One of the greatest pleasures in Geralt’s life is routine. Routine is reliable, trustworthy. He knows what he is going to do tomorrow, and he knows what he is going to do next week. He knows what is expected of him and what he can expect in return. No complications.
When Geralt wakes, it is to do the same thing that he has done for the past seven years. He gets up before the sun rises. He puts on the pot of coffee to brew and yawns through several circuits of kitchen counter push ups and squats by the sink. The movement already wakes him up but the coffee is a subconscious ritual leftover from the Yennefer days. She preferred a medium roast freshly ground and water pressured into one of those demitasse cups Geralt hated washing for fear of breaking them in a single swipe. He preferred not consuming anything in the AM entirely. They compromised with a simple batch brewed in a coffee machine Geralt dug up at the local thrift shop. Neither of them were happy with the arrangement. It was one of many clues that led to the eventual end of their relationship.
He checks his emails, confirms what he has to, and ignores the rest. The Hotel de Novigrad is expanding their chain with a new location and Geralt has the fortune of heading the construction of their elevators. He likes his job. It pays decently and he gets to travel sometimes. He wishes it made him interesting enough.
Geralt sets out to Kaer Morhen Repair Shop as the sun begins peeking through the horizon of buildings. His adopted father’s shop is a couple blocks from his apartment and it causes Vesemir some annoyance.
“What’s the point of keeping that apartment of yours when we’ve got the space up here.” He’d point to the residential floors above the shop and Geralt would shake his head at the suggestion. They’ve perfectly orchestrated this dance for years now. The reason Geralt had the apartment was because he moved out with Yennefer, his then-girlfriend. It was a test run for marriage, or at least Geralt thought. He had never lived with anyone besides Vesemir and his brothers before. She was his first and only serious relationship. She was still going through her residency at the Aretuza General Hospital and the location was also convenient for her volunteer work at the women’s clinic. It was tough, maintaining a relationship with a doctor, let alone a relationship with Yen. She had dreams the height of the Continent’s tallest building with the guts and know-how to get them. Geralt was happy doing what he did and never seemed to want more. That kind of thinking Yennefer couldn’t get behind. When she finished her residency and specialized in the OB-Gynecology section, she dropped him and moved in with her friend Tess from pre-med.
“You understand, don’t you?” She said after their last tryst in bed together. Yen wasn’t often soft, nor did she bother to soften her words, but that time she brushed a lock of hair away from his forehead and gazed upon him like she would never see him again.
The hardest part was that he did understand. Who was he to hold her back? They ended their relationship but kept their friendship. A year later Yennefer revealed that she was in a relationship with Tess. He was happy for her, truly he was. They could be the power couple she had always wanted to be part of, and Geralt could be… happy for her from a distance. He had a few one night stands and some attempts at relationships since then. A woman named Renfri who had the explosive fire as Yennefer with less of the stability. For her sake and Geralt’s, they ended things rather quickly.
It’s fine. Geralt doesn’t know how to do casual. His brothers joked that he only had two relationship modes: zero to “let’s move in, get married, and rescue a dog.” He takes their ribbing good naturedly; they’re not wrong after all.
He sees Vesemir opening the shop as the sun crawls up in the sky. This man raised him and two other boys since they were pre-pubescent, young enough to still need fostering under the state law but old enough that their chances of getting adopted were depressingly low. He adopted them all in one swoop and Geralt would remember that for the rest of his life.
Geralt doesn’t remember his parents. His father never had a major role in his life barring sperm donor, while his mother tried her best to raise him by herself, though she ultimately failed.
He doesn’t feel bitter even after all these years. (Tries not to, at least.)
“Geralt.” Vesemir nods at him. His jumpsuit sports an array of oil spills, the hems fraying from the years of heavy use, but do nothing to hide the sturdiness of his frame. “Assignment in town?”
“Yes. Another one for the Novigrad Group.”
Vesemir grunts and Geralt can hear his approval. He follows Vesemir into the tight little office in the corner of the shop. He peruses through the stack of invoices and see what’s next on the schedule. Vesemir slaps at his hand. “None of that.”
“I’ll let you help when you finish the Novigrad job.” Geralt makes to protest but Vesemir stuffs the stack of them in a folder he keeps on the shelf. He feels a prickle of annoyance. He understands Vesemir means well. Post-Yen, he had a habit of keeping busy to an unhealthy level. But it’s what kept him sane. If he was busy working all the time then he’s too occupied to think of anything else. “Now get out. I’ve a full schedule today.”
Work continues as always and is something that brings him comfort. It’s all problem-solving that he can do. Nothing gives him the sense of accomplishment more than being the one to say, “These measurements are wrong. Let’s do this instead.” He feels a like a hero doing this, even though he’s not saving lives and helping people’s health like Yennefer.
He goes home to a home cooking delivery on his doorstep. He follows the instructions and opens all of the ingredients for tonight’s meal. He cooks and eats his dinner. Reviews his messages and any last minute work emails.
Other days he’d go to the gym to empty his mind. His body may burn with lifting weights but his mind becomes blissfully silent.
He goes to sleep. Not much variety pops up in his life, but he’s all right with it. He’s content. He’s happy. Really, he is.
The next day, Vesemir still won’t let him take on light assignments. Not that Geralt expects him to change his mind so quickly. It was worth a shot.
On the way back to his apartment he sees a young man setting up what looks to be a guitar case up next to the Posada Bookshop.
Huh. That’s new. Posada never had a busker before, but there’s a first time for everything, Geralt supposes. It’s still so early that most of the stores haven’t opened yet, Posada included. He sees the boy sit straight backed at the bench and let in a deep breath. On his exhale he lets out a note. Then another. And it continues like he’s vocalizing up and down the scales. Geralt feels something tug at his stomach, but he moves on his way.
The next day goes as much as the one before; and the next follows suit.
The busker is there today as well. He’s got a little crowd filling in as his daytime audience. Geralt takes the time to observe him from the edge of it all, notes his bright eyes and flamboyant manner. Despite his gangly appearance, he’s got grace enough for a dancer, bowing and gesturing with precise motions, not what one would expect from a boy his age.
Geralt’s got some cash on hand this time, not that he was planning to come down this street, not at all, so he walks over in a gap between people and tosses the bills into his open case while he’s crooning to the enchanted passersby.
“Thanks, handsome!” Geralt jerks, not expecting the guy to notice. He pivots again but does a little wave as he walks away. Not blushing. Definitely not.
The next day, Geralt makes sure to take the long way home and avoids that street.
