Probably bad poem about my own fears of flesh
My own flesh is not my own. I am afraid that one day, in extreme pain, my body will unravel, leaving me with nothing. I am afraid that one day a doctor or dentist will fuck up, and my mouth or limbs will no longer be my own.
I am afraid of losing bodily autonomy. I am afraid, sometimes, of the courtroom, contruing the way and how I use it. Sometimes, I am afraid of gaining pregnacy weight, and not losing it. How it will sag and slow me down, with nothing to hold it up. Then everyone will call me fat, and people will pressure me to exercise more. But I am not afraid of pregnancy, it is the birth I am more afraid of. Which is worse, injections or pain for hours on end?
My body and my brain are the only things of me and to me, and that I completely one hundred percent have. It is only natural that I worry.
Geralt is convinced that he only helps Jaskier out and keeps him out of trouble because the consequences are much worse.
He wants to fuck a lady or lord in wedlock? Tried that (more than) once and Geralt had to take down a pack of seven drowners to convince the spouse to keep Jaskier alive.
He makes sure Jaskier puts dry clothes on after a fall in a lake? That’s because a sick Jaskier is so so bad and somehow even with a sore throat he talks more.
But eventually the annoyance fades and slowly, so slowly, time softens the doting he does without much thought. Geralt keeps Jaskier warm even before he complains. Geralt steps in front of Jaskier so he won’t scream.
Someone points it out, eventually. Ciri, probably, but when she asks him why he treats Jaskier like a lover, Geralt almost throws himself off the mountain’s side. It’s ridiculous and he has just gotten used to caring for this helpess and annoying creature that has latched onto him and refuses to shake off.
Geralt doesn’t stop taking care of him.
And if he can’t find the contempt that was there before? Well that’s not for anyone else to know.