Archive of Our Own

Jaskier smiles charmingly as the last notes of his song fade into the tavern air, heavy with cheap alcohol and sweat.

It’s a cold night, and it feels like half the town had gathered at the relatively large ground floor of the only inn in the area. Men, women and even a kid here and there have all come here to get drunk beyond comprehension and listen to the ballads about the White Wolf.

Geralt is tucked away in the darkest of corners, with his back to the wall, sipping on the second mug of watered-down ale and watching the bard from behind it. Jaskier bows theatrically as his audience applauds, whistles and demands another song, but Geralt can see that he’s tired.

It’s probably not something anyone else would have noticed, but they’ve been travelling together for far too long now for Geralt not to know every single one of his little gestures and facial expressions.

Jaskier smiles – a bright and happy smile that reaches his shining eyes – but his shoulders are lower than usual, his fingers, moving over the strings of his lute are slower, and whenever he catches Geralt’s gaze, there’s that tired little look in his eyes that disappears before anyone else can pick it up.

“My dear friends,” Jaskier says, a hand over his heart. “I can’t deny you the pleasure of one last song.”

The audience applauds, tosses coins onto the table he’s sitting atop of and spills their drinks everywhere, gestures broad and drunken.

Jaskier’s eyes flick over Geralt in one swift motion, a smile tugging on the corner of his lips as picks up the chord. It’s a sweet and tragic ballad about a young knight praying to the gods for them to give him wings so that he can save his beloved from a tall tower only for him to eventually break against the stones upon which the tower is standing.

Jaskier’s been putting it together for weeks, never truly happy with it until a few days ago when they’ve ran into a few harpies and he had the chance to examine their wings, ignoring Geralt’s grunts of protest.

It’s not that the witcher was necessarily against Jaskier’s curiosity, it’s that he knew for a fact that after poking around a dead and bloodied harpy, the bard would insist they stop by a river for him to spend the next hour washing himself off. And rivers weren’t the safest of places in these areas.

“See, Witcher,” Jaskier grins, dropping onto the bench next to him. “I told you it’s going to be worth it.”

Geralt gives him a little side-look and acknowledges the words with an emotion that can be interpreted as slight amusement. “Hm.”

He also thinks that having Jaskier address him as “Witcher” stirs something inside him every single time but it’s not something that can put his finger on.

The innkeeper brings the bard a plate of potatoes, bread and cheese, along with a mug of ale, and Jaskier doesn’t even bother with a fork, tearing pieces from his bread that he then tops with cheese and potatoes before popping it into his mouth.

It’s been almost a week since they’ve eaten properly, and Geralt feels a weight drop off his shoulders that he wasn’t aware of before. If stews, consisting almost entirely out of edible roots with an occasional hare every now and then was a fine enough meal for him, he doubted it was enough for Jaskier.

Humans had faster metabolism, he knew that, and a lot of the times Jaskier was still walking rather than riding with him, even though Geralt had offered that option.

“If I ride with you, I can’t play the lute,” he would say.

There were times that Geralt felt truly marvelled by just how strong the bard actually was. He would never complain about eating too little, about sleeping on the cold ground, about walking miles and miles on end. He would tolerate Geralt snapping at him for no reason and only really take offence when the witcher would cross a line.

At times like that, he would push his shoulders back, a hurt expression in his eyes, and either silently follow Roach, keeping further back than usual, or walk off somewhere, also without saying a word. And even if he did the latter, he would always stay in Geralt’s sight, because doing otherwise was dangerous and unnerving for both of them.

Usually, Geralt knew that he was wrong the second the words would leave his lips. But all the anger, weariness and whatnot would keep him from making up with the bard for a good few hours. And when he finally did, Jaskier would just pick up right at where they left off before the fight, never lingering on being hurt or upset or angry.

Sometimes, when he would give Geralt one of those heartfelt smiles, despite there still being that same hurt look in his cornflower-blue eyes, Geralt felt like he didn’t deserve him.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts when Jaskier shoves him slightly with his elbow and gestures to the half-empty plate.

“Do you want some?” he asks, his mouth still full. “I should’ve asked sooner, sorry.”

Geralt definitely didn’t deserve him.

“I ate,” Geralt says, and it’s not a total lie, because he did have a weird soup earlier in the evening. “Go ahead and eat.”

Jaskier narrows his eyes at him, but Geralt’s expression is unbreakable, so he chooses to believe him and goes back to his food, finishing it in a matter of minutes. He then gestures for another round of ale – which is his third one of the evening, not taking into account whatever that lemon shit that he’d been pouring into himself between the songs was – and when the innkeeper’s daughter brings it to him, she leans down so low that her breasts are on full display, and Geralt feels an unreasonable desire to storm off, taking Jaskier with him.

But the bard just laughs at something she tells him, and brushes his knee over Geralt’s under the table, paying no real attention to the girl. She seems to get that quick enough and, pressing her pretty lips into a frown, leaves.

Geralt can feel the warmth radiating off of Jaskier’s body, and he can feel the bard’s knee where it’s still pressed against his own.

He’s been doing things like this lately.

Little touches, gestures, looks, every single one played upon like it’s nothing. And each time Geralt would get the same sensation somewhere in between the bones of his spine. It’s wasn’t by any means unpleasant, it was just… foreign.

“It’s so sweet, how you get all jealous,” Jaskier grins again, watching the older man carefully.

“Fuck off, bard,” Geralt grunts, rolling his eyes but not pulling his leg back when Jaskier’s knee brushes over it again.

“Tell me, Witcher,” Jaskier urges, moving a little closer. “Why is that?”

Geralt really wishes he would stop calling him that with that voice. Except he really doesn’t.

“If you drag someone into bed, we’ll leave later in the morning that we should,” he finally says, opting for the most bullshit answer he can come up with.

Jaskier’s eyes widen as he throws his head back and laughs. Openly laughs at him.

“Oh,” he manages through his amusement. “Oh, is that the reason?”

Geralt can’t fucking bring himself to push Jaskier’s knee away, so instead, he grabs it without thinking first. The fabric of Jaskier’s blue breeches is soft under his fingers, and he can feel the fragile kneecap under it.

The younger man jumps slightly, but that just makes him laugh even harder, wiping at his eyes when he finally catches his breath.

“I  swear to gods, Geralt, you’re just something else.”

Geralt grunts something indecipherable and lets go of the bard’s knee, getting up to leave for their room where there is a bath waiting. Jaskier jumps right up to follow him, but Geralt just shoves his unfinished ale towards him with more strength than necessarily required and disappears upstairs.

***

The room is dimly lit by the fireplace, warm and quiet. That is, of course, reserved for the noise from downstairs.

Geralt lets out a slow breath, tossing his cloak onto his bed and sitting down to take his boots off.

The bed is surprisingly wide and – even more surprisingly – soft. It might just feel that in comparison to a week of sleeping on nothing but bedspreads on the ground, but it feels good, nonetheless.

Geralt is half-disappointed that there was a room with two separate beds.

Whenever they would stop at a smaller inn or in a one that has an exceptional number of guests for the night and they would have to opt for one bed, Geralt would feel that very same feeling crawling up his spine that he did whenever Jaskier would touch him.

Sharing a bed with him always felt nice, seeing just how warm and soft, and home-like the bard was. He would fall asleep quickly, safe and warm at the witcher’s side, and Geralt would stay up for an unknown amount of time, listening to his breathing and the little peaceful sounds he would make in his sleep. Geralt would study his face as if there was something left to study, and then, when he would feel like he still has every detail right, he would dose off.

More often than not, Jaskier would stir in his sleep and end up with his head on Geralt’s chest or in the crook of his neck, an arm or a leg – or both – thrown over him like he’s allowed.

Those were the best nights.

As Geralt undoes all the countless buckles of his armour, he thinks back on the one time that he was the one to ask Jaskier to move closer.

***

It was the previous winter – just as cold and unforgiving as this one – and he had managed to get three long claw marks on his side from an especially fast fogler. He had somehow ripped through the armour, leaving three bleeding gashes right under Geralt’s ribs. They burned, but in a feverish way, where at the same time they made him feel so cold that it was hard not to shake.

Jaskier was doing everything he could, his caring hands and worried eyes on Geralt all of the time, and it seemed like every time he would press a hand to Geralt’s side, the pain would slowly seep away through his long fingers.

And just like that, when they had finally gotten to an inn that both looked and felt like it was forsaken by the gods, Geralt already knew that he’ll have to get over himself.

The room was small, with only one bed, barely big enough for the two of them, but Jaskier had still managed to fall asleep soon after Geralt had assured him that he’s fine, and even though his sleep wasn’t as peaceful as usual, Geralt wanted him to get as much rest as he could.

Then, when his side started sending freezing cold waves throughout his body, despite the fireplace right next to the bed, he finally gave in, taking a deep breath and knowing that Jaskier will not let this go for the rest of eternity.

“Jask,” he called as soft as he could, reaching to touch the bard’s shoulder.  

Jaskier woke up immediately, like he wasn’t even asleep, blinking away the sleepy haze and adjusting to the dim light. In that light, his eyes seemed bottomless.

“What is it?” he asked in a hushed whisper, propping himself up on his elbow. “It’s your side, isn’t it? Should I call someone? Or maybe get you something from–”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted in the same soft manner. “There’s no need for you to call anyone, I’m not dying.”

The younger man pushed his hair out of his face and nodded reluctantly like he didn’t really believe the witcher’s words.

“I need to keep my side warm,” Geralt started, hoping that Jaskier will figure it out on his own while also knowing that even if he does, he will want to hear the actual words. “Could you?..”

Geralt trailed off, watching Jaskier carefully, catching the little changes in his face.

“Could I what, Geralt?”

Geralt sighed, closing his eyes, thinking that maybe he will be just fine the way he is, but the long road ahead demanded at least a few hours of sleep the night before, otherwise, he would just keep snapping at everyone and everything, until both Jaskier and Roach would have enough, and he’d be left to his own pain and exhaustion.

“Move closer,” he managed finally, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “To keep me warm.”

Somewhere deep inside, it felt like signing his own execution order.

But before he could say anything else or change his mind, Jaskier had already moved closer, his chest pressed against Geralt’s ribs, an arm around him. He shifted a little more, making sure to press himself as close to the witcher’s bandaged side as possible, and the warmth radiating off of him felt like actual heaven.

“Is this alright?” he asked quietly, slowly lowering his head onto Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt hesitated for an endless moment before moving his arm to put around Jaskier’s shoulders, pulling him closer still. “Hmm.”

The younger man sighed in relief, catching the edge of the blanket and pulling it higher up, to cover his shoulders. It wasn’t too thick of a blanket, clearly used for many years now, but it was enough to prevent the heat from escaping. His hair, messy from sleep, kept brushing over Geralt’s jaw as the bard shifted, looking for a position comfortable for him.

