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@darkverrmin
“How much older are we talking, anyway?” Jaskier asked, leaning his cheek on his fist. “Thirty?”
Geralt returned to his drink.
Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “Forty?”
Nothing.
Jaskier smiled. “Fifty?”
Geralt drank.
“Oh, this is interesting. Sixty?”
“Enough.”
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We Always Do, Chapter 2
Jaskier shook his head, failing to suppress a smile. "Oh, don't look so pleased with yourself."
"Hard not to when the self-proclaimed best lover on the Continent fantasizes about bedding me."
"Right now, I'm fantasizing about punching you in the face."
Geralt's smile only widened. "Didn't know you were into that sort of thing."
Jaskier stared at him.
Geralt leaned closer, entirely too pleased with himself. "Guess we'll have to explore that later."
"Oh, gods." Jaskier shoved lightly at his shoulder, fighting a laugh. "I've created a monster. I liked you better when you were emotionally constipated."
Geralt caught his wrist before he could pull away and kissed the inside of it, his eyes never leaving Jaskier's. "No, you didn't."
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
By the time the fire died, neither of them noticed.
At some point, sitting beside each other had become leaning into each other. Leaning had become another kiss, and another after that, until Jaskier had laughed into Geralt's mouth when he nearly lost his balance and pulled Geralt down with him.
Now Jaskier was lying on his back in the grass, his abandoned coat beneath his shoulders, and Geralt was half over him, braced carefully on one elbow while Jaskier's fingers remained tangled in his hair.
It was ridiculous.
Geralt couldn't remember the last time he'd kissed someone simply because he wanted to keep kissing them, without urgency or expectation of where it had to lead. Every time they separated, one of them seemed to find some reason to close the distance again.
Jaskier kissed him slowly, caught Geralt's lower lip for a moment and released it with a smile. "This is absurd."
Geralt kissed the corner of his mouth. "Complaining?"
"Not remotely. I'm simply fairly certain I haven't lain around in the grass making out with someone like this since I was a student."
Geralt smiled against his cheek. "Haven't since I was a teenager."
Jaskier writes a ridiculous song about Geralt’s dick purely for his own amusement and, more importantly, because he’s determined to make Geralt laugh. It’s never meant to leave the room.
Somehow, it does.
Before either of them realizes what’s happened, the song has spread across the Continent. Other bards pick it up, completely missing the joke and performing it with the solemn grandeur of an ancient heroic ballad, apparently convinced that all the increasingly outrageous metaphors are about Geralt’s strength, courage and legendary deeds.
Geralt is horrified.
Jaskier is having the time of his life.
And it only gets worse when Geralt walks into a crowded tavern one evening and hears an entire room passionately singing along to a dramatic verse about the *White Wolf’s mighty sword* while Jaskier sits beside him, shaking with barely contained laughter.
Geralt didn't see the blade.
He only heard Jaskier shout his name before two hands struck his chest and sent him stumbling sideways. By the time he turned, the blade was already buried beneath Jaskier's ribs.
For one impossible second, they simply stared at each other.
Jaskier looked down at the steel as though he couldn't quite understand what it was doing there, then raised his eyes to Geralt.
The attacker pulled the blade free.
Geralt killed him without remembering the motion.
When he turned back, Jaskier was swaying.
"I'm all right," Jaskier said automatically.
Then blood touched his lips. His knees folded.
Geralt caught him before he hit the ground and lowered him into his lap, tearing open the ruined fabric around the wound.
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For several seconds afterward, neither of them moved.
Then Geralt carefully shifted his weight and rolled onto his back beside Jaskier, and suddenly there was space between them where, only moments ago, there hadn't been any at all.
The room became strangely quiet.
Jaskier stared at the ceiling, breathing hard, his hair damp against his forehead and his skin still flushed with warmth, while Geralt lay beside him looking equally uncertain about what exactly was supposed to happen now.
They had crossed the line they'd been circling for weeks.
Months, perhaps.
And apparently neither of them had considered what came immediately after.
At first, Geralt had assumed the bard wanted what everyone else seemed to want from a witcher. A story.
There was no shortage of people fascinated by witchers from the safety of taverns and marketplaces. They wanted to hear about monsters slain beneath moonlight, impossible odds overcome through skill and luck, silver flashing through the darkness. They loved the legend of the White Wolf, provided they never had to witness the blood, the exhaustion, or the loneliness that followed every contract.
