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asweetprologue · 4 years ago

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me lámh le do lámh - Part VII

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The name Triss had given him was a town near Brokilon Forest—perhaps a little too close for comfort, in fact. They arrived early, the sun’s rays just pushing over the rooftops of the sleepy little village. Jaskier was yawning behind him, his steps dragging. His ankle had finally healed up enough that he was able to walk without needing to take breaks on Roach every few hours, and seeing him healthy alleviated a weight that Geralt hadn’t known he’d been carrying.

Once in the village, Geralt headed off immediately to look around for a tailor or dressmaker, letting Jaskier take care of finding them accommodations for later that night and, hopefully, breakfast. It didn’t take long for Geralt to confirm what he’d already expected, looking around the tiny cluster of homes: there was no clothmaker in town. Frustrated, Geralt made his way to the one story inn and tavern that sat at the main crossroad in the center of town. Jaskier was already there, sitting at the bar with several plates of food and conversing with the barkeep. When he stepped into the room Jaskier raised his hand in greeting, as if Geralt wasn’t instantly aware of his presence in any space.

In the time it had taken Geralt to investigate the pitiful number of shops in the village, Jaskier had apparently already made friends with the innkeep, a burly man called Sulej with arms like a blacksmith. “There’s a fellow, elvish, lives out southwest of the village,” he said, leaning heavily on the bar while they ate the food Jaskier had purchased. “Closer to the, ah, forest. He comes around once every few months to trade, and two or three times from summer to winter he passes through on his way to the city to sell his cloth. Beautiful stuff, fine as woven silver. Bought me a piece years ago for a girl I fancied, could only afford a square.”

Geralt hummed to himself. It sounded right; if there was a field of moonflax nearby it was likely guarded well by the free elves left in the area. It would have perhaps been allowed to persist undisturbed so close to the Brokilon. “Anyone from the village ever visit?”

Sulej shook his head. “Not that I know of. We tend to give ‘em a wide berth. Doesn’t talk much when he comes into town, seems a bit of a loner.”

Geralt nodded. “Thanks for the information.”

They left the town with their gear stored in their room at the inn, aside from Geralt’s swords and Jaskier’s lute. The path to the weaver’s hut was well worn, though it grew less so as they walked closer to the forest. Storm clouds were gathering over the horizon to the west, and casting long shadows across the fields as they traveled. It was densely humid, the air heavy with the promise of a spring rain. Jaskier had left his fine doublets behind as he so often did on days like this, and his undershirt was quickly plastered to his back with sweat, exposing the flat planes of his shoulders and back. With his shirt sleeves rolled up and his collar unbuttoned down the center of his chest, Jaskier looked far removed from the whimsical performer or the refined professor. Like this he was exposed, all masks pulled away, just Jaskier wiping sweat from his brow and grinning as he pointed out a feature of the landscape or a butterfly landing on a flower. Only Geralt got to see this.

They made their way southwest, a breeze picking up that smelled like ozone and petrichor. Finally, just as Geralt was beginning to worry there was no way they’d find it before the rain arrived, he spotted it; a little hut, just on the edge of a copse of trees. It was a tiny thing, no more than two rooms at best, with a large fenced in yard with a shed attached. In the yard bundles of what looked like long silver grass—flax, Geralt realized—were spread out, likely to dry in the sun, though there was little enough of that to be found now.

Geralt slowed, but Jaskier seemed to have no hesitation. While Geralt lingered, he jogged up to the small home and knocked loudly on the door, and then stood back with his hands on his hips. Geralt sighed and approached as well. No time to look around for clues to see what kind of person Triss had sent them to then. Jaskier was going to walk them right into a trap someday.

After several moments with no answer, Jaskier knocked again, this time a bit more firmly. Still there was no answer, and he turned a frown towards Geralt. “No one home?”

Geralt paused instead of responding, listening intently. The wind rustled through the trees nearby, birds and creatures rustling in the underbrush. The wind whistled over the roof of the hut, the thatched roof protesting the oncoming storm. Jaskier’s heart beat steadily beside him, slightly elevated from the walk, breath rushing in and out of his lungs. He smelled like salt and grass, and just barely of lavender soap.

Focus.

Beyond the hut and its little yard, someone was humming.

Geralt turned without speaking, moving around the border of the fence and following the faint melody. He could tell when Jaskier heard it by the faint catch in his breath; perhaps he recognized the song. It was sweet, a little sorrowful, and despite the lack of true vocalization the notes rang true.

When they finally came alongside the back of the house, they found the source of the humming to be a man, sitting cross-legged against the wooden boards. At first glance he looked young, but when he looked up to greet them Geralt could see the faint translucency to his skin and the delicate spider web of lines around his eyes. Elves, even with their now diluted blood, aged differently from humans, but they did age. The elf they faced now was very old indeed, if his pale, sightless eyes were anything to go off of. To his side there sat a large wicker basket, filled with what looked like loose clumps of string. In his hands he held another bundle of string, and was threading it swiftly through a wooden brick with nails sticking up from it, leaving tangled clumps behind each time.

The humming faded as they approached, and the motion of the elf’s hands stilled. “I’m not available for trade until midsummer,” he said, and his voice carried none of the cracking that age would have brought to a mortal.

“Hail and well met, my good sir,” Jaskier replied, sweeping into a light bow despite the fact that the elf clearly couldn’t see the motion. “I’m afraid we require your services a bit more immediately, if you are indeed the one we’ve sought.”

A slender brow rose above the unfocused eyes. “What could be so pressing that you would require of a poor old weaver? My services are not unique, young man.”

Jaskier seemed taken aback by the address—after all, the entire reason they were on their quest was because he was indeed well past a young man. Geralt felt a moment of kinship with the elf; mortals sometimes all seemed so young, even when at the height of old age. “I was sent by a sorceress, Triss Merigold. She told me you would be able to help,” he interjected.

The elf paused, an odd, almost wistful look overtaking his face. “Ah. Merigold. And what did she tell you I would be able to help you with?”

Geralt hesitated. This elf, whoever he was, might know the nature of the ritual he was trying to perform. What if he said something? What if he assumed he and Jaskier were… together, and wanted to be married so that Jaskier could remain by Geralt’s side? His chest ached with desire, even as his stomach churned with nerves. If Jaskier knew what the ritual was for, he would never allow it, not after Geralt had spent all this time lying about it. He would be furious, and Geralt might lose him now even before death took him more permanently.

Gods, this was a stupid fucking idea.

Finally he took a deep breath and said, “We are seeking moonflax. Ribbons of it. Triss said that you could make such things.”

