Chapter Text
1
Jaskier is aware he is dreaming, which almost makes it worse. If he knows he’s dreaming, he ought to be able to wake up before it all goes bad.
In the dream, it’s late on a chill night and he’s wandering tipsily down a dirt road with only the moon to light his way. He’s been drinking in the inn, but they didn’t have any rooms left, and instead he’s bunking down in a stable at the other end of the village. He doesn’t mind too much – he is trying to keep a low profile, so the fewer people who see him the better, and because of the low profile he’s not played recently so he’s short on coin anyway. Besides, the barn is warm enough, and the sounds of the horses snorting in their sleep is comforting.
He misses Roach much more than he misses Geralt, he tells himself, and then flicks himself on the back of the hand; he is trying to train himself out of thinking of Geralt and is not, so far, having much luck.
A breath later, swift in the way dreams can be, he is at the barn, and he’s barely a pace inside it when something heavy hits the back of his head, and everything fractures.
When he wakes – in the dream, he mustn’t forget this is a dream – he is lying curled on cold stone, naked and unprotected. His eyes are bound in cloth, his mouth stopped; when he moves, chains rattle. He murmurs a startled protest and someone standing nearby says, “welcome, Jaskier. I’m glad to finally meet you.” And he knows – because this has happened before – that this is the start of it, of days and days of pain, of surrendering everything that makes him him—
And he wakes up. Finally. Truly.
He thinks, anyway. Times like these, the boundaries between dream and memory and reality blur. He gasps out a sob, and then throws back the covers on the bed, letting the freezing air of the mountains shock him into the present. His skin is damp with sweat, and though it must be hours till dawn he knows he won’t get any more sleep.
Instead he pulls on a woollen tunic, slides his feet into fur-lined slippers, wraps himself up in a blanket, and makes his way down to the dining hall. At this hour, it is of course deserted but the warmth of the previous evening hasn’t left it, and the fire in the great range is still smouldering. It doesn’t take long for new logs to catch, and Jaskier collapses on the rug in front of it. Down here, in this great austere space he’d never seen before Geralt and Yennefer found him, it is easier to believe that he was rescued, that he’s not still wandering in his own mind.
He’s not sure how much time has passed when he hears soft steps on the flagstones, and a hushed voice saying his name.
“Morning, Geralt,” he says. “Hope I didn’t wake you.”
The witcher just drops to his knees on the rug beside him. Jaskier’s lying sprawled on one side, head nestled on his arm; all he can see is black linen and the curve of a well-muscled thigh. “You didn’t,” Geralt says.
“Liar,” Jaskier says, but fondly. He reaches an awkward arm over to bat at Geralt, catching him at the waist. “They’re just bad dreams, they’ll pass.”
“Doesn’t mean you have to suffer them alone.”
Geralt of Kaer Morhen, Jaskier thinks, is softer than Geralt of the Path. Jaskier isn’t certain, yet, whether this is because the witcher feels safe at the keep and has taken off his armour, both literal and metaphorical; or whether it is a permanent change wrought by Ciri and Yennefer and maybe even him. He likes it, either way.
“Well I’m glad to have your company,” Jaskier tells him. He wriggles a little closer to Geralt, shamelessly glad to have that solidity nearby to keep him grounded, and Geralt’s hand comes down on his shoulder and holds on.
“If you wanted to talk about it,” Geralt says after a while, the words stilted and clearly rehearsed, “I would listen.”
“I really don’t,” Jaskier says sharply. “Not yet. Maybe not ever.” The thought of putting it into words – how he was held, hurt, turned into nothing but flesh, made less than himself – no.
Geralt’s hand tightens, releases, accepting and calm.
“It’s just,” Jaskier continues, for he never met a situation he couldn’t elaborate on, “I want it to be done, and how can it be done if I keep talking about it?”
“Sometimes things aren’t done until you talk about them,” says Geralt.
“Ah,” Jaskier says, suddenly very tired, “this is one of those ‘do as I say, not as I do’ situations, I see.”
He feels, rather than hears, the soft snort of acknowledgement as Geralt’s fingers pat gently at Jaskier’s shoulder again. Jaskier yawns, and rolls over on to his back so he can see Geralt’s eyes, which are looking down at him fondly. Geralt’s hand moves to nestle into his too-long hair, idly playing with it. It’s rather relaxing: the soft touch, the crackle of the fire, the measured sound of Geralt breathing. “I do love you,” Jaskier says, and closes his eyes.
