Archive of Our Own

The first time the bard comes back to their shared room reeking of sex, Geralt evicts him. 

Fuck-struck, it takes a long moment for the bard to process what’s happened after Geralt dumps him back outside and locks the door, but once he catches up, he exclaims wordlessly and pounds at the door. 

“Let me in!” He calls angrily. 

Geralt lays back down on the bed.

“Geralt!” He demands, knocking louder. 

“Go take a bath,” Geralt calls back, “you fucking reek.” 

The bard is redolent with the smell of sex and arousal, and if reek isn’t quite the first adjective that popped into his head when the door opened, it is the only one he’s willing to admit it to. 

“I do not!” Jaskier shouts, clearly aggrieved. “And you’re one to talk, Mr. Monster Guts.” 

Geralt snorts, sure that Jaskier can’t hear him do it. It wouldn’t do to give him ideas. 

Jaskier’s demands carry on for a while longer until their neighboring rooms open their doors to shout at him, and then Geralt hears him shuffle away, muttering angrily under his breath. Around half an hour later, he’s back, and Geralt can already smell the scent of soap before the knock even comes. He’d already opened the lock, but he waits a long moment before he answers, just to teach the bard a lesson. 

Jaskier is through the door quickly, as if he’s afraid Geralt will change his mind, but there’s still a loose ease to his limbs that clearly says he’s post-orgasmic, and it takes his clumsy fingers a few tries to to unlace his boots, sloppily done as they are. 

“You’re such a dick,” he mumbles, yawning, as he makes his fumbling way onto the mattress, crawling over to take his place against the wall. They only began sharing beds in the last couple of months, but it’s already become his accustomed spot. It’s simply logical, after all, having the weakest person out of the way. It’s not at all that Geralt likes knowing that the bard will be safe if their room is invaded. It’s all practicality. 

“I think coming back to someone else’s bed smelling like sex would make you more of a dick,” he says in response as he lays down as well, and he can see the bard weighing the idea of elbowing him in reprimand. He readies himself to flip the man onto the floor if he does it, but still rosy and relaxed, Jaskier apparently decides better of it, wiggling a few times until he’s settled and then sighing contently. 

“The water was cold,” he complains, but his eyes are already shutting, and his complaint isn’t as whiny as it would be otherwise. 

“Poor baby,” Geralt deadpans, and the bard reaches out to pinch him, eyes closed. He catches the hand easily before it makes contact, squeezing a warning before releasing it. 

“Dick,” the bard says around a yawn. 

Still, he subtly wriggles closer as he drifts off. 

Geralt contemplates shoving him back to his side as a lesson in respecting mattress distribution, but he doubts the bard has enough wits left about him to learn anything at the moment, body lax and soft, practically melting onto the bed. 

He tenses when the bard makes contact, snuffling his way onto his shoulder and creeping one arm over his waist, but no flirtatious remark follows, and if he flipped the man out of the bed now, he’s not sure Jaskier’s aware enough to avoid hurting himself with the landing. 

It’s not the first time the bard has gotten this close–the man becomes practically a barnacle when seeking warmth at night–but it’s the first time it’s happened while he’s awake. After a while, he relaxes, and the bard shifts in response, slotting against him more closely, warm breath against his neck. 

It’s an utterly foreign experience, this closeness, especially with the scent of arousal and satisfaction lingering in the air. He’s had a few moments nearly like this–when a hired partner for the night is so exhausted they slump against him before they take stock of themselves and remember who they’re in bed with–but he feels strange with the lax weight of another person against him, entirely trusting and unafraid. 

It still feels like a trick sometimes, the bard’s ease around him. 

*

It’s not the last time the bard comes back to him right after sex, although Geralt gives up soon enough on making him bathe. The bard chooses clean enough partners, and there are worst smells in the world than the aftermath of a fuck, and their evening goes much smoother (and they get kicked out of fewer inns for noise complaints) when he doesn’t lock Jaskier out on the landing. 

After a few times, he even learns how to predict whether the bard will be coming back or not. Due to natural selection or a deviant personal preference, the bard tends towards married people, and it’s rare that they’re willing to risk a bard being found in their bed when their husband or wife comes home. Even with those unattached, it’s frequently enough a son or daughter who doesn’t wish to explain an unattached man in their room who sends Jaskier on his way as well. 

He wonders, sometimes, how Jaskier feels about being sent packing so soon after a fuck. The bard, for all of his many faults, is a true romantic at heart and genuinely falls in love with anyone he takes to bed for the evening. Geralt understands that his own sex life is business, pure and simple, but Jaskier treats each new paramour like they’re his one and only. 

If it hurts, being sent packing when they’ve got what they wanted from him, Jaskier doesn’t bring it up. 

This is likely due in no small part to the fact that Jaskier always returns sated, limbs loose and cheeks rosy. 

He’s always clumsy when he returns, and he rarely gets more than his boots off under his own power before he climbs into bed. Always, he snuffles and wriggles before he settles down, breathing growing deeper and more even before he commits to a position and drops off. 

Most often, this position just happens to bring him tight against Geralt. 

At first, Geralt resists. Fuck-drunk, the bard may not have a problem with cuddling close to a witcher, but Geralt has no interest in being a morning’s regret for a night’s decisions, and he enforces his personal space with a merciless shove. This sparks the same snuffling and wriggling routine anew, this time with added grumbling, but even wronged, the bard is still soft and sleepy, and he settles down soon enough. 

