Archive of Our Own

“Any other fun witchery surprises besides the hair?” Jaskier asks during his third week of trailing along after Geralt. He’s asking partially out of genuine curiosity and partially out of trying to find anything to focus on other than how much his legs and feet hurt. He learned about twelve minutes into day one that complaining would get him nothing more than Geralt nudging his horse along even faster and has thus come to the conclusion that the less said about his physical struggles, the better. 

(If the muscles of his thighs keep shaking like they are, though, he may have to make an exception). 

Geralt doesn’t respond, but that’s about what Jaskier knows to expect by now. 

“Do all witchers have silvery locks, or is that just a special Geralt thing?”

Silence. 

“I suppose I would have heard more about other witchers if you all walked around with such lovely hair,” Jaskier muses. He’s not sure his professors saw him using his ability to rationalize in this specific way, but it’s certainly come in handy. 

His ability to talk to himself has certainly proved a boon. As much as the witcher has shown that he won’t let Jaskier die, he rarely tries to interact otherwise. Jaskier might be a miffed, frankly, so much silent treatment after they’ve begun traveling together while Jaskier undertakes the gargantuan task of fixing Geralt’s entire reputation, but enough observation has revealed that it’s not personal; Geralt truly just does not interact with anyone who isn’t lucky enough to be a horse. 

Perhaps Jaskier should just start neighing occasionally, he muses. Maybe then he’d actually get some answers. 

*

After a stunning display of tracking (and a series of lucky guesses), Jaskier manages to find Geralt again the next spring. As much as the witcher tries to disguise it, Jaskier saw him go stock still for the briefest moment after seeing him in the marketplace, and he’s convinced it was out of surprised delight. The “fuck off, bard” that followed the attempt at a hug that saw him knocked onto his ass shook his confidence in his belief a bit, but Jaskier is nothing if not an optimist. 

His second year with Geralt is as delightful as the first, and he even gets to ride Roach for a week after a tumble leaves him with a sprained ankle that won’t hold his weight. He feels rather like a princess in a fairytale, barely resisting the urge to wave at the plebeians around him while passing by to invite them to gaze upon his delightful self. His noble knight could stand to be a little less scowly and slap-y when Jaskier tries to take the reins for himself, but needs must, and at least Geralt looks the part, with all of that lovely silver hair and his very well-tailored trousers. 

Their second year is also when he finally manages to find a key to finding out more about Geralt: his pupils. 

He only makes the discovery because Geralt in their second year has taken less to fully turning away from him and marching away with purpose, and that allows Jaskier to observe how his pupils occasionally grow wider before he seems to take stock of himself and narrows them once more into slits. The why of the phenomenon remains a mystery until Jaskier has time to observe what makes them widen: freshly baked bread, good ale, well-formed horses, and–endearingly–particularly pretty sunsets, the big softie. 

Jaskier can’t help but grin when he finally works it out: Geralt’s pupils widen when he’s looking at something he enjoys, like a cat’s. 

It’s all he can do to keep from rubbing his hands together in glee when he develops a new mission accordingly to assist him in his goal of becoming Geralt’s very best friend in the whole wide world: learn all of the things that make Geralt’s eyes dilate.

*

His plan first goes into action on their next shopping trip, a brief foray into a town they happen to be passing through. In their time together, Jaskier likes to think they’ve come to an understanding on their distribution of labor. Geralt kills beasties and gets covered in disgusting things, Jaskier writes masterpieces about the whole thing and picks fights on the witcher’s behalf. Geralt doesn’t appear to entirely understand the last part of that, but Jaskier has hopes he’ll come around on the idea eventually.  

The other portion of Jaskier’s responsibilities includes making sure they don’t get cheated by merchants. Geralt may not be able to kick up a fuss for fear of being run out of town, but Jaskier has never had an issue making himself the center of attention. 

“Good gods, man,” Jaskier cries, extending his arms wide. Geralt, his hair and face hidden mostly by the hood of his cloak, recoils on reflex to avoid getting hit, accustomed enough at this point to anticipate the motion. “This is highway robbery! This is theft of the highest order! This is-” 

“Not worth the amount of attention you’re drawing right now,” Geralt interrupts, voice low. 

Jaskier gives him a peeved look at being interrupted when he was just winding up to a crescendo of bargaining prowess. The merchant, however, seems knocked enough off balance by the presence of a witcher and a dashing bard at his stall that he finally gives Jaskier an agreeable price for the jam he has on display. The jam is an indulgence, Jaskier knows this, but he’s also seen Geralt smear thick layers of it on his bread when he thinks himself unwatched, and with the witcher taking so few luxuries for himself, Jaskier can’t help but want to grant him some indulgences when he can. He’s studying the flavors on display when he remembers his new theory on how to decide which one Geralt might like best. 

Geralt catches his wrist at the first jar Jaskier shoves in front of his face, but Jaskier just wiggles the jam with the little bit of motion he has. He thinks it might spoil his scientific process that Geralt is irritated, but he decides to count the narrowed pupils anyway. No to peach, then. 

So goes raspberry, apricot, gooseberry (he gets a slight widening, but Jaskier thinks it’s more of an “I’d eat it instead of dying” widening) (more research is required to prove this point), and rhubarb. Geralt gets more fed up with the investigation the longer it goes on and looks away, scanning the crowd as he usually does, as alert and ready as any guard dog. Finally, Jaskier picks up the blueberry and hops in front of him, holding the jar between them when Geralt automatically turns to look him in the eye. 

Success!

Geralt’s pupils widen almost immediately, and Jaskier beams, happily stepping back to the (at this point just ready for them to leave already) merchant and pays for two jars, shoving Geralt’s arm out of the way to stuff them in the sack the witcher carries. He tries to link arms with Geralt after that, but that’s when the witcher’s malleability wears out and trying to move his arm becomes as possible as moving a marble statue’s. 

Still, Jaskier trots along as happily as ever, proud of finding something Geralt likes without even having to try and pry the truth out of him. 

He’ll be in expert in all things Geralt in no time at all. 

*

There are few things Jaskier loves more than designing and shopping for lovely new outfits. 

In their years together, he’s learned there are few things Geralt hates more. 

“Geraaaalt,” Jaskier says, hitting the exact pitch of whine that he knows will make the witcher turn to look at him. 

It works a treat, as it always does, Geralt glowering at him instead of looking longingly out of the window. Perfect. 

