Irreconcilable marks

[deerna]

Rating: NSFW
Fandom: The Witcher
Relationship: Geralt/Jaskier
Tags: Post series, established relationship, scars, body worship, frottage
Wordcount: 1221
Notes: Partecipa alla settima settimana del COWT per la missione #6. Prompt: Una ricostruzione impegnativa.

Summary:
Geralt shows up with a scar on his face. Jaskier is used to scars, but not quite like this.

Excerpt:

It’s not too bad, honestly. Geralt still looks exactly the same, not even a new wrinkle around his eyes or his mouth (damn him), beside the pink, angry line that cuts deep in his eyebrow and continues down his cheekbone. He winces and tells him, “Well, that looks really bad,” anyway, because he can’t stop picturing the blood dripping down his face, the snarl of pain and annoyance.

{ read on AO3 | read here }

Geralt’s white hair is always the first thing Jaskier tends to notice about him. Mostly because the rest of him blends in with the darkness, since he never quite lost the habit of sitting in the darkest corner of the room, but also because it’s very pretty; and Jaskier always found it poetic, that a man who was born to kill monsters, who got rid of what’s ugly and evil for a living, brings such beauty wherever he goes.

Of course Jaskier never told him that; he keeps it for his most obscure songs, letting it melt on his tongue like the sweetest candy.

He finishes his song, takes a bow towards the audience who is just half-listening to him, before crossing the room to go greet his witcher. Geralt raises his head, rings of gold just visible in his eyes and Jaskier’s jaw goes slack.

“What the hell happened to your face?”

Geralt raises his eyebrows. “Hello to you, Jaskier.”

“Yes. Hello. Sorry. I’m just—fuck, Geralt.”

Scars are part of a witcher’s life, Jaskier knows that. He saw Geralt’s before. He saw them and touched them and kissed them; he loves all of them. Maybe this new scar is getting to him so much because he never saw Geralt’s face change before.

Geralt’s mouth twitches like he does when he’s trying not to smile, but he looks down at the pitcher of ale, golden rings going a little misshapen as his pupils contract with uncertainty. “I can see fine, still. It missed my eye.”

“I can see that, I’m just—well. That’s different, that’s all.” He sort of wants to touch it. He needs to learn its shape, to make friends with it. He doesn’t want Geralt to believe he disliked the way it looks, although he’s sort of mad about it. Another mark of pain on this man that didn’t deserve any more suffering. He licks his lips and says, “I’m not done with this set, I still have a couple songs left—but do you want to go on upstairs? Have them draw a bath in my room.”

Geralt’s pupils turn really thin for a moment, but the smile this time stretches his mouth properly, grateful. Jaskier has to get away before he does something stupid like kissing him in front of a bunch of people in a tiny village tavern, so he gets up and goes back to his singing, something easy and romantic about remembering silly shenanigans of a young love.

He gets back to his room just as Geralt is rubbing his hair dry. He has new scars on his back too, and Jaskier forgets to feel attracted to the way his lovely spine curves and just aches.

“Oh, they did a number on you,” he coos, laying his lute against the wall and going to drape himself over Geralt’s back, wrapping his arms around his waist, kissing the knobs of his vertebrae along the neck, nipping at the ruined skin there.

“Hello,” Geralt says again. “Was it a good night?”

Jaskier shrugs, keeps his mouth pressed against Geralt’s skin, breathing him in.

He never collects much in these backwater towns, but that’s fine; he’s popular enough these days he doesn’t really need to work so much for money. He travels because he likes it, because he enjoys brightening someone’s day with his songs, and also because he likes running into Geralt now and then. It’s so strange; he spent all his life dreaming about fame, and now that he cannot walk through Novigrad without being recognized on sight, he finds himself enjoying the rush of anonymity.

Maybe he really is getting old.

“Let me look at you.” He half-drags, half pushes Geralt on the bed until he’s sitting down with his back against the headboard. The witcher chuckles when Jaskier climbs on top of him, facing him, but the smile falls off his lips when Jaskier grabs his face in both hands to really look at him.

It’s not too bad, honestly. Geralt still looks exactly the same, not even a new wrinkle around his eyes or his mouth (damn him), beside the pink, angry line that cuts deep in his eyebrow and continues down his cheekbone. He winces and tells him, “Well, that looks really bad,” anyway, because he can’t stop picturing the blood dripping down his face, the snarl of pain and annoyance.

Geralt lets him look his fill, hands on Jaskier’s thighs. His body feels relaxed enough, but Jaskier can see the way his eyes keep trying to focus on his face, the way his mouth tightens in a thin line and goes slack again. “It was a cockatrice,” he says, at some point.

“Pointy bastards,” Jaskier laments. He runs a finger down the scar and Geralt closes his eyes, almost turns his face away. “Isn’t there an oil, a potion—”

“Now how this works,” Geralt cuts him off. He’s starting to sound a little upset, and Jaskier feels bad; he doesn’t mean to make him feel self-conscious. It’s just another scar, really.

He brushes his lips on his brow, on his closed eyelid, on his cut up cheek. “I don’t mind,” he reassures him, an unspoken apology. He rubs a thumb on his lower lip, feeling the give of it before capturing his mouth in a kiss. He meant to be gentle with it, but he missed Geralt something fierce and it takes the blink of an eye before it turns open-mouthed and wet and heated.

Geralt gasps and tightens his grip on the fabric of his pants; Jaskier almost groans in his mouth at the thought of how many clothes he’s still wearing, while the witcher is basically naked under him, just a flimsy piece of terry cloth keeping him decent.

He gets his doublet and pants off in record time. Geralt laughs at him; Jaskier shushes him, kissing down his neck, down his chest. He could make a map of Geralt’s body using his scars as landmarks, he thinks. He wouldn’t even need to look, like he doesn’t need to look to press his fingers down the neck of his lute while he’s playing.

“Tell me what you want,” Jaskier murmurs, wrapping around Geralt’s beautiful cock. Geralt doesn’t answer, grabs him by the neck and pulls him in another heated kiss.

They end up rutting against each other like they used to do in the middle of the woods when Jaskier was still young and too horny for words, because neither of them wants to get up and go dig around their packs looking for slick.

“You’ll fuck me next time,” Geralt slurs in his neck afterwards, his arms tight around Jaskier as they lie on their sides, tired and sated. He’s silent for a moment, and then he murmurs, quiet and uncertain, “Does it look that bad?”

Jaskier aches, but he forces a chuckle out. “No, silly, it doesn’t. It looks great, actually.” He doesn’t tell him how retroactively terrified it makes him, because Geralt already knows how much Jaskier worries whenever he gets hurt. He doesn’t need to hear his nagging right now. “I guess I enjoyed having all your scars for me, and now everyone gets to see that one. It’ll be a hard adjustment for me.”

Geralt buries a laughter in the nape of his neck.