#geralt x jaskier

My muse, @aplaceofnonsense​, sent me this amazing art postby@craftgamerzz where Jaskier is playing with baby griffins while Geralt fights off their annoyed mother, and my mind immediately went to “Jaskier’s Babysitting Service”.  So apparently I shitpost for this fandom, now.  I am so sorry.   

(go check out the OG art post!)

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(FYI: “Destiny’s Bitch” spawned from our previous ridiculous convo and became an in-joke referring to Jaskier.  Poor guy.)

Want some Sunday reading? I have updated Posada Remix, my Book!Geralt/Jaskier Into the Witcher-verse fic.

Book!Geralt spends a few days in Oxenfurt with Jaskier. They give each other some things they both desperately need.

Book!Geralt also finds out that Netflix!Geralt hit Jaskier the day they met. He takes it about as well as you might expect.

3800 ish words

OnAO3 and below.

———————

Jaskier

Geralt and Jaskier had enjoyed ten years of friendship thus far, yet the witcher continued to downplay his affection for the bard in public. It might have hurt Jaskier, if Geralt weren’t so thoroughly unsuccessful in his efforts.

At the banquet in Cintra, the witcher told everyone that he was merely there to help the idiot bard. But his actions shouted louder than his bluster. Everyone knew.

Why would Geralt be by his side, traveling the continent together if he hated him? Certainly Jaskier didn’t have the power to compel the witcher to do anything. And Geralt moved heaven and earth if Jaskier were injured or hurt. He stepped in when he was threatened.

He could grunt all he wanted. People knew.

They were friends. The very best.

In fact, Jaskier had been with Geralt long enough to be widely and permanently associated with him. Jaskier puffed up like a crested lark when he heard himself referred to as Geralt’s bard.

He practically swaggered into taverns and festivals walking at Geralt’s side, the witcher with his swords and him with his lute case.

The witcher and his bard.

But sometimes, in the shadowed corners of his heart, he wished for more.

For Geralt to shout, “That is my friend”.

And sometimes, in the still further reaches of his soul, he wished for even more.

For people to say:

There goes Jaskier. He is not only the keeper of Geralt’s legend, but also of his heart.

But Geralt had gone with Yen. And Jaskier had come back to Oxenfurt and fallen apart.

Until he was delivered by a man he thought he would never see again.

And now he had several days with this man. Days. He wished it were more, but he would take what the universe provided and he would cherish it. 

And now this Geralt, the sinewy one who wore his feelings much closer to his skin, stepped out into the street with Jaskier.

They were outside together for the first time in the bright day. The residents of Oxenfurt streamed by, their features sharp and clear in the late morning sun. Students chattered and flirted. Mothers herded their children away from hooves and wheels.

The people parted around Geralt and Jaskier, then dove ahead, keeping time with the demands of their lives. But not before many of them spared a glance at the witcher and the bard.

Jaskier had only enjoyed two visits from this Geralt. So his urge to lean down and catch Geralt’s hand caught on doubt. These people would see. Would think of them as a pair.

This Geralt lived untold dimensions away. He couldn’t be rightly thought of in this way. They weren’t like the teenaged sweethearts proudly clutching hands, on their way to the first of many dances. They weren’t like the elderly couple, slowly picking their way to the park, clasping each other comfortably.

But then Jaskier remembered.

What do you want to do with your precious moment?

So Jaskier made a choice. A seemingly insignificant choice. Just a dip of his arm. But a choice nonetheless.

He reached for Geralt’s hand.

Geralt looked ahead intently as they walked, weaving in and out of the crowd. When Jaskier took his hand he twitched. Then he smiled. It was a small thing too, the smile. But it reached up to crinkle the corners of his eyes. He glanced at Jaskier ever so fleetingly and winked.

Then he threaded his fingers through Jaskier’s and pulled them tight.

As they walked, their arms swung gently together. Geralt used the leverage to tug Jaskier out of the way of potholes and merchants carrying goods.

When people saw them, they thought: the witcher loves him.

Jaskier felt like his.

And he preened. He couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried.

It was market day and wooden stalls lined the busy streets and alleys. Smells inundated the air, of burnt wood, new leather goods, and a hundred different kinds of food and drink.