“Light green or pink?” Jaskier asks, ignoring the dirty look like he always does and alternating the fabric samples in his hands against his face to check the coloring. Three large contracts, a bardic competition, and a wedding feast means their finances are in excellent shape, and Jaskier has spent a gleeful hour dragging Geralt around after him in search of pretty things to celebrate their success with. They’re finishing their day with a visit to a tailor, and Jaskier is well aware that the only thing keeping Geralt from ditching him is that Jaskier has the key to their room tucked in his trousers where Geralt won’t reach for it in public. 

“Whichever one gets us out of here faster,” Geralt says, looking towards the window again. His body language reminds Jaskier of the lions he once saw in a noble’s menagerie, straining against their chained collars. 

“Honesty will get us out of here the fast-est,” Jaskier sing-songs. “Oh, a yellow!” He exclaims, snatching up the lovely silk sample that somehow escaped his notice. “This changes everything!”  

He doesn’t think he’s imagining how deeply Geralt sighs. 

“We could also get you something,” Jaskier says, eyeing a dark blue velvet shot through with silver thread that would positively dazzle against Geralt’s hair. 

“I have enough clothes,” Geralt says immediately, before looking at Jaskier over his shoulder. “As do you. Can we go now?” 

Jaskier clicks his tongue in disapproval and tosses the yellow sample over his shoulder to free his hands for the bolt of fabric he suddenly has a clear vision for as a lovely jacket for Geralt. Geralt growls low in his chest when Jaskier approaches with it, watching from the corner of his eye. The beleaguered tailor jumps and cringes with the sound, but Jaskier ignores it as he always does, thumping the bolt down on Geralt’s shoulder and then stepping back to examine the effect. 

As he suspected, it’s gorgeous. 

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier gushes, “that’s stunning. We absolutely must get something for you in it.” 

Geralt growls slightly louder, and Jaskier reaches out to flick his nose so he’ll stop terrifying the proprietor of the shop. He hears the tailor whimper softly in fear when he does. 

“Now,” Jaskier says briskly, “back to crucial matters. The yellow: yes or no?” 

Geralt looks up at him then from where he’s been glaring at the material still resting at his shoulder. 

Jaskier resists the urge to grin when he sees his pupils dilate, ever so slightly. 

“Get whatever fucking color it takes for us to leave already,” Geralt says tartly, but Jaskier smugly saunters back to the tailor trying to tuck himself into a corner. 

Geralt can complain all he wants, but those pupils of his don’t lie. 

Jaskier proudly orders a new suit in the yellow silk. 

(After fighting off the hand the witcher tries to clamp over his mouth when he does, he also orders a new jacket in the navy material for Geralt). 

*

“-was the noble lady, tall and fair,” Jaskier croons to a particularly buxom brunette offering him a lovely view of her decolletage, “and a true wonder, to see her down…” he trails the sentence off and lets it hang, already seeing the crowd giggling in anticipation. “...there,” he finishes with an exaggerated wink to the brunette before he spins away to flatter a new member of his audience. 

It’s a new song of his, but one that’s already shaping up to reward him handsomely with a variety of exquisite bed partners. He thinks the brunette might be taken already to judge from the way she leans back to giggle with the equally lovely redhead pressed against her, but he thinks hopefully that they might be up to an additional guest in their bed for the night. 

To judge from the way Geralt is glaring into the middle distance over in his corner of grumpy witcher solitude, he might need to try his luck for the bed alone. 

He sashays up to the witcher as he launches into the chorus once again, and it takes him physically stepping onto the table and crouching in his line of sight to make Geralt look at him. The witcher gives a threatening shove to his leg as if he’ll topple Jaskier off if he doesn’t cease and desist, but he’s traveled long enough with him to know that Geralt wouldn’t actually do something that would hurt him, so Jaskier just leans in more, almost compromising his singing with how widely he’s grinning at how clearly he’s bugging Geralt. 

He should know by now that ignoring Jaskier has consequences.

Even without the body language, he would know Geralt hates this song by how razor-thin his pupils are, but Jaskier’s sung this one before and knew already that it’s not to Geralt’s taste at all. Bored with bothering him for the time being, Jaskier launches himself off the table, fumbling slightly with a laugh when Geralt gives him a measured shove to his back as if to force him away faster. 

He circles the room once again and finishes with leaning across the laps of the brunette and redhead, who give him encouraging smiles. The redhead even steals a touch to his hair, and the encouragement has Jaskier leaping up at once to start another round of flirtation. He follows that with two more, venturing over once to bother Geralt again by leaning against him like a column to let him arch in a most artistic way to show his passion for his lyrics, before he starts to settle down for the night, adding in slower, sweeter songs to bring his audience to a good stopping point. 

He finishes with a song he wrote a year before, a sweet ballad about traveling the world with a lover at one’s side, the warmth of companionship and a shared burden. It’s a song he wrote while more than a little tipsy and more than a little moony over Geralt, who had fucked off to gods only knew where for the night to have an orgasm or seven, to judge from the rumors he’s heard about witcher stamina. He had been afraid the first time he’d performed it that it would push things too far and force Geralt to confront the signs Jaskier has been waving in front of his face for years, but the witcher, as ever, had not picked up on it. 

It had made his pupils widen though, as it has every time Jaskier’s played it since, and that's its own reward. 

“-and I would wander through pouring rain, if only to spare you a moment’s pain-” Jaskier sings with his entire heart, looking directly at Geralt. If he’s to secure the night he’s been angling for all evening, he should probably focus on the twosome he’s been working at, but Jaskier has always been honest with his heart, and this is a song he could only ever sing to the person he wrote it for. 

He smiles, a little sadly. 

Well, even if he can’t make Geralt love him in return, he can at least make his pupils blow wide with pleasure of a different sort. 

It’s enough. 

(It’ll have to be.) 

*

Jaskier is relieved that Geralt is alive. 

He is. 

Really. 

Lost under the little detail of actively suffocating to death thanks to Geralt’s misuse of words around a djinn, he hadn’t been entirely sure what was going on with the witcher, and he’s pleased that he’s alright. 

He would just prefer if he could hug the witcher instead of Geralt being hard at work being ridden like a racehorse by the psychotic witch he decided to save for some reason that Jaskier cannot fathom. Jaskier can’t help but be exasperated by Geralt’s taste in bed partners and timing, even as he’s mildly interested in the acrobatics on display and toying with the idea of shouting through the window to find out if they’d like a third member to the party. 

Despite the many years they’ve spent sharing rooms and beds, he’s never actually seen Geralt with a bed buddy before. The witcher’s walked in on him more than a few times and gotten quite a few free shows, but Geralt for his own part has been a fascinatingly fastidious lover, taking all of his assignations in another room or at a brothel and only then returning to their shared accommodations. 

