Geralt shakes the bard gently on the shoulder. Through the thin chemise, he can feel Jaskier’s too-warm skin—the fever is down a bit, but not gone.
And the bard remains dead to the world.
“Jask,” Geralt calls again. “Come on, I need to tell you something.”
The bard curls into himself, and that’s when Geralt notices the pillow he’s hugging under the cover—Geralt’s pillow, to be exact.
Jaskier seems to catch these words, and his soft snoring quiets down. Geralt keeps running a hand up and down his bicep but it only serves to make Jaskier bury his face deeper as if he doesn’t want to let go of the blissful oblivion.
Geralt never knew the sight of Jaskier sick and vulnerable could do so many things to his heart, make him feel like a pool of warmth is gathering in his stomach. But again, he never expected Jaskier. Not how much he would come to care for this chatty and colorful bard, not how hopelessly he would be in love with him either.
That’s why he needs Jaskier awake. Now.
“Just open your eyes for a while, Jask. Come on.” At those words, Jaskier’s eyes meet Geralt, sleep-muddled and strikingly blue. Geralt softens at the sight. “I’m in lo—”
“G’ralt?” The bard croaks his name miserably. Blue eyes flutter shut again. A frown forms between his brows. “I’m…so…so tired…”
Jaskier buries his nose into the pillow and inhales. The bard is not a small man but at this moment, he looks as if the bed and the layers of blankets can swallow him whole. Geralt can’t help but wrap his hand around Jaskier’s chin to soothe his distress.
“Shh. Let me say this and you can rest. Come on,” Geralt coaxes. “I love—”
“Why are you so cruel to me?” Jaskier sounds like he’s on the verge of tears, heedless of Geralt’s now twice interrupted confession. “I’m sick. I want to sleep… ‘m cold… alone. I’m alone and I can’t…”
Jaskier trails off, his protests pitiful but he still manages to nuzzle into Geralt’s palm. Is it possible for a witcher’s heart to burst with love?
“It’s the fever talking, Jask.”
Geralt continues to rouse the bard, and finally, finally, Jaskier rubs his eyes open with clarity. An adorable furrow remains, and Geralt wipes it away with a thumb.
“I love you.”
The confession comes out in a whisper, but not because Geralt is unsure of his heart. Only the gods know how long he has been brewing these three words, how he has played out the scene over and over in his head.
Jaskier stares, and stares, the sleepiness in his eyes now completely gone.
“Is this a dream?”
The question is so careful, so full of restrained hope. Geralt’s heart clenches.
“I’ve been in love with you, Jask, for longer than I know.” The corners of Geralt’s mouth tug upward. “I made so many plans for this moment, just so it can be perfect for you, but now... This is enough.”
Jaskier knowing his heart is enough.
“Oh,” Jaskier breathes. “Just like that, you’ve—”
He tries to prop himself up but a pained grimace overtakes his face. His joints must still be aching from the fever. Biting back a grunt, Jaskier lets his body fall to the bed. Geralt moves his hand to the small of his back and starts kneading the taut muscles there. Slowly, the bard leans into the touch and goes completely limp.
“Hmm,” he groans contentedly. “Just like that, you made a grand confession the most anticlimactic thing in the world. My writing professor back in Oxenfurt would be disappointed if you put that in a romance novel, my dear. A random morning, when I’m still in bed, no less.”
“Not random.” Geralt moves to Jaskier’s knees, massaging the soreness away. “Had years of build-up. For me, at least.”
If Jaskier feels any surprise, he hides it well.
“Why now, then?”
Jaskier stills his hands, and Geralt threads their fingers together instinctively. Blue eyes fix on him in earnest.
“You mentioned the fever you went through as a child.”
“And?”
“How it made you feel cold and alone. Like no one could reach you.”
“Like I would be alone forever.” A haunted look clouds the same blue eyes. Geralt squeezes his fingers in sympathy, and feels the gesture returned.
“You talked in your sleep,” he continues. “You begged me not to leave you here alone.”
Jaskier instantly tries to hide his face away, his blush deepening from embarrassment. “Gods, it’s so humiliating. I didn’t mean to—”
“I need you to know that I won’t.” He puts as much conviction in those words as possible. “Because I love you, Jask.”
Deep down, Geralt has long since learned that the bard is not someone he can just leave anymore. But Jaskier won’t know it, not without him saying it out loud. From the looks of it, the bard is taking in everything pretty well. His entire face has turned beet-red, the flush stretching down to the open collar of the chemise, but now, there’s also an air of giddiness in his eyes.
“Come here then.”
