Somewhat Clear

Rating: NSFW
Fandom: the witcher
Relationship: Geralt/Jaskier (mention of past eskel/geralt and geralt/ofc)
Tags: asexual Geralt, explicit/implicit sexual content (blow jobs, hand jobs, semi-public sex, anal), serious injuries, hurt/comfort, vomiting, temporary hearing loss, consensual underage sex, mention of sex workers, canon-typical witcher childhood, communication, non-sexual intimacy, hair brushing, burns
Wordcount: 9047
Notes: written for śmiech! Thanks for being so patient ;;

Summary:
Jaskier and Geralt are in a relationship. While Geralt does have feelings for Jaskier, he struggles to think about sex as anything other than something transactional. What else could a witcher like him offer to someone like Jaskier, after all?

Excerpt:

Not much changes between them: the witcher kills monsters; the bard sings. But also: they fuck.

{ read on AO3 | read here }

I.

Geralt kisses him, and Jaskier spends a few days thinking he imagined the whole thing.

He wouldn’t put it past himself; he’s a poet and a day dreamer and a delusional, romantic bastard after all. But it’s all real. Very real. Somewhat weird. Completely unbelievable. But real.

Not much changes between them: the witcher kills monsters; the bard sings. But also: they fuck.

Geralt’s approach to sex is sudden and practical—of someone used to make the most of little time and less than ideal conditions, Jaskier imagines. Undressing seems to be an afterthought at best, a waste of time at worst. He’s a little awkward about casual touching, and doesn’t seem to know how to take things slow—he just goes for it, kissing Jaskier stupid until they’re both hard enough to cut stone, until he’s begging for it.

He often brings Jaskier to completion first, brutally, and never asks him to return the favour; he takes care of himself instead, quiet and almost too quickly, before Jaskier can recover from his own orgasm and help. It made Jaskier protest more than once, but Geralt swears it’s fine, that it’s more practical that way.

They usually fuck under the stars, unclean, frantic and almost too hastily—no romance to it, not in a way he’s used to. He can’t seem to be able to dictate their pace, because the witcher always looks briefly alarmed when Jaskier tries to initiate, like he doesn’t know where to put his hands if Jaskier is in charge; he can’t seem to be able to predict when Geralt feels in the mood, because by the time he’s figured it out he’s already floating on the closest cloud after his climax.

But whenever they’re done, after they’ve caught their breath and cleaned up a little, Geralt never fails to wrap him in his arms, holding him like he’s the most precious thing in the world, and to fall asleep with his whole body pressed against Jaskier’s, warm and solid and relaxed, face buried in his neck or between his shoulder blades like he’s trying to fit under his skin.

It pulls at something in Jaskier’s chest and makes him forget that he had any complaint or doubt at all.

II.

Sometimes Geralt picks up a contract, kills a monster, and Jaskier has to spend half an hour yelling at the local lord because he refuses to pay the witcher for his work. He’s famous enough that people let him get his way, these days, but gods, he shouldn’t have to.

“I can’t believe the nerve of some people,” Jaskier mutters as they walk into the stables, his heart still pounding with rage. “Next time I’m gonna personally pick up the creature’s corpse and dump it in his lap.” He turned to Geralt. “Is anything missing? I didn’t stop to check.”

“Seems like it’s all there,” Geralt says, feeling the pouch in his hand.

“Ugh, how often does it happen when I’m not around? Actually don’t tell me, that was depressing.” It was just a bit disheartening; Jaskier thought his songs had helped. People refusing to pay him for his work—it meant it wasn’t going as well as he hoped. “Stupid little ungrateful bastard—”

“Jaskier, it’s fine.” Geralt pats him on the shoulder, a bit like he might have done to a nervous horse. “Lords and nobles will always be greedy—but people in the villages have been spitting on my boots a little less often.”

Jaskier sighs. “I know you think it’s fine, but it could be better,” he says, walking into the box as Geralt holds the gate open for him. Then he looks at the empty space, frowning in confusion. “Did we get the wrong box? I think Roach is stabled in the next—oh.” Jaskier’s breath catches as he watches Geralt close the door behind himself and sink to his knees. “What are you doing?”

Geralt doesn’t quite smile—he never does, but Jaskier can see the mirth on his face anyway. “Nobody’s around. I thought you might like being thanked properly.”

He’s not quite young enough anymore to get hard so quickly he goes light-headed, but the feeling is very much the same. Something about Geralt looking up at him like that— “Fuck. Fuck, of course.”

The witcher doesn’t even take off his gloves before unlacing Jaskier’s breeches. As always, when he gets started, he’s frighteningly efficient; his mouth is wet and warm and soft, and Jaskier closes his eyes against the wave of pleasure, jaw falling slack as he tries to stifle the moans climbing his throat, hands buried in Geralt’s hair.

He’s not even embarrassed at how quickly he finishes; his knees turn to jelly when he looks down and sees Geralt discreetly spit in the messy straw covering the floor and wipe his chin on his sleeve. “Gods,” he gasps, touching Geralt’s cheek, watching his eyes go half lidded as he turns his face in Jaskier’s palm like a cat, “you’re too much.”

Geralt’s mouth curves against his skin as he presses a kiss against his fingers.

III.

Sometimes Jaskier wonders how many times Geralt, in Jaskier’s absence, pulled the tack off Roach, curled up on the bare ground in lieu of making camp, and called it a night. He’s seen him making himself go through certain motions for Jaskier’s sake after a hunt too many times not to recognize exhaustion in his every gesture.