Geralt could feel his heartbeat where the bard’s chest was pressed against him, steady and growing slower as he was falling back asleep. The warmth, creeping slowly through Geralt’s entire body, washed over him soon enough for the witcher to not even realise when he’d fallen asleep.

***

Geralt runs his hand through his hair, shaking the memory off, and gets into the tub, separated from the room with nothing but a folding screen.

The water is almost too hot for a human to handle, but for him, it’s just perfect, and Geralt closes his eyes blissfully, feeling the cold of winter start to give way. His head is clear of thoughts, and he almost falls asleep, missing Jaskier’s steps as he makes his way up the stairs and into the room, swinging the door open with a little more force than intended and shushing it as it slams into the wall.

Geralt opens his eyes with a grunt, watching Jaskier close the door quietly, his movements unsteady from alcohol. It only takes so much to get him drunk, he thinks.

“Ah, Geralt,” the bard acknowledges him as he turns on his heels and notices the witcher. “You’re having a bath, perfect, I could really use one.”

Geralt knows that protesting is both selfish and completely useless, so he just curses under his breath and moves closer to his end of the tub, shoulder blades pressed to the rim.

“Someone spilt their fucking drink on me, would you imagine that,” Jaskier mutters, more to himself than to Geralt, as he fumbles with the ties and buttons on his clothing.

Over the years, they’ve gotten so used to changing in front of each other that there is no longer that little flush of pink on his cheeks, and Geralt isn’t sure if he prefers it this way or not. It’s hard for him not to stare, even though he’d memorised what seems like every line of Jaskier’s body by now.

The younger man has his back to him, already out of his doublet and shirt, and Geralt’s gaze slowly follows the line of his spine, defined in the most beautiful of ways. He knows that there are little dimples at either side at the bottom of it, still hidden from sight by the blue fabric.

He watches Jaskier’s shoulder blades move as he undoes the ties on his breeches, his gaze transfixed on a little birthmark on the bard’s right shoulder blade. It’s only slightly darker than his otherwise pale skin, with uneven edges, and it strangely reminds Geralt of one of the Skellige Isles.

By willpower alone, he makes himself avert his eyes before Jaskier gets the chance to notice and keeps them focused on a potted plant in the corner of the room until the bard steps into the tub, hissing from just how hot the water is but getting in, nonetheless.

Jaskier closes his eyes, head thrown back over the rim of the tub and makes a little noise in the back of his throat that sounds more like a moan than it does like anything else.

Geralt has to press his tongue into his upper teeth and take in a deep breath to not think about it.

The tub isn’t meant for two and is clearly small for them, but Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice – or, rather, mind – that he’s got his thigh pressed to Geralt’s ankle. His own ankles are somewhere under Geralt’s bended knees, and the witcher can’t help but reach his hand to wrap over one of them.

Jaskier doesn’t really react, as though he’d been expecting it, and his head is still thrown back, making it impossible for Geralt to see his face.

Geralt knows that in a little while, the bard’s skin will get hypersensitive from the too-hot water. He wonders how would Jaskier react if he touched him then. If he kissed him then, pressing his lips to the reddened skin.

“You know,” Jaskier says, lifting his head and yanking Geralt out of his thoughts. “You really don’t have to be jealous.”

Geralt rolls his eyes.

“Drop it, Jask.”

He isn’t sure as on when exactly he’d started calling him that. More than a year ago, for certain, but no matter how hard he tries to recall the exact moment, he can’t seem to.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m deeply flattered,” the bard continues, ignoring Geralt’s words. “But there’s really no need for you to be like that, I’ve stopped sleeping around a pretty long time ago – of all people you should know that.”

Geralt does know that.

He knows that it’s been almost a year by now since he’d last seen someone’s marks on Jaskier’s neck and wanted to rip that someone apart. A year of an egotistical bliss of knowing that if he can’t have the bard – no one can.

“Jaskier,” he warns, voice deep and ragged, fingers tightening around the bard’s ankle.

“Alright-alright, I know,” he gives up, raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “We don’t talk about this.”

His eyes are somehow even brighter when he’s drunk, Geralt realises once again. They catch the dancing flames of the fireplace next to the tub and shift from that beautiful cornflower blue into something deeper, darker, like an ocean at night, and the way they fucking shine makes Geralt wish he could drown in them.

Jaskier plays with the ring on his finger, twisting it back and forth, and Geralt knows him well enough to know that whenever he’s fidgeting with his hands like that, he’s either nervous or is trying to find something to say.

“Ah, well,” he finally says, leaving his ring alone. “I just wanted to let you know.”

And then, before Geralt gets the chance to answer:

“Would you help me with my hair?”

Geralt decides that if this shall be the end of him, then be it, because he cannot find it in himself to say "no" to Jaskier – not right now, when he’s so close, so warm and so drunk. So, he just sighs quietly, letting go of the bard’s ankle and sitting up to give him a little more space to move.

“Come here,” he says, already fully aware that he will think about this again and again in the days to come, driving himself mad.

Jaskier smiles, so happy and sincere that it almost hurts, and shifts closer to Geralt, turning his back to him, movements a little too fast and a little too wide from the alcohol, with its effect only enhanced by the heat. He’s close enough to throw his head back and rest in on Geralt’s shoulder, eyes wandering around the room aimlessly until he discovers the witcher’s left arm resting on the tub’s rim and sits up, taking it into his hands like he’s never seen it before.

His fingers, long and thin in ways that should be illegal, follow the lines of Geralt’s hand, tracing the knuckles and the little, barely visible scars. He then flips the man’s hand over, placing a finger over one of the lines of his palm and following it, deeply concentrated on his task. The smile leaves his lips, but his eyes are shining.

For reasons that Geralt can’t rationalise, he doesn’t take his hand away. For reasons beyond his comprehension entirely, he doesn’t want to. 

“Find anything interesting?” he asks, making Jaskier jump a little for the second time in the past hour.

With his other hand, he reaches to trace a little imprint on the bard’s shoulder, where there had been a fold in the fabric of his shirt. His skin is even softer than he remembers.

“I can see where you hold Roach’s reins,” Jaskier informs him, leaning into the touch.

“Hm.”

Geralt moves his hand from Jaskier’s shoulder to the back of his neck, slowly making his way up into his hair to run his fingers through it.

Jaskier shivers enough only for someone with their senses as high as Geralt’s to feel and his fingers grab tighter onto the witcher’s arm. His chest keeps on rising and falling steadily, but his heart picks up its pace, an artery pulsing harder under the delicate skin of his neck.

Geralt pulls his other hand free without the bard protesting much and reaches for the soap that fills the entire room with the smell of chamomile. Before he gets the chance to return into his initial position, Jaskier shifts a little, his arms now casually resting on the witcher’s bended knees. He’s completely relaxed, with not even a hint of shyness, and Geralt will probably never tell him just how much he loves that.

It’s been apparent from pretty much the first day, but the more time they’ve spent together, the clearer Geralt could see that Jaskier always knows what he wants. And along with that, if he likes something, he will take it without hesitation. 

The soap feels like oil on his hands as he runs them through Jaskier’s hair, his every sense at it’s highest.

He can feel his soft skin where it presses against him, the strands of his brown hair between his fingers, and all of those feeling he channels through himself, letting them course through his veins.

Jaskier mostly remains still, aside from his hands that just seem to have to touch something at all times. They move from Geralt’s knees all the way down his shins, to the ankles, outline the bones in them, and shift to the inner side, now somewhere on his calves, brushing over the muscles, never really stopping.

Jaskier doesn’t seem to really understand what he’s doing, based on the look in his heavy-lidded eyes and the slow movements, but it’s still enough to make Geralt half-hard.

He takes in a deep breath, forbidding himself to concentrate on the bard’s hands and instead washes his hair out. It’s not the easiest of tasks, given the limited space, but it’s nothing he can’t manage.

Jaskier’s hair falls into his eyes, slightly curly from the water, and Geralt can’t help but brush it away, letting his fingers linger on the bard’s temple, where he can feel his pulse.  

“We should do this more often,” Jaskier smiles, leaning further back, his back warm and slick against Geralt’s chest.

He watches something on the ceiling, eyes half-closed, and reaches a hand up behind him to run his fingers through Geralt’s hair, which only barely resembles the usual half-up half-down style after a week spent outside in the winter.

He does it like it’s nothing, like it’s an everyday thing for him.

Geralt had never been fond of someone touching his hair, let alone fucking playing with it, but Jaskier’s hands are gentle as he brushes out all the little knots and seemingly attempting to make a braid with only one hand, so the man lets it be, almost leaning into the touch. It makes his skin crawl in ways he can’t remember it ever doing.

“You’re drunk,” he says finally because he just needs to say something in order not to lose his fucking mind.

Jaskier hums something in response, a sleepy smile on his lips, and Geralt knows that he will probably regret it for the rest of his life, but he cannot withstand the need to touch him. He lifts his arm from where it’d been resting on the bard’s shoulder and brings it up to get Jaskier’s thin wrist in a soft grip and press a kiss onto it.

Jaskier’s eyelashes flutter as he closes his eyes with a little pleased smile on his lips, his arm completely relaxed in Geralt’s grip.

“That feels nice,” he murmurs with an undertone to his voice that Geralt can’t describe.

The feeling of Jaskier’s skin burns on his lips, and he presses another kiss onto his wrist, right above the first one. And then another one, above that, a little harder.

Jaskier exhales sharply, biting the inside of his lip, eyes still closed shut, and almost moans when Geralt’s other arm wraps around his waist to pull him even closer.

“Fuck,” he breathes out as Geralt paves a trail of dry kisses across his palm.

He smells of chamomile, and sage and lilies, and with every breath Geralt takes, he can feel his lungs filling up with that smell, leaving no space for anything else.

He lets go of Jaskier’s hand that immediately finds its way back into his hair, now outright pulling on the strands, and lets his attention shift to the bard’s shoulders, pressing smudged kisses onto them, making his way to his neck and barely holding himself back from biting.

He’s got no doubts that Jaskier would like it, but somewhere on the edge of his mind, he knows that Jaskier’s impossibly drunk and that he really shouldn’t even be kissing him right now. But fuck, it’s hard to stop.

“How drunk are you?” Geralt asks, his voice ragged, as his hand dips back into the water to find the younger man’s thigh and squeeze it.

It takes Jaskier a few seconds to blink his eyes open and take in a shaky breath.

“I’m not entirely sure that you’re real,” he says finally, making Geralt growl against the skin of his neck.

