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It was Geralt’s second year on the Path when he saved a group of Oxenfurt students from a katakan that had been prowling the streets of the university. One young man in particular, a foppish dandy who called himself a bard despite hardly ever playing outside the grounds of the school, seemed awfully taken with Geralt and would not leave the Witcher alone.
“Jaskier, by the way,” he offered, despite not having been asked. “Technically Julian but echhh.” He made a face of disgust. “That name can stay in Lettenhove where it belongs.”
Geralt said nothing, but Jaskier wasn’t dissuaded. Hiking a large bag higher up on his shoulder and trying to balance it with his lute strung across his back, he stumbled and skipped along at Geralt’s heels as the Witcher went to retrieve his horse, a mare Geralt had decided to call Roach.
“Well, ‘what’s this bard doing following me?’ you might ask yourself,” Jaskier began again. At that, Geralt gave what might even be called an enthusiastic grunt of agreement. Jaskier grinned widely. “Well,” he continued, “given my recent near-death experience in which you so bravely pulled me away from the brink of demise, I’ve come to realize that life is far too short to spend all of it in the library. I want to get out there and live, Witcher.”
When Geralt said nothing to this and merely continued to prepare Roach for departure, Jaskier went on. “So I’ve decided that I’ll be accompanying you on the road for a while, seeing you in action, if you will, drawing inspiration from your heroic deeds.”
Geralt paused briefly in his motions, then forced himself to continue get Roach’s tack sorted. He wanted Jaskier to go away, but a part of him liked the way Jaskier spoke of him, thought of him. In his short time on the Path, Geralt had learned quickly and often that Witchers were not well-regarded by virtually anyone. He had been kicked out of taverns and inns, spat on, short-changed on so many contracts, and called a variety of names as he rode through the streets that he’d made safe. The only things people hated more than Witchers were the monsters they’d hired Witchers to kill. And even then, it often seemed like a pretty slim margin.
So Geralt soaked up the praise and the attention from this annoying so-called bard, trying to seem disinterested but realizing that he was stalling. He liked the idea of a companion, even if his training had repeatedly assured him that it was a recipe for disaster. Vesemir would be intensely disappointed in that quiet way of his, shaking his head and walking away to leave Geralt to deal with his shame at having failed his teacher.
Finally, when he couldn’t delay any longer, Geralt looked over at Jaskier, who offered a dazzling, optimistic grin. It was then that Geralt knew he was in for it.
“Geralt,” he said.
“Hmm?” Jaskier asked, blinking in confusion.
“Geralt of Rivia. Not ‘Witcher’.”
Jaskier’s grin broadened into an expression of unbridled joy. “Geralt,” he breathed, as if the name itself tasted like honey on his lips. “Very nice to meet you properly.”
Geralt mounted Roach in silence, knowing full well he’d already come to a decision about the young man, but debating it in his mind just the same. Finally, he cocked his head to the side, allowing Jaskier to see his face in profile.
“Come on, then.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jaskier managed to speak (and play and sing) almost the entire time between Oxenfurt and the little inn perched just south of Novigrad along the Pontar. As much as Geralt found cities to be overwhelming and awful, they were also full of work, and the contracts there often fetched a higher price than those in the rural villages where people hardly had two coins to rub together.
Despite complaining about the walk and the state of the roads and the fact that Geralt wouldn’t give him even a teensy-weensy little turn on Roach, Jaskier was as bubbly and peppy as ever when they arrived at the inn. Geralt got a room for himself and waited patiently for Jaskier to get his own, when Jaskier merely announced, “let’s share!”
Geralt scrunched his face up and glared over at Jaskier, but the alleged bard was entirely unfazed, grinning maniacally at Geralt as he handed the Witcher an ale to match the one Jaskier now held. He raised his cup in a salute to Geralt and said, “To our many future endeavors and adventures, whatever they may be.” Before he took a sip, he winked at Geralt – winked – and then drank deeply from his cup. Geralt had no idea what to do with any of that, so he merely drank as well, downing the entire beverage and placing the cup back on the bar.
Without a word to Jaskier, he turned and headed for the second floor, where the lodgings were. True to form, Jaskier followed behind him excitedly, babbling about their first day of “work” together. After getting settled in the room and getting his swords and armor cleaned to his satisfaction, Geralt turned around to find Jaskier half-dressed and lying across the room’s only bed, staring alluringly at Geralt. His shirt was wide open, exposing a toned chest and soft stomach dusted with brown hair.