At this the old elf smiled, and the lines around his eyes deepened enough to make him truly look his age. “Ah. I am indeed the last of the moonspinners, at least that I am aware of. I can provide you with what you seek, in exchange for something in return.”

Geralt steeled himself, but Jaskier spoke first. “What would you have of us?” he asked, tone wary. Geralt felt a surge of pride; there was a time when Jaskier might have spoken before his better mind caught up with him, and more than once his quick tongue had landed himself and Geralt in trouble. He spoke now with the skill of a negotiator and a scholar, slow to trust an under negotiated deal.

The old elf tilted his head to the side, thoughtfully. “Help me with my work for the day. I am old, and the motions tire me. Do this, and you will have your payment.”

Geralt blinked. “That’s it?”

The elf smiled again, his sightless eyes finding Geralt’s face with unsettling accuracy. “It is not of our people to deny a worthy cause. Many have forgotten, but I have not.”

Jaskier made a questioning noise beside him, but Geralt spoke over him. “Thank you,” he said quickly. “What can we call you?”

“I am Silvandrel. Once I would have been called a guardian, but I’m afraid both I and my charge are too old for all that now. Follow me; I will show you how it’s done.”

Setting aside the flax and comb, Silvandrel stood, picking up a long staff that had been resting against the side of the house. Geralt and Jaskier set their own tools of the trade down alongside the elf’s, Jaskier’s lute case resting beside Geralt’s sheathed swords. Once relieved of their belongings, Silvandrel waved for them to follow after him, and they started off away from the house. Behind the hut, a grassy hill swooped down to meet the small group of trees beyond, an offshoot of the Brokilion that lacked its foreboding energy. Silvandrel walked with confidence despite his blindness, the staff in his hand picking out the way in front of him with the ease of long, long practice. Quickly they were led into the shade of the trees, along a well worn path marked by moss covered stones. After a few feet the trees thinned back and they emerged on the other side of the small wood, stepping into a sea of silver.

Jaskier let out a small gasp of wonder at his side, and Geralt couldn’t help but silently agree with the sentiment. A small field spread out before them, the gentle breeze from the oncoming storm sending ripples along the tops of the stalks. The flax that Geralt had seen in the past had been gold, like the color of ripe wheat, with delicate blue flowers in the early spring. These instead were a pale grey-white all the way down to the roots, and the seed pods at the top were almost blue, a dark, rich silver color. In the dull afternoon, the field seemed to shine almost with its own light.

Silvandrel made an amused sound as he halted beside them. “Best get to work. Pulling the harvest is no easy work, and we’ve much to do before the rain comes.”

He quickly walked them through the process of harvesting the plants, and set them to their task. The elf hadn’t lied; it was difficult work, though Geralt suspected much more so to Jaskier than himself. The plants had to be torn up from the root, to gather as much usable material as possible, but without tearing into the stalks. Silvandrel was not lax in his own work, and wrapped the bushels that the two men brought over in thick twine to hold them together for drying.

Geralt would have expected Jaskier to complain about the physical labor, but instead the bard was quiet, focused intently on the plot before him. Gardening had never been a favored pastime of his, Geralt knew, though he was competent enough with herbs to help collect those that Geralt needed for his potions. Still, over the next few hours Jaskier seemed to throw himself into the work, carefully pulling stalk after stalk of the flax from the ground and passing it into Silvandrel’s waiting arms. If they’d been sweating before on the walk over, now they were both of them soaked, and first Geralt and then Jaskier quickly abandoned their shirts in favor of letting the breeze touch their skin. It was nothing either of them hadn’t seen before, but there was something mesmerizing about watching the slow flush of exertion work its way down Jaskier’s chest, watching the strength of his back and shoulders as he worked the roots free of a particularly stubborn plant. Geralt found himself moving slower than he might, distracted by the flash of golden skin amongst the pale leaves. At one point, Geralt caught Jaskier’s eye, and he could have sworn he watched the bard’s gaze drift down over his own bare chest before falling back to his work.

Probably just his imagination.

The field was still relatively small, and it took them only a few hours to clear out the patch that Silvandrel pointed them towards. The rest of the group he judged to be not yet ready for harvest, and he had only so much room for drying. They followed him back to the hut, wiping their faces with their shirts and loading up with the bundles of freshly pulled stalks. Silvandrel ordered them to place the bundles against the back of the house, and then they spent the next half an hour bringing that which had been laid out in the yard inside the little shed, where it would be safe from the rain.

They were standing in the yard when the storm finally broke. Geralt heard Jaskier release a little gasp at the first drops hit, and then the skies opened and the rain was falling in sheets around them. Geralt was standing by the little shed, partially shielded from the rain, and he turned to say something—to suggest that they make their way inside, maybe, but the words were lost when his eyes fell on Jaskier, standing in the middle of the little yard.

His face was turned up towards the sky, rain plastering his hair to his forehead. Heavy drops of water followed the long line of his neck, tiny rivers forming in the hills and valleys of his body. But it was his face that Geralt found himself entranced by, facing the heavens without a care, eyes closed in bliss. His mouth was spread in a smile, and after a moment his eyes opened and he turned to look at Geralt, and if anything his grin widened. Geralt felt his breath catch in his throat as their eyes met, suddenly overwhelmed by the look of joy and affection being directed his way. He found himself smiling back, and without thinking he took a step forward, instantly feeling the rain drenching his hair.

He couldn’t have said exactly what he was planning to do next, but he was stupidly grateful when Silvandrel’s voice called out across the yard from the little house. He and Jaskier turned towards where he was leaning out from the open back door. “Well, you may as well come inside,” the elf said, gesturing for them to come in. “We won’t be getting any more done out here today.”

Thankful for the cool rain against his overheated skin, Geralt followed Jaskier back towards the little cottage. They pulled their shirts, which they had left under the cover of the hut’s thatched roof, back over their damp skin, and Geralt felt a pang of loss as Jaskier tucked his back into his pants. Once dressed again, they stepped inside the warm interior of Silvandrel’s hut.

It was a cozy little place. The back room that they entered from the yard was something of a cross between a kitchen and a workshop, it seemed. A small floor loom was set up against one wall, the table beside it ladened with hanks of woven yarn and a simple inkle loom. A small round hearth sat in the center of the room, a simple hook hanging from the ceiling above it. The interior was already hazy with smoke from the little fire, banked though it was, and Jaskier’s hair was already curling as it dried. Through the open doorway on the far side of the room, Geralt could just make out a tiny bedchamber.