Geralt lets himself go to Jaskier, the blankets thrown aside so his body heat can do the work. He guides Jaskier’s head to the crook of his neck and makes sure the bard is nestled comfortably. He buries his fingers in those messy brown locks like it’s where they’ve always belonged.
Jaskier is hugging him tightly with those strong arms, circling Geralt’s torso the same way he always clings to a pillow. The urge to say it again is overwhelming. So he does.
“I love you,” Geralt murmurs into Jaskier’s hair.
“That’s way too many times in a row, darling. One might start to believe it’s genuine.”
The sliver of doubt might be masked under the teasing, but Geralt is too well-versed in Jaskier’s moods to let it slip past his attention. He has to earn the trust, after all these years, after breaking Jaskier’s heart too many times.
“Good. They are,” he adds. “I’ll prove it.”
“When I wake up, maybe.” Jaskier lets out a timely yawn, his voice rough with exhaustion. “First, you’ll have to tell me about your big plans. I’m sure there’s a ballad in there or two.”
“Are you?”
“Mm-hmm. It’s you, you know…” Jaskier’s hand is resting near Geralt’s heart, so he takes it to his lips. “Always the dramatic one.”
Geralt gives up on hiding the grin on his face and places a quiet kiss in Jaskier’s palm. With that, the bard slips into a peaceful slumber, knowing he is loved.
hello dear!! could i request 33. the feel of fingertips trailing over a bare shoulder blade from the sensory prompts?? thank you!! 💜 (wanderlust-t)
Oh my sweet I know it’s you :* that is SUCH a wonderul one and it gave me feels all over the place!!! Thank you thank you so much for sending me a prompt, I love it! ❤️ Please have some soft boys that pines for someone that is right there! Hope you like it!
On Ao3
send me sensory Prompt , it brings me joy 😍
Jaskier wakes up slowly. His head is that pleasant kind of foggy it gets between dream and wakefulness. It is warm, the kind of warm you get when you are in a soft bed and the sun is on your naked back.
It takes another moment to register his matress is moving. Well, not moving per say, breathing. He can feel the rise and fall of a chest, from his estimations a rather wide one. He turns his head and snuggles closer, finding a crook in someones neck to sigh into.
The neck has a light stubble, and when he shifts he can feel chesthair against his arm. So a man then. The man smells warm, safe, familiar. Like a campfire late at night, like horses and a hint of onions. He feels like he knows the name it belongs to, but his brain is not awake enough to focus right now.
He wants it to be Geralt. It would be nice if it was. It usually isn’t though. Someone much like him, quite a lot. Foggy memories from the night before breach his mind. There was some drinking going on, but less than usual. He kissed someone with white hair. His lips were gentle, he remembers. Like the fingers are on his shoulder right now.
Big fingers, a little rough, tracing up over his spine and up his shoulder blade. Soft patterns back and forth and in circles and spirals. It makes him smile.
“Awake yet?” A someone says, that sounds very much like Geralt.
That nice foggy feeling is dispatching, leaving a startlingly clear though in his head. This might actually be Geralt.
He opens his eyes and tilts his head upwards. White hair. Yellow eyes watching him with amusement. A smile and that little chuckle that makes Jaskier bounce on his chest.
“I think I am? But I am not sure?” Jaskier asks, smiling too. Geralt resumes his pattern on Jakskiers shoulder and Jaskier puts his head back in the crook of Geralt's neck.
“What makes you doubt it?” Geralt says, and Jaskier suddenly registers his other hands on his lower back, drawing small circles.
“For one, I'm on your chest.”
“That is not the first time though.”
“Fair. But it’s the first time you allow it.”
Geralt hums, and Jaskier pretends that he is embarrassed. It would be nice if he was.
Then Geralt's arms wrap around him, hugging him close. Oh. His stomach flips, flutters, his chest doing that wonderful thing where it feels like he could fly. His nose press against the soft skin on Geralt's throat and mothers, that Geralt wants him this close makes him ache.
Jaskier presses a kiss to it, to the skin just above his pulsepoint, so softly they both could pretend he didn’t. Geralt's grip tightens, and Jaskier takes that as approval.
So he does it again, a little firmer, his lips making that soft little sound.
“Am I dreaming Geralt?” He asks quietly. “Is this real?”
“If you want it to be.” he gets back.
And Jaskier wants it to be. Oh, how he wants it to be.
Geralt presses a kiss to his hair, and the circling fingers on his back resumes its path. The sun is warming his back and every breath Geralt takes lifts him higher.
you’ll look at me ways that I’ve never looked at you
title from Cosmo Jarvis’ “Love This”
just pure fluff before my 8 hour Thanksgiving shift.
comments would be much appreciated; they will get your local Bouncey through the next few days
---
Jaskier makes a soft, happy sound that gets muffled rather adorably by the dark material of Geralt’s shirt and the Witcher smiles to himself. There’s a light layer of fog hanging over their campsite that probably originated from the nearby pond and it gives the pale morning sunshine a magical quality. The mist flows and ebbs in little whorls with every one of the Witcher’s gentle exhalations.
