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absolute-snzaster · 2 years

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49 for the sick prompt list, pls! ^^

@stormyweaver thank you so much for the ask!! And uh. Whoops. Trust me to take a four word snz prompt and turn it into 1.8k of gay fucking yearning.

49. "Not with that cold."

W/itcher fic. G/eralt with a cold, J/askier with so many feelings oh gods he just has all of them help. Content advisory for vague descriptions of mess. Thank you SO MUCH to @sniction-fiction for beta reading this and just generally encouraging me to write my gayass snz content. This is the first time I've actually posted fic to snzblr! Hope y'all like it!

...uh, don't reblog to non-kink blogs I guess? idek why ya would 😅🤷🏻‍♀️

Not With That Cold

The inn door thumped open and Jaskier, working his audience up to the climax of a song, almost dropped both his lute and the note he was holding at the sight of the man who walked through it. His Witcher was positively bedraggled, water pouring off him from his hair to his boots, an icicle actually clinging to the tip of his prominent nose. He looked pale, too, paler than Jaskier had ever seen him, and—was he shivering? That couldn't be right. Geralt of Rivia did not shiver.

Fuck me, the bard realized, he is shivering.

Jaskier tacked a hastily strummed final chorus onto the end of his song and bowed, one eye still following the drenched man who was now plodding his way up the stairs at a rate of what seemed to be one per minute. "Well now, I'm afraid that'll be all for this chilly winter night, good people of this… particular… village! I'll be back tomorrow evening, do come 'round again and enjoy another show." He turned surreptitiously to the barkeep, clacking some flamboyantly-earned coin onto the counter. "And a hot bath for my friend tonight, if you wouldn't mind," he said in a quieter voice.

Geralt grunted as Jaskier scurried up the stairs behind him. "We're–snnnffff–we're not staying another night."

"That, dear Witcher, is a matter of opinion," Jaskier returned. "By the gods, Geralt, you look like you fucked a particularly frigid water witch. What's happened to you?"

"Contract was a drowner. The lake was frozen."

Jaskier spluttered. "You–?! You fell into a frozen lake? Geralt!"

"Didn't fall, I was dragged."

"That! Is not! Better!"

Geralt grunted again and returned to hauling himself up the stairs.

—

Jaskier fussed disconsolately as Geralt sunk into the bath, laying out all his wet things before the fire in hopes they'd dry sometime before the year turned. "A frozen lake, Geralt, really, a frozen lake… of all the stupid, stubborn, bullheaded things you could have…"

"Fuck off and let me bathe in peace, Jaskier."

"If you think I am leaving you alone for one more—"

Geralt groaned and rubbed at his brow. "Fine," he conceded, "but if you must be a pain in my ass, do it quietly."

Jaskier turned to him with an offended retort at the ready before realizing Geralt was still rubbing uneasily at his temples. "Dear Witcher, is your head troubling you?" he asked, lowering his voice to a near whisper. Geralt grunted quietly in response. "Well, that won't do at all," Jaskier tutted. "Come, then, it's time that hair of yours had a wash, in any case."

Before Geralt could protest, the bard was massaging his scalp with nimble fingers, rinsing the icy lake water out of his hair and replacing it with the heat of the bath. He uncapped a vial of his own hair oil and combed it through the silver strands. Geralt sniffed.

"Why does my hair smell of bard."

"Because once in a while it ought not to smell of sweat and old monster blood, dear Witcher."

The Witcher sniffed again, harder this time. "It–huh–it'll make me–HUH'AHSCHOO!"

The sneeze overpowered Geralt in a way only his own body could, spraying thick, messy droplets into the bath and leaving his teeth chattering in its wake. "Geralt!" Jaskier exclaimed, sounding almost personally affronted. "You're sick!"

"It's m'by bathwater, I cad s'deeze id'to it if I wa'dt to."

"No, you blithering fool, you're actually sick! Unwell! Feverish! Taken with cold!"

