#goldandlights

They’d pushed on to make it into the city, even though a storm and the accompanying darkness had been chasing them. When they made it into an inn, they were all thoroughly soaked. It reduced Geralt to short grunts, Jaskier into a mess of chattering teeth, and Roach huffed indignantly every time Geralt tried to spur her faster on. 

In an inn packed with wet travellers, getting a horrible, drafty and creaky nook of a room was a clear win, they both knew this, but it didn’t stop Jaskier from shivering violently. Watching him stuff his fingers tinged blue with cyanosis into his armpits in a vain attempt to warm up, water dripping from his face onto the dusty floor, Geralt felt, not for the first time, a guilt wash over him. This was his doing. He selfishly let Jaskier come along with him, and when he did, Geralt failed to take proper care of him.

He told Jaskier to undress. All of his clothes were wet, as he insisted on keeping them up top in the pack so as to avoid wrinkleage. Geralt told him to dry his hair with the shirt of his that survived the rain. It was the one he slept in, pushed to the bottom of the bag. It took Jaskier dropping the shirt thrice for Geralt to help him very gently dry his hair. 

Jaskier ended up in Geralt’s last clean shirt, wrapped in their spare blanket on top of the flimsy quilt found on the bed. Geralt hoped that once warm, Jaskier would fall asleep fast, at least, to end his shivery suffering. But watching him writhe on the bed, curled in on himself, as Geralt kneaded his rolled-up bedroll in his hands, it became very clear that Jaskier was not getting very warm. Geralt cleared his throat. Jaskier barely ever touched him. Sure, he washed his hair, he stitched his wounds. Jaskier saw that Geralt needed a massage and he provided it, his hot hands on Geralt’s back a revelation. But Geralt had made it clear that he needed no-one. So all of those things, Jaskier’s services, well. They couldn’t have been anything but insurance that Geralt would keep him. For some reason, Jaskier wanted to follow him, and Geralt wasn’t strong enough to let him know he had never had to earn his place. How he desperately wanted Jaskier to stay. He was constantly worried about scaring him off, too, about crossing a boundary beyond repair. And maybe that line would prove to be a hand on his cheek, or maybe a look at his blackened eyes. Geralt constantly felt like he was teetering on the edge of eternal doom of not being able to ever see Jaskier again. 

But then, Jaskier was hidden in a pile of blankets and that pile was still shaking violently. 

‘Jaskier?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Do you,’ he bit his tongue, ‘I shou—just. What if I held you?’

‘What?’

Fuck. ‘To keep you warm.’

Jaskier’s head peeked out of the blankets and a hand held them open until Geralt dropped the bedroll he’d been wringing with his hands. Once Geralt sat on the bed, he waited for Jaskier to position himself however he wanted. He seemed so scared, so hesitant, and Geralt was about to get out, take it back, but then his bard braced his thighs with his legs, knees by Geralt’s hips. 

‘This okay?’ he said in a tiny voice. Geralt nodded earnestly. And then Jaskier plopped into his lap, as if it was nothing. He drew the blankets over them and wrapped his hands around Geralt’s torso. Jaskier’s dead-cold feet tucked themselves in the hollows behind Geralt’s knees as his legs lay stretched on the bed. It stretched around him, enveloping and consuming, the weight of the other body. It pinned him in place. He breathed hard as his arms slowly made their way around Jaskier’s torso. Jaskier wriggled closer, arms tightening around him, and then a thumb dipping under his shirt, touching skin. It sent a shock through Geralt’s body that he had trouble not showing. The thumb stroked that tiny bit of skin. ‘Can I put my hands here?’ Jaskier whispered, his head pressed sideways into the space between Geralt’s arm and chest. He nodded. Jaskier’s horribly icy hands pressed into Geralt’s back, the touch warming him nonetheless. Jaskier lifted on his knees to press even closer, and when he sat back down, Geralt first felt his nose press into his chest, Jaskier’s ear now so close to his heart that Geralt got worried he might hear the way it was slowly picking up speed, when he felt the second thing, that being Jaskier’s unclothed cock press against his own through his breeches as the bard sought to steal as much heat from him as possible. It made it so much obvious how vulnerable Jaskier was making himself. Oh, how precious the cargo in his lap was. How close, yet not enough. 