For once, Geralt’s wet dream doesn’t include a memory of Yennefer. In fact, it doesn’t include Yennefer at all. Instead it’s a hazy vision of the boy with sky blue eyes and brown hair and a smile that lights up the sky. It’s guitar-calloused hands tugging at a lock of his hair and tucking it behind Geralt’s ear and a broad smile that says, “Hello, handsome.” before kissing him with a song. It’s a broad-shouldered body that climbs over him and presses down and-
He wakes to stained and sticky blankets. Oh fuck, he’s going to hell for this. He misses his morning mini-workout and coffee. He feels off-kilter for the rest of the day.
Geralt drives by the bookstore instead of walking. The musician isn’t there today and Geralt tells himself that he doesn’t care.
He tries to work off the buzzing energy underneath his skin by staying an extra hour at the gym. That night, he still ends up masturbating to the thought of him.
Autumn creeps earlier this year. It’s August but the mornings have already gotten colder. Geralt knows this because he first hears the coughs before seeing the busker set down his guitar case. He wraps his arms around his body and makes an exaggerated shiver.
“The morning’s are chillier now, aye?”
Later on his lunch break, Geralt makes the drive from Novigrad to the Posada bookstore, hoping to see the musician still there. He is.
Geralt walks over, a steaming cup of tea latte in his hand.
He puts the beverage in the younger man’s hands before he could second guess himself. “For you. Because…. it’s getting colder.” He feels lame, like a tongue-tied schoolboy with a crush.
“Thank you.” There’s a twinkle in his eyes that makes Geralt’s stomach drop to his feet. It’s not entirely unpleasant. “I’m Jaskier.”
He shuffles in his boots and kicks at an errant pebble on the sidewalk. “Geralt.”
“Geralt.” Jaskier repeats to himself, the syllables rolling through his mouth like a toffee and coming out sweet as one too. “A lovely name for a lovely man.”
As far as pick up lines go, it was shit. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Jaskier is like this with anyone because he’s got that easygoing smile and aura, and whatever new age bullshit Eskel liked to talk about just because a client of his got him into crystals.
“Hm,” he says because what else can he say to that? He spies Jaskier from the corner of his eye giving him a slow elevator stare and when he catches him in the act, the boy’s smile turns just a touch filthy. Definitely a pick up line then. Fuck, Geralt is so fucked.
Later that night, Yen calls him up for a catch up chat. He thinks about telling her about his crush, not that he has a crush and not that he would ever use the word “crush” around her if he could help it. If there’s anyone who would be able to steer him away from what would undoubtedly be a poor decision, it would be her. He thinks about what she would say. “What the fuck, your first crush in years is some twink? Is he even old enough for you? Don’t answer that. God, Geralt, why don’t you pick up someone at the bar or, hell, even use an app like a regular person in the modern age.” And so on.
As she fills him on the latest gossip and drama of the OB/G ward (of which there never seems to be a short supply), Geralt’s mind wanders to sweet smiles and dexterous fingers.
He wakes to find that he already has his cock in hand and Jaskier’s name on his lips. Fuck. He face palms before realizing with disgust that it’s the hand covered in come. Double fuck. No one’s going to find about this.
Yennefer complained once during their relationship that he had no sense of “chill”. His personality was too intense. He waved it off then, thinking that she meant to call him clingy and overbearing. (“That too,” he can imagine her saying.) He conceded to her point years later when he would attempt to date post-Yen. Whenever he had slept with someone, he would immediately start imagining what it would be like to have them move in. When should he make room in his closet? Should he buy new sheets? Do they prefer coffee or tea in the mornings?
Questions like these would begin popping up in his head before the person inevitably leaves him for greener pastures. The only one who ever stayed was Yennefer, Yennefer who found his devotion charming at first. It was good timing. She graduated from med school and began the next grueling phase that was her residency. She didn’t have time for much else besides work and sleep, but the moments when she was home were Geralt’s favorites. He could take care of this fiercely independent woman and see her with her guard down. Her trust in him was intoxicating.
Then later the same tendencies she depended on would prove to be their downfall.
“I feel like I can’t do anything without you breathing down my neck,” she told him. “I think it’s best if we ended things.”
And what could he say to that? He was clingy and annoying. It was who he was.
“Oh, Geralt,” she said. Because underneath that sharp exterior is the empathetic and thoughtful woman he fell in love with. “One day there will be someone for you.”
He doubted it but didn’t say out loud.
He picks a night to go out. Sometimes he has a hankering to see other people (“Friends! You need to get some friends!” Lambert complains) who are not Yen or his brothers, but he can’t say he knows anybody well enough to spontaneously call them up for a night out.
So here he is in Passiflora, a local bar a couple blocks from his place. Has he mentioned that he loves where he lives? The place hosts performances on some nights so it feels okay that Geralt’s there by himself and not making conversation with anyone else.
Then he sees Jaskier take up the mic.
“How’s everyone doing tonight? My name is Jaskier and I’m here to cater to your pleasure.” A few scattered people wolf whistle at him and he smiles cheekily. He’s good, sounds even better with an amp and a mic, but Geralt pays no attention to the music. His beer warms as he cups it and lets go methodically, nervously, for a lack of something to do with his hands. Geralt's somehow closer than before even though he’s all the way over there on the makeshift stage. Jaskier’s presence is big and fills the space of the bar, smothering Geralt in it.
Soon, Jaskier announces that he’s going on break but will be back “to break more hearts”. He winks.
Geralt sees him saunter up on the other side of the bar. He should talk to Essi about how she’s conducting her business. Catering to minors is probably not the way to accelerate profits. Jaskier’s talking to some man before they leave together. Um, what? His eyes follow them as they walk to the restroom on the far side of the building, the one Geralt knows gets less traffic than the others. Is something going to happen to Jaskier? He steels himself and abandons his drink. Stomping to the bathroom, he prepares himself for what he would have to do. Does he go to punch the guy first? No, priority is getting Jaskier away from him and making sure he’s safe. Plan in hand, he opens the door.
His five minute plan didn’t prepare him for this.
Jaskier is getting absolutely railed by this random john. His pants are drooping round his ankles, and his hands are braced against the sink and mirror. The wet sounds of lube fill the dingy stall with rhythmic beats. He makes a choking noise when the two notice him. Absurdly, they keep fucking.
“Wait your turn!” growls the man, in between thrusts.
Jaskier merely shoots him a sunny smile. “Be right with you, darling! Wait outside, would you dear?”
His voice must have some hypnotic qualities because Geralt robotically leaves and stands by the door like a reluctant bouncer sporting a half-chub. After what feels like an eternity, but more accurately is like ten minutes, the john comes out, zipping up his trousers.