"It's just the sce'dt." Geralt folded his arms across his chest beneath the water, trying to contain the shivers that still wracked his body.

"Bullshit, Geralt, you don't sneeze when I wear it! And it certainly doesn't make your teeth rattle around like that." Jaskier huffed. "Unbelievable! You are absolutely unbelievable. Starting a cold, oh, and don't tell me you didn't know, you must have known with all your fancy Witcher senses… starting a cold and you walked out into the thick of winter and got your leather-clad arse dragged into a frozen fucking lake." The bard sighed deeply, as theatrical as he was sincere. "Oh Witcher, Witcher, what ever am I to do with you?"

"You could–sdf!–you could shut up, for a start," Geralt grumbled, sinking deeper into the bath.

—

Jaskier lay awake on the shared mattress with his mind adrift. He meant to be concentrating on the crackle of the fire, determined not to let it burn out overnight, but the sounds coming from his immediate left were holding his attention far more effectively. His Witcher was curled on one side with his back to him, coughing weakly—a sound that felt absolutely wrong coming from the sturdy, powerful Witcher—and sniffling every few seconds.

"You should sleep," Geralt murmured, without turning over.

"You should sleep," he retorted quietly. "I'm worried about you, you know."

"You've–snff–you've seed be catch cold before, Jaskier."

"Not like this," the bard fretted. "Not pale and shivering and having gotten dragged into a frozen lake by a fucking drowner."

"Are you going to bring up the frozen lake thing every—"

"Yes!" Jaskier hissed.

Geralt snuffled. "Go to sleep, bard."

"Fine. I'll try if you do."

"Huh."

Can't even "hmm" properly, and he thinks I'm overreacting, Jaskier scoffed to himself, but he lay back and tried to keep his end of the bargain all the same.

It didn't last.

"Huh! Hh!"

Jaskier turned his head as subtly as he could toward the sound. What on earth was—

"Hh'KGNx't!"

Oh.

"Hd'SCHgn'kt! Hn'KXt'ch! Hdd-tCHMpft!"

Jaskier rolled over and put a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Well, don't hold back on my account, dear Witcher."

As if he had only been waiting for permission, Geralt's nose obeyed. "HURRASSSHHOO! HUH-TCHOOO! HNNGH-CHOO! HUT-SHOOOO!HUH-USSHHOOO! HURSSHOOO! HUR'UTSCH'SCHOOOO!" The massive sneezes tore their way out of him at gale force, followed by a deep, wrenching spasm of coughs that the poor Witcher must have been holding in all night. He sniffled, thick with congestion, and groaned miserably. "Sorry."

Jaskier gave his shoulder an awkward little squeeze. "Blessings, dear—." The usual title caught in his throat. Just 'dear', then.

Geralt's only response was another thick snuffle. Jaskier sighed. "You haven't got so much as a handkerchief, have you." The Witcher grunted, triggering a stifled cough. "Here," he murmured, wrestling his own out of his sleeve. "Go with my favor, or whatever it is those courtly ladies say."

"You'd k'dow," Geralt sniffled, but he took the handkerchief all the same and blew his nose so hard Jaskier thought he'd tear the fabric. "Guh… oh, fuhhck… huh-hhuh-HRRMPTCHOOO! HRMPHTCHOO! NNGH'TSCHOO! huh-huh-huh-HHURASCHHOOOO!"

He blew his nose again, sounding absolutely exhausted, and Jaskier decided he hadn't liked that handkerchief much anyway. "Blessings, my dear–oh, you're trembling again."

Geralt said nothing, only tensed a little, as if trying to belie Jaskier's words. His effort failed.

Oh, this stupid man is going to break my heart.

Jaskier inched toward the shivering Witcher until there was nothing but a hair's breadth between them. Slowly, hesitatingly, he pressed his whole body into Geralt's broad back.

