#braincell bae

Oh yes, thank you darling; this is exactly what I needed.

tw: catmint/drug-like effects, mood altering substances

---

“He’s so... soft,” Geralt says slowly, eyes shining in the dim light coming from the fireplace. Eskel is smirking and Lambert’s eyes have rolled nearly all the way back into his head. Vesemir and Jaskier are standing in the far doorway, silently listening; Jaskier’s sudden arrival at the keep for winter had been planned as a birthday surprise for Geralt. 

The secret stash of catmint being brought out to enjoy was Lambert’s additional prank. 

He hadn’t been expecting this kind of reaction from his older brother at all.

“He’s so soft,” Geralt repeats, hands drawing Jaskier’s outline in the air. “And sweet. And kind. And fierce! Oh, he’s like a wildcat when he’s angry. It’s beautiful, Eskel, you should see him when he’s angry. It’s glorious!”

Jaskier wipes a tear from his cheek and stifles a happy sniffle. Vesemir pats his shoulder approvingly and his chest floods with warmth and contentment.

“His eyes,” Geralt sighs happily, his expression dreamy and his gaze far away, “His eyes are the prettiest color in the world. Bluer than any ocean. Brighter than the sun. Oh, he’s beautiful.”

“Do you really think about me like that, Geralt?”

The Witcher’s pupils dilate with excitement and he rises to his feet in one swift motion. “Julek!”

“Hello,” the bard blushes. Vesemir pushes him forward, out of the shadows, and Geralt’s arms engulf him instantly. He’s crushed happily against a muscular, rumbling chest. He’s only heard Geralt purr a few times before, but this is different.

This is deep and happy and safe. Geralt pulls Jaskier onto one of the furs before the fire and wraps his arms around his middle, tucking the bard against his body. “Hmm. You’re cold. I’ll warm you up, Julek, and you rest. Thank you for coming to visit me.”

“Okay so you put the card on your lips like this,” Jaskier demonstrates, sucking in a little so the Gwent card goes flat against his mouth. He drops it back into his hand and smiles around the circle. “The goal is to pass it around the circle like that. If you drop it then you have to take a drink.”

“I like this game,” Aiden chimes from his seat beside the bard. The Wolves, Aiden, and Jaskier are staying at Kaer Morhen for the winter and Vesemir has been in bed for at least an hour. It’s prime hijinks time, and they’re sitting in a circle before the fireplace of the library. Eskel and Lambert had brought out some homemade liquor for Jaskier and a bit of White Gull for themselves. 

The Cat Witcher takes the card from Jaskier confidently and holds it up to his mouth. “I’ll start.”

He passes it successfully to Lambert on his left, who passes it to Eskel, who drops it. “Take a shot!” Jaskier cheerfully instructs. Eskel takes a swig from the bottle of hallucinogen and grimaces. 

“Alright, Eskel, now you try!”

The card makes it around twice successfully before Jaskier drops it and has to take a swig of liquor. He coughs and shakes his hair out of his watery, bright-blue eyes. “That’s going to put more hair on my chest.”

“Fuck me,” Eskel laughs. “There’s already too much!”

Jaskier thinks he hears Geralt mutter no there isn’t under his breath, but he’s probably just drunk and doing some wishful thinking. The card goes around again and this time Geralt drops it, but he drops it a hair’s breadth away from Jaskier’s already outstretched lips.

They crash together. 

Geralt’s hands land on the floor on either side of Jaskier’s knee, angling their heads together almost naturally. The kiss doesn’t end immediately; they don’t jump away from each other in embarrassment at all. As Eskel, Aiden, and Lambert watch in a mixture of horror and fascination, Geralt’s left hand slowly lifts from the floor and cups at the side of Jaskier’s jaw, holding him in place.

Jaskier’s hand tangles in Geralt’s white hair and tug at the leather tie, trying to pull it loose.

“Okay, we’re just gonna...we’re just gonna go,” Aiden giggles, standing and tugging at the other two Wolves.

Jaskier and Geralt are not listening, too caught up in finally being together. 

“Should we tell them that neither of them are drunk?” Eskel asks. Aiden shakes his head.

Why yes, yes I do... but I changed the flour to frosting, sorry.

---

“Ger-ralt!” comes the shriek, shortly before an equally large spoonful of blue frosting gets launched over the counter in the Witcher’s direction. “This shirt was new!”