Geralt froze.
“Why don’t you get those clothes off and come over here?” Jaskier asked, his voice low and sure.
Geralt stayed exactly where he was. He didn’t breathe. He didn’t blink. He caught of whiff of intense arousal from Jaskier and felt his nostrils flare as he drank it in.
After a long pause, Jaskier seemed to grow less certain of himself and whether his overtures were welcome. He brought a hand up to his chest and tugged his shirt closed, swallowing thickly. “Or not.” He sat up and began doing up his buttons. “I, um, I might’ve misread the situation.” When his shirt was set back to rights, he swept both of his hands through his messy hair, pushing it off his forehead just for it to flop right back into place. “If that’s the case, I can see if they’ve got a second room, it’s no problem at all, sorry if I’ve, uh…” He gestured between himself and Geralt briefly.
Standing and crossing the room, Jaskier was nearly to the door when Geralt finally moved. He strode to the door just in time to block Jaskier’s exit. Jaskier stopped short, only a few inches in front of Geralt. Underneath the increasing scents of embarrassment and worry, he could still smell Jaskier’s arousal, his desire.
“You want me,” he stated. It wasn’t a question, but Jaskier answered it all the same.
“Yes.”
“Why?” Even if Geralt had had the self-awareness and manipulation skills to fish for compliments, it never would’ve been his strategy. This question was a genuine one, borne of confusion.
Jaskier blinked and shook his head slightly as if he’d been struck but only barely. “Why?” he repeated. “Are you serious?”
Geralt’s face shifted into a scowl he’d been wearing more and more often lately as he became accustomed to his life as a Witcher. He turned slightly away, feeling as though perhaps Jaskier were making fun of him.
“No, wait…seriously, though? You can’t think of why I might be interested in bedding you?” Jaskier’s voice sounded incredulous.
Geralt grunted. “It’s not a thing people want from me.”
Jaskier scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Oh, pssh, surely there’s someone now and again who finds themselves utterly taken with your heroic deeds and your strong-and-silent demeanor.”
Narrowing his eyes, Geralt muttered, “That has yet to happen.”
“Well,” Jaskier began, the words laden with false lightness, “it hadn’t happened before, perhaps, but I assure you that it’s happening now.”
Geralt hazarded a glance at Jaskier’s face and found naked desire there. A flash of heat spread across Geralt’s skin. It felt like casting quen and then walking through white-hot flame. Geralt said nothing but kept his eyes on Jaskier’s for a long moment.
“Can I kiss you?” the bard asked. He sounded breathless despite having hardly moved.
Geralt remained exactly where he was, deathly still and silent. They were still mere inches apart, and Geralt’s warring instincts would let him neither approach nor retreat. He had been taught not to fear, and yet he feared this. He had been taught not to want, and yet he wanted this.
Jaskier brought his hand up slowly, placing it on Geralt’s bicep with a feather-light touch. “I think you want me to, Geralt,” he whispered, “but I’d prefer to be sure. Can you do that for me? Can you tell me yes or no?”
Geralt’s nod was so minute that it was a miracle Jaskier even saw it, but when he did, he wasted no time. The kiss was soft and sweet, not what Geralt had expected, not that he had anything against which to compare it. Jaskier’s hands both came up to grip Geralt’s head, and the movement, the pressure was enough to startle the Witcher. He flinched backward out of Jaskier’s grasp, breaking the kiss with a rough exhale.
“Sorry, sorry,” Jaskier breathed, though Geralt wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for. Jaskier held his hands up in surrender. “I promise I can keep them to myself if you’d rather.”
Geralt ground his teeth, feeling uncomfortable for so many reasons and yet eager to the point of desperation to feel Jaskier’s lips on his again. He nodded, hoping it would do the trick. Jaskier approached slowly, closing the distance once again and moving his hands to wrap around behind his own back, clasping his own forearms to keep him from reaching for the Witcher on instinct.
Now that he had some idea of what to expect, Geralt could begin to unpack the sensations that came with kissing. Jaskier’s lips were soft but insistent in their motions, coaxing Geralt deeper and deeper into the kiss by tiny degrees. Jaskier hummed, a sound of enjoyment, as he continued to kiss Geralt within an inch of his life. When Geralt felt Jaskier’s tongue slide along the seam of his lips, he inhaled in surprise, which gave Jaskier the access he’d been seeking. Jaskier’s tongue swept inside, and when it made contact with Geralt’s own, the Witcher once again balked, recoiling and withdrawing even farther than he had the first time.
