ohhhhh boy Comfy. You always hit me with that good shit, don’t you?
---
“Your bard isn’t bad looking,” Eskel observes. He’s leaning against the wall, watching as Jaskier splits wood in the courtyard and piles it up neatly along the wall nearest the kitchen door. “In fact, I rather enjoy looking at him.”
“Not a bad conversationalist either,” Lambert adds helpfully from a few feet away. Geralt grinds his teeth and keeps his arms crossed over his chest. “Want to play rock-paper-shears over him, Eskel?”
“I’ll win,” the older Witcher smirks. Geralt looks up then, surprise and confusion bright on his face. The other two feign ignorance and begin their game of luck.
“What are you going to do if you win?” Lambert asks, still ignoring Geralt entirely.
“I’m going to ask him to read with me after supper,” Eskel says, “And then if he enjoys my company, perhaps I’ll ask him to take a break from his grouchy White Wolf and spend some time on the path with me instead. Maybe he’d like songs about someone who looks after him and says nice things about his music and his taste in literature. What about you, Lambert?”
“I think I’ll start by complimenting his taste in doublets,” the youngest Wolf replies. “The color he chose yesterday matched his pretty blue eyes so well and really brought out the rosy blush in his cheeks. Do you think that might win him over?”
“Perhaps.”
They play one round and Eskel wins. Geralt grows more and more tense as he watches in utter silence. They tie twice before Lambert wins the fourth round. “Ah, tied game. One last round to see who wins their chance at the bard’s affections?”
There’s a deep, feral snarl and their white-haired sibling tears off in Jaskier’s direction. “Fucking finally,” Lambert whispers loud enough for only Eskel to hear.
“Jaskier!” Geralt calls, “Come here a moment, there’s uhm, there’s something important I have to tell you.”
“Yes, dear heart?” Jaskier wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and settles into a comfortable lean against the axe handle. He’s never looked less like a bard or more like a Witcher in his life and it does something odd to Geralt’s stomach; it feels queasy, almost like he’s eaten bad meat but not quite as violent. “What is it, Geralt?”
“You, uh-” he falters for a moment before drawing a calming breath and continuing on the way he knows he must. “Your nose is cute.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your doublets are nice. Your skin is very soft and you always smell so good. I like the way you cut your hair and the way you braid mine when I let you. I like the way you take care of me even though I have fast healing and the way you don’t listen to me when I tell you to stay out of harm’s way on the Path. I uhm, I like you, Jaskier, and I want you to stay with me for the rest of the winter. Maybe forever.”
“Are you...proposing?” Jaskier giggles. “Geralt, really, what brought this on?”
He turns to look at his brothers, but the other two are nowhere to be found.
“Fuck.”
“Is this a prank?” Jaskier sounds far less happy, now. “Are you... are you and the others playing some kind of mean joke?”
Geralt’s heart flies into his throat. Gods, no! He’d never do that to his best friend and unrequited love!
Rather than let Jaskier suffer another moment of doubt, Geralt pulls him into his arms and crashes their lips together. The bard is an enthusiastic kisser, it turns out, and returns the affection tenfold, wrapping himself around Geralt like a cloak or clinging vine. They kiss passionately, steaming where they stand in the winter of Kaer Morhen’s empty courtyard.
Inside the keep, Lambert and Eskel exchange high-fives.
I'm sorry your shift sucked, babe! how about some soft Geralt (dunk? took a potion? who knows?) waxing poetic about how much he loves the goofy little bard? 💖💖💖
Oh yes, thank you darling; this is exactly what I needed.
“He’s so... soft,” Geralt says slowly, eyes shining in the dim light coming from the fireplace. Eskel is smirking and Lambert’s eyes have rolled nearly all the way back into his head. Vesemir and Jaskier are standing in the far doorway, silently listening; Jaskier’s sudden arrival at the keep for winter had been planned as a birthday surprise for Geralt.
The secret stash of catmint being brought out to enjoy was Lambert’s additional prank.
He hadn’t been expecting this kind of reaction from his older brother at all.
