Archive of Our Own

The whipping winds wind down, the tremoring of the ruined remains of the boat they stand upon high in the mountains finally settling down to a much less violent quaking. The threat of being thrown off the ship and over the edge of the mountain no longer rises like a sharp sting at the nape of Geralt's neck. The sky clears, and the light of the early morning returns to them as they sit on the crumbling deck of the unstable ship.

"I thought," Yennefer says, her voice just above a whisper. The thin air almost makes her sound reedy, or dizzy. Perhaps it was that controlling the djinn, even for a short time, had exhausted her.

"That you would become a stranger to me. That I would look at you and feel nothing," He catches her eyes, the violet of them burning into his own with her honesty, "But It's not like that at all. Nothing has changed."

There is a surprising softness to her. A vulnerability that Geralt had scarcely seen. She loves him still, she is confessing to him.

He looks out across the vast landscape before them. Mountains and seas, the harsh and unforgiving forests of Skellige. The emptiness in his mind is reflected back at him as he stares out into the vast wilderness.

"I'm sorry, Yen. I don't... there's nothing."

"Oh." Her voice is soft and broken. Trembling even in the single word. He can sense her, holding back tears and instead forcing a very pained laugh. "I see... I suppose I should have expected as much."

"It's not you, Yen."

She stands, brushing off the dust and the anguish.

"I know. It's the unfeeling Witchers."

"I-" He pushes the rebuttal down, now is not the time. He may be socially inept but he wasn't without some semblance of courtesy.

Yennefer sighs. "I know. I know you have feelings, Geralt, I'm... disappointed, is all."

"I'm sorry," He offers again.

He can sense Yennefer's discomfort, her desire to flee.

"Come on," She says instead, "I'll... I'll at least bring you somewhere less stranded on a mountain."

"Yen," Geralt pushes himself to his feet, "I still... friends?" He's so awkward it's endearing, she thinks. Geralt is not good at expressing how he feels. He certainly does feel, she knows he does. He is impossibly kind, going out of his way to break curses or do jobs for a single coin because someone is desperate. He is kind despite how unkind the world has been to him, and that is why she loves him. Why she adored being loved by him.

It is a further sword through her heart to know that his feelings for her had never been those of love, only the Djinn binding them. Would Geralt love someone else now that their bond was broken? Triss? Keira? She wants to ask, doesn't want to know, she is so conflicted and hurt, regretful and relieved.

"Of course, Geralt," She offers him a small smile, "Now, where would you like to go?"

"Kaer Morhen." He says it without even thinking. The thinness of the air is starting to get to him. The emptiness, the feeling that something is missing. Dizziness swirls at the back of his mind.

"Alright... see you again, then, Geralt."

He nods, it's the closest Yennefer is going to get to a 'goodbye, I'll miss you,' She knows, so with a flick and a shimmer of swirling magic- Geralt is gone.

He stumbles into the main hall, everything spinning, his mind a wreck from the portal and from this strange feeling. He takes barely two steps before it is consuming him in his entirety. With a groan, he leans back against a stone pillar. His heart throbs loudly in his ears, his vision swims. He thinks he may vomit, and just when the feeling does manage to subside, he wretches.

Vesemir is beside him the next time he opens his eyes. He's kneeling- they're both kneeling? When had he ended up on the floor? He doesn't know- the stench of his own puke is thick in the air and it only makes him more nauseous. Vaguely, he sees Vesemirs lips moving, his brows creased in confusion as he tries to ask Geralt questions he isn't hearing.

He moves to explain, his lips part, but the only sound he makes is a low groan that rumbles from his chest. Another wave of nausea- and darkness.

He's hoisted to his feet and supported - albeit rather roughly- to his room and deposited onto his bed. He glimpses the keep in peices as he fades in and out. Theres two sets of hands on him- he can't tell who the other is. Vesemir brings water and some bread that Geralt doesn't touch, and simply lingers nearby as Geralt returns to consciousness and the pounding and dizziness fades.

Fades into more nothingness. More emptiness. Geralt hadn't realized just how much of his mind that magic had consumed. He's left with a gaping hole of emotion- devoid of that longing to see her. Devoid of that pull, that ever present thrum of magic telling him vaguely what direction she was in. He cradles his head and swears, words finally coming to him.

"Fuck."

"Oh? Are we back to our senses?"

Geralt grumbles.

"Yeah. I can hear you now."

"What happened, Geralt?"

"Fucking Djinn," He responds.

"A new Djinn? The old Djinn?"

"New Djinn. Fought it on a mountain. Yennefer made it break the bond."

"Ah," Vesemir leans back in his chair, "And?"

Geralt shrugs, giving a short noise of discontent.

"Always a man of many words." Vesemir sighs. "How do you feel?"

"I feel nothing," And it's honest. He feels nothing. He stares blankly ahead, and Vesemir thinks it looks a little strange on him. Geralt was certainly never good at expression, none of them were, they were witchers, but Geralt especially. Still, in recent years he had become much more open. Much more willing- or as willing as Geralt could get he supposes.

Vesemir sighs, "Get some rest. We'll talk in the morning."

"It's morning now," He argues.

"No, it's not. You were out for a while. It's pretty late. Ciri is out gathering some things she thought might help you, she should be back later."

Geralt grunts his acknowledgement to this and lets his eyes shut again. He's exhausted. More exhausted than he's ever been, it isn't hard to let sleep take him.

Sleep is more emptiness. Blank, dreamless voids that seem to pass so quickly it's almost like he only blinks. But some time has indeed passed, if indicated by nothing other than the sounds of birds somewhere outside, singing to the early morning.

Another change that he notices an embarrassingly long amount of time after- nearly a whole 15 seconds, is Ciri's presence fretting at his beside. He shifts as he wakes, a quiet noise of discontent escaping him in an almost wheeze and he realizes how sore he is.

"Geralt?" Ciri's hands are on him and there is suddenly an explosion in that empty space. Warmth. Care. He takes a sharp intake of breath at the touch, eyes widening, and Ciri pulls her hands away very quickly, thinking she's hurt him. Just as soon as those feelings sparked- they are gone.

He takes a deep breath, and steadies himself. It had been years, years since the Djinn had bonded him and Yennefer, the magic had dulled him to any sense that wasn't her. Made him think almost only of her, want nothing but her. With it gone, he doesn't know what he wants.

"Ciri," He responds, voice hoarse, "You're here."

"Of course I'm here! I hear that you collapse out of a portal and onto the floor unconcious, why would I be anywhere else, I mean, honestly Geralt."

"Sorry," He offers, knowing it will make her feel better even if he isn't feeling especially apologetic. Not genuinely, anyways.

"Vesemir told me about... about the Djinn. Are you okay?"

"Not hurt." Geralt says, though his present condition may suggest otherwise.

A long stretch of silence as Ciri considers her questions.

"You came back without her."

He grunts.

"Did you... leave her?"

"Don't love her." He says simply, as though that holds all the answers.

"Right," Ciri sounds uncertain, though not unconvinced. "So you came back here, because?"

That was the question, wasn't it? He was going to go back to the path right away, was going to go down to Oxenfurt or Novigrad. He'd left so many contracts on notice boards when looking for Ciri, racing against the clock and the fates to find her. Now that she was here, safe and in training once more, he could go.

"Needed to think," He settles on, eventually.

Her soft expression stirs something in him. He can't place it- he's not sure he's ever felt it before. Not sure he's ever felt anything before.

"How long do you think you'll stay," She asks after a long pause.

"A day or two. Need to get back on the path, left so many contracts."

She hums, perhaps agreeing, perhaps in thought. Geralt has never been good at reading the intentions of others.

"You want me to go so you can think?"

He's not sure. He doesn't know anything anymore. Everything is a void that flares so brightly with every thought. Every brief emotion going off like a burst of Samum at the darkest point of night.

"Don't have to go." He says, eyes falling shut again.