When Geralt tightened his arms around Jaskier and sunk his back a bit lower to settle in for the night, Jaskier’s hands started making patterns on his lower back. Jaskier’s belly dragged along Geralt’s as he shifted to reach Geralt’s ear. ‘Thank you, Geralt,’ he whispered, his nose pressed behind Geralt’s ear. It made him shiver, that sweet breath on his skin, the tingling feeling left by a nose dragged along the curve of his neck until Jaskier’s cheek rested on his shoulder. Geralt moved a hand into Jaskier’s hair in response, carding through the strands reverently. It was soft even now, wet and tangled. Geralt thought of how much he liked it when Jaskier washed his hair, tried pressing the tips of his fingers into Jaskier’s scalp. Massaging it gently. ‘mm, Geralt,’ Jaskier grunted, but before Geralt could worry he was doing it wrong, Jaskier was pressing closer still, nosing at his neck once more. Geralt kept up the pressure, his other hand rubbing at Jaskier’s back to help him relax. The hands on his back picked up the pace, now warmer. A set of clipped fingernails ghosted along Geralt’s spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Geralt’s head tipped back, air leaving his lips in the shape of ‘Jaskier’. ‘Mhmm?’ was Jaskier’s response muttered against Geralt’s neck. Geralt’s fingers in his hair tightened their grip, and then a pair of dry lips pressed gently into his collarbone. Geralt inhaled sharply. 

‘Geralt?’ Jaskier shifted to look at him. 

‘Yeah?’

Jaskier pressed another dry kiss into the corner of Geralt’s mouth, ‘Geralt,’ and he stayed close, his breath on Geralt’s cheek. 

Geralt chased that mouth, ’Jaskier.’ And then he kissed Jaskier, gently at first, but then Jaskier whined in the back of his throat and pressed closer, his cock hardening against Geralt’s stomach and that knowledge, that Geralt was making Jaskier aroused, was intoxicating. Geralt licked into his mouth, pulling him in by his hair. Jaskier’s hand was now holding his jaw, drawing in him hungrily, sucking on his lower lip. His nails were making patterns into his back and Jaskier kept making all those sounds, like he was having the time of his life. Geralt’s world changed in that moment, with the knowledge that he could be touched like that. 

At the time, when Jaskier first touched his cock, when he took his fingers and pressed them inside himself until Geralt got the hint, Geralt gave little thought to what it would mean for them. He lay Jaskier down, because Jaskier wanted him to, needed him to, and he fucked him. He touched Jaskier, relishing in every contact of skin on skin. It was a gift, to him, that he could do it, and something in the earth shifted every time Jaskier’s tongue licked into his mouth, every time he thrust back onto his cock. The world shifted on its axis. They fell asleep together, Jaskier wrapped around the Witcher’s back, stroking his bicep. Gently. Lovingly.

He wasn’t there in the morning. Jaskier turned away from him, curled in on himself on the tiny bed, even though it was still so cold. He must have been cold. Geralt didn’t dare touch him. 

They didn’t talk about it. Geralt was on a hunt while Jaskier entertained the guests in the tavern, and when he came back, there already was a bath arranged for him. Jaskier helped him bathe, rubbed a salve on his bruised side, put him to bed, and left to perform the rest of what he glamorously called a set. 

Geralt couldn’t fall asleep that night, his mood soured. He’d thought he’d learned his lesson of not getting his hopes up. But secretly, in private, he could admit he was a foolish man. A romantic, Jaskier would say. 

He remembers his mood only picking up the next day after the skies had cleared. The day turned out to be pleasantly warm and by the time they laid out their campsite, they’d made good time on the road, and managed to carry a normal conversation. They didn’t touch the whole time. Had dinner on opposite sites of the camp, even though they smiled at each other warmly. But now that Geralt knew what it felt like to touch Jaskier, he desperately longed for it. He excused himself and went to refill their water skins that they’d emptied after dinner. The sun was slowly setting as he was coming back. It caught on Jaskier by the fire, made his hair shine. 