If someone’s not sure if they’re imagining you or not, it’s probably not the best time to try and fuck them, Geralt has to tell himself, pulling away from Jaskier with immeasurable effort.

The bard makes a disheartened sound, almost a whine, but doesn’t try to stop the other man’s hand as he takes it away from his thigh. His hand is still in Geralt’s hair, going back to brushing through it rather than pulling, and Geralt is grateful to every god he knows that Jaskier can’t concentrate on anything for longer than ten seconds when he’s drunk.

The witcher takes in a deep breath, Jaskier’s scent lingering in his lungs all the same, and ignores the painful heat in his lower abdomen.

They’ll talk about it when Jaskier gets some proper sleep.

Alternatively, they will perhaps, most probably, definitely not talk about it ever.

It’s only when the bard’s hand wraps around his own that Geralt realises he’s still holding him by the waist and curses inaudibly through clenched teeth.

Jaskier’s touches are back to gentle and slow, his breathing evening out, but Geralt still wants him more than he can remember himself ever wanting anything, and he has to bite the desire back not to let himself give into it.

“Jaskier?” he calls, because he desperately needs something to distract himself.

“Hm?”

Jaskier lifts his head from Geralt’s shoulder, eyes aimed at the witcher but not focused.

After a second, Geralt decides that now is as good a time as ever to ask a question he’d been meaning to ask for years now.

“How come that we’ve been travelling together for almost ten years now, and yet you look the same as when we’ve met?”

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes out, snickering. “It’s a long story.”

“Since when does that stop you?”

“True,” the bard agrees, his fingers brushing out a stubborn knot in Geralt’s hair.

He sits up a little, just as he always does when he’s trying to concentrate. If they were at a table, he would’ve folded his hands together.

“It was a few years after we’ve met. I got hired to perform at some very fancy banquet – I’m telling you, Geralt, it was held in a goddamn elven castle, by the look of it,” he begins, lifting his other hand from the water to gesture with it.

“And so, I was singing the night away, when the woman that had hired me – she was like a mage or something – told me that I may have any food and drinks I see on the tables. All sorts of meat, fruit, desserts – and alcohol, of course.”

He pauses to catch his breath.

Geralt gets his hand back onto the bard’s shoulder, running his fingers up and down and watching the skin crawl under his touch.

“And well, of course, I got ridiculously drunk on all kinds of wine, and by the time everyone was leaving for their bedrooms, I could barely stand. That’s when she came up to me with this crazy expensive-looking vial that she said to be liquor.”

“And you took some random vial from a mage?”

“I wanted to refuse because it looked like it costed more than whatever it was that she was paying me,” Jaskier retorts, defending himself. “But she told me that I’ve made her feel happy for the first time in years, which seemed weird to me even back then, and that I should accept it as a gift.”

Geralt already knows where this is going but doesn’t interrupt, preferring to make circles around Jaskier’s shoulder with his thumb.

“And well, seeing that I was completely wasted, I took it. She said something along the lines of “to everlasting beauty” or something like that, and we drank,” Jaskier shrugs, laughing. “Gods, Geralt, it was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever tried, all bitter and gross.”

He shifts, now laying on his side, a cheek pressed to Geralt’s wide chest.

Geralt has to let go of his shoulder and move his hand onto the bard’s back, instead, following the lines of his spine and not letting himself go any lower than the surface of the water.

“After I finally went to bed, I’ve only managed to get like an hour of sleep and then I’ve been sick the entire night. Fuck, I thought I’d vomit my entire stomach out.”

Jaskier laughs again, his fingers tracing the witcher’s scars absentmindedly. He’d never really asked about them, but Geralt could see him looking whenever he wasn’t wearing a shirt.

If he did ask, Geralt would probably tell him about every single one.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt that horrible in my entire life,” Jaskier continues. “Back then I’ve blamed it on drinking too much, but looking back, it was probably that thing she gave me, whatever it was.”

He finds a scar that he’s particularly interested in and falls silent for a few seconds, studying it carefully all the while without lifting his head.

“After I finally fell asleep, I’ve been out for an entire day. Or maybe two, I’m not sure. But upon waking up I felt good as new, so, again, I just blamed it on too much wine.”

Sure, too much wine, Geralt thinks to himself, Like that’s possible with him.

“It’s only after a few years had passed that I’ve noticed that I wasn’t changing. People around me were getting older, even you changed a little, but I stayed the same way that I’d been when I was twenty.”

Jaskier presses an open palm over one of the larger scars, seemingly measuring it.

“So, like, I don’t know if I’m fucking immortal now or something,” he giggles. “But yeah, that’s why.”

Geralt throws his head back with a loud grunt.

“It’s been seven years, and you haven’t told me?” he growls.

Jaskier shrugs.

“You haven’t asked.”

Geralt sighs, exhausted. Over the last few years, a though of something like that taking place had crossed his mind once or twice, but he’d never imagined that Jaskier had actually been stupid enough to drink something that a mage had given him. Let alone something in a vial and given as a gift.

“She could’ve poisoned you just as easily,” he says, lifting his head back up.

“She could’ve,” Jaskier agrees, his hand finding Geralt’s medallion. “But I’m not dead, am I?”

He twists the medallion in his fingers, either studying it or just playing, and Geralt already lifts his hand to take it away, but stops halfway through, realising that right now there probably isn’t anything that he wouldn’t let Jaskier do.

So, he lets him be, unsure of what else there is that he could say. He gets lost in wondering what potion was it that the mage had given Jaskier for it to both work and not kill him. He then also wonders if it had just stopped the physical changes, but the bard will still only live a length of human life, or if he’s now actually practically immortal, like the mages themselves.

Behind the flow of his thoughts, Geralt fails to notice the moment the bard’s hand stops tugging on the medallion, and when he does, he realises that Jaskier’s fallen asleep on his chest, hands curled into loose fists.  

The bard’s fluttering eyelashes cast long shadows onto his face, and his expression is so peaceful and contented that Geralt is once again stunned by just how much Jaskier trusts him.

Thinking back, he doesn’t think anyone’s ever trusted his as much as the bard does.

Great sighs, closing his eyes for a second, then gets one of his arms under Jaskier’s knees, the other one still on his back, and stands up, lifting him. Waking the bard up when he’d finally fallen asleep peacefully seems unfair to him, so Geralt doesn’t roll his eyes too much.

Jaskier barely weighs anything in his arms, and for a second, Geralt just stands there, in the middle of the room, his eyes going back and forth between the two beds until he gives in to the irrational desire and lays the bard down onto the bed he’d initially claimed for himself.

Then, he turns around, looking for Jaskier’s bag and, upon finding it, pulls out all of its content until he finds a tunic that the younger man sleeps in, three times bigger than needed. The witcher looks at it in hesitation but then decides that he’s done a lot of things tonight but attempting to get sleeping Jaskier into his tunic won’t be one of them.

So, he just pulls his own shirt on, covers the bard with a blanket – rather thick, to the innkeeper’s credit – and already turns to go to bed, as well, when he feels Jaskier’s fingers clasp around his wrist.

He looks down at him.

“Stay with me,” Jaskier asks, voice barely above a whisper.

His fingers burn against Geralt’s skin.

“The bed is not big enough for the two of us,” the older man tries weakly.

“We’ve shared much smaller ones.”

Geralt knows that there is no point in refusing, because if he does and goes to his own bed, Jaskier will just crawl in there with him.

“Please?” the bard adds, and just like that, Geralt’s broken.

He nods, only now realising just how tired he really is, and goes to put out the candles. He takes a glance at the fireplace with its fire slowly dying and decides that a few more logs can’t hurt, especially considering how cold Jaskier tends to get towards the morning.

Geralt can feel Jaskier’s eyes on him as he checks if the door is locked one last time. It’s a habit that he can’t shake, even though he knows that the locks on the inn’s doors are as good as no locks at all.

“Here,” he says, picking up Jaskier’s tunic on his way back to bed and throwing it to him. “Dress up, you’ll get cold.”

Jaskier makes an illegible noise at him but pulls his shirt on nonetheless, getting a little tangled up in the sleeves but figuring it out eventually. He scoots closer to the edge of the bed when Geralt comes closer and, once the witcher gets under the covers, huddles up as close to him as humanly possible.

“Hmm,” Geralt grunts, content rather than displeased, and wraps an arm around the bard’s shoulders.

He closes his eyes, trying not to think of anything, when he feels Jaskier stir and lift his head from his chest.

“What is it?” he asks, peering at him from under his eyelashes.

“You truly are so much more than you say you are,” the bard says, sounding surprisingly not-drunk.

Then, before Geralt really knows what he’s doing, Jaskier reaches up and presses a feather-light kiss onto the corner of the witcher’s lips.

“Goodnight,” he then says, settling back down and falling asleep immediately.

***

Geralt can’t remember Roach ever being fond of someone aside from him.

She’d always had her temper with others, kicking and biting at them if they ever tried their luck at touching her, and it made it easier for Geralt not to worry about her when he would leave the horse unattended.

And yet, she adored Jaskier.

So much so, that from time to time Geralt would feel something akin of jealousy, unsure of whether it’s more towards Roach or the bard, and fully aware that it’s absolutely ridiculous.

He gets the very same little sting somewhere in his chest now, as he watches Jaskier run a brush through the horse’s mane, talking affectionate nonsense to her. His other hand, free of the brush, is on her muzzle, gentle fingers running up and down the soft skin.

Geralt watches them from where he’s cleaning his sword by the fire and makes an attempt at batting the feeling away, like a bug. It almost helps, until Jaskier decides to braid Roach’s mane and whisper something into her ears, laughing quietly. In response, she nickers and nips at his hair affectionately.

It’s like they’re fucking sharing secrets, Geralt thinks.

He isn’t completely sure as on when had the bard started talking to his horse more than he did himself, but it was clear now that he’s got Roach’s heart and isn’t planning on giving it back any time soon.

Fully aware of acting like a five-year-old, the witcher concentrates to try and hear what Jaskier’s saying.

“…was the colour of his hair before the Trials?” he hears the bard ask, looking at the horse like he’s actually waiting for an answer. “Yeah, I can’t imagine him with any other colour, either.”

Geralt chuckles and shakes his head. Of course, Jaskier would gossip about him. He couldn’t really talk like that about the witcher with anyone human, because there was no one close enough, and so he’d chosen Roach as the next best thing.

When Roach’s mane is full of little braids and Jaskier is happy with it, he kisses her gently on the forehead and comes to join Geralt by the fire. It’s been three days since they’ve left that inn, heading for Oxenfurt, and even though the weather kept getting colder, Jaskier seemed to be growing used to it. Or at least learning to keep himself warm properly.

As though reaffirming Geralt’s thoughts, he reaches for the witcher’s bag and pulls out his travelling cloak.

