer to the lute he attempts a step and immediately makes a face. His strides can't be taken as wide, his steps need not be so high. The water is not so fast flowing to haul him in a current but he can feel it pull at him. One more step a bit better than the first, the third was too confident and he loses footing.

In a river.

Walking.]

Oh, thank the gods.

[Jaskier sighs out and, if anything, is jarred by how bizarre that sounds in Geralt's gravely rumble. He is already wading over, or rather Geralt is, and Jaskier follows--

Or he starts to but, much like whipping around or hauling himself from the water, wading through the stream is an order of magnitude easier than it ought to have been. He stops and, in his confusion, has a front row seat to Geralt slipping and dunking himself back into the water.

He surfaces quickly, all of Jaskier's hair askew again, and Jaskier snorts a laugh.]

[Doesn't it just figure that Jaskier has a reason to thank the god in a situation like this. Geralt growls and sputters, coming up for air and springing up as fast as this wiry body allows him to. The water at least doesn't have the same bite. Or maybe it is settling differently with the way it is utterly absorbed into the silk.

He doesn't trust the mastery of this body enough to round about at that snort. He will throw a scowl over his shoulder.]

...Your shoes.

[That's one of the many things to blame. He sighs and steps again, this time with a better understanding of what is required. Sloshing to the grassy bank of the river gives a soft place to sit.]

Your clothes. I should--undress.

[He hasn't started to pry at the hem. They've seen one another naked. This shouldn't feel strange. And yet...]

[Geralt slips a bit in his shoes but, overall, Jaskier is fairly impressed as he watches him wade over to the bank. The water makes literally everything about Geralt's clothes miserable--soaking, slippery, and most significantly: heavy. It's a good job he's as strong as he is, else Jaskier would be having just as much trouble moving to fetch the lute.

Which, when he gets Geralt's hands on it, is held delicately by the strap and deposited on the shore alongside his own body.]

Undress?

[His eyebrows shoot up and Jaskier stares at Geralt. He casts a look back along the path but, honestly, they'd been cutting through country. There is nobody for miles. When he looks at himself, he looks hesitant and Geralt's frown is on his face.

It's eerie.]

What, you think I haven't seen everything under that lovely silk chemise? Go right on ahead.

[With that, Jaskier takes a seat on the bank and, very pointedly, watches Geralt. When else will he get a chance to see himself naked so candidly.]

[The lute is just another article that feels natural and all the same beyond his comprehension at touch. In this waterlogged state it is best placed off to the side. The cattails, grass and moss will keep it safe.

First and easiest to be removed are the shoes. And there aren't any pebbles or crawfish stowed away. Wiggling all of his toes against the mud and green so freely, so simply. He's seen the bard tumble, bash and scrap in his way. His legs, arms and torso are in good, working condition. No bruises, no deep set aches. The distraction of those would be nice because he can feel the weight of his own, familiar yellow eyes on him.

And he doesn't exactly care for the scrutiny with them. Is that how it feels?]

Yes but I haven't handled this.

[The chemise is soaking to Jaskier's skin. And he is more defined, more muscled this close. The Witcher had seen his body hair and admired it taking space where scars and gashes would on his own form. There has been too much quiet with him lost in thought and staring at the bard's body he is running around in like a stolen carriage.

Silk is not just for soirees or the bedroom when you're Jaskier. Pulling himself free from the chemise he accepts that this is more like the banquet at Cintra. The bard has given him his clothes and more. Much more. The country air on his wet skin makes it prickle. It's warmer without the wet cloth on. His lower half is far more chilled.]

....Are you even wearing small clothes?

[Jaskier is as enchanted with his own shape as one might be--he appreciates it and, he would flirt with someone in his shape, but it's too familiar to really titillate him at a glance. The way Geralt is so fascinated by everything though, that has him reassessing. Briefly. Geralt startles him with that question and he blinks.]

What?

[Geralt apparently cannot flush with sudden defensive embarrassment and, frankly, Jaskier's a bit jealous of him for that.]

Oh, no, not today, I don't always and it was rather balmy out this morning.

[He breaks eye contact and turns his attention to Geralt's shirt. He pulls it off before really thinking about it, as though he were still in his body, but the feeling of the myriad of scars on Geralt is--well it's enough to have him pause.

Unfortunately he pauses with Geralt's shirt mostly over his head and ends up lost in his long hair and the bulk of the shirt.]