“Then why are you wearing it to bake and decorate cookies!?”

“Because I thought you might-” he shuts his mouth abruptly and returns to applying a delicate layer of pale silver piping to the cookie on his plate. “Because.”

Geralt doesn’t comment for a moment, content to watch Jaskier’s tongue poke out of the corner of his mouth as he works. He wants to reach out and swipe the stray bangs out of Jaskier’s eyes but he doesn’t know how welcome his touch will be after the frosting flinging of a moment ago. His lets himself drift in the pleasant warmth of his best friend’s frankly enormous kitchen; the perks of being a pop star, apparently. 

And why the pop star stayed friends with him after college Geralt still can’t begin to guess. Loyalty? Jaskier is a fiercely loyal friend. Adventure? Several of Geralt’s more fascinating experiences with monster hunting have ended up in the chorus of Jaskier’s hit songs. He still isn’t sure, but he’s happy to stick around for as long as he’s welcome.

Without looking up, the brunette says, “You’re staring again.”

“No I wasn’t,” Geralt lies. “You just have...”

He swipes his finger through the bowl of pink frosting and smudges it evenly along the soft skin of Jaskier’s lower cheek, nearly dipping below his jawline. 

“You just have some frosting on your face, that’s all.”

Jaskier glares from beneath his bangs and straightens up to face his poorly behaved kitchen assistant. “Wipe it off.”

Geralt leans in with the corner of his apron in hand but Jaskier turns away.

“Not like that,” he teases. “If you want to pay me back for all the havoc you’ve been wreaking on my kitchen, you know exactly how I want this frosting taken care of, Witcher.”

Geralt does not miss the way Jaskier’s heartbeat picks up as he leans forward. He also doesn’t miss the way his friend’s smell spikes pleasantly with excitement and happiness and perhaps even a little bit of relief when he realizes what Geralt has in mind this time. 

The Witcher kitten-licks the frosting from his friend’s face and immediately moves to put his sugar-coated tongue in that stupidly clever mouth. The kiss begins passionately and stays that way, too. Jaskier’s hands are in his hair, on his waist, all over his arms and chest - they never stop moving - as Geralt’s hands find the younger man’s hips and hold on. Jaskier’s waist is an anchor, keeping the Witcher against the surface of the earth as their mouths collide.

When they finally pull away, Jaskier is blushing and smiling as brightly as the Yule Log that crackles in the fire. “What a wonderful present.”

This is why I come crawling into your messages begging for prompts. You get me, boo. 

tw: love potion, Yen interfering but in a nice way

---

Yennefer had grown bored of watching the bard and Witcher dance around each other like courting swans. It had been years and they still hadn’t figured things out between them. It had probably been more than years; more like decades. The bard, something not-quite-human but not inhuman enough to be suspicious or a problem, was too frightened of losing Geralt a second time to say anything to him about his clear and obvious feelings. 

The Witcher, too self-loathing and repressed to express anything other than frustration or exhaustion, didn’t know how to say anything for fear of driving his only friend away for good. She’d been watching the two idiots circle each other in an endless loop of yearning for far too long and the sorceress was finally ready to give them a little push in the right direction. 

I included purring for you, boo. Cause ily and you’re my bff and all that jazz.

---

“Loud,” Geralt complains, curling even further in on himself. “The fire is loud.”

His eyes are still pitch black, the veins curling outward and around his temples in little black tendrils of pulsing, toxic blood. The Witcher lies curled around himself, nestled deeply in his bedroll. He’s wrapped himself tightly with a blanket and even covered up most of his head. Only his eyes are visible to the bard, dark and narrow to filter some of the overwhelming light.

Jaskier sits nearby, as close as he can without touching his hypersensitive companion, and whispers: “Do you want me to hum again?”

The bundle of blankets nods in affirmation and the bard smiles. He begins to hum as quietly as possible, one of Geralt’s favorite lullabies. Eventually one scarred hand finds its way out of the mound and grips tightly at the soft blue silk of Jaskier’s pants. He starts to rub a bit of the material between his fingers and hums along to the familiar tune, settling himself back into his body.

“Feeling better, love?” the bard whispers again. The bundle nods a second time. 

“Hmm.”

Oh boy :D also yes that is a Britney Spears reference because they have the Same Vibe.