He also ends up slowly migrating. 

The first time Geralt wakes to a warm weight over him, his first instinct is to toss it across the room. 

It’s only Jaskier mumbling in his sleep that saves him from a rather rude awakening. 

The bard is loose and pliant against him, and with each inhale, Geralt can smell the rich scent of pleasure and sex still lingering on his skin. Jaskier makes a soft noise and turns his head in, and Geralt stiffens as a nose tucks against his neck, the bard nuzzling at him before settling once more with a long, happy sigh, still asleep. 

For his part, Geralt has never felt less relaxed in his life. 

Sharing beds was strange enough–something he’d only done before on the rare occasion he crossed paths with one of his brothers–but this, what can only be called snuggling, is completely foreign. He has only the vaguest memories of his mother holding him, and in their earliest days, he and Eskel would sometimes sneak into each other’s beds for comfort in their first days in the keep, but it’s been decades since Geralt’s felt a body on his that he didn’t pay for, and he’s certainly never experienced this…closeness, after his allotted time is over. 

Prostitutes don’t tend to go in for soft touches and post-coital naps, after all. 

Jaskier rolls slightly, and entirely on impulse, Geralt brings one hand up against his waist to keep him from rolling away. He freezes once he’s done it, afraid he’s woken the bard up and will now be treated to an ear blistering about taking liberties, but Jaskier just settles down once more, smacking his lips softly before quieting. 

Slowly, Geralt relaxes, hand still at the soft flesh of the bard’s waist, soft linen and warm skin beneath his palm. 

Unthinking, he matches his breathing to Jaskier’s, long, slow inhales and exhales that seem to leech more and more tension from his body. 

It’s…nice, he finds to his surprise, a warm body smelling of contentment and satisfaction against his, someone pliant and relaxed under his touch. Slowly, not even knowing why, he passes his fingers in short, gentle strokes against Jaskier’s back with the hand still at his waist, and the bard makes a low, content noise in his sleep, wiggling closer. 

*

When they rise in the morning–well, when Geralt rises and then yanks Jaskier out of bed to greet the day–the bard doesn’t mention anything. He grumbles and staggers around the room, half-asleep in the morning as always, but he doesn’t make cries for Geralt to be arrested for taking liberties with his person. 

For his part, Geralt doesn’t bring it up, either. 

*

Geralt doesn’t let himself think about it, not even two towns later when he sees Jaskier slip through a backdoor after a man very definitely wearing a wedding ring. 

He doesn’t think about it through his supper, or when he tracks the sound of the bard tripping up the stairs until he’s sure he’s not walking into an ambush, or when he finishes his last mug of ale and returns to his room for the night. 

He very resolutely doesn’t think about it at all. 

Especially not when Jaskier stumbles through the door two hours later, muscles loose and face dopey with post-orgasmic bliss. 

He remains quiet while the bard readies for bed to the best of his ability, and even when the man settles down right beside him, not even bothering with the pretext of sticking to his own side. He is silent when one leg slings over his hips and an arm makes its way across his chest. He keeps his peace as a warm face presses against his shoulder and rubs there sleepily, tousled hair tickling his collarbone where Jaskier’s movement has pulled his shirt down. 

“G’night,” the bard murmurs, asleep between one breath and the next. 

“Goodnight,” Geralt responds after a long, long moment, shifting slightly to cradle Jaskier ever so slightly closer. 

*

Geralt asks about why Jaskier almost always comes back a year into the pattern. The bard ducks his head and blushes prettily, suddenly consumed by polishing his lute, which is already gleaming in the light from the hearth in their room. From his place on the bed, Geralt can smell beeswax and rosin, a scent that’s becoming damnably comforting in its familiarity since he acquired a shadow in the form of a loud peacock of a bard. 

“Well, ah…” Jaskier’s voice is ever so slightly squeaky, and despite himself, Geralt can’t help but smile a bit. The bard grows more and more into proper manhood each day, but he still has residual squeaks in his voice every now and then when he’s embarrassed, and no matter his best efforts, Geralt finds them amusing. “There are more than a few paramours not so keen on evidence lingering after a night of passionate romance.” 

“Spouses don’t like to see their lover’s fuck the next morning,” Geralt summarizes, and Jaskier gives him a look. 

“You don’t need to make it sound so vulgar,” he complains, tilting his chin like the prim scholar he is. “A night of carnal connection is nothing to be ashamed of.” 

“Except for people who have agreed not to connect carnally with passing bards,” Geralt rebuffs dryly. 

Jaskier sucks his teeth and snaps his polishing cloth with a flourish, bending his head back to his work diligently. 

Geralt leaves him to it, returning to cataloging the remainder of his potions and making a list of what he’ll need to replenish his stock. He’s nearly done when Jaskier speaks again, voice quiet. The bard doesn’t look up, but his attention isn’t on his fidgeting fingers, smoothing fretfully over the wood of his lute. 

“It’s nice to fall asleep next to someone,” Jaskier says, gaze flickering up briefly before looking down once more. “Especially after…well.” He coughs, clearing his throat. “Do you…do you mind?”

Another hint of squeak on the last word, and Geralt can read the tension in the bard’s body as well as he can read an entry in a bestiary. He considers saying yes, partially out of a kneejerk reaction and partially out of a desire to see what Jaskier will do in response, but there’s a particular kind of vulnerability in this moment, in this space, and he can’t quite bring himself to wreck it. 

“Better than saving your ass the next day from a wrathful husband,” he says, and Jaskier snorts. 

