#the community bard but the white wolf's boyfie

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

What if Jaskier has a lil cold or something (minor) and is laid up in bed. He loves getting kisses from his Witcher, but he's like "aw man, I don't want to get you sick!" because that's happened with other lovers before? Good news though, he can't get Geralt sick. So they have some good long comfort make outs until he falls asleep and then Geralt just cuddles up with him to keep him warm.

Jaskier gives a long series of loud, hacking coughs before falling back against the plethora of goose-down pillows on Geralt’s enormous bed. It looks even larger with a bard as its only occupant, frail and sickly as Jaskier is. His summer-tanned skin has taken on a greenish tinge. He’s covered by a thin sheen of sweat and his usually bright blue eyes are glassy and seem unable to focus; every Witcher in Kaer Morhen is worried that he will not last the week.

Geralt paces the length of his room again and adds another log to the already impressive fire. Jaskier smiles and rolls his eyes affectionately, “I’m not dying, dear heart.” 

Some of the reassuring sentiment is lost when he punctuates his statement with another cough and a sneeze. Geralt growls low in his throat and settles on the edge of his mattress and reaches out to lay the back of his hand across Jaskier’s forehead. “You’re still burning up. Fuck.”

“Maybe if you and your pile of frigid Witcher brothers get in here with me, I’ll cool down.”

“Hmm.” Geralt seems to consider it before narrowing his eyes. “You’re jesting with me, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely, my love. I know you don’t like to share. Nor do I think the frame of your lovely bed could support all that...muscle.”

“You’re right that I don’t like to share,” Geralt nods. “But I will get into bed with you. I’m not leaving your side again until this fever breaks and I know you’re safe.”

“Will you hold me?”

“Of course,” Geralt frowns, slipping off his boots and trousers. He slides into bed behind Jaskier and wraps his arm around the bard’s middle. “I wouldn’t want you to be lonely or uncomfortable in your convalescence.”

“Mmmm, this is nice,” Jaskier rasps, voice giving out after all of his coughing and hacking. “Will you kiss me, too?”

“That seems...counterproductive,” the Witcher glowers. Jaskier feigns innocence, glancing up through his lashes. 

“Please? Maybe it’ll burn the fever away.” 

Geralt relents with another drawn-out sigh, gathering the bard into his embrace and planting a gentle kiss on his too-warm lips. Then another. And another.

Until the bard falls asleep smiling, his arm thrown across Geralt’s hips, his head rising and falling with each of the Witcher’s breaths. Geralt only follows his beloved into the land of sleep when Jaskier’s fever breaks near dawn. He presses another quick kiss to the bard’s tousled hair. “Hmmm. I love you, lark. You aren’t allowed to die on me yet.”