---

“My loneliness is killing me,” Jaskier whines, leaning over the edge of the bed. A strange scent catches Geralt’s nose and he glances up. Jaskier doesn’t smell ri-

Oh. Oh no. Jaskier is draped in one of Geralt’s old black practice shirts. One from Kaer Morhen, that he’d brought as backup. It’s probably as old as the bard and it nearly fits him. Nearly. The shoulders are just a little too wide, allowing the neckline to slip low over the bard’s collarbones, revealing his ch-

Geralt snaps his eyes up and away from his companion’s absolutely delectable respectable body. He gulps and shakes his head. 

“Just find someone to bed down for a night. I’m sure you can seduce some less-than-innocent barmaid into your bunk for the night.”

“Not in the mood for maidens,” Jaskier sighs. “Feeling rather...stable-hand tonight. Maybe a knight errant or a farmer.”

Geralt grinds his teeth in unwarranted jealousy and keeps his gaze aimed firmly at the ground, lest the bard catch a hint of his true feelings. He growls out a, “Go ahead, then.”

“Maybe a blacksmith. A hunter. A handsome, white-haired monster slayer.”

“Fine! If you want some- a what?”

“You heard me, Geralt of Rivia. Maybe I want a white-haired monster slayer to bed me down tonight.”

“Who is it!?” the Witcher pleaded. “Who are you leaving me for, Jaskier?”

“Oh my gods,” the bard sighed, slowly heaving himself off the bed. He crossed the room to Geralt and grabbed him by the collar. “You are the dumbest motherfucker I have ever met in my life. And I love you endlessly. Come here.”

And Jaskier tugged him down into an insistent, beautiful kiss.

Ily braincell bae

---

“I don’t wanna get up,” Jaskier says. He’s expecting resistance. An argument. Some grumpy mumbling about how they need to get up and get moving, right back out to the Path as quickly as possible.

“Me neither.”

The Witcher wraps his arms around Jaskier’s waist and tugs, rolling over and pulling the bard to lay on top of him. The brunette tucks his legs up so his knees are caging in the sides of Geralt’s hips. He presses his nose into the crook of the Witcher’s neck and pushes his arms beneath the pillow to support the back of Geralt’s head. 

One of the Witcher’s hands begins running in soothing lines up and down the curve of Jaskier’s naked back. His fingers dip in and out of the bumps of his lover’s gently sloping spine, feeling how delicate and easy to break his bard really is underneath the sinewy muscle and fierce, fae-like loyalty. 

“You’re never like this in the mornings. What’s so different about today?” 

“Twelve years ago today,” the Witcher rumbles, letting the hand on Jaskier’s back come to rest on the nape of his neck, “This idiot bard approached me in Posada and asked me to give him a review. Three words or less. I wouldn’t want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting.”

Jaskier grins into the Witcher’s warm skin. 

“Idiot bard?”

“Hmm. Kind, too. Caring to a fault. Loyal beyond all reason,” Geralt continues. He can feel the blush cross Jaskier’s face where the bard’s cheek rests against his shoulder. He pushes forward, “Lovely singing voice, too. Didn’t want it to go to his head, though, so I told him the song was wrong.”

“I love you.”

ohhhhh you got it, boo

---

“Do the hum,” Jaskier demands, tugging at Geralt’s forearm. The Witcher raises an eyebrow and glances over at his lover. They’re both damp with sweat and laying curled beneath the inn bed’s thin linen sheet. Geralt has it laying lightly over his waist, while Jaskier has wrapped over one shoulder like a toga.

“What are you talking about?” 

“You know,” the bard urged, “Your post-coital hum of gratification. You always do the hum!”

“Hmm.” Geralt obeys, making it as low and gravelly as possible to really get his appreciation across. Jaskier rolls his eyes and gently pinches his bicep. 

“Rude. Now you’re playing it up for the crowd.”

“It’s a very appreciative audience,” Geralt replies. He flexes his arm under Jaskier’s hand and smirks when the bard’s heartbeat stutters rather magnificently. 

“Fuck off.”

“I want to go to sleep, actually.”

“Then let us sleep, Witcher.”

“Hmm,” this time it’s genuine. Geralt tucks the bard against his side and slides his nose into the spot behind Jaskier’s ear. The soft patch of skin is the sweetest smelling square inch of Jaskier’s body and he could die happily laying just like this.

“Goodnight, Geralt.”

“Goodnight, Jaskier. Love you.”