“You’ve got your own cloak,” Geralt says, wanting to sound irritated and failing. “And it’s warmer.”

It’s true – a few months ago the bard had finally gotten himself a cloak of his own. The merchant wasn’t lying when he said they were the best in the region. Thick, heavy, with a fur collar and available in a wide range of colours, as well.

After trying on what seemed like every single one, Jaskier’s choice landed on a beautiful pale-blue one.

By now Geralt knew that blue was Jaskier’s favourite colour because of the way in brought out his eyes.

And after all that trouble and coin, the bard would still prefer Geralt’s cloak over his own for reasons that the witcher just didn’t understand.

“I know,” Jaskier says simply, wrapping himself up in the thick wool and drowning in it. “But I like yours more.”

He gets the hood on, adjusting it so that he can see the witcher. It’s way too big on him and keeps slipping down, but Jaskier’s persistent, his hands keep reaching up to push the hood out of his eyes.

“Smells like you,” he adds like that explains his fondness.

For a second, it startles Geralt.

“Of death and destiny, then?” he then grins. “Or is it heroics and heartbreak?”

“Of blood and sweat, mostly, but it’s still you,” Jaskier shrugs, looking up at the older man.

Geralt chuckles and goes back to his swords. “Hm.”

It’s not true what they say about witchers having their feelings erased.

Geralt had been trained to shut out the fear, the anxiety, the pain, even empathy and compassion – all that is true, but he’d never gotten any of his feelings erased. Everyone’s ought to have their weaknesses, Vesemir had once told him.

Geralt lets his gaze catch on the cloak, feeling warmth spread through his chest, creeping down his arms. He knows how easy Jaskier is at his affections, falling in love with everyone he sees but seeing him pick the witcher’s cloak over his own because it smells of him makes Geralt feel like maybe there’s a reason that the bard had stopped sleeping around.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Jaskier watching Geralt’s hand move against the blade of the weapon, plucking at the edge of the cloak absentmindedly and humming something barely perceptible.

Listening a little closer, Geralt recognises the song about the knight.

It’s quiet, the forest around them tranquil and serene for once. Geralt picks up a sound here and there, birds and animals making their way through the blanket of snow, but aside from that, the forest is almost completely silent. It isn’t often that Geralt gets to actually let his guard down, and each night like this feels somehow special.

As he switches the steel sword for the silver one, Geralt can feel Jaskier’s eyes on him, bright in the light of the fire and searching for something. In a second, Geralt realises what it is that the bard is looking for.

“My hair was about the same colour as yours,” he says, looking up at him.

There’s a quick flush of red on the bard’s cheeks. Then, a mock-scandalised gasp and a hand over his heart.

“You’ve been eavesdropping!”

Geralt shrugs, switching his attention back to the blade of his sword but still watching the bard out of the corner of his eye.

Jaskier’s face lights up with a smile that he can’t hold back for the life of him, and Geralt grins in response, pushing his messy hair out of his eyes.

“When I think back on it, it doesn’t even feel like it was real,” he confesses, his hand stilling on the blade. “It’s been so long now.”

Jaskier’s expression shifts a little, a hint of sadness slithering through his blue eyes before he smiles again, as bright and warm as always.

“And your eyes?” he asks, head tilted slightly to the side.

Geralt opens his mouth to answer, but after a moment realises that he doesn’t have an answer. It’s right there, on the tip of his tongue, but just like a name you know but can’t remember, the memory slips away.

He frowns, brows pinching together, and then finally looks away from the fire and at Jaskier.

“I don’t remember,” he finally says, catching the same shadow of sadness in Jaskier’s eyes.  

“Oh,” the bard says, averting his eyes for a moment, hands fidgeting with his ring again. Then, he bites his lip, a smile tugging on its corners, and looks up at Geralt again. “Well, I find your witcher eyes highly attractive. What are they – amber?”

There’s that same undertone to his voice that Geralt can’t find a name for, and before he knows it, Jaskier gets up from his place, crossing the little space between them and throws one of his legs over both of Geralt’s, planting himself down on the witcher’s lap.

It takes Geralt a little longer than usual to take in a breath.

Jaskier traces the line of his jaw with steady gentle hands, tilting Geralt’s face up and studying his eyes tentatively.

“No, not amber,” he says, taking one his hands away to push his hood off. “More of a golden, aren’t they?”

He’s a pleasant weight on Geralt’s knees, and the witcher lets his hands travel all the way up to the younger man’s waist, holding his gaze. Jaskier’s warm under the cloak, a sharp contrast to the cold night around them, and it almost sends a shiver down Geralt’s spine.

“I don’t know,” he rumbles, voice low, a grin on his lips. “You’re the poet, you tell me.”

Jaskier makes a pleased sound somewhere in the back of his throat, one hand slipping down to rest on Geralt’s shoulder, the other one tangling up in his hair. He pulls on the strands, teasing, and when Geralt doesn’t give in, pulls harder.

It doesn’t hurt, doesn’t even come close, but it’s still enough to make Geralt’s breath catch.

As the witcher exhales sharply, tightening his grip on Jaskier’s waist, there’s something dark and devouring washing over the blue of the bard’s eyes that makes Geralt want him more than he thought possible.

“No,” Jaskier finally says, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t see you with dark hair. It’s either grey, or it’s not you.”

Geralt chuckles and stops himself from sliding his hands down to the bard’s thighs. He wonders how far Jaskier will take it on his own.

“What about you?” Geralt asks, tracing circles onto his ribs with his thumbs. “You never told me much about your past. That ring of yours – it’s a family crest, isn’t it?”

“Oh, this thing?” Jaskier asks, taking a look at the ring on his hand. “As a matter of fact, it is. I’m not supposed to have it, really, but it was the one thing I took from home when I left.”

He smells of chamomile, sage and lilies, like he always does, and it makes Geralt feel just a little lightheaded. He wants to kiss him, to touch him, to strip him of all those expensive silks and catch every single sound that escapes Jaskier’s lips with his own.

Without thinking, he leans in, brushing his lips over the younger man’s collarbone, showing through the open doublet.

“Why’d you left?” Geralt urges, pulling away and lifting his eyes to meet Jaskier’s.

Jaskier holds his gaze, his breathing slowly getting heavier, and Geralt isn’t sure if he’ll be able to play this game of his for much longer.

“Oh, you know, my father wanted to retire and have me take over the land once I turned eighteen, seeing that I’m a viscount and everything, but that kind of life has never been for me, so a few months before my birthday, I ran away.”

His voice is ragged and low as he leans down to press a kiss under Geralt’s jaw, barely touching and pulling away the next second, leaving behind a burning mark.

It startles Geralt. He’d assumed Jaskier was somewhere from the higher circles – based on the way he acts, dresses and always knows his way around nobility – but he never thought he’s a son of a count. The thought makes an electric zap run up Geralt’s spine. Suddenly, he feels like he’s holding a prince of the whole continent in his hands.

“And your father, a count, had actually named you – his heir – Jaskier?” Geralt chuckles instead of saying all the other things that are on his mind.

Jaskier snorts, losing his face for a second, and brushes his lips over Geralt’s forehead, shoulders shaking with laughter.

“Gods, my father doesn’t always have the best ideas, but he’s not that unsound,” his lips are still curled into a smile as he tugs on Geralt’s hair again. “It’s Julian, actually. Was Julian, so don’t call me that.”

“Julian…” Geralt repeats slowly, as if to feel how the name feels on his tongue.

“You know, Witcher, I’m almost offended that you didn’t know.”

Geralt almost growls at that goddamn referring and promises himself that if Jaskier calls him that one more time in that fucking voice of his, Geralt will fuck him right where he’s standing. Because he knows that Jaskier’s fully aware of the effect it has on the man.

Before he can take whatever this is way too far, Geralt takes in a breath and shakes his head with a smile.

“Go fetch me the oil for the steel sword from Roach’s saddlebags, will you?” he says, knowing that he’d ruined the game and hating himself for it.

Jaskier rolls his eyes so hard that Geralt thinks he can heart it, but stands up nonetheless, adjusting his clothes and pulling on the edges of the cloak to get it back on his shoulders properly.

“You’re insufferable, Geralt,” he says, sighing dramatically, but there is no irritation in his voice. “I just told you I’m a viscount and everything, and you’re sending me to get the oil for your sword from the saddlebags.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” Geralt grins, standing up and bowing deeply. “Go fetch me the oil for the steel sword from Roach’s saddlebags,” he looks up at Jaskier, still bowing. “My Lord.”

There’s a flush of colour over Jaskier’s cheeks – something Geralt hadn’t seen in a while – and then he rolls his eyes again, shoving Geralt in the shoulder with surprising strength.

“Don’t call me that, Witcher,” he says, recollecting himself. “Unless you want me to grow fond of it.”

It takes Geralt all of his willpower not to stick to the promise he’d given himself a minute ago right at that moment.

He growls, standing up straight and already taking a step towards the bard when Jaskier spins on his heels and heads towards Roach, who’s just now getting down to rest for the night.

Geralt stops in his tracks, unsure of what to do and even more unsure if they both actually want the same thing or if Jaskier is just playing with him because there’s no one else to be the target for his affections.

“Come with me,” he hears Jaskier call. “I know I’m like immortal or some shit, but I doubt that applies to getting eaten alive by wolves. I’m way too young and pretty to die this soon.”

Geralt runs his hands through his hair, recollecting himself and following the bard, even though that defeats the whole purpose of sending him to the saddlebags.

“There are no wolves here,” the witcher says, watching the way Jaskier’s slender hips rock from side to side as he walks. “If there were, I would’ve heard them by now.”

And then, it hits him.

He stops from the realisation, staring at the ground in both disbelief and slight horror.

“You remember?” he asks, making Jaskier stop as well and turn to face him.

“What – that I let you in on my little secret, or your lips all over me?” there’s a dismissive look in his eyes, accompanied by a grin on the perfect lips. “Because I’m pretty sure I might be able to recollect both.”  

Before Geralt can say anything in his defence, the bard continues.

“What I can also remember are your stupid questions regarding the state of my drunkenness. Gods, Geralt, you just had to ruin it, didn’t you?”

There is still no irritation or anger in his voice, just the grin and the look in his eyes.

“You couldn’t even tell if I was real or not, you said so yourself,” Geralt finally says because there are no other arguments in his possession.

Jaskier chuckles and shrugs with one shoulder, his other hand on his hip.

“I knew you were real the moment you pulled away,” he catches Geralt’s eyes for a second. “See, if it was all just my imagination, you would’ve fucked me senseless right in that very tub.”

Geralt assumes that this is what dying probably feels like because he’s absolutely sure that his heart had just stopped working.