“All yours.” Geralt doesn’t think too deeply about this comment when he enters the restroom and locks the door behind him.
“Oh hello, Geralt! That was you?” Jaskier is cheery as he takes the restroom paper towels to wipe down between his legs. Geralt is devotedly looking at the wall. “Sorry about that! Please don’t tell the owner okay? I told her I stopped doing this, but I needed more money this week.”
That’s when he noticed the crumpled bills sitting by the faucet. “Uh..”
“My ass is sore tonight but I can suck you off! Though I’m scheduled to be back at the mic in about 15 minutes.”
“Not to brag, but I’m the best in the entire city. I can’t pay you not to tell, but I can give you a freebie.” He looks earnest and innocent, like they’re two guys on an inside joke.
Geralt can hardly capture his thoughts to make sense of what’s happening right now. “We need to talk.”
Jaskier sighs and drops the hopeful expression, resigned. “I suppose so. All right then. Let’s do it after my set, yeah?”
“Are you stupid or something?” Geralt had been simmering in his anger the entire time Jaskier was performing. He feels like his world was upended even though nothing happened to him. He realizes the hypocrisy of this. Then Jaskier packed up after his set and bounced over to where Geralt was seething at the bar.
“Buy me food?” he said, as if Geralt didn’t catch him literally with his pants down an hour before. “I’m starving.”
Now they’re at a park with Jaskier nomming on a burrito Geralt bought at a late-night bodega. He’s wearing a long-lost jacket Geralt had thought abandoned in his backseat, and Geralt tries not to notice the warm feeling in his chest the sight of it gives him. (“A boyfriend jacket,” mocks the Yen in his head.)
“Wan’ a bife?” Jaskier holds out the burrito, already half-eaten. Geralt continues as if he hadn’t heard him.
“Prostitution is illegal and where are your parents and-”
Jaskier swallows his bite and protests, “What are you talking about! I’m above 18 okay!”
“That doesn’t make it any better!” Inwardly, selfishly, Geralt admits that it does make it a little better now that he knows the subject of his wet dreams is not a minor. Thank fuck for small blessings.
Geralt can’t recall the last time he spoke this many words to a person, a stranger practically. There’s a part in him that wants to whack this kid on the head and scold him for his recklessness. There’s another softer, quieter part that wants to take care of him and protect him from the world. He can indulge only one of these voices.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Why does anyone do anything? Money. Plus, it’s not so bad. Sometimes they like me so much they let me crash at their place for a few days so that’s pretty cool.”
“Wait, what? Where do you live?”
“Here and there,” Jaskier demurs. “I used to have an owner but he got married so it’s back to the streets with me. Although, the church downtown isn’t too bad. They let you stick around if you say you’re not gay.” He laughs and Geralt wonders if the kid was ever genuine with his smiles.
“Looking at you fills me with pity,” Geralt mutters bluntly. He means it with tolerant solemnity, but his words hardly ever come out soft against his better intentions. Geralt expects the musician to lash out at him for his frankness but Jaskier merely gives another hearty cackle and throws the crumpled burrito wrapper in the bin beside him.
“Ay-o! Two points!” He stretches up from the bench and Geralt tries not to pay attention to the frankly obscene moan he makes when he cracks his back. “You’re not the first person to say that, but I do all right. Being a professional bottom has its advantages, you know, like getting to eat and handsome men giving you their jacket.” He takes a sniff of the collar. “Their sweaty jacket.”
“Give it back then!” Geralts feels his face aflame. He’s losing control of this conversation. He shouldn’t have given his sweater in the first place.
Jaskier flits away from him as if he really would snatch it from his back. “Nuh-uh! No take backs!” He smiles and Geralt feels the blushing heat in his face fall down to his stomach. "Besides, I like it." And he take the sweater and buries his face in it for an audible inhale.
Before he could think better of it, he takes one of his business cards and tosses it at Jaskier.
“Oh, what’s this?”
“If you ever need a place to stay-” Jaskier opens his mouth to speak. “-for a night! One night, okay? Call me.”
Jaskier holds up the card to his lips like a parody of a kiss. “I will.”
Geralt never expected that Jaskier would take him up on his offer. Oh he hoped of course, but what were the chances? He was just a dirty old man who wanted to do something good, and ended up inviting a stray against his better judgement.
“Your place is so nice! In-unit washer and dryer? You live a glamorous life, my dear.” Geralt colors. Hilarious, considering Yen found him too hum-drum to live with, but he does all right. Yennefer has an even better condo in the trendier part of town. Geralt couldn’t even bear to live far from his family.
“So what’s a kid like you doing playing the streets when you should, uh-” What the fuck do the young people do these days? “Be in college or whatnot.” At least he hopes it’s college. He plates their takeaway on ceramic because his own college days were spent eating straight from the carton and Geralt has grown at least that much since then, thank you very much.
Jaskier laughs as he scrubs his hair dry with a loaned towel. Geralt offered him a shower the moment he stepped in and he so quickly jumped at the offer he nearly tossed his guitar in Geralt’s face. “My dearest Geralt, just how old do you think I am?” This sounds like a trick question so Geralt keeps quiet. “I am twenty-eight, if you must know, and perfectly capable of making my own questionable decisions.”
Twenty-eight. He’s twenty-eight years old, Geralt thinks. Jaskier’s not a boy, not even a teen, but a man, despite his youthful face. Thank God. He’s not that much of an old pervert. Instead of voicing these thoughts out loud, he asks, “Since you’re not actually jailbait, you want a beer?” He’s got Natty Light because beer is beer, but he does have some leftover craft IPA in the back from when Eskel last crashed here.
“Absolutely.” Jaskier bounces up next to him to look into the fridge himself, pushing past his personal boundaries so Geralt gets a whiff of his own body wash and shampoo. His head is spinning at the thought of this man smelling like him when Jaskier flounces away with the procured bottle of Eskel’s beer.
“Now tell me more about your mysterious self. Like how high-class you are to put delivery on honest-to-God china but drink like a college freshman. You seem full of contradictions.”
“Shut the fuck up and eat your pad see ew.”
It’s really fun talking to him. Geralt thinks that they may have been friends in another life. He can imagine them side by side like this, drinking beer and shooting the shit just like normal pals. He finds that he enjoys talking about himself, his life. He used to think it’s narcissistic in a fashion, and he didn’t care much about most things to develop strong opinions about them. Jaskier simply absorbs his answers with fascination, his eyes wide and bright like Geralt is the most enthralling thing in the universe.
“You’re an engineer? Of what, exactly.”