The grin he gives Geralt is genuine and sweet, and he acknowledges it with a nod. 

When Jaskier joins him the next night, flushed and sweaty and lax, the bard doesn’t hesitate at all before flopping next to him, even when Geralt nudges him around a bit on principle before he gives in and lets the man plaster himself to his side. 

Geralt drops off to sleep with a feeling of contentment and warmth that he can’t find a name for.

*

In the years that follow, Geralt knows it’s more than a little pathetic, enjoying these stretches of time. 

It would be one thing to tolerate it, to grit his teeth and get through it like he gets through everything unpleasant in his life. 

The problem, though, is that it’s not unpleasant. 

With time, he learns to ignore the smell of someone else on the bard and focus only on Jaskier’s scent, floral perfume and parchment and beneath it all, his own unique scent, like cool water on rocks and green things. When Jaskier has dozed off, there’s no one to see him press his nose to the bard’s hairline and inhale, filling his lungs with the scent of contentment and satisfaction and Jaskier. There’s no one to judge him if he pulls the bard closer, Jaskier going easily, body slack and accommodating. The bard makes soft noises in his sleep, is prone to snuffling closer and tucking himself in tight and mumbling nonsense, and Geralt collects each one like a hungry man plucking berries from a bush, treasuring them as the rare and precious things they are. 

It’s easy to pretend, in these warm, content hours, that he’s sharing in post-coital bliss, that the bard beside him is his in more ways than merely a travel companion. Even beneath his foolish imagination, he knows it will only ever be a fantasy. He’s not immune to how beautiful Jaskier is, after all, all soft lines and bright eyes and yielding flesh. In these secret, stolen hours, he presses his fingers to Jaskier’s body and enjoys the give of soft skin and fat, the evidence of how well he keeps him fed. The bard is strong–stronger than he lets on with all of his frippery–but he’s still softer than Geralt, and the contrast is enticing. 

But beautiful things aren’t for witchers, and he’s too aware of that fact to believe in his stupid fantasies too deeply. 

Jaskier is too soft to be bound to him beyond what they already share. He’s breakable and sensitive, and if Geralt’s lifestyle doesn’t get him killed, Geralt knows he doesn’t have it in him to be the kind of lover someone like Jaskier needs to be happy. He doesn’t have pretty words and florid ballads. He doesn’t know the right things to say when Jaskier is upset. He doesn’t know how to keep Jaskier content, and he doesn’t know that he could survive watching the bard realize it. 

He knows Jaskier desires him physically. Even if he couldn’t smell it, a person can only make so many excuses to stay while another person bathes before it becomes completely obvious. 

He doesn’t know if the bard has ever thought about anything other than fucking. Given how Jaskier falls in love with everyone he falls in bed with, it wouldn’t be a surprise, but he also knows how little Jaskier thinks his romances through. He’s always too caught up in the story he’s writing in his head to see how it’s going to end before it happens. Even when Geralt sees it coming a mile away, it always seems to take Jaskier by surprise when his newest one and only becomes just one night. Even if he thinks about falling in love with Geralt, he knows damn well that the bard won’t think through the ugly aftermath of what happens when people fall out of love. 

It’s the fear of that, more than anything else, that makes him keep Jaskier at arm’s length. He may not have what he wants, but he has some sort of approximation of it. No matter the others he fucks, it’s Geralt who gets Jaskier in the aftermath. It’s Geralt who gets the bard tucked close and sweet and happy. 

He tugs Jaskier closer with the thought, and the bard goes easily, sighing contently in his sleep before settling. 

Let the bard fuck whoever he wants. Let him romance half a dozen new paramours each evening. 

It doesn’t matter, after all. 

It doesn’t matter, when he always returns to Geralt. 

*

In the days after the mountain, he finds himself perking up before he thinks about it whenever he hears footsteps near the door to his room. For a brief, stupid moment, he anticipates a warm, relaxed body seeking his, thinks that it’s Jaskier back from an assignation, back to enjoy his afterglow with him. 

And then he remembers. 

And realizes for the dozenth, the hundredth, the thousandth time that he is once again alone. 

And that there’s no other fucking person in the world to blame other than himself. 

*

Gritting his teeth, Geralt shoves a pillow over his head and tries to listen to his own heartbeat instead of the muted cries and gasps from the room down the hall. It barely muffles anything, and he busies himself reciting the bestiary entries he’s memorized as a distraction. He’s never been so hyper-aware of Jaskier like this, searching for the sound of him despite his best efforts. There’s something reassuring in knowing he’s close once more. 

Even if Geralt would prefer not to know how close he is in more than one sense. 

At last, the sounds stop, and Geralt relaxes back against the mattress, the air feeling cool against his skin after his near-smothering under the pillow. He sighs in relief and laces his fingers over his stomach, closing his eyes and enjoying the silence. He imagines what Jaskier must look like, mussed and panting and flushed. In Geralt’s imagination, he’s always smiley in the immediate moments after a fuck, sweet and satisfied and content. 

His own lips quirk a bit, anticipating that contentment tucked up against him soon, warm and soft. Jaskier hasn’t found anyone since they left Kaer Morhen, and with them tiptoeing around each other so carefully, they hadn’t shared a bed at all until they left. But now, his opportunity is at hand once more, the chance to have Jaskier sweet and sated beside him, smelling of contentment, dozing off at his side. 

He just has to wait for Jaskier to return. 

*

…Jaskier does not return. 