But Jaskier knows how to light a fire now. He knows how to set up the bedrolls for maximum heat preservation, and he knows how to kill, skin and cook a rabbit for a stew. So that’s what he does, while Geralt is off killing monsters. He doesn’t like it, but he gets to enjoy Geralt’s face when he comes back to find dinner ready to be eaten, and it’s enough.

“The snare worked—which of course, since you were the one setting it up—but this might be the best stew I’ve ever made, if I must say so myself,” Jaskier greets him, stirring the pot one more time. “Are you hungry?”

“Famished,” Geralt murmurs.

Jaskier can tell he’s tired. His expression is as blank as always, but his pupils turn slightly darker as he sets his eyes on the steaming pot, like a cat spotting a mouse on the other side of the room. He barely takes the time to put his swords away and to tie the monster trophy to Roach’s saddle, before sitting down to take the mug full of stew from Jaskier’s hands; he eats slowly, and he leaves the tin on the ground beside his feet, rather than immediately cleaning it up and putting it away.

His eyes go unfocused in the sharp firelight, as he folds one leg to his chest, cheek pressed against his knee. Jaskier keeps an eye on him while he finishes his own dinner and starts practising his routine on the lute, fingers working through scales and arpeggios almost without his input. Geralt doesn’t quite fall asleep, unless witchers have the ability to sleep with their eyes open, but Jaskier can tell he’s not quite conscious, either.

His fingers feel tired and stiff from the cold after a while. When he stops and the sound fades, Geralt blinks and looks at him. Jaskier smiles, and then stifles a yawn. “We should go to bed. It’s pretty late.”

Geralt nods, unfolding himself from his spot like he’s not quite sure how to work his limbs anymore. He tries to tidy up the remains of their dinner, but Jaskier stops him. “Leave it. Go lie down, I’ll be there in a minute,” he tells him, wrapping the lute in its fur covers before stuffing it back in its case.

He’s basically asleep on his feet by the time he lets himself drop onto the bedroll next to Geralt, barely remembering to kick his boots off before crawling under the covers. The witcher pulls him closer, a comforting warmth against his side as sleep drags him deeper into unconsciousness, heavy and dark and noiseless—

The kiss is sudden, but not completely unwelcome. Warmth, his body registers, pleased and fuzzy, as Geralt presses him heavily into the thin padding. A distant echo of pleasure spreads along his nerves—but he’s so tired that even enjoying himself feels like a tremendous effort.

“Darling,” he says delicately, pushing Geralt away and rolling them on their sides. The witcher doesn’t look any more awake than he feels. “What are you doing?”

Geralt blinks, opens his mouth and closes it again. He licks his lips. “You,” he starts—and then cuts himself off with a huge yawn, an impressive display of sharper-than-normal teeth glinting faintly in the dim light of the fire. “I mean—thanks?” he says.

What? Jaskier chuckles. “You’re welcome. Go to sleep.”

Ultimately, the witcher has no words for Jaskier in the morning, but he does have nimble, expert fingers wrapped around his dick, and a small curve to his lips that on his normally-stoic face was the equivalent of a wicked grin.

***

When the door swings open on badly oiled hinges and Geralt comes into the room, Jaskier feels cold all over. He’d seen Geralt hurt before; he’d seen him limp, he’d seen him bleed, and in one memorable occasion he had screamed himself hoarse with horror when Geralt had to set his own shoulder after he’d knocked it out of its socket in an encounter against a chort—but this is different. Something is wrong. Really wrong.

The room, lit only by a couple tallow candle on Jaskier’s bedside stool, is too dark to make out Geralt’s expression, but the Witcher moves like every step he takes might send him crumbling on the floor if not carefully positioned, and he hesitates letting go of the door while he’s closing it behind himself.

Jaskier rolls out of bed. “What happened?” he asks, slipping under his arm to help him towards the bed.

“I’m fine,” Geralt slurs, swatting at him.

“Horseshit,” Jaskier snaps, clinging to his arm. “You can barely walk in a straight line, don’t give me that crap. Are you bleeding?”

Geralt doesn’t answer. He tries again to shake him off—and then freezes up, sucking in a breath. “Bucket.”

Jaskier frowns. “What? Oh. Oh, fuck, hang on—” he scrambles to grab the chamber pot from under the bed and manages to place it in the splash zone just in time, as Geralt bends in half.

The liquid that splatters the container is dark and viscous, and Jaskier would have a hard time to identify it as vomit if he hadn’t just seen it happen, because it doesn’t look like anything that should be inside a person’s body. Geralt sits heavily on the bed, basically letting his knees buckle under himself, wipes his mouth on his wrist—and starts listing on one side.

“Nope, nope, nope—” Jaskier stops him from falling over, catching him with both hands on his shoulders. “Try to stay up, we don’t want this to happen again,” he mutters, taking the bowl from Geralt’s hands and pushing it back under the bed, out of the way. “Gods, I can’t see for shit here, let me grab the candles—don’t go anywhere.“

“I’m—fine,” Geralt repeats but he sounds unsure.

“As we already established, that’s a gross understatement of your current status,” Jaskier huffs as he lights another candle. He misses Oxenfurt’s beeswax ones—tallow is cheaper and more available but even with four of them under his nose he feels blind. Or maybe that’s the panic putting dark spots in his vision…

When he turns back to Geralt, the witcher is struggling to take off one of his gauntlets using his teeth. “Here, let me help,” Jaskier sighs. “What’s gotten into you?”

Geralt doesn’t answer, again. He closes his eyes as Jaskier undoes the clasps on his shoulders. The black leather of his pauldrons is dusted with silver shavings, glittering faintly in the low light like a misplaced galaxy. It would be pretty, if Jaskier weren’t worried about the signs of potions toxicity still spreading around Geralt’s eyes, and the clamminess of his skin, and the track of dark something drying on his neck, and the way he keeps to space out, dizzy and dazed—

A distressed, pained whine comes out of Geralt’s throat when Jaskier accidentally catches the side of his head with his elbow as he’s helping him out of the gambeson next. Jaskier’s stomach flips with guilt, watching Geralt squeeze his eyes shut and bare his teeth in pain, a hand pressed against his ear.

