#kathi writes

There is someone behind him, chasing him, getting closer with each step he takes, each desperate breath he tries to force into his screaming lungs.

Jaskier knows that it’s futile.

He is no fighter, and though that means that he is the prey, it’s clear that he wasn’t meant for that either, his legs shaking and his muscles twitchting as he’s trying not to get stuck in the muddy forest floor.

“Help!” he screams.

“Someone help me, please!”

But to no avail.

Behind him, there are footsteps, but he doesn’t dare look, knowing that if he gives in, he might just as well slit his own throat.

Is it Rience? Has he found him again, ready to finish what he started?

He can feel his hand starting to burn, can smell the stench of burning flesh and just as his foot gets caught on a root carefully hidden underneath some leaves, he can feel two arms around his waist.

As he closes his eyes to accept his fate, Jaskier lets out one last scream. For himself or the forest, he does not know. Do you really make a sound if no one is there to hear it?

But there is no pain. No fire, no sizzling, no smoke, just warmth.

That, and the two arms still tightly wrapped around his waist, holding him close.

“Jaskier,” Geralt mumbles, his face buried into the bard’s hair.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you. It’s just a dream, you’re safe.”

It takes a moment for reality to catch up with him, but then Jaskier feels it. The mattress below him, the blanket covering them both.

He hears the sound of the last few pieces of wood burning in the fire places, crackling as the fire eats away at it, and dollops of rain falling against the window with a random yet comforting rhythm.

And, loudest of all, he hears Geralt’s hearbeat. Steady and slow, each thud pulling him back into reality more and more.

Thud.

He is safe.

Thud.

Geralt is here.

Thud.

Slowly, he turns around so that he is facing the Witcher, their chests flush. He mimics the sleepy smile on Geralt’s face and leans in close for a kiss.

Thud, thud, thud.

Lockdown hasn’t been easy for Benoit and Phillip, and when he returns from his case, they finally have a conversation long overdue.

I make a short appearance from the abyss with a new obsession and a fic that I busted out in less than 2 hours without proof-reading it! I hope you enjoy it regardless <3

wc: 1.4k cw: references to depression, nothing graphic though tags: domestic fluff, married life, slight emotional hurt/comfort, very very sweet and tender

read it also on ao3!

Phillip never knew what awaited him whenever Benoit got back from one of his cases. He never knew when he would get back, either.

Yes, the world-famous detective was obviously in possession of a phone, but he despised it almost as much as an English breakfast, despite Phillip’s countless attempts to persuade him to try it “just one more time, it’ll grow on you!”

“It’ll grow on me like warts on a pig, so no thank you.”

That had been the end of that discussion, and similar attempts to get Benoit to use his phone more often, even if just to let his husband know that he fast, in fact, still alive, had been futile.

But Phillip had gotten used to it, as he had had to get used to a lot of things over the course of their relationship.

Benoit’s accent, which had taken Phillip more time to fully understand than he would like to admit; his southern charm among his other quirks and characteristics, like waking up his husband at 3 in the morning when he had a breakthrough with a case.

But the most drastic change had to have been Phillip’s decision to move to the US to be with the love of his life, subjecting himself to an oh-so similar yet completely different culture as well as having to give up his entire life back across the pond.

It had been worth it though, of course it had.

A kiss pressed to Spencer's forehead for no reason other than "You looked cute."

His hand on Spencer's lower back whenever he walks past him. Sometimes, he will pull him into a hug just because he can.

But when Aaron is drunk, it's a whole new level.

He is practically glued to Spencer's side, never letting go off his hand even for a single moment and peppering his face with kisses whenever he gets the chance.

But what Spencer loves the most is how much Aaron talks.

He will sit there, a slight blush on his cheeks and shower Spencer in compliments.

"I could listen to you talk for hours."

"Your hair is so soft, I wish I knew how to braid it."

And, the one that puts a lump in Spencer's throat every time:

"I wish I had kissed you sooner."

It's true that they took a while to find each other. But they're together now, and Spencer tells him as much.