“So next time, Witcher, by the gods, keep your fucking questions to yourself.”

Jaskier turns to leave, already smiling at Roach that flicks an ear at him as she picks up his scent, but Geralt, his veins burning under his skin, closes the distance between them in two wide strides, turns the bard around by his shoulder and crashes their lips together in a desperate, painfully-hungry kiss.

Jaskier gasps from surprise, but then, a split moment later, moans into Geralt’s mouth, arms coming up to wrap around the witcher’s neck. He presses himself up against him, chest to chest, and exhales sharply when Geralt pulls him closer, a hand on the small of his back.

“Fucking finally,” Jaskier sighs, throwing his heads back as Geralt switches his attention to his neck. “Thought you’d never make up your mind.”

“Shut up, Jaskier,” Geralt growls, sucking a bright-red mark onto the bard’s neck.

Jaskier gasps, a choked moan escaping his throat and pulls on the strands of the witcher’s silver hair hard enough for the older man to give in and tilt his head back. Jaskier’s calloused fingers flutter over his jaw, eyes searching, until he breathes out a raspy “fuck” and presses his lips against Geralt’s, the kiss just as eager and hungry as the last one.  

Geralt licks into his mouth, hot and wet and perfect, grinning as Jaskier bites his lower lip. And gods, he tastes even sweeter than he smells.

Geralt slides his hands down to the bard’s thighs, his grip so tight that it will probably leave bruises on the pale skin, and lifts him up, making Jaskier instinctively wrap his slender legs around Geralt’s waist.

He barely weighs anything, even with the thick heavy cloak on his shoulders, and that makes something deep in Geralt’s mind go dark with thirst for him.

He presses Jaskier up against the nearest tree, never breaking the kiss, and catches his soft gasp, letting it flow through his veins with blood.

Geralt slides his hands under Jaskier’s cloak, blindly searching for the buttons holding his doublet close, and it takes him a lot of willpower to properly undo them rather than just rip them off. That’s not something Jaskier would’ve forgiven him in the nearest future.

He pulls back, so they can both take in a breath, and catches Jaskier’s eyes, dark with lust and completely bottomless. The bard’s hands slide from his shoulders down his chest, reaching the belt holding the witcher’s armour in place, and without looking, he unbuckles it, holding Geralt’s gaze. Over the years, he’d seen Geralt put the armour on and off enough times to know how to get him out of it.

Geralt holds himself back from helping, allowing Jaskier to deal with all the straps on his own and instead concentrates on his neck, kissing and biting, making Jaskier shudder under his touch, breathing heavy. He moans as Geralt’s lips brush over an especially sensitive spot and arches his back when the witcher bites in response, then pulling back and admiring the mark left on the delicate skin.

Geralt tugs on the bard’s shirt, untucking it from his breeches and slides both his hands under it, closing his eyes at the feeling of soft skin under his fingertips, so hot that it almost burns.

“Fuck, Geralt, wait,” Jaskier breathes out, words choked in his throat.

The witcher pulls back, stilling his hands and lifting his gaze to meet Jaskier’s.

Jaskier looks perfect. Sinful. Unlawful.

His eyes, heavy-lidded and dark from lust, his red glistening lips, the flush of colour on his cheeks, his ruffled hair – everything. And if Geralt didn’t know any better, he would’ve just kissed him again to shut him up.

Instead, he caresses the younger man’s back in a slow, calming motion.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Jaskier shakes his head, dragging a hand over his face to recollect his thoughts. Then, he leans down to press a kiss to the witcher’s lips, tongue flickering over them once before pulling back.

“Nothing’s wrong. Gods, Geralt, I’ve wanted this for years, but–” he bites his lip, hands fluttering over Geralt’s jawline. “But we’re in the middle of nowhere, it’s really fucking cold and we’re both tired and dirty and disgusting.”

Before Geralt can say anything, Jaskier gives him another kiss, sweet and completely disarming.

“We’re only a few days away from Oxenfurt, and I’ve got friends there that have all these spare rooms with baths and huge beds, and all of that can be ours in just a couple of days,” he pushes a silver strand behind Geralt’s ear and rests his hand on the sharp of his jaw. “What do you say?”

For a second, Geralt has to close his eyes, jaw clenching, to calm himself. He knows Jaskier’s right.

His mind is hazy with desire, blood throbbing in his temples heavily, but Jaskier’s hands are gentle in his hair, and Geralt finds it in him to draw in a calming breath, feeling his lungs expand and then deflate as he rests his forehead against Jaskier’s collarbone.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he says, hands travelling slowly across the younger man’s back, counting the fragile bones.

Jaskier laughs quietly, shoulders shaking, and pulls Geralt into a soft kiss, eyes fluttering shut. When Geralt thinks about it, he can’t decide which way he likes him more: the soft kisses and gentle hands on his face or the dark hungry eyes and painful tugs on his hair.

He returns the kiss, just as soft, and slowly sets Jaskier back down on the ground, one hand staying on the small of the bard’s back and the other one slipping down to his thigh.

“Is it true – what you’ve said?” Geralt asks when Jaskier pulls away. “About having wanted this for years?”

“It is,” Jaskier confirms, catching the witcher’s lips with his own as he speaks. “I’ve wanted you for as long as I can remember.”

Geralt growls in the back of his throat, lifting his eyes to study two bright marks on the bard’s neck and leaning forward to brush his lips over them, absentmindedly. It’s pleasant to know that now anyone that sees Jaskier will know that he’s already claimed.

“You think your friends in Oxenfurt will figure out these marks are mine?” he grins, pressing a kiss to the underside of Jaskier’s jaw.

“I’ll show you marks,” the younger man hisses, shoving him in the shoulder with no real force. “I’ll give you so many, every single person in the city will know they’re mine.”

There’s that other side of him again, and Geralt makes himself pull away before he can give in to it. He adjusts the cloak on Jaskier’s shoulders as the bard does up the buttons on his doublet and then reaches for the items of his armour they’ve managed to get off.

“You’re surprisingly good with knowing your way around my armour,” Geralt says, the corners of his lips curled into a smirk.

Jaskier shrugs with one shoulder and runs a hand through his dark hair.

“I’ve watched you get in and out of it so many times that I could strip you of every single item with my eyes closed.”

Geralt raises his brows at him but Jaskier just waves a hand at him dismissingly.

“Wait until Oxenfurt and I’ll show you.”

***

They arrive in Oxenfurt two days later, Jaskier beaming with excitement over returning to his favourite city.

He’s seated behind Geralt, seeing that it’s been snowing all night and the witcher wasn’t fond of the idea of him walking all this way in the snow. It took him a few minutes, but eventually, he just forced Jaskier into the saddle and cut all of his indignations out with a deep kiss.

It was nice, these past few days – being able to kiss him whenever he wanted.

It was also nearly unbearable to wait, especially at nights, when Jaskier would drape himself over Geralt, climbing on top of him, chest to chest, and kiss him until they were both breathless.

It’s still pretty early in the morning, so the marketplace is crowded, and Roach keeps snorting annoyedly whenever someone brushes past them. Geralt pats her neck every now and then, muttering calming nonsense to her, and they’re almost at the docks when Jaskier pulls oh his sleeve, urging to stop the horse.

“I need to make sure they know I’m here before we actually arrive,” he says, dismounting and scratching Roach behind her ear.

Geralt cocks a brow at him, expecting a more elaborate explanation, and when Jaskier doesn’t notice, too busy with rummaging through his pockets to find some kind of a treat for the horse, nudges him with his knee.

“What–oh, yeah, about that. I just have to pop into a few places, say hi to some old friends, and before we cross the city, our hosts will already know we’re here,” he says, finally discovering a piece of gingerbread that he feeds to Roach before Geralt can protest.

“To what do you owe such popularity?”

“Ah, well, you know,” Jaskier shrugs, stretching his arms out. “During my years at the academy, I’ve made lots of friends. And enemies, granted, but people here are mostly fond of me. Whenever I return, all of them want me on their banquets and celebrations and weddings and whatnot.”

“Does that have anything to do with the fact that you’ve slept with all of them?” Geralt chuckles, ignoring the scraping jealousy somewhere in his chest.

Jaskier’s cheeks flush with colour and he takes his eyes away from Geralt.

“I haven’t slept with all of them,” he says, hands reaching to braid Roach’s forelocks. “Just with…most of them.”

Geralt can’t help himself. He reaches his hand down, tugging on the collar of Jaskier’s doublet to reveal the marks he’d left on his neck, now deep-purple rather than red. They look perfect on the pale delicate skin.

Jaskier rolls his eyes and bats the witcher’s hand away, adjusting the collar back into place and doing up the button, even though he hates it when his doublets are fully buttoned up.

“Alright, Witcher, I know you’re all jealous and protective – and that is a major turn on, don’t get me wrong, but part of me being so popular amongst my friends here is that they all think they can still sleep with me. And if the years we’ve spent together are not enough of a clue for them, these love-bites of yours will surely be.”

He lets out a breath, smooths out his hair and, before anyone can notice, presses a feather-light kiss onto Geralt’s knee.

“So please, just make sure no one figures it out,” he takes a step back and winks at the older man. “Besides, I love having you as my little secret.”

That’s something that is hard to argue with, as it sends a wave of heat through Geralt’s chest, and he nods, dismounting as well and telling Jaskier that he’ll go water Roach before letting the bard go.

Roach nickers softly as Jaskier leaves, her ears flicking in his direction, and Geralt pats her neck affectionately, assuring the mare that he’ll soon be back.

“You love him more than you love me,” he grumbles, taking her reins and leading the horse to the nearest water basin.

She doesn’t acknowledge his words with more than a snort, and the witcher rolls his eyes, a smile playing on his lips.

Almost an hour passes by when Geralt finally notices Jaskier. He hears him before he sees him, a familiar voice wishing all the best to someone. The bard appears from behind a door of a shop, his bright blue eyes searching the marketplace for the witcher. It takes him a moment, and Geralt can see the nervous pinch of his brows as the bard scans the square again, more attentively. Then, his gaze lands upon Roach, and his whole face lights up with a smile as he approaches.

“Ah, there you are,” he says, pulling Geralt out of his half-meditation. “Well, now that everyone knows I’m back in the city – and not alone but with the White Wolf himself – all we have to do is wait a little while.”

“Wait for what?” Geralt asks, placing Roach’s reins into his extended hand.

“The friends I’ve told you about, they always seek me out right after they hear I’m back,” he explains, laughing and kissing the horse on the nose as she bumps him with her head. “So, what we need to do now is wander around the place a little, until one of the servants finds us, and we’ll be invited to stay rather than show up and ask if we can.”

Geralt chuckles at him in surprise.