“Fuck, what did I do? Let me see,” Jaskier murmurs, pulling at Geralt’s wrist.

Geralt drops his hand and lets out a shuddering sigh. “I’m fine,” he grits out as Jaskier checks him over, turning his head from one side to the other as gently as he can. And he finally sees—traces of dried blood inside his ears.

“Oh darling,” Jaskier gasps, horrified. “You’re not hearing a word of what I’m saying, are you?”

Geralt pulls away, shaking his head like a dog trying to get rid of something lodged in his ear. “I am fine,” he insists once more. Jaskier is starting to hate that word—but Geralt doesn’t stop there, this time. “A little dizzy,” he admits. “Hurts, but I’ll be fine.” He grimaces. “Feels weird to speak.”

Despite the fact that there’s no reason to feel relieved at all, Jaskier feels calmer now that he knows what’s wrong with the witcher (at least some of it). Helplessness digs at his guts, but he can only trust Geralt’s on this.

“Alright,” he says—more for his own benefit than Geralt’s, at this point. “Let’s make you a bit more comfortable so you can rest up and heal properly, shall we?”

He helps him out of his boots, which get unceremoniously shoved in a corner of the room, and out of his tattered shirt, which is so soaked up in blood it’s stiff to the touch in some areas; yet the only injuries Jaskier finds on Geralt are a reddish blooming of bruises on the side of his ribcage and along his back—already healing, from the colour—and a couple of bites on his bicep, weeping a dark sticky fluid that looks too thick to be blood.

His bad knee—the one Geralt never mentioned but Jaskier noticed anyway—is bothering him; he can tell because the witcher grits his teeth when Jaskier jostles it while pulling the leather trousers off. It looks a little swollen, too; Jaskier touches it with light fingers for a moment, before getting up to fetch the water pitcher and a towel.

The witcher jumps a little when Jaskier presses the wet rag against his skin to wipe away the worst of the blood and the grime; Jaskier shushes him, placing kisses as he goes—hoping to relax him a little, as it were, but it just seems to get Geralt more and more tense, instead of less.

Jaskier frowns, and moves to kneel on the bed next to Geralt, tipping his head with two fingers towards him. “Are you okay?” he asks, mouthing the words slowly so that Geralt can read his lips.

Geralt licks his lips, tilting his head. His eyes are bright and round like coins in the light of the candles, his pupils so thin they almost disappear in the gold. He blinks up at Jaskier, then he leans in and kisses him full on the mouth.

It’s a little disgusting; it tastes like vomit and something acrid like rot, and it’s a little too deep too soon, like always—but Jaskier feels a little touched by the gesture. Current situation aside, where speaking up is even less of an option than usual, Jaskier has started to accept it as a token of gratitude and sign of relief from Geralt, who doesn’t know how to use his words to express them.

On the other hand, he really wishes the witcher didn’t try to escalate things so quickly though, he thinks as he feels Geralt’s palm on his crotch. Sure, he’s glad to see that he apparently feels better enough to be in the mood for that kind of thing but also—gods.

“Oh dear,” he laughs, pulling away and swatting his wrist. “You’ll be the death of me. Shouldn’t you keep your strength, you insatiable thing? You should rest so you can heal! Let me get you a nightshirt so we can go to bed. To sleep.” He doesn’t actually know how much of that Geralt got, but he hopes the wagging finger was expressive enough to convey the general sense of naughty, naughty witcher. Geralt only gives him another wide-eyed head-tilt.

Jaskier shakes his head and steps away to go rummage in their pack. He hears a flump behind him, and when he turns back towards the bed the witcher is curled up on his side, his eyes squeezed shut. He feels his heart skip a beat with fear. Geralt was fine, a minute ago. Is the pain in his ear flaring up again? Is there something internal they completely missed?

“Fuck,” he murmurs under his breath, and touches Geralt’s shoulder. “Geralt?”

The witcher opens his eyes. The look he gives Jaskier is glassy and distant, before looking away. He reaches out, slowly grabs the edge of Jaskier’s shirt, almost timid. “Sorry. Don’t leave?” he chokes out in the quietest whisper.

“Oh, dear heart,” Jaskier croaks, letting the shirt fall to the floor and just crawling in bed with Geralt. Fuck the nightshirt—did Geralt think he was packing? He wraps his arms around his body, careful not to squeeze or hit anywhere tender, and curls himself around Geralt, holding him as tightly as he dares.

***

I.

Geralt cannot sleep. He always has trouble sleeping when he’s alone in his bed. Most of his cohort was glad to move out of the Bastion and to finally have their own beds

(so many free beds, now. Everyone pretends not to know why—)

but not Geralt. He’d gotten so used to hearing his mates breathe next to him, the silence feels unnatural.

(he lies in his cot alone, while the mutagens burn in his veins, again. It’s too quiet. It’s too quiet—)

He gets up and crawls out of bed on light feet, sits on Eskel’s bed. The other boy immediately wakes up with a startled gasp. He blinks up at Geralt with a groggy, annoyed expression. “Geralt? What the fuck?”

“Sorry. Can I sleep here?”

“Are you serious? There’s barely enough room for me, we’re never gonna fit.” He’s right. Eskel hit a growth spurt far earlier than most of their cohort and he’s been filling up a lot since then—the mutagens helping him bulk up rather than eating away at his frame like they had seemed to do with Geralt. “Go bother someone else.”