[The Trial of the Grasses removes so much and gives back so much. Not blushing has saved him and his pride a million times. Jaskier in his fleshy, mutagen free body has grand circulation. That is why the revelation has a heat over his nose and cheeks. Gods the hot and cold of everything has his nipples pert too? He will be naked in no time.]

It has been. Yes. Hmmm.

[They're both men. Both friends. And so this needn't be this awkward and strained. The typical, knowing hum is more comfortable and a register less than what he is used to reaching for. ]

We can hang the clothes to dry.

[What with the weather being this mild. The forest, the whole of this place is so quiet. He can't hear all that he normally would. It's lulling but also, strangely, making him itch for something to fill the sound. Geralt of Rivia isn't a talker. Is that why Jaskier is so chatty? The quiet?

Trousers half undone from the tie at the back waist he sees he's not alone in this fumbling. Halfway up over his head and neck, the medallion is likely contributing to the mess with the buttons.]

...do you need help?

[Jaskier in his foolishness, can't recall if Geralt had his hair tied back or not, and now he's managed to get himself caught up in a shirt that he, himself, in his own body, had removed more than once. Geralt's clothing isn't even complex--but as Jaskier starts to say "No" and gives a tug, he hears fabric split.

Goodness but Geralt is a strong fellow.

Jaskier knows this, of course, objectively, but it's quite another thing to suddenly get to experience the ease of it. Its exhilarating and, if he's honest, inspires a few less than savory thoughts in the back of his mind. After all, if it were that easy to split linen, couldn't Geralt hoist him up the next time they--no, not the time.]

Yes. [He cedes with a grimace and releases the shirt to drape in a puddle around Geralt's head.] Sorry, I'll stitch that up later.

It's best if--[Nevermind. The rip has extended the neckline and now there is plenty of room for the white hair, the head and all. Geralt purses Jaskier's full lips in what is a bid to simply not say a thing. He didn't consider giving a warning. The blame falls on himself.]

The fabric was thinning anyway.

[He steps with care closer and now more than ever he is so aware of their differences. The bard is not terrifically short, the Witcher well, he's tall, strong and thick in the chest, arms and thighs. Geralt can still reach his head and shoulders with smaller hands and arms.]

Here.

[The medallion and it's chain first need to be free from the shirt buttons and hair. Then hair. Rather quick work with the hands of a musician. The light touching with this muted sensory has strangely softened so much of what Geralt has typically disliked about himself. No that can't be it. It's the glimpses of who and what is behind his own eyes.

That makes a fluttery feeling with this heart that beats in a faster tempo.]

[Geralt feels the brushing of Jaskier's fingers so clearly, Jaskier can track and picture every moment from just a graze. It's a phenomenal sensory ability, one Jaskier has not been trained to utilize in the slightest. All the noise of the forest and the water, all the smells and sunlight do seem to drop away the more he pays attention to Geralt helping.

He feels rather like a cat, focusing in on prey.

No wonder the Witcher would shove him away so frequently, if this is what all his fussing and helping felt like, Jaskier would be overwhelmed in moment.

And then he suddenly wonders what it would feel like if Geralt pulled his hair.]

Shit.

[Geralt's monotone does wonders disguising the reasoning behind that curse word. His soaked pants, unfortunately, will do far less if Jaskier keeps letting his imagination run wild. He steels himself, determined not to...well, what? Make this more awkward?

He puzzles about his own reticence for a moment more and then he is freed from the shirt, Geralt's medallion, and is staring into his own face. His face where Geralt is making a pouty scowl, despite the high pink flush on his cheeks. It's at this point that the bard's resolve crumbles entirely and he lets out a laughing groan that, in Geralt's voice, sounds in turns raspy and then obscene.]

My dear Witcher, I was just going to ogle my own backside and poke a bit of fun, but it would be a tragedy not to exploit this...a bit.

[His cadence in Geralt's voice is interesting, as is the word "ogle", and neither help Jaskier to prevent the gradual southward turn of Geralt's blood. If he were any less brazen, Jaskier is absolutely sure he would be whining. Or trying to. In Geralt's voice.]

If you object, please spare me and let me dunk myself--yourself back in the water.

[Curse words are free flowing between them. Geralt is caught unaware of the source. His own damned brow, mouth and jaw are only in that smug roguish troubadour expression that could mean any number of things! And it isn't fair how that laugh is another instrument played in the bard's hands with familiarity and skill that in the key of his own tones some how makes his stomach turn over and roil upward to the fluttered feeling.

