#soft geraskier

[sandinthepipes]

I just love when a fanfic is so very soft that I have to stop reading every three rows and walk around my room for a bit with a hand on my heart while whispering "oh my god they glanced at eachother", because I get too overwhelmed with love and sweetness.

[spielzeugkaiser]

They have sleepy cuddles! Geralt is probably drooling. Ciri under the cut!

[annmarcus63]

The thing is that nothing is the same, not after Lambert pointed out, in a deeply impolite manner, that Jaskier, despite his best efforts, is Geralt's whore. But no, it couldn't be, could it? They have been together for over eight years now. Yes, they sort of broke up on the mountain but they're back together now, aren't they? 

But the real problem here is not the years but the way Geralt treats their relationship. In fact, Lambert has helped him to open his eyes. 

How he treats Yen and how he treats him.

The truth is that Jaskier has made peace with the fact that he'll always be second best. That Geralt lo... cares for him but not as he cares for her. 

They say that the evil is in the details.

Geralt shows no affection to him outside the bedroom. Geralt is distant, and this has never bothered him, because he always thought that Geralt was like that with everyone else. 

He never touches him, not a pat on the arm, not a caress on the cheek, just like he's doing it now with Yen. Geralt never looks at him like that, with so much fervor and devotion. 

He doesn't even look at him like that in the bedroom, not even when the witcher is fucking into him and whispering how good he feels.

So Jaskier starts an experiment. He won't look for Geralt, he'll just wait and see. 

And oh, how he observes the unspoken words of love that Geralt holds back everytime Yen is nearby. How he'll reach out to her, only to feel her, and the way he leans closer to smell her perfume, lilacs and gooseberries. 

He wonders if Jaskies smells good to him. 

Geralt catches him looking at them, a longing expression on his face surely, and sends him a quizzical look but Jaskier shrugs it off, as if his entire heart wasn't weeping. 

And Jaskier is afraid to ask, first of all, Geralt has never reacted well to Jaskier's serious talks, so... yeah, he's afraid. 

But of course, how could he be anything more than a bed warmer when it took him twelve years to get the witcher's attention. It only took Yen an hour for Geralt to fall head over heels in love with her. 

Days passed and Jaskier stood staring at the ceiling of his bedroom waiting for Geralt, tears trickled down his pillow as he heard him pass towards Yen's room.

[ghostcupdraws]

Witchers need taking care of too

[artistsfuneral]

Geralt is imprisoned, waiting to be trialed by the local Duchess, when the cell door opens and Jaskier appears, teasing him for getting into trouble again. Geralt, who certainly wasn't expecting to see his friend, asks why it's him and not the Duchess, to which Jaskier replies something like "Goodness Geralt, that woman is 64 years old, you can't really expect her to travel to town every time a prisoner needs to be judged!" Which no, of course not, most of the time it wouldn't even fall into a aristocrats responsibilities at all, but given the fact that Jaskier is currently leading him out of his cell, Geralt is hardly in a position to argue. But Jaskier is here now, no matter how unexpected the situation is, and there is a carriage waiting for them and Geralt blindly follows his friend into it. Surely Jaskier knows what he's doing.

The bard is babbling as always, when he complains that Geralt rudely interrupted tea time with the Duchess and naturally the witcher assumes that Jaskier is having an affair with her. When he tries to tease Jaskier about it (Jaskier that poor woman is 64!) the bard stops, stares and breaks into loud laughter. Turns out Jaskier was spending some quality time with his Grandmother.

When they arrive at the estate and tea time can resume, including Geralt, he discovers that she's teaching Jaskier how to knit and crochet. At the end of the day, the witcher knows how to as well. :)

[finleycannotdraw]

this post from @0dde11eth inspired me lmao

go through the notes on that post to find some of the continued inspiration :)

tl;dr sleep-cuddly geralt is a headcanon you can pry from my cold dead hands!

[jaskier-more-like-saskier]

can we talk about Geralt breaking Riences hands. Was it because he burned Jaskiers hand probably not but i live in my delusions and think yes.

[samstree]

Jaskier is easy to please.

It’s a surprise finding, Geralt thinks to himself. At least, it goes against everything he knows about Jaskier.

He’s born noble, spoiled and doted on by a loving family for eighteen years. He has the best education, one that gives him endless titles as a master of the arts and a position at the best university. He wears fine silk, dines with lords and ladies, and sings for kings and queens.

And yet, Jaskier’s eyes always light up when Geralt prepares a simple meal at the side of the road as if a chunk of rye bread is anything finer than what Lettenhove can provide for him. He always leaves the lecture halls of Oxenfurt at the first thaw of spring to catch Geralt’s early contract of the year. He delights in the most mundane days on the path and colors them bright with his songs.