Silvandrel brushed his hands against his tunic, nodding to himself. “You may stay here for the evening and share a meal with me, and bed down here for the night if you so choose. The walk back to the village is long, and unpleasant in such conditions. I’m afraid I do not have much to offer you by way of comfort, but it is at least dry.”

“We thank you for your hospitality,” Jaskier said warmly. “And we would gladly share your fire.”

Geralt felt a slight nudge to his ribs as Jaskier elbowed him, and turned to meet his imploring look with a glare. Jaskier only raised an eyebrow at him, clearly unimpressed. A drop of water fell from a lock of his dark hair to land on his cheek, and Geralt was too distracted overcoming the urge to wipe it away to come up with a good response. Instead he turned back to Silvandrel and grunted, “Much appreciated.”

Jaskier sighed lightly beside him, but Silvandrel only looked mildly amused. “If you plan to stay, you can help me prepare our supper. Let’s see if you can put your skills with a blade to use against these onions.”

Jaskier laughed merrily at that, and Geralt was effectively bullied into chopping onions and cabbage for the next half an hour. Jaskier was set to making trenchers, and Geralt found himself distracted once again by the smooth movements of his hands and shoulders as he worked on the dough. Get a grip, he thought to himself sternly, focusing back on the knife in his hand as he carefully peeled turnips.

Between the three of them they quickly had a hearty stew boiling away, and the smell of baking bread filled the little cottage. The food, when it was finished, was filling and savory, flavored with herbs from the elf’s little garden. Once they had finished eating, Jaskier pulled his lute from its case and began tuning it. He’d brought it in to protect it from the weather when they’d returned to the hut a few hours earlier, but the humidity often wreaked havoc on the instrument in the spring. Though Geralt had long suspected that the elven craftsmanship made it more resistant to damage than most of its kind, it still required careful maintenance. Where once Geralt had found the noise grating, it now lulled him into a sense of quiet calm.

Silvandrel sat himself on one of the stools that surrounded the worktable and nodded to the hanks of yarn. “You have been patient, and most helpful in fulfilling your side of our bargain. Once we eat, I will fulfill my debt. I will need two hanks of yarn, one selected by each, and a strand of hair from both parties to be bound.”

“I’m sorry, did you say our hair?” Jaskier asked, a sour note ringing out in his distraction.

The edge of Silvandrel’s mouth quirked up slightly at the sound, his pale eyes turning vaguely in Jaskier’s direction. “The moonflax is merely the agent of the joining. You must be present in the weave for the magic to take hold.”

Jaskier looked over at Geralt with a questioning expression. He shrugged.

With a shake of his head, Jaskier set his lute aside and stood up to select a hank of yarn from the table. Geralt leaned over on his own stool and grabbed one as well. They were soft, softer than typical linen, and a brilliant silvery white. They placed the yarn in Silvandrel’s waiting palms, and he set them aside, carefully keeping them in the same relative positions. His hands returned to their waiting position, and Geralt and Jaskier both sheepishly pulled out a hair to offer him, Geralt smirking at Jaskier’s wince of discomfort. One long silver strand fell into the wrinkled hand of the elf, a dark one falling into the other. With a nod, he placed them each on top of their respective yarn.

“It will be finished by nightfall,” he said, and turned to begin setting up the small loom that sat on the table, moved aside earlier to make space for the cooking. Jaskier gave Geralt another look, eyebrows raised, to which he could only shake his head. With one last glance at their host, Jaskier turned back to his lute.

And so the evening hours passed, the elven master working his craft while Jaskier’s soft music filled the hut, the drone of the rain serving as a backdrop. Geralt alternated between watching Silvandrel’s deft fingers moving over the loom, sure even without the use of his sight, and watching Jaskier, as always. His brown hair was gold in the light of the fire, atypically ruffled after their stint in the rain. The hut was warm and comfortable, and Jaskier’s gentle strumming was so familiar and safe that Geralt found himself almost drifting off, slipping easily into meditation. He startled when a hand came to nudge his arm some indeterminable time later, lifting his head to find Jaskier inches away, looking at him fondly.

“He’s done,” Jaskier said by way of explanation, almost a whisper. Geralt blinked and looked over, and was startled to see that while he’d been in meditation, the skeins of yarn had been transformed. Silvandrel stood, three long ribbons draped over his hands.

“You dyed them?” Geralt found himself asking, confused. The yarn that he’d seen the elf bind to the loom had been pale white, but only one of the ribbons remained so. The others were swatches of bright color, one a bright sky blue and the other a rich gold.

Silvandrel shook his head, wrapping the ribbons into a tight roll. “You did, in fact. The colored bands are those touched by your essence. I cannot see them myself, of course, but I could sense the magic take hold. They will serve you well.” He held them out in one hand, gold and white and blue creating a spiralled circle in his palm.

Jaskier reached out and picked them up, something like awe on his face. His other hand came up to gently trace the curl of the ribbons in the roll, following the line of the colors. “What is the white one for?” he asked, not looking up, “if it’s neither of us?”

“To bind you,” Silvandrel replied, “in strands of moonlight, so the stars may hear your oath.”

Jaskier’s head jerked up, his mouth falling open slightly as his brow furrowed. He said nothing, but Geralt could tell that something about what Silvandrel had said had confused him. Maybe it sounded too romantic, Geralt thought with a shock of panic, harsh after the softness of the last few hours. Being bound before the stars wasn’t exactly a platonic sentiment. He rushed to speak before the bard could ask further questions.

“Thank you,” he said, reaching out to take the ribbons from Jaskier in his moment of distraction. He shoved them in his pocket without a second glance. “I appreciate your help in this, though you had no obligation. We won’t ask any more of you.”

Silvandrel only nodded, a slight tilt of the head. “As I said, it is our way. You may feel free to rest here tonight, though I have nothing better to offer you than the floor near my fire. The storm should be cleared by the morning. I will bid you goodnight; the weaving leaves me fatigued, these days.” Within moments he was gone, passing through the doorway into the bedroom beyond, swallowed by the darkness. The fire was the only source of light within the hut, but a lack of light would hardly be a bother to the old man, Geralt thought.

Jaskier set his lute aside and flopped from his stool to the ground by the fire, stretching out nearly at Geralt’s feet. “Well, we’ve slept in worse places, hmm? Though I have to say, I hope this ritual of yours helps with how sore my back gets whenever we sleep on the ground like this.” There was something off about his tone, just this side of over cheerful, and he wasn’t looking at Geralt as he spoke. Anxiety bloomed in Geralt’s stomach like blood spilling on cloth.

“We can stay at the inn tomorrow,” was all he said, standing to make his way to the other side of the fire. There wasn’t enough room for them to sleep beside each other without being in danger of rolling into the hearth. He laid himself down on the cool dirt of the hut’s floor, watching the dim light of the fire play across the thatched roof.