“Hmmm,” Geralt says. “I love you too” – but by then, lulled by the warmth and the quiet, Jaskier is fast asleep.
2
For the first week after they brought him to the keep, Jaskier made do with stand-up-and-splash washes, careful of the deep red bruising under his skin. His feet were too hurt to risk taking off the bandages wrapped round them, and his fingers trembled too much from the aches everywhere for him to consider it safe to shave. He’s halfway along to a full beard and his hair has grown enough that it’s falling into his eyes and shaggy against the back of his neck and he hates it.
The witchers spend most of their mornings sparring – with one of them training Ciri – and most of their afternoons patching up the castle, while Ciri studies magic with Yennefer. This essentially leaves Jaskier with nothing to do and no one to do it with. He’s sleeping badly, starved of company, trapped in a body that still doesn’t feel like his own, and every day that passes leaves him more bored and more miserable.
He’s sitting at the dining table feeling sorry for himself one lunchtime when Yennefer comes in; she doesn’t tend to wake till noon. Jaskier has no idea what the state of affairs are between her and Geralt, and doesn’t have the energy to ask. She helped save his life, and he figures that makes up for the time she threatened it, so he’s trying to be nice, all right?
“Afternoon, foul sorceress,” he greets her. (He’s not trying to be that nice.)
“It stinks of sadness and sweat in here,” she retorts. “Is that you?”
“...Yeah, probably.” He sighs. “I really need to bathe.”
“You really do,” Yennefer says, lips twitching. “Want me to show you where?”
He tries not to show her eager he is – more for the novelty than anything else – as he follows her through the dark stone corridors, into a good-sized room with a large pool along one side of it. The water is steaming gently, and glowing lamps hang suspended from the ceiling.
“Did you do this?” he asks her, dipping one hand in the warm, clear blue water. It’s the cleanest he’s ever seen, but he can’t see where it comes from, or how it might get replaced.
“I got it working again,” Yennefer says, “but the original spell is much older, from when there were mages here overseeing the Trials. If I were trapped in a castle with dozens of hard-training teenagers, I would have made it a priority to have endless fresh bathwater available too.”
“Good point,” Jaskier says vaguely. There are towels piled on a bench to one side, soap on a shelf above them. It’s the most glorious thing he’s ever seen.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Yennefer says, laughing at him a little before departing with a swish of her clothes.
HIs fingers are a little shaky as he fumbles to get undressed: his nails are still bruised and any movement pulls at the scabs around his wrists. But he manages to strip soon enough, and he grabs a bar of soap and then limps towards the bath. He’s always been rather proud of his body – it’s his tool for both music and seduction, after all – and he avoids looking at it now, as much as he can. He’s lost weight and muscle both, and he’s still black and blue, like something decaying. It’s disgusting, but at least he can get clean. That’s a start.
The bathwater is a little hotter than he would have chosen, presumably set to a witcher’s tolerance more than a man’s, but it eases his aching bones as he sinks into it, his head resting against the side. He lingers there for what feels like a long time, luxuriating in water that doesn’t grow tepid, before lathering the soap over his body. When he twists to wipe it away, the suds cloud the water briefly before vanishing. Magic. If more mages used it for things like this, they’d be a lot more popular.
He doesn’t have a razor with him, or a mirror, so the mess on his face will have to wait, but he can wash the greasy carpet on his head. He kicks into the centre of the pool, where the bottom slopes away, and tips on to his back to wet his hair. As he moves, the water splashes against a cheek, a droplet landing on his lips, and—
The hands on his shoulders are pressing him down, down, no matter how much he struggles, his arms tied behind him, allowing no purchase. He’s submerged before he can take a breath, the water solid against his skin, his nose, his mouth, pushing its way in. He chokes and it fills his lungs, darkness building behind his eyes, and he tries to scream out the answer they’re looking for but there’s only—
Silence, aside from his sharp, panicky inhalations. He thrashes like a fish on the line, almost throwing himself bodily to the shallow side of the pool where he hunches, face in wet hands, unable to move, barely able to breathe.
He stays like that for who knows how many minutes, mind caught in a whirl of terror he simply cannot break, tears stinging his eyes. He should get out of the water but he’s locked in place, every trembling muscle tight. A prisoner of his own useless body, again.
“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and he flinches. He didn’t even hear the witcher come in.
“Go away,” he mutters into his palms.
