Getting back into these alphabet prompts for the new year. For darling @mia-ugly who sent me this link about medieval kings sharing beds and waggled her eyebrows at me suggestively. The list of prompts and other fills can be found here.
Aziraphale/Crowley | G | 500 words | Prompt: making a speech/toast & bed-sharing
***
“We may,” Aziraphale says, sinking cautiously into the seat opposite Crowley, “have over-egged our recent reports. Just a tad.”
Ever since the dawn of The Arrangement, they had both experienced an unprecedented freedom to, ah, somewhat overstate their thwarting and willing prowess, safe in the knowledge that the other would not dispute nor cause ructions. Aziraphale had never received so much praise from his superiors before. It was possible he’d let it go to his head.
“You too?” Crowley said mournfully, barely raising his face from his hand. “Beelzebub’s pretty pissed with me. I’ve never seen Dagon so gung-ho.”
“Oh dear.” Aziraphale winced. “Gabriel and Michael were also quite forthright about the whole thing.”
“What’d they say?”
“Well, I believe it was something along the lines of not letting the other side get away with so much Earthly activity. I’ve been doing an excellent job of thwarting you, etcetera etcetera, but those pesky demons are getting above themselves and it’s high time we forced them to retreat. A little bit.”
Crowley pulled a face. “Pretty much the same Downstairs. Heaven’s getting too big for their boots, we’ll show them, blah-de-blah-blah.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Dunno.” Crowley reached for his drink and chugged it down in one go. (Aziraphale did absolutely not watch the long line of his throat as he swallowed.) He slammed his cup down on the wooden tabletop and poured them both a fresh one, before toasting Aziraphale with a sarcastic little clink of the vessels. “Confess? Lie? Broker a peace treaty?”
Aziraphale sat up straight. “I think I have an idea.”
*
“And so you see, a pact of mutual non-aggression really would be the best course of action, giving both sides the opportunity to muster the proper observances in a timely fashion for the real fight, that is, Armageddon.”
“Yes, all right, we’re sold,” Gabriel said irritably. “Nobody really wants to resort to war before it’s due.” This century he was sporting monks’ robes and a tonsure. Very pious. Aziraphale could hardly keep a straight face. “How do you recommend we go about it?
“Me?” Aziraphale asked modestly.
“You are our demon-thwarting expert,” Michael said with a thin, insincere smile.
“For now,” Uriel added, menacingly mild.
“Yes. Right. Well, the humans have this rather lovely tradition for warring heads of states who have reached a detente…”
*
“So then Uriel said, ‘but you aren’t a head of state,’ and I said that I would happily defer to any of them should they wish to carry out the onerous duty themselves.”
Crowley was almost crying with laughter. “You devious, brilliant angel.”
“Yes, well.” Aziraphale blushed happily. “And there we have it. Are you warm enough, my dear?”
Crowley made a considering sound. “Could be warmer,” he concluded.
“Come on, then,” Aziraphale said. “Let’s do it properly.”
He held up the layers of blankets and furs to make it easier for Crowley to shuffle closer, until his wily adversary had laid his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder and was snuggling up to him contentedly. Aziraphale drew his arm around Crowley’s shoulders and sighed.
After a lovely moment, Crowley asked, “And how long does this show of unity go on for?”
“Didn’t specify,” Aziraphale said.
“We better get comfortable, then.”
Aziraphale smiled to himself in the dark of the bedroom. “We really better had.”
Good night to the Geraskier fans, I've come to tell you that Hopelessly Devoted To You by Olivia Newton-John is Jaskier coded after the mountain incident
If we’re talking classic Australian songs and the mountain incident, I have to point out that If I could start today again by Paul Kelly is extremely Geralt-coded.
I know I'm not the milk and honey kind
today I proved it true
when the red mist falls around my eyes
I know not what I do
please give me back today
and I won't say the things I said
(or do that thing I did)
every minute, every hour
the replay's just the same
and I can't stand the shame
oh, let me start today again
#25: "What have you done now?" for the ship of your choice?