“You are being nicer,” Jaskier said, but he didn’t sound teasing, or suspicious. Geralt didn’t know what that tone meant at all.

“Shut up,” he grunted, turning on his side to face away from the fire and the bard on the other side of it. “Go to sleep; we leave as soon as the rain lets up.”

Jaskier was quiet for long enough that Geralt thought he might have fallen asleep, and then he said, “Goodnight, Geralt.” It was so soft that even with his enhanced hearing, he wasn’t entirely sure Jaskier had said anything at all.

@whereismymonsterlover asked to be tagged in future updates! hope you all enjoyed <3

#geraskier #geraltxjaskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #the witcher #witcher #fic #fanfic #writing #my work #multichapter #me lamh #big bang #geraskierbigbang

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witcher-and-his-bard-archive · 5 years ago

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Good as Gold pt.20

[part nineteen] | [part twenty-one] [prostitute!jaskier masterpost]

He's not in town, not really. Technically, he is in Hagge, but he's only passing through on the way to Wyzima. There's an important contract there and Geralt is in a hurry to reach the city. These are the things he continues to tell himself, even as he walks up to the brothel doors. It's a little later than he would normally show up, but Jaskier had said he's always welcome and Geralt has learned that Jaskier rarely offers things unless he means it.

The madame is in the front room when Geralt enters which isn't ideal. She's never been shy about her dislike for him but Jaskier seems to have some sort of sway over her, so she doesn't say anything. It doesn't stop her from scowling at him now, but Geralt is feeling good tonight and he approaches her anyway, ignoring her irritability.

"Jaskier," he asks, "is he-"

"Julian isn't working tonight," she says abruptly, her lips curling into a cruel smile.

Geralt doesn't let it bother him. Neither her expression nor the fact that he won't be seeing Jaskier tonight. He really shouldn't delay anyway and he can stop by on his way back. He could use a drink though and he's already stabled Roach, so he heads to the tavern, offering a pointed thank you to the madame as he turns toward the door.

The tavern, unlike the brothel, is bustling and Geralt hears the music playing before he enters. He generally avoids rowdy places, but the longer he lingers in Hagge, the better chance there is of running into Jaskier. He wants to see Jaskier, so he stays. And the music is loud but it's familiar somehow and Geralt finds himself relaxed rather than on edge as he orders an ale and takes a seat in the corner of the room.

The crowd blocks his view of the makeshift stage, but Geralt shuts his eyes to listen to the music and when he focuses on it, he realizes why it sounds so familiar. He's heard it before. It's one of the songs Jaskier sang to him when he thought he was asleep. He smiles to himself, suddenly acutely aware that the performer is Jaskier. As Jaskier's voice fills his senses, he thinks back to that night and to Jaskier curled around him, fingers slipping through his hair.

When he opens his eyes again, a couple of men in front of him have moved and he has a full view of the stage where Jaskier is grinning broadly and prancing around. He looks entirely in his element, happy to have a captive audience, and Gerlt wonders if he didn't get into the wrong profession. Geralt finds himself transfixed, watching how Jaskier moves as he sings, so nimble and lithe.

It's the first time Geralt has seen him like this and Jaskier is stunning. He's dressed in pale blue that brings out his eyes and he looks damn good. It's hardly Geralt's fault if his mind wanders and he imagines stripping him out of those clothes.

Jaskier is four songs in when he catches sight of Geralt in the back and his smile brightens. As soon as he finishes the song, he swings his lute around to his back and slips into the crowd, picking his way toward Geralt's table. When he reaches him, he plants both hands on the table, leaning over it in Gerlt's direction.

"Here all alone?" he smirks. "Can I join you?"

His eyes flick down and back up, giving Geralt a very obvious once over and even if Geralt was planning on saying no, the gesture alone would be enough to change his mind. He gives a little sideways nod and Jaskier slips into the seat across from him, calling for a drink. He orders one for Geralt too, but at first, Geralt doesn't even notice. He's too preoccupied with... everything else.

Jaskier is bright and cheerful and he smells like sweat and glee and the low, ever-present scent of arousal. It's a heady combination and Geralt finds himself leaning across the table to be closer to him.

When the barmaid returns with their drinks, she leans further over their table than necessary and bats her eyelashes at Jaskier. If he notices, he doesn't react. He tips her generously and thanks her and turns back to Geralt, much to her apparent distress. Geralt is more than a little smug about it as she leaves.

"You're not working tonight," he comments, pulling the tankard toward him and raising it to his lips.

"Didn't know you were in town," Jaskiser grins, "would've made other arrangements."

A very large part of him wants to ask if that's still an option, but he occupies his mouth with his ale instead, not wanting to say the wrong thing. He doubts anything he suggests could offend Jaskier, but they've only seen each other outside the brothel once before and these are different circumstances.

"Just passing through."

"Shame," Jaskier mumbles into his drink, "but, you have time for a drink with a friend?"

"I'm sure a short delay won't make much of a difference."

"Good," Jaskier grins. "What did you think of the song?"

"I liked the slower version you sang to me," Geralt hums and Jaskier stares at him.

"You were awake," he realizes.

"I shouldn't have listened," Geralt says softly. "I didn't want to disturb you, you seemed so peaceful while you sang."

"No, it's fine, I just- didn't expect you to like it."

"Jaskier," Geralt says softly, "I understand love as a concept."

"Right." Jaskier looks up at him uncertainly, as though expecting him to say something more. When he doesn't, Jaskier speaks again. "I could use some fresh air," he says, "will you join me?" Geralt is standing before he can remind himself that he has to be in Wyzima soon and Jaskier smiles at him.

Geralt follows him out the door and down the street when Jaskier starts away from the tavern. He stops in the middle of the road and turns back to ensure Geralt is following.

"So," he asks, "where are you headed?"

"There's a lord in Wyzima, who thinks one of his servants is a werewolf and he wants me to look into it before the next full moon."

"That's only ten days from now, are you sure you'll make it?" Geralt nods, but Jaskier gives him a suspicious look. "If it's so important that you get there on time, what are you doing here at all?"

"I wanted to thank you for the last time I was here."

"You don't have to thank me for that, darling. You needed help and you should know I'm more than willing to assist where I can."

"Thank you anyway. I didn't know who else to turn to."

"You're most welcome. Did you go by the brothel then when you were looking for me?"

"Mm."

Jaskier is silent for a moment before leaning into Geralt's shoulder. "Were you disappointed when I wasn't there?"