“Ooooo, let’s go look over there,” said Jaskier. He pointed to a wooden stall with a tiny older woman behind it. She was slight and draped with colorful shawls. In front of her, practically at her eye level, were phalluses of leather and polished wood lined up like soldiers. There were beads of many different arrangements and apparent uses. There were tassels and whips. Vials and pots of slick in different scents and flavors.

Geralt’s footsteps stuttered.

“Ohhhhh come on now,” said Jaskier, laughing gleefully. He was the one tugging this time. They stood in front of the stall, and Jaskier eagerly perused the merchandise.

“Hello gentlemen,” said the woman, in a thick northern accent, her gray hair falling down in ringlets. “I’m Violet. If you have any questions, let me know.”

She noticed Jaskier’s eyes fall upon a tray filled with crystal beads strung on long winding strings. He couldn’t tell what they were for. Like any good saleswoman, she seized upon his interest.

“Oh, so you have discriminating taste, young man.” She picked up the beads. They were in two parts. “You would look lovely in these, and I think your gentleman would agree,” she smiled mischievously at Geralt.

Geralt averted his eyes hurriedly but he also drew closer and hung his finger in the waistband of Jaskier’s trousers.

“They are meant to be worn on an unclothed torso and around a bare waist. It makes you feel divine, like a worshipped, adorned thing while you are in the act of love.”

“We’ll take them,” said Geralt. He reached for a thin circlet lying next to it. “This too.”

Jaskier flushed with joy. They had just left the house and he was already picturing dragging Geralt back into it, and riding him, shoulders and hips lined with sparkling beads.  But they needed food. And also, an idle walk around the pier with his witcher sounded like heaven.

The vendor selling the turkey legs was a far less pleasant person. He pretended as though he could neither hear nor see Geralt. Jaskier quickly wiggled to the front, and would have made a scene if the man hadn’t recognized him and quickly served them apologetically. Then they walked down to the docks and sat with their legs over the edge, listening to the ocean waves and sucking the turkey bones dry.

Jaskier noticed that Geralt was brooding.

“I’ll happily go back and piss on that wanker’s stall,” he offered. He shaded his eyes with his hands and licked his teeth clean. Geralt smiled, squinting into the sunlight.

Geralt’s mood seemed easily punctured by those who skirted around him or avoided his gaze. But it rebounded quickly with a kind word.

So Jaskier resolved to remind him, as many times as it took, that he was accepted as he was. He resolved to ease this man’s way in his world. It was the least he could do.

When he asked Geralt whether they could go to the tavern to meet his friends, Geralt said yes again quickly.

But he still visibly eased when Jaskier reminded him that he bragged all year long that he was friends with the White Wolf. Anyone at Oxenfurt with a pulse knew who Geralt was, and knew that to insult him would call down the chaotic rage of Jaskier, which no one in their right mind would curse themselves with.

And Geralt, wiry and scarred from combat, relaxed his shoulders at his words. His face opened. He took to this kind of treatment quickly.

They played strip Gwent with Jaskier’s friends and Jaskier draped himself across Geralt to dramatically hide his nipples when he was losing. Geralt whispered in his ear:

“May I kiss you?” His thumbs slid along Jaskier’s neck.

Jaskier’s lips were already on his.

And later, when they were tipsy, and their stolen kisses had devolved into full sloppy making out, and Jaskier’s friends had taken to throwing bread at them, they decided it was time to go home.

They climbed up to the roof of Jaskier’s house and put down a blanket. They laid next to one another and watched the stars twinkle on.

Then Jaskier asked Geralt to take off his clothes and he placed the circlet on his witcher’s head. Then he stripped off his own clothes and draped himself in the beads and fucked Geralt until he trembled. Until tears fell from them both.

Then they went back inside, and slept in each other’s arms.

——–

Jaskier was first to wake the next morning. He savored the sound of Geralt’s heavy breathing. Jaskier let his fingertips dance along the white hair fanning out on the bed. He remembered that he had three more days to do this.

He threw his leg over Geralt and rubbed his calf against his.