Now, however, Jaskier mourns that he hasn’t had at least a few peeks at the fun on display to fuel his own fantasies on cold nights. Even on his back, Geralt is an active participant, hips moving in a steady, mouth-watering display of controlled physicality as his hands guide the–admittedly lovely and well-curved–hips of the witch astride him, her hair curtaining down and hiding Geralt’s face. Jaskier prepares to call out and make sure all is well, partially to be a bit of a shit and interrupt their fun. It would serve them-

The witch shifts, and Jaskier gets a look at Geralt’s face. 

The witcher looks thunderstruck, mouth parted slightly, face canting up to the sorceress above him like a flower to the sun. His eyes flutter short at a particularly athletic roll of the witch’s hips, and when they open once more, Jaskier sees that the witcher’s eyes are nearly black, his pupils are expanded so wide. 

He very clearly likes the view of the woman above him. 

As Jaskier watches, Geralt reaches one hand up and cups the sorceress’s face, and it feels like a gut punch when he pulls her into a kiss, something sweet and tender and yet still full of heated want. 

Oh, Jaskier thinks with a sudden pang of empathy for every lover who ever watched him leave them behind, so that’s what that feels like.

Jaskier lets himself get dragged away and makes a joke about it. When Geralt finally drags himself away from being fucked into the earth like a dockside whore, Jaskier elbows him with a bit more force than necessary under the guise of making a jest of the entire experience. 

“Well then,” Jaskier says brightly, elbowing Geralt again, enough that this time the witcher grunts and gives him a look before he moves to the other side of Roach. He carries himself loosely, with masculine pride in each angle of his body, clearly satiated and post-orgasmic. 

Jaskier kind of wants him to faceplant in a mud puddle. 

“Well what?” Geralt says, and Jaskier can’t even enjoy the humor in his tone, knowing exactly why the witcher is in such a good mood. 

“I bet this’ll be one hell of a song,” Jaskier says, trying to provoke Geralt into an eyeroll at least. 

Instead the bastard just smiles, the slightest quirk of his lips. 

Jaskier wants to break something. 

“Hm,” Geralt says, and Jaskier tries to will Roach into mule kicking the witcher with the force of his mind when Geralt turns slightly to look over his shoulder, back in the direction he left his magical fuckbuddy. 

“That Yennefer really is something else,” Jaskier says, hoping that Geralt will just hum or roll his eyes or otherwise indicate disinterest in exploring the subject further.

“She is that,” Geralt agrees, and Jaskier doesn’t miss the warm amusement in his tone.

He also doesn’t miss the way his pupils widen slightly. 

Jaskier faces forward immediately, desperately willing the tears welling in his eyes not to fall. 

Fucking Yennefer, Jaskier thinks, with a vitriol he hasn’t felt for anyone other than Valdo before. May she step in every pile of cowshit she comes across. 

He bets Geralt’s pupils wouldn’t be so quick to widen with interest then. 

*

“Geralt,” Jaskier repeats for the ninth time. The witcher remains intently focused on his book. “Geeeeraaaaaaaaalt,” Jaskier says in a sing-song tone, waggling the outfits in either hand to hopefully at least catch his attention with motion. “C’mon, Scowly Wolf, the sooner you help me decide, the sooner it will be over.” 

Geralt turns a page with more intense focus than the task could ever require. 

Jaskier rolls his eyes and tosses himself on the bed, covering the book with his body. He’s across Geralt’s lap like this, but he knows the witcher is more than capable of taking his weight. He frees one arm so he can shove the outfits at Geralt, who is currently glowering at him. 

“Blue or green?” Jaskier asks brightly, holding up both options in turn. 

“Get off,” Geralt says instead, and Jaskier would be more likely to comply if he couldn’t see Geralt’s pupils widen. Jaskier didn’t actually keep track of which outfit was in front of his eyes when they first widened, however, so he still doesn’t have his answer. He pushes them more slowly in front of Geralt’s face, but the witcher’s eyes remain the same dilation. Geralt starts lifting and dropping his book under Jaskier, trying to jostle him into moving. 

“If you-” Jaskier says between movements “just told-” he grunts when the drop is particularly hard “me which one-” 

Geralt’s attempt at jiggling him into submission is given up, and then the witcher just puts a hand on either side of his waist and tosses him off of the bed. Jaskier makes an offended noise, but he keeps his feet and whirls. He tries to dive onto the book once more, now out of spite, but Geralt blocks him, sitting up and planting a hand against his chest. 

“Enough, bard,” Geralt snaps. “I don’t give a fuck what you wear. Just let me read.” 

Jaskier scowls at him, and he’s back to his previous position the moment Geralt sits back with his book once more. The tone of “bard” tells him he’s treading perilously close to the true edge of Geralt’s patience, but the witcher is the one making things difficult in the first place by not answering  a simple question. He stretches out more, wiggling slightly to try and get the book more out of the way, and finally the witcher drops his tome entirely, jerking his arms out from under Jaskier and crossing them over his chest. He tilts his head and sighs like a martyr. 

“Go ahead,” he allows, and Jaskier claps, delighted, and then hops up, holding both outfits against himself. 

“This one brings out my eyes,” he says with a wiggle of the blue garment, delighted when Geralt looks at him and his pupils widen. He tosses the green one over his shoulder thoughtlessly, and Geralt frowns. 

“What was the point of that if you’re not going to show me both of them?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier just hums to himself, pleased as punch. 

“I got my answer,” Jaskier answers mysteriously, stripping down and putting the winning outfit on. 

“Impossible,” Geralt mutters to himself, picking up his book again, but Jaskier doesn’t miss the little hint of a smile around his eyes, amused despite himself at what appears to be Jaskier’s lack of sense. 

Jaskier smiles to himself, preparing to wheedle Geralt into buttoning up the back. 

Let the witcher think it’s all random. 

Jaskier likes having his little secret. 

(Just as much as he likes knowing that Geralt does like at least some of his outfits after all, ha).

*

Jaskier is a drunk little. 

No. Wait. 

“Geraaalt,” he slurs, and the witcher rolls his head to look at him, his neck apparently too liquid to move properly. Jaskier laughs, and Geralt smiles a little, even if he doesn’t know the joke. That’s okay, though, Jaskier forgot his question, so they’re probably even. 

He leans into the witcher’s warmth and uses Geralt as a prop to keep himself upright. There’s supposed to be fireworks later, and he doesn’t want to miss them, but it was perhaps a bit foolish to set out on a quest to try every single wine the fair had to offer. 

Still, there is no victory without risk, and Jaskier has no regrets. 