When Geralt got closer, he saw Jaskier had laid out their bedrolls next to each other, like always, not shying away, and it brought him some peace. They both started settling in, Geralt checking around the campsite for anything Jaskier could have forgotten to do, just out of habit. When he finally turned to the bedrolls to settle in, he saw Jaskier put away his lute and look at him, a warm smile on his lips, his eyes piercing. Geralt’s throat went dry. 

Jaskier was on the bedrolls only in his shirt, clothes folded neatly on the side. He was sitting on his heels, hairy thighs spread wide, off-white shirt pooling at his crotch where the hand holding an instrument just seconds ago now disappeared to rest idly. Geralt had no idea what was happening. He wanted to tell Jaskier to touch himself, for christ’s sake. He wanted to ask if he’d been bewitched, even though he hadn’t let him out of sight the whole time. He wanted those lips on his. 

And he got that, but not before Jaskier let him fuck his throat. And then after the kissing, they tumbled onto their bedrolls, bodies plastered together, and Jaskier fucked himself on Geralt’s cock until he came on it, like he didn’t turn away from him in the night, like there was nothing odd about this. He didn’t let him pull out, either, his forehead pressed into Geralt’s chest, sitting on his softening cock, Jaskier repeated ‘Thank you. Thank you,’ until his breathing calmed down.  

Geralt didn’t know what he was thanking him for, but as he held Jaskier in his arms that night, grazing his bare shoulder with his lips, legs intertwined, he thought, I can live like this. If he could only hold Jaskier in the night, when the lust rode over the part of Jaskier’s brain that was repulsed by affection from a white-haired Witcher, then Geralt could live through the cold light of day. 

He knew he looked like all the things Jaskier had been told to fear, but as the man himself had said, they also made him interesting. But it was clearly a different thing to write a song about his wondrous yellow eyes, and to look into them as the Witcher touched him. 

Geralt is very old. He has the white hair of an old man. Maybe Jaskier despises the way the strands slide over Geralt’s pale skin in the harsh light of day, making him look gaunt like the dead. Or maybe the touch of a hand scarred with the taking of lives of creatures is too much for him. Geralt eats raw meat, sometimes. It’s easier. But maybe it disgusts Jaskier. Maybe it scares him. Geralt had never even considered that his breath might smell bad because of this, before they started fucking. He had never thought to rub oil into his skin for fear that Jaskier might find the scarred skin of his back much too rough for comfort, too easily reminded of the way Geralt got the scars, in the first place. 

Or maybe it’s just his face. His nose has been broken many times, after all. It sits a bit wonkily on his face. And his scar disturbs the skin, reminiscent in shape of his pupils. Out of all the things Jaskier grew up around, only cats and snakes have yellow eyes like that.

Geralt, watching himself in a bowl of soup, feels every bit the wretched creation of a misguided experimenter that he is. If he can only have Jaskier in the night, then that’s a blessing, and a miracle. If Jaskier can’t bear to be with him like that outside of bed, that’s okay. Geralt can’t compare in any regard to the blacksmith with shiny tight curls of chestnut hair on his head, can’t beat the sweet smile of a flirtatious barmaid. He wonders if, when Jaskier asked if they were to take other lovers, if he really meant to suggest that Geralt find someone else alongside Jaskier, so the burden of comforting Geralt wouldn’t only rest on him. But Jaskier said he would not take anyone else, maybe out of misguided loyalty, and Geralt felt it was polite to promise the same. And then, it almost made it feel like they truly belonged to each other, like this was a real thing Geralt could have. 

So when Jaskier finishes his set and makes his way over to Geralt, sitting beside him, but hesitating to touch his hand even as he reaches out, at first, Geralt tells himself he’s thankful for this. He wants this, this is good. He’s a Witcher and having Jaskier like this would prove dangerous for both of them. He pulls away from Jaskier and settles further into the corner of their bench. 

Jaskier, now hunched over his own steaming bowl of broth, watches Geralt move out of the corner of his eye. His hands tremble with grief for touch he can’t have right now. He wonders what that smells like to Geralt. Maybe like security, like understanding. And Jaskier does understand that Geralt has boundaries, and he respects them, it pleases him to know that Geralt likes him enough to show him how far he can go, and lets him make it right up to the line. He holds him in the night, after they fuck. Sometimes, he feels Geralt’s lips on his shoulder when he shakes from a post-orgasm forty winks. Jaskier tucks those touches into the bottom of his heart, where nobody will ever see how much he wants them. How he wants so much more, yet would never ask. 