“I wonder how many are as lucky as me. How many souls under the sky,” Jaskier says one night, lying on top of a thin bedroll, under a sky full of stars. “To have found what pleases them, and get to keep it.”

“The stars?” Geralt mumbles sleepily. The day has been long and he’s too tired for Jaskier’s bouts of musing. “You don’t get to keep them, Jask.”

“No, you oaf. It’s…” Jaskier trails off, huffing a smile against Geralt’s shoulder. “Never mind. Sleep for now. You won’t understand today.”

“Yes, sleep.”

“Sleep, and you just might tomorrow.”

Jaskier snores through the night on the ground. He wakes up at the first light of dawn, eyes bleary and hair mussed. He wakes up to Geralt, lying next to him and calling his name gently. A soft smile overtakes his face, their limbs still tangling.

☆  

Geralt just might understand.

Or he starts to, when he pays attention to those things that please Jaskier.

He makes a pair of gloves over the winter with leather and fur in his stash. The plain materials are nothing to be boasted, and his sewing is far from the best. Compared to Jaskier’s doublets and coats, lined with jewels and silver thread, these may as well be two lumps of rags, but somehow, Geralt knows deep in his heart that Jaskier will squeal with joy when he sees them on his birthday.

The sureness settles over his chest, spreading until it unfurls his toes like warm mead on a rainy day. He wonders how long this unnamed confidence has been with him but finds no answer. It seems his life is so full of Jaskier, that there are no traces of what came before his bright-colored existence.

On Jaskier’s birthday, the squeal ends up hurting Geralt’s sensitive ears, but the tight hug that lifts him off the ground makes it all worth it. The gloves never leave the bard’s person even in the worst of the summer days and are proudly shown off to every friend they meet on the road.

And then, Geralt learns ballroom dancing from Essi so he may invite Jaskier to a first dance after the bardic competition. Geralt practices and practices, but when the day comes and Jaskier is all close and eager, all the complicated sequences are forgotten like foams on the sea. The world narrows down to the way Jaskier leans into his embrace and those surprised laughs when Geralt steps on his toes. The first dance turns into a second, a third, and then a fourth. Before Geralt knows it, the music has ended. Jaskier keeps holding on in the silence, his chin resting on Geralt’s shoulder, his scent sweet and happy.

☆  

“So, you are Julian’s witcher.”

An unfamiliar figure appears next to Geralt as the night comes to an end. Jaskier has gone to collect the award from his placement, but there’s no need for an introduction. Golden hair, fancy jewels, sharp eyes—it must be Valdo Marx.

“If I am?”

“Ha!” The other bard nurses his drink. “You’d need my warning, witcher. That one, Julian, is hard to please.”

Geralt could laugh if he didn’t hold too much disdain for the man.

“Don’t believe me? You’ll see. I once filled his room with roses and lilies, composed him full cycles of fine music, but all I got was rejection after rejection. I’d give him all the flowers in the world, all the songs and poetry. But no, none of it was ever good enough for Julian. Our dear Julian, who needs the world and more.”

“Hmm.”

Strange. Jaskier has never needed a world of flowers and poetry.

A bluebell is enough to make Jaskier blush when Geralt picks it from a wild field and puts it in his hand. A simple letter is enough to lift his spirit when solitude weighs down his shoulders while Geralt is away.

The flower will be pinned behind Jaskier’s ear for the rest of the day, and the letter will be read so many times the edges are worn out by the time they finally reunite. One particular songbook in the Jaskier’s pack holds tiny wildflowers and old letters on every other page. That book is growing thick over the years, bursting with little souvenirs of their time together and apart.

Valdo Marx is long gone when Geralt realizes how far his thoughts have wandered. The dance floor is empty. All the bards have left. All except for one.

“Geralt?” Jaskier appears before him, searching, curious. “Goodness, I called your name four times. What’s got you thinking so hard?”

Geralt blinks.

“You.”

“Me? What about—oh!”

Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand and pulls him into a kiss.

It’s desperate and messy, done without so much as a thought. All Geralt knows is that he should kiss Jaskier. All the world could end right now and he should be kissing Jaskier. Their breaths quicken as their bodies press closer. Jaskier lets out a surprised gasp as Geralt opens him up eagerly, teasing him with every swipe of tongue, every quiet moan. He kisses the corner of Jaskier’s mouth at the end before meeting his gaze.