(He might tomorrow when he pays for such fun, but that’s a problem for future him, poor bastard). 

For now, he leans against Geralt and waves his hand wildly until the witcher puts a waterskin in it. Jaskier fumbles the top of it a few times until Geralt laughs and opens it for him, even tipping it up to his mouth. Between finishing all of the cups Jaskier tried and the shot of White Gull Jaskier insisted on to make things fair, the witcher is also under the influence, and even between the two of them, Jaskier ends up with more than a little water splashed down his front. 

“Sorry,” Geralt says, attempting to use his sleeve to dab at the moisture. Drunk, however, he lacks the finer control of his strength, and he ends up knocking Jaskier over. He curses and leans over at once, apparently worried he’s caused harm, sweet thing that he is, but Jaskier just laughs and shoves at him in return until the witcher flops next to him. Feeling daring, Jaskier even sneaks out a hand to grab Geralt’s. The witcher freezes for a moment before he relaxes, linking their fingers together. 

“Hey, Jask? Can I-” Geralt asks after a while. Jaskier hums a response, soothed by the calloused thumb stroking along his knuckles. He frowns when the motion stops and turns to look at Geralt, making another noise to prompt him to continue. “Nevermind,” Geralt says at last, turning his head and smiling, something sweet and intensely private that makes Jaskier feel like he’s glowing from the inside out, “doesn’t matter.” 

“Sure?” Jaskier says, wiggling a bit to rest on his side more comfortably. He sees Geralt exhale a breath of a laugh at the motion and plays it up just to watch it happen again. 

“Maybe one day,” Geralt says, which is intriguing, but Jaskier is drunk and happy and with his favorite person, and he can leave off on any investigations. 

For now, it’s enough to see Geralt looking at him, pupils blown wide, to know that he and the witcher are both enjoying this moment together. 

When the fireworks start up, Jaskier rolls on his back with a gasp and then shifts to rest his head on Geralt’s shoulder. The witcher shifts as well, making the angle more comfortable, and Jaskier smiles up at the same moment Geralt smiles down. 

If it makes the witcher this happy, Jaskier thinks fondly, he’ll have to make sure to get him drunk around pyrotechnics more often. 

*

Three weeks later, Geralt yells at him and abandons him on top of a mountain. 

Surprised and hurting and trying not to show either of those things–a lesson learned from a childhood of being bullied and knowing exactly what provokes it to go on longer–he hadn’t thought to check what Geralt’s pupils do when he’s well and truly pissed. 

He had consoled himself on his lonely trek down the mountain with the fact that Geralt would regret what he’d said. As much of an ass as he can be, the witcher isn’t bad at heart. He doesn’t like yelling and being angry. It’s just that the world, and yes, alright, Jaskier sometimes, is good at needling him until he goes full grouch. Always, though, Geralt apologizes in his own way, new blankets mysteriously added to Jaskier’s pack, a muffin heavy with walnuts shoved into his hand in a marketplace, a new leather belt in a lovely pattern tossed at him in spring. 

They’ll get past this. They will. 

Geralt will find him, and Jaskier will forgive him, and then he’ll buy Geralt a good meal to watch his pupils widen with pleasure. 

It’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine. 

*

Three months later, still alone, cuddling a bottle and crying into a pillow, Jaskier starts to realize it won’t be.

*

His reunion with Geralt had been lackluster in quantity and quality of apologies, but beggars can’t be choosers, and Jaskier knows in a pathetic little corner of his heart that he would willingly beg if it only meant Geralt wouldn’t leave him again. Besides, he had seen Geralt’s pupils, not fully expanded but still noticeably dilated, and those certainly don’t lie. Even if Geralt can’t say it with words, Jaskier knows the witcher is pleased they’re together once more. 

He just can’t stop wondering how long it’ll last this time. 

*

Kaer Morhen is both more and less than he imagined it being. 

It’s grand, certainly, and if Jaskier hadn’t been so busy in a snark-off with Ciri to establish dominance, he might have paused to take it in more. As it was, however, that would have given the teenager grounds to tease him, and Jaskier could never afford to give up the little bit of advantage he’d managed to gain, the girl growing less standoffish with each day they bantered. 

He’s had more time since to explore, and now Jaskier can see the places in which the lack of witchers is showing in its upkeep. There are rooms closed off, outer walls starting to crumble, vines of ivy creeping ever on to slowly reclaim what parts of the keep it can. 

The exploration is useful both for trying to get the lay of the land, and for pursuing his latest hobby: avoiding Geralt like the plague. 

For a man with enhanced senses in a structure large enough to house an army, Geralt finds a way to be underfoot a suspicious amount of time. Jaskier’s tried to learn what schedule he sticks to in the winter, but even knowing when Geralt can be expected to be training his own skills or drilling Ciri’s into her, he still finds himself bumping into the witcher more than anyone else in the keep. 

He can’t understand what the fuck Geralt means in making their paths cross so much. Jaskier’s made active efforts to make himself scarce and offer Geralt what space he can, and he’s more than a little miffed that Geralt keeps ruining it. Snowed in at Kaer Morhen for the winter, Jaskier can’t exactly just fuck off down the mountain if Geralt decides to get shout-y again, and he’s more than slightly stressed out that the witcher’s attempt to do whatever it is he’s aiming at is going to end up with Jaskier having to trek down another mountain alone and meeting an ignominious end as a bardsicle. 

He can’t help but huff a little breath when Geralt sits down next to him at dinner. In another time, another life, he would have puffed up with delight at being chosen in such a way, but now Jaskier can’t help but be a little irritated when he shuffles over. Geralt is a large man, and Jaskier has to move all the way to the edge of the bench to ensure that no part of them is touching, made even worse when the witcher relaxes his muscles and starts brushing against Jaskier despite the space.

He gives Geralt a few side glances over the course of the meal  to try and establish what his facial expression might say, but the witcher just looks satisfied and happy, not as if he’s slowly muscling Jaskier off of the seating. 

It hits Jaskier suddenly that Geralt might be trying to give him a hint to leave, to let the witcher enjoy his little family here without interloping bards. Geralt’s never been one to shy from saying mean things directly, but Jaskier realizes suddenly that the mountain has proven that he doesn’t know the witcher nearly as well as he thought he did. With the time he’s had since, he’s begun to realize that Geralt likely offered him a whole host of hints before that final explosion, and Jaskier had missed them. 

With a full ass cheek off of the bench at this point, Jaskier has the aching realization that Geralt isn’t being quite as subtle with his hints this time. A crowd out is a crowd out, and if this is what it takes to avoid Geralt breaking his heart all over again, Jaskier will learn to listen. 