Geralt is happy. He’s content.
He nuzzles down into the bard’s sweetly scented brown hair and rumbles out a magnificent purr. If only he could drag this moment out forever. He would gladly sell his soul to bottle up this warm, glorious feeling and have it with him every day and every night for the rest of his days.
Geralt, the Butcher of Blaviken, the White Wolf, the fearsome Witcher with an exhausted moral compass and a heart of gold, has never known a happiness quite like this before. Not in his many decades on the Path has he ever fallen asleep grinning and woken up the same way.
He blames the man sleeping peacefully in the protective snare of his arms for the change.
Jaskier is everything. He took one look at Geralt from a cross a half-empty tavern at the tender age of eighteen and decided to stay loyal for twenty years of his life; that’s far more than even Yennefer could manage. She wasn’t even able pick between two eager lovers while Jaskier... Jaskier chose to stay at his Witcher’s side without a second thought.
The bard wakes up every day and greets Geralt and the morning sun with equal enthusiasm, his eyes bright and already searching for adventure. For music. For more.
More than Geralt thought he was capable of giving.
But that was then, and this is now. And right now, Jaskier is making sweet little snuffling noises and pawing frantically at the black linen separating him from the warmth of Geralt’s chest. There’s nothing that calms his bard faster than skin-on-skin contact and the Witcher is more than happy to oblige. With as little jostling as possible, Geralt manages to wiggle out of his shirt and restore Jaskier to his previous position in their sleepy embrace.
The bard’s erratic breathing evens back out once his cheek is smushed up against the firm muscles of Geralt’s left pectoral. A tired smile flashes up in the Witcher’s direction and a sloppy kiss is pressed beneath Geralt’s collarbone; he shivers pleasantly at the sensation of Jaskier’s warm, damp lips against his cool skin.
A few minutes later, as Geralt begins to drift back to sleep himself, he realizes that Jaskier’s breathing pattern now matches the rhythm of his too-slow heart.
I am lucky that Destiny delivered you into my life and my hands, Geralt thinks. Jaskier murmurs a sweet nothing into his skin and he grins like a dope. Very lucky indeed.
Bouncey, I’ve had a rough week, could I ask for something soft and fluffy? Maybe with confessions and nuzzles?
Oh you got it, fam
---
Geralt stood slowly from his kneeling position, stretching out the kinks in his muscles as he did so. Jaskier was already fast asleep, curled into a ball on his half of the tiny mattress.
His body language was practically begging Geralt for cuddles.
The Witcher crossed the room on silent feet and slipped beneath the thin covers, wrapping himself around the barely-shorter man like an additional comforter. Jaskier murmured a series of slurred exclamations and rolled over, burying his face in Geralt’s chest.
Geralt’s nighttime cuddles were his own private business and so far Jaskier had always quietly cooperated and stayed facing the other direction. But now the bard’s hands were fisted in the front of the Witcher’s shirt and his sweet, sleepy breaths were hitting Geralt’s chest in tiny warm puffs and... and...
“Fuck,” the Witcher muttered lowly. “I love you, you idiot.”
“I love you too,” Jaskier replied. His eyes were still closed and he was still very much asleep. “Geralt.”
The Witcher’s eyes went wide and he nuzzled down against the top of Jaskier’s head. Perhaps, in the morning, he would say those words again.
Fairy Jaskier curled up all warm and comfy in between Geralt's cleavage during the fall and winter. Napping all safe and warm in his happy place.
I can’t resist the Discourse.
Jaskier yawns widely and shakes out his wings. Geralt knows the half-lidded look on his little wife’s face. He’s exhausted and ready for bed. The Witcher sets his book on the bedside table of their rented room and scoots down, tapping his fingers against his medallion where it lays flat against his skin. It trembles a little when Jaskier approaches but quickly settles back to silence; Jaskier is no threat.
The fairy teeters across his chest, stumbling in his sleepiness, and drops onto his butt between Geralt’s rather impressive pectorals. He chitters something up at his husband; the Witcher catches the words happy and Geralt and dreams.
Then the tiny man curls up, puts his little hands beneath his head, and releases a content, jingling sigh. Geralt cups his hand over Jaskier to keep him warm and smiles.
He hadn’t thought the married life would agree with Witchers; he’d been wrong.