*

Jaskier sneaks in after the sun has already risen. 

Geralt pretends he hasn’t been awake all night. 

If the deception sells or not, Jaskier doesn’t mention it. 

There are a lot of things Jaskier doesn’t mention, these days. 

*

The night isn’t a one-off. 

Jaskier finds a tall, broad woman two towns over and sneaks away the moment his set ends, not even bothering to leave his earnings or lute in Geralt’s keeping. 

Geralt frowns when he realizes he hasn’t been trusted with either since they set out in the spring. A cold rock forming in his stomach, he tries to catch Jaskier’s eye just before he turns the corner. He wants to believe the bard just forgot, that he got too caught up in the excitement of his one-night love of his life and will see Geralt and remember. 

Jaskier, however, doesn’t look back. 

He also doesn’t return to their room that night. 

*

It takes until the fourth time that Geralt stops waiting. 

He doesn’t think he’s been more aware of how cold a bed can feel. 

*

What’s worse, during these long, long nights, is that Geralt knows exactly what he’s missing. He practically grinds his teeth imagining Jaskier soft and rumpled and sweet in someone else’s arms, rosy skin pressed to someone else’s shoulder and someone else’s arm thrown carelessly over his hip. It makes him want to smash something, imagining Jaskier mumbling sleepy nonsense into someone else’s chest. 

And steady as a heartbeat, running through his mind the entire time: Your fault, your fault, your fault.

*

Things come to a head around two months into traveling together. 

They’ve fallen into an uneasy rapport on the road. Their dynamic is stunted, tense in a way it’s never been before, moments of levity are few and far between, and, at least on Jaskier’s part, immediately followed by something like a self conscious withdrawal afterwards. 

Of all of the things Geralt expected to be the catalyst, however, it wasn’t missing a pair of socks. 

It’s stupid, it’s so fucking stupid, but the night is unseasonably cold, he wants the pair of socks Eskel knitted for him as a winter project three years ago, and he’s realized Jaskier isn’t just fucking people and staying out, he’s getting his own room whenever he can afford to, and all at once it’s too fucking much. 

He hasn’t even thought about what he’s going to do until the door to Jaskier’s room is flying open, the lock snapping easily. The bard startles magnificently, nearly flopping out of bed with the force of it, until he realizes exactly who has intruded, and then he simply looks a cross between alarmed and pissed. 

“What?” He demands at once, rising and grabbing his boots, too well-trained over the years to dilly-dally when there might be danger imminent. 

Geralt notes at once what’s on his feet, soft and thick and his. 

“Those aren’t yours,” he nearly spits, his anger a stupid, blinding thing. There’s no call for him to sound so angry, he knows. It’s not the first time Jaskier’s worn something of his without asking, and it’s not as if Geralt hasn’t borrowed from the bard when needed. But abruptly the theft of the socks seems like an egregious violation, and he suddenly wants a fight so badly his fists clench before he even thinks about it. 

Luckily for him, Jaskier seems keen to oblige. 

Jaskier plops back onto the bed, seeming to sense that the only risk he’s to face is standing in front of him, and raises an arrogant eyebrow, stretching out his legs and crossing his ankles neatly, as if to better display his stolen bounty. In a moment, Geralt, growling, is across the room, reaching for them. His fingertips have barely brushed the soft wool before the bard is kicking, sliding down onto his back to get better leverage. Geralt curses and grabs for one leg, wrapping his hand around one strong calf and using the other to peel the sock off. Jaskier lunges up and grabs at him, fingernails sinking into the flesh of his arm. 

“Fuck off!” Jaskier nearly shrills, giving up on gouging at him and resorting to pounding his fists against his arm, even as Geralt successfully retrieves his sock. Before he can reach for the other, Jaskier swings his leg far to the side, toes pointed like a dancer. There’s an open challenge in those clear blue eyes, and Geralt feels himself rising to it. He lunges for the sock, but Jaskier rolls, slipping under him and moving his leg out of range. 

They wrestle briefly, Jaskier managing to bite him once hard enough to draw blood, feral little brat that he is. Geralt continues his effort to retrieve the sock even as he discards the other, the item less important than sending a message about taking both of them back. The struggle continues until he tries to pin Jaskier on his belly while the bard tries to jolt to the side, meaning that his shoulder is wrenched where Geralt holds his upper arm, and Jaskier cries out in pain, the noise sharp and as cutting as a blade. 

Geralt releases him at once and scrambles away, hands extended in either a gesture of peace or surrender. The noise is like a bucket of cold water dumped over his head, cooling his stupid rage in an instant, his anger forgotten before the horror of hurting Jaskier. 

The bard eyes him mistrustfully from the bed as he sits up, rubbing at his shoulder with a wince. He tucks the foot still wearing the sock underneath himself as if to guard it, and Geralt swings wildly to fondness at the gesture, petty and obstinate and so very Jaskier that for a moment it feels like he’s taken a blow to the chest. 

Geralt feels his shoulders drop, and he nearly sways under the force of shame as his actions fully register. His muscles tense with the urge to flee, to return to his room. He lowers his head, already calculating how to pack his things as quickly as possible. They tried it, they traveled together again, and look what they’ve accomplished: both of them miserable and Jaskier now injured. He grits his jaw against the desperate, choking pain of this failure, of his own stupidity in thinking he would ever be lucky enough to receive a gift like Jaskier twice. It’s better he goes now, better that they-

An inhale brings a wave of misery-scent to him so strong that he nearly chokes on it, and when his mouth opens automatically to smell better, he tastes salt on the air. 