“You awake?” he whispered, a little too loudly, at the back of Geralt’s head.

“Mmmmmm,” said Geralt.

“Oh, good,” said Jaskier. He grunted with effort as he reached for Geralt’s side, pulling him over so that he flopped onto his back. He raised Geralt’s arm and snuggled up under it.

Geralt chuckled. “I’m just a pillow and a pair of arms to you.”

“And?” asked Jaskier. “Is there something wrong with that? Speak, pillow.”

“Not a thing,” said Geralt groggily. “Not a thing, sweetness.” He tipped Jaskier’s head around and kissed him. His eyes were still closed and he hummed as he kissed him.

They rolled around in bed for hours, only getting up to piss and wash up, then to plop back into bed into each other’s arms. As the moments wore on, they talked at length about nothing at all. Every so often they would change position. Jaskier would lay on Geralt’s belly. Then Jaskier would sit up against the bed frame, and Geralt would lay in his lap.

They chatted about spring in Oxenfurt and Geralt told him stories of the academy past and future. It didn’t matter whether it was exactly the same here. Jaskier just liked listening to him.

They compared spices from dimensions, (“What do you roast your quail in?”) and debated whether the music would be the same (“Are string instruments used in three piece bands here?”). Also, “Is the ocean water cold or tepid?” And “Can your werewolves bite a man and make another werewolf?”

They both knew they could be asking questions that would make them insane. Like…“Did my Aunt die of typhoid there?” Or “Have you been to Kaer Morhen and how many wolves are left in the school?”

But they didn’t. They knew it would puncture what they had. And what they had was precious.

Jaskier did have one question. And after a few comfortable, delicious hours, he decided he needed to know.

“Why only five days?” Jaskier asked. “Why not two or ten? Or thirty?” Or forever.

Geralt was quiet for a moment. He pulled Jaskier closer, and kicked off the sheets, as the room was growing warmer.

“The way Ciri explained it was this. Every time we make a choice, a new dimension springs into existence where you made the other choice.”

“Any choice?”

“Well,” said Geralt, looking up at the ceiling in thought. “Not every choice. But any choice that affects other people.”

“Shit,” said Jaskier. “That’s still a lot of bloody dimensions.”

“Infinite,” said Geralt. “And that’s what makes it so hard to find one. There are just too damn many. After a few days, Ciri wasn’t sure she would be able to find me again. She has to get me out before the odds turn against us and I’m cut off permanently.”

“So no coming back?” asked Jaskier. His voice came out smaller than he intended. He ran the pad of his finger in circles around Geralt’s belly button.

“I don’t rightly know. To be honest, I don’t understand most of it. I do as my girls tell me to.”

Jaskier pursed his lips. “Sounds wise.”

“And they don’t know how coming here will affect me.”

“But you came anyway,” said Jaskier. It made him feel like the most important man in all of creation.

“I did.”

“How do you feel? Is it affecting your physiology?” Jaskier lay his hand flat now, and cupped Geralt’s nearest pec, playing with the white hair there, feeling his heartbeat.

“I feel fine,” said Geralt. “I don’t know how much that’s worth.”

“A lot,” said Jaskier. “It’s the most important thing.” Then he got a twinkle in his eye. “I know my physiology has changed with you being here.”

“Oh yeah?” asked Geralt. He turned his head and nipped at Jaskier’s ear.

“Yes,” Jaskier giggled and pushed his face away. “My prick is harder.”

Jokes aside, Geralt had changed him in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

“Meeting you even for that afternoon changed the choices I’ve made, I think,” said Jaskier after a moment.

“How is that?” asked Geralt. He turned to look straight at Jaskier, and his breath stuttered at the loveliness of his feline gaze.

“Well,” he said, recovering, “it changed how I reacted to him.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” said Geralt. He looked down. “Did you mistake him for me? Were you upset?”

“No. Of course there are the similarities. White hair. Witcher.”

“Is he handsomer?” asked Geralt, teasingly. He nudged Jaskier.

“This is a devious line of questioning,” said Jaskier. “And I won’t be drawn into your trap, you siren.”

“Fair enough,” said Geralt, chuckling softly.

“But I did feel it. I knew he was you, here. I can’t describe how.”