"You should try to sleep some more, Geralt." She attempts to coerce him softly, "Whatever happened really took it out of you."

"Magic's gone. Was there nearly twenty years."

"Makes sense. You feel drained, I bet. Like there's something missing."

He does, and there is. There's a pulse at the edge of the void, a longing for it to be filled, but he can't think of anything to fill it. Can't think at all. Doesn't want to. Doesn't want to feel this- any of this, the emptiness nor anything that might fill it. He wants to drift. So drift he does, back to sleep, and back into the cradle of the abyss.

--------------------

Geralt spends the next two days doing anything but thinking. He puts together his items, finds roach in the stable and takes care of her, replenishes his fill of potions and bombs, and herbs, ingredients, sorts through the contracts he had copied into a journal to return to at a later time.

He eventually decides to head to Novigrad. He had met a master weaponsmith there who had requested his aid, and there was nothing quite like a new blade to take your mind off your troubles. Once Roach is packed he bids goodbye to Ciri and Vesemir. Ciri gives him a strange smirk when he tells her his destination, but he has no idea what it means and so he elects to ignore it entirely. He wishes her good luck in her training and sets back upon the path.

It feels too fast to be leaving her, especially after he spent so long looking for her, but he knows she's safe and that she still needs to learn how to control her powers. Yennefer would be coming to help her with that, Ciri had informed him. Only after he left, he was assured. He can't blame her. Their last interaction had certainly been less than ideal. He may not totally understand other people, but he knows Yennefer loves him and knows that he has hurt her, even if he was only being honest.

The way down from Kaer Morhen is easier in the summer. Flowers bloom at the edges of the grass trails, a gentle breeze tousles his hair and the leaves of the trees. It almost feels serene, even once he reaches the bottom of the mountain and begins making his way proper to the city.

The days are bright and pass quickly. It's a long ride, but nothing he and Roach can't handle. He gets a few messages from Ciri, her voice chiming in his head through static from a great distance, and each time he hears her that void flares to life with those glittering sparks of colour and light- emotions that he tries to blink away, their force too much for his still rather weary body.

And every day that passes that ache that began as a soft longing at the edges of the void presses further inwards. It makes his entire body hurt. His hands shake when he takes up a sword against some downers he comes across by a river, too close to a settlement to be safe for them, so even without contract- he kills them.

Exactly five days in to his journey that ache becomes so much so that he is nearly unable to breathe. Overwhelmed and becoming more exhausted with every jostle, he pulls Roach off the side of the road into the treeline to give them some cover and rubs at his chest as he hops down. She bumps him with her nose, offering him some kind of comfort- or perhaps asking for food. He gives her an apple and comes to rest on his knees some ways away from where he ties her off.

He groans at the sensations. Hands still shaking, his veins feel like they are narrowed through his forearms and into his hands. His wrists ache- and like a shockwave- he realizes how silent it is. Only his breath and Roach's. Only their beating hearts. No wind, no animals, no anything. A spark of something through his system, and he leans forward, grasping at his chest. This pain feels so different from the usual aches and pains of the path. Nothing like claws ripping through him- but so eerily similar he is almost convinced this is some kind of mind trick by some beastie out in the woods.

Only it isn't. It can't be. If it was he would smell them- sense them. His amulet would signal a presence. Nothing happens, he is alone.

Another roll of the feeling that nearly topples him as he thinks the word.

Alone.

He has never felt this alone. He had traveled for years by himself without any problem, why was it an issue now? With a deep breath, he resigns himself. He rolls out his bedroll and lights a fire, kneeling as if to meditate, and knowing it can wait no longer to be explored, he leans into the feeling of longing.

He'd been pushing it down for the last week, thinking it was some silly lingering of Djinn magic that was making him so uneasy, but when he realizes it isn't that, he can't do anything but try to let the feelings trickle in.

He breathes deep again and explores. When the dull ache returns to a roar he has to steady himself so as not to inadvertently force the feeling away again.

Loneliness. He lacks a person next to him. Through the years he had grown almost accustomed to being followed. By Jaskier, by Yennefer, by Ciri, there was always someone with him. There was always the thought of someone waiting for him, or expecting for him to return. But now he has no connection to Yennefer, and Ciri is a grown woman who no longer needs him, and Jaskier-

Jaskier.

The bards ever persistent presence in his life had been, undoubtedly, a burden. Jaskier was almost nothing but trouble, annoying and loud, he infuriated Geralt to no end with his inane and incessant chatter, the strumming of that stupid lute, and the horrible flowery language he used as he wrote poems and song and sung them far too loudly.

At least, that's what he had thought. He finds now, strangely, the irritation he feels for Jaskier is nearly entirely eclipsed by something else. A soft fondness and a strange sadness that stretch his seams and fills that void. His brow creases, confused. He has felt this feeling before, but not for Jaskier.

He knows this feeling, so similar to when he was apart from Yennefer. The feeling of being away from someone you cared for. He misses him. With the realization comes a rush of sorrow that makes him have to take a sharp inhale. He's on his way to Novigrad anyways, he might as well stop in and say hello. The ride is only five more days.

He swallows everything down again, forcing the feelings away before they can mount further and climbs back on Roach after re-collecting their things. If they pushed their travel he could make five days three.

Two more days pass. Each day is hotter and less comfortable, and that aching longing has quickly shifted into a near-panic. Geralt feels like he felt in the days leading up to them finally retrieving Ciri. On edge, hopeful, and desperate. But he knows there is nothing the bard needs saving from, and he has to force himself to calm several times through meditation. It doesn't slow their travel- Roach knows the way and Geralt trusts her to get them there with little to no direction.

When they settle for the night Geralt knows they will set off early in the morning and arrive at Novigrad at precisely two hours past noon. It's a hard night. He barely gets any rest- he can't stop the churning of his mind despite his best efforts and he curses, can't figure out why something that used to be so easy - that was ingrained into his blood for fucks sake - was so difficult now for no apparent reason.

Well, he knows the reason. The release of the Djinns magic had allowed him to feel things more fully, clearly. His suppressed thoughts and wants were all surfacing at once and he has trouble discerning genuine thought from passing one.

When he finally deems Roach rested enough they set off again towards the city- to the Rosemary and Thyme. Well, the Chameleon now, he supposes since Jaskier had renamed the thing.

It's a fine journey, when all is said and done. The weather is agreeable this day, he isn't sweating as much as the two previous, and Roach needs less breaks because of the dip in temperature. Still, that all consuming ache threatens to split him apart, and when he finally sees the city it's like something in him breaks and he spurs Roach to go faster. She will get a good, long break once they arrive.

The guards know him, they don't question or try to stop him as he comes galloping through the city gates and onto the cobble streets. Vaguely Geralt registers recieving a message from Ciri at some point, but he doesn't hear the words past the sound of his heart and the pounding headache the longing gives him.

The ride through the city proper is short, but it feels so, so long. Every second feels like a year, and every step feels like he is trudging closer to some kind of horrible demise. And when that building finally, finally, comes into view he nearly sobs with the relief.

He hands Roach off quickly outside to the stable hand and gives him some coins, he knows the stables are a bit of a ways down the road but Jaskier always had a worker standing out front to gather weary traveller's very well-loved companions and guide them to their spot of rest. Normally Geralt would go himself, but he can't wait a moment longer. He's never been impatient, but impatient is not what he is right now. No, right now he is desperate.

He pushes into the building, the drapes and colors assault his eyes again, but this time he finds he doesn't mind so much. He doesn't see Jaskier around, taking a swift look across the tavern, which is surprisingly full for so early in the day. He does land eyes on Priscilla, however.

Standing next to the stairs - and a hired guard to keep people from going up there - her blond hair flows out from below her usual very ugly hat. Bards, in Geralts opinion, wore some very ugly clothes. At least Jaskier had the decency to undo a few buttons on his doublet and show off a little chest hair and surprisingly toned pecks. Not that Geralt wanted to see that. No. Not at all.