Jaskier, Geralt had decided, was no different. Louder, certainly. Far more persistent. Infinitely more irritating. But driven by the same curiosity all the same.
Geralt had barely shut the door before Jaskier was grinning. "You're filthy."
"Hm."
"You smell like wet forest."
"Hm."
"And I think that's someone else's blood."
Geralt's mouth twitched.
"Oh, there it is," Jaskier crowed. "The elusive smile! I knew you missed me."
"I was gone three days."
"A lifetime."
Geralt snorted.
The next thing Jaskier knew, he was being swept clean off his feet.
"Geralt!"
He laughed helplessly as the witcher tossed him onto the bed with practiced ease. The mattress bounced beneath him, and before he could sit up, Geralt climbed over him, bracing himself on either side.
Jaskier dissolved into giggles.
"Oh, this is terribly intimidating," he managed between laughs. "The famous White Wolf pinning me to a bed. If anyone could see-"
Geralt leaned down and kissed him.
It was impossible to continue speaking through that.
Jaskier kissed him back eagerly, hands finding the buttons of Geralt's shirt out of habit. He fumbled at the first one, smiling against Geralt's lips.
"You know," he murmured between kisses, "I've heard fascinating rumors about witcher stamina. I feel it would be academically irresponsible not to investigate."
Geralt paused. Only for a heartbeat.
Then he rested their foreheads together.
"...Not really in the mood."
Jaskier blinked. His hands stilled.
"Oh."
He searched Geralt's face, finding not embarrassment but something softer. A little tired around the edges.
"What mood are you in, then?"
Geralt shrugged one shoulder. "This."
He kissed Jaskier once.
"And..."
Another kiss, slower this time. "...Cuddling."
Silence. Then Jaskier burst into delighted laughter.
"Geralt."
"Hm?"
"That is disgustingly sweet."
"I'm not sweet."
"No?"
"No."
Jaskier laughed harder.
"I've been accused of many things," Geralt muttered.
"Monster hunter."
"Hm."
"Butcher of Blaviken."
"Hm."
"Secret cuddle enthusiast."
Geralt's eyes narrowed.
"...Careful."
"Oh, I'm terrified."
Without warning, Geralt's hands darted to Jaskier's sides.
Jaskier shrieked.
"Geralt!"
The witcher, traitor that he was, actually smirked. "You laugh too much."
"You—no—stop!"
Geralt absolutely did not stop.
Jaskier twisted and squirmed, laughing so hard he couldn't breathe, trying to shove Geralt away despite the fact that it was about as effective as arguing with a mountain.
"Mercy!"
"No."
"I'll write terrible songs about you!"
"You already do."
Jaskier managed to catch one of Geralt's wrists, only for the witcher to use the opportunity to pull him into a clumsy roll across the bed. Blankets tangled around their legs, pillows went flying, and somehow they ended up in a thoroughly undignified heap.
Breathless.
Laughing.
Geralt's hair had escaped its tie and was falling into his face.
Jaskier reached up, brushing it back behind one ear.
"There," he said softly. "Much better."
Geralt looked at him for a long moment before leaning in.
The kiss was unhurried. Warm. The kind that didn't ask for anything except closeness.
When they finally pulled apart, Jaskier smiled so brightly it almost hurt.
"You really are sweet."
"I'm really not."
"You threw me onto a bed just so you could kiss me and cuddle."
"I also tickled you."
"You did."
"Hardly sweet."
Jaskier cupped his cheek.
"Terribly sweet."
Geralt huffed the sort of sigh that meant you're impossible.
Jaskier answered by stealing another quick kiss.
Geralt stole one back. Then another.
Until neither of them could remember who had started it, and the room was filled with nothing but quiet laughter and the comfortable silence of two people who had long since stopped needing words.
Jaskier learned early on that loving Geralt meant learning restraint.
Not because Geralt didn't care. Jaskier had never doubted that, not really. But witchers weren't made for casual touches, for absent-minded affection. So Jaskier kept his hands mostly to himself. He settled for brushing shoulders, for bumping knees by the fire, for smiles instead of embraces. He loved Geralt quietly, in the language Geralt understood.
Years passed.