"Yeah," Geralt admits, "I was hoping to see you before I left." Jaskier is quiet for a moment and Geralt thinks he's said the wrong thing. They continue onward in silence, but at the bend in the road, Jaskier stops and turns toward him.

"Can I show you something?" he asks and Geralt nods. Jaskier reaches out, taking his hand and he's so surprised that he doesn't pull away.

Jaskier leads him off the road to the fence at the edge of town. Only then does he release Geralt's hand and he misses the warmth of it, but then Jaskier hops the fence and Geralt watches after him.

"Are you coming?" Jaskier asks.

Geralt remembers himself with a start and follows him over the fence and into the bordering field. It's right on the edge of the forest, the field the only thing separating the town from the trees. Jaskier walks right into the middle of the field and plops himself down in the grass, looking up at Geralt expectantly. Geralt sits, setting his swords to the side and Jaskier lies down on his back and smiles up at him.

Geralt follows suit, looking up at the sky above them, bright and speckled with stars.

"I like to lie here sometimes," Jaskier hums, "to think. Or to wonder what you're doing, where you are. Whether you ever think of me when you're away."

"Mm," Geralt hums, "I do." Jaskier shuffles closer to him, pressing his head against Geralt's arm.

"Tell me what it's like out there when you're on your own."

"It's quiet," he sighs, "but not always peaceful. For a long time, I didn't think anything about it, but now it feels... lonely. Sometimes."

"Is that when you think of me?"

"Hm."

Geralt shuts his eyes and Jaskier presses up closer, sliding a hand up his chest. Without his armour or the familiarity of the brothel to shield him, Geralt feels the light touch all the way through him. And Jaskier keeps touching him, slipping a hand up to the side of Geralt's neck and pressing his fingertips into his hair.

Geralt's eyes flutter shut and he sighs softly as Jaskier's lips press against his neck. It's strange to feel him like this in an unfamiliar setting, but he thinks back to their night together at the inn and hums. He liked having Jaskier all to himself, away from the brothel and everyone else who knows what they're doing. Not that it's ever bothered him much, but he likes the thought of having Jaskier alone out here where it’s just the two of them.

Jaskier mumbles against his skin and when he presses closer, Geralt gets an arm around his waist, pulling him up against him. Jaskier grins against his skin, kissing him again as he rocks his hips forward. He's half-hard and Geralt just draws him closer as Jaskier presses his nose into his neck.

It devolves quickly when Jaskier's hand slips to Geralt's ass, squeezing firmly. He wraps himself around him and Geralt just groans as Jaskier mouths at his skin. Then abruptly, he's rolled onto his back and Jaskier sits up, straddling his hips. Like this, Geralt can see the jut of his cock where it presses against his trousers and he squirms, pressing his own cock against Jaskier's ass. It earns him a little gasp and then Jaskier bends low over him, bumping their noses together. Geralt can feel his breath against his lips and it takes all of his self-control not to just lean up and press them against Jaskier's.

"Come home with me tonight," Jaskier breathes, "it's already late, you can leave in the morning."

Geralt knows he should say no; he made arrangements, he's supposed to keep going until he reaches Wyzima, but Jaskier feels too good against him. He rolls his hips slowly, dragging his cock against Geralt's and it's too much.

"Yeah," Geralt whispers, "okay."

Jaskier is quick to his feet, leaning down to pull Geralt up behind him. He presses in close, nosing under his jaw and then takes a step back, wrapping one hand around Geralt's to lead him away.

They don't even make it to the edge of the field before Jaskier shoves him up against the side of a barn. Geralt's breath catches and it's a little uncomfortable with his swords pressing into his back, but when Jaskier cups him through his trousers, he rolls his head back with a groan. Jaskier's mouth finds his throat, humming against him.

"Gods," he whispers, "I'd like to have you right here, but if you have to leave in the morning, I'd rather have you in my bed." Geralt finds he’s partial to either option. Jaskier lingers a little longer before pulling away with a laugh and tugging Geralt with him.

By the time they arrive at the large house on the edge of town, Geralt is too riled up to realize just how extravagant it is. They stumble through the front door and Jaskier fists a hand in his shirt, hauling him up the stairs. It's a display only; Geralt could easily overpower him if he wanted, but he likes when Jaskier takes control and he likes the pretense of being manhandled.

When they make it upstairs, Jaskier walks him backward, reaching around him to open the bedroom door and push him through it. Geralt hums but then his back hits the wall and Jaskier's hands are on him instantly, tugging his trousers open and sliding a hand inside to wrap around him. Geralt's hips push forward almost instinctively, seeking the heat of Jaskier's hand.

Even his rings are warm and Geralt likes the way they slide against his cock, satiny smooth in contrast to the friction of his skin. Geralt’s eyelids flutter shut and as Jaskier's thumb presses against his bottom lip, he groans.

"You're beautiful," Jaskier huffs, already breathless. Geralt leans back against the wall, spreading his legs so Jaskier can step between them, gripping around the base of his cock.

When he presses up against him, his breath is hot and damp against Geralt's skin, tauntingly so, and Geralt drops his head to Jaskier's shoulder to keep from throwing caution to the wind and kissing him. Jaskier works him over quickly, pressing in so his cock digs into Geralt's thigh and he rocks against him in time with his hand. His mouth works over the small patch of skin where Geralt’s shirt has slipped down.

He mumbles against him, but Geralt can't focus on his words when Jaskier's hand is around his cock. Then Jaskier drops to his knees in front of him and Geralt's breath stutters as Jaskier's mouth closes around the head. He rocks his hips forward and Jaskier pushes onto him, taking him all the way to the hilt and sliding one hand up under his shirt.

His fingers slip against Geralt's skin and he slides his hand around his side, rubbing his thumb against his skin. Geralt loses himself in the sensation, thrusting lightly between Jaskier's lips. Jaskier pulls forward, wrapping his lips around the head of his cock and he does something obscene with his tongue that is equal parts exhilarating and maddening. Geralt's legs shake under him and he rocks his hips forward, but Jaskier doesn't let him. He holds him steady, the hand on his side slipping to press flat against his stomach, effectively keeping him still.

Gods, Geralt thinks, it's a good thing no one can see him like this, completely under Jaskier's control like this. And the worst part is that he likes it. He likes letting Jaskier hold him down, even if it's a sham and he likes when Jaskier gets overeager and pushes him to bed. He doesn't realize he has his hand over Jaskier's until their fingers twine together. He squeezes as Jaskier's tongue drags along the underside of his cock and his hips snap forward hard.