There isn’t anyone else. Gweld is dead. The others cannot stand him. They hate that the teachers singled him out. They think it made him special; Geralt doesn’t know to explain he would rather be invisible than under the teachers’ scrutiny all the time.

He swallows the knot in his throat. “Please?” he begs, quietly. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Eskel frowns. Geralt leans forward and kisses him. Eskel gasps, taken by surprise, but doesn’t pull away, so Geralt puts a hand on his knee. He walks his fingers up his inner thigh and under his sleepshirt until he finds his dick—he’s not quite hard yet, but Geralt isn’t in a hurry. He’s enjoying the kiss.

(He likes kissing better than other things; he had liked it a lot, when the teachers brought them down to the village at the foot of the mountain, and the girl Geralt was paired up with offered to let him try even if it wasn’t quite on the price list. She’d felt sorry for him, because he didn’t seem like he was enjoying himself—not like the others did, at least.

Geralt enjoys sex just fine. While he doesn’t quite get the urge the others seem to have, he doesn’t find it unpleasant—but other things were better. The kiss, for example. Falling asleep next to the girl, with his arms around her waist and her head pillowed on his collarbone. The smell of her hair, the warmth of her skin.

But he enjoyed the sex thing, because he knew what came after.)

Eskel seems more interested into paying attention to him when Geralt wraps his hand around his dick and rubs the thumb over the head, sliding under the skin there. He moans quietly in his mouth, and Geralt deepens the kiss as he starts stroking him in earnest.

It doesn’t take long. “Fuck!” Eskel says, coming all over Geralt’s fist. Someone from the back of the room shushes them with a grumbled curse. Geralt discreetly wipes his hand on the corner of the sheet.

Eskel lies back down with a sigh, and scoots a bit further near the other edge of the cot. “Come on. If you move too much I’m kicking you out.”

Geralt stifles a grin, and lies down, tucking himself into Eskel’s side. Eskel grumbles a little, but wraps an arm around his shoulders, holding him close. He’s asleep before he can register how happy he feels.

II.

“Aren’t you that witcher?” the innkeeper inquires, as he places the mug of ale on the bar.

Geralt freezes and makes the mistake of glancing up. The innkeeper is sort-of frowning, sort-of squinting to see better under his hood, but he doesn’t look like he’s reaching for a weapon. Not yet.

“’Tis you, isn’t it? Geralt of Rivia,” the man insists. “What was it—”

Geralt braces for what comes next. The Butcher of Blaviken. Murderer. Monster. He gulps down the ale, trying not to look like he’s in a hurry. He doesn’t want it to go to waste, if he’s going to get kicked out. It’s bad enough he stopped at all—he shouldn’t have. Money is tight. He can do without drinking, but he cannot do with his armour going to pieces—

“—The White Wolf!”

The witcher coughs, choking on the ale. “What?”

“The White Wolf! That’s how they call you in the songs.”

Geralt coughs again, attempting to clear up his pipes. “What songs?”

“Oh, a bard came through a few days ago—sang a bunch about this white haired witcher. I thought he was making it up, but then he had this piece about the witcher slaying a dragon right over the hills in Kernow—”

“Forktail. Not a dragon,” Geralt says, recognizing the name of the place. His tongue feels numb.

“Well, whatever it was,” the innkeeper huffs, “It was eating all the county’s cattle, and now it’s not! So thank you for that—if it’s you, but I reckon there aren’t many witchers with white hair around.”

(There aren’t many witchers around at all.)

He finishes drinking the ale. He meant to order some food, as well, but his stomach is tied in knots now. He just wants to get back on the Trail, Roach’s familiar gait under him and the familiar smell of dust and horse from the road.

He puts a coin on the bar.

The innkeeper waves him off. “Oh no, it’s on the house. For killing the beast.”

Geralt blinks. “I’ve been paid already.” Debts are dangerous. There’s no such thing as free.

“As a thank you,” the man insists.

Geralt pockets the coin. He grabs his swords, nods to the innkeeper, and slips into the night.

III.

As expected, the fight with the zeugl is a complete nightmare. They’re not smart or difficult creatures to face, but Geralt really dislikes dealing with them: he hates going into the sewers, he hates playing tentacle whack-a-mole, and he hates the smell. By the time he’s done with it, he’s covered in bruises, ichor and garbage.

Rinsing in the river only does so much; the guy who issued the contract almost throws up when Geralt shows up to be paid. He tries not to mind too much when people in the street give him a wider berth than usual.

(No one spits on his boots. No one signs themselves. No one throws rocks at him.)

Something in his gut unclenches when he hears Jaskier play, when he enters the inn and finds him sitting on a table, legs dangling off the table like a child, singing a song about aquatic monsters (not drowners—drowners aren’t poetic enough, according to the bard, whatever that means) and stopping abruptly as soon as he sees Geralt.

Poor thing, let’s get you somewhere where you can get properly clean, Jaskier tells him, eyes shining with excitement. Did you know there’s a bath house in town?

And of course Geralt knows (he passed through Roggeveen enough times to know it, and to know that ten, twenty, thirty years ago he wasn’t welcome to break his fast at the local inn, let alone to let his mutant body touch their waters) and of course he doesn’t point out that a witcher cannot afford bathhouses—money that could be used to repair armour and to buy supplies wasn’t to be spent in frivolous things. Jaskier doesn’t have such concerns.

The bard hangs off Geralt’s arm, despite him being still half-covered in shit and guts, and smiles and laughs; Geralt desperately lets him drag him along.