“Wow,” Jaskier breathes, voice hoarse and eyes hazy. He clears his throat. “Wow, Geralt, that was…”

Geralt holds onto the small of Jaskier’s back, practically keeping him upright with how unsteady his legs have become. He can’t help but preen, letting a grin tug at his lips. “That was…?”

“Oh, just…” Jaskier’s cheeks have gone pink. It’s adorable in the candlelight. He lets out a string of giggles, hiding his face in his hands and pressing his forehead to Geralt’s shoulder. “You’ve kissed me, and now I feel like the happiest man on earth,” he mumbles into Geralt’s shirt. “So forgive me if I need a moment. Just a moment to let it all sink in, is all.”

Geralt kisses Jaskier’s hair and feels him suck in another shaky breath. “You are too easy to please,” he chuckles.

When Jaskier finds enough strength to stand on his own and pulls away, his eyes are full of wonder. They are full of Geralt. “Well, of course. It’s you.”

With Jaskier here in his arms, Geralt understands now. He is what pleases Jaskier, and he is lucky. Too lucky, perhaps. To be dear to this loud bard who smiles like a fool at the sight of him is a privilege Geralt would not deserve even if he lived ten lives over. He isn’t sure what to do with this fact yet.

So he answers. “Yes, it’s me.” He makes a promise. “I’m right here.”

Geralt leans in for another kiss, nuzzling Jaskier’s nose, but a finger halts him by the lips.

“You see, if you kissed me in such quick succession,” Jaskier says, swallowing, his eyelashes casting long shadows, “I may burst with joy right this moment. So have mercy on me, will you? Let’s just stay here. Just stay, and remember.”

Under Jaskier’s palm, a witcher’s slow heart flutters at the next beat.

Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand and remembers the moment. He remembers the moment when all the world’s luck is held within their palms, intertwining between their linked fingers.

☆  

It turns out, Geralt is easy to please too.

All it takes is a simple tune under Jaskier’s breath, a slow ballad, full of love and contentment, a private performance for one. It’s such a small thing, such a small joy when they are in the snowy mountains at the top of the world.

Geralt sinks into the big armchair in Kaer Morhen’s library, listening as the last note fades. His eyes flutter shut, tugged heavy by sleep and the burning fireplace. Jaskier put his lute down by the wall and settles on Geralt’s lap, tucking Geralt’s head into the crook of his neck.

“Is my new song putting you to sleep?” Jaskier asks. “Do you not like it?”

Geralt shakes his head, melting under Jaskier’s weight and attention. “Like the song fine. It’s just you.” He lets out a long exhale, his heart slowing. “Want to sleep when I’m safe.”

“Oh.”

Gentle fingers run across Geralt’s eyebrows, and he almost drifts off right there. “We should go to bed,” so he says.

“I’ll join you in a bit.”

Jaskier scrambles away, and the lack of his warmth makes Geralt grumble.

Jaskier huffs, taking Geralt’s hands to pull him up. “Just a few minutes. I have some tidying up to do.”

The world is blurry around the edges and the last line of Jaskier’s song keeps playing in Geralt’s mind. He mumbles an answer, his legs heavy. The bed that belongs to the two of them calls for Geralt with the promise of a mountain of blankets and furs to burrow under.

“Hold on.” Jaskier’s hand is on Geralt’s elbow. “The night is dangerous. Take this with you.”

He turns Geralt around to press a chaste kiss to his cheek.

With his eyes barely open, Geralt winds Kaer Morhen’s halls until the darkness gives way to the warm glow of their bedroom, where the fireplace is lit and his lungs are filled with the clean soap on Jaskier’s clothes.

Geralt returns to bed safely, with a small kiss to guard him.

It turns out, he is easy to please when it’s Jaskier.

It’s as natural as breathing, like these small things, small joys, small kisses. And they are all it takes.

[my-jokes-are-my-armour]

Jaskier has abs of steel

Bonus : geraskier and yennskier similar soft kicks

[spielzeugkaiser]

Kind of a second part to this - inspired by a convo I had with @panur in the replies! Ciri comes to them for cuddles and at this point Geralt is 100% awake, but Jaskier handles it all rather well.

[irrlicht-writes]

dandelions

“If ever I’d be reborn, I’d like to be a flower,” the bard says, while gently sitting in a field, picking flowers for no reason really. Geralt sits not too far from him, keeping an eye on Roach so that she might not eat too many flowers and sour her stomach.

“Hm,” the Witcher replies, not knowing what to say.

“Think about it,” the bard continues undeterred, “as a flower, I could waive in the wind, dance under the sun and sing of worlds yet to come.”

“You sing plenty now,” the Witcher reminds him, “why not sing of those worlds now?”

The bard laughs, and it’s a clear, bright sound, and it engulfs the entire valley.