2.7K words, T, geraskier! warnings include alcohol overconsumption & references to Jaskier's alcoholism. set post-s2
thank you so much to @spilledbutter for looking over this for me! <3
Long after all the other residents of Kaer Morhen have gone to bed, soft hands come to touch Geralt’s shoulders, stirring him from his unrestful sleep. He jolts upright, sitting straight in his chair; the grip on his shoulders does not slip. Soft, strong hands then. He closes his tired eyes as the laboratory around them sways. When he speaks, the rumble rises from deep in his chest: “Yen?”
A broken off laugh, and not the voice he was expecting. “No. Not Yen, I’m afraid. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt corrects. The last thing he remembers is bidding goodnight to his brothers as they stumbled off to their rooms, conspiring to pull some awful prank on Coën. Geralt should probably get up to warn the poor Griffin about whatever Lambert and Eskel intend to do.
Then again, the damage has already been done. His eyelids flutter shut once more, and he slides back forward, seeking the comfort of the solid table as a balm for his aching temple.
Jaskier, who Geralt honestly forgot was in the room, holds him up. Very strong hands. Geralt exhales, and with his trembling breath and tired throat, the noise comes out as a whimper. He reclines into Jaskier’s arms, who receives him with surprising stability and even brushes the sweaty hair from his forehead. “Darling,” croons the bard.
Geralt’s breath slows, caught in the tide of Jaskier’s expanding lungs and chest but buoyed by his thick arms. The bench underneath him could crumble to sand, and Geralt thinks Jaskier could still hold him here. The strength is even more impressive given that Geralt is practically dead weight right now.
Each word is a soft puff of air tickling the back of Geralt’s pink ears as Jaskier continues, slow and quiet and for once not amused at all, “What have you done now?”
Good question. Geralt, suddenly panicked that he’s been caught falling asleep in a puddle of his own sick, opens his eyes— but the laboratory table is thankfully only cluttered with the souvenirs from his night. Emptied bottles stacked against each other and long-forgotten cups tower over small plates of pits and crusts. The real culprit, Eskel, has already fled the scene, but he left behind the remnants of his poison in a few of the bottles. Geralt can’t even remember where he said he’d found the damned stuff, let alone what type of liquor it was. But he had warned them of its potency, and Geralt and Lambert, determined men of science that they were, had been desperate to test out the claim.
He struggles to piece together a good answer for Jaskier. Even though the bard has stunk like a tavern since they first ran into each other again, Geralt still feels embarrassed as he decides how to explain his night. Maybe if he tells him they were mourning, Jaskier will have more sympathy; except they weren’t drinking away their grief, not specifically. Witchers are always mourning, of course, but… it had been a good night. Right up until he passed out alone and stone cold drunk in the cold stone basement.
Geralt supposes he should be lucky it was Jaskier and not Ciri who found him, or Yennefer; he’s sure the sorceress would have some choice words for him. Jaskier should have some choice words for him. A few decades ago, if Geralt had brought the bard to Kaer Morhen and had a party without him, Jaskier would have given him hell for the lack of an invitation. But now he doesn’t complain even a little, just gently working his fingers through Geralt’s hair.
“Why aren’t you mad at me?” The words spill out before Geralt can catch them and cork them. He twists in his old friend’s grip, suddenly desperate to steal a glimpse of Jaskier’s expression, and in the process his elbow knocks a bottle off the table. It bounces away without shattering but the sound is enough to make both witcher and bard jump, and Jaskier’s strong, soft hands release Geralt.
A little pink— his heart is racing, Geralt’s witcher senses supply— and wide-eyed, Jaskier says, “What?”
“Why are you down here,” Geralt mutters, unwilling to repeat himself. It was a stupid question anyway; Jaskier is mad at him. The bard hasn’t said as much, not since Geralt picked him up from his jail cell. But even though witchers have a famed ineptitude for emotions, it would take the obliviousness of a rock troll to see past Jaskier’s anger. His fury, and heartbreak, are woven into him— stitched into his ruddy skin, his messy hair, his vulnerable eyes, the frippery he drapes himself in to look tougher. His fury is in his scent, how he stinks of booze and… What was it? Heartbreak and heroics? Destiny?
Those vulnerable eyes search Geralt’s for something now, and when Jaskier doesn’t find whatever it is he’s looking for, he blinks and sniffs and clears his throat all at once. “I know there aren’t any windows down here, but up in the world of the living,” the bard informs him, sounding more like his haughty usual self, “dawn has almost broken. You’re usually training at this point— I knew you and the other witchers stayed up late, but I didn’t know you had drank yourself to sleep right on the table. I mean, when I came down here, I thought something had gone horrendously wrong.”