He knows Geralt lets some people touch him in everyday, non-utilitarian ways. He has seen him and his brothers, clutching arms and punching chests, holding hands, even. Geralt says they sometimes fall asleep in a heap by the fire in winter. But clearly, that requires an amount of trust that he hasn’t reached yet. It’s okay. 

Jaskier watches Geralt in that corner. His hair is mussed quite badly, his cheekbones highlighted by the way dust has settles in the hollow of his cheeks, and Jaskier absentmindedly raises his hand to call over the barkeep so he can request a bath for their room. They haven’t looked for contracts, yet, it’s way too late for that, so they might even fuck tonight. Here’s to hoping the bed isn’t ridden with lice, he thinks. 

The barkeep saunters over, giving him a cheeky grin. She’s beautiful, with round cheeks and a sharp nose. There are laugh lines around her eyes, a roughness to her hands, and a sparkle in her eye. She has been calling the owner her husband the whole time, but flirted with Jaskier nonetheless, clearly enjoying the attention, although he suspects it’s all just talk. He likes her. She places a hand on the table in front of him, leaning on it, and he slips a hand on her waist. He laughs when her eyes sparkle and fully expects the little swat of the washcloth across his knuckles that she delivers with a playful stomp of her foot. 

‘Careful now, bard, or I might become utterly besotted with you, and whatever will my husband do, when he finds you in my chambers?’ 

Jaskier laughs, his head thrown back, ‘Well, dear lady, we might just have to find out!’

Geralt drops his spoon into the earthen bowl with a surprisingly loud clatter. His jaw is tightly set, even though he looks up with an apology in his eyes and resumes his eating. 

The barmaid’s smile dwindles, but then comes back to her, this time in the form of a soft curl of her lip. ‘Well, it’s all just talk anyway, bard. I’m too old for you, and you’re too inexperienced for me!’ she exclaims, and then lets Jaskier tell her his order. She pats his shoulder as she goes.

Geralt’s eyes are closed now, as he rests his head back in the corner of the wall. He’s all tensed up. Jaskier reaches out a tentative finger to trace along Geralt’s pointer finger where his hand rests on the bench. Geralt’s breath hitches. ‘Forgive me,’ he says, and draws his hand back. Jaskier swallows his hurt. He wants to touch so badly, but instead, he draws into himself. ‘There’s nothing to forgive, Geralt,’ he pushes out and stuffs his face with the broth. 

The bathwater is cold, as was to be expected, Jaskier supposes, but there is a hearth next to it, and the room looks very nice, actually. Candles are burning in arrangements of two and three in their holders, illuminating the room very well. Perhaps this is the lovely barkeep’s way of apologising to Geralt for what he saw as infringing on his territory. Jaskier reminds himself to be less generous with his affections, next time. With another lover, he could hold them, touch them in a show of affection to ward of the sting of jealousy, but he supposes it is different with Geralt. 

Jaskier looks into the water as Geralt undresses, making ripples on it with his little finger. He’s already added the little scented oil they had left. Geralt can smell it in the air, and it calms him a little, but he still moves with a weight holding him down, guilt dripping off of his limbs in invisible thick streaks. He wishes he could just tell Jaskier to go find the barmaid again. He wants to tell him he doesn’t need to keep doing him the service of bathing him, doesn’t need to watch him rub his skin back into gaunt paleness in this bright candlelight. But then, Jaskier smiles at him tentatively, like this might be the last thing holding him here, and Geralt once again remembers that, at the core, he is a weak man. So he goes and dips into the water, watching Jaskier turn once he’s in. As if it’s somehow better to see only his chest and face clearly. 

Jaskier lathers a washcloth up with soap while Geralt dutifully scrubs at his face. He lets the cloth hover just above Geralt’s shoulder, asks, ‘May I?’ And Geralt nods courtly, displeased already that he can’t just tell Jaskier to fuck off if he doesn’t want to do this. He wants it so much, though, that he’s willing to cling to this. 