He approaches Priscilla, nodding to her in greeting. She smiles her big, toothy grin up at him.

"Geralt! So good to see you! Didn't think you'd be back for a while, what with the- you know and whatnot." At least she was more discreet than Jaskier would have been.

"Mm," He grunts, "Need to see Dandelion." And of course he uses his stage name, because Geralt understands discretion and hiding your identity, and the fact that they had been running from trouble most of their lives was cause enough for caution in his opinion.

"Oh! Of course, dear witcher! Grab a drink, I'll bring him down."

He obliges, saunters to the bar, he's given a strong whiskey that he downs like it's a shot- he needs it. He can hear chatter upstairs. Can hear Priscilla tell Jaskier tha he's here. He doesn't hear Jaskiers response, only footsteps through the wood and down the stairs. Jaskier is still looking at Priscilla, facing away from Geralt, smiling and chatting away. They stop at the bottom of the stairs and she leans up- up onto the tips of her toes- and kisses him.

Before he has a moment to think he has stood and is out the door before Jaskier can even see him. His eyes wide, he winds his way aimlessly through streets and alleys.

Of course, he thinks to himself, of course Jaskier had found someone. He couldn't very well expect the man to live only for him. To be by his side singing along the path, to care for him when he was wounded. Jaskier had done those things for so many years and what had it gotten him? Getting shouted at up on a mountain and constantly being told he was annoying.

Geralt regrets it all. Every word. Every jab and jest. Every moment he had ever held anger in his chest for the bard.

Still, seeing Priscilla kiss him had wrenched a feeling in his core so visceral he couldn't even describe it. The horror, the pain, the anxiety. Geralt doesn't think he's ever been anxious in his life- but he is now. And the burn behind his eyes only gets hotter and fiercer the more her wanders. The more he thinks.

Witchers don't cry, but he could certainly mope. So he goes to the bathhouse.

To his surprise it's been all fixed up since the little scuffle that had taken place there - and he is given free entry for his helping to recover the stolen goods. He soaks for a long time. Thinking.

All that time he had been unable to feel anything for anyone other than Yennefer unless those feelings were negative or strictly cordial. He hadn't known it, thought he was just in love with her. But he isn't. Without that hum of magic and ever present pull, he knows this feeling he is having now is real.

He wants to be the one to kiss Jaskier.

And that thought is perhaps the most horrifying of them all.

------------

He resigns himself to being too late, if he ever even had a chance at all. Jaskier is with someone, and even if he wasn't the likelihood of him even being willing to consider Geralt is so infinitesimaly low that he can't even consider asking. Can't fathom a situation where it would be okay to ask, considering everything he has put the bard through in their years together. So he resigns himself, and walks to the stables as dusk begins to grace the horizon.

To his surprise, Priscilla is standing at Roach's stable and muttering under her breath, looking very incredibly puzzled.

"Priscilla," He greets, making her jump slightly.

"Geralt!" She whips around to face him, looking rather annoyed, "I knew you didn't leave!"

"Mm... leaving now."

"What? But you said you needed to talk to Jas- to Dandelion."

He shifts his eyes away, guilty.

"No need."

"What? But you just walked out! That's so rude! He was looking forward to seeing you."

Geralt can't help the humorless chuckle that slips past.

"What? What's so funny?" She demands.

"Nothing. He doesn't want to see me."

"Of course he does, what do you mean?"

Geralt makes eye contact again now, awkward and just a little shy.

"I hurt him."

"What? When?"

"Always."

She scoffs, "If you're referring to your very rude comments about his singing, playing, and overall personality, he has grown quite used to it."

Geralt almost winces, "That's even worse."

"Why did you come here, Geralt?" She demands.

"Doesn't matter now," He skirts around her to Roach.

"Of course it does. Do you come just to tease him? To dangle friendship or niceties only to drag them away before he can even see you? That's cold even for you."

"That isn't why."

"Then why? Tell me right now, or I will not let you leave."

He sets his eyes on her, careful, cold.

"Came to... needed a friend," He says, "But... you two seem happy, so... gonna go."

"What? What do you mean we seem happy? You hardly saw him."

"Saw you kiss."

She looks more confused than ever.

"Yeah, on the cheek, it's affection between friends."

From his angle it had appeared to be the lips, but he could believe her. She had always been trustworthy. A trickle of something, relief? Hope? Crawls through his nerves.

"Decided not to bother him," He tries again to explain.

"No, no, no. He was excited to see you, the least you could do is actually face him and not be a coward and run off. Especially not when you've referred to him as a friend for the first time."

Is this the first time? That is... not great, he has to admit.

"He shouldn't be. Excited. Treated him like shit."

"Yeah, you do. But he still cares about you. At least have the decency to face him, come on." She sounds just about done with him.

Geralt is quiet a long moment, just peting Roach.

"So... you're not together?" He asks finally.

"Me and Dandelion? Goodness, no!"

He grunts and comes back around and out of the stable.

"Wanted to give you privacy," He says, "Thought you were together."

She shakes her head.

"No. He hasn't been able to- well... that's not for me to tell you. Let's just say we are both perfectly single. Now go see him, will you? Taverns gonna close soon."

"Close early today?"

"We always close early on nights our socially inept friends happen to come into town," She teases him with a wink. He doesn't understand why she winks so he simply stares and grumbles under his breath, moving around her again to head back to the tavern.

He is surprised to find it is, in fact, closed early. There are a few people still milling about and complaining that the Chameleon usually didn't close this early, even in the mage-hunting days. Geralt passes them all and faces Zoltan, who guards the door. Zoltan simply nods, and lets him inside. It's quiet inside, and mostly cleaned other than the floors. The air is less thick with alcohol, the place has been closed for 30 minutes to an hour perhaps. Very early, even for a slacking Jaskier.

He hears the floor shift above him, Jaskier moving in his room on the second floor, and he takes to the steps.

Upstairs is only slightly less gaudy than downstairs, but there are just as many bright colors and drapey fabrics that Jaskier had been thrilled about Geralt choosing when he had Priscilla design the theatrical elements of the Chameleon.

He curls down the upper hallway, passing the empty changing rooms and down to the end of the far hall where he can hear, though just barely, the sounds of shuffling.

Before he can even lift his hand to knock ther is a muffled sound from the other side of the door. A cutoff moan that turns to a sigh accompanied by the sounds of something wet moving.

Of course Jaskier had a woman up here, he thinks, rolling his eyes. It was nothing new. He'd seen the bard dissappear for one night stands incredibly often on their travels, often earning them new enemies or scowls from cucklolded husband's or wives. Honestly, Geralt didn't have a problem with Jaskier sleeping with men, women and anyone in between. It was part of his very strange charm, he supposed, that Jaskier simply adored everyone.

He leans against the wall next to the door with an annoyed, but silent, breath of air from his nose. Just his luck to come back to this, after his day.

Another stifled moan filters under the door, and Jaskiers voice,

"Fuck, ah- mm..."

And though Geralt wouldn't say he had purposely listened to Jaskier fucking people he certainly heard it anyways, when they slept in inn rooms right beside one another. This is how he knows that something is off. Jaskier is vocal, certainly, but if he speaks during the act it is almost always to encourage his companion. Unless his mouth is busy.

Another string of curses and huffed breath has Geralt realizing that there is only one source of noise in the room. Only one voice moaning and speaking. Jaskier does not have a woman in his bed, he is touching himself.

Also not incredibly odd, he supposes. He's certain he could think of at least one time he's sure the bard had wondered away to take care of himself, though he doesn't care to think that hard about the matter lest he give himself a problem. As if the noises from the other side of the door weren't enough to do so. He feels only vaguely guilty for listening, and only because he isn't sure Jaskier would be too pleased about him being there.