Geralt grunts as he settles into a cross-legged position by the side of the pool. “I cried in here once,” he says conversationally.
The lure is too much. Jaskier looks up and round. “No you didn’t.”
“I did,” Geralt says. “I can’t remember why. I must have lost a fight, or been punished for something, I doubt it was worse than normal, but it must have seemed so, that day.” He looks as calm as he always does when he speaks of monstrous things, which always leaves Jaskier feeling both desperate to comfort him and inadequate to do so. Geralt tips his head. “Why are you crying?”
“I can’t wash my hair,” Jaskier says, and tries on a shaky smile: see how ridiculous I’m being. He doesn’t elaborate further, and perhaps Geralt assumes it’s due to the aches in his shoulders because he only shifts a little and doesn’t ask.
“I could help,” he says instead, almost shyly.
Jaskier gapes at him, because, well, that’s new. But what the hell. It’s not like the old ways were working brilliantly for him.
“Sure,” he says. “Just – can you try not to get water on my face?”
Geralt’s eyes darken with what looks like understanding, and Jaskier turns his back on him, waits for Geralt to fetch more soap. He kneels behind him on the side of the pool, tilts Jaskier’s head gently back, and uses one hand to scoop water over Jaskier’s head, his other hand guarding against any spillages.
By the time he’s massaging soap into Jaskier’s hair, Jaskier’s drifting again, relaxed by the soothing touch of Geralt’s fingers. He’s so relaxed that once all the soap is rinsed out he simply pulls himself up out of the bath and goes to fetch a towel. It isn’t until he hears Geralt’s indrawn breath that he remembers what a wreck he is.
“Ah, fuck,” he says, and limps faster to the bench before pulling the cloth tight around himself as if that will make Geralt forget what he saw. “Sorry. I know it’s not pretty.”
“Jaskier…” Geralt pauses, then takes two strides over, pulling him into his arms.
Jaskier flails a little. “Geralt! You’re being ridiculous. I’ll get you wet.”
“Bathwater is a step up from the things that usually get me wet,” Geralt tells him.
“And I’m glad I’m not drowner guts, Geralt, but honestly, what are you doing?”
“You looked sad,” Geralt says. “I’m hugging you.”
“Wow,” Jaskier says. “Um.” Quasi-fatherhood really must be changing him.
“You don’t like it?”
“No! No, I like it, it’s just… not very you.”
“I’m trying something new,” Geralt says.
“Right,” Jaskier says. He pauses. “Er. Why?”
Geralt unwraps his arms. “Because you are pretty,” he says. He’s looking very… intent about something.
“Thank you!” Jaskier says. He takes a step back, bends over to collect his clothes. “I’d better, um, go now,” he adds, and flees before the day can get any more distressing.
3
The drinks on offer at Kaer Morhen are: water (fresh, clean, fucking cold when first hauled up from the well); small beer (which no one seems to like much); wine (conjured by Yennefer from somewhere); White Gull (poisonous to non-witchers); and whatever Lambert distills in one of the cellar rooms (possibly just poisonous).
Ciri went to bed hours ago, thank the gods, and Vesemir some time back, probably around the same time Eskel and Lambert got into an arm wrestling competition which nearly knocked the table over. Yennefer is lying on the settle, a glass of wine in one hand, watching the rest of them with fascinated disdain, and Jaskier is slumped on the table. He drank two shots of Lambert’s latest batch after quite a lot of wine and he feels the kind of terrific that is likely to rebound with equal terribleness tomorrow.
Somehow, they have got on to talking about sex. Jaskier has no idea how. Something about a succubus? It had the air of an old story, one he doesn’t know.
“Just because the extra trials made you bigger all over,” Eskel is telling Geralt. “It’s not the size, it’s the skill. Same with all swordplay.” He wriggles his eyebrows, which is neat, Jaskier would like to be able to do that.
“I am an excellent swords – player – man,” Geralt says loudly. “Yenn, tell them.”
“Darling,” Yennefer drawls, “I really couldn’t rule on that without a fair comparison.”
“If you’re offering—” Lambert says, smirking, and Yennefer sets his sleeve on fire. Geralt tries to put it out by upending the flagon of White Gull over it which sets it more on fire, and by the time they’ve dealt with that, Jaskier has mostly forgotten what they were arguing about. He’s almost asleep on the table when Geralt taps him on the head.
“Wass’t?” he asks blearily.