He could have gotten into automobiles or even planes. Elevators were the low key and tame choice among all the other cool options, but it’s something everyone relies on. Geralt can pass on the glory if he can take the feeling of being important. He doesn’t know what the expression on Jaskier’s face means, but he hopes it doesn’t mean Jaskier thinks his job is lame or dorky. Not that it matters what he thinks in the long run.
“There’s a dirty joke in there somewhere, but I’m too drunk to think of one.” He doesn’t seem drunk at all, except for the charming flush of red on his cheeks.
“You barely had two beers.”
“I’m a cheap date, darling. The better to take advantage of me.” Jaskier winks and damn him, Geralt feels himself flush despite his sobriety. “But yes, that is interesting. One doesn’t give much thought to our architecture, but what you do is quite important, isn’t it?” Geralt bites the inside of his cheek to keep a smile from glowing on his face.
Jaskier’s surprisingly got a wide variety of know-how. From poetry to politics. It seems like he’s got a little bit of knowledge of everything.
“You know a lot of things,” Geralt says with surprise. Jaskier leans a hip on the counter while Geralt washes the dishes. It’s oddly domestic and he takes a mental snapshot of this moment for when this whole Jaskier business ends.
“Clients like to talk, before and after. It pays well to shut up and listen. Sometimes they say something good enough to retain.”
Another a reminder that they’re not normal friends (if they were what one could call ‘friends’ in the first place) and these are not normal circumstances. Jaskier pauses, as if sensing Geralt’s swift change in mood. “Sorry, does that bother you?”
“If I talk about things like that. My side job.” It does, only because Geralt doesn’t want him in danger like this. But who was he to dictate this guy’s choices?
“No, I’m just getting tired.” He digs up some spare blankets and a pillow from his bedroom closet. When he comes back out to the living room, Jaskier is sleepily stretched out on the couch like a drunken pin up. Inviting and dangerous.
“Tuck me in, darling?” he asks cheekily. “Oof!” Geralt drops the items on his stomach, takes the pillow and mashes it on Jaskier’s face. He flails indignantly, when Geralt takes it away and puts it under his head. Jaskier opens his mouth for more complaints when Geralt folds the blankets to tuck him in.
“You’re a really good guy.” He’s got his fingers there on the edge of the blanket like flowers hemming a windowsill. Geralt wants to kiss every one of those stupid knuckles. He needs to go to sleep.
“Hmm.” He flees to his room.
Geralt dreams of Jaskier again. This time, Jaskier is slicking up his cock, teasing him with a smile. He’s almost there. He’s close and-
He wakes and realizes with a shock that he’s not alone in his bed. He pulls up the covers and sees Jaskier, doing his very best to choke on his cock.
“He-hey, wha-” This is the first time a dream has come true but first Geralt wants to know what the hell is going on. He pushes at Jaskier’s forehead, trying to nudge him away from his cock. But it’s so good. His mouth is not only talented at singing but giving incredible head.
Jaskier slurps at his length with gusto, his hand cradling the base of it, thumbing at his sac. “Please,” implores Jaskier, when he comes up for air, “Let me stay longer than a night.” He tilts his head and rubs his puffy lips down the side of his cock. His mouth glistens with precum. Geralt wants to kiss the gloss off of him.
“I’m not good at housework or anything else.” He licks and kisses Geralt’s slit as if in apology. “But I need a place to stay. Won’t you let me?” With those eyes and that mouth, Geralt would let Jaskier do anything. Jaskier ducks back down again and takes the entire length of him into his throat. He moans and Geralt feels the muscles contract around him. Fuck. He’s so good at this. So good. He can feel himself getting close.
“Wait,” Geralt manages to choke out, “Jaskier-” He tugs at his hair and he follows. Jaskier sits up and Geralt notices for the first time that he’s not wearing any clothes. Jaskier straddles his hips before he can protest, wicked hands pushing up his sleep shirt. Geralt puts his hands on Jaskier’s hips and Jaskier must sense his imminent protests because he rocks his pelvis against Geralt’s, making him lose reason when his cock nudges against his ass cheeks.
“Tell me what you like. I can do whatever you want. However nasty. I’ve done it all.”
Jaskier smirk is filthy but his eyes are somehow vulnerable. Geralt can’t look away. He reaches up to cup Jaskier’s cheek and the man turns his head to place the sweetest kiss in his palm, completely incongruent with his sinful actions just moments before. Geralt wants him. He wants him so much. He’s going to fuck this up magnificently but for now Jaskier needs him. And oh how Geralt aches .
Geralt’s arms wrap around Jaskier’s torso to hold him to his chest until he flips them over. Jaskier gives a little ‘oomph’ but otherwise doesn’t seem harmed. “Anything I want, huh? That could be dangerous for you.”
Jaskier licks at his upper lip and Geralt’s eyes follow the movement. “Try me.”
Geralt huffs a laugh and reaches between them to rubs at Jaskier’s hole only to find it slick and open already. “You planned for this,” he accuses, slipping in his middle finger all the way to the last knuckle with relative ease, the squelching noise revealing how much lube Jaskier stuffed himself with.
“I prepared a compelling argument, yes.” Jaskier’s chuckle turns into a gasp when Geralt pushes in three fingers without warning. “Just imagine,” he breathes with every slow pump of Geralt’s fingers. “Sex on demand. My hands, my mouth, my ass. All yours.” He pushes himself down to Geralt’s knuckles with a wet gasp, and his dick stands proudly in attention. “Doesn’t that sound lovely?”
“Hmm.” He pretends to make a considering sound but judging from the victory glowing on Jaskier’s face, he’s not all that convincing. What an obnoxious expression but damn he’s still cute. Geralt takes out his fingers only to shove in four without further teasing, and Jaskier drops his haughty look to throw his head back against the pillow.
“Ohhh, fucking hell. Fuck me please.”
Geralt wastes no time. He lines up his dick to Jaskier’s hole while Jaskier places his hands on his shoulders. They gaze into each other’s eyes. This moment feels significant somehow. Jaskier’s mouth twitches in to a smile and the head of Geralt’s cock pops in. Then he slides in the rest of the way and comes. “So fast.” Jaskier whispers.
Geralt bites at the junction between Jaskier’s neck and shoulder until the younger man is squirming beneath him. “I’m just getting started.”
“Wha- Oh fuck, you’re still hard.”
Geralt confirms it by pulling out and thrusting back in. He plants his hands on the mattress and begins a punishing pace. After the first orgasm, it takes Geralt a long while to come for a second, and he’s got the stamina to get himself there. He pounds into the open body beneath him, Jaskier punching out little huffs of “oh, oh, oh” with every beat. Geralt angles his hips, aiming for an accurate grind against his prostate.