Eyes stinging, he stands up with rather more speed and drama than he means to, drawing the attention of the rest of the table. 

“Ah,” he starts, stupidly. “Bed,” he manages, giving them a smile. He won’t call Geralt on it, will just give him the space he clearly wants. Jaskier will-

He finally sees Geralt’s pupils, the witcher observing him along with the rest, watching him edge slowly from the room. 

It hurts more than he expected, seeing them dilated. 

Apparently Geralt is quite pleased with how well Jaskier took his hint and left. Well then. 

He turns tail and does his best not to run after shouting a slightly-strangled “Goodnight!” over his shoulder. 

He runs through the keep until he finds an isolated staircase far from enhanced ears, and only then does he let himself take a mouthful of shirt between his teeth and sob his pain out. 

*

When Jaskier opens his door after an aggressive knock a few days later, he certainly isn’t expecting to look up and find Lambert looming there. 

He also certainly doesn’t expect when he gets shoved back to let the witcher close the door behind himself. 

Jaskier blinks blankly for a moment before he tries to tidy up the tray of dinner he’d been picking at–he hasn’t taken his meals in the great hall since Geralt gave him the hint he was unwanted there–partially thrilled by the show and partially embarrassed by how he’s going to have to decline what seems to be an invitation to a (certainly stunningly satisfying) fuck. For all that certain elements of his anatomy perk up in interest, he knows already he either wouldn’t be able to follow through or wouldn’t be able to live with himself afterwards. 

More than slightly regretful already, he inhales a deep breath to begin making a soft decline of the offer, but Lambert cuts him off before he gets the chance. 

“Look,” the witcher says, running a hand through his hair roughly. Jaskier waits, accordingly, but that seems to be as far as Lambert got in his planning of how this interaction was supposed to go. 

“I am,” Jaskier begins slowly, “and believe me, in any other circumstance, I would gleefully climb you like a tree on a summer afternoon, but-” 

He yelps slightly when Lambert places a hand over his mouth and backs him against a wall. This certainly does nothing for silencing the more base parts of himself who are beating on pots and pans urging him to drop to his knees and just enjoy, but he tries to remain strong. He licks Lambert’s palm to try and get him to let go so he can let him down easy, but Lambert just scowls and squeezes slightly tighter, which really just increases Jaskier’s growing problem. 

“Look,” Lambert says, “I think you’re probably not a totally shit person, and I appreciate what you’ve done for us, and I know Geralt fucked you over with whatever happened between you two,” he pauses, looking down quickly before looking back up, gathering his thoughts. “But you have to stop stringing my brother along.” 

Jaskier…has absolutely no context for or response to that. His confusion must show on his face because Lambert rolls his eyes. 

“I know you nobles love to prance around and play at love and shit when you’re bored,” Jaskier makes an offended noise at this because while he does love to prance, he certainly never “plays at” love. He means it each and every time. Lambert does not heed the interruption. “But Geralt can’t play those games with you. He might walk around looking constipated by his own virtue all the time, but when he loves, he means it, alright? I know he pissed you off, and you can hit him over the head with a frying pan if it’ll make you feel better about it, but you can’t keep stringing him along like this. You have to mean it or stop, because you’re going to break him otherwise, and then the rest of us will have to deal with the fucking melodrama that comes after, and that is not how I want to spend my winters for the next several decades.”

That is more than Jaskier feels fully able to process at once, but Lambert chooses then to release him, although he remains close. Jaskier gives a half-hearted shrug to get him to move back, but, not used to accommodating non-witcher strength like Geralt, it takes Lambert a moment of processing it before he complies, raising a sardonic eyebrow as if to ask if Jaskier thought that would actually work. 

(It would work on Geralt, which makes Jaskier feel a way he can’t afford to feel. Not if he’s going to not fall to pieces). (Again). 

“Did you hit your head or something?” Jaskier decides to ask. “I saw you fall during training the other day. It didn’t do something to your brain or anything, did it?” 

Lambert scowls at that and makes to move closer, but Jaskier raises his hands in surrender. 

“Just checking! I have less than no idea what you’re talking about, and I’m trying to eliminate possibilities as to why that is.” 

“Don’t pull that shit with me, alright-” Lambert starts, but Jaskier cuts him off. 

“I’m not! I genuinely, honestly, cross my heart and pray the gods may strike me down if I lie, have absolutely no fucking clue about what you’re talking about. I’m not leading Geralt on. I never have. I don’t think it’s possible to lead him on. That would require him following, and I can assure you, your brother has never been a follower a day in his life. That man doesn’t even march to the beat of his own drum. He uses an entirely different instrument.” 

“You can’t be fucking serious,” Lambert says flatly. “You traveled with him for years. There’s no fucking way you don’t know.” 

“Know what?” Jaskier asks, more than a little exasperated at this guessing game Lambert decided to invade his room to play. 

“Oh gods,” Lambert groans, bringing his hands up and scrubbing them across his face, “you’re both fucking stupid. Fuck.” He looks up, and his gaze is suddenly intense enough to raise some quiet alarm in Jaskier’s head, some distant warning bell informing him that he’s standing in front of an apex predator. It’s faint enough to ignore it as he usually does, but it does make him shift his weight slightly to have some release for the tension it still causes. “You swear to me that you have no idea what I’m talking about?” 

Jaskier raises his right hand. 

“Give me a holy object, and I’ll swear to it. I have no clue what you’re talking about. I’m operating under the assumption that you’ve done permanent damage to something in your head, but that’s only a working theory.” 

Lambert gives him a rude hand gesture and drops onto the bed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, still considering Jaskier, who is beginning to feel like he’s about to get a lecture from a parent. 

“Geralt is disgustingly in love with you, and you need to either decide to return it or let him know now, because it’s gross and not fair that the rest of us have to suffer.” Lambert laughs once, dry and mocking. “It was bad enough when he was here over winter reeking of you and mooning everywhere. This is so much worse.” 

Jaskier’s ears are ringing, and he thinks he might faint. Apparently his pale face is enough to alarm Lambert, who shoots up and is back across the room faster than Jaskier can track, especially in his current state of mind. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” Lambert says, ushering Jaskier over to his bed and shoving more than helping him down. “Do not die,” Lambert instructs him sternly, “do not fucking die right now. Geralt will kill me. He will skin me alive. How fucking delicate are humans?” The last question seems more to himself than to Jaskier, which is good because Jaskier doesn’t have the focus or energy to be offended at present. 

“Geralt…loves me?” Jaskier asks slowly, flopping onto his back and looking up at his ceiling. Lambert appears in his field of vision, hovering over him with a deeply unimpressed look on his face. 