“I do have a really good cock,” Geralt slurs at him. “D’you want to see it?”
Fucking hell he’s drunk. “No, you’re all right,” Jaskier slurs back. “Not at the table, eh?”
Geralt looks deeply crestfallen.
“I wish I had my lute,” Jaskier says sadly. “The songs I could sing about the crazy things you lot do with your cocks.”
“No more songs!” Lambert shouts.
“You don’t go back once you’ve had wolf pack,” Jaskier warbles; Lambert growls and leaps at him; Geralt gets in the way; and everything descends once more into chaos.
In the morning, Geralt seems to be avoiding meeting his eye, but Jaskier’s too distracted by the army of dwarves hammering in his head to think much of it.
4
The winter is past its peak faster than Jaskier would have credited; the snow still lies deep on the ground outside but he can see green starting to break through in the distant valleys. Time is moving on, whether he wants it to or no. He spends his days reading in the library or helping out with small chores here and there. He mostly sleeps without nightmares. His bruises are all gone, and he’s filling out again – a combination of the witchers’ well-stocked stores and the fact that Ciri is making him spar with her, “because I can beat you at least!”
He isn’t, quite yet, worrying about what happens next, but he can sense that worry in the distance, drawing nearer. The bitterness of the mountain and the pain of his imprisonment have faded into scars, he would be happy on the Path with Geralt again, but what Path will Geralt be walking, now Destiny has its hand firmly on him? There’s no place there for a bard, surely – yet where else could he go, with no lute, and presumably a search still out for him… And besides, Geralt asked him to stay.
His morose mood is not helped by the way he keeps interrupting Geralt and Yennefer in hushed conversations, falling silent as he enters the room. He’s fine with them being fine with each other, he truly is, but he’s never liked being left out of people’s secrets. It makes him feel like they’re laughing at him. (Also, deep inside, lies a small tender hurt: that Geralt kind of kissed him, that Geralt seemed to want something more than his loyalty and friendship, and yet has shown no sign of acting on that since. Jaskier half wonders if he dreamed it, now.)
When the snow outside the walls shrinks to less than his own height he scoops Ciri up and drags her outside to play in it, claiming that the construction and defense of a snow fortress is just as good training as anything the witchers can come up with. Within half an hour, Lambert and Eskel have decided to join in, and Jaskier’s hands are soon numb from hurling snowballs and his face numb from laughing so hard. They stumble back to the castle freezing but exhilarated, both sides refusing to admit defeat.
Geralt and Yennefer are standing in the main hall, both in fur coats with snow caught in their hair – easy to see on the witch, harder with Geralt. As the rest of them tumble in, Geralt turns, holding something out to Jaskier.
It’s a black case, utterly nondescript, entirely familiar.
Jaskier stops so suddenly Ciri barrels into him. His legs tremble and give way and then he’s sitting on the ground, staring up at Geralt. Hushed voices around him barely register, people move away, and then Geralt is kneeling in front of him, pushing the case forward.
“I didn’t want to get your hopes up,” he says gruffly. “And we had to wait till the snow cleared enough that Yenn could get beyond the wards to portal.”
“Geralt,” Jaskier says, marvelling, his hands unlatching the case and hovering over the beautiful curved shape of his lute, shining and untouched. “What – where – how?”
“You told us where you were taken from,” Geralt shrugs. “We went back. Asked around. The owner of the barn kept it, he knew it was valuable. He was waiting till the spring to take it to market in the nearest town. We convinced him what he really wanted to do was return it to its owner.”
“Fuck,” Jaskier breathes. He’s almost too frightened to touch it in case this turns out to be a dream and it falls apart under his fingers.
“I’m afraid he picked apart all your suits to make clothes for his children, though.”
“Screw my clothes, he can have them and be damned. My lute! Darling, did you miss me?” he asks her, lifting her at last from the case. The strings are loose, but there are spares in a pouch, it won’t be long before he can get her back in order. He looks up at Geralt, who’s smiling at him. “I can’t believe you went to find her. She was the first thing I ever got from following you, and here she is again.”
“Her, bruised ribs, a black eye…” Geralt says.
“And a story!” Jaskier retorts. “And you, love. It was well worth the pain.”
“Hmmm,” Geralt says, but he seems pleased. “Jaskier, you know I—”
“I am going to play until my fingers bleed, you sexy thing,” Jaskier tells his lute. “Sorry, what?”