Jaskier seemed shocked for a split second, then his expression became more pensive. “Geralt, have you…have you done this before?”
The torrent of shame that poured down his spine left Geralt cold and angry. He was sure his expression was thunderous; he could feel his teeth grinding together painfully and his blood was pumping far harder than it would under normal circumstances. “If I’m not up to your standards, there’s the fucking door.” He gestured broadly to the exit and stalked across the room to fiddle with his potions that clearly needed no fiddling.
When Jaskier spoke again, his voice was painfully soft. “That’s not what I meant, but I will leave if you want me to.”
“I don’t care,” Geralt spat, the lie obvious even to his own ears.
“Well I do,” Jaskier insisted. “And I don’t think you’re actually cross with me. I think you’re scared. Maybe embarrassed.” His tone wasn’t teasing, not even a little, but Geralt’s shoulders bunched up around his ears regardless.
“You’ve known me for twelve hours and now you can read me like a book, huh?” Geralt shook his head dismissively. “You don’t know a thing about me.”
Jaskier took a few steps towards Geralt, his movements slow, loud, and obvious. It felt patronizing, but Geralt knew it was in everyone’s best interests. When Jaskier was a foot or two away, he skirted around Geralt’s right side so he could look him in the face.
“I’d like to,” Jaskier responded, warm and kind. “And I’d surely like to keep kissing you, but I don’t want to hurt you.”
Geralt scoffed, a bitter sound. “As if you could.”
“Not that kind of hurt,” Jaskier replied. After a pause, he ventured, “If you tell me what you’re comfortable with, what you like, I can…”
Geralt was already shaking his head. At Jaskier’s quizzical expression, Geralt clarified, the words seeming to hurt him on the way out. “I wouldn’t know. What I like.”
Jaskier nodded, a gentle gesture. “So you’ve never…?”
Geralt shook his head, angry at himself for feeling embarrassed over something that shouldn’t matter. He continued checking through his potions bag despite the motions being blatantly unnecessary.
“Can I ask why not?”
Geralt growled at the question, but Jaskier’s expression merely softened further. He was such an odd young man. Why wasn’t he afraid of Geralt? Everyone else seemed to be.
When Jaskier didn’t seem to mind waiting, Geralt finally gathered up the words to answer.
“Was young when they brought me to Kaer Morhen to be trained. I’ve only been on the Path for two years. I went to a brothel once to…” He shrugged, then cleared his throat and continued. “They said they didn’t serve my kind. So I didn’t bother to try anywhere else.” He sighed. After a pause, he concluded: “And like I said, humans aren’t exactly lining up.”
“Darling,” Jaskier sighed, reaching out to touch Geralt’s face before thinking better of it and bringing his hand back to his side. “I’m sorry the world has treated you this way. It’s not right.”
Geralt shrugged, trying to seem more numb to it than he truly was. “Things usually aren’t.” He stopped messing with his things, despite still being filled with nervous energy. He needed to meditate or fight or something.
“But…” Jaskier began, seeming to pick his words carefully. “But you do want to, right? You’re interested in…taking someone to bed?”
“Does it matter?” Geralt bit out, seemingly unable to retract his claws now that they’d come out.
Jaskier’s expression got sadder, and Geralt hated that he’d done that. The bard nodded. “Yes. To me it does.”
Geralt rolled his eyes. “Then yes. Obviously,” he replied, waving his hand vaguely around the room.
Jaskier ventured another step or two closer, not entirely inserting himself into Geralt’s space but no longer keeping a careful distance. He reached out and laid his hand atop Geralt’s where it rested on his potions bag. Geralt saw it coming and did everything he could not to startle at the touch.
“Do you want to take me to bed, Geralt?”
Geralt pressed his lips together. He breathed out heavily, then turned to face Jaskier fully. “I don’t know if I can.” He took another deep breath. “When you touch me…it’s so much.”
“Darling, if it gets you inside me, then let’s tie me to the bed.”
Geralt laughed at that, the surprise making his eyes crinkle with mirth.
Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m serious! It would hardly be my first time playing with restraint in bed, you know. Tie me down so I can’t move, so I can’t touch you or surprise you. Then you can have your way with me.” The last words came out as a dangerous purr.