“Ciri says it’s like we have the same footprint on the universe.”

“Yes, that’s it,” said Jaskier emphatically. “I never thought I’d see you again, and I was grieving it. And to see someone who seemed so much like you…it was. A gift.”

“What did you say to him?” asked Geralt. Suddenly he sounded like he was stepping around glass. Jaskier nuzzled into him.

“I said the same things. It worked so well on you.”

“Makes sense,” said Geralt. “So you –”

“I complimented his brooding, bread pants, all of it.”

“The beauty of being a poet. And what did he do?” asked Geralt.

“He got up and left,” said Jaskier.

“Really? And asked you to follow?” asked Geralt.

“No. He expressly told me not to follow.”

Geralt scratched his head. “What? Why?”

“He just didn’t want company.” Jaskier shrugged.

“So what did you do?”

“I followed him,” said Jaskier.

At the time, there hadn’t seemed to be any other choice.

“I offered to be his barker,” he continued. “He kept saying I couldn’t come. But part of me just refused to believe we weren’t meant for each other in some capacity, so I followed. And I don’t know if I would’ve done that. It’s rude to ignore someone’s wishes and follow them even after they punch you…”

Geralt’s eyes bugged, and he fell alarmingly quiet. His arms slid from Jaskier’s shoulders and he sat up on the bed, twisting around to look at him.

Anyone who has ever been in a noisy tavern with a live band and has been screaming to an attractive person just to be heard over the din, and the music has stopped right as they’ve shouted “go round back and fuck” then they would know how Jaskier felt after he said “punched you.”

The words hung uneasily.

“After he what?” Each word coldly punctured the air.

“Eh. Um.” Said Jaskier. He replayed what he had said in his mind. But there was nothing inaccurate. He rearranged the pillow and sat back. “Punched? Me?”

“He fucking punched you?” said Geralt. His words had somehow grown colder. He turned around completely and sat cross legged, facing Jaskier.

“Um. Not as hard as he can punch of course. I was fine, Geralt. I only had to catch my breath.”

Geralt rubbed his face and slapped his hands back down on the mattress. He looked at Jaskier again with disbelieving eyes. He spoke again, slowly and carefully, counting his words out on his fingers.

“He punched an unarmed,” (one finger) “untrained,” (two fingers) “teenaged bard” (three fingers) “who looked at him as though he hung the moon and the stars?”

“Ahhhhh,” said Jaskier, nervously. “Yes? He didn’t know me yet. I wasn’t yet his friend, Geralt.”

“It doesn’t make a difference,” spit Geralt heatedly. “I would never do that. I’ll kill a man if he’s armed and poses a threat. But I would never–” his voice broke off with a whiff of disbelief. He shook his head slowly. “Are you sure that was me?”

Different, seemingly inconsistent feelings twisted together in Jaskier’s gut. He felt incredibly important that this man would be so protective of him. It healed something in him he hadn’t even known was cracked. But Geralt was his loyal friend. His very best friend. He felt the need to defend him.

But this was Geralt, so he didn’t feel the need as urgently as he would have with someone else. Fuck, dimensional travel was never going to be something he could wrap his mind around.

“He didn’t want me to get hurt,’ said Jaskier.

“So he hurt you,” Geralt deadpanned.

“I was fine, Geralt, fine.” Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt’s neck and looked closely into his eyes. “You’re too hard on him. We are all hardest on ourselves. You should have compassion for yourself.” He nodded. “Which is also him.”

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose.

“It just. Makes no fuckin sense. We have increased strength. Fighting abilities. Shit, Dandelion lectures me for not punching people he thinks I should. But I won’t give anyone reason to think what they already do. That we’re violent, unfeeling animals.”

“Oh, darling,” said Jaskier. He kissed Geralt’s nose. He scrunched it. “It was nothing. I’ve had much worse. I’m a man who habitually puts his sausage in the wrong royal pantry. I’ve been punched much harder by men I’ve respected far less. Anyway, this was a decade ago. He wouldn’t do it now. I wouldn’t do it now.”

“You wouldn’t do what now?” asked Geralt. “What did you do wrong?”