The idea of the bard wanting to see him for even a moment is beyond unfathomable. Priscilla had said he was excited, looking forward to seeing him. After everything, Geralt isn't sure he can believe that.

From his place leaned against the wall he can hear the pounding of Jaskiers heart quicken. Hears his breath rate increase and turn into gasping moans and soft whines. These noises are so very different to those Geralt had heard those several times while on the path together. Normally low and sultry, this Jaskier sounds desperate and needy.

More curses, a cry into the room as he seemingly finds a particularly pleasurable action to perform on himself. Without seeing him Geralt can't be sure, but the sound of the wetness moving makes him think he's got his fingers inside himself. A little gasp and a few moments more and Jaskier is cursing again, this time accompanied by a wave of emotion and arousal that Geralt can smell. Sweet and just a little musky, the scent of Jaskiers orgasm sticks to the inside of Geralts nostrils as he tries to reign himself if and not do anything stupid. That pounding ache of longing in his brain and chest scream for him to go to Jaskier - but he doesn't dare move.

Especially not when he hears the bed shift, and a small sniffle. In a matter of seconds Jaskier is sobbing past the door. Despair coats the air with its sour smell. He hears after another few moments - his body frozen as his muddled mind tries to process his own feelings in concordance with Jaskiers - the bard speak to himself.

"Fuck, Jaskier. What is wrong with you?" The soft creak of floorboards as the bard stands and gathers what he assumes are his stray clothes off the floor, eventually he comes to pause off to the right of the room and Geralt just knows he is standing in front of the mirror.

"You're disgusting, you know that?" The words stake through Geralt as though made of ice, spreading cold through his entire body. "Why can't you just let go? Why do you have to - to... why are you like this? Why can't you accept when you aren't fucking wanted?" Hearing Jaskier say these things to himself, knowing the bard was staring at his own reflection and meaning it, makes the ache sting with hurt for him. He wants nothing more than to protect Jaskier from everything.

From monsters. From the judging eyes of strangers. And now, from the harsh words and thoughts of his own mind.

He hears Jaskier sit at his desk and begin crying softly again. Geralt remains silent for a time. He knows he is not supposed to be here, hearing this. But he is, and he doesn't know what to do or how to help. Eventually, he lifts a hand and taps gently on the wood, just loud enough for Jaskier to hear.

"Go away, Priscilla," Jaskier sniffs, and shuffles back to his feet, "I don't want to talk to you."

"Jaskier?" Geralt calls back, as soft as he can manage, "It's me."

A startled noise and some quick shuffling as Jaskier pulls his clothes back on. In all their years traveling together Geralt had always noticed Jaskier to be very careful about never being caught showing more skin than simply undoing the top few buttons of his doublet.

The door opens to a very rumpled looking Jaskier. Soft brown locks a mess about his head, eyes red and puffy, cheeks barely rubbed of human-visible tear traces, nose dusted pink and still sniffling.

"Geralt?" His voice is a wary whisper, like he thinks Geralt will vanish if he speaks too loudly. "I thought you left."

"I did. Was going to... can I come in?"

Jaskier steps aside and lets Geralt enter. They take a seat on twin chairs sat by the fireplace that is lit and warming the room.

"She said you wanted to talk to me but... you were gone when I came down."

"Mm. Sorry."

Jaskier blinks at that, surprised. It was so rare to get an apology out of Geralt and this felt like something so small in comparison to other things he had never even tried to apologize for.

"That's... alright. Are you alright? You don't usually come see me. Did something happen?"

Geralts yellow eyes meet his blue and Jaskier can't help but stare. Geralt blinks slowly, thinking.

"You were crying," He states after a moment, "Why?"

The bard flushes, "I- It's nothing, Geralt. Don't worry about it. Tell me why you're here."

"If I tell you will you tell me?"

"Tell you why I was crying?"

"Yeah."

A beat of silence before Jaskier relents with a sigh, "Fine."

They sit quietly next to eachother staring into the fire while Geralt weighs his words and tries to settle on the things he wants to say.

"Came to apologize," He admits after several silent minutes have passed. Jaskiers brow furrows as he stares on at his Witcher friend.

"Apologize? What for?"

"For everything, Jaskier. For... everything."

This only serves to confuse the bard more.

"I'm not sure I follow, Geralt. Please explain."

Geralt grunts, a displeased and unpleasant sound that Jaskier knows means he is pushing his luck with the Witcher, but he honestly doesn't know what the man is talking about.

"I... I've treated you poorly. Didn't realize it. Couldn't realize it. Left you on that fucking mountain like an asshole."

"Oh," This is unexpected. It had been so long that Jaslier had almost forgotten. Would have forgotten I the words Geralt said hadn't hurt him so badly. "Geralt, that was years ago."

"Didn't stop me from continuing to treat you like shit. Saying horrible things to you."

Jaskier sighs and folds himself forward a bit, leaning his elbows on his knees.

"I appreciate the apology, really, I do. But why now?"

Geralt sighs and rubs his hands with his face.

"I didn't notice before. Couldn't notice, couldn't feel anything but the bond."

"So what's changed?"

"I... ended things. With Yennefer."

"What!?" Jaskier is suddenly standing, "Geralt! What is wrong with you! You love her!"

Their eyes meet again and Geralt finds rage boiling in ocean blue, Jaskier finds an unreadable slurry of unfamiliar emotion in honey gold.

"Don't love her." He answers, as if it's so simple. "Never did."

"What? How can you say that?"

"It was magic, Jaskier. A Djinns bond placed on us. A bond that's gone now.'

Jaskier flops back into his chair.

"I don't understand... I don't understand what you leaving her has to do with apologizing to me." His eyebrows are pinched, expression pained.

"Bond was like a curse. Couldn't feel anything but Yennefer. Couldn't feel that I'd hurt you. Now I can. I'm sorry."

Jaskier swallows around a rising lump in his throat.

"So... the bond prevented you from feeling anything other than the desire to be around Yennefer? Is that what you're saying?"

He hums his confirmation.

"And now that it's gone, which I want all the details on later - no complaining- you can feel... other things?"

He hums again.

"What... what else do you feel? Why did you come to me Geralt?"

"Realized I missed having you on the path."

And that is a shock. If Jaskier had been drinking something he would have choked. Instead he flushes vibrant crimson.

"You... you miss me? I thought- you said I was annoying."

"I know. Sorry. Didn't mean it."

And now this is complicated, Jaskier realizes. Because -fuck- Geralt is looking at him with those slitted pupils and saying things that aren't insults and his hair is just so perfect tied up the way it is. He's apologizing, he's communicating, and Jaskier is drowning in his longing.

"You... you really miss me?" His voice is whisper of disbelief.

"Always did when you were gone. Didn't realize it til a few days ago."

Jaskier sits in stunned silence for a long time, considering the words. He wants to believe this, but how can he? Geralt had never indicated ever enjoying having him around. This was too good to believe.

"I... are you sure? Do you miss me or just... having someone with you?"

"No, Jaskier. Missed you. Missed... it was so quiet."

Jaskier realizes Geralt is saying he missed his talking, his singing, his noise in general. He squints.

"Prove to me you're Geralt."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Jaskier-"

"No. I have lived the past twenty years with a man who couldn't even call me friend. Who called me annoying at every opportunity. Who left me stranded places and never looked back. Prove to me you're Geralt and not some fucking doppler doing this shit for kicks, because I swear on my own fine ass I will kick yours if this is some - some-" He waves his hands around, erratically, trying to find the words, "Joke, or farce, I will fucking kill you, you hear me?"

"Jaskier, I said I'm sorry."

"Which is also suspicious!"

Geralt stares, then sighs.

"I could take a potion? Only Witchers can survive those."

"Your mental state will change. We need to have this conversation as sober adults."

Geralt hums and thinks again.

