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Geralt rubs at the ache in his neck, the muscles tight as ever and made worse by the blow he’d gotten in his last contract, knocking him hard into a tree. The bruises have faded, but the tension has remained behind until he can feel a network of knots throughout his back and shoulders, the flesh aching and pulling. He attempts to rub harder, resisting the urge to growl in frustration at his limited success in alleviating the ache.
“Want a hand?” Jaskier asks from his place on the bed. He pauses, smiling, from where he's been picking away at his lute. “Or two?”
Geralt doesn’t respond and drops his hand, cursing the reveal of discomfort around the bard. They’re three years into whatever it is that makes Jaskier follow him around, and Geralt has begun slipping, showing weakness where he shouldn’t.
“Seriously!” The bard says, sitting up on his knees. “I’ve seen how you walk around all day. You’ve got to be knots all over. Let me give you a massage.” He gives Geralt a wicked look. “I have it on good authority that I have very talented hands.”
Geralt gives him a look. Usually he’d order a hot bath or visit a brothel and hire services in addition to a fuck. It’s not usually a good massage, meant to serve as foreplay rather than to properly relax, but it’s normally enough to make the tightness bearable again. Jaskier, undeterred as ever by Geralt’s looks, just pats the bed beside him. They’re sharing tonight, an arrangement that’s become common at this point. Geralt remains silent. It's not the first time the bard has made the offer, and Geralt still can't figure out why he would.
“Look, if you hate it, you can knock me off, and we’ll call it a wash.” Jaskier offers, patting the bed with both hands after he sets his lute aside. Geralt rolls his eyes at the theatrics but finally moves closer. He’d normally continue to refuse, but the tightness in his body is truly uncomfortable, and he knows he won’t sleep well tonight or be in peak condition for a new contract tomorrow if the tension isn’t relieved to some degree. Jaskier beams. “Alright, shirt off, face down. I’ll grab some oil.”
Geralt automatically catches the bard by the arm when he fumbles his way off the bed, tripping over himself in his excitement. Jaskier gives him a sunny smile and then darts to his pack, rummaging through and tossing things aside carelessly. Geralt watches him from the corner of his eye for a moment longer before he pulls his shirt off, laying down on his side of the bed.
Jaskier makes a soft noise of triumph when he retrieves the oil and nearly prances on his way back to the bed. He pauses for only a moment before he plants a knee on the mattress, swinging his other leg over until he’s straddling Geralt’s hips, shifting slightly until he finds a secure position. Geralt expects some sort of comment about mounting or riding, but the bard remains quiet.
“Comfy?” Jaskier asks, leaning over to look at Geralt’s face. His weight barely registers, even as the bard presses a light hand to the center of Geralt’s back for balance. Geralt grunts an affirmative and feels Jaskier shift back. There’s a soft pop as the cork of the bottle is removed, followed by a slick noise as the bard warms the oil between his hands. Geralt is distantly surprised at the forethought, having fully expected the shock of cold oil against his skin. Finally satisfied at the temperature, Jaskier presses his hands to the base of Geralt’s neck with gentle pressure, barely enough to even register. Moving in circles, Jaskier incrementally increases the force behind the touches until he begins pressing on the knots as he finds them, working them with his fingertips lightly before he adds pressure. Geralt focuses on keeping his breathing even. It's overwhelming, this touch, more than he expected. He's used to the clinical touch of a stranger paid to do a job, a stranger who usually fears him.
He doesn't know what to do with touch that feels enticingly close to affectionate.
“Fuck,” Jaskier says sympathetically. “You’ve more knots than a rug, darling.” Geralt remains quiet, only grunting slightly when the bard begins working at one with those dexterous fingers of his. “Let me know if it hurts, alright?” Geralt hums his agreement, eyes shutting despite himself when he feels the first knot of muscle give. Entirely against his will, Geralt lets out a low moan of relief when the tension is gone. He expects the bard to say something salacious in response, but instead Jaskier just exhales a soft, pleased noise and continues.
Geralt finds his mind floating almost into a meditative state as Jaskier works. There’s still some lingering discomfort at being in such a vulnerable position, but the uncertainty fades to background noise as Jaskier continues the massage. It’s more thorough attention than Geralt has ever received before, the bard diligently working at each tight spot until the muscles release. Used as he is to massages that tend to move south very quickly, the attention and care is new and damnably pleasurable. New, too, is Jaskier's scent. Geralt is used to massages accompanied by the smell of fear or impatience, but Jaskier smells happy, as if he's enjoying doing this for Geralt.
Given the bard’s lack of attention span at most tasks, Geralt expects him to get bored quickly, but Jaskier simply continues until he’s worked through all of the tense spots, shifting to long, soothing strokes down Geralt’s back. He even moves to work at Geralt’s arms, gently kneading the muscles on his way down before he takes Geralt’s hands in his, working his knuckles in small circles against Geralt’s palms before gently pulling at the fingers, shaking them lightly to release the tension there. He continues in this way for a long while, attentive and patient, until Geralt begins to feel like clay beneath his hands, pliable and loose. It’s a relaxation that Geralt can’t remember feeling before. Jaskier continues as Geralt drifts in the relief of unknotted muscles until the bard finishes, pressing his hands in firm, solid touches up the length of Geralt’s spine until he returns to his neck, cupping the muscle in his palms and giving one last firm press.
Geralt is almost asleep by the time the bard is finished, and he’s loathe to disrupt the peace that’s settled over the room, the relaxation that’s set into his muscles, but he’s lived too long to believe that things like this come for free. The bard may not be getting coin for this, but there’s no way he expects to receive nothing in exchange for such diligent work.