Geralt sighs. “Nothing,” he says. “It can wait. Also, don’t do that.”
“Mmm,” Jaskier says. He totally will.
(He does. He doesn’t regret it. Not when he glances up and sees Ciri leaning into Geralt, swaying a little with the music, and the witcher looking almost stunned with pride and happiness.)
5
The Lion Cub of Cintra is very easy to love. She’s managed to charm Geralt, Yennefer and a gaggle of ancient surly witchers; Jaskier presents no challenge at all. He’s almost glad now that he never tried to go back to Calenthe’s court, as he had occasionally considered: the thought of having had any information about her at all to give his captors breaks him out in a cold sweat.
Currently she is proving whose granddaughter she is by giving Lambert as good as she gets while Vesemir stalks around them both, making no doubt acerbic but accurate criticisms of their form. Jaskier is tucked into an alcove at the edge of the courtyard, as sheltered as he can get from the wind, contemplating the song he’s going to write about all this when Ciri is safe and back on her throne, or Queen-Witcher-Sorceress of the entire Continent, or whatever she grows up to be. He’s pretty sure Ciri will achieve whatever she decides on.
There’s a soft footfall next to him and Jaskier turns to see Geralt, who’s been out hunting with Eskel. Though Jaskier, Yennefer and Ciri combined probably don’t add up to another witcher in terms of consumption, there are more mouths to feed than expected, and now the snow’s clearing it’s possible to stretch out their supplies with whatever animals are starting to emerge from their dens.
“How are they doing?”
“You’re asking me?” Jaskier says, laughing. “They’re successfully hitting each other with sticks, that’s about all I can tell you.”
The sun is on Geralt’s face, rendering his pale skin paler and his eyes opaque. He says, hesitantly, “she seems… happy… here.”
“Oh, love.” Jaskier lets himself lean on the witcher. “Of course she is. I mean, she’s been through some awful shit, that’s not going away, but… She can be who she wants, here, not prodded and pushed into a role. They were starting to think about betrothal, before the invasion, can you imagine that child betrothed?”
Over in the courtyard, Ciri kicks Lambert in the balls. Jaskier winces in sympathy, and gestures to say, see?
“But she had her family,” Geralt mutters. “Fine clothes. Fine food.”
Ouch. Jaskier treads carefully. “I’m sure Calenthe loved her,” he says, “and I can’t speak for Ciri, but – I grew up noble, too, you know, and sometimes all the luxuries in the world don’t make up for other things. Freedom, understanding, trust. Obviously the witcher training was worse, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, but you can be miserable in a mansion as well.”
“Were you miserable?” Geralt asks.
Jaskier has to pause then. He doesn’t talk about his childhood much. “I was,” he says. “Not all the time, but often. I knew I couldn’t be what my parents wanted, and I hated disappointing them. They tried so hard, too, they weren’t mean about it, they sent me to Oxenfurt and everything. But they thought I’d grow up, grow out of wanting to travel and make music, and, well.”
“I can’t see you running an estate,” Geralt says, and Jaskier grins at him.
“I know, exactly, can you imagine? I’d have been terrible, constantly running off in search of entertainment…”
There are other things he could say: that having learned the habit early of wishing to please people and failing badly at it, he has spent his life lurching from person to person, always trying, always messing it up. Because there remains a stubborn streak at the heart of him, and no matter how hard he wants to be someone his lovers will love, he won’t change for them. Jaskier knows Geralt would prefer he was quieter, got into less trouble, but not to the point of resenting him for it. He doesn’t think Geralt knows how rare that is. And Jaskier, too, has always loved Geralt both in spite of and because of himself, he wouldn’t wish him different at all.
“You’re doing a good job,” he tells Geralt. “You’re there for her, but you’re letting her figure out who she is for herself. That’s more than most of us get.”
Geralt makes a vaguely unconvinced noise, but he squeezes Jaskier’s hand in acknowledgement. “I really came out to say lunch is ready,” he says after a while.
“Well why didn’t you lead with that?” Jaskier complains, raising his voice to call the others over.
When they enter the dining hall, along with a heavy cauldron of stew and freshly baked bread, there is a bunch of early snowdrops on the table, arranged with no great skill in a small pewter tankard. “Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier says, charmed, hitting the witcher on his arm. “Ciri, d’you see that? Geralt brought you flowers.”
Ciri springs forward, leaning over to sniff at the delicate white buds. “They smell like spring,” she says happily. “Thank you, Geralt.”