“You sneaky son of a bitch,” he smirks, following Jaskier when he turns to go back to the marketplace, leading Roach by the reins. “How long has it been since you came up with this plan?”

“Oh, years. I use the same scheme every time I’m in Oxenfurt. It never fails.”

***

When they arrive at the mansion, there are already people waiting for them.

Jaskier was right – only an hour after he’d returned, a wide-chested bearded man he’d recognised as Damar came up to them, greeting the bard wholeheartedly and pulling him into an embrace. He turned out to be Jaskier’s friend’s gardener and, after being introduced to Geralt, said that his masters will be more than happy to invite them both to stay.

Mounting a white horse that Damar had brought with him, Jaskier winked at Geralt with a mischievous smile on his perfect lips.

Jaskier is greeted with hugs and kisses, his friends – introduced as Lania and Altomir – sister and brother – showering him with questions and compliments. Jaskier smiles at them charmingly, following the hosts further into the mansion, catching Geralt’s fingers before anyone notices.

“And to what do we own the pleasure of meeting the great Geralt of Rivia?” Altomir asks, turning to Geralt with gleaming eyes.

“I’ve got a contract here,” he says. “Was on my way from Novigrad a few weeks ago when I ran into Jaskier. As always, he tagged along, saying he needs new song material.”

Jaskier looks at him with amusement in his eyes, but Geralt pointedly ignores him. He knows just as well that everything he’d said is a lie and doesn’t need a reminder.

He hasn’t got a contract in Oxenfurt or near it, he’s hoping to find one. Jaskier didn’t tag along this time, it was Geralt that asked him if he wanted to join. And even though they did run into each other in Novigrad, it wasn’t a few weeks, it’s been almost a year ago.

“A contract?” the man repeats, addressing Geralt but not taking his eyes off Jaskier, like he’s trying to take on his features after a long time. “Is it, perhaps, the beast that’s been terrorising the sailors these past weeks?”

Geralt blinks at him. He didn’t expect it to be so easy.

“The sailors, yes!” Jaskier steps in when Geralt is silent for a little longer than he should be. “We’ve heard about it back in Novigrad from one of them, actually. Told us he’s not coming back to Oxenfurt in a million years, after what that thing had done to his mates.”

Altomir’s light-brown eyes are still fixed on Jaskier as the bard winds the lie further, saving Geralt the trouble. There’s something in them that gleams with tenderness – adoration, almost – and the witcher steps closer to Jaskier without even knowing.

“Ah, but well, how unhospitable of us,” Lania gasps suddenly, running a hand through her golden hair. “You two must be deadly tired, and we’re occupying you with all these questions. What do you say you go bathe, rest, and then meet us for dinner? We’re having lots of friends over tonight, they would be delighted to hear your singing, sweetheart,” she says, turning to Jaskier.

Geralt can see Jaskier’s jaw clench for a fraction of a second before he smiles just as bright as always.

“Would love to. Besides, that’s the least I can do to thank you for your hospitality.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” Altomir adds, his hand coming up to rest on Jaskier’s elbow, and Geralt feels the claws of jealousy scrape at his heart. “It’s always a delight to have you back.”

***

As they are escorted into the guest wing on the upper floor, Geralt can feel Jaskier’s eyes on him.

“Altomir’s probably arranged our rooms be us as far from each other as possible, you just see,” he snickers, when the older man turns to him.

“Why would he?”

“Ah, hard to say,” Jaskier shrugs with one shoulder. “Might have something to do with the fact that he’s been in love with me since the academy.”

Geralt draws in a breath, glaring at the bard, but the younger man doesn’t even stop. He just smiles disarmingly and brushes past him up the stairs, lingering for a moment to whisper into his ear:

“He may be in love with me all he wants, but once the dinner ends, I’m yours.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving behind nothing but his scent and disappearing in the right end of the wing, while Geralt is escorted to the left one.

The room is spacious. Geralt can’t remember the last time he’s been staying in a bedroom like this, with a giant bed, a tub near a fireplace, lots of silk and velvet and furs. The colours are mostly red and gold, making the room seem even warmer than it already is. He isn’t sure who exactly their hosts are, but he wouldn’t be surprised if they turned out to be barons or even something higher than that.

He nods to the servant that bows their head and says that if he shall need anything, he shall only call, and disappears behind the door.

The bath is already full of steaming-hot water, and there are clothes on the bed to change into, and even though Geralt isn’t planning on changing his armour for anything else – not even Jaskier will make him – the bath seems like heaven. After almost a week on the road, his entire body is cold and tense, knots in his muscles making it impossible to relax.

The water is perfectly hot, and Geralt closes his eyes with pleasure as he gets in. Last night had been especially cold, and that cold seemed to have crept into his very bones. Without realising, he thinks about the last time he’d taken a bath – when Jaskier was with him. Thinks about his smell, the little sounds choked in his throat, the taste of his wet skin on the tongue, that fucking smell of chamomile and sage and lilies. Drawing in a breath, Geralt feels the familiar heat spill through his lower abdomen and shakes his head, escaping the vision.

He hardly knows how to make it through the rest of the day, especially with all the attention Jaskier’s gonna get during dinner and thinks that once he gets the chance, he will probably just steal him for his own. By then, the guests will probably be too drunk to notice either way.

***

By the time a servant comes to get him, Geralt is clean, rested from a meditation and calm. He knows what he’s doing to do and how he’s going to do it, and now it’s just a matter of time. The anticipation is still there, and the jealousy is there, as well, but it shouldn’t be long now. It rarely takes people long to get drunk, especially when there's music and a big company.

He opens the door and steps outside, feeling the servant’s curious gaze slip over him. He’s in full armour, Jaskier’s promise still lingering in his mind, save for the swords that he’d left under the bed, deciding that is something was to happen, the dagger hidden in his boot will be enough to make sure both Jaskier and him are safe.

The servant – a young girl with thick braids of red hair – motions towards the staircase, her gaze fixed on the ground, a flush of colour on the pretty cheeks.

Geralt chuckles silently and heads for the staircase just in time to run into Jaskier halfway.

Geralt doesn’t remember seeing him much in colours other than blues and reds, but the beige, almost golden suit the bard is wearing makes him look incredible. The intricate details and the expensive silk make him look almost too good to touch.

A thought runs through Geralt’s mind and he doesn’t bother keeping himself from going through with it.

Paying no attention to the servants, he comes closer, one hand behind his back, the other one reaching out for Jaskier’s. The younger man gives him yet another amused look but doesn’t protest as Geralt bows and brings his hand to his lips to press a gentle kiss to his knuckles.

“Looking ravishing,” he smiles, meeting Jaskier’s eyes. “My Lord.”

Still holding his hand, Geralt can feel Jaskier’s pulse jump.

“Why, thank you, Geralt of Rivia,” he replies, the smile on his lips taking attention away from the barely perceptible flush on his cheeks.

Geralt lets him go, despite the unwillingness to do so, and follows the bard down the stairs and into the luxurious ballroom, transformed into a dining room for the evening.

Most of the guests have already arrived, judging by the lack of vacant seats at the long tables, and once Altomir notices Jaskier, it seems like the entire room notices Jaskier.

People get up from their places, come closer to greet him with handshakes, hugs and kisses, and Geralt keeps to the side, happy to escape the attention for at least this moment.

He watches Jaskier turn this way and that, somehow answering all the questions he’s asked, never losing his smile. Judging by the age of most of the guest, they all – or most of them – used to study with him, knew him back in those years that Geralt had mostly spent further South.

During those years, Geralt had only seen Jaskier a few times, each time in late fall, as he was coming back to Kaer Morhen for the winter. He’d never stay for longer than a few days, and during those days the bard would always try his best at telling him everything that had happened to him in the last year.

Looking back, Geralt wishes he’d stayed longer.

He has to bite down his jealousy as he watches not only Altomir but a few other guests flutter their hands over Jaskier, fingers lingering on his shoulders, arms, chest. A young brunette that Geralt feels like he knows from somewhere laughs at something that one of the guests says and leans closer, her lips almost brushing over Jaskier’s cheek, but the bard takes a perfectly timed step to the side, his gaze flicking over Geralt for a split second. He somehow has the audacity to wink at the witcher, and Geralt, for the hundredth time, thinks that he doesn’t deserve him.

His peace isn’t long, however, because it never is, and by the time everyone takes their seats at the table, Lania had already announced that tonight it’s not only their beloved Jaskier that’s their honoured guest but the White Wolf himself, too.

After that, there are a million of questions, both for him and for Jaskier, and as Geralt is telling what seems like the entire room about what it’s like to be a witcher, he can feel the bard’s hand slip down onto his knee. It’s not helping him in the slightest, especially not with Jaskier looking as casual as ever, but he steels himself and goes on with the story about a griffin he’d once had to face.

All the guest are too busy listening, arguing about griffins and shushing each other to notice Jaskier’s long fingers run up and down Geralt’s knee, slipping to his inner thigh every so often. He’s careful not to move his shoulder, and thus, for everyone else, it just looks like he’s got his hand on his own knee.

It ties knots in Geralt’s abdomen.

By the time he’s done with the griffin story, he can barely fight the desire to catch Jaskier’s wrist and stop him, because it’s becoming unbearable. As the tables erupt into loud arguments regarding Geralt’s life, he leans down closer to Jaskier, voice low when he asks:

“Is this how you’re keeping me a secret?”

Instead of answering, Jaskier comes back with a question, as well.

“Do you want me to stop, Witcher?”

Geralt knows that he’s the one who started it, back on the staircase, and yet he still feels like he’s losing the game. Jaskier’s fingers creep further up, following the inner seam of Geralt’s trousers and making him aware of his breathing.

“Once they’re all done picking your life apart, I’m gonna go play,” Jaskier continues, his breathing hot against Geralt’s skin. “And while I’m there, don’t take your eyes off me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

***

Geralt doesn’t take his eyes off him.

He watches Jaskier move, his hips rocking as he makes his way around the room, steps falling into the rhythm of his songs, watches his slender fingers move over the strings of his lute, watches his smiles and gleaming eyes that catch on the witcher for a split second every so often to make sure he’s watching.

Jaskier is careful to keep the marks on his neck out of sight, adjusting the collar of his doublet every time he finishes a song, before moving on to another one.

The guests are all around him, dancing, singing along to the songs they’re familiar with and listening tentatively to the ones that are on the newer side. Jaskier looks happy. He’s beaming with his joy, a smile never leaving his lips, and Geralt thinks that if this is what it takes to make him look like this, he’s willing to sit through as many banquets as the bard wants.