He'd been so wrapped up in thinking about Jaskier he hadn't realized how close he was. Jaskier, on the other hand, is apparently fully aware and he pulls off Geralt's cock with a final flick of his tongue that has Geralt's thighs trembling.

He groans and drops his chin to look at Jaskier and his cock throbs at the sight of him. Jaskier's got his knees spread wide, trousers undone, and his cock is thick and dark where it juts out from between his fingers. He slips his fingers up over the head as if he knows Geralt is watching, pressing his thumb hard against the head. And Geralt squirms.

He knows what it's like to have those fingers on his cock, knows exactly how Jaskier is feeling right now. And it drives him crazy. Jaskier reaches up, cupping his jaw and smiles at him.

"I wanna see you," Geralt mumbles and Jaskier quirks an eyebrow at him.

"Yeah?" Jaskier asks and Geralt nearly whimpers as he stokes up to the head of his cock, rings sliding against the sensitive head. "Alright then, love," Jaskier rises to his feet, stroking Geralt's cock a couple more times before dropping it. "Let's get you to bed."

Jaskier takes his hands and pulls him away from the wall, slipping up close to lift Geralt's shirt over his head. He gets his own off as well before reaching for Geralt's trousers. He wraps his fingers around the waistband, tugging him close as he walks him back toward the bed. And when Geralt's knees hit the mattress, Jaskier pulls his trousers down and presses him back onto the bed.

Geralt lets Jaskier undress him, watching his every movement with his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. He'd like nothing more than to get his mouth around him, but as Jaskier comes closer he shoves Geralt playfully against the mattress and Geralt obeys. He moves further up and lies back, watching with delight as Jaskier strips out of his own clothes and climbs up over him.

Jaskier settles on his thighs, lightly running his fingers up the length of Geralt's cock as he takes himself in hand again, stroking slowly.

"Is this what you wanted to see?" he asks and gods, yes, but Geralt seems to have lost control of his mouth.

The only thing that comes out is a tiny whine and he fists his hands in the sheets to keep from touching. He knows Jaskier wouldn't deny him anything, not at this point, but he wants to watch him this time. He wants to see the way Jaskier pleasures himself, to take note of each little movement so he can recreate it.

Jaskier works himself slowly and Geralt knows he has his eyes on him, but he can't keep his own off Jaskier's cock. There's something beautifully obscene about the way Jaskier's delicate fingers curl around himself, picking up speed as he settles into it. He's well-practiced, even the briefest touch drawing little groans from his lips and Geralt knows better now than to assume it's an act; this isn't the brothel where Jaskier's enthusiasm is his livelihood.

His cockhead slips between his fingers and Geralt whines with the urge to touch him. He wonders if this is how he looks when he takes care of himself after a client, if when he's left wanting he takes his time and enjoys it. Or if he's quick and precise just to get it over with.

When he gets his hips into it, Jaskier's eyes drop shut and he leans forward, bracing himself on Geralt's hip. Jaskier's fingertips press into his skin and Geralt tenses beneath him, trying as hard as he can not to wrap a hand around his own cock. He wouldn't last long, not like this, not with Jaskier above him, panting and moaning. Normally, Geralt prides himself on his control, but Jaskier has a way of getting under his skin that makes him weak to resist and already arousal sears through his veins.

Jaskier's thighs twitch around him and Geralt's eyes snap up to his face, groaning at the sight of him. Jaskier huffs a soft laugh as Geralt's hands rise to his hips, thumbs pressing into the meat of his thighs. He rubs the sensitive skin there and Jaskier releases his cock, leaning low over him.

Geralt whines at the first brush of fingertips against his nipple and he squeezes harder than he means to around Jaskier's thighs. It does nothing to prepare him for when he does it again and then Jaskier's shifting, his cock sliding up against Geralt's as he pinches both nipples between his fingertips. Geralt groans, his cock throbs, he feels like he could come undone just like this, but Jaskier persists.

He rubs and squeezes and little groans spill from Geralt's lips without him meaning them to. He works his hips slowly, pressing his cock up against Jaskier's and Jaskier presses down hard against him, trapping his cock between their bodies as his mouth wraps around a nipple.

He licks and sucks and Geralt arches into the touch, rolling his head back. Jaskier's fingers slip against his skin, fitting between them to slip around the head of Geralt's cock. When Geralt whimpers, Jaskier releases him which is almost worse and then Jaskier is pulling away and sitting back on his heels. He takes in Geralt before him, running his hands up his thighs.

"Fuck, you're beautiful."

A warmth spreads throughout Geralt's chest and he wants to hide away because he's not beautiful and he can't figure out why Jaskier thinks he is.

"Roll over, love," he whispers and Geralt complies.

It's not uncomfortable; the bed is soft and the sheets slip enticingly against his overheated cock, but it's still trapped under him, still achingly hard. But Jaskier's lips are soft against the back of his neck, his shoulders, down his spine. He settles himself again on the back of Geralt's legs, rubbing his thighs as he continues pressing kisses into his skin.

Geralt shuts his eyes as Jaskier's mouth moves lower, pressing into the cleft of his ass and he shudders. Jaskier chuckles against him, pressing one final, comforting kiss to his lower back, before pressing in.

His tongue is warm where it slides against his hole and Geralt inhales sharply. He forgets to breathe entirely as Jaskier licks over him, pressing the tip of his tongue against him. One hand slides over his hip and Geralt pushes his hips back encouragingly, finally releasing a breath as Jaskier soothes him.

"Is that okay?" he asks, spreading Geralt's cheeks and dipping to kiss his skin.

"Yeah," Geralt breathes, "yeah. Feels good."

"Good," Jaskier purrs and with that, he returns to his task, licking a stripe up his ass and nipping at the soft skin.

When he presses back in, Geralt whines. He doesn't mean to, but the sensation is unfamiliar and so surprisingly good that he doesn't know what to do with himself. Jaskier's tongue presses against his hole and he squirms, his cock already dripping onto the smooth sheets. He's already worked up, already aching for release, the only thing keeping him from rutting against the sheets and taking it is Jaskier's hands holding his hips above the bed. It's easier access for him, but it drives Geralt up the wall.

Eventually, Jaskier takes pity on him or grows impatient himself. The first press of his fingers is overwhelming and Geralt pushes back against it hard. Jaskier presses one spit-slick finger into him and Geralt pushes his face into the bed, moaning loudly as Jaskier pushes deeper.

It's a little rough, but Geralt has had worse and it still feels good. He catches Jaskier's wrist as he tries to pull away, holding him still.

"Jask," he whispers, "please."