“He’s so soft,” Geralt repeats, hands drawing Jaskier’s outline in the air. “And sweet. And kind. And fierce! Oh, he’s like a wildcat when he’s angry. It’s beautiful, Eskel, you should see him when he’s angry. It’s glorious!”
Jaskier wipes a tear from his cheek and stifles a happy sniffle. Vesemir pats his shoulder approvingly and his chest floods with warmth and contentment.
“His eyes,” Geralt sighs happily, his expression dreamy and his gaze far away, “His eyes are the prettiest color in the world. Bluer than any ocean. Brighter than the sun. Oh, he’s beautiful.”
“Do you really think about me like that, Geralt?”
The Witcher’s pupils dilate with excitement and he rises to his feet in one swift motion. “Julek!”
“Hello,” the bard blushes. Vesemir pushes him forward, out of the shadows, and Geralt’s arms engulf him instantly. He’s crushed happily against a muscular, rumbling chest. He’s only heard Geralt purr a few times before, but this is different.
This is deep and happy and safe. Geralt pulls Jaskier onto one of the furs before the fire and wraps his arms around his middle, tucking the bard against his body. “Hmm. You’re cold. I’ll warm you up, Julek, and you rest. Thank you for coming to visit me.”
thanks again to @thecomfortofoldstorries for coming through when I whined at her about needing ideas
also shout-out to my older sister for being the coolest and getting this song stuck in my head today (happy birthday, sis. wish we’d been raised together)
---
Geralt holds the package tightly with both hands and glares down at it with icy anxiety building at the center of his chest. The cloak he’d special ordered two weeks ago is wrapped in brown paper, tied closed with a length of dark blue woolen string. The Witcher, who has faced countless monsters and angry villagers and vengeful nobles alike, takes a deep breath in through his nose and shudders at the thought of his next self-chosen contract: giving Jaskier a Solstice present. He hopes the cloak is good enough. He hopes that he chose a fashionable color, one that Jaskier will enjoy wearing no matter where he chooses to go this winter. Geralt hopes that the heavy wool he’d painstakingly decided on is the right kind of material for Jaskier’s tastes. He hopes… he hopes that everything he’s about to say and do goes well and that he doesn’t fuck this all up.
“Jaskier,” he calls, keeping his tone light as he knocks on the door of their shared room. “Are you decent?”
“Never!” Jaskier laughs from within. Geralt hears a series of quick, light-soled footsteps crossing the floor before the door is flung open to reveal Jaskier in all his evening glory. The bard is, as usual, painfully correct. He’s not very decent at all; his hair is a mess of brown waves that tumble down to cover his smooth, pale forehead. The apples of his cheeks are flushed fuchsia with a combination of wine and the high of a good show. His frilly white shirt is unlaced at the throat and loosened all the way down to reveal the sharp angles of his collarbones. Geralt gulps air like a man near to drowning and pushes his way inside. Has it gotten hotter, all of a sudden? Jaskier’s eyebrows furrow with worry and he closes the door behind his Witcher. “What’s got you even quieter than usual? Are you sick? Injured? Cursed?”
“Witchers can’t get sick,” Geralt answers, almost automatically. Jaskier rolls his eyes.
“Your version of sick, then?”
Geralt doesn’t know what his version of sick means so he ignores the comment entirely. Instead he shoves the package in his hands towards the bard and huffs. “I got something for you. I thought you might like to wear it to keep you warm, especially since I wanted… I was wondering if you’d like…”
Geralt growls and spins on his heel, running one shaking hand through his hair as if that might calm him down. It doesn’t.
“Fuck! Why can’t I be like you? Why can’t I just… say all the things I’m thinking? I’m no good with words, Jaskier.”
“I actually don’t say most of the things I think,” Jaskier shrugs. He bites the inside of his lip to keep from talking any more and ruining the moment. This is clearly something the Witcher needs to do on his own, whatever it is. He smiles softly and holds the paper-wrapped lump against his chest. “But I’m happy to wait for as long as you need, dear heart. Figuring out the right thing to say is hard.”
Geralt’s heart is pounding in his chest. Each beat rings out like one of Roach’s shoes against unforgiving cobblestone. He can practically see the sparks flying from it, igniting something in his chest that flares and wavers like a candle flame in the high breeze. He wants to protect the wavering warmth with every ounce of strength he has.