As the night winds on, the guests are getting more and more drunk, having decided to make a toast after every song. Jaskier gets a few shots of something that looks like cherry liquor in him, which is a courtesy of Altomir that keeps coming up to him in between songs and outright just pouring the drink into his mouth, downing the second one himself.

Jaskier doesn’t protest, shaking his head after each shot and catching Geralt’s gaze to tell him he’s alright.

At some point, Geralt has to get up and go dance with Lania, ignoring the way she presses her breasts against him. It’s pleasant, of course, but his mind is transfixed on Jaskier that keeps slipping away from Altomir’s hands. Now drunk, the man doesn’t seem to be hiding his affection for the bard.

As Jaskier strums his lute one last time and bows deeply, drowning in applause and whistles, Geralt lets go of Lania and goes to join him at the table.

Jaskier drops to his chair, tired, and throws his head back, eyes closed. That allows Geralt to yet again admire the marks on his neck as he takes his place beside the younger man.

“Do you think I should tell Altomir that if he touches you again, he’s not going to have anything to touch people with anymore?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier cracks one eye open, getting a quick look at him before closing it again and grinning.

“I love it when you’re jealous like that.”

“It’s hard not to get jealous when you fucking look like that.”

Jaskier’s grin grows even wider as he turns his face to Geralt, tugging on the collar of his doublet to adjust it in place. His bites on his lip, eyes growing darker again, and takes Geralt up and down. His breathing is still hard from the performance, body radiating heat, and Geralt follows his movement as the bard moves his leg closer, brushing his knee over the witcher’s.

“So, you kept the armour?” Jaskier murmurs, darting a look across the room when he hears someone mention his name.

“Hm.”

Jaskier takes another look around the room, making sure no one’s attention is on them, and leans closer to the witcher, one hand coming to rest high on his thigh.

“Get me out of here.”

***

Getting through the ballroom without anyone noticing them turns out to be easier than Geralt thought, most of the guests gathered by the balcony, listening to Altomir and drunkenly leaning on the walls. The only ones that notice them are the servants, but they just lower their heads respectfully and ask no questions.

Geralt doesn’t let go of Jaskier’s wrist as he opens the door to his bedroom, and that allows him to pull the bard in as soon as the lock clicks, catching him in his arms and pressing him hard against the wall the very next second.

Jaskier gasps, the air leaving his lungs as his back hits the wooden panels, but before he can take in another breath, Geralt bites into his lips. Jaskier pulls him closer, one hand tangled in the witcher’s hair, the other one keeping him close by one of the belts on his armour, eyes fluttering shut.

It’s a raw, hungry, nearly painful kiss that leaves both of them breathless when Jaskier pushes Geralt away for air. He draws in a shaky breath, eyes seemingly even darker in the dimly lit room, holds Geralt’s gaze for a brief moment and then pulls him into another kiss, compliantly parting his lips as he feels the witcher’s tongue on them.

Licking into his mouth, Geralt brings his hands down to Jaskier’s hips and yanks him up, remembering how perfect in felt back in the forest, and reaches for the bard’s doublet as soon as his legs wrap around his waist.

He gets the first two buttons open, exposing the delicate skin of Jaskier’s neck, and presses his lips to it impatiently, making the bard throw his head back with a loud exhale.

“Your fucking smell,” Geralt growls, undoing the last button and tugging the doublet off of Jaskier, throwing it somewhere towards the corner of the room. “The second I think of you, I feel it in my lungs.”

Jaskier grins, hands blindly searching for the buckles of Geralt’s armour and undoing them one by one. Where his legs wrap around the witcher, Geralt can feel how hard he is.

“And you think of me a lot, Witcher?”

Geralt takes half a step back only to press Jaskier up the wall once more, even harder. A choked moan escapes the bard’s lips and he leaves Geralt’s armour alone, tugging on the witcher’s hair instead, making him pull back from his neck.

Jaskier leans down, brushing his lips over Geralt’s in a smudged wet kiss, then bites on the man’s lower lip and catches the low growl with his tongue, his kiss deep and sweet with the metallic taste of Geralt’s blood.

Geralt can feel his mind growing hazy with the dark scales of desire, normally slow heartbeat picking up and his skin growing more and more sensitive with what seems like every single touch. He pulls off his chest plate, letting it fall heavily onto the floor, catches Jaskier’s wrists and guides his hands to his chest without breaking the kiss.

Jaskier runs his hands down the witcher’s chest, slowly, studying, all the way to his waist, grips the edges of Geralt’s black shirts and pulls it away from his trousers, warm palms slipping under it immediately. He moans at the contact, pulling away from Geralt’s lips and shuddering as the witcher gets his shirt open and runs his tongue over the collarbone.

That seems to be a sensitive spot for him, and Geralt, just to try it, leaves a bite on the tender skin, making Jaskier moan ever louder, hips twitching. Geralt closes his eyes, steadying himself, then gets a better grip on the bard’s back and steps back, further into the room. A few steps away, he bumps into the edge of the table and, without giving it any more thought, turns around, placing Jaskier on the tabletop.

Standing right between the bard’s spread legs, Geralt feels a surge of burning heat run through his body. For a moment, Jaskier leans back, propping himself up on his arms, allowing the witcher to take in the sight in front of him, darkened eyes fixed on Geralt’s.

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathes, his voice low and ragged. “Fuck, come here.”

He pushes himself up, one hand reaching to wrap around the back of Geralt’s neck, pulling the witcher into another kiss. The bite on Geralt’s lower lip re-opens, and he feels his consciousness slip away from him for a second, as Jaskier’s hot tongue brushes over his lips, licking off the blood.

As soon as the bard pulls away to take in a shaky breath, Geralt strips him of his white shirt, careful enough not to damage any buttons, and tosses it aside, lips immediately finding their way to Jaskier’s chest.

Though slender, he’s built nicely, muscles firm and agile under the soft skin and Geralt thinks that maybe he should teach Jaskier to wield some kind of a weapon someday. Someday that is not now, because now all that matters is the way Jaskier throws his head back, leaving scratches on the small of the witcher’s back as Geralt bites a bright-red mark onto his skin. The bard’s breath catches in his throat and he whispers something that sounds like Elder, but Geralt doesn’t bother thinking about it.

Once the first love-bite blooms on Jaskier’s pale skin, it’s hard to stop, and Geralt decides not to, brushing his lips over the younger man’s chest until he finds a spot that he likes the most, hands mapping out his back and making Jaskier tremble in a way that makes Geralt’s blood boil.

Jaskier pulls on the strands of his long hair, responding to every touch, every kiss, every new mark, muffling his moans with the back of his hand, and Geralt can’t really take it. Impatient, almost shaking, he brings his hands down to Jaskier’s thighs, gripping so tightly that there will be bruises in the morning, and catches the bard’s loud gasp with his lips. He licks into his mouth, hands swiftly moving all the way down the younger man’s legs to get the boots off him and then finding their way back, one palm cupping the bulge in Jaskier’s breeches. A shiver that runs through Jaskier’s body is hard enough for Geralt to feel it.

Breaking the kiss, Jaskier pushes Geralt half-step back only to tug off his worn black shirt and pull him closer again, hands fluttering over the witcher’s wide chest, tracing the well-known scars before Jaskier replaces them with his lips, imprinting smudged wet kisses onto Geralt’s skin.

Melting under his touches, Geralt gives Jaskier a first slow stroke through his breeches, tearing a loud choked moan from the bard’s throat, followed by what almost sounds like a sob and the feeling of his tongue on the witcher’s skin. Drunken with the reaction, Geralt repeats the motion, his grip just a little tighter, and Jaskier moans even louder.

“Fuck, we’re gonna get caught,” he breathes in a loud whisper, biting his lips.

“If you keep being this loud, we are.”

Jaskier curses through clenched teeth, hips bucking into Geralt’s palm, and brings his lips to the witcher’s neck, biting a mark onto it, short but sharp nails leaving burning scratches on the witcher’s chest. His breathing is hot and laboured against Geralt’s skin, but his hands are sure when he undoes the buttons on Geralt’s trousers, leaving marks everywhere he can reach.

“Told you I can get you out of your armour with my eyes closed, Witcher,” Jaskier breathes into his lips, one hand coming up to cup the older man’s jaw before the bard pulls away ever so slightly to look him in the eyes.

It’s only a few seconds, how long it lasts, but it’s enough to answer Geralt’s question on whether or not Jaskier’s sure about this.

Then, without any other words, he lifts the bard up from the table, finding his lips blindly and, barely feeling the ground under his feet, takes them both to the wide bed, covered in furs and velvet. Jaskier makes a little noise as his back meets the covers and flutters his eyes open, looking at Geralt with eyes so dark that they almost seem black in the low light of the fireplace.

Jaskier runs his gaze over the witcher’s chest, over the uneven pattern of bites and marks that he’d left, and grins before reaching one hand under the thick material of the witcher’s trousers, the other one clinging to his neck, keeping the man in place. Geralt can’t help but push his hips forward, back arching as he feels Jaskier’s long warm fingers wrap around his throbbing cock. His eyes roll with pleasure, a sharp breath escaping his lungs. It feels even better than he’d imagined, Jaskier’s calloused fingers perfectly rough against him.

“I’ve spent years imagining the way you’d feel in my hand,” Jaskier breathes into his lips, pulling Geralt down. “But I’ve spent even longer imagining how you’d feel inside me.”

Geralt growls, feeling the fine hairs on the nape of his neck stand upright, and bites into the bard’s lips with a rough kiss, driven by the aching desire to fucking ruin him. Tear him apart, until there’s nothing but crumbling blood-red pieces that smell of chamomile and sage and lilies. Watch him fall completely apart and then build him back up with bites and kisses and words about how endlessly perfect he is.

Geralt catches Jaskier’s lips, growling into them as the bard strokes him again, his fingers running over Geralt’s entire length slowly, teasing, getting sticky with precome. Jaskier curses under his breath, a shiver of anticipation running down his entire body as the witcher gives him a choked moan, hips shifting again.

“Have you ever thought about me like this, Witcher?”

Jaskier doesn’t seem to be able to shut up even now, his voice low and breathless, making Geralt’s head spin.

Geralt doesn’t know why he’s even allowing Jaskier to play with him like that, but he finds it incredibly hard to say “no” to him. Not when he’s half-naked, hard and oh so willing to be his and no-one else’s.

Making an effort over himself, Geralt pulls away, slipping off the bed and reaching for his bag, thanking every god he knows that amongst everything else, he’s got oil in there.

As he’s searching for it, he can feel Jaskier’s eyes on him, can see the bard slide his hands down his chest and all the way under his breeches, gasping as he touches himself. His back arches, head thrown back, eyes still fixed on Geralt, and the witcher thinks that this is going to be the death of him.

