15 fluff for angst geraskier?
#15. "How am I supposed to forgive you?"
Stilling his movements, Geralt slowly, very slowly turns his head in Jaskier's direction. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated. He clears his throat. "Yes, dear?"
Jaskier blinks. "What are you doing?"
Geralt looks between Jaskier and his hands, right where they're fisted in the empty linen bag he was attempting to silently put into a cupboard. "Um." He puts it on the table, flattening it with his palm in an attempt to look less guilty. "Tidying up?"
Jaskier doesn't buy it, of course. He's developed a fine knowledge of Geralt's tells: the twitch of his brow, the darting of his eyes. The oh so tender petnames.
Jaskier walks closer into their kitchen, the afternoon sun coming in through the windows. If he closes his eyes, ignoring Jaskier's accusing frown, he can hear the waves crashing against the shore.
"If you tell me you ate—" Jaskier picks up the bag and gasps as crumbs fall on the clean tabletop. "Geralt of Rivia, you ate—"
Jaskier splutters. "How was this" —he wipes his thumb on Geralt's beard, some jam-covered crumbs coming away with it— "an accident? Did my very expensive, custom-made almond cakes just jump into your mouth? Did they give you no alternative?" He looks at the bag, forlorn. "And all of them, too! How am I supposed to forgive you?"
Geralt is sorry. He really is. It's just— "I was very hungry."
"I restocked our pantry not two days ago."
Okay. He has a point. Still, Geralt puts on his best puppy-eyed face and tries to earn some sympathy. "But I wanted something sweet," he says, voice carefully small.
"Don't you bring your pout out now, Witcher," Jaskier says, arms crossed over his chest, and it worries Geralt that he's grown immune to his charms. "Those were supposed to be eaten at a party. With guests. Good people who deserve some sweet almond cakes after a long day's work."
If Geralt pouts harder, well. "I'm good."
At that, Jaskier softens, fond and defeated. He closes the space between them, taking Geralt's hands in his and backing him against the counter. "You are," he says, and kisses Geralt's broken knuckle. "And you deserve all the sweet meals my coin can buy you."
Geralt smiles. "Hmm," he says, warmly, as Jaskier drops a kiss on his cheek.
"But," Jaskier murmurs, soft and sweet against his temple, "you're paying for the next batch."