He lets Jaskier wash him, run the cloth across his chest, his back. Jaskier massages his scalp with practiced fingers as he washes his hair. Geralt allows himself to stop thinking about them, about the man that is presently seeing to his aching back, and just focus on the sensation of being touched, gently. Being taken care of, even if out of perceived necessity. Jaskier hums a little melody under his breath, washing the back of Geralt’s neck, and Geralt wants to make home inside this moment, but only until he feels bare skin gently press against his shoulder. 

Jaskier’s hand moves up and down a couple of times. ‘Okay?’ he asks, as if Geralt would ever ask for more. He nods nonetheless, and Jaskier’s hands start mapping his shoulders, massaging gently where he feels a tense muscle. Geralt’s hands ball into fists under the surface of the water as he tries to hold back content groans. He doesn’t want to sound like a fucking animal, not when all they’re doing is bathing and touching lightly. 

Jaskier stops humming when his hands breach the surface of the water to rub at Geralt’s tummy. He throws his head back and finds himself almost cheek to cheek with Jaskier, who’s smiling lightly and breathing more easily than he has the entire time they’ve been in town. It unsettles Geralt greatly. 

‘The bed seems nice,’ Jaskier whispers into his hair. It makes goosebumps appear along Geralt’s arms, and the low growl underneath Jaskier’s usual tone makes his gut clench. He thinks Jaskier might even be able to feel it. He makes himself nod, yes, he want to satisfy Jaskier. That’s what this is about, after all, although he suspects the pleasure really is his, and not Jaskier’s, especially with those fingers tracing circles into his skin at the hip. He nods a couple more times, just to make sure Jaskier has caught the answer, and the touch finally disappears. 

‘Alright then, I’ll leave you,’ Jaskier sighs as he stands up, and leaves for the bed in the other room. The water seems to turn colder the minute Jaskier withdraws his touch. Geralt tells himself to cheer up. He can earn it, tonight. He can hold Jaskier until the morning, clutch onto his body like a drowning man, and he’ll be okay in the morning. 

When Geralt makes it into their room, there are candles lit in every corner, and the bed has got a blanket and a heavier quilt on it, too, which are both certainly luxuries, for Jaskier and his standards. Jaskier isn’t there, he’s probably taking a leak outside or making sure the bath is drained and taken care of, so Geralt sits on the bed and waits. He opts to keep his shirt on, but he doesn’t keep his breeches, studying a scar from a week ago that is now healed on his thigh. Jaskier tended to that, it healed so nicely. But there are some uglier ones, turning skin into a sort of thick shell. The one on his face feels like that, too. 

There is a polished piece of silver by one of the candlesticks, reflecting light back into the room and away from the wall. Geralt thinks back to the barmaid. She must be behind this, how good the rooms look. He regrets letting himself snap like that. 

The mirror keeps looking at him, so he rises from the bed, checking the door with a glance, and takes it. He sits back, the mirror on his thighs, and looks. He’s always been like this, or so it feels like. But ever since that first night with Jaskier, or maybe the morning, something has changed. He tries to see himself the way Jaskier sees him. He studies the reflection, baring his teeth. They’re a bit yellowish, he will admit. And sharp. He knows how to kiss and suck with them, but he knows Jaskier can feel them. And there’s fuzz peeking out of his shirt, which Jaskier seems to like, except in the light, one can see how terribly pale it is. It clashes with his bright eyes, his knotty hair. He must look and feel like an oversized stray cat. 

He’s still looking when Jaskier comes in. His strong back comes into view clad in a black shirt, white hair splayed over his shoulder blades. Jaskier thinks he looks lovely like this, half-undressed and soft from the bath. Geralt doesn’t even register him coming in, he’s so engrossed in whatever he’s studying on his thighs. Maybe he’s looking at his scars, as he’s recently started doing more frequently. It worries Jaskier, but he doesn’t know how to ask. 

Jaskier undressed on his way to Geralt, already delighted at the amount of light in the room. They’ve been fucking for months now and he hasn’t had the chance yet to really look at Geralt in this much light. Fucking glorious. 