“Just can’t wait, can you?” Geralt grins, climbing back onto the bed, having kicked off his boots.

He doesn’t wait for Jaskier to answer, just pulls his hand away and gets both his breeches and his underwear off him, tossing them to the side and running his gaze over Jaskier’s entire body. Over the years, he’d seen him naked countless times, but it was never like this. With marks all over him, legs spread and dark eyes shining in some hungry, feral way, he looks perfect.

“Mine,” Geralt hears himself say, pressing a possessive kiss onto one of Jaskier’s bent knees.

The bard shudders, his hands tangling up in Geralt’s hair as he trails his kisses up the inner side of Jaskier’s thigh. The younger man trembles under his touches, whispering Geralt’s name mixed with every curse word he knows, arching his back and leaning into the kisses. He yelps as the witcher bites him, hand flying up immediately to cover his mouth before anyone can hear them.

“Fuck, Geralt…” he whimpers. “Fuck, just—please.”

Geralt’s vision goes dark for a second from hearing Jaskier beg in that voice.

He presses one last hard kiss onto the bard’s thigh, then pulls him up, finding Jaskier’s lips and guiding his hands to his trousers, indulging in the pleasure of getting undressed by him.

The younger man knows his way around, and before Geralt really knows it, he’s out of his skin-tight clothes, Jaskier’s eyes devouring him whole.

“In these nine years that I’ve known you,” he whispers into Geralt’s ear, untying his messy hair. “No matter who I’ve slept with, I’ve always thought of you.”

He has the audacity to grin, pushing Geralt back against the headboard of the bed and saddling his hips, perfect in the way he moves.

One hand coming to rest on the witcher’s shoulder and the other one digging into the rough velvet of the headboard, Jaskier keeps himself upright on his knees, making it easier for Geralt to reach between their bodies.

Leaning in closer, Jaskier runs a trail of wet kisses over the uneven scars on Geralt’s neck, shuddering from impatience and gasping loudly as the witcher gets oil on his hands and pushes a finger inside him. The older man growls at the feeling of teeth biting into the skin of his neck, right over the old and still somewhat sensitive scars, but it’s nothing if not fire up his veins.

Jaskier pulls away, throwing his head back, breathing hard and shallow, and even though he can’t stop making all those little sounds deep in his throat, Geralt can see it in the way that the bard’s back arches that it still hurts.

Geralt knows Jaskier is used to this – he’d first slept with a man when he was fourteen, he once told him, very drunk – but he also knows that Jaskier hadn’t slept with anyone for as long as they’ve been travelling together this time around.

He adjusts quickly, though, biting his lips and pulling on the strands of Geralt’s hair as the witcher cover his shoulders and neck with kisses, taking his mind off the stretching.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, cursing under his breath at the feeling of a second finger inside him. Thighs slightly shaking, he brings himself further down, whispering Geralt’s name in a voice that makes the entire room narrow down to just those choked breaths from his lips.

He’s so impossibly tight, moaning and whimpering with his every move, growing more and more impatient, fucking himself onto Geralt’s fingers and looking so fucking perfect that the witcher isn’t even sure that he’s real.

There doesn’t seem to be a single clear inch of skin on Jaskier’s neck and collar bones, everything covered in love-bites, and Geralt thinks that there is no way that they’re getting away with this in the morning, but right now it doesn’t matter.

The only thing that matter right now is the way Jaskier looks, smells, tastes, feels. The way he sounds, choked moans and whimpers growing louder, the faster he moves.

Geralt can feel his head spin and pulls the bard closer to him, pressing a hard kiss onto his neck, unable to get enough, and then bites, sharp canine almost piercing the tender skin.

Jaskier gasps loudly, a broken sob like a blade over Geralt’s nerves.

“If you don’t fuck me right now, Witcher,” Jaskier growls into his ear. “I’ll come from just your hands.”

Geralt’s got three fingers in him, and Jaskier is still so fucking tight, but if the witcher could barely take it before, now it just becomes too much.

He pulls his fingers out, swallowing Jaskier’s whimper with a kiss and blindly searching for the oil.

He’s leaking with precome, entire body aching for touch, and Geralt has to clench his jaw as he slicks himself up, the oil warm on his hands.

For a moment – a fraction of time enough only for one shaky breath – he catches Jaskier’s eyes, so unforgivingly dark, and when behind all that darkness he sees the same tenderness he’d always seen in them, pulls the bard’s hips down. Fingers digging into the soft skin so hard that there will be bruises in the morning.

He pushes in slowly, afraid to hurt him, but still can’t hold back a low moan that Jaskier immediately catches with his lips. He shifts slightly, digging both of his hands into the headboard, at either side of Geralt’s head, and brings himself further down, impatient.

His entire body shaking, Jaskier slips all the way down and freezes, trying to overcome the pain. Brows knitted together, eyes shut, and jaw clenched, he looks like he’s not even breathing, so Geralt comforts him gently, running his hands up and down the bard’s back and peppering weightless kisses all over his face.

“You alright, Jask?” he asks softly, barely controlling his own tremors.

Jaskier nods and, after a long moment, takes in a deep breath, fluttering his eyes open and getting his hair, sticky with sweat, out of his face. Geralt can feel the tension bleed away from the bard’s shoulders as he kisses him, Jaskier slowly lifting himself up and then coming back down, gasping quietly into the witcher’s lips.

“Fuck, Geralt…” he breathes, and the way he says his name makes Geralt’s head spin.

The witcher can’t hold back a low moan, keeping both his hands on Jaskier’s thighs as the bard moves, agonisingly slow but also agonisingly good. Every time Jaskier sinks down, taking in Geralt’s entire length, a shiver runs through both of them, making it almost impossible for the witcher not to thrust his hips up.

The fucking sounds Jaskier makes as he adjusts and picks up the pace of his movements are ungodly, and Geralt thinks that if there are moments when his voice gets even more beautiful than when he sings, it’s now.

Jaskier’s hands slip down to rest on the witcher’s shoulders, nails digging into the skin and leaving scratches all over and making Geralt wish there would be at least one scar left. One, that he’d never tell anyone about, and it would be just the two of them that know.

Unable to control himself when the bard moans his name again, he pulls Jaskier in for a raw kiss, shifting him and almost losing his fucking mind from the way the younger man gasps, his eyes flying open.

“Fuck,” he whispers, no breath in his lungs, clinging on to Geralt’s shoulders. “Right there, Geralt, right there, please.”

Geralt doesn’t have to be asked twice. Biting into the bard’s open lips, he gets a better grip on his thighs, hot and slick with sweat, and it only takes him a second to find the right pace, moving together with Jaskier, thrusting so deep inside him that he can feel it in every nerve of his body.

Jaskier kisses him with such hunger that it’s like he’ll suffocate if he stops, moaning and whispering some dirty nonsense into the witcher’s lips, tongue licking into his mouth. His cock is leaking with precome, flush and throbbing, and fuck, Geralt wants to know what Jaskier tastes like.

“Touch yourself,” he rumbles into the bard’s lips. “For me.”

Jaskier makes a breathless sound in the back of his throat, pulling away just enough to get a look at Geralt, hesitant for a short moment before nodding – a barely perceptible move of his head – and reaching down, gasping loudly as his fingers wrap around the length of his cock.

“Anything you want,” he says, stroking himself in an uneven movement, breathing hot and ragged.

They both move faster, Jaskier’s thighs shaking, knees sunken deep into the soft furs, and it only takes him a few strokes before he shakes his head and pulls his hand away, melting and crumbling under the gaze of the witcher’s golden eyes.

“I can’t–” he chokes out. “It’s too much, I can’t–”

Geralt doesn’t let his finish, catching the bard’s wrist and bringing his hand up to his lips, licking off the sticky precome from the tips of his fingers. Jaskier whimpers – a loud, broken sound – and throws his head back, eyes fluttering closed.

“You’re going to kill me, Witcher.”

He lifts his head back up, dark eyes fixing on Geralt as he pushes his fingers into the witcher’s mouth, cursing under his breath at the feeling of the man’s hot tongue.

He tastes a little more bitter than Geralt would’ve thought, but underneath all that bitterness there’s something almost sweet, something that tastes the way blackberry smells.

Taking his hand away, Jaskier returns it to Geralt’s shoulder, propping himself up and moving even faster, nails digging into the witcher’s skin, back arched and knees shaking. He keeps trying to catch his breath but Geralt doesn’t allow him, thrusting his hips up harder, taking the air away from Jaskier’s lungs. They’re both panting, sticky and slick with sweat, and the whole room seems to be hotter than Toussaint in summer, the air thick and heavy with their heat.

Neither of them can hold back moans, gasps and curses, and Geralt knows perfectly that it would be only miraculous if they haven’t gotten heard yet. He muffles Jaskier’s moans with raw, hungry kisses that leave the bard’s lips red and swollen, but he’s way too loud for that to have any real effect.

“Fuck, Geralt–” he whispers, words choked and desperate in his throat. “Harder. Please. Please, harder.”

Whatever remains of Geralt’s fear to hurt the bard disintegrates at the sound that Jaskier makes when the witcher thrusts himself inside him hard enough for the headboard of the bed to slam into the wall behind it. Jaskier’s entire body trembles as he freezes for a long moment, his lower lip split open where his teeth are digging into it. Gasping for air, he meets Geralt’s gaze before the witcher can repeat the move.

“You’re perfect,” he says, breathless.

Geralt growls and crashes their lips together, Jaskier’s blood like wine on his tongue.

He keeps Jaskier in place, holding his hips, and fucks into him, fast and hard, watching, listening, feeling the way he crumbles and shatters in his arms, choking on his moans and Geralt’s name. His voice barely audible, he whispers that he’s close and that he can’t take it anymore, and all it takes is a bite on his unprotected neck for Jaskier to arch his back and come, shaking.

His abdomen tied into knots that are about to rip open any second, lightheaded and absolutely fucking high on the feeling, Geralt wants to pull away from the bard before he comes, out of habit more than anything else, but Jaskier doesn’t allow him, squeezing the witcher’s hips with his knees, and that’s enough for an orgasm to wash over Geralt’s entire consciousness, the world in front of his eyes going black for an endless moment.

They’re both still shaking, Jaskier’s forehead resting on the witcher’s shoulder when the bard presses a smudged kiss onto the man’s collar bone and rolls over, sinking into the pillows and furs. His eyes gleam the same way they do when he’s drunk as he turns his head to look at Geralt.

“We’re never getting away with this, you know,” he says, a smile playing on his lips.

Geralt chuckles in response and turn to his side, pulling one of the furs over them and absentmindedly counting the marks he’d left on Jaskier.  

“We need another bath after this,” he says, reaching over to leave a kiss on the bard's shoulder. “Join me?”