“I… I got you this,” he gestures towards the gift Jaskier has yet to open, “Because it’s cold at Kaer Morhen. The pass is treacherous, difficult for a human who isn’t prepared, so I wanted you to- I mean if you wanted to come with me, I would-”
His fumbling proposal is interrupted by a dull thwump as the package Jaskier was just holding suddenly hits the wooden floorboards. When Geralt looks up, terrified of the incoming rejection, he’s met with two watery blue eyes. Every one of his worst fears is being actualized in front of him and there’s nothing he can do to stop it now.
“Fuck. Shit, I- I’m sorry for asking. I didn’t know if you would eve-”
Geralt is interrupted again, this time by Jaskier throwing his arms around the Witcher’s shoulders and starting to sob. Geralt panics and instinctively reaches to pull Jaskier closer against his chest. He tucks the bard’s face against the side of his neck and cups the back of his neck with one broad palm; his fingers scratch up the base of Jaskier’s scalp and into his soft, tousled locks. With his other arm Geralt holds the bard tightly around the waist, rubbing small circles into the meat of his hip as he waits for Jaskier’s breathing to return to normal.
“Do you not want to come with me to the keep?” he asks, voice low and gravelly but somehow smaller and more frightened than Jaskier has ever heard it sound before. His heart cracks wide open and his love for his grumpy White Wolf comes spilling out like water from a burst dam.
“Of course I want to come to Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier chuckles wetly. Sadly. “I just never thought… I thought you didn’t want me there.”
Geralt considers the words for a moment. He really hasn’t been the most welcoming friend, all things considered. He can understand why Jaskier feels a bit lost and a bit confused. Overwhelmed, his brain supplies. Jaskier is overwhelmed.
He slowly releases Jaskier and steps away.
“Here,” he grins, kneeling and offering the package back up to the bard, who accepts it slowly. Now those bright blue eyes are shining with a different emotion, and Geralt envies the mages who can read other peoples’ minds. “Open it.”
Jaskier slowly unties the blue string and pulls two or three layers of plain brown paper aside to reveal a cardinal-red woolen cloak. A cloak that Geralt has bought for him. The hood and the hem are just the right size and shape for the season. The shade of red Geralt has chosen really brings out the pink undertones of Jaskier’s skin and the darker flecks of blue in his eyes. Jaskier knows that this cloak’s design is haute couture and probably cost the Witcher a great deal of coin. “Oh… Oh, my sweet, darling Geralt.”
Hearing his name said like that, with such affection and gentle reverence, throws the Witcher into another frenzy of emotion. He can barely stand it. His fists clench at his sides. It takes Herculean effort not to sweep the bard off his feet and spin him through the air, peppering him with excited, happy kisses. Jaskier is coming to Kaer Morhen with him! Jaskier is coming home with him!
“Geralt?”
“Jaskier,” the Witcher whispers, taking one slow step and closing the distance between them. The bard does not flinch. He does not move away. He does not step back. “Jaskier, if you don’t mind, I’d like to kiss you very badly.”
“Of course,” the bard breathes, his hand floating up to rest against the warm, stubbled skin of Geralt’s cheek, “I’ve been waiting so long…”
When their lips finally meet, time stops. There is only the warmth of their skin where it’s touching and the soft, gentle desperation of two people trying to prove, for once and for all, that they love each other. When they pause for air Jaskier pulls away a fraction. “Let’s go sit by the fire and chat, shall we?”
“Hmm.”
Geralt settles himself before the fire and pulls Jaskier down onto his lap, arranging him until they’re both comfortable. “Will your family mind my coming with you?”
“They’re expecting you. Actually, they demanded your presence this year. Lambert actually threatened me with bodily harm.”
“Did they, now?”
“Aye. Eskel said he’d find you and bring you back himself if I was too cowardly to buck up like a real Witcher and tell you that I-”
He cut himself off with a blush.
“That you what?”
“That I love you.”
“Well that’s good news,” Jaskier giggles, “And quite the relief considering I’ve been head over heels in love with you for years, now. A decade at least!”