“You and Geralt belong together,” he says with no small amount of judgment in his tone. “You’re both fucking clueless.” 

Without thinking, Jaskier automatically brings up one leg to kick at him, but Lambert catches his foot and just raises an eyebrow. Jaskier sticks his tongue out at him. Geralt would have let-

The thought of Geralt stops that train of thought, and he lets his leg go limp. After a mistrustful moment, Lambert drops his foot. 

“Why do you think he loves me?” Jaskier says, tilting his head slightly. 

Lambert rolls his eyes. 

“Why the fuck is this my job now?” He asks the room at large, clearly not pleased by his new role. “Have you fucking seen him looking at you? When you’re not looking he makes the dumbest faces, but even when you are looking, do you not see his eyes at least? Fucking hell.” 

“His eyes?” Jaskier parrots, frowning. “What? Are you going to try and tell me witchers have eyes that change color when they love someone?” 

“I take it back,” Lambert says with mock thoughtfulness. “You might be even dumber than Geralt, and I didn’t think that was possible.” 

Jaskier valiantly resists the urge to kick at him again, and Lambert leaves his field of vision. When he props himself up, the witcher is already at the door. Before he opens it, he looks over his shoulder. 

“Watch his pupils,” Lambert says. “If they got any wider than when he’s looking at you, I think the rest of us would have to leave the room.” 

With that utterly mystifying statement, Lambert takes his leave, throwing a rude hand gesture over his shoulder before he closes the door. 

Jaskier remains on his bed, head spinning and spinning and spinning. 

*

Jaskier decides by the next morning that he has to put Lambert’s theory to the test. It’s outlandish and impossible, but Jaskier has always had a healthy (per him, foolish, per others who have white hair and gold eyes and will remain unnamed) sense of curiosity. 

And besides, he figures as he takes a seat at breakfast that morning beside Geralt, what can it hurt? 

Like any scientific experiment, he knows he needs to control variables. He has a fairly good base of things he knows Geralt doesn’t like, and, as if his experiment is being blessed by a higher power, there’s a bowl of pickles to the upper right of Geralt, meaning Jaskier has an easy excuse to reach over, grab one, and see how Geralt reacts when it moves across his field of vision. 

It makes him feel pleased, absurdly, when Geralt doesn’t lean away as he leans in, his chest pressing tight to Geralt’s arm. He draws the pickle back slowly and sees Geralt’s pupils narrow as they always do. He pauses just long enough to be suspicious, and Geralt obligingly turns to him, one eyebrow raised in a question. 

His pupils widen. 

Jaskier nearly drops the pickle. 

He recovers and gives Geralt a careless smile, as if he’d just been so consumed in thought that he lost track of the movements of his body for a moment. (It wouldn’t be the first time). (Which Geralt would know better than most given how many times he’s had to help Jaskier out of ditches or had to pull him out of the path of furniture he didn’t quite notice). He returns the pickle to his own plate and sets it down, staring at it as if it will give him some answers. 

The vegetable remains silent, and he picks it up to avoid seeming strange for grabbing it in the first place only to put it on his plate uneaten.

Well, Jaskier thinks with an absurd little shiver of relief as he takes a delightfully crunchy bite, he likes me more than pickles at least.

*

Jaskier has had four weeks of experiments, and he’s feeling rather full of himself. He still doesn’t know exactly where he stands in Geralt’s favor, but he knows by now that at least Geralt likes him more than most nouns. Pickles had been a low bar to start with, but Jaskier now knows he ranks even above ale from the keg. 

(If he had flopped facedown on his bed and kicked his legs in the air while making happy sounds into his pillow the night after he made that discovery, well, that’s just his own little secret). 

He feels more himself these days, more centered in his place. He’s not arrogant enough to insist he’s Geralt’s best friend anymore, which stings, but it’s enough to know that there are at least things that Geralt dislikes more than him. It’s a low bar, but it’s a bar he can clear at least. 

At Geralt’s side at supper that night, the seating arrangement chosen as ever by Geralt’s selection of place, Jaskier smiles and knocks his cup against the witcher’s. Geralt, smiling despite his bemusement, looks from the cup to him, pupils widening ever so slightly. 

“What are we celebrating?” Geralt asks, even as he gamely touches the table with his cup along with Jaskier before downing it. 

“Oh, you know,” Jaskier says with a little smile as he wipes his lip, “just this and that.” 

Geralt still looks at him in a way that’s clearly puzzled, but Jaskier discovered today that he ranks above Geralt’s swords, and he’s really the only one who needs to know about those particular “this and that”s. He pours another measure in his cup and another for Geralt, and as much as the witcher rolls his eyes, he holds still and lets him do it. 

He’s decided Lambert must be misguided about the whole “in love with him” part of things, but he’s also seen witchers try to do emotions at close range, so he can’t hold it against him. Geralt cares for him, something Jaskier now has pupil-based evidence to support, but they’re back to their usual partnership, a warm, easy thing that feels like slipping into a fuzzy sweater after an hour in the snow. 

It’s good, being back with Geralt, Jaskier thinks contently. Even without the other things he might dream of, Jaskier is happy. His life is good, his witcher is back, and he’s starting to find his place in this rag-tag little assembly of family. 

I’m home, he thinks warmly, daring to press against Geralt’s side. The witcher doesn’t retreat, and Jaskier could even imagine that he leans back. Finally, I’m home.

*

Jaskier is on alert the moment he sees Geralt perk up, body tense. Jaskier stills and looks around, although he knows the witcher will find whatever it is that has him listening so hard far before Jaskier will. He still doesn’t know why Geralt dragged him all the way out here, but the witcher had sworn he had something he had to tell Jaskier, and apparently this conversation needs to take place far from brothers, father figures, sorceresses, and child surprises that take more after Geralt every day. Jaskier’s a little worried about it, but he was also reminded this morning that he ranks above buttery roasted potatoes, so he’s feeling relatively secure. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, eyes still scanning their surroundings as Geralt tilts his head like a dog trying to hear better. “What is-” 

“Shit,” Geralt hisses, and then Jaskier has all of the air knocked out of him when the witcher drives an arm into his stomach and hauls him over his shoulder, moving with dizzyingly inhuman speed. Jaskier doesn’t have the air to investigate what the fuck is going on, but soon enough he hears a rumble, faint at first but growing, and then he sees a sheet of white coming for them. 

An avalanche. 

Fuck. 

