Hope you're having a wonderful night! Might I have some cuddling with Geralt and his full sized fairy wife? 🥺👉👈
you sure can, fam
---
Geralt was laying on his back on his bed, the furs smooth and warm beneath him. Jaskier was a comfortable weight on his chest, the usually miniscule fairy now fully human-sized and starfishing across his body. He could feel his wife’s nose twitching against his neck as he snored and snuffled.
He let the palm of his hand settle against the base of Jaskier’s spine, beneath his wings, the fingers spreading out to reach as much skin as possible. The other hand found his wife’s pale arm, rubbing up and down the soft skin, feeling the dark hair tickle against his callouses.
“Sleep sweetly, love. I’ll watch over you.”
Jaskier’s wings fluttered gently in sleepy happiness and Geralt felt his heart fluttering in kind. The witcher closed his eyes and let himself fall back to unconscious for just a little longer.
Geralt and Jaskier get stuck in a rainstorm and when they finally find a dry cave, Jaskier is soaked and at serious risk for hypothermia so Geralt holds him and dries Jaskier’s clothes by the fire
you know I’m going to use this as an excuse to get Jaskier into one of Geralt’s shirts, right?
---
Geralt hurriedly stripped the shivering bard of his clothes and tossed them in a damp heap next to the blazing fire. “R-R-Rude!”
“Shut up and dry off,” the Witcher ordered, toweling off Jaskier with a dry blanket as fast as he possibly could. Without thinking, he grabbed one of his own shirts and pulled it over the bard’s damp hair, helping him thread his pale and trembling arms through the sleeves. He handed Jaskier a pair of clean smalls and helped him step into them, shimmying them up goosebump covered legs. When he glanced up to ask how Jaskier was doing, his heart leapt into his throat.
The bard’s lips were nearly blue.
Not good.
Alarm bells rang in Geralt’s mind and he gathered Jaskier into his arms, carrying him closer to the fire and settling down. He cradled the bard in his lap and wrapped them into a cocoon of gentle body heat with every dry, clean blanket he could find between their two packs. Luckily he’d weatherproofed Roach’s new saddlebags or this would have been a very long and terrifying night.
“Th-Th-Thank you.”
“Of course,” the Witcher grunted. “Do you want me to sing?”
“What?”
“Do you want me to sing you a lullaby, like you do when you tend my wounds after a fight?”
“You don’t h-have t-to do th-that,” the bard frowned.
“I’d like to.”
There was a brief pause and then Jaskier nodded, a nervous smile playing on his lips. Geralt finally trusted him; nearly freezing to death was definitely worth it.
Title from “Maybe Sprout Wings” by The Mountain Goats, which is definitely the vibe for this story.
tw: nightmare
---
“No!” Jaskier’s shrill cries echoed down the long stone hallway and into Geralt’s room, waking the Witcher instantly from his deep sleep. He jumped into action when he heard the sheer terror in his consort’s ragged, sleep-addled voice. “Stop, please! That will hurt him! Enough!”
The Beast raced through the winding halls of the keep, turning sharply around the few corners that separated his suite from Jaskier’s own set of chambers. He didn’t pause to knock this time, bursting straight into his consort’s bedroom and racing to examine him. “Little bird?!”
Jaskier lay on the bed, his legs and arms tangled tightly in the sheets, restraining his movements to little shuffles and squirms. His night shirt had gotten rucked up around his ribcage and what skin had been exposed was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. His chestnut hair was plastered to his forehead and his face had contorted with an expression of abject horror. “No! Not him, it wasn’t him. My Geralt, stop! Stop, please! No!”
The Beast sat at the edge of his consort’s four-poster and braced his hands against Jaskier’s shoulders, shaking him gently in an effort to rouse him. “Jask, my love. Darling, please wake up.”