“Y-you…?”
“Me, indeed.”
“I’m glad we’ll all get to hear your wonderful stories this winter,” Geralt nuzzles down against the side of his neck and sends Jaskier into another fit of giggles. “And songs.”
“Do you like it when I sing?”
“I like it best when you make up little songs as we travel,” Geralt admits. “They’re sweet... and I feel like- like they’re just for me.”
Jaskier lights up brighter than a well-cast Igni and settles himself into the Witcher’s tender embrace entirely. He begins to hum to himself and then slowly, in a way that always leaves Geralt impressed and entranced, words begin to form into verse:
“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens,
Big grumpy Witchers that have me quite smitten,
Brown paper packages tied up with strings;
These are a few of my favorite things.”
Geralt presses a kiss to Jaskier’s temple and hides his blush in the bard’s warm neck.
“Hair soft as silk that went white in the Trials,
Arms that can hold me and heft me for miles,
Eyes of warm amber I search for in Spring,
These are a few of my favorite things.”
The Witcher swears he can’t fall any more in love. It has to be impossible; but then Jaskier’s voice gets even softer and the words are sung so close to his ear that it makes him shiver.
“When the wolf bites,
When the bee stings,
When I'm feeling sad,
I simply remember my favorite things,
And then I don't feel so bad!”
Geralt gets poisoned. That's it. That's the prompt.
Oh Comfy, you always come to my aid with the best ideas and prompts. Thank you, boo.
I’m goofin’ with the lore a little so if Amaryllis wouldn’t actually poison Geralt canonically... deal with it for the sake of my whumpy fluff.
Poem is Sonnet 98 by my boy Willy Shakes (the OG Bard).
tw: poison, whump with a fluffy ending
---
“Shit,” Jaskier mutters, flinging his empty bag to the side in his haste. His hands dig through one of Roach’s saddlebags, then the other. “Where the fuck is it!? Where is it!?”
“J-Ja-”
“Hush, Geralt,” the bard orders with what little breath he has. He’s trying with all his might not to let the tears clouding his vision fall but it’s too late for that; he’s already a mess. Geralt is lying there, barely conscious, his skin as cold as death, and all Jaskier can do is panic and stumble around the campsite in search of some Swallow. “Fuck me, where is that blasted potion?!”
“Jaskier,” the Witcher whispers. “All gone.”
“What do you mean all gone?!”
“None left. Stock up.”
“Fuck! Fuck!” he cries. “I’m not going to lose you like this! Not like this, to something so stupid.”
Geralt doesn’t reply to that particular outburst and Jaskier turns on his heel to look the White Wolf over again. The Witcher’s arm is outstretched towards him, palm up and fingers relaxed. His eyes are closed and his breaths come in shallow little pants. The bard collapses to his knees beside his fallen companion like a rag doll dropped by a child. His best friend, the only man whose claim over Jaskier’s heart has lasted over a decade, is dying on the leaf-strewn ground and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. Jaskier grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes as if that will clear the dreadful sight of Geralt dying from his vision.
Alas, it does no such thing.
“Geralt, please, stay with me,” he begs, grasping the pale, chilled hand off the ground and sheltering it between both of his own. He holds the limp appendage against his chest and tries to rub some warmth back into the Witcher’s fingers. Warmth that doesn’t stick. “I can’t lose you.”
“Hmm.”
“If your final words to me are a noncommittal hum it will be horribly fitting but I won’t be able to stop crying for days. Do you hear me, Witcher? Days. Don’t die on me and leave me with a ‘Hmm’ as your parting gift.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt manages to groan from between his blue-purple lips. “Poetry.”
“You want me...to recite poetry?”
“Hmm.” This is his hum of affirmation. Jaskier shakes his head and presses a tender kiss to the Witcher’s forehead.
“From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April dress'd in all his trim
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.”
It’s us, Geralt. Can’t you hear us in the words? I am proud April and you are heavy Saturn; you who will laugh with me against the dark skies of a late night. You, whose side I always return to without fail every time the ground is warm enough for travel.
“Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.”