It’s not hard to guess what he’ll want. The bard has a libido to rival a tom cat, and he’s smelled of arousal on and off since the day that Geralt has met him. He smells of it now, a warm, spicy scent wafting off of his skin in waves. Geralt isn’t entirely sure if he’s turned on simply from touching Geralt or in expectation of what he’ll get in exchange, but his desire is certainly clear.
It’s not as though it will be such a hardship, Geralt reasons with himself. It’s not as if Geralt hasn’t thought of fucking Jaskier or had dreams about it. Twenty-one now, Jaskier has grown from the lanky youth Geralt first met, his frame filling out appealingly with muscle. The only real reason Geralt's abstained before now has been fear of the bard getting closer. He’s already managed to carve himself out a place in Geralt’s life, and Geralt has tried desperately to preserve whatever lines he can still manage to draw. The farther he keeps the bard, the easier it will be to recover when the flighty little songbird finally leaves.
Still, sex in exchange for service isn’t a wild concept, and it’s almost more comfortable this way. Jaskier performed a service, and now he’ll get a payment he wants. It’s not crossing lines. It’s just paying a debt. With this in mind, Geralt speaks, his face still pressed against the pillow.
“What do you want?” He asks, trying to keep his voice even, uninterested. This is transactional, after all. There’s no need to bring emotions into it.
“What?” Jaskier says, and Geralt can hear the confusion in his tone, can smell the uncertainty curling into the scent of arousal, even as the bard keeps his voice soft.
“Hand or mouth?” Geralt clarifies. He’s not really in the mood for the preparation or clean-up (or intimacy) of penetration, so he’s hoping Jaskier won’t ask for it. Instead of responding, though, Geralt feels the shift of weight as Jaskier leans forward and almost jumps when a gentle hand moves to push Geralt’s hair from his face.
“Sorry, dear witcher, but you’ll have to be a little clearer. I’m pretty good at filling in your silences by now, but you’ve got me at a loss here.”
Geralt sighs. He should have known the bard would have wanted some words. Dirty talk, like any talk, isn’t really where Geralt shines, but he feels good now, his body loose in a way it never is. Carefully he rolls, reaching up to steady Jaskier with a hand at his waist to keep him in his straddle. The bard blinks at him in mild alarm when Geralt settles on his back, even as his scent flares with arousal as Geralt squeezes at the muscle beneath his hand.
“I don’t know what you like when you fuck,” Geralt says honestly, and Jaskier’s face goes almost comically alarmed.
“I’m, uh,” Jaskier stammers, flustered. “I’m flattered, really, but um, ah-” His hips rock, just slightly, when Geralt runs the hand on his hip up his side. “What brought this about? You haven’t seemed…interested. Before.” Jaskier reaches down, stilling Geralt’s hand with his own. Geralt frowns, equally confused. Is this roleplay? Playing coy? He knows the bard likes his flirtations, but Geralt doesn’t really want to play this game.
“It was a good massage. What do you want for it?” Geralt’s tone is still even, clinical, so he’s confused when Jaskier’s face looks suddenly sad, the bard squeezing Geralt’s hand slightly before pulling it away, settling it on the mattress with an affectionate pat.
“People can want to do nice things for you without expecting something in exchange,” Jaskier tells him gently.
“Not in my experience.” The response just makes Jaskier shrug.
“Well, it’s true. It’s not a hardship to make you feel good, Geralt. I don’t expect an orgasm in exchange.”
“I owe you,” Geralt persists, uncomfortable at the idea of being in the bard’s debt.
"You don’t owe me, Geralt. This is just what friends do.”
“We’re not friends,” Geralt says, entirely automatically. Instead of winding the bard up as it normally does, however, Jaskier just looks unbearably fond as he tilts his head.
“Maybe you’re not, but I am.” Jaskier tells him, teasing. He gives Geralt a firm squeeze to his shoulder before he flops down to his side of the bed against the wall, wriggling around until he’s comfortable. He gives Geralt a sweet, sleepy smile before he closes his eyes. “G’night, Geralt,” he says around a yawn.
“Goodnight,” Geralt says, still confused, before he blows out the candle on the bedside table and lays down as well. As is usual when they share a bed, he feels Jaskier shift ever closer in a way the bard clearly believes is sneaky, moving until his hand, curled in a loose fist, rests against Geralt’s bicep. Once the contact has been made, as he always does, Jaskier breathes out a soft, happy sigh, and the last of the tension leaves his body as he slips into sleep. Geralt used to call him on this shuffle over to his side of the bed, but the bard always sleeps better when he can fall asleep touching. It’s an allowance that Geralt lets himself make for the sake of a bedmate that doesn’t toss and turn.
At least, that’s the reason he tells himself.
Geralt turns his head and studies the bard’s face, relaxed in sleep already. Jaskier is the first bed partner that Geralt has ever had who falls asleep first. Usually, Geralt has always had to at least pretend to drift off first before whoever is sharing his bed feels comfortable enough to let their guard down. He still doesn’t entirely know what to do with the trust the bard extends so easily, as if the idea of Geralt being a threat to him has simply never registered.
It’s a trust that would be all too easy to get used to.
Geralt attempts to remain awake to puzzle it out further, and to decide what Jaskier will want in exchange for tonight if it isn’t sex, but the bard does good work, and the relaxation in Geralt’s body pulls him ever closer to sleep.
He’ll figure it out tomorrow, he tells himself, as he finally drifts off. He’ll work out his payment tomorrow.