The young man’s startlingly blue eyes burst open but remained unseeing; the sheets tightened around him as he tried to sit up and pulled him forcibly back down. The more restrained he felt, the more he struggled. Geralt began to try and unwind his legs, listening as his wriggling consort called out in terror, “Don’t! Enough! Don’t hurt…” his limbs moved slower and his eyelids fluttered. “Don’t hurt Geralt.”
The Beast inhaled sharply and finished unwinding the silk sheets from around Jaskier’s limbs and torso. He pulled his consort’s nightshirt back into place and laid him atop the (still dry) duvet, crossing his hands over his stomach like the princesses he’d seen drawn in books of fairytales. He pressed a tender kiss to the younger man’s forehead and ran the backs of his knuckles across Jaskier’s cheek. “My love. My consort. My heart, wake up. Wake up and see that everything will be alright.”
Jaskier muttered nonsense words and his brow remained furrowed. He sighed and whined and tilted his head back, baring his neck. Geralt truly panicked when he heard the boy whisper urgently, “No, not my Beast. Take me instead.”
He leaned down and pressed a firm kiss to Jaskier’s slightly parted lips. This time when those blue eyes flew open, they did so with panicked determination, scanning the room until they landed on Geralt’s hunched form.
“Thank the gods, my love!”
The younger man launched his torso off the mattress and clung to Geralt with all his weary strength. The Beast gathered his little bird into the comforting cage of his arms and situated the smaller man in his lap. He scooted up the mattress, laying them back against the headboard and pillowing Jaskier’s head against his chest. The peasant’s nimble fingers threaded their way through the ties of Geralt’s night-shirt and held on for dear life. “Don’t leave me tonight, Geralt. I don’t think I could bear losing sight of you.”
“Was it bad?”
“Terrible. The worst nightmare I’ve ever had in my life.”
“Because they were hurting me?”
“Yes. They were hurting you and they were threatening to take you away.”
Geralt marveled at the shudder that ran through his little bird with that admission. He’d never felt so utterly wanted in all his life. The smaller man’s face burrowed into his Beast’s neck and snuffled there for a moment, gathering up the safety of his tangy leather-and-metal scent. The Beast held his fragile consort tightly and began to purr, settling Jaskier’s bones more firmly against his skin as the rumbling went on.
“Thank you, my love,” the boy murmured into his skin. “I never want to lose you, either.”
“May I lay next to you tonight and keep the nightmares away?”
“That would be lovely.”
Jaskier allowed himself to be carried in Geralt’s arms from his rooms to the Beast’s. He gave no resistance as his darling Witcher tucked him against his warm, scarred side beneath the heavy covers. He tangled his legs with Geralt’s and rested his head atop his Beast’s left pectoral.
He fell asleep with Geralt’s soft purring and steady heartbeat reverberating in his ears.
The Beast fell asleep a little later, after he’d finished reassuring himself of Jaskier’s safety and comfort. Only when the peasant lad was truly sleeping sweetly, his chamomile-honey scent drifting up into Geralt’s twitching Witcher nose, did Geralt allow himself to close his eyes and drift away. His consort stayed safe and happy in his arms all night, tucked against his Witcher’s side, the Beast’s warm breath blowing gently and rhythmically against the top of his head.
“G-Geralt?” Jaskier murmurs, poking at the Witcher’s cheek. Geralt giggles and lets his head loll against his bard’s shoulder comfortably. He likes this. He could stay tucked up against Jaskier’s side forever. He nuzzles even closer and starts to purr.
Jaskier basks in the Witcher’s warm, rumbling sounds for a moment before pulling back to look at him. “My love, have you gotten into catmint again?”
“N..No?”
“Are you sure?”
Geralt makes grabby hands for the tankard of water on their bedside table and Jaskier carefully hands it to him. The Witcher sniffs it, recoils, and hands it back. “It’s in the water.”
“Added or naturally?”
“Naturally. Probably a patch in or near the well.”
“Sorry, darling. Anything we can do to fix it?”