A glance over his shoulder reveals that Geralt is trying to head for a higher slope, but for all of his speed, the snow is racing faster, and Jaskier hasn’t even had a chance to catch his breath enough to tell Geralt to leave him so he can be faster when the snow is over them, sending him tumbling from Geralt’s shoulder despite the hands he feels reaching out for him, the witcher’s cry of his name cut short by the force of the snow covering them. 

Jaskier tumbles with the force of the wave taking him down, and he reaches out blindly, trying to find Geralt. He doesn’t know what the witcher can do against the force of several tons of snow trying to bury them, but he’d at least like to know he wasn’t alone in this. For all of his attempts, however, his fingers only brush snow and bits of branches, and he soon has no sense of up or down, covered in cold darkness. His adrenaline is rushing through his body enough that he can feel his heart pounding, and he feels wildly alert. He tries desperately to think about the things Geralt has lectured him on about avalanches this winter. Something about hands? Hands and air pockets? Digging a-

He cries out wordlessly when something strikes his temple, and then he doesn’t think about anything at all. 

*

When Jaskier next wakes, he’s utterly disoriented. He’s warm and lying on something soft, and after a moment of thinking, he remembers that this was not the way he expected to find himself. He groans to express his general air of discontent, and then there are large, warm hands on his face, which is a surprising but lovely development as one strokes over his cheek gently. 

“Jask?” Asks a voice he knows is Geralt’s, even though the quality of it sounds slightly strained. He manages to blink his eyes open, but before he can manage a smile and perhaps even a tease, he finds himself gathered up and pressed tightly against Geralt’s chest. The witcher cups his head with one hand and rubs the other in circles that are more frenetic than soothing. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Geralt repeats under his breath, and if Jaskier wasn’t about 47% sure he’s dead and imagining this, he might make a joke about the witcher’s extensive vocabulary at play. 

“Am I dead?” Jaskier asks in an attempt at getting an answer, but that just makes Geralt clutch him tighter. 

“No,” Geralt says, voice equally strained and fierce. “I got you out. You’re fine.” The cadence of the words makes it sound like the witcher is talking more to himself than to Jaskier, but Geralt’s hug is rather lovely, so he’ll let it pass. Geralt finally releases him, even though he keeps supporting Jaskier and the hand behind his head remains. 

“What hap-” Jaskier asks, wincing at the soreness in his body as he moves, but he cuts himself off when he meets Geralt’s eyes. 

He has never seen the pupils so wide. 

He tries to start another sentence but chokes, brows furrowing in confusion. 

The room is dim–a quick look out the window tells him it’s probably late afternoon–but it’s certainly not dark enough to justify this degree of dilation. 

His confusion apparently translates as pain, because Geralt suddenly has one hand roaming over him, which Jaskier would find very delightful if he wasn’t trying to solve a mystery. 

“Where does it hurt?” Geralt asks, and only when he looks down does he see bruising and partially healed cuts on the witcher’s hands. Jaskier frowns at this and manages to get enough coordination to take one between both of his. 

“What’d you do?” Jaskier accuses. A few of Geralt’s fingernails are ragged and torn like he decided to dig in the garden like a hound. 

“You were buried,” Geralt says, and the tightness of his voice tells Jaskier that this is something he’s still not very pleased about. Were their positions reversed, Jaskier would be in a snit to end all snits, so that’s fair enough. “Fuck, Jask, I couldn’t even hear you breathing-” Geralt cuts himself off, swallowing hard. “I thought you were dead,” he confesses, looking down at their hands. “I thought I was too late.” 

The abject misery is painful to watch, so Jaskier uses one hand to push at Geralt’s chin until he’s looking up again. His heart flutters a little when he sees Geralt’s pupils expand while looking at his face. 

“I’m perfectly well,” Jaskier assures him. It’s a smidge of a lie, his body still aching, but Geralt doesn’t need to know that. What Geralt doesn’t know won’t have him confined to bed for a week, after all. 

“You almost weren’t,” Geralt says mulishly. 

“Well,” Jaskier says with a little smile, “luckily I have a big, strong witcher looking out for me.” 

Geralt smiles at this, a faint flicker, there and gone again, but Jaskier will take it as a win. As much as he thought he would like a little groveling back when they first reunited, Jaskier finds he doesn’t have the stomach for Geralt’s unhappiness. 

“What did you even take me out there for anyway?” Jaskier asks in an attempt at distracting Geralt, but that just makes the witcher frown a little before he straightens up, looking very similar to the way he does when he walks into a fight, which is a little alarming. Jaskier would not want to square up to a witcher on his best day, and he certainly doesn’t want to now. Blessedly, Geralt just moves so he’s holding both of Jaskier’s hands in his own. 

“I wanted to do this better,” Geralt says, frowning at their joined hands. He tilts his head towards one shoulder in what Jaskier knows is a tell that he’s embarrassed, and isn’t that an intriguing thing to see. “I wanted-” he coughs a little and ducks his head more. Jaskier doesn’t actually think he’s seen Geralt this flustered before. He squeezes his hands in reassurance. 

“C’mon, witcher,” he says teasingly, “it’s just you and little old me here.” 

Geralt looks to him then and smiles, a soft, fond thing. 

“It’s always you and me, Jask,” he says, which makes Jaskier’s heart flutter a little. “Still,” he says, frowning again, “I had plans.”

“Plans?” Jaskier says, frowning a little himself. Geralt nods. 

“I-Eskel helped me come up with them. You like that poem about the lovers in the snow,” Geralt says, ducking his head a little again, “and I thought…” 

Jaskier’s ears are ringing faintly, and as charming as he finds Geralt’s flustered self, he thinks he might be done in by so many pauses. 

“Geralt, are-” 

“I love you,” Geralt interrupts him in a rush, and Jaskier blinks at him. Geralt looks down briefly, apparently surprised that he actually just said that, before he looks back up at him. 

Oh my, Mr. Wolf, Jaskier thinks a little madly, what large pupils you have. 

“I don’t expect you-I don’t mean-” Geralt cuts himself off with a frustrated little huff. “Fuck,” he says with feeling, looking to the window like the outdoors has done something to offend him, “I had plans for this. It was going to be better.” 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says to get his attention, voice a little strained, “I’m sure your planning was lovely. Can we back up again to the ‘I love you’ part of this conversation? Because you’ve lost me there.” 

Geralt looks unsure suddenly. 

“Lambert said you…” Geralt trails off, and then he sets his jaw in the way that means he’s about to do something stupidly self-sacrificing and noble. Jaskier barely resists the urge to roll his eyes on reflex. “Jaskier, I thought-” He cuts himself off, shakes his head briefly like he’s dislodging a thought. “I’m sorry, I misread the situation. I swear, Jaskier, this doesn’t have to change anything. I won’t bother you with it again-” 

“I love you, too,” Jaskier says, a little slower than Geralt said it but still faster than is romantic, strictly speaking. 