I have to go to work today and I don’t want to so...here’s some fluff.
wouldn’t mind comments if you have a moment :) please feed me validation
---
Geralt wakes slowly. The light of the sun is watery, filtered through the light mist in the air around them. It’s chilly but not cold; he rolls onto his back and uses the arm already around Jaskier’s waist to pull the bard on top of his chest, laid over him like a drooling, breathing blanket.
Jaskier shifts to get comfortable, his nose snuffling into the crook of Geralt’s neck on instinct, seeking out the Witcher’s incredible warmth. He sighs contently when he breathes in the familiar scents of sweat and leather. A string of half-mumbled and completely unintelligible words come slurring out of his mouth and into Geralt’s ear. The Witcher smiles and tilts his head a bit, giving his darling bard a better angle for snuggles.
There are so few opportunities to exist like this, warm and comfortable in the spring light, with the sun smiling down at them and the birds singing softly in the nearby trees. Roach grazes a few feet away, watchful as ever, and Geralt feels completely relaxed for the first time in days. Maybe weeks.
“I am weak, my love,” he murmurs against Jaskier’s slightly sweaty forehead. “But I am not wanting. Everything I want is right here. Aren’t you, my bard?”
“Hmm?” Jaskier hums. Geralt feels his eyes open, the silk-soft lashes brushing against the skin of his neck. He sits up a little until he can look at his Witcher properly. “Love?”
Geralt can’t help but press a quick kiss to his beautiful bard’s sleep-chapped lips. “Shhh, go back to dreaming, buttercup.”
“Okay.”
Geralt makes a noncommittal rumbling sound deep in his chest and Jaskier settles back down, eyes already closed. His breathing slows almost immediately and the Witcher runs one large hand up and down his back.
someone accidentally eats a special brownie and gets way too high and the other has to take care of them :3c
(thank you for answering my desperate plea for some stoner content, fam)
tw: drug use, weed brownie, vomiting once, lots and lots of cuddling
---
“Jaskier,” the Witcher frowns. The bard smells...funny. Different. Slightly off. “What’s wrong with you? Are you feeling sick?”
Jaskier shakes his head ‘no’ and the movement makes him sway on his feet. Geralt reaches out to steady him and looks deeply into the bard’s blue eyes, which were now surrounded by a soft ring of pink veins. Jaskier giggles and leans against the Witcher’s hand. “I had a...special dessert at the party. May have had too much.”
“Oh, you had the...stuff?”
“Yes.”
“I warned you not too have too much.”
“I don’t listen very well.”
“Hmm.”
“Geralt,” he grimaces, still leaning heavily against his friend for support. “I don’t feel-”
The Witcher catches on just in time and spins Jaskier around to vomit up the contents of his stomach behind a roadside bush. “Okay, so you’re definitely sick.”
“I don’t feel feverish,” the bard groans. “Just really light-headed and dizzy. Carry me?”
Geralt presses the back of his hand against Jaskier’s forehead but the bard is right; his temperature is only slightly elevated. Likely from the effort of throwing up. “If you keep walking will you get sick again?”
The bard takes a few shaky steps forward before pitching towards the dirt with a soft cry of surprise. Geralt takes one enormous stride and scoops the bard up before he can face-plant into the dust. Jaskier looks up at him and giggles nervously, “My hero!”
“My idiot,” the Witcher rolls his eyes. Jaskier snuggles tightly against his rescuer’s chest, burying his face in the side of Geralt’s neck. He takes a deep breath and Geralt tries not to shiver at the sensation of warm skin pressing so softly against his own.
“You smell great,” the bard sighs.
“I thought I smelled like heroics and heartbreak or some shit.”
“No. You smell like cedar. And leather. And sweat. And monster blood a little bit.”
“Hmm.”
“What about me?”
They’re almost back to camp. Geralt hadn’t been in the right state of mind to stay at a castle overnight; he didn’t trust the Lord that had hired them and Jaskier understood. He trusted the Witcher’s instincts almost more than Geralt trusted them himself.
Geralt gave the bard a half-hearted sniff. “Sarcasm, mostly.”
Jaskier whines and pulls his face back out of the Witcher’s neck. “Sorry for trying.”
Geralt sets him down next to the fire and wraps his trembling shoulders in a blanket. He hands Jaskier the waterskin and makes sure he takes a few long sips. “Trying?”
“To flirt.”
“Oh. Is that what you were doing?”
“Yeah. I thought you might like me too. My bad.”
The bard sounds like he’s already half asleep, so Geralt humors him. “You smell like chamomile and resin. Maybe a little bit like leather. Maybe a little bit like monster blood.”
“Hmm,” Jaskier’s face breaks into a goofy smile and he snuggles close to the Witcher’s side. He breathes out a, “G’night Geralt.”