“Something did go horrendously wrong,” Geralt jokes, deadpan. “I drank too much.”
“Yes.” Another sniff. “I think they can smell that from Novigrad. But, I’ve seen you drink an entire bar by yourself before.”
“That was human alcohol,” he clarifies. “This was not.”
“Ah.” Jaskier gives the bottle rolling away on the floor a more considering glance, then stoops to pick it up. Geralt has seen Jaskier sample more dangerous substances but not many, so instinct takes over. He rounds his knees over the bench to spin around properly in his seat, and then rises to stalk over to the bard and— well, he only means to take the bottle and set it down on the table again. But as he misjudges the distance between them, he ends up slamming into Jaskier and knocking him back a few steps.
This time, the bottle does shatter, and Jaskier shouts. “What the fuck! What is— listen, Geralt, just because you’re experiencing a proper hangover for the first time doesn’t mean you get to fucking— whatever the hell you think it is you’re doing!” His hands fly up to grab Geralt by the collar of his shirt, shaking him as best he can. The motion doesn’t sway Geralt as much as the loud sound does; he holds firmly onto Jaskier’s shoulders, trying to regain control of his breathing. “And if you want to know why I’m not mad at you, well, I’ve got a lovely surprise for you, you absolute prick, because I am, in fact, furious—”
“Then why come down here,” Geralt interrupts roughly, sounding as ragged as he feels. “Why keep tabs on me if I’m such a—”
“Keep tabs on you!” Jaskier chokes, incredulous. “I couldn’t give less of a fuck what you do—”
“You watch me train every morning,” he growls. Jaskier’s angry mouth clamps shut at that, and the rush of colour floods his face once more. “Even if I couldn’t see you watching, you just said about as much. Why?”
“Maybe I like seeing you tire yourself out!” There’s that anger, solid as a mountain. Geralt rests against it, almost comforted by Jaskier’s rage even as the man continues. “Maybe it pairs well with my morning tea; such a lovely sight, my boorish, sweaty witcher throwing himself against a training dummy for hours and hours as the sun rises instead of talking out your deep grief and trauma with, oh, hmm, I don’t know, fucking anyone? A friend? Your family? Your sorceress lover?”
“We talked about feelings last night,” Geralt protests.
Jaskier huffs, dropping his grip on Geralt’s shirt. Each angry sentence had been accentuated by him brandishing his fists as if to shake Geralt, like an angry child— in the absence of his tightly curled fingers, there are long lines that will undoubtedly stretch out the shirt. Geralt doesn’t care. Cold as ice, the bard hisses, “Did you now?”
“Oh yes.” Vaguely, at least.
“And how did that go?”
His memories are too vivid for the amount of liquor he consumed. Only a few hours ago, this room felt much smaller. Happier, despite the blips of enormous grief— how had their discussion about feelings gone? He remembers Lambert pretending not to fight back angry tears, hiding his twitching scowl behind his mug after they all fell silent at the mention of an old quirk Diever used to have.
Geralt, in lieu of a good answer, releases Jaskier’s shoulders so as to indicate the broken glass shards littering the floor between them. And, bizarrely, this works. Jaskier’s face falls, and he laughs uncomfortably. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. You’re drunk, and I’m being a prick.”
Instead of insisting that if he was still drunk he would feel better, Geralt steps over the bottle and presses a hand to Jaskier’s shoulder again. “No… you came to check on me,” he reminds the man gently. “Even though you’re furious. No one else has even noticed I didn’t make it to bed last night.”
“That’s probably for the best,” Jaskier mutters. This time he doesn’t shake Geralt, nor does he shake him off. He simply tolerates the witcher entering his personal space, just like how Geralt used to put up with the young bard’s apparent and obnoxious omnipresence. He doesn’t even avert his gaze, staring blatantly instead. “If I really was Yen, I’d be disappointed. You look like shit.”