“Hmmm. You’re welcome,” Geralt says stiffly. On the other side of the table, Eskel grimaces at them both and rolls his eyes. Jaskier can’t help but think that’s rather rude.
+1
“This is getting fucking ridiculous!” Lambert says, tugging the heavy bestiary out of Jaskier’s hands and throwing it to the floor in disgust. “I’m done with your bullshit.”
Jaskier takes a moment to remember how to breathe, then another to be pleased that the shock didn’t turn him into a trembling wreck; he really has got better.
“You better not let Vesemir catch you manhandling the books,” he says mildly, sitting up straighter in the overstuffed armchair and releasing a cloud of dust as he does so. It’s late afternoon, and the light through the leaded windows is starting to dim as dusk falls; he would have needed to light a candle soon, though he’s not sure he’ll have time to carry on reading once he’s talked an angry witcher down. Lambert’s bark is – mostly – worse than his bite, but you can never be totally sure. “What bullshit?”
“You and Geralt!” Lambert snarls. He’s not in his armour, he smells faintly of hard liquor so he’s probably come from the still. “Wandering around filling the place with sadness and lust, can you just fuck already and get over it?”
Jaskier blinks. He’s almost sure Lambert’s not joking, though it’s sometimes hard to tell. “Sadness and lust? No he isn’t.”
“Ah, fuck.” Lambert collapses deflated into the other armchair, where Ciri sometimes come to read and keep him company. “I thought you’d have more sense than my brother but you’re even worse.”
“Lambert,” Jaskier says, “I really don’t know what you think you’ve seen – ” (or smelt, he thinks, wincing) “ – but I assure you, Geralt is definitely not lusting over me.”
Lambert groans and throws an arm over his eyes. “It’s worse,” he says. “He’s trying to woo you.”
Jaskier can’t help it; he laughs, full-throated. “He most certainly is not.”
“How do you go a-wooing, bard?” Lambert demands.
“Um.” Jaskier sits up straighter, takes refuge in academic discourse. “Traditionally, there’s all kinds of ways, according to the songs, and I’ve always been a traditionalist. Music, compliments, flowers, acts of service, and if all else fails I’ve found just going up to people and asking has a surprisingly high hit-rate.”
Lambert stares at him meaningfully for a long, frozen minute.
“Oh,” Jaskier says weakly. Flowers. Music. Compliments. Acts of service. “Fuck.”
“Thank fucking finally,” Lambert mutters, but by then Jaskier is already out of the chair and stumbling on shaking legs out of the library.
He finds Geralt in the stables, grooming Eskel’s horse; Jaskier knows how much he misses Roach, lost somewhere in the destruction of Cintra. His heart flips in his chest. Is he really going to do this? It feels like closing his eyes and falling backwards, hoping to land on something soft.
Geralt looks up, no doubt alerted by his hammering pulse. “What’s wrong?” he asks, tensing. “Did something—”
“Lambert says you’re wooing me!” Jaskier blurts out. Smooth, he tells himself.
It’s always been amazing to him, that people call Geralt emotionless, inexpressive. The feelings are utterly clear as they pass over Geralt’s face in small twitches of eyes and mouth: surprise, guilt, embarrassment, at last a terrible uncertainty. “It doesn’t seem to be working,” he says.
“I didn’t know! Geralt! Since when?”
A very small smile curves Geralt’s lips. “I told you I love you,” he says. “And I asked if you wanted to see my cock.”
“I would have fucking remembered that!” Jaskier is uncomfortably aware of how high-pitched his voice is getting. He’s surrounded by people with excellent hearing, after all.
“You might have been asleep,” Geralt mutters. “And drunk.”
“Then it doesn’t count!” Jaskier shouts, vaguely hysterical. “I wasn’t – I didn’t – I’m the one who chases after people with songs and posies, Geralt, not you! You just stand there all glowering and sexy and then somehow end up in bed with people! How was I supposed to know?”
Geralt puts his currying brush down and approaches Jaskier carefully, like he’s a skittish animal. He smells of his usual scent of horse and monster bits and onion. There is really no reason for it to make Jaskier swoon and yet it always bloody does. “Would you like to end up in bed with me?” he asks.
“Yes!” Jaskier says, and before he knows it Geralt has swept his legs from under him, hoisted him into his arms and is carrying him back towards the keep. “Geralt – no – what are you doing? I’m not a blushing maiden!”