“Nah,” Geralt giggles again. “It’s nice.”
“Yeah,” Jaskier smiles softly, carding his the fingers of his right hand into Geralt’s soft, snowy tresses. “It is.”
---
Geralt is exceedingly tactile when he’s under the influence of catmint. Jaskier has learned this over several long and confusion years. Now, it seems, the Witcher is eager to lay hands on every possible inch of Jaskier’s lavender-scented skin. The white-haired man snuffles softly into the crook of Jaskier’s hip and the bard jerks at the tickling sensation. “Geralt!”
“Yes, my lark?”
“That tickles, love!”
“Good,” the Witcher grumbles, doing it again and again until Jaskier is writhing and giggling. Tears are gathering in the corners of his eyes by the time Geralt finally pulls away. “You can get me back later, bard.”
“You know I’m going to,” the younger man threatens. “You terrible brute.”
“Delicate flower,” the Witcher retorts. “Let me feel your skin, my love. You’re so soft.”
“Hmm,” Jaskier hums contently. Geralt’s hands are roaming over his chest and arms, feeling him for any bruising or breaking. He can tell that he remains uninjured by the happy little huffs that his Witcher releases. “I need to invest in some catmint.”
What if Jaskier got magicked into the center of a maze and Geralt had to solve the maze to rescue him?
(okay so I’m indulging some of my middle school tastes in whump with this and that’s FINE)
tw: perilous situations, life or death situations (obviously he lives I write fluff), the mage made them do it (smooch), whumpy moments, panic attack/shock
---
“There he is,” the mage gestures. Geralt can see the bard, wrapped in -is that ribbon?- something and dangling helplessly in mid-air. He’s wriggling and crying out; words the Witcher can’t quite understand due to the distance. “If you can reach him in time then he’s yours. If not then...well, I guess he dies.”
Geralt doesn’t wait to hear any more. He takes of at a sprint into the maze, dodging between the hedgerows and flying back from dead-ends in a whirl of movement.
There are no monsters to fight, here. There is no game of wits to win. There is only Jaskier, slowly sinking downward through empty air towards...Geralt doesn’t even know what fate awaits the bard once he’s lowered close enough to reach it.
He only knows that his true love is hanging in the balance, literally, and he isn’t getting any closer to saving him. He releases an angry snarl and pushes his body harder. Runs faster. Jumps higher. Avoids obstacles more quickly and more decisively. He has no weapons, no armor, no potions to help him now.
“He’s getting closer,” the mage sing-songs from her comfortable dais. “I wonder what will happen when he gets close enough.”
“Geralt!” the Witcher is close enough to hear his darling bard’s anxious screams. His shrieks of fear. His grunts of protest as he writhes and twists in his bindings. They’re made of thick blue ribbon, the kind one might use to wrap an enormous wedding gift, and Geralt grimaces at the implications.
He hasn’t really had the chance to tell Jaskier about his feelings. He never will, if this mage has her way. The Witcher is growing exhausted, now, but he pushes himself just a little harder. A little further. A little more.
And there’s Jaskier being lowered towards a large metal spike. It’s not very practical, nor will it guarantee his death, but Geralt suspects that the mage was going more for drama than practicality in this instance.
He uses the last of his strength to leap up, wrapping his arms around the bard and getting them both safely out of harm’s way. The Witcher collapses, fingers scrabbling to free Jaskier from the twisting, intertwined lengths of velvet cloth. Jaskier is sobbing, trying to get as close to the Witcher as possible in his current predicament.
“Oh my love,” the bard gasps between hiccups, “I thought-I thought I was-”
“Love?”
The bard blushes even darker red beneath the tears and Geralt’s heart aches for him. His voice goes quiet and raspy as he cries through his next words, “I’m s-so sorry, G-Geralt. I cou-couldn’t help i-it.”
“Help what, my little bird?”
“F-falling in l-l-love with you.”