"I know your name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove, you led the elves away from their deaths. We met in that tavern and you were so damn persistent. You protected Ciri. You came to Kaer Morhen to protect Ciri. You suffered because of me. I deserved for you to write that song about me... the fire one. Is that enough?"

"Can't believe you remembered my whole name," Jaskier chuckles.

"Course I do. You're im-" the word gets stuck and Geralt swallows.

"I'm what? Impossible to ignore? Impossibly annoying? Impossible to shut up?"

"Important to me."

Jaskier falls silent, staring at Geralt. Unblinking. Unmoving. Geralts done something wrong, he knows it, so he immediately follows up.

"A good friend. Never... never said it."

There's a flash of something in Jaskiers eyes, and the soft scent of sorrow wafts from him, "Right. A friend." The word feels strange from Jaskier, like he's repeating someone having called him useless or a loser.

"Yes. Is that... wrong? You don't want to be friends anymore?"

Jaskier smiles, but it's all wrong and Geralt can't place it. He looks so sad.

"No, Geralt. There's nothing wrong. Friends is good."

But not enough, screams that longing ache in Geralt that he tries very hard to ignore.

"Alright," He decides to drop it for now., "So... why were you crying."

Jaskier winces.

"I was hoping you'd forget about that," He mutters, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Mm. No."

Jaskier fidgets with his hands, clearly nervous.

"I... to be honest... I'm trying to get over someone."

Ah, that stings. Geralt knew the bard would have feelings for people, of course he did, but he hadn't considered them being part of this conversation.

"I feel terrible. I just... I want it to end."

"Why do you feel terrible?"

"Because I know they don't feel the same way, and I hate that my body reacts to them, and that I think about them without their consent... Fuck, Geralt it's been years, why can't I get over this?" Jaskier folds in on himself, pulling his feet onto the chair to bury his face into his knees and cry again.

"Can't help how you feel, Jaskier. Shouldn't feel bad about it."

"Easy for you to say," He mumbles past his knees and tears, "Have you... if you didn't love Yennefer, has there been someone else? Have you ever been in love, Geralt?" His chin rests on his knees now, tears soaking into the fabric of his pants.

"I have."

"How do you... get over it?"

Geralt grunts, "Dunno."

"You mean... you love them now?"

Geralt hums again, affirmation.

"Of course, I couldn't feel it past the Djinns spell before, but... now I do."

Jaskier stares and then anger flares again, "Why are you here then? Why didn't you go to her as soon as you realized?"

"I did."

"You did?"

They lock eyes again and Jaskier sees what he can only describe as anguish in Geralts honey golds.

Geralt hums again.

"What did she say?" Jaskier demands.

"About what?"

"When you told her you love her, of course!"

"Didn't tell him."

Jaskier blinks. Him. Didn't tell him. Geralt is in love... with a man. His heart hammers in his chest. He'd only ever known Gerlat to be interested in women.

"You... why not?"

"Seems like he's in love with someone else," The way Geralt holds his gaze, he knows. He just knows what the Witcher is going to say next but his mind is hardly keeping up by the time Geralt continues, "Aren't you, Jaskier?"

"What? I- what?" He's bright red, ears flushed to the tip. "You- I- Geralt!" He squawks. Geralt just watches on as Jaskiers heart rate increases and he begins to sense genuine panic from the bard as he resumes his seated position, knees pulled up to his chest and feet on the fabric.

"Th- that's not nice," Tears flow freely again from baby blue eyes, "You can't, that's cruel, even for you," He insists.

Geralts eyebrows crease together, "What?"

"You can't say you love me if you don't mean it, Geralt, please, I- I can't take it." He rubs at his eyes, "You know how I've felt all these years, how- how could you?"

"Who said I don't mean it? You're the one who asked."

"I thought you were going to say Triss!'

Geralt makes a displeased sound at that.

"No. Not Triss. You, Jaskier."

Jaskier sobs, "You can't be serious! Geralt, please, I-" He cradles his own head tenderly in his hands, "I love you so much, please, don't do this to me. Please."

Geralt stands and takes a step to stand before Jaskiers chair, before he drops to his knees.

"I'm not lying, Jaskier. Look at me."

He does. Geralts heart swells despite the obvious turmoil from Jaskier.

"Swear."

"I swear."

"Swear on something important."

"I swear on Ciris life."

Jaskier guffaws, flabbergasted at the sheer gall. But it's effective, Geralt would never risk Ciris life, not for anything.

"You're... telling the truth." It's a statement this time, said in disbelief and wonder as Jaskier stares down into the Witchers surprisingly soft eyes.

"I am. Are you?"

"What?"

"You said you love me."

Jaskier flushes again.

"Of course I do. I've loved you since the day we met."

"That was twenty years ago, Jaskier."

"I know. Pathetic to pine for twenty fucking years, but... you're special."

Geralt places a soothing hand on Jaskiers knee.

"Thought I was too late."

"Never. You always save me just in time."

This earns him a chuckle from the wolf on his knees before him. Jaskier worries at his lip as he looks down at Geralt.

"You're nervous," Geralt states.

"Ah," Jaskier chuckles, "I, uh... I am."

"Why?"

"I want to kiss you."

Geralt moves to lean forward but is stopped by Jaskier holding out his hand and a spike of panic in the bard.

"But," He continues.

"But?" Geralt prompts, looking vaguely concerned.

"I... need to tell you something else first. Something that may change your opinion of me. I wasn't ever going to say anything, because you had Yennefer and it didn't matter, you didn't need to know about something you'd never see and I wouldn't need to fucking humiliate myself." Jaskier prattles on, his habit of nervous talking getting the better of him, and Geralt smiles. This is what he had missed. The rambling, nervous, excited, proud, anything and everything that made Jaskier himself.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" The bard asks, face sullen.

"Like what?"

"Like you adore me."

"Because I do."

"Geralt, this is serious."

"I'm listening."

"I- this... you could hate me for this. I could lose you, please take this seriously, Geralt. I'm terrified."

"Nothing you could say would make me hate you, Jaskier." Geralt tries to soothe him but it only makes the bard look more worried and more uncomfortable.

"Not even if I've been lying to you for twenty years?"

This does catch Geralts attention, and his pupils slit narrower in the low light. "Continue. I'm listening."

"I... I didn't think it would matter, but... if we love eachother you should know. If I don't tell you, we could never sleep together, and fuck Geralt, I really want to sleep with you." Geralt nods, and indicator that he is listening and for Jaskier to continue.

"I'm pleased you remembered the name I told you, all those years ago, but... that's not my real name."

Geralt looks confused, but doesn't interrupt.

"My name was - is - Justine Arntrude Pankratz. And... my parents threw me out the moment I realized I would rather be their son than their daughter."

The confusion vanishes and is replaced by a look of deep thought on Geralts face. Finally, the Witcher speaks.

"No." Is all he says, and blind panic races through Jaskier. His fear rises to his surface as pools of water in his eyes that don't quite fall.

"What?" He asks quietly, hoping he's heard wrong.

"I said no. That's not your name."

Jaskier blinks, the terror fading for confusion.

"Your name is Jaskier. Bard extraordinaire. And your parents are idiots."

"I- Geralt, do you understand what I'm saying? I was born a-"

"Don't care, doesn't matter."

"You aren't mad?"

"Why would I be mad?"

"I lied!"

"Didn't lie. You're Jaskier now, doesn't matter who you were before."

The tears that had threatened to spill prior spill in earnest now from Jaskiers blue eyes.

"That-" he takes a shuddering breath. "Thank you. Fuck, thank you." His feet settle on the floor on either side of Geralts legs and Jaskier leans forward to wrap his arms over armor clad shoulders to pull Geralt in for a hug. A hug that - unlike the majority of others offered to Geralt in the past - is reciprocated.

It's a bit awkward with Geralt still kneeling and Jaskier sitting in the chair, but they make it work. They sit in quiet for a long time, just holding eachother. It's nice, Jaskier thinks, that Geralt is allowing him to hold him for so long.