Jaskier shrugged. “Ignored his wishes. I mean, sure, I ignore some of his wishes. Like if he wants to stink when he should bathe, or brood when he should come have a drink. But if he told me he didn’t want me now, I would leave. Not that he would tell me to leave. He loves me. As a friend at least. But everyone deserves to make their choices. So I would do it differently now.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just…do you have any idea–” Geralt’s voice broke off again with a disgruntled puff. Jaskier stroked his rough hand and waited.

“–how lonely I was when I met you?”

“No, I don’t. He doesn’t talk about it.”

Geralt nodded and stared down at his hands. They were clasped now in his lap. They were both wearing underclothes for sleeping, as they had both already gotten up for various things. The white of his linen braies set off his skin, which was more golden.

“Well. I had travelled for ages…ages by myself. Ciri wasn’t born yet. I hadn’t any friends other than my fellow wolves, and I only saw them in the winters. And people treated me worse then. Before your songs. All I had was loneliness, and hatred in people’s faces.”

Jaskier felt a lump rising in his throat. The thought of Geralt suffering so. So alone.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Dandelion teases me that I was desperate for company. And I’d never admit it but I was. Desperate. Even though I did go by and visit Nenneke from time to time, I still had to hunt. Be on the path.”

Jaskier tried to remember who Nenneke was. But he didn’t want to ask. Geralt was talking about something that made him vulnerable. So he clasped his hands and listened.

“Meeting him still changed everything for me. He accepted me. Got me out of my head. And where else is a witcher going to get poetry? Music? I haven’t let him go since. He’s my opposite and I need that. I need him.”

“I’m glad you have him,” said Jaskier.

“How can a lonely man who is given loyal friendship, reject it? And for him, how can a man who is reviled, see adoring, loving eyes and…punch them?”

“It was more a punch to the the stomach,” said Jaskier. Seeing Geralt’s eyes flare, he hurriedly continued. “I don’t know darling. I don’t know why you make such different choices. You’d have to talk to each other to know that. Exchange life stories. And you’d never be guaranteed to find it.”

“I suppose.”

Jaskier decided to try for a change of subject.

“May I ask you something, Geralt?”

“Of course.”

“How do you feel? When I talk about him? He is you. But he isn’t. Do you feel jealous? Or flattered?”

Geralt inhaled and exhaled slowly. His lean, toned chest rising and falling. “It’s right that you have feelings for him. Me.” He smiled. “Who else would you travel with? Be with?”

“Who else?” said Jakier, dramatically tapping his lips with his finger as though in deep thought. “Eskel is extremely attractive.”

“True,” said Geralt, grinning. Jaskier was glad to see him grinning again. “But what about Lambert?”

“Oooohooohooo,” said Jaskier, “the continent wouldn’t survive two mouthy divas with poor impulse control traveling together.”

“You’re right, I don’t think it would. Fires, explosion, chaos,” said Geralt.

“So you’re ok?” said Jaskier.

“I didn’t say that,” said Geralt. He turned and plopped back down next to Jaskier. “I’m still furious. He’s had you for ten years and hasn’t…taken you into his arms. Hasn’t told you he loves you. And that’s all I want to do and I—I barely get the chance. It just isn’t…”

“Fair?” Asked Jaskier.

“Yes. I guess that’s right,” said Geralt. “But I know life isn’t fair or unfair. I’m an old man, I know that. I’m just being a petulant child.”

“It’s ok. You’re allowed.” Said Jaskier. He kissed Geralt on the cheek. “You’re allowed to want more of me. And to notice that it’s not fair.”

“Thank you,” said Geralt, smiling crookedly.

Geralt craned his neck to kiss his lips. And then he held him, stroking his arm. His neck. Geralt seemed to want to touch him everywhere, and found his hands limiting.

“He fucking punched you. I would like to punch him. See how he likes it,” grumbled Geralt. “Asshole witcher.”

“Duly noted.” said Jaskier. “Then it’s a good thing you aren’t going to see him. You are coming to my graduation party.”

“I am.”

“After tonight, you’ll be sleeping with a master in the fine arts.” Jaskier flourished with his hands.

“I can hardly wait,” said Geralt.