Tears. 

His head jerks up sharply, and he sees Jaskier wiping away tears angrily, scrubbing at his face with his sleeve, breath coming in short, jerky shudders. He staggers forward a half-step entirely on impulse driven by the need to tend, to soothe, but the memory of Jaskier’s cry stays him. 

“How bad is it?” He asks, voice hoarse. He doesn’t think he heard anything break, but he knows his own strength, knows how fragile non-witchers are. It would barely take a thought to hurt Jaskier severely, and he certainly wasn’t thinking for the entirety of their stupid fight. 

“What?” Jaskier asks, sniffling once and then peering above his sleeve. 

“Your shoulder,” Geralt says, with a little wave of his hand that he’s embarrassed about as soon as he does it. “I didn’t mean t-”

“Well you did,” Jaskier cuts him off sharply, and despite the tears, his face is hard. “You never mean it, and yet here we are, every fucking time.”

“I don-”

“What will it be this time?” Jaskier asks in a mocking tone, gesturing grandly. “How will you push us along so we never have to address this again and you get to soothe your guilt without actually addressing it? Nice pastry tomorrow? Give me a turn on Roach? Eh? Another quest I’m dragged along on without so much as a sorry beforehand?”

Geralt has a growing feeling that the tears might not just be for his shoulder. 

“And you know what’s worse?” Jaskier asks with faux-lightness. “What’s worse is that it’ll fucking work.” A mirthless laugh. He drops his head forward, and rests it in his hands, fingers threading through his hair. The taste of salt grows heavier, and Jaskier’s breath hitches in tiny shudders. They stand in horrifically tense silence for a long moment, until Jaskier finally whispers. “Is this how it’s always going to be, Geralt? Fucked up and painful?”

“I don’t…” Geralt starts, but he doesn’t know where to go after those two words. He greatly regrets ever starting this interaction, wishes that he would have just let them go on in their tense standoff. “I miss you,” he says, before he even thinks it. 

Jaskier looks up at once, face scrunched with confusion. 

“I thought-” Geralt’s hand flexes, and he swallows once before he continues, shifting his weight. “I thought we would have what we had before. But it’s all…wrong.”

The expression on Jaskier’s face clearly says that he has less than no idea about what the fuck Geralt’s talking about. 

Every muscle in Geralt’s body urges him to flee, to run from this mistake, the culmination of so many others. 

But Jaskier is still in front of him, and he deserves better than cowardice. 

“I know I fucked up on the mountain.” He doesn’t miss the wince the last word causes. “I know that I was wrong, that you didn’t deserve it. But I want to fix things.”

“And if you can’t?” Jaskier asks, tilting his head. “What then? What if it just always stays broken?”

He doesn’t have an answer for that, for what he’ll do if all he ever has is this stunted, painful thing, a pitiful shadow of what he had before. An insidious little part of his mind points out that Jaskier has better choices. That he could choose to leave, to find someone more worthy. Hell, he’s already met the other Wolves this past winter. Lambert and Eskel would be more than happy to have a companion. 

He feels something in his stomach curdle at the very idea of having to watch Jaskier with one of his brothers, mean and petty as the feeling is. 

“How do I fix it?” He asks, desperate for a clear path forward, for a way to fix what he’s fucked up so badly. 

Jaskier just looks at him for a long, long moment. 

“Well,” he says at last, “you could start by not being such a dick about socks.”

Geralt, startled, laughs, and after a moment, Jaskier laughs, too. 

It’s a small moment in the grand scheme of things, but it feels like a start. 

*

Jaskier joins him in bed that night. 

There’s a brief hesitancy to his motions, but finally he heaves a breath and gives Geralt a mischievous smile before flopping fully over him like a blanket, wriggling like a landed fish just to be a pest. He laughs loudly when he’s flipped to his proper side like a griddle cake, and the grin on his face makes Geralt feel like he’s drunk sparkling wine, his stomach bubbling with a mixture of relief and joy. 

“Pest,” Geralt says, intending it as a growl but his voice too warm to make it sound anything other than affectionate. 

The bard, in response, merely shuffles closer to press himself in one long line of warmth to Geralt’s side, settling down with a content sigh. 

“Goodnight,” he says around a yawn, nuzzling closer and arranging himself more comfortably, taking up a solid half of Geralt’s pillow in the process. 

“Mm,” he hums in response, eyes closing as a wave of welcome drowsiness overtakes him, and he can practically feel the smile pressed to his shoulder as Jaskier drifts off to sleep. 

He follows, not long after. 

*

“I didn’t think you actually left me,” Jaskier says into the quiet darkness of their room several days later. 

“Mm,” Geralt hums in response, readjusting his hold to press the bard slightly closer. 

“On the mountain.” 

He freezes, hand still on Jaskier’s waist. 

“I sat at that camp and waited for two days, sure you were just being a dick and would come back.” He laughs once, a sound without humor. “Pretty pathetic, huh?” 

“Not as pathetic as yelling at someone because you’re angry about something they had nothing to do with,” Geralt says, and Jaskier tucks his head in against his shoulder. 

“You were a fairly massive prick about the whole thing.”

He snorts, and, summoning every bit of courage he has, dares to rest his cheek against Jaskier’s head. 

“I…I loved you,” Jaskier says, voice nearly inaudible. 

Geralt doesn’t miss the past tense. 

