#contemplativepancakes

There was dew on the grass when he opened his eyes.

Lambert awoke to the sound of Aiden sharpening his dagger, the rhythmic coming and going of the wheatstone against silver comforting as he came out of the fog of his dreams. He rubbed his eyes, sitting up on his bedroll.

It was a cold morning. "Hey," he said, half-asleep.

Aiden paused his movements, looking up in surprise, then flashed him a smile. "Hey." His blade hit the stone once again.

Leaving him to it, Lambert stretched his arms over his head, his limbs protesting. The sun filtered timidly through the trees, bathing the forest floor in the golden shapes of dawn. Lambert got dressed, unhurried, before sitting on a log opposite Aiden, around the now consumed fire from the night before.

"Want some?" He asked, holding out half of an apple to Aiden. He shook his head. "Alright."

He ate his apple in silence, simply enjoying the early morning. The birds flying out of their nests, coming back with a fresh meal for their excited nestlings. The gentle sound of water following its course from the creek nearby, a deer snapping a branch in half under the weight of its hoof.

Aiden spoke first. "Lam," he said, setting his blade aside. "Remember the barn?"

He did. "Yeah," he said with a smile.

Aiden grinned, too. "You weren't smiling much that night."

It was true — Lambert hadn't been too keen on sharing a hay-filled barn with anyone else, let alone a Witcher. Let alone a Cat.

"You were singing that godsdamned song," Lambert groaned, shaking his head. "Sang it even after I punched you in the jaw."

OH MY GOD. 100% it absolutely does. I tried so hard not to get carried away with this one. And yet...

Jaskier slumps in the seat across from Geralt, crossing his arms over the table and flopping onto them, head down. Is it too much to ask that people spare him a little common decency? Something more than just a quick fuck and out you go. It's not like he asks for much, just a few moments together before heading back off to whatever he's supposed to be doing. If all he wanted was a quick fuck, he'd go to a brothel.

"Should I even ask?" Geralt mutters. Jaskier sighs, lifts his head, sighs again.

“No one has a romantic bone in their body anymore! What happened to playing songs outside windows, glitter and sparkles on handmade Valentine’s cards, dancing in the rain!? What happened?!”

The look on Geralt's face is somewhere between fear and that of a man calculating his easiest route of escape. Jaskier suspects the latter is most likely.

"It's fine," he mutters, "better luck next time. I should prepare for my performance tonight. Will you stay to watch?"

"I have other matters to attend to."

"Ah. Right. Well, I'll try not to be too late."

"Hmm." Geralt doesn't even look at him as he rises from his seat and Jaskier wonders what the point of romance is when it's so hard to find. When even your very best friend in the whole wide world won't stay and watch you sing.

It's fine though. Geralt rarely stays to watch him perform anyway. Though usually he's preoccupied with a contract or keeping Jaskier from being mauled by the innkeeper's husband. Or wife. It just hits a little harder tonight because he's already been effectively turned down once.

Mathilde is a lovely woman, to be sure, but he's never been shooed away after sex quite so forcefully. As though he were a trespasser in her home. And to think, all he wanted was to cuddle a little and maybe talk. But it's fine, he can talk to Geralt later - once he's finished with his other matters.

Jaskier tries to push the thoughts from his head as he chooses his outfit for the night. They're in Vattweir and the inn is large enough and popular enough that he can wear something a little fancier. He picks one of his favourite doublets and the trousers to match - a lovely dark burgundy accented with gold - but even as he admires himself in the glass, he can't bring himself to be as cheerful as he should.

Everyone else's lack of romance is starting to wear off on him and if he doesn't pull himself together soon, he'll be going hungry. After all, what good is a poet without romance?

Jaskier is feeling a little better after his performance, though he turns down the many offers of company - he's not quite ready for any more potential rejection just yet. Already, he'll be going up to a cold and empty bed. And to think, he'd been quite pleased when the innkeep had said their only available room had only one bed. One bed! The perfect chance to cuddle up close to Geralt without it being suspicious! And now Geralt was off doing gods know what for an indeterminate amount of time. By the time he gets back, Jaskier will probably be long asleep, having dozed off alone again, as usual.

He doesn't hurry up to their room, dreading the cold sheets as he considers whether it's worth lighting a fire for only him. Maybe he could stay up and work on some writing, it's been some time since he's had time to just sit down and write uninterrupted. But as he reaches the landing, he finds he doesn't have the energy, not tonight. He's slept in colder places than an unheated room at an inn, he'll be fine.

But when he pushes the door in, it's not dark and cold as expected. In fact, it's quite warm and while the light is focused mainly in the centre of the room, it's also quite light. He pushes the door a little further, wondering if he chose the wrong room and when he peeks in, he nearly drops his lute on the ground.

In his rush to catch it, he stumbles and somehow winds up flush against Geralt's chest. Oh, and he smells wonderful. But- why? Muttering a hurried thank you, Jaskier extracts himself from Geralt's arms, stepping back to peer around him. So he wasn't just imagining things.

In the centre of the room is a little wooden table, just barely big enough for two people to sit at with a chair on either side, a plate of dinner at each setting. In the middle, barely squeezed between the plates, are a pair of candles and a small jar with a little bunch of purple flowers. He wants to cry but he doesn't know if it's because it's so beautifully laid out or just because he's tired and confused.