Jaskier climbed onto Geralt’s lap and folded his legs around the witcher’s torso. He held his face in both of his hands and looked at him carefully. Gently. “You know I love you?” he asked. "Because I do.”

Geralt wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s waist, lay his head on his shoulder, and squeezed him tight.

"I love you too.”

“Sing me a song,” Geralt whispers into Jaskier’s thigh. “Please.”

Jaskier looks down at him. “What kind of song?”

“A soft one.”

They’re still tipsy from the festivities — had walked into town just as everyone had been hanging lanterns and tuning their instruments — and even though they should be sleeping, Geralt can’t find it in himself to be tired. Not yet, not like this: with Jaskier’s hand in his hair, smoothing out the pattern he’d braided into it earlier, the soft cotton of his sleep trousers a gentle pillow for his head.

“My voice is a bit hoarse,” Jaskier points out quietly, but Geralt can feel him sitting up a bit straighter. “It’ll hardly be a grandiose concert.”

“Mm.”

Fishing for compliments, his bard. He should not give in. He makes a habit of not giving in for a reason.

“They all are.”

“They all are what, dearest?”

“Grandiose concerts.”

Jaskier jostles him a bit, puffing his chest with pride. It fills the room, his ego (and it smells like roses and basil leaves, and Geralt loves it, and him, but he knows he shouldn’t feed it often, lest it become a beast he must slash away) and he claps Geralt on the shoulder. “Well, then! If you insist on me showcasing my talents, then I shall not leave you wanting, Witcher o mine.”

Geralt tries to roll his eyes — he really does! — but maybe it’s all that drink that’s made its way into his brain and is slowing his movements down, because, instead of his trademark-eyeroll, a smile dripping with fondness makes its way to his mouth.

(He should really check what kind of wine it was that they drank).

Jaskier’s fingers drum a simple, soundless beat on Geralt’s shoulder, and slowly his voice fills the room. It’s a bit hoarse, just as Jaskier had predicted, but it adds an edge to the honey-soft words that fall from his mouth. Geralt doesn’t really know what he’s saying — can’t really focus right now — but it’s a tender thing; slow and flowing like fallen leaves following a sunbeam on a stream.

It’s gentle. Good.

His eyes close without him ever meaning to, and suddenly there are hands in his hair and music in his ears and love in his heart and he knows, with absolute certainty, that this is where he belongs.

This is where he must stay.

“That was it, my love,” Jaskier murmurs when the song ends, voice rougher than before. “Did you like it?”

Geralt turns his head to look up at him. “I love you.”

Jaskier has a dimple on his left cheek. It deepens when he smiles. “A song was all it took?”

Geralt smiles, too. Dimple-less, but true all the same. “It was over for me when you offered me day-old moldy bread from your dusty pockets.”

Jaskier flicks him in the forehead, leaning down to kiss him anyway. Their mouths meet, their teeth clacking together because Jaskier can’t quite contain his laughter, and it’s far from their finest kiss, but somehow it is the best they’ve ever had — because they’re in a small bed in a small inn, with wine stains on their shirts and rose-tinted cheeks and Jaskier’s hair is falling in his eyes and Geralt can’t quite make his hand push it back, because they’re laughing too much and he’s a bit tipsy and too much in love.

“We should go to bed,” he says, even though they’re both wide awake.

“We should, old man,” Jaskier says with a smile, his fingers carding through Geralt’s hair. “I love you too, you know.”

Geralt closes his eyes, smiles back. “I know.”

They’re still smiling when a gentle, slightly off-kilter Aard blows out the candles on the nightstand. Geralt accidentally tickles Jaskier’s side and gets a kick to the shin for his troubles, and they’re laughing so hard they almost fall off the bed, twice. And when they’re finally settled, when it all seems to have died down, Jaskier snorts a laugh into Geralt’s hair and it gets them going again.

This is where they belong.

This is where they must stay.

Jaskier turns in his bedroll again.

“—fucking winter and its wintery fucking— cold as balls, ice frozen—”

“Jask?”

