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The Problem, as Jaskier mentally dubs it, starts soon after they transition from traveling companions to lovers.
In all honesty, Jaskier had thought that the worst of their problems would be solved once they finally got their heads out of their asses and admitted they both wanted more, so the fact that The Problem even exists takes him by surprise the first couple of times. And then, once he becomes increasingly aware of it, he realizes that he really should have known that this would happen because, seriously, Geralt. The Witcher is a one-trick pony, and that one trick is Emotional Repression.
The Problem is this: he won’t let Jaskier cuddle him.
On the surface, that’s not such a problem. Jaskier’s had lovers in the past who aren’t inclined to post-coital snuggles, or who don’t like to be touched outside of particular situations, or who just aren’t emotionally engaged with him enough to let him fawn over them. If Geralt pulled away from him for any single one of those reasons, Jaskier would let it go. Cuddling isn’t the most important part of a relationship, and Jaskier is content with the way things are - traveling together most months out of a year, sharing a room and a bed when they stop at inns, making love in every conceivable way, shape, and form that they can come up with. He’s happy as it is, spending time with Geralt in any way Geralt likes.
But no. The problem is a Problem because Geralt wants to cuddle, but he won’t let himself want it.
Geralt will fuck him, carry him over his shoulder, tend to his wounds, let Jaskier tend to his wounds, but he won’t let himself indulge in something he thinks he shouldn’t want, even as harmless and sweet as it is. Because Witchers are all sad masochists at heart, apparently.
(If Jaskier ever has the chance to meet the infamous Vesemir, he’s going to have words about raising children who deny themselves basic human comfort. They might be the last words he ever says, but by all the gods he’s going to say them.)
Every single time that Geralt rolls away from him after sex with that pained, longing expression flickering across his face, that lingering touch that screams I don’t want to let go, those tense shoulders despite the mind-blowing mutual orgasms, something inside Jaskier’s heart breaks a little more. And when his heart is sufficiently broken, Jaskier decides he has to Do Something. Possibly even Something Drastic, if it comes to that. He cannot abide Geralt being miserable when he has the power to change it.
Which leads him to Problem Number Two: Geralt himself.
Because no one is better at making Geralt miserable than Geralt. If he were at all the kind of man receptive to talking about his feelings, then Jaskier could just tell him that he’s being ridiculous and that Jaskier is one thousand percent down for any and all cuddling, but no. Geralt clams up. He is a clam. A clam of stone.
Jaskier spends the winter thinking it over while Geralt is off doing Witchery stuff in his Secret Witcher Fortress, and by the time they meet up again in Kaedwen as spring unfurls across the land, he has a Plan.
It takes zero effort to convince Geralt to fuck him. They meet up, they kiss, Jaskier takes him back to the room he’s rented, and Geralt pounces on him like the wolf he is, all hungry kisses and desperate moans, his huge hot hands like a brand on Jaskier’s skin as he divests him of his doublet.
“Missed you,” Jaskier gasps between kisses, then moans when Geralt drops to his knees and swallows him down. “Fuck, Geralt,” he swears, lacing his fingers through soft white hair, “I’ve missed you so much.” Geralt hums around his cock, and Jaskier momentarily forgets how to think. When he comes to, he's on his back on the bed, nude and sweaty and wonderfully boneless, and Geralt is pouring oil onto his fingers. Jaskier sighs and spreads his legs, moaning when Geralt’s blunt, calloused fingers circle his hole. “Oh, darling, I’ve missed you.”
Geralt mouths at the inside of his thigh, his teeth a pleasant scrape along tender skin. “Missed you,” he grunts, and Jaskier feels all gooey and warm.
He grabs a fistful of Geralt’s hair again, tugging, and Geralt groans and nips at his leg. “I’ve missed this,” he coos, and Geralt makes a sound of agreement and pushes his finger in. It’s a delicious burn after having nothing but his own hand to amuse himself with all winter, and he finds himself hard and leaking again in record time, his body more than eager to get back to their regularly scheduled fuck sessions. By the time Geralt deems him adequately stretched, Jaskier’s half blissed out, nearly begging, and he almost forgets to institute his Plan until the last second as Geralt is shouldering his knees further apart to slide on top of him. “Wait!” he squeaks, grabbing Geralt’s shoulders, and Geralt freezes, already pulling back.
“Do you need -” Geralt begins, looking anxious, and Jaskier hastily moves his hands to cup his face instead.
“I don’t want to stop,” he says quickly, biting his lower lip, and Geralt softens, leaning his cheek into Jaskier’s hand with a soft, needy noise, and gods Jaskier wants to cuddle this beautiful man even more than he wants to fuck him. “But - can I ride you this time?”
Geralt raises his eyebrows. They don’t usually do it that way - Geralt has more leverage to fuck him harder when Jaskier’s on his back or on his hands and knees, and it’s something they both thoroughly enjoy. But Geralt only shrugs, moving up on the bed to flop onto his back with a great deal more grace than Jaskier ever manages to possess, and Jaskier scrambles to follow, throwing one leg over Geralt to settle above his flushed, eager cock. “This your way of saying you’ve missed having something to ride without Roach around?” Geralt asks mildly, grasping Jaskier by the hips and grunting when Jaskier takes him in hand to line them up.
“Hardy har har,” Jaskier says, and sinks down onto Geralt’s cock before he can muster a comeback. It’s lovely, that familiar and delicious burn as Geralt stretches him more than any other lover ever has, his cock so massive that Jaskier can taste him, and by the time he’s fully seated he’s panting, his back dripping sweat, his cock leaking down his stomach.
Geralt’s eyes are half-lidded, his hands warm and gentle on Jaskier’s hips. “Jask,” he murmurs, so soft, so sweet, and Jaskier shivers.