It is so much easier to simply lock up and channel attention when there's more to pay attention to. It's so much and right in his face!]

Exploiting is what happens without permission.

[The scowl loosens and curls up in a corner. He has the fabric at his waist gathered in a fist to keep it up for the time being. Out of reflex Geralt looks to Roach who is content to stay in the shade and quiet. This makes his features lighten. No more scowl. An almost smile. He hates how hot his face feels.]

...Shall we carry on as usual?

[Their usual being to fall together wherever, whenever, however as the mood strikes them. Though who is the sword and the sheath if the play gets so far....]

[Jaskier's delight is plain on Geralt's face and he wastes absolutely no time at all. He reaches out to take himself by the sides of the face but, halfway through the movement, thinks better of it. Geralt is too strong and he isn't about to dislocate his own jaw out of eagerness. Instead, he leans the rest of the way and just claims his mouth with Geralt's--he presses too hard, their teeth click, but the discomfort is momentary and the taste--

He has but to run a tongue over his lip and its like a recipe. It almost startles him, the sudden influx. It's both the most mundane flavor he's ever known and impossibly complex and delicious. Is this--this has to be part of smell right? Geralt can smell everything it seems. The whorl of scents around himself are comforting and he's not sure if that's a body response or just recognizing his own body's familiarity.

It is just so much and so wonderful and Jaskier is not at all surprised that Geralt rarely speaks. Even a poet can't start organizing all this loveliness--]

How are you not overwhelmed all the time?

[Jaskier asks and finally has the courage to rest a hand on himself--oh but he can feel his own pulse that's--his voice almost sounds dreamy in appreciation as he adds:]

I can barely stand it.

[This is the most friendly and joyous that the Witcher has ever remembered seeing his own face. He has not had a reason to emote so in a mirror especially at, well, himself. It makes him smile with more earnest, the smile of a weary warrior in a body that isn't closer to a century. And that moment of carefree surrender, he half steps forward to counter the motion.

Ohh teeth. The contact doesn't rattle the way he thought it would. Not the way silverware or bone against his jaw while eating. It's easy to get over! The cushion of lips he takes for granted are soft, a might dry but when their mouths touch properly. Then--oh, this is better. Yes he can deal with this! He wants to!

Jaskier--? Leaning up to meet face to face, he chooses to grasp at his own biceps. Both are a handful. The wet pants he has neglected hang precariously. If they were any less fitted they would have dropped trow.

Watching Jaskier pull back and process gives a moment of fear. Was this not enjoyable on his end as it usually is? His lips stay parted and brow furrowed some before the impact of the question breaks over him. They remain close together, the moment not lost or dashed. The firm, solid hand of a Witcher at his shoulder it makes his mouth go dry with the realization of strength, of difference.]

I had forgotten long ago how much was around me. I became used to it.

[So silly, so simple to admit.]

Try and focus on a few things together. Pleasant things.

[The words could be suggestive and he's trying to gauge where Jaskier is in his enthusiasm. Enough to bounce back? Or wading in sensory so much that they must crawl before they run? The years upon this sphere he has never learned how to be a Witcher.]

Shut your eyes for a moment.

[With mortal eyes as young, keen and blue as Jaskier's he is confident to keep them both safe while grounding.

Pleasant things. Things that Geralt would look to in bleak, cold hours of the night to guide him to a place of stability when it was more than he wanted to deal with.]

Hear me breath. Hear me speak.

[Geralt's breath hitches before he continues knowing that it sounds animalistic. At least know Jaskier can know and understand. A Witcher with a keen scent is not crawling on all fours like a hound or pressing his nose to dirt or backsides of living things.]

Smell my breath, my skin.

[Details together in fragments that are calming.]

[Jaskier is eager but the sensory miasma has him reeling. Geralt's answer is matter of fact, serious, where Jaskier's question was that of a man teetering on the edge of a fantastic new high. The instructions get him through, eyes closed he listens to his voice, hears his own lungs filling, the words Geralt speaks, and smell?

Oh, he would have puzzled at that a bit before, but now he can pick out the difference between skin, breath, and the water around them.

He breathes deep, mouth moving to his own jaw, to the spot on his neck that is always just this side of too sensitive. He draws teeth over it and takes another deep breath. His world narrows like a cat's again, but now all his focus is on Geralt.

He isn't going to get used to it. How could he? It's astonishing.