“If I sang of those worlds now, darling Witcher,” he plucks another flower, deep violet, and adds it to his ever-growing bouquet, “they would all tell me to shut up and sing the coin song again.”

“We both hate the coin song.”

“Indeed we do! It’s the price of fame, although I’d wish they would have forgotten it by now. I haven’t even sung it in ages! I’ve written catchier refrains.”

The Witcher snorts. “You have? I must have missed them.”

The bard throws some flowers in the Witcher’s general direction but as flowers do, they all fall to the ground before ever hitting their target. “I am wounded,” the Witcher says tonelessly, for nothing but mocking purposes. The bard huffs and turns his attention back to his flowers.

“If ever I’d be reborn,” the bard says again, “I’d like to be a flower.”

“Hm,” the Witcher replies again, not knowing what to say.

“Think about it,” the bard continues undeterred yet again, “as a flower, they would not hear me sing at all. But if they could hear me on the wind, they would love me all the more.”

“They love you plenty now, hearing you sing already.”

The bard laughs again, like the Witcher does not understand.

“No, my love, they do not. Oh they love me, yes, my prancing and my singing, and my flirting, and my twirling, but me, they love not. If I were not to sing, not to prance, not to flirt, not to twirl, not to joy their hearts for coin – they would take no interest in me. Another washed up wanderer on the road, they’d say! Throw him some mouldy bread and hope he brings no plague with him!”

“I’ve not met a many washed up wanderers brave enough to follow me into the fray.”

The bard smiles then, a whispered little thing the Witcher almost did not see. Roach wanders around, sniffing the different flowers and yet, she had eaten not a single one of them.

A pleasant silence befalls them in the valley, as the bard continues to pick more flowers – who he is picking them for, the Witcher does not know. The bard does things sometimes that make no sense, because he wants to. The Witcher has learned to accept this, and this is a pleasant thing to do, a pleasant place to rest.

“If ever I’d be reborn,” the bard starts again, “I’d like to be a flower.”

“Hm,” the Witcher replies once more, because it is tradition now, not knowing what to say.

“Think about it,” the bard continues – as per tradition – undeterred, “as a flower, mayhap a dandelion, I could be carried by the wind, being carried to where I need to go.”

“You travel plenty now,” the Witcher says, “no need to be carried by the wind.”

“That might be true, dear heart, and yet! How limited are we, bound to the ground beneath our feet, the saddle of a horse? The wind! The wind knows no limit, crescending into a storm. And! Darling Witcher, how would we know where we’re needed? We can only travel so far, see so many places. What if we’d be needed in the other direction? How would we know?!”

“All we can do is move forwards, bard. We do our best where we can.”

The bard plucks his last flower and turns to the Witcher. In his arms, he holds all the flowers he picked – colourful and pretty, a plenty a piece. In his hand, he holds a dandelion, with its seed ready to be carried away.

“That we do, my love. That we do.”

He looks at the dandelion in his hand, and the wind plays gently with his hair.

Quietly, he blows and the dandelion seeds get picked up by the wind.

The Witcher and the Bard look after them until they are out of sight.

Then, they move on to the next town, and the bard plays music in the tavern. He prances, and sings, and flirts, and twirls, and they love him.

Many, many years later, Geralt comes across a field of flowers.

In it sits a boy, picking flowers.

He notices Geralt from a distance, and looks up, waves, and grins brightly like the sun. He wears a flower crown made of buttercups and dandelions.

“If ever I’d be reborn,” the bard whispers quietly, “I’d like to be a flower.”

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 13

How was Jaskier supposed to know that the lovely woman he spent the night with had a husband? Let alone a husband in a big scary poacher gang? So Jaskier is hauling ass through the forest, only to get his leg caught in a beartrap. He faceplants (very daintily, prettily, and most certainly not with an embarrassing wail, thank you very much) and begins sobbing with the pain. Not to mention his cheap lute breaking into splinters. Great. Just great. What a LOVELY day he's having! A pure white werewolf with bright golden eyes suddenly prowls out of the bushes, growling at him, and Jaskier decides that today really is his worst day. No matter how majestic the beast is, this is cearly the end of Jaskier the bard. He sobs and begs to live, apologizing profusely, and the last thing he sees is the monstrous snout getting closer. Geralt, the werewolf, is stalking for food for his pack, only to come across one of those humans in their own traps. Except... This human isn't one of them. He's wearing brightly colored delicate clothing, and wasn't familiar with where their traps were. It's an innocent human. One that smells very nice, under all the stench of blood and fear. Wolf!Geralt creeps closer, and pries open the trap, intending on releasing the human back into the wild, but it just kind of stares at him in horror before passing out. Hm. Well, it appears it needs more care than he initially thought. So imagine the other witcher's surprise when he doesn't bring food back to the pack, but instead brings a human to patch up. The moon dips out of the sky, they all turn back into their witcher-human forms, and now they're all SCRAMBLING over what they're meant to do!? HOW DO YOU CARE FOR A HUMAN AGAIN??? FUCK- I DON'T KNOW! Geralt stop petting him, he doesn't like that, he's human, not a wolf! What do you mean he likes it? Oh shit- EVERYONE QUICK PET HIM! No wait- He doesn't like it any more- One at a time pet him! And uh- Fuck- What do normal people eat!?