“What-unh, what the -ohh- the fuck?” They both look down to watch the come dribbling from Jaskier’s cock. He came without touching. With each of Geralt’s thrust, a little more come spurts out.
“Nice.” Geralt says before he can stop himself.
“Nice, he says,” Jaskier laughs, face red and glistening with sweat. Geralt feels a little embarrassed but he’s not done yet. He pulls out and flips Jaskier’s body onto his hands and knees. He’s still laughing when Geralt pushes in from behind. “More?”
He's not laughing when Geralt rails him from this position. His hands make their way to Jaskier’s wrists, clamped hard like shackles, holding him down on the bed while his cock spears him open.
“Oh, ohh, fucking-” Jaskier leaks onto the sheets below him. “I’m done! Geralt, please!” Geralt’s hands slides from his wrists down his body before resting on his ass, one hand on each cheeks. Then one hand holds him even wider while the other thumbs at his rim where Geralt’s cock keeps him open. “It’s so much, please, please-”
It is so much and Geralt can’t get enough of him.
Geralt’s thumb pops in next to his dick and Jaskier lets out a shout that would surely earn him neighborly complaints tomorrow. The stretch is unbelievable. Jaskier’s arms tremble until he collapses face first. Geralt takes his hand away and turns him onto his side, running a clean hand through Jaskier’s sweaty hair. “Still good?”
“You kidding?” Jaskier huffs with shaky breath. “I can go all night.” It’s not convincing in the least but there’s a mischievous gleam in his eye that dares Geralt to call him on his bluff.
So he does. He lugs one of Jaskier’s legs up on his shoulder, and fucks him deep into the night.
Geralt wakes with Jaskier in his arms. He can’t recall the last time he woke up to someone else like this. What an addicting feeling. He tugs him closer and lays his cheek on his back.
Jaskier groans and pushes back against him, ass grinding on his lap, a semblance of last night’s activities. Geralt peppers soft kisses on his neck, nipping a little at the warm skin.
Jaskier rolls over clumsily, sleepily, off the bed. He peeks over to Geralt, eyes struggling to stay open. Geralt scans over the constellation of bite marks he left. Maybe he should apologize. Doesn’t know how that would be received.
“Morning,” he attempts, his voice gravelly from sleep.
Jaskier squints at him. “What the fuck, how are you fifty years old and have that much stamina?”
Geralt is taken aback at that. “I’m only thirty-nine.”
“Your hair is misleading.” Jaskier bats a weak hand at him. A non-issue then. He hobbles over to the bathroom and shuts the door.
It’s Saturday, blessedly, which means he has time to whip up some eggs before popping up at the garage to see if he can convince Vesemir to offload any light work on him.
“Did you plan this? Seducing me so you’ve got somewhere to stay?” The words are blunt though Geralt tries to soften them as much as he can. He doesn’t mind, not really, just curious.
Thankfully, Jaskier takes no offense to the accusation. “No, I just expected to suck your dick and stay the night. That’s what usually happens. Then I got a closer look at your rocking hot bod, noticed how you don’t seem to be hiding a wife anywhere and hedged my chances by fingering myself ready for you when you fell asleep.” Jaskier watches him slide the omelette off the pan from his spot at the table. The shameless tart is stark naked from where Geralt could see him and he idly makes a note to himself that if they were really going to do this then Jaskier’s going to need some pajamas, and maybe some other clothes. “Which I must say is one of my best ideas yet, considering your cock is magnificent and your stamina is mind-blowing. My ass will be sore for days.”
“Hm. This… is a lot.” And it was. This is a life he’s choosing. He sets the table for the two of them and sits opposite Jaskier.
“Yeah, I get told that often. Do me a favor? If I ever get to be too much will you tell me instead of kicking me to the curb? I’m a fast learner and-” He stretches out a foot to rest on Geralt’s boxer-covered balls. “-I can be a good boy, unless punishment play is your thing.”
“...Fine.” Something akin to horror grows under Geralt’s skin at the thought of throwing Jaskier out for any reason at all but he pays no attention to it, just like he pays no attention to the toes rubbing on him from under the table.
“Thank you, sir.”
Geralt chokes on his egg, and Jaskier takes a bite with an innocent smile.
One immediate advantage to having Jaskier around, an advantage that was explained to him during his unexpected seduction (“Argument! It was my argument!” protests Jaskier), is the incredible convenience of sex.
Despite initially doing this to secure a living place, Geralt’s sure that the musician is just as sexually hungry for Geralt as Geralt is of him. He always seems up to some fooling.
Even when he’s asleep and Geralt is humping up against his back before the sun has risen. He’ll wake into some half-conscious state and plop his ass, still sopping wet from Geralt’s come the night before, onto Geralt’s morning wood for a wake-up call. Geralt forgoes his daily coffee if he wants to make it to the construction site on time.
“Do we need to go pick up your stuff?” Geralt asks when his brain reboots after a particularly tiresome round of welcome home sex. Jaskier cornered him by the door and promptly swallowed him down, tongue toying with his rapidly hardening cock. He wet a finger from the drool seeping from the corner of his mouth and stuffed it up Geralt’s bum with little warning. Geralt came, clutching so hard at Jaskier’s hair it must have hurt his scalp, and collapsed down the wall, his jelly legs tingling with residual electricity.
Jaskier lays atop his body, nuzzling into him as if a cuddle in the entryway was a normal thing to do. “What stuff, my dear?”
“That night, you just brought over your guitar and a duffle. Did you have more things with your friends?”
“Ah no. That’s the lot of it.” Matter of fact and without sadness, like it’s normal to fit his entire life in a single bag and a guitar case.
Geralt seems to feel all of the negative emotions on Jaskier’s behalf. He wonders if he hides them all somewhere, perhaps in the same place he keeps his past.
“We need to buy you some things.”
Jaskier lights up. “Shopping? You’re taking me shopping?”
Geralt might come to regret it, but the joy in Jaskier’s face tells him he probably won’t. “Let’s go this weekend.”
“I knew my mouth was magical.”
Geralt rubs an annoyed hand on Jaskier’s head and gets up to see what he can cook for dinner.
Living with Jaskier was not as bad as the younger man made it out to be. Jaskier was a lazy but thoughtful roommate, a bit messy but nothing too egregious. Stray clothes would miss the mark on the way to the laundry hamper. Nearly empty glasses of water would litter the entire apartment. Forgotten toothpaste marks sprayed on the bathroom mirror. All of it simply proof that Geralt was living with someone.