I don’t want to speak the last lines; I don’t want you to leave me.
The Witcher’s breathing grew soft and even as if he were sleeping and not fading into the next world. Fading into Death.
“Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.”
Jaskier lays at his Witcher’s side and sobs openly as Geralt goes cold and pale and still.
---
“Jaskier?” a low, gravelly voice inquires. A hand shakes his shoulder, pulling him from a nightmare. “Jaskier, why are you crying?”
“You - Geralt!” the bard springs up and flings his arms around the Witcher’s neck. “Thank fuck! You’re alive!”
“Amaryllis makes me sick near to death, yes,” the Witcher nods, “But no snooty nobleman can kill a Wolf so easily.”
“Fuck. Oh gods,” Jaskier cries. He sobs. He weeps into the familiar material of Geralt’s black linen shirt. He counts the buttons once, twice, three times while he waits for his heartbeat to return to normal. He clings to the Witcher with fierce determination. “Never leave me again.”
“Next time,” Geralt nods sagely, “I’ll sniff the wine before I drink it.”
“Next time,” Jaskier amends. “I’ll stab the insolent fool who thinks he can drag you from my life.”
“I love you,” the Witcher half-smiles. Jaskier’s heart pauses beating in his chest for a moment, only for the tattoo of its beating to redouble. “Foolish bard.”
“I love you more,” he grins, arms still wrapped around Geralt’s neck. “Obstinate Witcher.”
Babe. It's cookie season. Do you have any thoughts on geraskier getting in a flower fight whilst baking cookies???? 🥺🥺🥺
Why yes, yes I do... but I changed the flour to frosting, sorry.
---
“Ger-ralt!” comes the shriek, shortly before an equally large spoonful of blue frosting gets launched over the counter in the Witcher’s direction. “This shirt was new!”
“Then why are you wearing it to bake and decorate cookies!?”
“Because I thought you might-” he shuts his mouth abruptly and returns to applying a delicate layer of pale silver piping to the cookie on his plate. “Because.”
Geralt doesn’t comment for a moment, content to watch Jaskier’s tongue poke out of the corner of his mouth as he works. He wants to reach out and swipe the stray bangs out of Jaskier’s eyes but he doesn’t know how welcome his touch will be after the frosting flinging of a moment ago. His lets himself drift in the pleasant warmth of his best friend’s frankly enormous kitchen; the perks of being a pop star, apparently.
And why the pop star stayed friends with him after college Geralt still can’t begin to guess. Loyalty? Jaskier is a fiercely loyal friend. Adventure? Several of Geralt’s more fascinating experiences with monster hunting have ended up in the chorus of Jaskier’s hit songs. He still isn’t sure, but he’s happy to stick around for as long as he’s welcome.
Without looking up, the brunette says, “You’re staring again.”
“No I wasn’t,” Geralt lies. “You just have...”
He swipes his finger through the bowl of pink frosting and smudges it evenly along the soft skin of Jaskier’s lower cheek, nearly dipping below his jawline.
“You just have some frosting on your face, that’s all.”
Jaskier glares from beneath his bangs and straightens up to face his poorly behaved kitchen assistant. “Wipe it off.”
Geralt leans in with the corner of his apron in hand but Jaskier turns away.
“Not like that,” he teases. “If you want to pay me back for all the havoc you’ve been wreaking on my kitchen, you know exactly how I want this frosting taken care of, Witcher.”
Geralt does not miss the way Jaskier’s heartbeat picks up as he leans forward. He also doesn’t miss the way his friend’s smell spikes pleasantly with excitement and happiness and perhaps even a little bit of relief when he realizes what Geralt has in mind this time.
The Witcher kitten-licks the frosting from his friend’s face and immediately moves to put his sugar-coated tongue in that stupidly clever mouth. The kiss begins passionately and stays that way, too. Jaskier’s hands are in his hair, on his waist, all over his arms and chest - they never stop moving - as Geralt’s hands find the younger man’s hips and hold on. Jaskier’s waist is an anchor, keeping the Witcher against the surface of the earth as their mouths collide.
When they finally pull away, Jaskier is blushing and smiling as brightly as the Yule Log that crackles in the fire. “What a wonderful present.”