Geralt just stares at him for a moment before a small smile softens his face in slow increments. 

“I wasn’t sure,” Geralt says, “I know I fucked up on the mountain, and I don’t deserve you, but I had hoped…” He trails off. Jaskier thinks with some amusement that he’s probably used up his words for the week. “I want to do better, Jaskier,” he says, very serious and earnest, and even if Jaskier hadn’t already mostly forgiven him, he would certainly be softening now. “It’s why I wanted to take you out in the snow to tell you. I haven’t always tried with you, and,” he pauses briefly, squeezes Jaskier’s hands, “you deserve for me to try for you.” 

It’s not Jaskier’s fault that he cries at that, really. 

Geralt’s face is alarmed so fast that Jaskier laughs even through his tears. 

“Good crying,” he assures Geralt, which helps him settle a bit, even though he’s still on edge. Geralt’s never been good with tears, Jaskier knows. It’s always been the fastest way to get Geralt to fold, even when it’s a stranger doing it. He laughs harder when Geralt gives him an awkward pat on his shoulder and tries to get himself together. “What brought this about, out of curiosity?” Jaskier asks, trying to distract himself so he can calm down and stop traumatizing his witcher with his emotions. 

“When you almost died-” Geralt starts, but Jaskier cuts him off. 

“No, I get that. Near death and love confessions and all that. Those are my bread and butter.” Jaskier says, grinning when he sees Geralt resist the urge to roll his eyes, apparently still trying to be sweet. “But the whole…thing,” Jaskier finishes with a blush. He can’t actually say it out loud. He’s not even sure he’s not imagining this. 

Geralt swallows and squeezes his hands again, looking down. 

“I have for a while,” Geralt says, looking up at him again. “I don’t know how long exactly.” He frowns, trying to find words, and Jaskier lets him. “It was so…easy, with you. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I just… didn’t do anything with it.” Jaskier snorts, and Geralt responds with a little quirk of his lips. 

“Why didn’t you say anything before?” Jaskier asks. He has to know. Geralt is quiet for a moment before he responds, sorting his thoughts out. 

“What we had was so good,” Geralt starts, “and I’d never had anything like that before. Any one like that before.” Geralt releases one of his hands and traces a gentle thumb along his jaw, resting at his chin. “I didn’t want to risk ruining it, so I just…didn’t.”

Until he did. In a massive, horrible, soul-crushing way. 

“The mountain was one of the worst things I’ve ever done,” Geralt says, and Jaskier is alarmed for a moment that he either said his thoughts out loud or that Geralt can suddenly read minds, but instead the witcher just seems attuned to the same train of thought like he has been many times in their years together. “I fucked up, Jaskier. I was angry, and you were there, and taking it out on you was easier than just feeling it.” He stops and inhales deliberately. “I regretted it when I did it, Jask, and then I was too craven to fix it.” 

“Until you needed me,” Jaskier reminds him, unable to help it. He has to say it. He has to have it addressed so it won’t fester in him like it has been. 

“It was the first time I had a good excuse,” Geralt says sheepishly. “I thought about looking for you before, but I heard your songs,” Jaskier winces at this, but Geralt doesn’t appear to notice, “and I knew you were mad, and you had every right to be. I thought if I had a reason to seek you out…then you might listen to me, might give me a chance.” 

“You’re so dumb,” Jaskier says fondly, and Geralt frowns at him. “I would have taken you back that day if you’d just stayed.” He smiles, a little embarrassed. “I suppose that might make me just as foolish, so really that just raises the question of who’s the logical person in this situation.” 

“Roach,” Geralt says very seriously, and Jaskier throws his head back in a laugh. 

“Well,” Jaskier says, with a smile, finally reaching out to Geralt in return, stroking gently across his cheek, prompting his pupils to blow even wider, Jaskier observes with a giddy little thrill of power, “perhaps we’ll just have to let her set the terms of this whole relationship.” 

Geralt is still laughing when he kisses him. 

*

A week and a half later, Jaskier has recovered enough to be permitted to leave the bed. He’s been ensconced in Geralt’s room for the length of that time, the witcher’s overprotective streak in fine form. 

Still, there are far worse things than falling asleep and waking up in a witcher’s arms, so Jaskier can make his peace with it. 

Things have been shockingly easy between him and Geralt. He’d worried a bit, the first couple of days, that this would be awkward new ground, a landscape that neither of them have the map to. He’d had horrible visions of stepping on each other’s toes, of driving each other crazy, of making Geralt regret ever starting this. 

Instead, however, it’s been easy. Shockingly, suspiciously easy. 

It feels like what they had before, the comfortable companionship, the teasing, the playfighting. It’s familiar ground, the path smooth and well-trodden. Now, however, there are kisses and quiet moments stolen with each other, and sharing a bed at night without an inch of space between them even before Jaskier migrates in his sleep towards the nearest source of warmth. 

Tonight, Jaskier is planning to add another section to that path. 

Geralt is on alert the moment he enters the room, suspicious at once at the energy he walks into, and Jaskier grins as he slowly pushes himself up. The careful movements have Geralt’s attention, and he sees as much as hears the witcher’s breath catch when the motion pulls his shirt ever so slightly off his shoulder. Not even looking, Geralt turns the key in the door, locking it with a solid snick. Jaskier’s smile widens, and he lifts himself off the bed, teasingly undoing the buttons of his shirt, one for each step he takes. 

Geralt’s pupils are dilating quickly, and there’s only a thin ring of gold when Jaskier slowly slides the shirt down his arms. He hasn’t worn a chemise, too impatient and unwilling to risk his wardrobe if Geralt is equally ready for this, and it’s a heady rush, watching Geralt watching him, those gold eyes roaming freely, seemingly memorizing each inch as it’s revealed. 

His pupils go even wider when Jaskier trails his fingers across the waistband of his trousers, but that’s where Jaskier’s strip tease meets an abrupt end. He finds himself gathered up at once and carefully guided down to the bed. He had at least five more minutes of material planned, he mourns slightly, before he’s moaning as Geralt ducks down, anointing each additional inch of skin with his tongue. Jaskier secures a hand in those glossy silver strands and grins, closing his eyes and arching into the sensation. 

Oh well. There will be plenty of time to see exactly how wide the witcher’s pupils can go. 

He gasps when Geralt’s mouth reaches right where he wants him. 

Yes. Plenty of time for more investigation. 

Later.