But he would also see his energy drinks were never out of stock. His free weights stacked neatly in their corner despite knowing he left them in the living room the day before. His media shelf of movies and games all organized and dusted just like he told himself he would someday do.
It was better than living with Yen who moved through life like a storm and lived like one too. They shelled out money for a housekeeper that came once a month.
Sometimes Geralt would miss those days, but he sure didn’t miss that expense.
Geralt leaves an envelope of cash by the bread box because if he’s going to do this sugar daddy thing (“Sponsor!” Jaskier corrects. Geralt can imagine his brothers’ mockery already.) then he’s going to do it right goddamn it. “An allowance,” Geralt stated when he first showed Jaskier where he would stash it. He papped the envelope full of bills on Jaskier’s forehead and pointed it at him. “You’ll get this once a week. Withdrawing cash everyday is a pain.”
Jaskier showed his appreciation with a swallow and a song.
To Geralt’s surprise, Jaskier doesn’t blow through all his cash at first. In fact, he only had the duffle bag that he brought with him that first night and his guitar. He did buy higher end items to replace his worn stuffs, like sneakers without holes and a new jacket of his own, middle tier beauty products that now litter his bathroom, crowding Geralt’s own sparse toiletries.
Geralt’s getting used to having a homier apartment and has even been looking forward to coming home, forgoing late nights at the agency hunting for new projects to stack on his already packed calendar. Jaskier’s been on a cooking kick, citing boring days trolling through YouTube when he stumbled upon a cooking channel.
Geralt’s new routine now consists of home cooking instead of prepackaged delivery meals. It’s softly waking up, increasing the blood flow in his limbs by running his hands down Jaskier’s body. It’s setting up the coffee pot for two instead of one and Jaskier always looks unbearably grateful for the cup. It’s Jaskier seeing him off with a kiss or two (or ten) before work. It’s stopping by a bakery every other day after he discovered Jaskier’s sweet tooth.
“You’re going to make me fat!” Jaskier complains as he cups the developing belly in his hands, looking in the bathroom mirror. Geralt merely comes up behind him to hold onto his sides, his fingers sinking into the softness. He’s secretly glad for this development. When Jaskier first came to him, he looked gaunt, ribs and clavicles showing with stark contrast. Now he looks healthy, taken care of, indulged and loved. Geralt did that.
And the realization crashes onto him like a wave. He likes this, taking care of someone. His brothers may scold him for letting himself get taken advantage of, but Jaskier doesn’t seem the type. In so little a time, Jaskier has made himself an essential part of Geralt’s life, bringing him joy that he didn’t think he’d have before. He can only hope he provides the same for him.
Geralt stops in the middle of his workout to walk over to where Jaskier is strumming some notes on his guitar. Jaskier looks up at him. “Yes, my dear?” Geralt doesn’t reply. He simply cups Jaskier’s face in his hands, squishing the cheeks a little and watching his mouth pucker cutely.
“Nothing.” He releases Jaskier’s face and pecks him on the forehead. He can feel Jaskier shoot a quizzical look at this back but he resumes his circuits.
Geralt doesn’t do well with change, but oh how he wants to get used to this.
Geralt comes home from the gym one day, body thrumming with residual energy. His Novigrad project has progressed enough that he only consults its construction every once in a while. The newer projects came with clients that don’t know what the fuck they want, let alone what they’re doing. He wants to tell them to fuck off and come back when they’ve got their shit together, but that would mean losing money he’d otherwise have to spend on Jaskier.
He pounces on the unsuspecting man, prepping a tea in the kitchen. “Welcome home! Gah, you’re still sweaty! What the hell!” Geralt buries his face in Jaskier’s neck and drowns in the smell of his own body wash.
“And you just showered. Perfect.”
“Wha-” Geralt drops down on his knees, taking Jaskier’s shorts with him. He pulls apart his cheeks and inhales, the body wash scent there too along with traces of Jaskier’s own essence. He licks at his hole as Jaskier shudders above him.
He loves this, loves that Jaskier is here and that he gets to do this. He kisses it like he would Jaskier’s mouth, peppering little pecks and occasionally licking out. He reaches in a nearby drawer for the bottle of lube they’ve taken to stocking all over the apartment. Soon his hole is quivering and sopping wet, inviting Geralt’s index finger, then his middle, then his ring with ease.
“Yes?” he asks, waiting for permission.
“The answer is always yes, you bastard.” Geralt doesn’t agree but says nothing as he lines himself against Jaskier’s ass. They fuck, right there in the kitchen, until they're both sweaty and panting.
“Ugh gross, now I have to shower again.”
“Shower with me then.” Jaskier grumbles all the while but hops in the shower happily as soon as the water turns warm.
Geralt loves this new life. He loves getting to know Jaskier too. What he looks like in the mornings. How he takes his coffees. What songs he sings in the shower.
His shameful favorite among all these little pieces of knowledge are the moments where Jaskier pulls his curtain back a little, and gives him, perhaps unknowingly, the crumbs to his cruel past.
One such moment is when they’re simply laying in bed, lazily running their arms over one another, waiting for delivery to arrive. Jaskier has secret scars all over his body, unlike Geralt’s scars which come from a childhood raised around mechanics, and he wants to uncover all of their stories.
“What are these?” Geralt asks, fingering the odd pock marks on his shoulders. He has one on his arm, which Geralt assumed to be the remnant of a vaccination shot, but these are of similar shape, dotting across his shoulders.
“Hm? Those?” Jaskier’s voice is slow and sleepy. “They’re from cigarettes. I had a client who liked putting them out on me, but he paid really well.” He’s still drowsy and soft, while Geralt wants to be sick.
“And these?” He palms some thin white lines etched in the middle of his back.
“My last owner, sponsor,” Jaskier amends when he catches Geralt’s wince, “I was a brat at the best of times and he liked whips.”
Jesus fuck. Geralt fills with rage. He wants to track down all these fuckers and kill them all. Instead he bends over to kiss softly at each and every one of these marks. Like his kisses are a salve. A benediction. He thinks over the bite marks and bruises he often leaves from their previous lovemaking.
“I’m sorry. If I ever hurt you.”
“Mmwhat?” Geralt presses into a bruise on Jaskier’s nape from where he gnawed while fucking him. “Oh no, darling, you’ve never hurt me. I mean, yes, but I like it. Everything you’ve ever done to me was delicious and savage in just the right way. I wanted them all.”
“But I’m so rough.”
“Yes, and I like it. Let me show you how much.”
It’s not fair that Jaskier’s trying to make him feel better when it’s him who’s been hurt, but he won’t argue the point.
