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The balaur hadn’t been a particularly big one, but its razor edged scales had taken a toll on Geralt.
“Death by a thousand paper cuts,” Jaskier mused, helping Geralt remove his armour in the cramped tavern room. The surface of the thick leather was soaked red, striated with whorls and stripes, faint cuts from where the beast had flailed at him with its seven heads and bullwhip tail. “I can think of better ways to go, to be honest.”
Geralt raised an eyebrow. He held up dripping hands and Jaskier winced. Okay, maybe those were a touch deeper than a paper cut.
“Just - get in the bath, Geralt, and we can see what’s your blood and what’s that beast’s blood and where you’re still bleeding because, sweet Melitele, you are an absolute state today. There are only so many words for red, you know, and at this rate, most the Ballad of the Balaur is simply going to be me inventing synonyms for sanguinary.”
The last piece of armour fell to the floor with a dull thud and Jaskier helped Geralt peel off the sodden shirt beneath. Blood and bile and drool, Jaskier thought, dropping the shirt onto the hearth in which a merry fire danced. He’d not witnessed such a messy death in all his time of knowing Geralt.
“It’s a shame the rumour that their spit hardens into gems appears to be fake. Do those things always make such a mess?” he asked, turning away so Geralt could shed his small clothes and step into the steaming tub that sat before the fire. In amongst their packs was Geralt’s satchel, containing the chamomile oil and the frankincense and the healing salve and whatever else would be needed to stop Geralt bleeding out. Jaskier deliberately didn’t think about the fact that Geralt was now very naked but he couldn’t ignore the gentle splash as Geralt settled into the water.
“Yes,” Geralt grunted, and followed up with an utterly indecent groan.
“I can hardly imagine what that feels like,” Jaskier said. “Except I can, if I put my mind to it because I have an excellent imagination.”
He looked around the small, cluttered room, wondering where the bloody hell the satchel had gone. He’d piled all their packs in the corner by the door when he’d first taken the room, but in the hours since, things had moved and the meagre amount of floor space was now strewn with bags, bloodied armour and Geralt’s sodden clothing.
“Why is there so much furniture in this one tiny room?” he muttered. The bag had to be around there somewhere, but between the bed, the dresser, the armoire which stood at a rather alarming angle to the wall, the table before the window, the modestly sized wooden tub, and the low padded stool by the dresser, there was barely room for the two of them. Maybe this was supposed to a store room, rather that an actual bedroom. “You know, I recall, in my second term at Oxenfurt, one of the masters used the absolutely worst, cheapest, flimsiest parchment I have ever seen, and the nicks and cuts that inflicted on us all were not to be born, honestly. Oh, finally, there’s that fucking satchel. Have you ever tried to strum a lute with a dozen tiny nicks in the ends of your fingers? Oh, of course not, you’ve never strummed a lute in your life, what am I saying, but I digress. When I put my hands into warm water that evening-“
“Jaskier.”
Jaskier’s jaw shut with an audible click at Geralt’s soft tone.
“Goldenseal,” Geralt said, eyes closed. “The root powder. Put a handful in the water.”
“Of course.”
Undoing the fine leather thong which held the calfskin bag shut, Jaskier slipped his hand into the silky, dusty ground root inside. It tingled slightly and the pale greenish brown powder almost sparkled as he sprinkled it over the steaming surface of the bath. Geralt must have waved his magic over the tub because the water hadn’t been that warm when the serving girl had brought it up in buckets from the kitchens.
The water at once went an odd golden-green and Geralt’s sigh was heartfelt.
“Better?” Jaskier couldn’t help but ask.
“Mn.”
That was definitely a nod though, Jaskier thought. He poured a little of the meadowfoam oil into his hands and stepped behind Geralt to run his fingers through tangled silver hair. The scent of cloves and something woody cut through the acidic stench of the balaur slime and Jaskier felt Geralt relax under his hands.