They tuck themselves away into one of the alcoves off the main pool, hidden from indiscreet eyes by thick curtains. The soap Jaskier uses to wash his back and his hair smells sweet and herbal, and it lathers quickly in his hands, banishing the last of the sewer smell down the drain. It’s nice—having him close, feeling Jaskier’s hands against his skin, the warmth of his body against his.

It’s easy to straddle him, as hot water envelops them, melting the tension in his muscles. Jaskier’s eyes are dark and his smile is wide, as Geralt sinks on him. Dear heart, he gasps against Geralt’s mouth, stroking up his thigh, his hips meeting his ass, you’ll be the death of me. Geralt’s legs burn for the effort of keeping himself moving, but he doesn’t mind, because Jaskier brings him to bath houses, and roasts rabbits while he hunts, and sings songs that make people like him.

Geralt’s gut flips every time Jaskier touches his neck, his collarbone, his chest. It feels good. It feels frail. He doesn’t know what to do with it. He clenches around Jaskier until the bard comes with a moan, until he’s gripping him by the hips so tightly it would bruise, if Geralt weren’t a witcher, and he hopes it’s enough. He brings himself off with quick, rough strokes, watching Jaskier catch his breath—

(—he wouldn’t ask Jaskier, Jaskier has done enough, he’s always doing so much that Geralt doesn’t deserve—)

—and slips off the bard’s hips, settling down in the hot water next to him.

Jaskier rolls over, head pillowed on his chest and arms around his waist, and Geralt tries not to freeze. Jaskier’s hair smells of soap and chamomile, but it’s the hint of sweat, the hint of him, that does Geralt in.

He breathes him in, even knowing that he’ll never be able to pay Jaskier back for letting him do this.

IV.

It was a contract for a creature that was killing cattle, poultry and family dogs around the country. A garkain fledgling, he thought; the young ones took a while to work their way up to humans. Relatively not dangerous, not to a trained witcher. Geralt had never needed special preparation to deal with one of them.

It was supposed to be a quick kill. It was. But only because the fully-grown, half-feral garkain that he tracked down instead was already so banged up and closed to the end of its natural life, Geralt felt like he was mercy-killing it, rather than doing pest control. Holed up in an old abandoned barn just outside town, cornered, wounded and half-mad with hunger and fear, it fought the witcher with all it had.

Geralt doesn’t remember how he makes it out alive.

(brain damage?)

He knows he poisoned himself on too many potions, in his frantic attempt to nullify the advantage the creature has on him. The lining of his stomach burns fiercely: it feels like it’s peeling off and trying to climb up his throat. Blood comes out of his ears, a deafening ringing swallows the sounds of the night. The stench of monster ichor impregnates the air, cloying and intense. Everything hurts. He might die here.

(Jaskier’s smile as they went their separate ways earlier in the evening. The invisible crease of worry on his face. The good natured ribbing about meeting later…)

He grunts and pulls himself upright. Walking is hell. He stumbles through the fields, across town, inside the inn, up the stairs. His bad knee screams at him, his stomach roils and his silver sword weighs a thousand stones in his hand—but he finally opens the door and Jaskier is there.

The bard jumps on his feet as soon as Geralt steps into the room. The naked fear on his face speaks all the words that Geralt’s wounded ears cannot hear. He clings to his arm, helps him on the bed, strips his armour off and wipes away the blood—touches him with the gentlest hands Geralt has ever been touched with.

(Jaskier, always doing things for him. He doesn’t cry. He can’t. He won’t.)

Geralt kisses him on the mouth, desperate to fill the gap, desperate to pay the debt—but Jaskier stops, shakes his head at him, turns away. The witcher panics, shameful and needy, aware that he’s being clingy like the child he was never allowed to be but unable to stop himself, through the fog of his dulled senses. He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

He wakes up much later, feeling groggy and dizzy, the night before a nightmare etched in his bones.

Jaskier is next to him. Curled up in bed, right in his arms, their bodies slotted together like they meant to fit like that.

(More kindness he won’t be able to repay him for)

***

As it’s often the case, it’s a small thing that ends up throwing their relationship off rhythm. A tiny, throwaway comment, made in the heat of the moment, hot air passing through.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything, but it changed everything.

It goes like this:

Jaskier doesn’t even remember what they were doing that day. He only remembers the frankly mind-blowing sex they had, the brutally quick, unfailingly delightful way Geralt had brought him to the edge and right off it; he’d let Jaskier wrap a hand around his fist while he jerked himself off on Jaskier’s chest, still seated on his softening cock — a surprisingly rare occurrence, since the witcher usually preferred to leave as soon as Jaskier came, to finish his business and clean up out of reach, to Jaskier’s immense disappointment — and then he’d stretched out next to Jaskier on the bedroll, all long limbs and liquid, sated grace.

“We need to maybe slow down a little,” Jaskier laughs, as Geralt snuggles closer. “We’re gonna blow out my back or something at this rate. I’m not as young as I used to be, and I’m not getting younger.”

“But you like sex,” Geralt argues, eyes closing like a cat’s preparing for a nap in a warm spot.

A smirk plays easy on Jaskier’s lips. He does like sex. He doesn’t enjoy feeling sore for days afterwards, though, which is something that has been happening more and more often, especially when their frolicking happened on less than ideal surfaces. “Like you don’t,” he teases.

He expects Geralt to laugh, caught. The witcher just keeps smiling, a non-committal hum deep in his throat.

It’s subtle, but Jaskier is used to subtle by now. He watches Geralt’s smile change from relaxed to tense, and feels his own guts go cold with dread.

“Geralt?” he calls, quiet but serious, the playful mood gone. “Is everything alright?”

A flinch. Basically a whole grimace, on Geralt. “Mmmh?”