"Can I kiss you now?" Jaskier eventually asks in a whisper over Geralts ear, prompting the white wolf to shudder.

"Don't see why not."

It's the closest Jaskier is going to get to an enthusiastic yes, he knows, so he pulls back from the hug to look into Geralts eyes. He tries to read him, but even after all these years it's hard. Especially with the magic muting his emotions gone, he swirls with feeling Jaskier could never hope to place. Instead, he leans forward slowly, leaving Geralt ample time to change his mind, to pull himself or push Jaskier away. He doesn't do any of those things.

His eyes flutter shut as their lips connect in a soft, chaste kiss. They're connected only a few short seconds before Jaskier pulls away only a few centimeters to whisper, "I love you, Geralt."

Geralt hums in agreement and connects their lips again, a little more forcefully this time. Large, rough hands find their way to the bards cheeks, holding him with surprising gentleness. Like he's something precious, like he's being cherished. Jaskier opens his mouth when prompted, a tiny sigh of approval escaping his lips as Geralts tongue slips past his lips for the first time. He clutches at the shoulders of Geralts armor, letting the Witcher lead the kisses, terrified of doing something wrong and making him leave.

"You're still nervous," Geralt mutters against his lips.

"Yes. Don't want to fuck this up."

"I'm the one always fucking things up, Jaskier."

"That's not true." He cups Geralts cheek gently, stroking over his cheek bone with a soothing thumb, "Although, if you wanted to fuck something up... I'm amenable."

Geralts brows pinch, "I don't follow."

Jaskier laughs, "For an 'insatiable Witcher' you really don't understand flirting, do you?" Geralt only grunts in mild disapproval. "I'm asking if you'll fuck me."

A vague noise of understanding, and a brief pause that makes the bard begin to worry again.

"Don't want to fuck you," He says after a minute, and Jaskiers heart drops, the inflections in tone on the word 'fuck' lost on him.

"Oh. Okay, I- yeah. That's fine."

"Shit- no, Jaskier- I meant... wrong word." Geralt quickly tries to fix his obvious mistake, sensing he's hurt Jaskier again.

"What?"

"Fuck is the wrong word." He tries again, trying very hard not to be awkward or get flustered.

Jaskier blinks in thought. He blinks again.

"Geralt are you... you know there's only one other popular way people say that, right?"

He grunts.

"Are you asking to make love to me?"

"Isn't that what you asked for?"

"Well-" Jaskier runs his fingers through his own hair, "It's the same act sure, but the sentiment is different. One is rough and fast, the other is slow and gentle. Loving."

"Mm."

"Is that what you want?"

"Only if you do."

"Yes, Geralt, of course I want that."

There is a soft lightness to Geralts expression when Jaskier confirms this is okay, as though he had been expecting rejection at the shift in phrase.

"We would make love every day for the rest of our lives, if you would allow it." Jaskier assures him, combing gentle fingers through Geralts surprisingly clean white hair. He smells delightful, very low hints of lavender and orange just barely detectable to Jaskiers human nose.

Geralt hums his agreement, "As long as you'll have me," He mutters, kissing Jaskiers temple, then down his jaw. "Sure you can go another round?" Geralt asks before he can think of the implication.

Jaskier pauses.

"Another round? Another- what do you mean?"

"Can smell the sex in here, Jaskier."

"That's not from today," He insists.

"Sex by yourself is still sex, Jaskier."

The bard sputters half-formed denials and rebuttals, face alight in shades of crimson.

"I'll have you know, I was having a very pleasant fantasy that is about to come true, if you would quit trying to ruin it!"

Geralts expression softens further.

"Wasn't trying to ruin it. Just want you to be okay."

Jaskier sighs, indignant expression fading from his face.

"I know. You're always making sure I'm okay, in your own way. You always take care of me, Geralt."

Geralt hums. A flicker of an idea in his eyes shortly after.

He leans slowly to stand, pulling the bard with him to his feet and hanging his head next to his ear to murmur, "Let me take care of you another way, now."

Jaskier let's out a little gasp of arousal, before beaming at Geralt with pride, "You flirted!"

"Don't ruin it."

Knowing he has shifted thr mood with his outburst he takes it upon himself to bring it back, pressing his chest flush against Geralts, and looking up at him with pleading eyes through his lashes.

"Take care of me, Geralt, please? I want you."

Geralt kisses him again, guiding him back towards the rumpled mess of the bed Jaskier hadn't bothered to tidy before opening the door. It didn't matter, they were about to mess it even further. When Jaskiers calves hit the frame of the bed Geralts hand pauses at the buttons of Jaskiers doublet. They pull back to look at eachother.

Jaskier looks curiously up at Geralt, who seems uncertain.

"If you don't want to-"

"I do," Geralt insists, "Just... never slept with someone... I can touch you, right?"

Jaskier tilts his head, brow furrowing in confusion.

"Of course you can. Why wouldn't you?"

"Don't want to touch somewhere that makes you uncomfortable."

Realization dawns. Geralt is concerned that Jaskier may be uncomfortable having his body seen or touched.

"Oh! Oooh! Geralt, you sweet, thoughtful man. There's no part of my body off limits to you. I feel very comfortable being touched anywhere you like. Thank you, though, for asking."

The Witcher nods, a tiny little smile coming across his lips as he begins to slowly unbutton Jaskiers doublet. The bard sets about unbuckling Geralts armor, shedding it to the floor in peices. He drops the armor as gently as possible, not wanting to ding it up but knowing it can take a beating considering what it's meant for.

Jaskiers doublet is pulled from his shoulders and dropped to the floor, revealing a well sculpted chest and soft abdomen that lacks any muscle definition - and Geralt wouldn't have it any other way. He traces thin scars along the bottoms of Jaskiers pecks, curiously ghosting his fingers over them. Jaskier flusters a bit under the attention, seemingly a bit self conscious of these marks.

"It suits you," Geralt says, settling his hands on Jaskiers waist as the bard finishes removing the upper half of Geralts armor, leaving him in only his undershirt.

"Really? You don't mind?"

"Mm... I like it. Like you."

"Geralt!" Jaskier gasps, feigning a scandalous voice, "If I didn't know any better I might think you meant to say love!" He teases, but the soft smile Geralt offers in return more than gives away that he is right.

"Can I keep going?" Geralt asks instead of replying, fingers tangling in the drawstring of Jaskiers britches.

Jaskier nods, "Of course, my heart. So long as I may as well."

Geralt nods, and the pair take turns undoing and removing eachothers trousers, leaving them in only underthings.

There's a soft few moments as they simply watch one another, taking in expressions and sorting through their own feelings. Hands wander slowly and gently, Geralts over Jaskiers waist and hips, and Jaskiers over Geralts muscular chest. They each look on in awe, Jaskier smiles as he pets through the hair of his Witchers chest.

"Would you lay back for me?" Jaskier asks, cheeks dusting pink and gesturing to his bed. Geralt gives him a confused look.

"Thought I was taking care of you?"

"Mm, and part of that means letting me suck what I assume is going to be the most gorgeous cock I've ever seen." He punctuated his thought by palming Geralts growing hardness through the thin fabric of his braies.

A low groan escapes his throat, but he doesn't have the heart to refuse Jaskiers request. He's denied them both long enough already, so he nods and hooks his fingers into Jaskiers last bit of clothing.

"Take these off first?"

"Go ahead."

They toss their underclothes onto the floor and Geralt sits back on the bed, unsure of where exactly Jaskier wants him. He feels a little nervous now, he wants to do this right. Even though the feelings had been muddied down by magic Geralt has still loved this man for years, and he can't stand the thought of fucking all of this up again.

Jaskiers hand reaches out to stroke his cheek as he settles on his knees on the bed.

"Head on the pillows, love."

