#DOING WARM UP STETCHES GETTING READY FOR MORE OF THAT

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

“...um Vaggie..are you gonna..?” - “Me? Sweetie I thought... you...”

“I- I don't know how to? Haven't you ever-” - “No. Never. You'll be my-”

“DON'T SAY FIRST VAGGIE THERE'S NO /WAY/ I CAN FACE THE PRESSURE OF BEING YOUR-”

"First."

“NOOOOOOOOOOoooooooo......!!!!!”

Hell's most vanilla couple

[julek]

read on ao3

“Geralt?”

Jaskier moved closer, his footsteps echoing down the stone hallway. The Witcher was sitting down, his hands in his lap as a thoughtful look crossed his face. He looked adorable, admittedly, brow furrowed and white strands framing his face, which was burrowed into a woolen blanket.

“Hi, love,” Jaskier said softly, and climbed onto Geralt’s lap as he opened his arms in invitation. He gently traced Geralt’s cheeks, pink from the cold wind howling outdoors. “You look... transfixed. Did Lambert try fishing with bombs again?”

At that, Geralt smiled, a soft, small thing, pink lips curving up. His cold fingers traced nonsense patterns on Jaskier’s back, even though layers and layers of warm fabrics stood in his way — sometimes, it was about feeling Jaskier’s skin against his, the touch grounding and pleasant; sometimes, it was about occupying his hands for the sake of doing it, no plans or intention.

“Ciri and I trained earlier this morning,” he rumbled, his voice rough.

Jaskier hummed, his nose brushing Geralt’s hair. “I know. I heard her swearing all the way to the library.”

“Hmm. She gets frustrated.”

“That she does.”

“She’s getting good. Real good. She just can’t see it, I’m—” Geralt’s frown deepened, his mouth twitching like the words wanted to escape him. He closed his eyes and breathed out, once, twice. “She’s really good. I wish she could see that�� how far she’s come.”

“Mm.” Jaskier pulled back, only a little, to catch a glimpse of that amber gaze. “Have you told her?”

“Hmm?”

“What you think— have you told her? How far she’s come, how proud you are of her?”

Geralt narrowed his eyes, almost a subconscious thing, and Jaskier could tell he was turning the idea over and over in his head. Jaskier tucked his head in the crook of the Witcher’s neck, then pressed a small kiss over his pulsepoint. He felt Geralt relax against him, if only a bit.

They stayed in each other’s arms for a while, comfortable silence surrounding them, Geralt’s hands running across the bard’s back, Jaskier humming a quiet melody as the hearth rumbled and firewood cracked, sizzling noises filling the air.

“You know,” Geralt murmured against Jaskier’s hair.

“Yeah?”

Geralt shifted his weight on the armchair, pulling the blanket tighter around them both. Some minutes passed, and Jaskier didn’t push, didn’t press — he just waited, knowing the words would come when they’re meant to, if at all.

“She called me ‘Dad’, the other day,” Geralt whispered, and he sounded embarrassed, somehow, his voice thick. “‘T was a slip of the tongue, she— she didn’t mean it. We’d been sparring, and she kept getting frustrated and wanted to quit. Then snow started falling.”

Jaskier found his hand, buried under the blankets, and squeezed it softly.

Geralt smiled, his cheeks flushed a gentle pink. “And Ciri was so tired and miserable, and I was getting impatient too, and I just— I took some snow in my hands, and made a ball, and just— covered her in it. She was furious.” He let out a small laugh. “‘T was war, she said. And we kept throwing snow at each other. She started running, at one point, and I chased her around the courtyards.”

Jaskier felt tears gathering in his eyes, delighted by the story, and by the sentiment Geralt’s voice carried.

“Ciri was laughing so hard by the time I got her, and she didn’t care that her hair was white and her fingers had gone numb,” Geralt continued. “She was so happy, Jas. I— I had never seen her like that. So carefree and happy, like any child should be.”

He took in a deep breath, pressing their foreheads together. Jaskier grinned, his eyes closed, as they breathed in the same air. “We were laughing together,” he said. “And then we stopped, and everything was still for a second, and she said, ‘that was so fun, Dad’, and— she sounded so happy, so... alive. She hugged me.”

Jaskier felt a tear slip down his cheek. “Geralt.”

Geralt looked at him, so open and vulnerable, and his thumb gently wiped the tear away.

“Of course she meant it,” Jaskier said, and his voice cracked. “Of course she did.”

“I don’t know, Jas, I don’t— This is so hard on her. Everything. I don’t want to pressure her into anything she doesn’t want.”