“You used to bathe me,” Geralt blurts out, emboldened by the closeness and the hangover. Jaskier gapes, but he continues, a boat cut loose from its anchor, drifting further beyond the forgivable pale. “I haven’t forgotten. I’ve lived for more than a hundred years, but… I’ll never forget.”
“Geralt,” Jaskier says, heavily and warningly and desperately.
“You— you could do it again now,” he stammers. His hand rises from the man’s shoulder to the side of his throat; he lines his pointer fingers up under Jaskier’s jaw and feels the bard breathe. Pulse to pulse, the years are easier to forget. “I’d let you. You haven’t changed so much, you know— new coat, new hair… and you reek of wine now, but—”
“Wow—”
“But, your eyes are the same blue as ever.” Geralt traces the curve of Jaskier’s cheekbone, humming. “Vitriol blue.”
“If you’re trying to sound like a poet, comparing my eyes to sulphuric acid is a shitty start.” The protests are less effective thanks to how Jaskier’s voice trembles. He lifts his hand but only to place it over Geralt’s, palm soothing his knuckles. Geralt sways into him, and once more a strong arm circles around his back, keeping him steady. “If you remember this when you’re sober, you’re never going to speak to me again.”
“I’m painfully sober,” promises Geralt, lowering his tone to impress the severity of his sobriety upon Jaskier. “My stomach is killing me. I want to sleep for two days straight, then wake up to a barrel of coffee and a gigantic breakfast, and then I want to poison Eskel for doing this to me.” And Lambert too, for good measure. “But first, I want you to bathe with me.”
“Geralt.” Jaskier shakes his head as his steel grip tightens around the witcher to support him. But despite his stern expression and posture, his voice is soft and affectionate as ever. The laboratory has never seemed smaller. Geralt strokes the bard’s cheek again. “Fuck. Listen to me, my stupid darling witcher. If I take you down to the springs right now, you’re likely to drown and I’m nowhere near strong enough to pull you to safety. Sleeping for two days sounds better, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t you like to go to bed?”
Instead of pointing out that Jaskier is obviously strong enough to lift him as he’s holding him up right now, he finally relents. “Yes.” The human’s shoulders sink in relief until Geralt pleads, “Take me to bed, Jaskier.”
Jaskier laughs, tense and sharp, and pulls away before Geralt can try to persuade him anymore.
-
Every blow of his steel sword against the rotating iron dummy is a new pin-prick against Geralt’s already fragile skull. He keeps at it anyway, only showing himself mercy by striking at a less vicious rhythm than he might on other mornings. And while he usually doesn’t have to worry about the sun, the early afternoon is almost blinding.
As poor as he feels, he’s in much better shape than last night. The exact logistics of how he made it to bed and undressed have escaped him; he only knows that Jaskier had somehow managed to carry his drunk ass all the way back to his room. Geralt twists to glance up at the high walls of the Keep, his gaze searching for the window to the bard’s room. The little songbird watches him train every morning, just as Geralt had cruelly pointed out last night. Maybe it pairs well with my morning tea.
It’s no longer the morning. The familiar silhouette of his friend is nowhere to be found now.
Geralt strikes the dummy again, stomach roiling— not from his bad hangover, but from bitter, inescapable embarrassment. Over the decades they have fallen into certain roles together. Usually, Jaskier is the one who can’t handle his alcohol, who imbibes too much and makes it the witcher’s problem. Usually Jaskier is the one teetering on the slippery precipice of inebriation, begging Geralt to stay up and chat with him, loudly singing of the night’s exploits, and constantly proclaiming to his captive audience of one how very not drunk he is.
But in all their years of friendship, Jaskier has never behaved like that. Sure, he’s broken bottles, and stumbled up to Geralt stinking of sweat and sin and far worse things than liquor. But he has never pressed himself up against the witcher’s body, never begged to be held or gripped him tightly or traced the outline of his face. Never has Jaskier asked Geralt to bathe him; let alone to bathe with him.
Geralt swings too hard. His shoulder twinges; he beheads the iron dummy. Its vague head-shaped appendage clatters to the ground and the loud noise echoes around the stone courtyard.
Still, Jaskier does not peek out of his window.
Geralt sheathes his steel and stomps back inside, livid with himself. He pushes open the doors to the main hall and strips off the top half of his sweaty armour as he does. When he succeeds in removing his shirt and throwing it to the ground, he sees the very man who’s been on his mind all day standing before him.
