Archive of Our Own ^beta

The soft glow of the candlelight and the fire carefully stoked in the hearth bathed the two men in warm amber light, dancing across their features. Jaskier wasn't sure if he had ever experienced bliss or content this thorough, this unbothered. Geralt sat with his back pressed up against the wall beside a large picture window, and Jaskier laid lengthwise on the bed, his head propped squarely in the witcher's lap. Geralt's fingers ran absentmindedly through his chestnut locks, occasionally hitting a spot in such a way that it caused Jaskier's eyes to flutter closed, his long lashes tickling his skin.

Warm from the fire had become a bit hotter than was comfortable, so Jaskier pulled himself upright to tug off his doublet and unceremoniously let it tumble to the ground beside the bedframe. As he began to unbutton his ivory shirt, Geralt's hands wrapped around his back to help, causing the bard to lean back into his chest with a sigh.

Geralt's fingers traced down Jaskier's cheek, following the line down his neck to slide along each of his collarbones slowly, as if he were taking time to memorize the skin under his touch. Jaskier couldn't help but shiver, leaning deeper against Geralt. His fingers slid down Jaskier's sternum, moving from a single brushing index finger to three fingers, and then an open palm that moved to grasp his side, pulling him into a tight hug as he pulled his other hand up to wrap across Jaskier's chest, eventually resting on his shoulder. It was soft and tender, but protective, safe. In this moment he felt as if he belonged to Geralt as physically as he did mentally and emotionally.

Jaskier couldn't help but hum in response, his lips occasionally parting as he needed to draw in breath to support the lilting melody. Geralt huffed out a breathy laugh, his own lips pressed to Jaskier's temple. After a while, he removed his hand from his shoulder, moving to trace a small scar at the base of Jaskier's neck.

"What is this from?" Geralt asked in a low voice.

A smile pulled to Jaskier's lips, and his words poured out like laughter. "That's quite a story, dear heart."

"Tell it to me." Geralt pressed a kiss deeply into his cheek, urging the bard to tell tales, speaking endlessly and rattling off droves of information in the way that calmed the thoughts in Geralt's mind and brought forth so much comfort.

"Back in Oxenfurt, I believe I was a second year. I got tangled up with this group and was dragged to some university party. I thought it would be purely collegiate, but we ended up at a swimming hole." Jaskier exclaimed, as if the event had happened just yesterday. Geralt hummed for him to continue, so he did. "I didn't quite fancy the idea of cliff jumping, but a young lady was able to convince me after perhaps an hour or so of prodding. I should have never agreed, I banged my shoulder into the side of the rock before my feet even left the cliff, nothing like bleeding all over the party to make a name for yourself."

Geralt chucked softly at the idea, moving his fingers along to settle at a circular shaped scar on his breastbone. Jaskier understood the prompt.

"That time you were fighting a drowner and it shot a rock straight at me. That burned like hell."

Geralt would have once apologized again, but Jaskier had told him long ago to stop, that the drowner was at fault and not him. He didn't apologize, only moving his hand to his hip to touch a scar so faint that it required the strain of his heightened vision to see.

"Ages ago." He began. "I was barely ten, took a rough tumble down the stairs. I think I gave my poor mother a heart attack, gods rest her soul." Jaskier had already told both of these stories, Geralt had heard most of these tales already, but he would tell them as many times as the man wanted.

Geralt's fingers ran along his abs, out of scars to view on Jaskier's torso. He spun the man around, and Jaskier gathered himself into Geralt's lap lazily, his arms draped over his shoulders and his chin settled onto the top of Geralt's shoulder. His own fingers traced along the scars littering Geralt's skin, no questions on his lips.

Geralt's fingers ran the length of Jaskier's spine, eventually running both of his hands up and down the man's back, reveling in the soft, smooth skin under his calloused palms. He finally hesitated before running his fingers across the newest scar on the his back, where the skin was still slightly raised and pink. Jaskier didn't immediately speak, so Geralt decided to begin.

"I've not heard about this one." Geralt rumbled, the sound filling Jaskier's own chest. He hesitated.

"Ah, yes." Jaskier delayed, his thumbs rubbing circles into the wrinkled fabric of Geralt's weather-beaten tunic. "That one."

After a few minutes of silence, Jaskier started again. "That one's from the mountain, fell on the way down because of my damned boots, they were purely fashionable, no traction at all."

"Oh." Geralt answered, feeling as if the wind had been knocked out of him. "I'm-"

"Don't you dare." Jaskier groaned. "No more apologies, I swear, you've been forgiven a million times over."

"I'm still sorry." Geralt mumbles into his shoulder. "I'll never not be."

"I know." Jaskier soothed, pulling back to look him directly in the eyes. His hand drew upwards, resting on Geralt's jawline. "But it's over, I'm here now, and you're here now, and you're so very forgiven."

"Hm," was all Geralt could muster before Jaskier crashed their lips together, pressing as close as two people could possibly be. Geralt's hands moved from his back to cup both of Jaskier's cheeks tenderly, and Jaskier's hands worked into his white hair, letting the elastic fall into the bedsheets.