“Don’t mmmh me, something is happening here.” Jaskier thinks, quickly, mind jumping to the worst conclusion possible right away and fighting to spit it out. “Was that— You—you don’t like sex?”

Again, Jaskier hopes for laughter. Sarcasm. The witcher is quiet for what feels like a long moment.

“That’s not it,” Geralt mumbles. He sounds defensive and just slightly huffy, like he’s had this conversation before (which strikes Jaskier as terrible for some indefinite reason) and he’s not looking forward to having it again. “I wouldn’t do it if I minded. I had fun today, don’t worry. I’m fine.”

Jaskier flashes him a smile with too many teeth. “You know, I’m starting to have a bad reaction to you telling me that you’re fine because it usually means you’re anything but,” he says, trying to keep the worry out of his voice. He hears himself fail. “Look, of course I worry. I figured out that you don’t like me initiating or touching you without warning but— we’ve been having sex for a while now!” Memories of dozens of couplings blur in his mind. “If you’re—forcing yourself for my sake…”

The afterglow is definitely ruined. Geralt surreptitiously extricates himself and lies on his back a little further away on the bedroll. “I’m not forcing myself.” He frowns at the sky above them. “You like it, I don’t mind. It’s a small thing.”

“You don’t mind it. But you don’t like it? When we…?”

“It’s fine,” Geralt insists. Then he shrugs. “I prefer other things, I suppose?”

“Like what?”

The witcher pulls a face. He looks like he would rather fight a zeugl than say.

“Geralt.”

“I don’t know. Kissing.” He’s not looking at Jaskier. “Being close.”

Kissing. Being close. Jaskier thinks about Geralt fucking him like he’s running out of time, sucking him off so quickly he goes light-headed, but spending the whole night afterwards holding him close, slowly pressing his mouth on Jaskier’s skin like he’s trying to draw a map of it in his mind.

“Okay. Okay,” he says, digesting the new information. “I have to ask. Is it me?” he blurts out after a brief silence. “Is it men?”

“No. It’s everyone. I’ve always been like this. It’s fine. Eskel didn’t get it either.” He snorts. “Though he never stopped me from sucking his cock, despite only liking women, so I say he gets it more than he thinks.” He shrugs. “The act is pleasurable. But I’d rather be done with it quickly.”

“And yet you’re the one initiating all the time.”

“You like sex,” Geralt repeats. “I’m good at it. It’s only fair.”

“I do like sex, but I thought—” Jaskier’s throat closes up. “I know you said you’re not forcing yourself, but you have been doing it just for me, then.”

Geralt shrugs again, but he looks deflated now. “I don’t have much else to offer.”

“Oh, dear heart.” Jaskier’s soul feels about to rip apart. He wants to find whoever convinced Geralt of that ridiculous notion and punch them in the teeth. “You have so much to offer! So much! But even if you didn’t, that’s not— that’s not necessary. You love me, don’t you?” He immediately bites his tongue. Oh, how unfair of him to ask something like that. Geralt never said; but even if he did, it wasn’t what Jaskier meant—

“I don’t know,” the witcher admits, looking pained, before Jaskier can take it back and apologise. “Witchers—” He trails off. Jaskier knows he was going to say that can’t feel emotion nonsense, but he’s glad he didn’t have to hear it again. “I don’t know if it’s love, in the sense you mean. But I— don’t want you to leave.”

“It’s fine if you don’t know what you’re feeling exactly,” Jaskier reassures him. “I—you don’t have to feel the same as I do either, but I do love you. I wouldn’t just leave. Especially not because I’m not getting enough sex.”

“I know, I think. I would mind you sleeping with other people, if I didn’t.” A beat. “I think I feel indebted.”

“Indebted,” Jaskier repeats. “Indebted for what?”

Another shrug. “You do a lot for me.”

“Like what?”

But Geralt refuses to elaborate. Jaskier watches him look at the sky with a blank expression for a while, then he reaches out and he touches his face as tenderly as he can. The witcher twitches a little, his golden cat-like eyes glancing at Jaskier’s face and away again.

“Tell you what,” he says, slowly. “Whatever tab you think it’s open between us—scrubbed clean. We’re starting over. If I do anything, I will do it because I want to, and I won’t expect you to pay me back, unless I explicitly ask you. But you’ve been giving me a lot without asking for anything in exchange. So I want you to think about something you want me to do, for your own enjoyment, and if it’s something I find agreeable, we’ll do it. Mind, we’re still not keeping score,” he pointed out. “This is just to say that we can both ask for things.”

The witcher still looks tense. Jaskier leans down, slow enough that Geralt can turn him away if he wants to, and kisses him. Geralt closes his eyes and melts under his mouth, lips parting with a trembling sigh, letting Jaskier have his way. “Do we have a deal?” Jaskier murmurs against his mouth.

Geralt doesn’t open his eyes. “Deal.”

***

I.

Not much changes between them: the witcher kills monsters; the bard sings. But also: Geralt doesn’t try to initiate sex anymore. Moreover, now that Jaskier knows to look for it, Geralt’s anxiety about feeling the need to pay back for things is as clear as day—and it's a bit painful to watch, at first.

Whenever Jaskier steps in for a difficult negotiation with the local lord, when he pays for the room, when he tidies up their camp while the witcher is off killing monsters, Geralt spends the rest of the day pacing at the corners of Jaskier’s vision like a wolf trapped in an enclosure.

Jaskier figures it’s going to take him a while to adjust. But day by day the fidgeting seems only to grow worse.

“Do I need to sit on you?” he snaps at Geralt one evening as they’re settling down for the night. He doesn’t mean to sound so irritated; but it’s been a long day and he’s been watching Geralt struggle to wind down for hours, and he cannot focus on playing his routine with the witcher walking back and forth from one side of the clearance they chose as a camping site to the other.