“I loved you like-like-” but his great lexicon of poetic phrases appears to have failed him. He sighs. 

“You love everyone,” Geralt offers, trying to carefully hide the question in the statement. It’s an out, and he wonders if Jaskier will take it. 

“Not like I love you,” Jaskier says, like a confession. On reflex, Geralt holds him tighter. “Is that…is that okay?”

“Yes,” Geralt says immediately, ducking his head to press his face closer, unable to not smile. “Yes.”

*

They fall into bed together for the first time a few weeks later, almost by surprise. 

They’ve bathed around each other plenty of times, but there’s something new to it, an awareness of each other they haven’t shared before. They take turns sneaking glances, occasionally meeting eyes entirely by accident before looking away, both of them feeling absurdly shy given their combined age and experience. From the corner of his eye, he sees Jaskier lathering up a sponge and moving it along his arm in slow, firm strokes, and he finds himself choking on air at the idea of stroking of another nature. It takes catching the little flicker of a smirk on the bard’s face before he realizes there’s a show being put on for his benefit, and he’s torn between the playful desire to pretend not to notice and the primal desire to take in as much as he’s granted. 

In the end, his baser instincts win out. 

Jaskier, ever the performer, puts on quite a show. After a certain point, he ditches the sponge and makes due with his hands, gliding them in smooth strokes across his chest, his shoulders, the pale expanse of his throat. Geralt evens the score a bit by lounging in a way he knows from observation that Jaskier likes, and after that they engage in a bit of a cold war, neither willing to make the first move. 

Well, neither willing until Jaskier finally sucks his teeth and tsks, climbs out of his bath, and makes his way, still dripping, to sit on Geralt’s thigh and pull him into a kiss, hands wandering. 

Every touch feels like lightning skittering beneath his skin, and he can feel goosebumps rising across his flesh with each one. He flips them in one smooth motion and hears the flattering little gasp the movement prompts, the sound going straight to his ego. He draws back for breath only when he’s sure Jaskier is running out of air, and he gets the treat of seeing him dazed and wanting, blue eyes hungry, if slightly unfocused. 

“Hey,” Geralt says, bringing one hand up to thumb at his chin. Jaskier gives him a sweet smile that turns devilish right before he tucks his head to take Geralt’s thumb between his teeth, biting gently before taking it into his mouth. 

Geralt’s breath hitches at the hot warmth, the bard’s tongue moving slowly as he sucks. Without thought, his hips rock slightly, his erection pressing hard against his ties. He brings his fingers to rest beneath Jaskier’s jaw, pressing gently, and the bard gives him a teasing look before he releases him, licking one long stripe from palm to tip before he sits back, the blue of his eyes almost lost behind his blown-wide pupils. 

“Hi,” Jaskier responds, teasing tone nearly lost beneath roughness. 

Geralt has him on his back in the next moment, kissing him hungrily. Jaskier makes a pleased little noise and brings one hand up to thread his fingers through Geralt’s hair, holding him in place. The other skates downward, and Geralt can feel the muscles of his stomach jump beneath the faint pressure. 

He breaks the kiss to press his head to the curve of Jaskier’s neck when the bard palms his cock. A soft moan makes its way from deep in his chest, and he can tell from the increase in Jaskier’s heartbeat that he’s pleased by it. A teasing stroke makes him growl with want, and he can feel the shape of Jaskier’s smile against the skin of his throat before teeth close in a gentle lovebite. 

There’s an instinctual little flicker of panic at the sensation, at the vulnerability of it, but with Jaskier’s scent all around him, there’s no true fear, and he tilts his head back to offer more. Jaskier soothes the sting with gentle laps of his tongue before biting again, hand settling into a steady rhythm. 

Distantly, he’s aware that he’s being a fairly awful fuck, taking without any sort of reciprocation, but the reality of Jaskier’s hand bringing him pleasure, Jaskier’s mouth at his throat, Jaskier, bare and aroused beneath him, makes his mind blank but for the pleasure of it all. He gets one clumsy hand between Jaskeir’s thighs before the hand in his hair leaves to wrap around his wrist, pulling him back. He lifts his head to look at the bard inquiringly, but he gets a mischievous look in exchange. 

“You can make it up to me later,” he says with a wink, and Geralt rolls his eyes before they flutter shut when Jaskier breathes into his ear, “first, I want you to come for me.” 

He tucks his head back against Jaskier’s shoulder and breathes into the pleasure of the bard’s hand on him, the other moving back up to his hair to tug lightly. He groans at it, pinpricks of pleasure sparking at the sting. Encouraged, Jaskier does it again, and his hips buck, dislodging the bard’s hand for a moment. Jaskier laughs, but it’s not a mean thing, and he finds he doesn’t mind. 

“So good for me,” Jaskier rasps, and Geralt certainly doesn’t mind that. 

The minutes dissolve into raw sensation broken occasionally with sweet words that manage to reach him beneath the haze, and it’s an eternity and no time at all before he fists the sheets at either side of Jaskier’s head and spills onto the bard’s soft belly, that skillful hand working him through it until he nearly whimpers from sensitivity. Jaskier releases him with a caress to his hip before he wraps his arms around him in a hug, humming a low melody. 

It’s a while before he feels capable of speaking once more. 

“Fuck,” he says, voice rough, and Jaskier laughs, pressing a kiss to the sweaty hair at his temple. 