One evening, the tavern was loud enough to shake the rafters. Jaskier stood in the middle of it all, frowning at his lute as he carefully tuned a stubborn string. Patrons called his name, tankards clinked, someone shouted for another song.
The door opened.
Geralt strode in, mud on his boots and fresh scratches across his armor.
"Contract done," he grunted as he walked past.
Jaskier looked up with a grin. "Welcome back. I'll just fin-"
"I'm going to sleep."
"All right, I'll be up in-"
Geralt stopped.
Turned.
Without a word, he slipped two fingers beneath Jaskier's chin, tilting his face up. In front of half the tavern, in front of merchants, drunks and the serving girls who'd been flirting shamelessly with the bard all evening, Geralt leaned down and kissed him.
It wasn't hurried. It wasn't passionate.
Just deep enough to linger. Sweet enough to steal every coherent thought from Jaskier's head. Chaste enough that it somehow made it infinitely worse.
When Geralt pulled away, he rested his forehead there for the briefest heartbeat.
"Good night."
Then he walked upstairs.
Jaskier remained exactly where he'd been left, one hand still gripping a tuning peg.
The tavern had gone suspiciously quiet.
Someone coughed.
Someone else whispered, "Did... did the White Wolf just kiss him?"
Jaskier stared after Geralt with the expression of a man who had just witnessed magic.
He had graduated Oxenfurt with highest honors.
He had debated philosophers, charmed kings, survived djinns, dragons, and destiny itself.
And yet, in that moment, he could not have told anyone his own name.
His lute gave an offended twang as the string he'd been tuning snapped.
Jaskier blinked at it.
"...I think," he said faintly, "I've forgotten how lutes work."
A voice came from the darkness.
“What are you doing out here?”
Jaskier did not think.
Thinking had never been his strongest skill in a crisis.
Reacting, however, he did beautifully.
He spun around with a strangled shout and swung the frying pan with every bit of fear, desperation, and theatrical violence in his body.
Metal met face with a sound that was deeply, horribly satisfying.
The figure dropped.
Hard.
For one stunned second, Jaskier stood there panting, pan raised, the boy clinging to his leg.
Then the body on the ground groaned.
Jaskier blinked.
“Oh,” he said.
The man at his feet was not a monster.
At least, not obviously.
He was large, armored, and very much alive, though one hand had gone to his face where the pan had struck him. Silver flashed faintly at his shoulder. A sword hilt. Then another.
Jaskier’s stomach dipped.
A witcher.
“Oh,” he said again, with considerably less confidence.
The man groaned once more and rolled onto his back, glaring up at him with one golden eye that caught the little light there was.
Jaskier lowered the pan by a fraction.
“In my defense,” he said weakly, “you approached two terrified people in a haunted forest after dark and led with a deeply sinister question.”
The witcher stared at him.
Then he touched his bleeding nose, looked at the blood on his fingers, and let out a slow, pained breath.
“I didn’t creep,” he said.
Jaskier stared. “You appeared silently from the trees.”
“I walked.”
“Silently.”
“I’m a witcher.”
“That is not as reassuring as you seem to think."
***
Continue reading:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/82623221/chapters/230142141
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Strong Jaskier who doesn't realize how strong he is?
Carrying an injured Geralt on his back like a sack of potatoes, muttering something about reckless witchers.
***
Geralt lifting one of Jaskier’s bags to pass it to the bard, almost tripping because of how heavy it is.
***
Jaskier, bathing shirtless in the river, showing off his ripped torso: Why can't we just go around? I don't want to climb another mountain, Geralt! I'm a delicate man!
Geralt, internally: eyes on his face, eyes on his face
***
Geralt refuses to take a medicine the healer gave him. "I'm fine, Jaskier. It will heal on its ow-"
Jaskier tackling Geralt to the ground, pinning him down. Both knees on Geralt’s shoulders, holding his mouth open, as he forces him to take the medicine. Yes, the same way you give medicine to a cat.
***
Kicking Geralt out of the bed, when the Witcher tries to steal the blanket back.
***
Knocking Geralt down on his ass, when Geralt tries to drag him out of the bed in the morning.
***
Lambert: C'mon, just hit me. I want to see how you throw a punch.
Jaskier: Are you sure? I don't want to hurt you.
Lambert: *snorts* You won't hurt me, bard, c'mon.