If Jaskier is put off by the ugly scowl marring Geralt’s features or by his heaving, bare, oily chest, he doesn’t let it slip. In each of his hands is a clay mug of steaming water; he proffers one now and Geralt accepts it gently, cowed by the kindness. It isn’t in fact water but hot black tea.
In all those times that Jaskier came to him for aid, drunk as a Skelligan or hungover enough to curse the gods themselves, Geralt doesn’t think he ever went to the trouble of brewing the bard tea. He raises the mug to his lips without question; it’s delicious, and instantly calms his aching head. This makes him feel even guiltier. “Thanks,” mutters the witcher.
Jaskier’s eyes flash, but he keeps his musings to himself for once. There is a slightly clipped, nervous edge to his tone as he chirps, “Feeling better?”
Perhaps he’s expecting Geralt to lunge forward and drop the mug between them and embrace him again. Geralt, mortified, will do no such thing. He answers honestly and bluntly, “No.”
Jaskier should slap him for his impudence or chew him out for his ungratefulness. He just smiles, nervously shifting between his feet, and then finally paces over to retrieve a previously unnoticed basket from a nearby table. Inside lay some small vials of oil and cleanly folded towels. Geralt’s heart melts, and Jaskier, still smiling anxiously, says, “Well, I’ve got just the thing.”
Geralt and Jaskier finally get together.
Jaskier confesses his love, Geralt returns the sentiment (in words and actions), and their dynamic is roughly the same, with the addition of physical affection.
Then they meet up with Yennefer and Jaskier starts acts strangely. He keeps making excuses to give Geralt and Yennefer space, and whenever the three of them are together he’s very subdued. He doesn’t give any indication he’s angry at Geralt (or even that he shows animosity towards Yennefer) but whenever Geralt seeks him out - or returns to their bedroll at night - he seems mildly surprised and even more affectionate than usual. And he keeps regarding Geralt with this indescribable look - if it made any sense, Geralt would have called it sympathy, but that can’t be it, right?
Eventually it comes to a head (perhaps the three of them make it to Kaer Mohren, and Geralt overhears a conversation between Jaskier and Lambert - or perhaps Yennefer notices and takes Geralt to task) but Geralt finally realizes that Jaskier’s expectation is that he’ll always be second to Yennefer in Geralt’s affections. And the entire time Geralt thought their relationship was going well, Jaskier has quietly been expecting to be left behind (sooner or later). Not bitter, just resigned.
……
Anyway if anyone writes this or knows anything along these themes please send it my way :)
Geralt getting whacked with a truth spell but instead of Jaskier hearing a confession of love and an outpour of hidden emotions he gets days of a manic Geralt rambling like Brian David Gilbert revealing the most off-kilter unexpected secrets ever, turning his whole worldview upside down with revelations like
Bonus points if Jaskier assumes the incoherent rambling is part of the spell but it’s just Geralt’s desperate attempt to avoid questions about his feelings.
Jaskier: So how do you really feel about m-”
Geralt: ONE WINTER ESKEL, LAMBERT AND I SMOKED GRAYTOP MUSHROOM EXTRACT AND THEN BLACKED OUT, WHEN WE WOKE WERE LYING NAKED IN THE RAFTERS OF THE STABLES AND WE HAD TO SNEAK BACK INTO THE KEEP WITHOUT VESEMIR NOTICING.
Jaskier: you WHAT?!
*later*
Jaskier: You know you never answered my question about-
Geralt: YENNEFER CALLED ME ISTREDD IN BED ONCE
Jaskier: uh-
Geralt: AND THE FIRST WHORE I WAS WITH LOOKED LIKE A YOUNG NENNEKE BUT I’D ALREADY PAID THE MADAM AND I-
Jaskier: -I think this curse might be worse than we thought.
Each month in my discord I host a monthly art challenge where any art mediums are welcome! The theme for June was✨ Fae Folk ✨ So I decided to use one of my favorite paintings as inspiration - La belle dame sans merci
If you’d like to join in on the monthly challenge fun or see everyone else’s entries, anyone is welcome to join my discord (link in my linktree).
The winning theme for July is: ✨🌲 It lives in the Woods 🌲✨
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