“Darling.” For once, Jaskier looks hesitant and nervous.
“What is it?” Does he want more money? Geralt can always provide, if only to wipe this look off his face. Is there some sort of psychological complex, Geralt ponders idly, that causes him to think that his main usefulness is by supplying cash.
“So you know how you saw me performing by the bookshop... “
“And also at night at the pub…”
“Out with it, Jaskier.”
“I was wondering, perhaps, if maybe thrice a week! Or no, maybe twice or, okay once a week, if you’re amenable, I’d go back to playing there. It’s my dream to become a famous musician, you see, and it would better accomplish all that if I could play for an audience and not an empty room, not to say that you don’t count, of course, but-”
“Yes? Oh right! Once a week sounds good.”
“Yes as in go as many times as you like.”
“Ah.” Jaskier looks incredulous.
“It’s just… you’re home at night and if I’m playing at the pub I won’t get home till late and…” Even when it’s for his dream, Jaskier still thinks about Geralt’s needs. As if his own were a second priority. Geralt really wants to beat up every person who made Jaskier feel worthless. They may have some sort of sugar baby arrangement but ultimately, they’re equals, at least in Geralt’s eyes. Geralt tugs at him until he has the man sprawling in his lap and then adjusts their limbs for a better hold.
“Do what you like,” he says into his hair, “As long as you come home after.”
“And be ready to take this?” He rubs at the hardening length below him. Geralt grabs at his wrist to gently pull him away.
“Only if you’re up for it.” Jaskier may be too tired after his performances, but if he’s feeling up to it then Geralt is too.
Jaskier sighs and grinds down on him. Geralt groan, putting his hands on his hips as it automatic. “You really are an incredibly decent man.”
“That’s not the compliment you think it is.” Considering Jaskier’s standard for decency is buried somewhere beneath the ground.
“But it is, darling, I assure you. Decent men are far and few in-between.” He brings his hand back to rub at him before shooting up from the couch. “Oh that reminds me! I’ve got to meet Essi back at Passiflora today if I want to make next week’s rotation.”
The change in mood dizzies Geralt. “Essi?”
“Essi, the owner of Passiflora. She’s the one who arranges the musicians and poets for her stage nights.”
“I know her.” Geralt sighs and puts on his pants. “Wait for me, I’ll drive you.”
“It’s only a 20 minute walk, dear heart.” Geralt merely zips his pants and goes for the keys on the wall hooks. Jaskier slides his shoes on and drags a sly finger down his denim-clad erection. “Fine, but I’ll take care of this afterwards.”
Let it be said that Jaskier makes no empty promises. Geralt throws an arm up over his face. The driver’s seat is adjusted to nearly supine position and Jaskier neatly wipes his mouth with napkins he found in the glove compartment. After unsuccessfully trying to hump each other in the backseat and the passenger seat, Jaskier settled for blowing him with his body bowed across the gear shift.
“We shouldn’t have done that,” Geralt grumbles, “We’re too old and too big to be messing around in a car. Well, I am at least.”
Jaskier’s laugh fills up the inside of Geralt’s car. “It certainly isn’t ideal. Especially when we have a perfectly serviceable apartment down the street. Ah that did bring back memories though. I was much smaller in high school, didn’t hit my growth spurt yet, late bloomer you see. Plus, I charged less cause I didn’t have as many tricks up my sleeve.”
“Jesus.” Geralt is always torn when Jaskier lets something slip like this. It’s one part horrifying that he’s even got a past like this and other part heartwarming that Jaskier would trust him with it. He oscillates between the two.
Geralt was never one for live musical performances nor had any particular musical tastes. Eskel was the one with more discernible musical tastes and Lambert was oddly devoted to the Top 40 station. Vesemir would switch between the vintage rock and background jazz stations at the shop. Geralt did have some songs that he liked and he knew, humming under his breath if he knew the melody and there was no one else around to hear him.
But life takes some crazy turns as he finds himself at Passiflora during Jaskier’s performance nights more often than not. He doesn’t tell Jaskier this, not that he’s worried Jaskier would suddenly get nervous when he goes on stage; the man doesn’t seem to have an ounce of shame in his body nor understands the word ‘embarrassed’. No, he goes because he is fascinating to watch.
He doesn’t know if Jaskier has what it takes to become a big star or whatever it is that Jaskier is aiming for, but he knows that this is Jaskier’s calling from the way that he works so hard for it. He wants to be part of that. Get a little stardust sprinkled on himself when it’s Jaskier’s time to shine.
He’ll go back out to the parking lot right when Jaskier’s last song ends and pretends to have just arrived at the lot to pick him up. Jaskier is none the wiser and simply thinks that Geralt wants to get home to sleep as soon as possible.
One night Geralt sees him flit to the bar during one of his breaks and admires the line of his throat as he chugs down an entire glass of water. He frowns when an unknown man saddles up next to him. They talk and Jaskier lets out a loud laugh before putting a hand on the man’s arm. It’s not that unusual. Jaskier is a friendly person who could make friends with anyone. But he squeezes and leaves the arm there, continuing to smile and talk to this person who’s not Geralt. An ugly feeling crawls into the pit of Geralt’s gut.
He doesn’t say anything when he picks up Jaskier. He doesn’t say anything when they get home. He doesn’t say anything when they perform their nightly ablutions before bed.
He shoves Jaskier onto the mattress and proceeds to rip off his pajamas. Jaskier giggles. “Should’ve told me you were in the mood before I put those on.” Geralt kisses him hard, as if he could convey his turbulent feelings through the pressure of his mouth alone. Jaskier, surprised but delighted, rolls his body upwards to align their pelvises together. Geralt nibbles at his ear then his neck and bites down hard. He sucks a mark until the skin turns a bluish purple and he moves to repeat the same mark on the other side. Then he migrates down to nibble at his clavicles.
“You’re extra bitey tonight, which is saying something.” Jaskier motions to put his hands in Geralt’s hair when he grabs his wrists and clamps them down on the mattress.
“Who was that?”
“Who was who?”
“The guy all over you at Passiflora.”
“What do you me- Oh! You were watching Geralt? You should have come over during my break.” But Geralt wasn’t listening. The ugly feeling is making its way known in his chest and his options are to fuck this energy off or run away. He’s had enough of running away in his youth and he thinks Jaskier deserves a steady presence in his life for once.
“Jealous, darling?” Jaskier smirks at him and Geralt bends down to bite even harder at his neck. “Ow!”
He pulls back to flip Jaskier on his front. Jaskier gets the picture and positions himself on his hands and knees, wiggling his butt playfully at him.