Behind him, Jaskier hums and presses close again, pressing back into him. He doesn't hesitate this time, burying his finger inside and rubbing into him. It still burns a little, but Geralt's so overwhelmed with arousal that he can't even care. He needs it and he'd rather withstand a little discomfort than wait any longer. When Jaskier finds that spot in him, Geralt is oblivious to anything but all-encompassing lust.

Vaguely, he's aware of Jaskier speaking to him, but he can only hear his voice, not his words over the pounding of his heart. Jaskier presses in again, licking around his finger to ease the way as he thrusts into him and Geralt is helpless to do anything but let him. He comes with a well-aimed thrust, shouting into the mattress as Jaskier releases him and climbs up over him.

"Fuck," Jaskier breathes, "gods, Geralt that was so hot." Geralt just hums weakly, smiling as Jaskier brushes his hair out of his face.

Geralt just mumbles and hums. He's too tired to say anything more and when Jaskier's lips press against his skin again, he sinks into the mattress, folding his arms under his head.

Jaskier slips up over him, running his hands up his back and pressing his nose into his neck. Geralt can feel his cock against the back of his thigh

"Gonna fuck me?"

"Want me to?" Jaskier asks, rocking his hips against him. Geralt doesn't need the encouragement. His cock has barely softened beneath him and already it's swelling again.

“Yeah.”

"Oh, Geralt, what did I do to deserve you?" Jaskier presses his nose between Geralt's shoulder blades, moving back down his body.

When Jaskier's fingers slide against his hole, he groans. He can feel Jaskier's desire, smell the overpowering scent of his lust and it's a lot to have all of that turned on him. To know that Jaskier wants him, chose to bring him here to his own home- something cold drips against his skin and Geralt turns to look over his shoulder.

Jaskier grins, slipping his fingers through the oil with purpose and he leans up, pressing his forehead against Geralt's. Like this, Geralt can feel the damp heat of his breath on his skin and it makes the ever-present urge to kiss him all the stronger.

"You like this, don't you?" As Jaskier speaks, he circles Geralt's rim with one finger, slowly pushing in again as Geralt breathes out an affirmative. Jaskier pushes deeper and Geralt's breath catches. He's not sure how after so long Jaskier still has him completely at his mercy with only a touch, but a part of him - one that seems to be growing within him - likes it.

He squirms as Jaskier pushes deeper, pressing a second finger in alongside the first. Geralt's eyes flutter shut and Jaskier hums happily.

"Good?" Jaskier asks and Geralt nods weakly, pushing his hips back into the touch. "Gods, Geralt, look at you. Fuck, I want you." He shifts and his cock presses into Geralt's thigh, hot and slick and hard. "You see what you do to me?" Jaskier hums, "see how badly I want you?"

"Mmph," Geralt mumbles and Jaskier chuckles softly.

"Can you take more?" Jaskier asks. He pushes his fingers deep as he speaks, brushing that spot inside him and Geralt digs his fingers into the sheets with a brief nod. "Good," Jaskier breathes, pressing their noses together, "I don't know how much longer I can wait."

He withdraws his fingers completely, rubbing over Geralt's hole before pushing three into him. He meets Geralt's eyes as he presses deep, and for a moment, Geralt forgets how to breathe. Jaskier's eyes are so bright, even through lust-blown pupils and heat swells in Geralt's chest. He ducks his head, unable to bear the intensity with Jaskier's fingers buried inside him.

“Still good?" he asks and Geralt breathes out a Shaky yes as Jaskier's fingers press impossibly deeper into him.

“You don't have to be so gentle with me," he says, "I want you and you know I can take it."

“I do know that my darling, but why would I risk it?”

Jaskier turns and his nose presses into Geralt's cheek. His lips are parted, his breath damp against Geralt's own lips and he can't do much but lie there and measure his breaths. If he tipped his head up he could feel Jaskier's lips against his own. And he wants to.

Gods, he's been thinking about it for weeks now. Months, maybe. Having those soft lips against his own, that wicked tongue slipping between them and exploring his mouth. Fuck, he's never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his life. He bites his lip to stave off the urge and rocks back onto Jaskier's fingers.

"Any time," Geralt groans.

Jaskier pulls away with a huff of a laugh and Geralt immediately misses the closeness, but Jaskier readjusts himself to straddle Geralt's thighs. His cock presses between Geralt's cheeks, already slick and thick with desire. For Jaskier, it almost seems an afterthought as it presses between Geralt's cheeks. He's otherwise occupied, mouthing at the back of Geralt's neck.

"Mmm," Jaskier hums, "you're certainly eager for someone who's already come tonight." His hand slips down Geralt's side, appearing from nowhere, and works its way beneath his hips, curving around his cock. "Oh, you are eager," Jaskier purs, "hard again for me already love? How could I ever deny you?"

Jaskier presses his hips down, slipping his cock against Geralt's hole and it's intentional this time, followed up by a short, sharp thrust against him. Geralt spreads his legs, accommodating for Jaskier. It earns him a pleased groan and a quick squeeze of his cock as Jaskier resists himself between his thighs.

Jaskier withdraws his hand, using it to press Geralt's hips down and Geralt does his best to keep calm but then Jaskier's planting his other hand next to him on the bed and slowly sliding his cock against him.

The friction is delicious torment, only a fraction of what he wants but simultaneously too good to let him stop. His cockhead catches and Geralt is already slick and loose enough that it presses in and Geralt's eyes roll back in his head. His fingers grip the sheets as he and Jaskier groan in tandem and then Jaskier pushes forward just a little.

"Okay?" he asks and Geralt pushes his hips back with a grunt.

"Yes, fuck Jask, please-" he sounds needy and impatient, but Jaskier's cock is a tease, barely pressing into him. He needs more. And Jaskier gives it to him.

He sinks in slowly, moaning as Geralt squeezes around him. When he's fully sheathed, he pauses, shifting his hips and rutting forward to ensure Geralt is still okay.

"Jaskier," he whispers and apparently that's all the persuasion Jaskier needs.

He pulls out and thrust back in again, working up to a steady pace. Geralt moves with him, rocking back to meet every thrust and grinding forward against the bed with every forward motion. He moans and groans and Jaskier is relentless, pressing his hips into the bed and fucking him hard.

With his cock trapped beneath him, Geralt can hardly help the way arousal swells and curls in his gut. He won't last long if Jaskier doesn't let up because his cock drags against the soft sheets and Jaskier fucks him like he's dying for it.

The pleasure builds and Geralt's cock smears pre-come against the sheets. It's too hard to try to hold back and he groans as he folds his arms under his head.

"Jask," he whines, "Jask you gotta stop- I'm gonna come if you keep doing that."

"Fuck, already?"