“Let me do this properly,” Geralt says, grinning, the absolute arse. They go through the kitchen, where Eskel gives them an appreciative wolf whistle, and up the stairs, where Yennefer raises an ironic eyebrow as she passes.
“Oh gods,” Jaskier says, burying his red face in Geralt’s shoulder, “please don’t let her cast a spell on my penis, I’m begging you.”
“She probably won’t,” Geralt says, not at all reassuringly. He seems to hesitate. “We – we’re figuring out what we are to each other, but we are something. You don’t mind?”
“You can fuck the rest of the world for all I care as long as you fuck me sometimes,” Jaskier assures him, as Geralt nudges open the door to his room and deposits him carefully on the bed.
Geralt frowns at him. “Don’t do that,” he says, and when Jaskier mimes confusion, goes on, “don’t act like what you want isn’t as important as what other people want.”
“That is appallingly hypocritical of you,” Jaskier points out. He flops on to his side, hiding his mortification, his face turned away. “I’m just… unaccustomed to other people caring about me as much as I care about them.”
Geralt lies down next to him on the bed, rolls him back over and looks at him solemnly. “I care for you more than I know how to express,” he says. “That’s always been the problem.”
Jaskier’s heart may melt. “Darling,” he says. “Show me, then?”
Geralt’s hands are on his shoulders, pulling him forward into a kiss. His lips are dry, his skin cool from the outdoors, his movements tentative. Jaskier sinks into it, deepening the kiss. They break it off, and Jaskier sees his beam matched in Geralt’s shining eyes. “Let me take care of you,” Geralt says, moving so he’s kneeling astride Jaskier’s body. He bends to unbutton Jaskier’s shirt, pushing the cloth away to trace light fingers over Jaskier’s chest, mapping routes that seem to make sense to him while Jaskier shudders under his touch.
“Oh,” he says. “Mmm. Yes.” Geralt bends further, following the path of his fingers with his mouth, trailing kisses down to the edge of Jaskier’s breeches. He arches, writhing, says, “off, off,” and lets Geralt strip him bare. His greedy hands reach for Geralt’s back, but Geralt catches them both with one hand, presses him back down into the mattress.
“Don’t move,” he says. “Let me.”
He’s fully dressed still, leather-clad thighs either side of Jaskier’s legs, holding him still. Jaskier surrenders to it, letting his muscles go slack, locking his eyes on Geralt as Geralt shifts, rocking his groin against Jaskier’s cock, which goes from half-mast to full salute embarrassingly quickly. Geralt bends forwards again, kisses him again, his neck, his nipples, making a claim to every inch of his skin, till Jaskier feels the ghost of his touch everywhere. “Geralt,” he gasps. “I want – I want – ”
“I’ve got you,” Geralt says. “Hush, now.” He licks his finger, moves Jaskier’s legs wider, presses it gently to the rim of Jaskier’s hole, making him almost arch off the bed, making Geralt chuckle. He shifts back, off the bed, pulling Jaskier forward with him, then goes to his knees. He lifts Jaskier’s legs over his shoulders, dips his head down, licking carefully at the rim till Jaskier cries out.
“That’s it,” Geralt says. “Let me.” His tongue circles, dipping in, and Jaskier loses time, loses everything but the sensation of it. Eventually Geralt stops, but before Jaskier can mourn the loss Geralt’s mouth is over the head of his cock, one of his hands wrapped round the base, the other playing at his rim. Geralt sinks his mouth down and there’s just – heat, wet, speed, rough yet gentle, a tongue flicking at his head, a finger flicking at his balls, a crescendo of touch and tenderness and love.
When Jaskier comes the world goes white.
When it fades, Geralt is lying beside him again, a gentle hand cupping his face where, it seems, Jaskier has maybe shed a tear or two. “My love,” Jaskier murmurs, kisses him deep.
“Was that—” Geralt says and seems to struggle for words.
“Perfect,” Jaskier says. “You’re perfect. You can woo me any time. All the time.” He tries to sit up, but doesn’t get very far. “Shall I—” he says, gesturing vaguely at Geralt’s crotch.
Geralt smiles. “Later,” he says. “Think I wore you out.”
“Lies and slander,” Jaskier retorts, admittedly without moving. He closes his eyes, feels Geralt’s head relax on his chest, his hair brushing Jaskier’s neck. “Stay,” he says.
“Always,” says Geralt.