Jaskier: ...Okay, then. Here goes nothing. *knocks Lambert unconscious*
Eskel, watching the scene unfold:
Geralt arguing with Jaskier, trying to convince him not to do something incredibly stupid.
Jaskier, naturally, refuses to listen.
So Geralt decides to shut him up the only way he can think of: by kissing him.
There has been enough sexual tension between them for a while that Geralt wanted to do it anyway. This just happens to be a convenient excuse. It stops Jaskier from doing something reckless and gives Geralt exactly what he’s been trying very hard not to want.
What Geralt should have remembered, though, is that the only thing this petty bard loves more than Geralt is winning an argument.
So Jaskier simply puts a hand over Geralt’s mouth, pushes him away, and says:
“I am absolutely going to react to that later. But we are not done here.”
Geralt uses the gossip he gets from Jaskier to help him get paid for this contracts.
Jaskier likes to gossip and he has a lot of secret and compromising information about everyone and Geralt listens to him when he talks about it, even when he's pretending not to.
So when some noble or mayor refuses to pay Geralt for a job, because he thinks he can get away with it, Geralt is like:
"Oh, fine... Guess your wife won't mind to hear you slept with her sister".
And just like that, he gets paid.
***
Bonus: he tells jaskier about it later and jaskier finds it hilarious
He paused, considering his words.
“I won’t lie,” he added. “I’ve been in love a ridiculous number of times.”
“I remember,” Geralt said dryly.
“Not the point,” Jaskier said, waving that off. “Those feelings came and went. They always did. They were loud, dramatic, occasionally ill-advised…”
Geralt huffed.
“But this-” Jaskier lifted their joined hands slightly between them, grounding himself in the contact, “-this stayed.”
Geralt stilled.
Jaskier met his gaze. “You’re the only person I’ve ever been able to talk to and know I’ll be understood,” he said. “Even when you were pretending not to listen.”
“I wasn’t-”
“You were,” Jaskier cut in gently. “You’re terrible at hiding it.”
Geralt’s mouth twitched faintly.
Jaskier’s expression softened.
“And you stayed,” he added, quieter now. “Through all of it. Through the songs, the disasters, the questionable decisions-”
“Many,” Geralt muttered.
“-many,” Jaskier agreed. “And somehow you’re still here.”
A pause.
“So no,” he said softly. “You didn’t fail to give me the life I want.”
He squeezed Geralt’s hand. “You are the life I want.”
***
Continue reading:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/82623221/chapters/221839501
Geralt was still awake.
Of course he was.
Sitting on the bed, shoulders tight, like he hadn’t moved in a while. His head snapped up the moment the door opened.
Their eyes met.
Relief, quick, sharp, impossible to hide in time.
“Hey,” Jaskier said simply, closing the door behind him a little more quietly than usual. “Thought you’d be asleep already.”
Geralt didn’t answer. He just looked at him.
Jaskier didn’t look away. “Ugh, I’m so bloody tired,” he complained, strolling into the room, already unlacing his shirt. “I’m getting too old for this much excitement in one day.”
Still nothing.
And then, quieter-
“…you came back.”
Jaskier leaned his shoulder against the wall, fingers still working at the laces, watching him.
“…you want me to sleep in the stables?” he asked.
“That’s not what I said.”
Jaskier managed a small smile.
“Well,” he said lightly, “you looked so miserable when I left, I thought I’d come back and check if you survived.”
Geralt huffed softly, but didn’t look away. “Barely.”
A small pause.
“…so you’re staying?”
Jaskier sighed, tilting his head.
“I did consider a dramatic exit,” he said. “Storming into the night, vowing never to return, possibly acquiring a tragic backstory-”
Geralt’s shoulders tensed.
Jaskier waved a hand. “But it’s cold, and I’m tired, and frankly I don’t have the energy to reinvent myself tonight.”
He pushed off the wall and walked toward him, a little slower than usual, a little looser.
Geralt’s gaze sharpened.
“…you’ve been drinking.”
Jaskier smiled, unapologetic. “Lambert offered. I accepted. It felt rude not to.”
“How much?”
Jaskier tilted his head, considering. “Enough that I briefly considered forgiving you for everything without an argument.”
Geralt snorted, actual amusement this time.
Jaskier brightened immediately. “There it is. I knew you still had one of those.”
Geralt shook his head, but there was something warmer in his expression now. “You’re drunk.”