“You’re so lovely, Geralt,” Jaskier murmured against his cheek, and hugged closer, his heart breaking a little. “You’re such a good man, so honest and humble and good— she adores you.”

“Hmm.”

He meant it — he’d seen it firsthand. The first week Ciri spent in the keep, Geralt had made sure she felt comfortable, showing her around and encouraging her to ask questions and wander the grounds whenever she felt like it. He’d train with her in the mornings and, after they all had lunch together, he’d accompany her to the library, where she and Vesemir would sit for hours on end, surrounded by books and bestiaries and ancient stories, all under the Witcher’s attentive gaze. Late at night, after dinner but before the wolves turned in for the night, Geralt would walk her to her room, then stay for a bit to tuck her in and listen to her talk — long conversations about her past, Cintra and her family, or small remarks about her findings in the keep, a hunting trip with Eskel or an alchemy lesson with Lambert. Geralt listened intently every time, and remembered every detail she’d shared with him. He worried about her; sometimes, late at night, Jaskier would wake up to find him sitting outside on their balcony, a foreign expression on his face and a steaming mug of tea between his hands. He cared for her endlessly — he loved Ciri.

Jaskier brushed a kiss against his forehead, warm and loving, and was about to bury his face back into Geralt’s neck, when a soft noise made them both look up.

Ciri padded into the room, her hair mussed and sleep still tugging at her eyes as she rubbed them with the back of her hand. In the firelight, she looked even younger, her rosy cheeks and soft woolen socks the most perfect picture of pure innocence. As she moved closer to them, Jaskier saw it, the worn fabric of Geralt’s cloak, draped over her shoulders like a cape and dragging across the floor, too large to fit her body. He looked at Geralt and saw his own expression mirrored on his face, if only more intense — adoration, raw and blatant, pouring from his eyes, a smile curling on his lips.

“Ciri?” Geralt called, one hand stetched out for her. “What is it?”

She moved closer, entwining his fingers with Geralt’s, so different yet so similar; pale hands that were slowly becoming more calloused and hard as they gained experience. “Fell asleep in the kitchen, by the fire. Vesemir wanted me to tell you he needed help with dinner.” She yawned. “Also grumbled something about you being lazy, but I told him we trained hard today, and he frowned, but said it was okay. That we could be lazy today.”

Geralt huffed a laugh, and Jaskier shifted so Ciri could sit on Geralt’s thigh, too. “Hmm. Good, then. Wouldn’t want to laze around without his permission.”

Ciri wrapped her arms around Geralt’s neck, and rested her head on his shoulder, firmly fighting sleep but losing. “Hmm.”

Jaskier snorted, and swatted playfully at Geralt’s side. “Oh, Geralt, that’s all you. She did not even know how to ‘hmm’ before she met you.”

“Hmm.”

He shook his head in fond exasperation, and leaned back, just a bit, to look at them in earnest. He watched as Geralt now traced small circles on Ciri’s back, her body tucked into his side as she snored softly, a small smile on her face. Geralt looked so content, so peaceful, so at home, Jaskier’s heart ached in his chest, pride and love fluttering in his stomach. They deserved it — every bit of peace and quiet, every moment of tenderness they could get, they deserved them all, and even more.

“You’re being sappy in your head, I can tell.”

Jaskier clicked his tongue. “I’m being sentimental— there’s a difference, thank you very much.”

Geralt leaned back, his head pressed against the chair, and closed his eyes with a content rumble and a knowing smirk on his lips. “Hmm.”

“Don’t know why I put up with you and your nonsensical grunting, really. Must have been dropped on my head as a child.”

“Must’ve been.”

Jaskier gasped with mock outrage. “You horrible, horrible Witcher. Don’t know why I bother.”

Geralt cracked one amber eye open. “Because you love me.”

“Hmm. Yet further proof I was most definitely gravely injured as a child,” Jaskier replied, with but there was no bite to his words. “I’ll go help Vesemir with dinner— someone must, if you’re to stay here and simply laze.”

“Thank you for your sacrifice,” Geralt said, teasing. Jaskier let out a small laugh and leaned down to kiss his forehead once more, then brushed Ciri’s hair back from her face. He took his hand back, but Geralt stopped him. “Thank you. Truly. I love you.”

Jaskier’s chest seized, and he smiled, smitten. “I love you, too. Very much. Now sleep, I’ll come wake you both when supper’s ready.”

“Okay.” Geralt leaned back. “Please don’t burn the keep down.”

Jaskier grinned, and looked back at him before shutting the door. “No promises.”