“What if I hurt you?”
Jaskier shook his head vehemently. “You won’t.”
Geralt scowled at the quick response, delivered without a second thought. “I’m not human, Jaskier. I’m even less human than a normal Witcher. I could hurt you and not even realize.”
Still shaking his head, Jaskier reached out for Geralt’s face, only to realize his mistake and retract his hands as though he were burned. “Fuck,” he cursed, “gods, you really will have to tie me up because I want to touch you so fucking badly.”
“But—” Geralt began.
“No,” Jaskier answered, “no, I don’t believe you would hurt me, intentionally or otherwise. You won’t.” When Geralt seemed to be waffling in his decision, Jaskier looked up at him through his long lashes and added, “…please?”
Geralt groaned, fully aware of the manipulation but powerless to resist it nonetheless. “We can try,” he conceded, and Jaskier’s answering smile was almost worth the pain it took to get here.
“Fabulous!” Jaskier crowed. “I’ve got a few silk scarves in my bag, they’ll do just fine I should think.”
Geralt rooted around and found the scarves in question, several colors and patterns that made Geralt’s eyes hurt. Jaskier practically ripped his shirt back off and laid on the bed, stretching his arms up over his head and crossing them at the wrists. The sight tripped a wire in Geralt’s brain and he felt himself grow hard in his breeches. Jaskier must’ve noticed, because he let out the softest whine, and then he was tenting his own trousers fairly noticeably.
Making quick work of the ties, Geralt affixed Jaskier’s wrists together and tied them to the slat in the center of the headboard. The wood was old and thin enough that Jaskier would likely be able to break it if it were an emergency.
“How does that feel?”
Jaskier grinned. “Spectacular, darling, just lovely.”
Geralt rolled his eyes. “How’s the tightness? Any tingling in your hands?”
Jaskier shook his head. “No, no tingling. I promise, it’s good. I’m alright.”
Nodding, Geralt shifted so he was kneeling at the end of the bed between Jaskier’s legs, which had automatically parted for him as he approached. The Witcher removed his shirt, baring his chest to Jaskier for the first time. He wasn’t nearly as scarred as the more seasoned Witchers, but he knew he had several marks on his torso that looked fairly gruesome to your average human.
Before he had time to get self-conscious, he heard a whimper escape Jaskier’s lips as the bard tugged ineffectually at his bindings.
“Gods, I’m so glad you agreed to tie me up because I would absolutely not be able to keep my hands to myself. You’re stunning, do you know that?”
Geralt merely shook his head, unsure what to do with the praise. His hands came to rest on the tops of his thighs as he stared at Jaskier. Finally, Jaskier broke the silence.
“You can touch me, you know. You can touch me, undress me, do whatever you like.”
Nodding to himself, Geralt reached out a tentative hand, placing his palm along the curve of Jaskier’s waist. The bard hummed happily, which let Geralt know his touch was welcome, rough and unskilled as it was. He brought his other hand up to mirror the first, sweeping his thumbs up Jaskier’s waist to rub at the edges of his ribs. Jaskier giggled and squirmed.
“Oh, oh gods—” he huffed, “oh no, don’t, darling, I’ll knee you in the face or something, I’m dreadfully ticklish.”
Geralt stopped moving his thumbs but he grinned at this new piece of information. There was a power in having Jaskier at his mercy like this, and though Geralt feared that power – with good reason – he thrilled in it all the same.
Sliding his hands down, he brought them to the edge of Jaskier’s breeches. He looked at Jaskier’s face to see if this was alright, despite the permission he’d already been given. Jaskier nodded eagerly. “Yes, please,” he panted.
Unlacing the trousers carefully and pulling them down the bard’s legs, Geralt revealed Jaskier inch by inch. When the bard was bare, Geralt found himself swaying towards Jaskier’s cock, drawn to the heady scent of musk and arousal he found there. He stopped himself before he could plant his face directly in the crease between Jaskier’s hip and thigh, but the hesitation only made Jaskier whimper softly.
“Please, yes, anything, please,” he rasped.