Distantly it occurs to him that he's lucky there's nothing unpleasant to experience around here.]

We should finish undressing.

[It's a reminder rumbled against skin, because apparently Geralt cannot whisper in quite the same register as Jaskier is accustomed to. Jaskier makes no move to shuck Geralt's pants or boots, that would require moving away and he's entirely against that right this second.]

[Wonders of the world as it is are not what comes to Geralt's mind immediately. There is still beauty, still soft curves to the harsh, sharp ridges of reality of the world. His heightened senses took it all in while in a cold, death riddled husk of a castle in the mountains. If he looked upon the world with new eyes in the shade of trees by a clean, clear river off of the beaten path from one township to the next, maybe he too would have had a swell of euphoria.

The magic came on swiftly. It may pass the same way. In the event that it doesn't, well, it would bode well for Jaskier to become accustomed with his borrowed body for now. He listens. Bowing closer to Geralt where he stands. The weight of him, the slightly damp locks and bristle of hair.

Oh fuck.]

Yes.

[The word is thick in his throat and on his tongue. Speaking is like a kiss and he gives him to the shiver.]

I've got the advantage there.

[Being more familiar with his own clothing he knows just where to begin to unbutton his trousers, tilting his face away from the contact of where skin and teeth touch. A murmur pulls from his gut and groin. Jaskier's sensitive and reactive in his own right. Perhaps because his whole self is starved for stimuli.]

Can you--tell what's happening?

[The natural change in body chemistry and exchange of heat, the rush of blood. Geralt is unfortunately still sporting red cheeks. Ridiculous because he's personally witnessed many people around him in various states of arousal. Now Jaskier can get his own bit of show. Geralt's body is not just for killing. And if he must have the experience may it be pleasant.]

You mean apart from what I am doing and how effectively you've got my fingers stripping you?

[Oh, but Jaskier is a hedonist at heart and it takes a great deal to pull back a bit. As intense as everything is in Geralt's skin, Jaskier intends to cheat. He knows all the little spots that he doesn't remark upon to lovers, though, as he thinks on that, he realizes Geralt has that same ammunition.

That's a bit sobering and sends a rush of warmth below his belt. Or rather above now, given that Geralt has gotten his trousers slack. It's not entirely strange to push Geralt's clothes off of him, but it is from this angle, and he has to step back to pull off the Witcher's boots.

His water filled boots.]

Oh, right. Yes, bits and pieces, but it's hard to stay focused--hang on, I did not think this seduction through all the way.

[Were he in his own body, Jaskier has no doubt he'd have to hop to keep his balance as he pulls those off. Geralt is remarkably stable and, in short order, he has his feet free and his trousers down and--a very surreal view of Geralt's body that he just has to take a moment and appreciate.]

Do you usually think through your seductions?

[The words are so bouncy, so bemused and melodic. The sexual frustration is simmering, not bubbling over. He shakes his head, no long locks to lash against him in any way. The shorter, though longer than typical, hair for Jaskier lays so simply. Geralt suspects even prettily.]

You've seen it all before.

[His body. Well. The body he's in. The scrutiny perhaps not to such a degree. Jaskier's skin, his bones and self are just so comfortable in a way that's difficult to explain. The muted state of the word and the way it leaves his mind so light, so hungry for more. He idly touches down to his own collarbone, smooth skin beneath the generous dusting of hair.

Geralt fancies himself to be the sensible one. Though now he's very aware of how the energy, the thoughts passing between them cause the fabric in a wet, baggy state to feel restrictive. May as well give up the last article of clothing. He pushes the trousers down from the trim gentlemanly hips. The dampness was all that held them there.

A low, usual hum from him in his own vocal range could mean anything. With Jaskier's golden voice it's something.]

I have more finesse than this!

[He objects and something in that sounds almost right for Geralt's voice. Though, Geralt's hum in his voice is rather good and pulls Jaskier's attention to himself and Geralt running a hand along his collarbone. Now that they're both free of wet clothes and standing nude in the open, it's odd, but Jaskier wants nothing more than to watch Geralt in his skin.]

I do hope I don't disappoint?

[Its asked casually but there's an air of uncertainty to it. His body is a fine affair, or at least he's always liked it, but Geralt is usually in this body and the difference in power and ability is a stark one.]

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whitehaired - 2022-01-18 08:43 (UTC) - Expand

bodyswap meme

Jaskier | The Witcher | OTA

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