He does as he's told without a word, head tilted down so he can still look at the bard, whose eyes are raking over his naked body hungrily. Jaskier looks like a man starved, staring at a feast before him. His eyes dark with desire, Geralt can smell the need dripping from him.

"Fuck, Geralt," Jaskier breathes out, palm laying flat on the Witchers thigh and rubbing gently, "You are gorgeous. I mean, sure I've bathed you but... fuck, now I actually get to openly appreciate you. You are... I think you might very well be the sexiest man on the planet."

Geralt stares, and without even thinking, responds, "Me? Not when you're here."

Jaskier flusters, a little nervous laugh bubbling up from a place in him that can't believe this is actually happening.

"Gods, you can't just say that to me, Geralt."

"Why? It's true."

Jaskier settles himself between Geralts legs and sighs dreamily.

"Alright, alright. Enough flattery. You've already got me in bed."

"Mm. Hopefully not for the only time."

Jaskier groans, head tilting gently back as he takes in the words, letting his hands begin to trace and feel every inch of muscular thigh the Witcher has to offer him.

"Not if I have anything to say about it." He whispers, leaning to kiss and nip along Geralts jaw line. "Tell me if you don't like something?"

"Course."

"And if you really like something?"

"Mm," A pause, "Like my hair pulled," He admits.

"Really?" The bards eyes light up, "Me too."

Geralt looks up at him curiously, lifting a hand to thread it through beautiful brown lock, just as soft and chestnut colored as the day they met, and tugs gently. Jaskier hums, a small smile coming to his face.

"Little harder, love."

Geralt obliges, tugging back with enough force to make the bards head snap back - he groans and shifts his hips, hands moving to explore a vast plain of scarred abs and peck.

The void that had once been filled by that aching loneliness is now blazing red hot with want and need. Geralt is consumed by the sparks in his mind as Jaskier kisses down his neck and chest, down the hair of his treasure trail and to his thighs. He is peppered with little love bites that will surely be gone by morning, but the fact that they're here now is enough. More than enough.

Then warm breath is ghosting over his groin and he feels himself twitch, the sudden flood of emotions in the void had made him nearly unable to notice his growing erection, but here he was, fully up, red and dripping for Jaskier. He reaches across the bed for a second pillow to put under his head to prop himself up to watch as Jaskier drags his tongue up the underside of his cock, the bards eyes fluttering shut.

Geralt groans, one of his hands settling carefully back in Jaskiers hair, fingers threading through the locks. They both know Geralt is stronger than the bard. Both know that Geralt could snap his neck with a flick of the wrist with his hair gripped in his scarred hand. Jaskier trusts him implicitly. He has for years, they both know this. They both know that Geralt would never intentionally harm him physically.

Emotionally the Witcher knows he has hurt the bard many times. Now that he can actually feel it, it's like a weighted blanket over his chest, suffocating him. Every time he told Jaskier he was annoying, every time he told the bard to leave him alone, when he shouted at him to fuck off, each and every burst of outrage had been his twisted way of being unable to say 'I love you' past the magic of the Djinn. He can say it now. He can feel it now.

Like the first rise of a spring sun after a long winter, Jaskier is like coming home. Always waiting at the bottom of the path up to Kaer Morhen to travel with his beloved Witcher. And oh, he realizes just how beloved he is when warm wetness encapsulates him in his entirety in one graceful swoop.

He shouldn't be surprised. He's not surprised. Jaskier has slept with every lord, lady, king and Queen from Skellige to Kaer Morhen and does it ever show in the way his practiced tongue swirls around Geralts weeping cock and draws a sound out of the Witcher he is certain he has never made before.

Jaskier only hums his response, redoubling his efforts.

Geralt runs taught, tugging sharply but carefully at Jaskiers hair, making the bard moan around the cock in his mouth. It's perfect, it's nearly not believable. All these years together, all those moments spent unknowingly longing catching up to him all at once- it feels like he is going to split apart at the seams. Feels like his heart is going to shatter under the careful touch of his very best friend in the whole wide world. (Jaskiers words, not his.)

He can take the movement and the wetness for not much more than a minute or two - a bit pathetic, perhaps, but he's never had his dick sucked quite like this.

"Jaskier- wait."

The bard hums and releases him with a wet pop.

"Close?" Jaskier smirks at him, tongue poking out to lick the precum from his lips as he stares up at Geralt from between his legs, a bratty little knowing smile stretched across those devilish lips.

"Yeah. Don't want to just yet."

"Fair enough, the night is only just beginning. What do you want, love?"

Geralt releases the hold he has on Jaskiers hair and moves the hand to caress his cheek.

"Want you."

"You already have me, love." Jaskiers soft words are accompanied by a gentle stroke of his forefinger over the scar on Geralts cheek as he shuffles up the bed to press their chests together once more.

"Not good at... words."

"I know, love. I know. Try for me anyways?"

Geralt makes an uncertain sound that Jaskier is certain anyone but himself would have assumed was grumpy or a complaint. But it's not, Geralt is nervous. He's trying with every ounce of himself to communicate, something he has never been good at.

"Want to touch you. Want to make you feel loved." He settles on, eventually.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"And... what would you do to me to make me feel that?"

Geralt makes another uncertain noise.

"Is this flirting? Am I supposed to say something sexy or something sweet?"

Jaskier giggles - giggles! The gall of the man, Geralt flusters, thinking he's said something wrong.

"Are there sweet things, Geralt?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what does Geralt of Rivia consider something sweet he could do for his lover?" Jaskier traces meandering patters with his fingers onto Geralts chest.

"Mm... take care of you. Make you food, keep you safe. Kiss you when you're sad."

"So... alright the things you used to do for me when we traveled together? Minus the kissing."

"Yeah. Never been... in a relationship with someone like you before."

Jaskier squints up at him.

"Someone like me?"

"Someone... sweet. Someone tender. Not sure what else there is to do that you would like."

Jaskier relaxes again into Geralts arms, one wrapped over his shoulders, the other playing idly with his hair.

"Well... you could get me pretty flowers. You could sit and listen to me write and sing. You could let me wash and brush your hair."

"Do those things already, Jaskier."

"I know. I'm saying that those things make me feel loved."

Geralt hums.

"I'll remember that."

"So... what about the sexy things you would do?" Jaskiers gaze shifts suddenly to hot and hungry again, purposefully bringing their hips flus to eachother and grinding against Geralt swollen cock.

"Fuck," The word is more of a groan as Geralts head tips back with the sensation. "Anything you want me to."

"That's not what I asked, Witcher. Tell me what you want to do to me."

In a matter of seconds Jaskier is being flipped and pressed hard into the mattress, Geralts thigh firmly against his dripping slit and he shouts both in surprise at the movement and at the sudden sensation of being pressed against so firmly.

"Want to fill you up. Want to make you scream. Want the whole fucking city to hear you cry my name. Want to make you fall apart." The words are spoken with a dark growl, possessive and filled with lust.

"Oh," Jaskier breathes, hips shifting of their own accord.

"Want to watch you come. Want you to grind on my thigh right now."

The bards hips move immediately at the words he knows are an unwavering command. It was so easy to ignore Geralts commands before;

Shut up

Don't follow me

You can't come on this hunt

Leave me alone.

It was easy because he wanted to be close to the man more than he wanted to obey. Now he is close to Geralt. As close as he can reasonably be, and he has no choice left but to obey, not that its really a choice at all when he so desperately wants to do it.

The slick folds on Geralts thigh make a shudder run through him. He can feel Jaskiers clit brushing him on every pass, feels the bard shudder and hears him moan. It's perfect, Jaskier chasing his pleasure pressed so tightly to him.

"You like this?" Geralt asks, the dark tone doesn't drop or waver but Jaskier still knows the question is genuine. His response is a little whine and squeezing his eyes shut, movements stuttering as he attempts to get used to this new feeling of being so very close. So very close, so very wet, and allowed to touch. Allowed to want. Allowed to express. The fear of repulsing Geralt, of chasing him away with his desire is tossed to the floor and stomped on as he concludes that Geralt wants him too.