“I am charming,” Jaskier corrected, pointing at him. “There’s a difference.”
Geralt raised a brow.
Jaskier stepped closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Also, whatever Lambert drinks is fucking strong. I’m fairly certain I saw the floor move at least once.”
Geralt huffed again, softer now. “That was you.”
“Unproven.”
***
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Jaskier’s laughter softened into something breathless as Geralt stepped in closer, hands firm at his waist-
and then suddenly he was lifted in the air.
“Oh-” Jaskier let out a startled laugh as Geralt set him on the table, the movement easy, decisive.
“You, my dear Witcher” Jaskier murmured, smiling, already leaning into him. “Are deeply improper-”
Geralt’s answer was another kiss, cutting him off.
Jaskier melted into it immediately, his hands sliding into Geralt’s hair, pulling him closer as Geralt’s hands moved- steady, deliberate- shrugging his jacket off his shoulders.
The fabric slipped away easily.
Jaskier didn’t protest.
Didn’t even pretend to.
Instead, he shifted forward, wrapping his legs around Geralt’s middle, pulling him in tighter with a quiet, pleased sound.
“Geralt-”
Geralt’s hands followed, pushing his shirt open, slow but certain this time, no fumbling now.
Jaskier’s breath hitched, head tipping back when Geralt’s mouth found his neck again.
A soft sigh slipped out of him, unrestrained this time.
“Oh, that’s-” he breathed, fingers tightening in Geralt’s hair. “That’s not fair.”
Geralt didn’t answer.
Just lingered there, deliberate, unhurried.
Jaskier let out a small, frustrated laugh, tilting his head further to give him better access without even realizing it.
“You’re teasing me,” he murmured.
“Mm.”
***
Continue reading:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The man recognized Jaskier immediately. Of course he did.
Smiled like nothing had happened. Like years hadn’t passed. Like he hadn’t left Jaskier quietly putting himself back together.
Jaskier smiled back.
Easy. Polite. Untouchable.
Geralt stood a little off to the side, watching.
He didn’t say anything until the man was gone.
Jaskier let out a breath, rolling his shoulders. “Well,” he said lightly, “that was unpleasant.”
Geralt glanced at him. “That’s who you were heartbroken over?”
Jaskier blinked. “I- excuse me?”
Geralt frowned slightly. “He’s not-” he gestured vaguely, “you’re so out of his league.”
Jaskier snorted. “Oh, please. I was eighteen.”
“Mm,” Geralt said.
Jaskier glanced at him. “Don’t tell me you agree.”
Geralt didn’t answer right away.
“I remember you at eighteen,” he said instead.
Jaskier smiled. “You do?”
Geralt shrugged faintly. “First day we met. You talked to everyone. Wouldn’t stop. Followed me half the road.”
Jaskier smiled slowly. “Yes, well. I made an impression.”
“You tried,” Geralt said.
Jaskier narrowed his eyes. “I succeeded.”
Geralt’s mouth twitched faintly.
“You were…” he paused, searching for the word.
Jaskier sighed. “This is going to be insulting, I can tell.”
“…adorable,” Geralt finished.
There was a pause.
Jaskier stared at him. “…I don’t think I like that word.”
“Fits.”
“I was not adorable,” Jaskier said. “I was compelling.”
“Mm.”
Jaskier huffed. “Go on then. Continue your character assassination.”
Geralt shrugged. “You talked too much.”
“I still do.”
“Mm.”
Jaskier shook his head, but he was smiling.
Geralt’s gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary.
Then, quieter- “I wasn’t interested in you like that.”
Jaskier blinked. “What?”
“Back then,” Geralt added. “You were too young.”
Jaskier tilted his head. “Too young.”
“Mm.”
A pause.
“And now?” Jaskier asked.
Geralt didn’t look away. “Different.”
Jaskier’s expression softened, just a little.
“…right,” he said.
Geralt hesitated, just briefly, then added, more deliberate this time:
“If I’d been younger back then… the first day we met—”
Jaskier stilled.
Geralt shrugged faintly. “I probably would’ve run off with you.”
Jaskier let out a quiet breath, half a laugh, half something else.
“…into the sunset?” he asked softly.
Geralt huffed. “Mm.”
Jaskier shook his head, smiling despite himself.
***
Continue reading:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/82623221/chapters/220489381