“No.” Geralt pushes roughly at the top of his spine, making Jaskier let out a little “oof”. He knocks Jaskier’s legs into a wider stance and pulls his cheeks apart, thumbs exploring and prodding at Jaskier’s dry hole.
“Checking if someone was there earlier?”
Geralt doesn’t answer but his resulting growl is reply enough. He reaches for the lube in the bedside drawer and pours an unnecessary amount, spilling some into the sheets. Jaskier complains at the cold pour and Geralt takes advantage of his momentary distraction to shove two fingers into him.
“D-desperate, I see.”
“I’m not the one who’s desperate.” He pulls out his two fingers to push in three and Jaskier whines into the sheets, fabrics bunching in his clenched fists. He keeps at it, a hand on Jaskier’s neck and other hand rubbing inside him.
“Ge-Geralt, please, I’m-”
“I want you to remember.”
“This ass is mine.” He drives his fingers in and out mercilessly until he wrenches a shaking orgasm from him, Jaskier’s come dripping and joining the mess of lube beneath them. But Geralt keeps going, maintaining his relentless pace. Jaskier grabs the nearest pillow and muffles his screams. His legs are trembling with the quick and unexpected second orgasm, so close to the first that the sensations bleed together, a gradient of pleasure.
Then at last, Geralt drives his cock in, full length holding Jaskier up and open. He thrusts with a furious pace and Jaskier is ready to pass out, face canted to the side and drool slipping onto the pillow, out of an open mouth whimpering “unh, unh, unh”, every time Geralt hits him deep in his guts.
Jaskier’s third orgasm comes weak as a whisper, eclipsed by Geralt’s own, steely arms gripping Jaskier’s limp form and mouth clamped hard on his pulse.
Geralt collapses onto his back. They lie motionless for a moment, heavy breathing and the musk of sex permeating the room, until Jaskier fusses them into an optimal cuddling position.
Jaskier flips onto his back and holds Geralt to his chest, a tired hand coming up to caress rhythmically through his hair. They rest in the silence until Geralt murmurs, words smushed against Jaskier’s skin, “Were you lining up another sponsor? Am I not providing enough?”
“Oh sweetheart. Jan was never a client, but he has scared off one before that got a little too violent for what he paid. It was nice to see him back at the pub.” Jaskier wraps him tighter in his arms and curls up to sprinkle kisses on top of Geralt’s head. “You’re enough, more than enough for me, my darling. Don’t you worry.” He leans back and hisses in pain. Geralt lifts his head to look and sees Jaskier palms at his neck and come away with a slight streak of blood.
“Fuck. I’m so sorry, Jaskier. I didn’t listen to you. I fucking lost it.”
“Huh? What are you talking about? I deserved it. I was stupid and made you jealous.” Jaskier idly wipes his hand on the sheet. They’ll need to do laundry again soon. “I’m not really a trustworthy person so it makes sense. What else were you supposed to think?” He resumes petting at his sweaty, white locks.
Geralt holds him even closer. Fuck. This is all sorts of wrong and backwards. He doesn’t deserve an easy forgiveness, and fuck him if he’s going to let Jaskier continue shitting on himself.
“No, it was my fault. I was jealous for no reason and-” Geralt breathes, steadying himself. Words, he can do words. They’re not his strength but for Jaskier, he’ll try. “I didn’t meant to, but I hurt you.”
Jaskier pauses his soothing ministrations to gesture in the air. “Ah there, see! You didn’t even mean it. Don’t beat yourself up. I’ve had worse. Oh! But if you’re feeling truly guilty about it you can give me another $200 because I was eyeing that portable grill the other day and wouldn’t it be nice to make some kabobs while the weather’s still warm…”
He knows this is Jaskier deflecting and he is absolutely ordering that grill at a later date. He props himself up on his elbows, heatedly gazing in Jaskier’s eyes, wordlessly imploring him to see that he means this.
“I’m serious. I don’t care what your previous sponsors did. If I do anything to hurt you, or even anything you don’t like, tell me.”
Jaskier blinks up at him like he’s confused. “But what if you need to punish me?”
“Punish?” Geralt’s voice breaks at the question. He can understand the words Jaskier’s saying but at the same time can’t understand him at all. This conversation is turning his perception over on its head.
Jaskier’s words are soft and slow, treading carefully like they would trigger Geralt.
“...Valdo, my last owner, was a man with unique tastes. He picked me up when my parents stopped paying for university. He’s a music producer and I was studying music. He loved sex and had the money for it. I was good at sex and needed a place to stay. It seemed like a match made in heaven. He treated me like a boyfriend when we were out in public, like he was proud of me and was happy to have me. It was a dream.”
It seems nothing like it, Geralt thinks, dreading where this is going.
“But he liked giving pain. A lot of it. Even outside the bedroom. He liked slapping and whips and tying me to wherever ropes could hold. I tried my best to keep up with him. It’s not every day someone takes care of you for free, right? I was a college drop out with no marketable skills. And it’s so simple to just lie there and take it. His tastes kept getting wilder and harder, but he still took care of me. Even when he got a girlfriend, he kept a separate apartment just for me and bought me even more expensive things. We were together for two years. Then he actually got married to the girl and I left.”
There’s more reasoning to his departure, his escape, than simply his ex getting married. Geralt can see further explanations sitting on his lips, words waiting to be said, and shamefully he wants to know more. Jaskier swallows them away and simply resumes his hair petting.
“I know I’m a pain and generally a useless person outside of sex. And sometimes I have a hard time listening too so I wouldn’t blame you if you needed to hit me every once in a while. In the sexy way or otherwise. I can take it. As long as, you know, you don’t kick me out. That’d be the worst, I think.”
Geralt wants to cry, and it’s not even his pain. Hoarsely, he says, “Never. Do you hear me? I will never hit you, unless it is something sexual you want. And I am never kicking you out.”
Jaskier smiles indulgently and pats him on the head like an errant child. “You’ll see. You’ll get tired of me eventually, but it’ll be all right.” Jaskier’s face shows that he’s one hundred percent accepting of this, and Geralt wonders what exactly has happened that would cause this young man to confront bad scenarios with so brave a face. “It happens. But you’re so good to me now. I’d think well of you, okay?”
It’s not okay, but Geralt doesn’t respond, instead kissing Jaskier softly, their lips doing little more than rub against each other and sharing breath. He doesn’t know how he’ll convince Jaskier that it’s already too late for him. He’ll do what it takes to take care of him always, that he’ll never again have a need to put himself in harm’s way, that he can stay here, with him, forever.