Geralt allowed his instinct to take the lead, then; he rubbed his face in Jaskier’s crotch, inhaling deeply and purring in satisfaction at what he found there. There was the faintest trace of another person’s scent there, a cunt that Jaskier had buried himself in before leaving with Geralt perhaps, and the idea made Geralt wildly jealous but intensely turned on. He grasped at his own trousers, opening the placket and withdrawing his aching cock. Sitting upright, he brought his cock as close to Jaskier’s as he could in this position, stroking himself roughly. Jaskier was mewling and twitching under him, aroused but under-stimulated, watching Geralt tug furiously at his own cock without being able to touch.
It didn’t take Geralt long to find his release, and he growled as he shot his spend across Jaskier’s cock, some of it dribbling down his balls and onto the sheets below. Jaskier’s cock strained and bucked, the bard whining loudly, the silk of the restraints and the wood of the headboard both creaking as Jaskier fought to reach down and touch himself. The fact that he couldn’t only made Geralt’s orgasm last longer, and his cock spurted once, twice more before the waves of pleasure began to subside.
“Oh fuck, oh gods, Geralt, Geralt, fuck…” Jaskier begged, breathless and desperate. “Please touch me, please…”
Geralt instead slid up the bed and leaned down to kiss Jaskier, finally distracted enough to initiate the contact and try it out himself. Jaskier eagerly accepted the kiss, groaning in pleasure and trying to buck up into Geralt. The Witcher pulled back.
“Don’t make me tie your hips down.”
Jaskier keened at that, but did try to still himself. Geralt kissed him again, trying to replicate what Jaskier had done and see what felt good. When he began to feel marginally comfortable, he tilted his hips forward and reached back to guide Jaskier’s cock into him. When Jaskier’s cock head touched Geralt’s entrance, the bard pulled away from Geralt’s mouth.
“Darling, wait, wait!” he pleaded. “We need to prepare you to take me if that’s what you want – oh gods I can’t believe you want me to be inside you, fuck – I’ve, there’s, I’ve…” Jaskier began to lose his train of thought as Geralt pressed insistently at his hole with Jaskier’s cock.
Jaskier finally shook himself out of his trance. “No, darling, please, I don’t want you to hurt yourself, I’d never forgive myself for letting you do that…” When Geralt stopped, panting harshly, Jaskier nodded. “Yes, alright, yes, there’s oil, I’ve got…it’s in my bag, we’ve got to get you wet darling.”
Geralt groaned at that, but swallowed and swung himself off the bed, rifling through Jaskier’s bags until he found two stoppered bottles. He held them up so Jaskier could see.
“The clear-ish one,” Jaskier directed him, so Geralt put the other back and returned to the bed. He straddled Jaskier again and pulled the cork from the bottle.
“Tell me.”
A shiver went through Jaskier’s body and his back arched for a moment. “Gods, I can’t believe this is my life.” He licked his lips and shook himself as best he could with his arms still tied and his body underneath a Witcher. “Put some oil on your fingers and reach back to your hole. Rub the oil around your entrance, then use a finger to spread it inside. Don’t rush, or it’ll feel rather uncomfortable.”
Geralt grunted as he immediately ignored Jaskier’s advice and dove in with two oil-slicked fingers. The angle was odd and it didn’t feel very good, but if this was what it took to get Jaskier inside him, he would do it. He stretched himself roughly but thoroughly, adding oil to make sure he would be slick enough. When he looked down at Jaskier, the blown pupils and slackened mouth that greeted him let him know that Jaskier was very much ready for the next part.
When Geralt shifted again, Jaskier panted, “Slick me up too, darling, get me wet, I don’t want to hurt you.” Geralt groaned, quickly becoming overwhelmed with his desire. He used his oil-coated hand to stroke Jaskier a few times, who whined again at the contact. Finally, Geralt lined Jaskier up again and pushed until he felt Jaskier’s cock slide into him. Jaskier gasped and cried out, his eyes scrunching tightly shut. Geralt growled and moaned, overcome with the sensation.
Geralt sunk down, an inexorable slide until his ass was flush with Jaskier’s hips and he was as full as he could get. He panted harshly, his breaths short and shallow as he tried to acclimate to the feeling of Jaskier inside him. Whatever discomfort there had been at the beginning was gone in practically an instant, and Geralt was awash in devastating pleasure. His hips twitched back and forth slightly as his body sought more stimulation even as his mind screamed at him for less, less, less.