Geralt stops in his tracks, guiltily glances back at Jaskier with a startled look on his face, and goes to sit next to the fire, a few paces away. The bard shakes his head, feeling only slightly bad, and goes back to his exercises, losing himself a little in the repetitive harmonies.

After what feels like a long time, while Jaskier is finally putting his lute away, Geralt breaks. “Would you?”

Jaskier looks up. “What?”

The witcher gestures vaguely. “Sit on me.”

“Oh. Like. Sexually?”

Geralt shrugs. “If you want. But I meant it more like. Here.” He gestures down at himself, awkwardly.

“Of course.” He tucks the lute case away with the rest of their things, and walks over to sit in Geralt’s lap. “Mmm, comfy seat,” he comments, leaning with his arms over Geralt’s shoulders and wriggling a little.

Geralt lets out a sigh, resting his forehead against Jaskier’s chest and hiding his expression. He slides his hands to the small of Jaskier’s back and up his spine before hugging him properly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Are you comfortable?” The witcher nods against his chest. “Good.”

He’s very comfortable, himself. Geralt is warm and solid, a lovely contrast against the chilly evening air. It would’ve turned sexual pretty quickly, before, but now the witcher seems content to just sit with Jaskier’s weight in his lap. They stay like that for a while, Geralt breathing slowly and deeply, his chin over Jaskier’s shoulder, their shared warmth seeping into each other. It’s nice and intimate, and it lights Jaskier up from the inside out.

He definitely didn’t mind the sex but this—this is different. This feels real.

II.

Geralt’s comb is a surprisingly pretty thing, with a sort of rough elegance. It has wide teeth, it’s made out of some kind of strange ivory (a monster bone, perhaps?) and it sports a crude decorative pattern along the flat edge. It’s odd and delicate in the witcher’s rough hand, and yet it strikes Jaskier as being very Geralt — useful and practical, but still beautiful and eye-catching.

“Did you make this?” Jaskier asks, impressed. “What’s made of?”

“It’s basilisk bone,” Geralt answers, holding it out.

Jaskier takes the comb. It’s smooth to the touch, like sanded wood, but it’s shinier and slicker in spots where it's been worn down with use. It has been with Geralt for a long time. “It’s very nice.”

“Thank you,” Geralt says, slightly clipped. A thin line appears between his eyebrows, and Jaskier smiles. Overthinker.

“Do you want me to comb your hair for you?”

The line disappears. “Please,” Geralt murmurs.

He sits on the floor between Jaskier’s legs, back to him, the tense line of his shoulders going slack the instant Jaskier starts carding his fingers through his hair. It’s clean for once, slightly damp from the bath, and fully free from ties and bits and grease.

“You have such lovely hair,” Jaskier coos, admiring the way the silvery strands catch the low light. It could be lovelier: as it is, it feels frail, brittle and tangled under Jaskier’s fingertips. He makes a note of acquiring a certain oil. “Have you had people do it for you before?”

“Couldn’t spare the coin very often,” Geralt says, sounding far away, a slight slur in his voice, “but I like when someone else touches it. Feels nice.”

“Well, you’re in luck. I definitely don’t mind doing it for free. In fact, I could do this all day, if you let me,” Jaskier says, fixing the worst of the knots with his fingers, before switching to the comb, starting from the tips. “When I was in Oxenfurt—did I ever tell you? I used to wear my hair much longer than this. We all did, really, it was a thing. I could never pull off the long-and-straight look that was most popular, but there was a time my friends and I let it grow to our chins and curled it with hot irons! Elven fashion, you see.” He sighs wistfully, chuckling at his past self shenanigans. “Anyway, one of my roommates did wear it long, but he was so lazy with it, it broke my heart! I had to beg him all the time to let me brush it, because I couldn’t stand to see it so unkempt…”

Eventually the knots are gone. There’s something extremely satisfying about running the comb from root to tip without it snagging at all — especially the low almost-purr that emerges from Geralt’s throat when the comb scratches lightly against his scalp.

“Do you want me to tie it back?” Jaskier asks.

The witcher has started leaning against his thigh at some point, his forehead pressed against his knee and his legs tucked close against his chest. “Mmm,” he answers, barely awake.

“Actually even better— can I put plaits in it? It would be your usual half-do, only braided. Nothing eccentric.”

“Whatever you want,” Geralt mumbles.

Jaskier smiles, and gets to work.

III.

“I don’t know why,” Jaskier croaks, trying to keep his stomach from flipping, “but I always assumed you Witchers were resistant to fire.”

Geralt’s pained grimace — the deepest expression Jaskier has ever seen on his features, and it had taken a forktail burning the skin off the witcher’s hands to put it there — turns slightly sardonic. “We’re not.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Geralt plunges his ruined hands in the cold water of the nearby stream, and hisses a string of curses. Jaskier grimaces in sympathy. “Can I do anything to help?”

“Silver sword,” Geralt grunts. “Check for liquefaction marks. If it’s melted, I’m fucked.”

“I meant about your hands!” Jaskier exclaims, exasperated. Still, he picks up the weapon where Geralt dropped it in the grass. It looks fine, beside an ugly scorch mark on the leather wrapping in the middle of the hilt. The material was unhurt where Geralt’s hands protected it from the heat. Yikes. “What good will a sword do, if you don’t have hands to brandish it?”

