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Geralt has lost track of how much gold he’d left at whorehouses over the years. He’s used to paying extra, even if all he requests is 5 more minutes of enjoying another person's warmth before being kicked back out onto the street. After all he’s dangerous. A monster disguised as a man.
The women who get through the ordeal without fear or disgust showing on their face always get a hefty tip, he appreciates the courtesy. (but their scent always betrays them)
And yet here is Jaskier; pushing ever nearer as if he can’t get enough, as if he couldn’t possibly be close enough. Holding Geralt as though he is something precious and fragile, something worth holding onto at all. Gentle hands card through tangled white hair, kisses land on eyelids, scars, any place the bard can reach.
It’s confusing and frightening and not at all what Geralt expected when he agreed to bed the poet.
Surely he had not envisioned Jaskier to outright flee, like so many others, but the Witcher had indeed readied himself to be sent back to his own bedroll once the bard was satisfied. “Come, put that hulking body of yours to good use and warm me up,” Jaskier had said with chattering teeth and Geralt, tired of denying the bards ever bolder and more persistent come-ons, had trudged over and done just that.
He’d not expected to be allowed a kiss or ten, had not dared hope to be touched so tenderly in return for his service. Now they are lying here, warm and sticky with the sounds of nature slowly fading back into awareness, and Jaskier has still not asked him to go.
Instead, he's still petting Geralt, a hand dragging up and down the Witchers vulnerable flank. Fingers play over his ribs as though Jaskier is trying to count them. Does he want to go another round? Is that it? But no, the bards' cock is soft and spent where it is pressed against Geralts thigh. Still, should Geralt ask? Jaskiers' other hand is on his back now, aimlessly tracing the knotted scar of a selkimore bite. Something hot and tight and painful twists in the Witchers belly, pushing up his throat.
He does not understand.
A quiet keening sound breaks the silence and only after a moment does Geralt realise that the noise came from him. He blinks, startled, tries to roll away but is stopped by Jaskier who yelps in surprise, clinging to his front like an octopus.
"Woah, hey, what's wrong?"
Hands are on his face, trying to soothe, even as Geralt shakes his head and attempts to twist away once more.
"Shh, Geralt- hey, please look at me. Did I hurt you?"
Blue eyes, wide with worry, meet molten gold. Jaskier must feel the shivers wracking Geralts body where they're still pressed together. The Witchers’ chest hurts. Badly. But he's not injured and it's not the bards' fault.
Mutely, Geralt shakes his head.
"Okay, that’s a relief but -you sure you're alright?"
Jaskier looks very much doubtful. He starts to untangle their limbs and a draft of cold night air reaches under their blankets. Skin that, just a moment ago, prickled with unfamiliar touch now burns with its absence and even though Geralt is aware that this is his fault, that if he didn't behave like a spooked animal Jaskier might have let him stay a little longer, that if Jaskier wants space Geralt must go, he can't stop his body from reaching out.
He reaches forward to tug the bard back in, envelops the other man in his brutish arms and pushes his face into Jaskiers throat to muffle yet another pitiful sound. Seconds until the bard will begin to struggle, until his lovely sweet scent will sour with fear and anger. Geralt feels monstrous as he clutches the other body close, helpless and needy and aching for just another second of contact.
Please. He wants to say. Please and I'm sorry and don't go.
Jaskier freezes for just a moment, a wash of sadness in his scent the Witcher cannot interpret, but then his arms come up again and, miraculously, drag him even closer, skin touching all along the full length of their bodies.
"Jask- ?"
"Shh, I'm not letting you go, you idiot, not after the months it took me to get you here. It's okay, Geralt. I'm not letting you go,"
A leg pushes between his own and invites him to roll them over, covering Jaskiers' lithe frame with Geralts' heavy weight. With a bit of persuasion, the Witcher lifts his head from where he'd been hiding in the crook of the bards' neck and is immediately rewarded with more soft kisses. Tender, praising words spill from Jaskiers mouth.
He cannot fathom what the bard is going on about but at least it's fairly clear that he is not put off by Geralts embarrassing display of clinginess. Quite on the contrary; Jaskiers’ sweet scent, sure touch and calm heartbeat tell Geralt that the bard is still happy to be there, happy to hold this mangled beast in his arms, bewildering as that is.