“Geralt, gods, Geralt, I can’t, I’m—” Jaskier sobbed, and then Geralt felt Jaskier’s cock begin flexing inside him, warm liquid pulsing out in bursts as Jaskier filled him up. Geralt cried out then, the sensation so far beyond what he could realistically handle, and he reached his climax from that alone. His cock bucked in the air, spilling cum down onto Jaskier’s stomach as Geralt twitched and writhed through his orgasm. the stimulation only made Jaskier cry out again, grinding up into Geralt before he could stop himself. Fortunately, Geralt was too lost to his climax to even be able to discern that movement from the rest, and he merely rode it out, humming and purring and gasping until he was utterly spent.
When Geralt’s mind was no longer swimming with beautiful post-coital incoherence, the Witcher began to recognize all the places he and Jaskier were touching. It was very suddenly too much, and he scrambled off the bed, his movements coltish and uncoordinated as he tried to get his legs under him. Jaskier sighed with the loss, whining sadly.
“Geralt? You alright?” He sounded vaguely drunk.
The Witcher felt Jaskier’s seed begin to slide out of him, and his skin burned at the sensation. He grabbed a rag and wiped himself as surreptitiously as he could. Quickly donning his trousers, he moved to the side of the room farthest from the bed, eyeing Jaskier warily.
For his part, the bard tried to sit up, only then remembering that he was affixed to the bed. He groaned softly, grumbling quietly at the scarves that bound him. “Darling, do you mind?”
Geralt’s shoulders were up near his ears and he looked afraid.
“Sweetheart,” Jaskier tried again, “I won’t touch you unless you say it’s alright. But I’d like to clean up if that’s okay with you.”
The reminder of the state in which he’d left Jaskier spurred Geralt into action, and he crossed the room, efficiently untying Jaskier and then retreating once again. Jaskier, as promised, used his newfound freedom to scrub himself down and dress himself in his sleeping clothes. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at Geralt, his expression concerned. It seemed to take him a long time to work up to speaking, which was a first.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked. The words sounded like they were physically painful to say.
Geralt’s eyebrows scrunched together in the middle of his forehead and he shook his head. When Jaskier’s expression didn’t clear, Geralt tried to find the words. “It felt good. It was just…a lot. At the end, when it was over, it was too much. But you didn’t hurt me.”
Jaskier exhaled shakily, nodding. He ran a hand through his hair and wiped at his face. Geralt saw moisture gather at the corners of Jaskier’s eyes and he hated it, he hated that he’d made Jaskier feel this way.
“I’m sorry,” Geralt murmured, barely loud enough to be audible.
Jaskier shook his head, the movements large and emphatic. “No, darling, no.” He sighed. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I just wish I knew how to be a better lover for you. I hate that I ruined your first time.” Then, to himself, “Fuck.”
“You didn’t—” Geralt protested, not sure what to say to make Jaskier understand. “It’s me, I can’t…” He cleared his throat. “You were perfect.”
The simple, sweet praise startled a soft sob out of Jaskier, who sniffled loudly. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “Really?”
Geralt crossed the room and grasped Jaskier’s wrists gently in his hands, then knelt on the floor in front of the bard and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. On a breath so soft it scarcely made a sound, Geralt repeated, “You were perfect.”
They kissed for long moments after that, Geralt and Jaskier both trying to communicate apologies that the other refused to accept on principle. After a minute or two, Geralt brought one of Jaskier’s captured hands up to Geralt’s face, encouraging the bard to touch him. Jaskier hesitated, so Geralt pressed his hand atop Jaskier’s so that Jaskier’s hand was cupping his cheek. Jaskier whimpered into the kiss and didn’t let go of Geralt’s face for a long, long time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
EIGHT MONTHS LATER
“Want me to rub your back, darling?”
“Hmm,” Geralt replied, his meaning clear only to himself and the man who swept past the tub to pack his lute into its case.
“Ah, one of those nights?”
“Hmm.”
Jaskier smirked. “Alright, sweetheart. I’m going to get ready for bed, but if you change your mind, you know where I’ll be.” True to his word, Jaskier didn’t approach Geralt at all, something the Witcher now knew he could trust the bard to do.
When Geralt finished in the bath, he added a log to the fire and sat on the side of the bed, leaving a bit of space between himself and Jaskier. The bard was obviously still awake but letting Geralt decide if anything else needed to be said. It was one of a thousand things Geralt had come to love about Jaskier. He was infuriating and annoying and so much sometimes, but he was also steady and loyal and loving and kind.
“Will you touch me now?” Geralt asked.
“Of course, love.”