He turns back to Geralt to ask what exactly is going on, but as soon as his eyes land on him, he stops dead again. Geralt is dressed up. It's not much, a clean pair of trousers and a fresh white shirt with a waistcoat, but for Geralt it's extravagant. Jaskier suddenly finds it hard to breathe. He glances up and finds Geralt's hair neatly tied back, the loose bits tucked behind his ear, and when he can finally look him in the eye again, Geralt seems nervous.

He sets Jaskier's lute down, leaning it carefully against the wall before taking a couple of steps forward, closing the space between them.

"The chambermaid helped me," he shrugs, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. "I know I'm not very good at this kind of thing."

Jaskier doesn't know what to say. He opens his mouth a couple of times hoping for inspiration, but nothing comes.

"I'm not one of your lovely maidens," Geralt mumbles, "but is it alright?"

Jaskier could cry. He might, actually, if he doesn't do something to occupy himself quite quickly. He takes a final step closer, taking Geralt's face in his hands and pressing a soft apprehensive kiss to the corner of Geralt's mouth. As he draws away, he keeps his eyes on him, boldened by softness he finds there.

[casually writes this one hundred years later] i love this prompt so much em, thank you for sending it 💖also, it’s me, so i think you can probably guess where the ending goes hahaha enjoy!!!

sweet like honey, sweet like molasses

“Mornin’, sunshine,” somebody drawls across the teachers’ lounge.

Dean doesn’t look up from the copier, until he hears Cas say “Good morning, Benny,” back to the somebody, and he nearly puts a crick in his neck from looking up so quickly because what the hell, that’s Dean’s line.

The somebody in question, Benny, apparently, is leaning back against the counter with the coffee maker, sipping from a steaming mug that says “Mornings suck” in red over a cartoon vampire. He’s a big guy, or, maybe he’s not actually. He’s shorter than Cas, but broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with a neatly trimmed beard and bright blue eyes.

Dean turns his ring around his finger with his thumb, looking back at the growing stack of copies without really seeing them. They chat about Benny’s AP class maybe coming by the library next week to review research strategies for their upcoming project. Benny says something that makes Cas laugh, rich and low. And Dean finds he suddenly needs a fresh cup.

“Hey there,” he says, squeezing between Cas and Benny to get to the coffee pot. “Morning, Cas.” He doesn’t miss Cas rolling his eyes at him ever so briefly. “Don’t think we’ve had the pleasure,” he says to Benny, reaching out a hand. “I’m Dean Winchester, ninth and tenth grade English.”

Benny grins, and it spreads across his face all slow like honey, or molasses maybe, with that accent. Okay, Dean decides. Fine, he’s hot. Whatever.

“Benjamin Lafitte,” he says, shaking Dean’s hand. “But you can call me Benny. I’m the new Miss Kline while she’s on maternity leave.”

“I see you’ve met Mr. Novak, here,” Dean says, clapping Cas on the shoulder.

“Practically the first thing I did when I was hired.” Benny winks at Cas across Dean, who gives Cas’s shoulder a little squeeze. Only because he’s friendly, and definitely not because he’s possessive or jealous of this guy. Also definitely not to show off the simple silver band on his ring finger that wouldn’t mean anything to Benny anyway.

That’s the plan, after all, to keep their marriage private at school. They live out of the district, so it’s unlikely they’ll run into any students in line at the grocery store or the movie theater. Same for coworkers.

As far as almost everyone knows, the Winchester-Novaks are just Mr. Winchester and Mr. Novak, work friends who hit it off pretty much immediately after Mr. Novak was hired. They get to work at the same time, but they drive separately.They have lunch together, but they eat in the teacher’s lounge instead of in Cas’s tiny office at the back of the library. Dean normally stops by the library at the end of his planning during fourth period, but that’s because he teaches English and the library is, well, where the books are. It’s not because he’s a sap who misses his husband an hour and a half after they’ve just eaten lunch together. Or, okay, it is that, but nobody else knows it.

“Would you look at the time,” Dean says at the sound of the first bell. He rinses out his mug, setting it upside down in the drying rack, before heading to the door. “Gotta beat the thundering hordes to the stairs.”

“Actually,” Benny says, “I’ve got planning first period. Mind if I swing by to pick your brain about that project, Cas?”

Dean turns to stare daggers into Benny’s broad back with one hand on the doorknob. It isn’t that he doesn’t trust Cas, of course he does, but there’s something about this Benny character that rubs him the wrong way.

“Dean?” Cas calls after him, just like he would at home from the garden or the kitchen to where Dean is working in the garage. Dean very nearly says, yeah, babe? but he catches himself just in time. “Your copies.”

Right.

It is on the LIST, EM. I will GET THERE.

I needed a kick in the bum on this one apparently, so thank you :’)

Here’s a snippet:

Geralt didn’t get nervous.

He wasn’t nervous that morning, watching Jaskier pace through their now-mostly-shared apartment, trading one shirt for another and the jeans next. It wasn’t nervousness that made him check the time over and over, only to realise that bare minutes had passed and they still had hours to go.

In-laws is the next installment of the witcher and the horror fiction writer, in which Geralt is still a witcher, and Jaskier is a horrible goose a pulpy pop horror writer who knows next to nothing about actual monsters.

ksdfjskdj no problem at all