“I love you, too, Jaskier.”
A slow, bored clap interrupts their hushed confessions and Geralt sits up, ready to defend Jaskier again if necessary. The mage holds her hand up and shakes her head. “No worries, Witcher. You did as I asked. You won him back fair and square. I’ve never seen anyone quite as determined. I was temped to give him back even if you’d lost.”
“I’d never lose,” Geralt snarls.
“I knew you wouldn’t,” she says. “Anyway, I’m bored now. Enjoy the rest of your evening, gentlemen.”
Then they’re back at the campsite. It’s pitch dark except for the fire, which is blazing merrily away between their bedrolls. Geralt collapses to his knees and whines, low and long. The shock of everything that’s just happened is setting in. His body is beyond exhausted and his mind is foggy.
Jaskier takes a seat on his bedroll and pulls the Witcher’s head into his lap. He cards his fingers through the silky strands of moon-white hair and begins to massage the Witcher’s scalp.
He sings one of Geralt’s favorite songs very quietly, so softly that it won’t irritate his delicate senses, and continues to move his hand through the Witcher’s hair.
Eventually the Witcher’s breathing returns to normal and he looks up at Jaskier with damp, frightened eyes. The eyes of a man who has faced rejection a thousand times and isn’t sure he can do it again. Luckily for him, the bard holding him steady is just as lost in love. “Don’t panic, my darling. I will love you as constantly as the moon pulls at the waves.”
“You will?”
“I will be at your side for as long as you’ll have me.”
“Forever, if I asked?” Geralt’s low, rumbling voice is so unsure. So terrified. Jaskier smooths his hand down the back of his Witcher’s head to cup the soft skin at the base of his neck. He leans down and presses a firm, slow kiss against his darling’s pink lips.
Hello! Your good vibes coming! How about a three words prompt for our lovely pirates, because I just adore them, maybe "do you promise?" Use it however you want but please give our boys some love, make it a little sweet for me. Thank you, love you!
(I can certainly work with sweet)
---
“You’ll come back before the storm hits?” Jaskier asks, eyes wide and shining in the light of the setting sun. Geralt nods solemnly. His anxious little nymph worries his lip between his sharp teeth for a moment and then asks, “Do you promise?”
Geralt offers up his pinky. “I swear on my life.”
“Hmm,” the half-siren sighs, hooking the offered digit with his own. “Alright.”
---
“I didn’t know you were scared of storms,” Geralt murmurs into his sweet siren’s ear. Jaskier’s eyes are scrunched closed and he’s curled as tightly as possible against the pirate Captain. “My poor little wife.”
A flash of lightning brightens the cabin momentarily and only seconds later a thunderous boom cracks through the air. The ship sways slightly from the force of the storm but since they’re anchored safely at a sturdy dock, Geralt isn’t worried about the state of the Kaer Morhen. Jaskier, however, is terrified that the ship will splinter to pieces beneath them at any moment.
He jerks at the noise, releasing a loud whine, and Geralt wonders for a moment if it’s an instinct from his siren blood. Perhaps storms are not meant to be weathered above the surface of the water like this.
The White Wolf tucks his wife’s head beneath his chin and presses several soothing kisses there. His hands rub up and down the smaller man’s spine, pressing them together. “Shh, my love. It will be over soon. I’ll be here to protect you until it’s gone.”
“I know, it’s just loud.”
“Do you want me to sing?”
Jaskier’s breath hitches and Geralt realizes with a start that his darling wife is crying softly from fright alone. He wraps himself around the younger, smaller man like a shield and begins to hum. Jaskier presses his ear against his husband’s heart and listens to the steady beat and the rumbling tune.
“I love you,” he whispers.
Geralt pauses his humming long enough to press another soft, lingering kiss to Jaskier’s hair. Then he picks back up again, valiantly trying to block out the noise of the storm. Scared as he is, the siren smiles and cuddles closer to his Wolf.