He wasn’t sure when this had become their routine. Over the last few years, it had just happened. He couldn’t even remember the first time he’d helped Geralt bathe, this habit of cleansing the long silver hair borne from some instinct that Jaskier had never had the courage to look directly at. So what if he liked having a clean room mate? Removing the stench of blood and guts and worse was simply for his own benefit, and that was the story he would stick to if anyone ever asked him. It was the story he had told himself in the beginning, but after a while, he stopped pretending and simply accepted it for what it was. Taking care of Geralt like this was the only way he would ever get to touch him, and so he took what he could.
There was probably something perverse about gleaning small snippets of pleasure from patching Geralt up, from cleaning and bandaging him after a fight, but at least he was useful, and Geralt benefitted from the contact too.
Just, one day, Jaskier thought, reaching for the jug so he could pour warm water over Geralt’s head, he’d like to touch him when he wasn’t bleeding and bruised. If he could smooth his hands over Geralt’s pale chest and not get covered in blood, feel the slow beat of his heart beneath warm, dry skin and solid muscle…
“That’s the fifth jug,” Geralt said, pulling Jaskier out of his head. “I believe I am clean.”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, of course you are. Finally, although it never hurts to make sure. I was just wondering, how many words rhyme with bile.” Not chest, obviously. He put the jug down and found himself rooted to the spot as Geralt stood. The greenish water cascaded off pale skin and Jaskier hoped like hell that Geralt wasn’t listening to his heart at that moment, because panicked-rabbit-fast was no speed for standing in a warm, safe, tavern room.
Gods, the man was magnificent. Jaskier had already written several compositions on the structural spectacularity of the Witcher’s incredible body, but now was not the moment to start humming “thighs hewn of mighty oak, hair the colour of ash wood smoke” because if he got onto the chorus and sang it out loud…
Jaskier cleared his throat and put Geralt’s shaving kit down on the dresser next to a small, chipped mirror. There was just enough light coming in through the grimy window to shave by, he reckoned, and they were an hour or so off sunset.
“You’ll want this too, no doubt, as you’re looking slightly fuzzy around the edges, my friend. Can’t have folks talking about your lack of personal grooming. Bile and blood washes off smooth skin so much easier than a half beard, am I right?”
Geralt just looked at him, and Jaskier mustered up a grin.
“How about I go in search of some supper? I’m sure you must have worked up an appetite, because I know I did, and I just got to watch. I don’t fancy eating in the tavern though, because everyone is going to be utterly miserable until they’ve buried the last of the bodies the balaur shredded. So, yes, supper.” He sidled towards the door. “Be back in a jiffy.”
It was odd, he mused, leaning on the counter with a tankard of ale as the innkeeper went off to find something for them to eat. Day to day, he was perfectly capable of ignoring this huge, ridiculous torch he carried for Geralt, and life was pretty good. But then, on occasions (such as right then) it literally crushed him with the weight of what he wanted and could not have.
“Yon Witcher all right?” the innkeeper asked, returning with two plates of something that actually looked halfway decent. “Was a mess o’ blood on ‘im.”
“He will be fine, most of the blood was the balaur’s,” Jaskier assured him. He looked at the stew and chunks of bread on the plates. “My thanks for this, sir, you offer a generous table.”
“Tha’s done us a favour all right,” the innkeeper said. “Mebbe we can all sleep better in us beds now.”
Maybe, Jaskier thought, balancing two plates and two tankards as he headed back upstairs to their room. One more monster crossed off the continent. How many more were there out there?
“Dinner!” he declared, pushing the door open. One of the plates started to slip and he had a momentary dilemma where he didn’t know if he should save the food or the drink.
“Stick to singing, not juggling,” Geralt said, catching the plates before they could end up on the floor. Jaskier blinked at the there-and-gone smile that quirked at the corner of Geralt’s mouth.
“Was that a flash of humour? Blood loss must be making you lightheaded.”