“—good for nothing— oh.” His tossing stops. The ground is so fucking cold. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

One golden eye peers at him. He would say Geralt looked annoyed, but he can’t see most of his face, tucked as it is under his cloak, so he chooses to interpret it as friendly concern. “Your muttering did.”

Jaskier smiles sheepishly at him, even though Geralt probably can’t see him either, with his scarf tied around his neck and covering most of his face. “Sorry. Just…”

“Can’t sleep?”

Jaskier shakes his head. It’s their fifth year on the Path together, the first one Geralt’s invited him along to spend the winter at Kaer Morhen with him — and Jaskier’s excited, really, but sleeping on the forest floor with a thin bedroll and definitely not enough blankets kind of dampens his spirits a little.

They’ve laid their bedrolls side by side, the fire keeping their feet warm, but still Jaskier can’t fend off the chill that’s seeped into his bones. He would blame it on his frilly, beautifully impractical clothing, with its soft but thin fabrics, with its stunning trim but no insulation, but if he did, he’d basically be agreeing with Geralt, and he can’t have that. Not even in the privacy of his own mind.

(He still hasn’t ruled out the possibility that Witchers are mind-readers). (Geralt is awfully quiet whenever Jaskier brings it up, and, well, one can never be too careful).

So he’s been tossing and turning and singing lullabies to himself in a feeble attempt of finally succumbing to a warm, deep sleep. Not that it’s worked, anyway.

The single golden eye looks considering, now.

“Wha—?” Jaskier manages before Geralt stands up, the bare skin under his sleep shirt immediately reacting to the cold air of the forest and erupting in gooseflesh.

Then, a blanket is being tossed to his face.

(It smells like horse).

“There,” says Geralt, not unkindly, his voice a bit rough. “That’ll help.”

“Well,” Jaskier replies, trying to adjust the blanket without taking his hands out of his bedroll, which proves impossible. “Thanks.”

Before he can sit up straight and, like a sane person, rearrange the blanket on top of himself, Geralt’s doing it for him. His hair is a mess from where he’s been laying on it and he’s squinting, but his hands are warm as they reach for the ends of the blanket and he tucks them into Jaskier’s bedroll, making sure his body is covered.

“You’re tucking me in,” Jaskier whispers, something that suspiciously feels like love standing on his heart a little.

Geralt smiles. He smiles his soft smile, the one where his lips stretch over his face and they’re pink and pretty and there’s a shine in his eyes.

“I guess I am,” he replies, checking no corners have been missed. “We’ll reach the mountain soon. No more cold nights after that.”

Jaskier smiles. He doesn’t know what it might look like on his face, lips chapped and slightly cracked. He hopes it shows his gratitude for him.

Geralt sits back on his haunches. The smile is still there. Fonder, somehow.

“What, no kiss goodnight?” Jaskier murmurs, because he’s an idiot, because he can’t help himself.

“Mm,” Geralt says, and for a second, Jaskier thinks he’s getting up to leave, but then Geralt leans forward and there’s a gentle, sweet kiss being pressed to his forehead. His smile is bigger when he turns away. “There. Goodnight.”

Jaskier can feel the warmth on his skin, the skin Geralt pressed a kiss to. He can feel it seeping into his bones.

When he turns around, blanket firmly secured, Geralt is watching him from his own bedroll.

“Goodnight,” he mouths at him, and Geralt closes his eyes.

His cloak is covering half his face again, but Jaskier can see the smile he’s hiding anyway.

I think Geralt upset Jaskier a bit

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eddiestarchild:

‘nuff said.

Found a new one. Just gonna leave this right here…

Jaskier: Uh this new tunic is so damn itchy!

Geralt: Just take it off then.

Jaskier:o_o

Geralt: Fuck. No, uh not like that I–

Jaskier: You said what you said…

Jask about his big burly Witcher ❤️

BITCH. I just snorted cider out my nose reading this

Why did I think of Geralt whistling Roach over for some reason?!??

Jaskier would be so confused…

jaskiersource:

insp

lakka-arts:

my contribution to the “geralt purrs” headcannon

Geralt: Jaskier can we talk about the message you just sent me?

Jaskier: It was a critical update

Geralt: It just says ‘im back on my bullshit’

Jaskier: The people need to know