"I love you, Aaron. Also, that's enough wine for tonight I think."

Another little thing I wrote back in... 2016? I think? (this time I translated it for you, so that @pacograves dosn´t have to do it for me :D haha)

And yet Jaskier sees how the corners of Geralt's mouth curl upwards just for a moment before he composes himself and puts on the same stoic expression he always wears.

Challenge accepted.

"Geralt?"

"Yes, Jaskier?"

"What does it mean when you find a horse shoe on the ground?"

The Witcher rolls his eyes.

"Good luck. But that's just a superst—"

"No, it means some poor horse is walking around in socks."

Geralt is shooting daggers at him, but Jaskier can see that the walls are crumbling.

Thank the gods he never forgets a joke.

"Why couldn't the pony sing?"

"Jaskier, please."

No. Not when your smile is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"Because he was a little hoarse." He flashes the Witcher a cheeky grin as he tells the punchline, and then—

Geralt lets out a snort, loud and sudden and ugly, and yet it is music to Jaskier's ears.

"A little... a little hoarse..." he says and if it wasn't happening right in front of him, Jaskier could almost believe he's dreaming as he sees Geralt giggle.

His nose crunches up and tiny dimples appear on his cheeks as the Witcher is shaken by tiny laughs, unable to hide them even though his face is buried in his hands.

Jaskier watches in silence and stares. He has never seen the Witcher so relaxed, so carefree and happy, and it takes a while before he has calmed down again, a little smile still on his face as he glances over to the bard.

"'Gonna have to try that one on Lambert." Geralt's eyes twinkle, and Jaskier is basking in their light.

“Sometimes,” he begins, “I wish I could stop time.”

“Is that so?” Jaskier answers, taking another swig from the bottle of ale they keep passing between them, a drop running down his chin.

“Hmm,” Geralt says, too tired and tipsy to do much else.

It is one of his best-kept secrets that he can’t hold his liquor at all, but here, on the side of the road with the sun shining high and a gentle breeze on his skin, he doesn’t have to pretend.

“And why is that?”

Geralt steals the bottle back from Jaskier, drinking up the last bit before lazily throwing it to the side, the ale cool on his tongue.

“Because certain moments deserve to be savoured.”

He leans forward, and before he knows it, Jaskier is close. Very close.

And somehow, Geralt doesn’t mind. Hasn’t in a while.

Because the way Jaskier looks at him, that oh so familiar smile on his lips and his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief in them?

It makes Geralt’s body tingle in a way that cannot be blamed on any amount of alcohol, and his stomach flutters as myriads of butterflies take off.

“What kind of moments are we talking about?”

Jaskier knows, and the way he’s leaning in, their hands barely touching and the feeling of his breath on Geralt’s face makes his heart ache.

When it started, he does not remember, but it’s been too long since he has allowed himself to get this close to anyone.

Maybe it is the first time. Maybe it will be the last.

But the one certainty is that it’s Jaskier.

Jaskier, who is just there. Who is warm and kind and who has just inched even closer, and oh my, their noses are definitely touching now.

The alcohol is making Geralt’s tongue heavy, but words aren’t needed when he finally leans in and his heart might just jump out of his chest.

If he was warm before, he is burning up now, and somehow, his hands end up underneath Jaskier’s shirt and they’re both left breathless when he eventually pulls back.

“Something like that,” he says, and if his cheeks are turning red, he doesn’t care.

Point being, he's hurt but he doesn't want to show it, even though every inch of his body is trembling as Geralt takes care of his wound. Nothing to make the Witcher think he's weak, to make him leave the bard behind because he's just dead weight.

Jaskier does what Jaskier does when he's uncomfortable and cracks a joke.

"My mother would always blow on my scraped knees to make it better."

The soft breath of air hitting his skin is enough to render him speechless, and the tenderness with which Geralt looks at him is almost too much.

It becomes their ritual after that. No matter who gets hurt, when they're done being patched up, the other one will gently blow on the bruised ankle or bandaged wound.

And even though Geralt would never admit it, would never ask for it, it is the sweetest kind of pain medication.