#lethskier

“I asked what you wanted.” Jaskier doesn’t lift his head so Geralt can’t see the affectionate twinkle in his eye but he can hear it lingering in his voice, and feel it in the press of his lips and fingertips and body heat. A thrush calls for attention somewhere. Jaskier kisses his neck so softly it can barely be felt, encouraging him to speak with candour. “Surely you must have some fantasies.”

Oh, now Geralt remembers. They ran into a strange young woman who had taken quite a liking to Geralt, much to his dismay and Jaskier’s delight. Then both witcher and bard had been horrified to hear her wax about the great carnal prowess of witchers, possessive sex demons that they were. At first Geralt had had to fight the urge to laugh in her face. He struggles not to chuckle thinking about her creative imagination now. “I’m sure you have fantasies enough for the both of us.”

“Well, yes, obviously,” scoffs Jaskier. “But I want to please you too, Geralt! Is there anything you’ve always dreamt of? Any familiar fantasy that floods your mind on lonely nights?”

Geralt snorts. “You first.”

“Fine,” Jaskier sniffs, pulling out the syllable into a long word. Geralt affectionately sweeps a hand over his back and the man relaxes into his embrace. “Well, if you must know, I too have thought of you being… possessive. I don’t mean to imply that you’re a monster or anything like that, so don’t you dare go spiralling into self-hatred, but… uh, often I fantasize of you… claiming me. In front of another witcher.”

This last part is nearly whispered, and Jaskier very rarely shows his shame so Geralt pays close attention and tries not to laugh at the thought. All the witchers that come to mind are ridiculously poor choices. “So when we’ve gone to Kaer Morhen… that’s been on your mind?”

Jaskier nods silently. Geralt rubs his back softly as he contemplates the idea. It’s not the public intimacy that scares him, it’s that he can’t possibly think about having sex in front of his family— even though Lambert flagrantly flaunts his sexuality without a care for the other Wolves at all.

“Couldn't be Eskel,” Geralt finally says. “If that’s who you were thinking of. He’s my brother, it would be too weird.”

“I know, love,” Jaskier quickly replies, curling closer. “Don’t worry about it, truly— it’s just a fantasy, that’s all! But, uh, I told you mine; your turn now, Geralt.”

Geralt hums as he earnestly tries to recall one. But Jaskier’s bare leg is still between his, taking up more brain space than it deserves, and the man’s broad hand is curled around the side of Geralt’s abdomen. Geralt wonders if Jaskier knows exactly how few people have held him like this over the course of his long life, or if he knows that he’s the only one who has been a constant. Needs and wants always come in to muck things up, whether their morals contradict or their destinies force them apart or one of them always wants to spice things up with stuffed unicorns and the like. But lying in Jaskier’s arms— and residing in his heart— has always been easy.

“The only thing I’ve ever fantasized about was this,” Geralt mutters, a little embarrassed. Jaskier raises himself up from the witcher’s throat, his big blue eyes wide and his sharp smile pleased. He kisses away the sweat on Geralt’s jaw, then the sheepish grimace on his lips. Very soon, Geralt struggles to catch his breath again.

-

Geralt doesn’t think about the conversation for days afterward. Then while riding through a collection of hovels too paltry to even deserve the status of a village, he sees a familiar set of shoulders hunched outside the herbalist’s shop, freeing her of her monkshood. Geralt spurs Roach forward without warning and then practically vaults out of her saddle, his heart soaring as he approaches the crouching man. “Now what are you doing in a shithole like this? Not a king in sight!”

The hulking stranger smiles before he even turns, and by the time Letho rises to his full stature he’s grinning like a fool. The joy oddly suits him, transforming his usually serious countenance into a nearly handsome look. “Well, look at that. Like the beginning of a bad joke. Two witchers walk into the same town…”

“I haven’t heard that one,” Geralt laughs, shifting between his feet. He wants to embrace Letho in a tight hug but he isn’t sure if the Viper would welcome it or take off as fast as he could. So he sets his hands on his hips and tries to steady himself— then his fluttering nerves remind him of the flutteriest person Geralt knows. Fuck. He doubles back to sheepishly glance at his companion. “Don’t think the two of you have met yet.”

At least there isn’t a trace of jealousy or discontent on his bard’s face; only curiosity that will not easily be sated. Before Jaskier can do his usual pompous Viscount monologue, Letho steps around Geralt to face him head-on. “No, but I’m familiar with the songs. I’m Letho of Gulet, and you must be Geralt’s extra saddlebags, right?”

Jaskier’s eyes flash, but he laughs without any bitterness. “You’re not wrong. Is there a place around here that we could treat you to a drink, Letho? I think I’d like to hear the end of the joke.”

From then on, the two get on like a house on fire, heading to darken the door of the nearest ‘establishment’ that technically sells alcohol and other amusements. At first it feels a bit like watching a panther play with a peacock, but Jaskier seems to piece together everything Geralt never told him about Letho fairly quickly.

For the Viper’s part he is surprisingly forthcoming, sharing his pipe with the bard along with a host of stories. Jaskier eagerly attends both, linking the soft curve of his arm with Letho’s thick muscly one and hanging onto every word the witcher provides. Geralt hangs back and watches the smoke and warmth flow from them both, his mind racing as his stomach flips.

Then Letho rises from the table to buy the next round, acting more noble than ever. Like he’s putting on a bit of a show. Jaskier is not a small man but as the Viper stands he lifts the bard with him for just a moment. Geralt gulps back dry air, transfixed. Letho smiles at him, not meanly but with unexpected convivial heat— as though they share a secret.

The toe of Jaskier’s boot brushes against Geralt’s calf under the table and he looks sharply at his companion, face burning. If Jaskier can sense Geralt’s fast pulse he politely doesn’t address it, leaning in to murmur softly without accusation, “You’ve been quieter than usual since we got here. All good, darling?”

Geralt forces himself to nod and Jaskier retreats, appeased for the moment. That could be the end of it. By rights, that should be the end of it. But his blood is still boiling in an entirely pleasant way, and so he clears his throat quietly. As casually as he can, he tells Jaskier, “You know, he’s from another school. Letho isn't my brother.”