♡!Optional addons!♡ • (ORIGINALLY A TAG) Is Aiden a werecat or also a werewolf? And if he is a werewolf (and/or a werecat I suppose), perhaps he's from a rival pack (against his will) and needs to be rescued by Lambert as a sideplot • Maybe the poachers find poor trapped Jaskier and Geralt has to fight them off first, or perhaps they come back later, intent on killing the White Wolf • Perhaps Geralt turns Jaskier into a werewolf (Either with his consent or without his consent ONLY if he has to do it to save his life, we don't fuck with forced bonds here, people)

[annmarcus63]

It took him two years to realize that he was hopelessly in love with Geralt. And within a few months he decided to try his luck with the witcher, but he knew that he had to be careful with his advances, that he had to be cautious and cunning so as not to scare him away. He wanted to win Geralt's heart and the first steps were to make sure that he could really win, if not the love, then at least the affection of the witcher. 

Jaskier begins with gentle touches, his hand brushing against the other's, and increases the affection in the massages and hair washes he offers Geralt.  Followed by intent glances and coquettish smiles, but not too coquettish, he wants to let Geralt know that he's interested in more, much more than just a roll in the hay. 

Eventually Jaskier gets bolder. One afternoon, Geralt is leading Roach by the reins on the road and he approaches him as casually as possible to chat about... he honestly can't remember, and with a quick movement he grabs Geralt's hand as if he had done it a hundred times before. Geralt tenses and looks at him, panic and uncertainty in his golden eyes, the bard knows that feeling, so he smiles shyly at him feeling afraid too. Geralt snorts in annoyance, but doesn't pull his hand back. He just leaves it there, relaxed.

Then, the kissing started, forehead kisses that Jaskier placed upon Geralt's frown when he's particularly upset about a contract or with people. The witcher leans at the contact sometimes. So, one night Jaskier looks at Geralt's pretty lips and leans slowly, until their breaths are mingling with each other, mmh the witcher smells so good. 

Geralt grunts and turns around to make space between them, almost imperceptible, their thighs no longer touching. “Sorry,” Says, Jaskier. It's ok. 

But then, Geralt closes the small gap again and turns back to him, his eyes downcast almost ashamed. Jaskier smiles strangely charmed and leans in to touch his lips briefly with Geralt's, a small touch full of longing and love, so much love. Geralt tries to escape once again, but the bard doesn't let him this time, with both hands he takes the other's face to plant kisses like seeds on his nose, each cheekbone, each closed eye. The witcher trembles under his fingerprints, but the bard soothes him with "shh, I've got you".

They don't go further than that, Jaskier can feel the way Geralt is holding himself back, to wanting what is being offered with such devotion. He's not ready but that's ok, Jaskier'll wait for him as long as it takes. For him, only for him.

Geralt makes a stupid wish that sends him into a blurry reality of pain and confusion, his throat hurts, will he lose his voice? There's apple juice and naked people, a proud woman in a black dress, gods she's gorgeous, almost every sorceress is, but she has something special that Jaskier doesn't like. 

He understands what it is about, when he encounters a frantic Geralt at the gate, he fears for her, he likes her, he...likes her. 

It took him eight years to hold Geralt's hand while walking, it took him ten years to kiss him, but in spite of his unmeasurable efforts he could not achieve what Yennefer did in one day. Maybe his naivete condemned him to misread the signs, maybe it wasn't that Geralt wasn't ready to love someone, maybe he wasn't ready to love Jaskier, at all.

Full fic here

[nezmar13]

Somewhere between the darkest hour of night and early rays of sun, White Wolf holds his bard with no urgency nor a heat. He lets his Songbird melt into his chest, feeling his soft smile pressed under his ear until he tilts his head back and claims him in a kiss.

[finleycannotdraw]

cutesy little sketch while I put off working on homework and an angsty painting

anyway I just think they deserve to be soft

[julek]

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.