Geralt didn't speak, didn't move, didn't give the slightest indication to acknowledge that the bard had touched him. But he didn't pull away.

Jaskier laid his arm over Geralt's and pressed his cheek to the Witcher's shoulder, his heart full with all the things he couldn't say.

—

"H'nGXsch't! Huh-tCH'mpt! HR'EGSCXHT'CHOOOO! Fuck!"

Jaskier woke to the sound of sneezes too strong to be stifled. "Blessings, Geralt," he mumbled sleepily, rolling toward the other man's warmth, and promptly finding himself flat on his face in the spot where he was certain the Witcher had been only moments before. "Where the hell—Geralt?"

The Witcher was standing at the foot of the bed, tugging on his still-damp boots. Jaskier huffed like a matron. "And just where do you think you're going?"

"I've got a'dother cod'tract," Geralt rasped. He swore under his breath at the sound of his own congested voice and emptied his nose into Jaskier's already-ruined handkerchief, wincing and groaning quietly as if he didn't think the bard would notice.

"Not with that cold, you haven't." Jaskier sprang up from the mattress and ran to the door, valiantly attempting to block it with his slender frame. "You're not going anywhere but back to bed. Or–or you'll have to go through me."

Geralt lifted him up like a ragdoll and set him aside.

"I mean it, Geralt!" the bard cried, catching the Witcher's wrist with exasperated insistence. "You mustn't go out like this! You're going to get yourself killed, and then I'll–I won't—"

"Won't what, Jaskier?" Geralt turned on him and snarled, his own frustration boiling over. "You won't have anyone to turn a pretty profit writing songs about? Won't have someone to keep you fed and warmed and protected, since you can't seem to do any of those things for yourself? Well, never mind me, bard, I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding another nobleman's wife to take up with when I'm gone."

"I'll never have done this," Jaskier said, and kissed him.

Well. Fuck. This certainly is a gamble, Jaskier mused, savoring the taste of the salty slickness on Geralt's lips for as long as fate would allow him. Even odds it'll capture the great idiot's attention properly, or he'll walk out that door and never speak to me again and probably get himself killed after all.

Geralt kissed back.

Jaskier melted into him, hands grasping blindly, overwhelmed with the prodigious need to touch every inch of him at once. And just as quickly as it started, it was over, Geralt was pulling away exactly as Jaskier had feared—but no, the expression on the Witcher's face wasn't disgusted, it was—

"huh-HURSSSCHHOOOO!"

Geralt heaved to the side and unleashed a sneeze that spattered the floorboards. "Sorry."

Jaskier caught him by the shoulder, steadied him. "Blessings," he breathed.

Geralt's fever-dimmed eyes were searching him with as much focus as he could muster, looking at him as though he'd never really seen him before. "Oh," he said, finally.

"Oh?" the bard replied.

"So that's what you've been following me around for all this time." It was a question, even if he didn't pronounce it as one.

Jaskier shifted, dithering. "Well. And the profit."

"Huh."

"And the food. And the warmth. And the… protection," he finished nervously, twisting under the Witcher's gaze.

"Uh huh." It was hard to tell when his mouth was occupied with breathing, but Jaskier could swear the bastard was smiling at him. Actually smiling.

"And the point is, I don't get any of those things if you go off and catch your death out there, so please, for the love of all the gods in all their special little godly places, you beautiful, stubborn idiot, will you please come back to bed!?"

"I—HURRRSSSHHTCHOOOO!" Geralt started, buckling at the knees and grasping Jaskier's shoulder for support. "Sdffff. I suppose I will."

#snz #snz kink #sneeze kink #snz writing #coldfuckery #mess #g/eraskier #snzfic #snz fic #sneeze fic #sickfic #my fic #wow finally a post I can tag 'my fic' ahaha #oh man y'all protective j/ask is So Much #he wants so badly to be soft and calm and nurturing #but he also wants to Yell

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