Jaskier wraps his arms around muscular shoulders, one of his hands coming to gently hold the back of Geralts neck, fingers playing in his hair.

"Kiss me," The bard pleads with half-hooded eyes.

His request is met with a shift, the new angle making Geralt press himself just slightly firmer to Jaskiers clit earning him a whining moan as their tongues meet once more.

"Fuck, Geralt, I need you inside me," Jaskier breathes between slow and sensual kisses, "Please?"

Geralt gruffs a response that isn't a word and is more of a pleased grunt and rearranges himself to sit between the bards spread thighs. Jaskier basks in Geralts cat-like eyes dragging over his naked body, learning every dip, groove, scar and freckle. His eyes eventually come to a stop between his legs, tracing his slick folds. Jaskier blushes a bit under the attention.

Sure he's never been modest or coy, nor has he really been self conscious, but this is Geralt looking at him. Geralt, the man he's loved for twenty years, the man he has unerringly followed and devoted himself to.

"Like what you see?" He asks, feeling a bit sheepish.

The dark hunger in those golden eyes darkens further, "You have no idea."

Jaskiers hand moves, Geralts eyes snapping to the movement to follow it down, and down further, until those lithe fingers are dipping between his lips and spreading in a V, opening himself to Geralts ravenous gaze.

"It's all yours," Jaskier says lowly, seductively.

"Fuck, you are so..." When he can't think of the word he simply growls and kisses Jaskier again with even greater force, bruising and biting at his lips.

"You're sure this is okay?" Geralt asks, just to be sure, as he lines himself up for entrance.

"Yes, yes, come on, Geralt don't make me beg."

"Mm... might like for you to beg. Another time."

"Another time," Jaskier agrees, breathless as the head of Geralts cock begins to push into him. Geralt peppers Jaskiers throat with purple marks, a distraction from the stretch. Even though Geralt knows the bard had been fingering himself earlier, he is well endowed and likely going to cause some small amount of discomfort regardless of preparation - so he goes slow. He takes his time to savor the pull of Jaskier, the heat and the wetness. He absorbed every twitch and moan, every breathless shake of the body, every caress Jaskier gives to encourage him forward.

He watches the bards brows draw together in pleasure, eyes fluttered shut, skin flush and sweat gathering at his temple. Hair a mess over the pillows like a feathery halo, lips parted in pleasure and kiss-slick. If Geralt had the capability to fantasize before a few nights ago this is what he would have imagined.

He waits for Jaskier to adjust. Waits for his hips to roll back as indication of the discomfort having passed. Only when those cornflower blue eyes open to meet his, a whine from high in the bards throat reaching his ears, does he move.

"Mm... so wet, Jaskier."

"Of course," a broken moan when Geralt grazes his nails down the bards ribs, "Always this wet when I think about you."

"Is that so? Think of me often?"

Jaskier nods, meeting the Witchers languid thrusts with slow rolls of his hips. He is also savoring, he doesn't want their first time to be over too quickly. They're finally connected, Jaskier finally has the thing he has wanted for so many years and damn him, he is going to treasure it.

"Every day," He admits. "Feel bad, I always think of you when I- ah- when I come."

The pace increases ever so slightly, Geralts head dipping to rest in the crook of his bards neck.

"Every time? What about when you fuck some-"

"Every time, Geralt. Every. Damn. Time."

Gerslt hums, "Don't have to think about me anymore. Can have me whenever you want."

"Don't want me to fantasize when you're out on your hunts?"

Geralt chuckles, "Point made."

Jaskiers fingers tangle a little more purposefully into Geralts hair, "You feel so good," He breathes.

"You too."

Jaskier chuckles, "That all you have to say?"

"Mm... trying to concentrate. You're very distracting."

"Oh? - ooooh, fuck, fuck-" Jaskiers back arches when Geralt shifts slightly left and ends up finding that perfect place in Jaskier to brush up against that sends sparks through his body and stars alight in his eyes. "Geralt, there- fuck, right there."

The speed doesn't increase, the drag of the cock in his walls remains slow and sensual, careful and loving, but continues to brush against that spot without mercy. The bards body tenses, and he tugs unwittingly at Geralts hair making the Witcher bite into his shoulder. He shouts at the pain, tugging again, much harder this time. Not in an attempt to get the Witcher to pull away, just as some kind of tension relief from the waves of pleasure.

"Fuck, do that again," Jaskier says before Geralt can withdraw and apologize like Jaslier knows he will, "Bite me again."

"Really?" Geralts voice is muffled into his shoulder, but the teeth have been removed from his flesh.

"Yes- again."

Geralt obliges happily, teeth sinking in again just above the bards clavicle, somewhere he knows will be visible for days due to Jaskiers usual dress. The man below him moans, arching up into the pain, his heart hammering away in his chest.

"Geralt- a - a bit faster, I'm, fuck, I'm close."

As if he couldn't tell by the bards pounding heart, but it doesn't really matter - Geralt is close too. He relents, not moving angles but altering his pace to a heavy pounding, like the beating of a drum. Jaskier clings to his shoulders, clawing at his back with surprisingly sharp nails, panting and whining and moaning away. His words come in loving thoughtless whispers, muttering about how wonderful Geralt is, how big he is, how good he feels and how close he is.

It takes nothing more than a single press of his thumb to Jaskiers clit for the bard to drop over that edge with a cry of Geralts name, Geralt whispers into his neck, peppering him with kisses as he comes undone:

"So good, Jaskier. Good boy."

The rhythmic pulsing of tight walls around him draws Geralt right to the brink-

"Can I come in you?" He is barely able to grate out.

"Yes, yes please."

With a full-body shudder Geralt spills into the tight wet heat of the bard, gasping his name all while Jaskier strokes his hair. Geralt pumps two or three more times, slowly, before halting.

They still together a moment in the thrum of post- orgasmic bliss, breath and sweat mingling, then they're kissing again. Soft this time, careful and reverent. An action as a promise and a confession neither of them needs anymore, but it's comforting. It's comforting, and it's theirs, and it's perfect.

They settle eventually next to eachother on the silk sheets, tangled in eachothers limbs and love.

"That okay?" Geralt is the one to break the silence once he's caught his breath.

"More than. I still can't believe this is happening... this isn't a dream, is it?"

"It isn't a dream, Jaskier."

"And you... you still want me?"

"For as long as you'll have me."

Jaskier chuckles, head settling on Geralts chest so he can properly meet his eyes, "You foolish oaf of a man, I would have married you years ago if your head wasn't so far up you ass."

Geralt chuckles at this, warmth spreading through what was once the void left by the Djinn. Now filled, to the brim and past it, with the love of Jaskier.

"No marriage yet, Jaskier. I have a lot of years to make up for first."

"Well you are certainly not making me wait another twenty years to get married, I swear to all the gods Geralt! If you make me wait any more than five I'll marry Eskel instead!"

Geralt snorts a laugh, "Eskel would never put up with you as long as I have."

"You're grumpy! Grumpy and mean! What did I do to deserve this horrible mistreatment when I've been nothing but the epitome of gentile, hm? What must I do to earn your affections, oh Witcher?"

Normally, Jaskier knows, this is where Geralt would roll his eyes and tell Jaskier to shut up. Instead, he brushes a bit of hair back from Jaskiers sweat-slick forhead and tucks it behind his ear with the most fond look Jaskier has ever seen directed at anyone.

"Love you, Jaskier."

He blinks up at the white haired Witcher laying on the bed, one of his arms is tucked up and curled around Jaskiers waist to hold him close, and smiles.

"I love you too, sweet Witcher of mine."

And the emptiness fades into the back of the Witchers mind, dissipates, forgot about entirely in the arms of his love.