“I know,” he whispers, and moves. He plants his hands on Geralt’s chest, pushes up slowly, lets gravity pull him back down in a sweet, slow slide that sends lightning crackling up the base of his spine, the blunt head of Geralt’s cock rubbing up against that golden spot with every roll of his hips. “Gods, how do you always feel so good?”
Geralt plants his feet on the bed and thrusts up, making them both shout, and Jaskier’s thighs shake. This is going to be embarrassingly fast, but judging by the way Geralt’s already panting, he’s not the only one who’s feeling desperate after three months apart. “You going to fuck me like you mean it, little lark?” Geralt asks, eyes blown black with lust and his mouth curved into that beautiful fucking grin that Jaskier loves, and Jaskier groans and moves faster until they’re both moaning steadily, rocking into each other as if they could merge into one being if they wanted, and gods, Jaskier wants.
“So good,” he manages, raking his nails down Geralt’s chest, and Geralt groans and puts his hand on Jaskier’s cock. “Fuck, Geralt!”
“Come on,” Geralt pants, twisting his hand, and Jaskier cries out. With his free hand, Geralt grabs him by the hip and slams him down onto his cock, and Jaskier comes with a wail, spilling onto Geralt’s hand. Geralt falters beneath him, thrusting up only a few more times before he’s holding Jaskier down and spilling deep to the tune of Jaskier’s name, his gorgeous muscles rippling beneath Jaskier’s hands as he shudders.
Jaskier collapses forward, oofing as his muscles turn to jelly, and face-plants onto Geralt’s chest with a sigh as Geralt gently lifts him off of his cock. He presses his face into the sweaty curve of Geralt’s throat as they catch their breath, and he doesn’t move.
Geralt strokes his back slowly. “Jask?”
This is why Jaskier chose this position. He locks his knees on either side of Geralt’s hips, rubbing against his chest, smoothing his hand up one of Geralt’s delicious biceps. “Yes, darling?”
“Are you going to… move?”
Jaskier hums. It’s not the most comfortable position, and Geralt could move him as easily as a feather, but it gives him a bit of leverage. It gives him a moment to let Geralt feel what he’s been denying himself. “I could do that,” he says, purposely light, and strokes Geralt’s arm again softly. “Or we could stay like this for a little while.”
Geralt’s breath is slow, measured, but Jaskier can hear that his heart is beating just slightly faster than normal. “...Why?”
Jaskier kisses his shoulder, and Geralt sucks in a soft breath, the sound making Jaskier’s heart ache. “Because I want to cuddle with you, darling,” he says softly. “I’ve missed you so much this winter, and I want to be close to you. Can I stay here?”
Geralt’s breath is shakier now. His hand is pressed tight against Jaskier, belaying his calm voice with the way he’s practically pressing them together. “...Alright,” he says, thinly.
Jaskier hums. “Thank you, love.” He kisses Geralt’s shoulder again, and Geralt makes a small, pained noise, and goes limp. He sags into the bed, boneless, a groan spilling out of him like Jaskier’s reached inside and squeezed something he didn’t know was there, and Jaskier tucks himself harder into Geralt’s chest and cuddles him fiercely. Once he’s sure that Geralt isn’t going to buck him off, he stretches out his legs, placing them over Geralt’s so every part of their bodies is touching, and yeah he’s probably going to have to scrape dried come off of his stomach later, but it’s worth it for the little punched-out sound that Geralt makes, for the way the Witcher wraps both arms around Jaskier’s back and tugs him close, burying his face in Jaskier’s hair and inhaling shakily.
“Jaskier,” he whispers. “Little lark.”
Jaskier kisses the curve of his neck, and Geralt shivers. “There you go,” he whispers. “See, this is nice, isn’t it?”
Geralt makes a wounded sound. “Jaskier.”
Jaskier squeezes his arm, rubs mindless patterns into that smooth, scarred skin, focuses on touching as much of Geralt at once as he possibly can. “Do you feel better right now?”
Geralt’s fingers press harder into the dip of his back. “I don’t - I’m not -” He sounds so frazzled.
Jaskier raises his head, and the look of wonder on Geralt’s face, tinged with something wounded and desperate and hopeful, cracks his heart right in two. “It doesn’t make you weak,” he says, low and firm, keeping his gaze locked on Geralt’s, “to want this.”
Geralt’s jaw clenches. “I don’t -”
“You do,” he says, talking over him, digging his nails gently into Geralt’s arm, and Geralt’s eyelashes flutter as he shudders and moans. Jaskier kisses his chin. “I want it, too. I want to hold you, Geralt, as often as you’ll let me. I want to be close to you, and not just when we’re fucking or bathing or riding Roach. It’s okay to want to be held, sweetheart. Everyone needs to feel held sometimes.”
Geralt looks pained. “I don’t… Witchers don’t -”
“Just like Witchers don’t feel, huh?” Jaskier challenges, and Geralt flushes, grimacing slightly. Jaskier smiles down at him tenderly, and kisses his chin again, humming softly when Geralt’s arms subconsciously tighten around him. “Let yourself have this, Geralt. Let yourself want.”
Geralt makes another pained sound and grasps the back of Jaskier’s neck to pull him down into a rough, needy kiss. “I -” he says, pulling away, shaking his head slightly, his arm cinched tight around Jaskier’s waist. “I - thank you.” His jaw clenches again briefly, and he touches Jaskier’s face. “I love you.”
His throat tightens. “Geralt,” he manages. “I love you, too, you prick.”
Geralt lets out a rusty laugh. “Don’t go?” he asks.
Jaskier presses his forehead into Geralt’s arm. “Never,” he says. “Never.”
Geralt pulls him impossibly closer, and neither of them move a muscle until long after the sun comes up.