"If we're gonna do this right, we really gotta work on your ability to express your needs and feelings," Jaskier huffs and gives Geralts bottom lip a playful nip. "Unlike a certain sorceress, I cannot read minds... and guessing what's going on in that pretty head of yours is not an exact science, I'm afraid."
Geralts avoids an inquiring gaze. If we're gonna do this right- this? What do you mean?
"You- Geralt. You didn't think I invited you to my bedroll on a whim, did you? Just because it's convenient and there's no whorehouse nearby?"
But why else would you want me?
Another huff, frustrated now. Geralt is being pushed up by a hand on his chest. He goes reluctantly, instantly misses the proximity.
"Geralt look at me."
Blue on gold. Jaskier is frowning, searching Geralts' face for something and seemingly coming up empty.
"You can't be serious. Months and months I've spent trying to court you; the gifts and the dinner invitations and the ballads -the ballads, Geralt. Do you have any idea how many pitying looks I've had to endure these past weeks?"
Well. Geralt had indeed wondered at the recent tone and topic of Jaskiers songs but... it was spring, after all. A time for new love. And, as the bard had explained time and time again, it was important for a musician to "be aware of tends" and "go with the times". Therefore Geralt had simply assumed Jaskier was basing his lyrical choices on the demands of his audience. (And their pouches had come away heavy with coin.)
The general direction of his thoughts must be showing on his face because Jaskier now looks close to despair.
"Really, Geralt? Good Gods, save me from idiot Witchers," he runs a hand through his hair in agitation, making it stand up in funny tufts. Geralt would have liked to smooth it down but is certain the touch isn't welcome.
"So what- what does this mean then?" A new scent, sad like wilting flowers. Jaskier is inching backwards, widening the distance between them and Geralt feels it like a hole opening in his chest. "If you didn't pick up on my- my feelings for you- but still came to my bed... is that all it was for you, a convenient tumble between friends?"
Was it? When Geralt had accepted Jaskiers' proposal he'd not dared entertain any thoughts hopes, wishes of a deeper meaning. Even now he is certain he must be misunderstanding or dreaming. Or maybe Jaskier took a sip from the wrong flask and a Witchers potion is currently eating through his brain.
"You can't want me."
Just like Yennefer and any of the others didn't want him. His body perhaps, but nothing more. Nobody ever wanted him to stay.
"Can't? My dear Witcher, if nothing else, I assure you I know very well what I want and what I do not. I've had ten years to ponder this very issue. If you do not return my feelings that is fine. We can forget this ever happened and shall not mention it again. But do not question my sincerity or my agency in this relationship."
His tone is unusually strict and allows for no arguments. Not that Geralt necessarily wants to argue. The idea of Jaskier desiring him as more than a warm body and travel companion still feels... unrealistic. It goes against everything Geralt knows about his place in the world.
But it also fills him with a sudden, fierce longing. Like the ache in his chest from a few minutes ago but worse, a painful tingling from his belly to his fingertips that screams at him not to let Jaskier put any more distance between them.
If he has this chance, and if Jaskier will not allow himself to be talked out of it, Geralt would be a right fool to let it slip through his fingers.
I want you. He thinks, pinned by Jaskiers gaze.
I need you, I hadn't dared to hope, I don't know what I'd do without you.
Please stay.
But the words, though clear in his head, will not come to his tongue. Anxiety twists in his belly. They've not even begun going down this road and already Geralt is fucking it up.
He reaches out a bit desperately, finally smoothes down Jaskiers messy hair and pulls the bard into a kiss. Hoping to convey everything he thinks and feels through touch, Geralt mirrors Jaskiers earlier actions that had felt so good; presses tender little kisses to the bards' cheeks and eyelids, rubs their noses together in a soft caress.
Jaskier gasps, then giggles, then shuffles closer eagerly.
"Shall I take that as a yes? On the 'returning my feelings' front?"
"Mh-hm."
"Hmpf, I'll get some proper words out of you eventually," With surprising strength, Jaskier pulls his Witcher back down onto their bedroll, a soft moan leaving his lips as their still naked bodies entwine once more. "But no worries, we’ve got all the time in the world, don't we?"
"Yes, we do."