“It’ll be fine,” Geralt reassures him between gritted teeth. “I got burned like this before.” He pulls the hands out of the stream and frowns at them, studying them for a moment. He was wearing his gauntlets when the forktail vomited fire at him, but it still cooked them. Jaskier can swear the skin is charred in spots. Geralt dunks them again in the water. “It looks bad, but they’ll heal.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Got a fever for it last time, but I slept it off. I’m going to be fine.” The smiles he gives Jaskier looks more like a grimace. “I took potions during the fight this time. It will help. Might not get a fever this time.”

“That’s good,” Jaskier says, but he still feels like he wants to curl on the edge of the stream and cry. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”

“Mmh,” Geralt rumbles, “Help me take the rest of the kit off? I can’t exactly undo the buckles with these fingers. Nor unlace my pants, for that matter,” he points out, sounding amused despite the pain he must be in.

Jaskier nods, and gets to work. “Hold your arms out, I don’t want to hurt you accidentally,” he tells him, unbuckling the gambeson and swiftly taking it off. The shirt under it is a mess of sweat, and the sleeves got damaged under the gauntlets. He tugs off the boots, and has him get to his feet to remove his leather trousers. He huffs a laugh despite himself when he has to unlace them. “You know, I cannot remember when it was the last time I undressed you for fun rather than necessity.”

Geralt hums. “It has been a while. Though I am the one undressing you, usually.”

He should look ridiculous, with only his shirt on barely covering him to mid-thigh, but he doesn’t. He just looks tired and soft, strangely small with his arms curled in front of his body to avoid brushing his hands against things, and all Jaskier wants to do is to lay his head on his chest and sleep until they’re both feeling better.

“You should sit down,” he tells him instead, folding the pieces of armour haphazardly before throwing them near their bedrolls. “Are you feeling feverish at all?”

“I’m fine,” Geralt says, but he’s starting to move a little sluggishly. “Adrenaline’s wearing off.”

Jaskier doesn’t know what that means. “Is that… dangerous?”

“No, no, I’m just. Tired.” He frowns down at his hands. “I should bandage these.”

“I will do it.” Jaskier steels himself. “Tell me what to do.”

Geralt directs him in rummaging through his stuff in the saddlebag until he finds a jar with strong-smelling salve, and a roll of bandages. He pours some dwarven spirits on both his own hands and Geralt’s flayed ones, per the witcher’s instructions, and spreads a thin layer of salve on the ruined skin. “I cannot get sick,” Geralt mutters, while Jaskier carefully makes thinner strips out of the bandage so they fit better around the witcher’s fingers, “but infection—it slows healing down. That’s what gave me a fever, last time.” He looks at Jaskier with big, round, shiny eyes. “I should be repaying you for this.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jaskier replies, clipped. He presses a quick kiss on his lips. “You being alive is enough.”

IV.

They kiss a lot. They always kissed a lot, but it usually turned into something else, quickly and furiously: open mouthed licks that burned through Jaskier’s veins, setting his blood on fire and brushing his spine with lightning. After, their kissing is slow, soft. Geralt likes brushing his lips against the skin of Jaskier’s neck, on his chest, on his stomach. He presses Jaskier’s knuckles against his mouth, whispers touches just behind his ears.

V.

A room at the inn is always a luxury. Even more luxurious, a room with a nice bed. They prepare for the night in a companionable silence, stripping down to their undershirts, only the imperceptible sizzle of an oil lamp in the corner to make it less deafening, when Geralt breaks it with a slight hum.

“I was thinking, it’s been a while since— Would you like me to—” Geralt looks down, glancing unmistakably at his groin. “You know.”

Jaskier hadn’t realised how much he missed Geralt’s touch until the promise of it was a possibility again. He feels almost like an ache, tingling in all his limbs at the idea of his witcher’s rough palm touching him.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“I never minded, I told you.” Geralt rolls his eyes.

“As long as you’re not doing it because you’re feeling like you need to pay me back for something.” Jaskier narrows his eyes at him, suspicious. “You aren’t, right?”

“No, I’m not.” Geralt licks his lips. “You know, I missed it too. I like watching you while I touch you—knowing that you’re feeling pleasure because of me. I—that’s what I get out of it.”

“Well,” Jaskier says, leaning closer to him. “If that’s the case. Alright, then.”

They kiss. It’s slow—like all their new kisses. They lose themselves in it a little, closing their eyes, breathing each other. Geralt’s hand caresses his jaw briefly, before going to his naked knee. He doesn’t immediately grab him, as he would usually do; Jaskier’s breath itches as Geralt’s fingers explore the inside of his thigh. His knuckles sneak under his shirt and brush against Jaskier’s hardening cock. He squirms, and Geralt pulls away.

“Since when are you such a tease?” Jaskier gasps, poking a finger at Geralt’s chest, unwittingly thrusting his hips in his hand.

The witcher laughs. “I don’t know. This is fun.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Geralt smirks, and leans in to kiss him. It’s like one of their kisses of old — intense, deep, almost too deep too quickly — but there’s something gentler, slower about it. Jaskier realises with a start that this is Geralt letting himself enjoy it. His hand is light on Jaskier’s skin—but he doesn’t hold back this time: he grabs him firmly and purposefully, stroking down Jaskier’s length just the way he knows he likes.

Jaskier comes with a moan that is only slightly exaggerated, and wraps himself tightly around the witcher.

“Tell me you’re not feeling guilty or indebted again,” Jaskier says, once his heartbeat has gone back to normal.

Geralt hums, pulling him more firmly against his chest, so that Jaskier’s weight is effectively squishing him in the mattress. “Always. But there’s comfort in that,” he continues, before Jaskier can protest. “It’s useless to collect for a debt that cannot be repaid. I’m perfectly happy to be indebted forever with you.” He smirks. “It means you can never get rid of me.”

Jaskier laughs. “That should be my line.”

The witcher hums again, content and relaxed. “I’m counting on that.”