How do you feel about Geralt acting jealous without realizing it and Jaskier being absolutely delighted?
Oh yes we love that.
We are going back to the canon universe for this one
---
Geralt frowned and flashed his canines as the eager-eyed farmboy approached their table. The redheaded youngster considered his options before changing course and returning to the bar. “Huh. I thought he was going to accept my offer to dance,” Jaskier shrugged.
“Hmm.”
“Well, since my partner has disappeared I suppose I must find another,” Jaskier mused, eyes wandering over the crowd. Something twisted in Geralt’s gut and he pushed his tankard to the side.
“I’ll do it.”
“Excuse me, Geralt?”
“I’ll dance with you for awhile,” the Witcher offered. “But only if we can get to sleep at a decent time.”
“Of course,” the bard smiled.
Of course, Jaskier thought to himself, following Geralt out into the center of the space cleared for dancing. Of course it’s not because you’re a big jealous idiot who refuses to admit his feelings. Sooner or later, Witcher, you’re going to slip up, and then you’ll finally be mine.
hey babe... i heard no one has sent you a wrist kisses prompt... 👀 got any ideas for soft boi wrist kisses???
Ohhhh Comfy. Back at it again with those good asks!
---
Geralt emerged from the forest in all his black-eyed glory and stared Jaskier down in complete silence. The bard suppressed a shiver from his seat on the opposite side of the flickering campfire, smiling softly instead. “Welcome back, dear heart.”
The Witcher gave a primal growl from deep in his chest and crossed the short distance between them with a few quick strides. He knelt beside the bard and bowed his head. He nuzzled briefly into Jaskier’s side before pulling back and giving a brief, nervous whine.
“What’s wrong?” Jaskier asked. Geralt grumbled wordlessly, eyebrows scrunching together as the black veins curling around his temples and cheekbones began to retreat. Jaskier knew how overstimulated Geralt could get when his potions didn’t wear off immediately after a fight. “Can you understand me, Geralt, or are you still a bit feral?”
“Hmm.”
“Alright. What do you need? Nod if you need to touch, shake your head if you need to be left alone, and tap my leg twice if you want me to hum.”
He watched Geralt slowly, carefully nod.
“Go ahead and touch how you need, darling. I’m ready.”
Geralt reached out carefully and curled his hand around Jaskier’s left forearm, pulling the limb towards himself as if the bard might suddenly spook and take off into the woods. The Witcher slid the smooth material of Jaskier’s shirt up his arm, listening as the mortal’s heart sped up within the confines of his ribcage. Why? There wasn’t a whiff of fear on him. If anything, Jaskier smelled happy; happy and-
Geralt leaned forward and pressed his lips to the smooth, softly scented skin of the bard’s slim wrist, noting the way Jaskier’s breath caught beautifully in his throat when they made contact. The Witcher inhaled deeply, noting the melon-bright smell that seemed to flicker in and out of the bard’s usually musky, warm-rain scent. “What are you feeling, Jaskier?”
“Huh?” the bard startled. His eyes, so beautifully bright and blue even in the darkness, seemed to flutter closed as Geralt pressed another languid, lingering kiss to the pulse point at his wrist. “Oh.”
“What are you feeling... about me?”
“Good. Nothing but good, happy, lovely things.”
“Hmm. Will you tell me more about those good, happy, lovely things in the morning after we’ve both gotten some much-needed rest?”
“Yes. I’ll tell you everything and anything you want to know.”
The black of Geralt’s eyes had faded, leaving his gorgeous golden irises behind. He kissed a path between Jaskier’s palm and elbow, tracing his lips up and down the expanse of creamy skin over and over until Jaskier was practically panting above him. He glanced up through his lashes and saw the way his bard was flushed and slack-jawed, quieter than he’d been in days except for the hammering of his heart in his chest. The Witcher smiled. “Good. I have some questions.”
for the fic we think you might write thing - i see you writing a full on epic poem about how absolutely fucking stupid Geralt is from Jaskier but like in the most affectionate and loving way possible
You truly do share a braincell with me. I might just do that. Maybe a sonnet or two.