Geralt grunted at him, taking the plates over to the table. Jaskier was so relieved that they’d both have meat and ale that it took him longer than it probably should have to notice that Geralt had only shaved one cheek.
“Haven’t you forgotten something?” Jaskier asked him, pausing halfway through eating to stare at Geralt’s face. He waved a piece of bread in the general direction of the unshaved cheek. “It’s customary to do both sides, you know.”
“Hm,” Geralt grumbled. With a sigh, he lifted one hand. “Can’t hold the razor.”
Geralt’s hands were swollen, Jaskier realised. The myriad tiny cuts had scabbed over but there must have been some kind of venom in the balaur’s scales. He was just about managing to eat but there was no way he could have comfortably held the bone handle of the razor.
“Looks like we need to find the village barber in the morning.” Jaskier grinned at him. “You definitely can’t go around looking like that.”
“They buried the barber last week.”
“Oh.” His smiled dimmed. “How long will that last?” he nodded at the swelling.
“A day or two.”
Jaskier could see now how awkwardly Geralt held the spoon; fat fingers, that were normally so precise, curled clumsily around the wooden handle.
“I - I could do it? If you wanted me to,” he added hurriedly at Geralt’s raised eyebrow. “I mean, I shave myself all the time, and do a pretty good job of it, if I do say so myself.” He ran a hand over his own chin, clean shaven just that morning, and counted the blessing that was a slow growing beard.
“You want to run a razor over my neck?” Geralt asked, and Jaskier blinked.
Ah, yes, probably not the most sensible thing a Witcher could do. They may be hard to kill, but a swift, sure slash across the carotid and jugular would do the job fairly quickly. It would explain why Geralt rarely used the local barbers when they passed through towns and villages.
“Fair point.” Jaskier looked down at his plate and stabbed a piece of rather good beef with his eating knife. “I guess you wouldn’t let just anyone put a blade to your throat.” He put the meat into his mouth and chewed, avoiding Geralt’s golden eyed stare.
“Not just anyone, no.” Geralt’s voice was soft and Jaskier had to steel himself not to react. “But your hands are steady enough, aren’t they.”
It wasn’t a question, Jaskier realised. He mustered up his best smile.
“Rock steady,” he said with conviction. “Except, I think your bath water is a little cold for shaving in.”
Geralt turned and waved his hand towards a small bowl which sat on the dresser in the corner. A moment later, it began to steam. Okay, that solved that problem.
Jaskier stood beside Geralt, once they’d finished eating, smoothing the soap over his face and neck, and praying to every god he’d ever heard of that his hands would, indeed, remain rock steady for the next ten minutes. It didn’t help that Geralt had hauled his shirt off and tossed it casually to one side before sitting on the padded stool before the dresser. It brought his face level with Jaskier’s shoulder, which was going to make things easier for shaving, but Geralt kept glancing up at him through his eyelashes; and coquettish was one word Jaskier had never used to describe the Butcher of Blaviken before.
“Relax,” Geralt said, leaning forward to pick up the straight razor off the dresser top. Two candles on it sparked and flared to life at the murmured Igni. “The odd nick will heal quick enough.”
“You think I’m going to nick you?” For some reason, that helped Jaskier’s nerves. There was no way, in this lifetime or the next, that he was going to inflict any kind of injury upon Geralt if he could possibly help it, and that included a shaving rash. “This is going to be the smoothest shave that you have ever had.”
Geralt’s lips twitched and Jaskier firmly pulled his eyes away from them to focus on the tideline of soap under Geralt’s left eye. He deliberately didn’t look in the small mirror on the dresser either, not wanting to see Geralt watching him in return.
“Maybe we should redo that bit you tried to shave earlier,” he said, placing his fingers gently on Geralt’s cheekbone and pulling the skin up a fraction. “I’d hate it to look like I’d done a bodge job.”