It’s a few minutes more before he’s recovered enough to lift himself onto his elbows, surveying Jaskier, flushed and dewy, beneath him. The bard brings one hand up to cup his cheek, thumb stroking over his cheekbone. He turns his face into the touch, kissing the bard’s fingertips when they come into range. 

“Your turn,” he says, moving to shift down. 

“You don’t have t-” 

Jaskier cuts himself off when Geralt lifts his head to look at him, and something of his hunger must be clear, to judge from how quickly the bard’s mouth snaps shut. He watches the movement as Jaskier swallows, and an endearing little flicker of nervousness crosses his features. He leans down to kiss the soft flesh of the thigh by his head, smiling at the reflexive little kick it sparks. 

“Nervous?” He asks softly, moving to kiss the other side for symmetry. 

“No,” Jaskier says, a trace of squeak in his voice. Geralt nips his thigh in reprimand for the lie, and Jaskier twitches at it. 

“Talk to me,” he says, looking up to find Jaskier looking at the ceiling, a faint crease to his brow. He waits for the bard to speak, amusing himself with sucking a series of marks onto pale skin in the meantime. 

“What if-” Jaskier starts, breaking off to swallow. Geralt catches the flicker of movement as the bard drums his fingers on the mattress, a familiar nervous tic. “I want this to be good for you,” he says after a moment. 

Geralt raises a brow. 

“And you think bringing you pleasure wouldn’t be good for me?”

Jaskier flushes at that, gaze flickering down for a moment before he looks at the ceiling once more. 

“Well…you usually pay for this sort of thing, don’t you?”

An interesting angle of argument, and one Jaskier feels embarrassed about bringing up, to judge from the way he tucks his head deeper into the pillow like he’s trying to hide. 

“I just…don’t want you to feel…disappointed, I guess. When you don’t usually have to worry about bringing the other person off.” 

Geralt snorts, which gains Jaskier’s attention. 

“Are you calling me a selfish lover?” He asks dryly, smiling just slightly to show he isn’t actually upset. 

“Perhaps more of a lover used to being lazy,” Jaskier says, returning the smile. 

Geralt slaps his hip in reflexive reprimand, and oh, doesn’t that spark a few ideas when Jaskier’s scent grows even richer with arousal in response. He grins. 

“Should have known you’d like that.” 

Jaskier “hm”s primly and looks away, even though his blush betrays him. 

“I don’t have the faintest idea what you mean,” he says, with all the air of a proper society matron. “I don’t know what sort of deviance you could b-” 

He breaks off with a moan when Geralt shifts one of his legs up to swat at his ass lightly. 

Geralt hums his amusement, and Jaskier aims a clumsy kick at him. 

“If you’re always this much of a tease, it’s no wonder you get charged so much.” 

Well, it’s not as if Geralt can just let that stand. 

He draws his hands slowly up the length of Jaskier’s thighs until he reaches the backs of his knees. He presses with gentle pressure until they part for him, and he hears Jaskier’s breath stutter at the vulnerability of it. He hooks one over his shoulder and presses the other wider. He blows cool air over the hot, wet flesh before him and sees Jaskier clench, growing slicker. 

“Still,” Jaskier says, voice a little choked, “a tease. My point stands.” 

Geralt responds by ducking his head to lick a firm stripe upwards, lingering to tease gently with the tip of his tongue at the little bundle of nerves that makes Jaskier’s legs tremble, still in his hold. Before the bard can gather his wits enough to besmirch his generosity in bed further, he sets to work, lapping at the slickness on offer and tracing his way back to the little nub of flesh slowly growing more prominent under his attentions. Jaskier whines, trembling, and makes a high, keening noise when Geralt sucks at it, tongue still moving in slow undulations. He continues his ministrations until he can feel Jaskier right at the edge of his climax. 

And then he suddenly pulls back. 

Immediately, he is under attack from a pillow. 

“Oh-you-fuck-er,” Jaskier grits out between blows, and Geralt smiles, dodging as much as he can, before he lowers his head once more and sets to work. 

Not surprisingly, the attack ceases, the pillow flung somewhere around the head of the bed. 

“Can I use my fingers?” Geralt asks when he pulls back for a moment. The way Jaskier arches against him at the question suggests his answer, but he still waits for the jerky nod and hissed “Yes” before he releases one of Jaskier’s legs to free a hand. 

He returns to the bundle of nerves before he slips two fingers into wet heat, pressing intently until he brushes against a patch of spongy flesh that makes Jaskier shake harder, a high, keening whine coming out between breaths. 

“P-please,” he whimpers, and Geralt finds quite abruptly that he rather enjoys Jaskier beneath him, begging. He files it away for further exploration at a later date (or later hour) and allows himself to grind against the mattress to alleviate his own arousal, his cock more than ready for another round. 

It’s only a handful of moments before Jaskier is crying out, fumbling hands grasping onto the headboard and squeezing as he arches, his orgasm overtaking him. Geralt briefly mourns that one didn’t find its way to his hair, but he’s soon too busy lapping at a fresh wave of slick, intent on winding up Jaskier again as fast as he can. 

The bard is shaking like a leaf, breath coming out in labored pants, but he comes for a second time with beautiful ease, and Geralt watches this one as it overtakes him, hips rolling in little bursts, head craned back to expose the pale column of his throat. 

When he recovers, he’s still trembling, and Geralt shifts back up to cover him, pressing soft kisses to his forehead, his cheeks, any bit of skin he can find. Jaskier giggles, fuck-drunk, and Geralt smiles in response, kissing his nose to make him do it again. 