He climbs onto the bed behind his witcher, hands hovering, keen to touch. But he’s not preoccupied with studying his own thighs for scarring. There’s a mirror on his thighs, reflecting the stoic face of the White Wolf back at them. 

‘Jaskier.’ He says, grip going white-knuckled on the mirror. Geralt is rarely startled. 

Jaskier points his chin at the now slightly raised mirror and Geralt’s gaze follows. They are both now in the reflection, one hair of white hair, long, the other short and brown and messy. One gaze warm, the other fresh. They go amazingly together. Jaskier smiles a little smile while Geralt stares. 

‘What are you thinking about?’ Jaskier says, dropping his gaze. It feels too heavy to hold it on their shared reflection right next to Geralt’s unyielding eyes. 

There is silence for a long while, and Jaskier studies Geralt’s thighs for him, since he’s busy looking in the mirror. There are a couple gashes on there that he was there for. He starts looking over them, the ones he knows by heart, when Geralt takes a breath. ‘You,’ he says. It takes a bit for Jaskier to realise. He’s thinking about Jaskier. 

Okay. Right. That’s…a thing. 

Jaskier wants to ask, he does. So many questions. What about me? Are you thinking about me in the mirror, the man so close to your reflection? 

‘What are you thinking?’ Geralt beats him to it. 

Jaskier’s eyes are still fixed on one of the bigger scar on his thigh. He places a tentative hand on top of it and looks up at Geralt. His knee brushes Geralt’s lower back, but Geralt doesn’t flinch away. 

‘This scar,’ he tells the truth, really, when you think about it. Geralt looks him in the eye, then at the place where his hand covers the white tissue. 

‘Remember how you got it?’ Geralt hums. ‘We went with Eskel,’ Jaskier drags his palm further up Geralt’s thigh, ‘I think about the two of you…how. How Eskel leaned into your side by the fire, while you rested. He touched your hair as I bandaged you up.’ 

Geralt hums again, and Jaskier knows that he’s pushing it, and he shouldn’t, but the words are out before he can stop them, before he can truly reconsider. He says, ‘I wonder why it is that you let him touch you like that, but not—not…me.’

Geralt goes completely still, gaze locked on his thigh. Jaskier withdraws his hand, clasps it over his mouth. He shouldn’t have said that. He goes to say, ‘Sorry, Geralt, I didn’t me—,’ but Geralt’s mouth moves first. 

‘You’re…repulsed?’

Jaskier’s world shatters. ‘I’m what?’

Geralt is still not moving, but he sighs, ‘You touch me in the night. You kiss me, and let me hold you. I know you do it for me, Jaskier. You never touch me in the daylight, never when you can—can see, uh. See me,’ his knuckles are white in his fists now, ‘And that’s okay. I know I don’t quite reach your standards, but. But I won’t inconvenience you,’ The last part is choked out, Geralt’s jaw set tight. 

‘Geralt,’ Jaskier whispers, ‘I didn’t know. I thought…Well, I thought.’ 

He decides, then. He pushes and pulls on Geralt until he settles against the headboard, and Jaskier climbs into his lap. Geralt looks at him, and his eyes are glazed over. 

‘Geralt, love. I see you. I’ve always seen you, in every dark corner, in every thick forest, I always see you. I know what you look like. Know your hair, know your scars, know your teeth. I want them. Please, Geralt?’ And Geralt’s tears are beginning to spill, but he’s not moving and Jaskier is getting desperate, ‘Can I have that? Please? Can I hold you?’

Geralt nods frantically. Jaskier cups his jaw and swipes at his tears. ‘Can you show me how you want to be touched, love?’ he whispers. 

Geralt reaches towards his cheek and takes Jaskier’s hand. He intertwines their fingers. 

‘In public?’ Jaskier asks.

Geralt nods, says, ‘Please.’ And then he places a soft palm against Jaskier’s cheek, presses a kiss to his temple. He leans forward and hugs Jaskier. He repeats his plea a couple times, until he settles with his lips over Jaskier’s. 

‘Say it,’ he says, ‘Can I have you?’

Jaskier presses kisses to his jaw, ‘You have me, you have me, you have me.’