"Jaskier," Geralt grits and he gets a soft nose pressed into his back.

"I'm not teasing," Jaskier breathes, kissing the skin beneath his mouth. "I think it's incredibly hot." Geralt just groans weakly and Jaskier pulls out, running his hands down his thighs.

He gets a hand under him, guiding his hips up and Geralt complies, shifting so his ass is in the air. He should feel exposed or embarrassed, but Jaskier's hands on him only make him feel appreciated, wanted. Soft fingers press into the flesh of his ass and Jaskier kisses the base of his spine, pressing lower until his tongue slides against his hole again.

He thrusts into him without hesitation and it's all Geralt can do not to collapse under him. His knees slip, thighs spreading so his cockhead bumps against the sheets. It's damp from coming earlier and the friction sends a shiver up his spine. He shifts his hips, gasping when he presses too hard against the sheet; his cock is still a little sensitive, but it feels too good to stop.

Geralt rocks forward again and Jaskier's hand comes down, curling around the base of him and stroking him as he continues fucking him with his tongue. When Geralt whines, Jaskier withdraws, turning to huff a soft laugh into his skin.

"Oh, Geralt, my sweet," he hums, "you are so fucking beautiful." He licks a stripe over Gerlt's hole, prodding at the ring of muscle before straightening up and sliding his cock between his cheeks. "Gods, and you feel so good."

Jaskier leans over him, one hand still wrapped around his cock as he thrusts against him. Geralt tries to shift so Jaskier's cock will press into him, but to no avail and he whines as Jaskier makes no attempt to help him.

When he does eventually slide in again, the angle is different and Jaskier's cockhead slides right against his prostate, nudging at it as he adjusts himself.

"Fuck, you feel good," he breathes, bending over him to kiss his spine.

"'S good," Geralt mumbles, pressing his face into the pillow. He groans as Jaskier's hands slip to his waist and he thrusts harder, setting a quick pace that has Geralt panting in no time.

He wraps his hands around the blanket, tugging it closer as he presses his face into the sheets. Jaskier groans above him, muttering as his fingers brush over Geralt's skin. Beautiful, he calls him and Geralt wants to be for him.

When Jaskier's hips snap forward, slamming against his prostate, Geralt goes limp, held up only by his knees and Jaskier's hands on him. Heat sears through him and he bites down on the sheets to keep from moaning too loudly, but Jaskier reaches down, brushing his fingers against the side of his neck and kissing his shoulders.

"There's no one here to hide from, love. You don't have to be quiet."

Geralt nods, but Jaskier doesn't let up and he can barely think straight with Jaskier's cock in him. He moans around the sheets and pushes his hips back, relieved when Jaskier lets out a stuttered groan. It means he's close too.

Jaskier drapes himself over Geralt's back, whispering against the back of Geralt's neck and kissing his shoulders. He keeps his hips working hard until Geralt is shaking beneath him, so fucking close but still just unable to reach the end.

"What do you need?" Jaskier asks. Geralt groans.

"Touch me."

Jaskier hums as he reaches back, wrapping his fingers around Geralt's cock and stroking quickly.

It's good, too good, and when Geralt comes, he arches against the bed. It's overwhelming and Jaskier just continues fucking into him, stroking his softening cock. Jaskier flops against him, hot and sweaty, just barely rutting into him.

"Fuck," he breathes, "gods Geralt, you're incredible, my darling." He huffs a soft laugh as Geralt flops onto the bed and drops onto him, pressing lazy kisses into his skin.

"Hmm."

"Oh, but you are, love." He runs a hand across Geralt's shoulder, brushing his fingertips against his skin. "We have to get up though."

"Not yet," Geralt mumbles and Jaskier laughs softly.

"You're going to be upset if you fall asleep sticky and if you don't get up now, you're going to fall asleep."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Geralt knows he's right, but his body feels heavy and Jaskier is a comforting weight against him. He decides he'd rather go to sleep and deal with the stickiness in the morning, but then Jaskier rolls off of him, pulling out carefully, and rolls Geralt onto his back.

He slides off the bed and reaches out. Geralt begrudgingly takes his hands and lets Jaskier guide him to his feet and across the room toward the washbasin. He cleans himself up and despite Jasker's assurances that he is perfectly capable, wipes down his chest and abdomen as well. Jaskier shudders when Geralt wraps the cloth around his cock, but he leans into his body, whispering a soft thank you when they're both sufficiently clean.

As Geralt lies back down, Jaskier curls up behind him, kissing his shoulders. Geralt huffs a soft laugh as Jaskier's arm winds around his hip.

"I'm not gonna be able to ride for a couple of days after that," he mumbles and Jaskier hums smugly against him.

"You could stay here with me. I have space."

And oh, how tempting that prospect is. Geralt shuts his eyes, imagines waking up next to Jaskier in the morning and not having to leave. But the pleasant warmth of the fantasy is quickly dashed by a reminder of reality. He has to get to Wyzima. People's lives depend on it.

"You know I can't," he whispers, hoping Jaskier understands how badly he would rather stay.

"At least stay for the night?" Jaskier asks and Geralt agrees. Even if he didn't want to stay, it's too late to travel now so he may as well stay and indulge himself for once. "Wish you were around more," Jaskier whispers, "we've got monsters in Hagge, too."

"I can't work for free, Jaskier, and no one's putting out contracts in Hagge. If they were, I'd be the first to claim them." Jaskier huffs petulantly against his back and Geralt smiles softly. "Do you fuck people who don't pay you for it?

"Only if I really like the guy."

Geralt shuts his eyes. He knows what Jaskier's saying, knew what he was getting into the moment the question left his lips, but he wasn't expecting this. And he does want to stay, but how could he?

He doesn't know what to say, so he falls silent, reaching back to trace the lines of Jaskier's fingers with his own. For now, this will have to be good enough.

For once, Jaskier falls asleep first. Geralt waits until he hears the soft, steady rhythm of his heart and gently extracts himself from Jaskier's arms, turning over so he can face him. His expression is soft in sleep and Gerlt reaches out, brushing his hair back off of his face. Gently, he traces the shape of Jaskier's face and his stomach turns at the thought of leaving him in the morning. But it's what he has to do.

He's always known this wouldn't last forever, that Jaskier would eventually find someone to love and they would make a life together here. Or maybe he would leave like he always talks about. Geralt's stomach drops and he realizes with something not unlike terror that he doesn't want that. He doesn't want Jaskier to be unhappy, but he doesn't want him to find someone else. He wants him to be with him.

Oh. Fuck.

He loves him.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #rex writes #good as gold #prostitute!jaskier

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