When Jaskier has recovered his breath, he kisses him, and Geralt sinks into the easy languor of it for a long, content moment. When they part, the bard’s hand comes up to brush his hair aside, tucking it behind one ear. He raises one eyebrow, expression teasing even under the lingering looseness of two orgasms in quick succession. 

“Is that a sword against my hip, or are you just happy to see me?” 

Geralt snorts, but he also rocks his hips against Jaskier’s to make the bard’s breath catch. 

“You should have a sheath for such- oh,” Jaskier breaks off, breath catching, as Geralt shifts to grind them together, “a for-formidable blade.” 

“Can I fuck you?” Geralt asks flatly. “Or would you like to keep coming up with metaphors?” 

The way Jaskier’s legs wrap around his hips at once is a pretty good answer, emphasized when he reaches down to take Geralt in hand, lining him up. He clicks his tongue when Geralt doesn’t move, heel striking the small of his back. 

“Get to it,” he demands, every inch the pampered lordling. 

Geralt obliges. 

Jaskier holds his breath as Geralt sheaths himself, watching the bard’s face carefully for any flicker of discomfort. When he’s halfway in, a shaky hand lands on his hip, stopping him as the bard winces. 

“Bad angle,” Jaskier says with an apologetic look, but Geralt just kisses him and readjusts. 

“Better?” He asks, and Jaskier nods, hips shifting as well to a better position. 

He reaches down to work a thumb in slow strokes over Jaskier as he finishes sinking in, breathing deep and even to keep from spilling as it makes the bard clench around him, breath shaky. When he’s fully seated, he waits until Jaskier shifts beneath him once more, gritting out a “Move.” 

He does, moving slowly and as smoothly as he can. He barely withdraws before he presses forward again, unable to bear fully leaving Jaskier, drunk on the reality of being inside of him. He nuzzles at Jaskier’s cheek and feels clumsy kisses pressed near his cheek and ear. One of the bard’s hands comes up to hold one of his, and their fingers link. Jaskier squeezes as his breath stutters, and Geralt squeezes back, gently. 

It’s more than he ever dared imagine, this connection to Jaskier, this warm, heady intimacy. He’s certainly nothing approaching virginal, but he doesn’t know if he’s ever felt this raw during a fuck before. This isn’t simply pursuit of pleasure or release, isn’t a contracted stretch of time with an anonymous body. This is a physical expression of trust, of affection, of something he can’t name yet, even in his own head. Jaskier inhales sharply and tilts his head back, smiling and closing his eyes. He sighs extravagantly and arches to bring them closer together. Geralt noses at the pale skin on display and grins when Jaskier jerks and brings his head in to guard his neck at the tickle of it. They engage in a version of a playfight after that, Geralt nudging insistently at Jaskier’s jaw and Jaskier laughing and doing his best to distract him with some strategic muscle tightening. 

Eventually, Geralt admits defeat and presses a kiss to the hinge of Jaskier’s jaw before tucking his face close to the bard’s and focusing on driving the man to pleasure. Jaskier nips him playfully, but Geralt increasing the pressure above where they’re joined has him gasping, hips rocking in a signal of how close he is. Geralt speeds up on the tight circles he’s making on that bundle of nerves, and Jaskier curses, a “fuck” drawn from him with force like he’s taken a blow. 

“No…no wonder,” he pants, “you’re hard-pressed to keep sorceresses off of you. They know enough to enjoy something magical.” 

Geralt snorts at that, but he can’t help the way he feels the pride of it puff him up a bit. It’s pillowtalk, nonsensical words said aloud in the heat of the moment, but damn if it isn’t a heady thing, being told he’s a good lay by someone with enough experience for it to actually mean something. Jaskier must read the small bit of arrogance the compliment sparks, because the bard pulls back enough to look at him, one eyebrow raised. 

A shift in angle has him shutting his eyes again, face scrunching, biting his lip, and Geralt feels his ego expand just that smallest bit more. 

*

It’s almost funny, dealing with the immediate realities post-fuck. 

Given their usual routine, Jaskier has always come back to him ready for bed, but he finds he likes it, the little details of cleaning up together. He heats a basin of water with Igni and wets a washcloth. Jaskier, still floppy and loose from pleasure, doesn’t stir at first as Geralt wipes at the mess between his thighs, but eventually he takes the cloth with a clumsy hand and shoos Geralt away to take care of himself. 

He does, also retrieving another sheet from a drawer to cover the mess on the bed. By the time he returns, Jaskier is relatively clean, the cloth flung carelessly to a far corner of the room. The bard is still loose-limbed, starfished in the center of the bed without shame, and Geralt feels a wave of fondness so strong it makes his chest tight. 

Jaskier grumbles as Geralt nudges at him to put the fresh sheet down, but he settles down with a happy sigh when he’s no longer lying on wet linen, and Geralt snorts. 

“Spoiled,” he says, unable to keep the affection out of his voice.

Jaskier slits one eye open, one corner of his mouth quirking up. Geralt presses a kiss to that curve, and Jaskier hums happily, tilting his face to turn it into a proper kiss. 

“Careful,” Geralt says when they part, “or you’ll start something you’re not ready for.” 

“‘M always ready,” Jaskier protests, but the slur of his words betrays him. 

Geralt climbs onto the mattress, and before he can even begin worrying about asking, Jaskier rolls onto his side to spread over him, as liquid as warm jam, soft and content and somehow, miraculously, his.