He let the razor slide down Geralt’s cheek under its own weight, leaving a smooth, clean stripe of skin behind. He wasn’t sure why he’d expected Geralt’s whiskers to be tougher or wirier than his own, but the keen edge of the straight blade skimmed straight down without hitch. Every few strokes, Jaskier dipped the blade in the bowl of steaming water and wiped it on the rag he’d tied around his forearm.
Once Geralt’s cheeks were clean, Jaskier drew the razor across the strop a few times, and moved onto Geralt’s neck.
“You, uh,” he cleared his throat and tried again. “You need to tip your head back a little.”
Geralt’s eyes met his, luminous gold in the candlelight. For the longest moment, Geralt simply looked at him, and Jaskier felt like his every thought and wish and desire was laid bare. Before he could open his mouth and blurt something he probably shouldn’t, however, Geralt slowly leaned back, letting his chin come up, and bared his throat to Jaskier’s blade.
Sweet Melitele, Jaskier thought, swallowing hard. He could do this, he absolutely could do this. Never mind that with a single move, Geralt had just shown him more trust than Jaskier had seen him show anyone, ever.
Just faintly, beneath the thick, white layer of soap, he could see Geralt’s slow pulse, and in spite of all the mutations and potions and magic, that artery was a fraction of a inch beneath thin, soft skin.
“Do I need to reheat the water yet again?” Geralt asked, voice soft.
“Right, yes, no, we’re good. All good here.” Jaskier took a firm grip on his wayward emotions and moved his left hand to a spot just above Geralt’s collar bone. “Just a little to the left, if you please.”
Jaskier tucked the blade into the soft skin under the point of Geralt’s jaw as he complied. One gentle stroke and an inch wide strip of skin was clean and bare. You can do this, he told himself, and brought the blade back up again.
His hands weren’t shaking though. He coaxed the blade across Geralt’s adam’s apple and up under the centre of his jaw without so much as a quiver. The razor held a keen edge and it glided over Geralt’s skin like oiled silk, the barest touch and whisper more than enough.
Cheeks and neck done, Jaskier moved around to Geralt’s front to do his chin and top lip. Nearly there, he thought, rinsing the blade and running it over the strop once more for luck.
Except he couldn’t find the right angle. Jaskier tried standing each side of Geralt, getting him to twist his head this way and that but the light wasn’t right or it pulled his skin the wrong way.
Then he noticed the twitch of Geralt’s lips.
“Are you laughing at me?” he asked, indignant.
“You act like I might draw my sword if you do so much as nick my chin,” Geralt said, clearly amused.
“Well, this would be easier if you didn’t have such freakishly long legs!” Jaskier waved the razor at Geralt’s knees. “I could make you stand and do this from the front-”
Geralt’s hands settled, warm and heavy, on Jaskier’s hips and the last word was swallowed with something that absolutely wasn’t a squeak.
“Then try here.” And Geralt parted his legs, pulling Jaskier to stand between his thighs (mighty thighs, rough hewn oaken thighs, Jaskier thought hysterically). “Better?”
“Oh, just marvellous, really, couldn’t be better, because there’s nothing else going to distract me whilst I stand here between your legs, oh dear gods, I said that aloud.” He drew a shuddering breath. “Hush, and tuck your bottom lip over your teeth.”
A sound that was suspiciously like a huff of laughter was there and gone in a moment, then Geralt did as he was asked. It took a bit of careful manoeuvring, but Jaskier managed to shave Geralt’s chin clean without grazing the edge of that stupid dimple in the centre of it.
“Right, now, keep still,” Jaskier said, even though Geralt had been a statue of marble the entire way through. “Just this last bit, because you don’t really want a moustache, do you? You’d end up looking like one of those young men you can rent in harbour front taverns in Cidaris.”
With a careful hand, Jaskier shaved the pronounced dip in the centre of Geralt’s top lip, but then found he had to put his thumb into that indentation to do each side.
You can do this, he told himself, lifting the blade. Ignore Geralt’s warm breath. Ignore the plush cupid’s bow mouth that’s just slightly open. Ignore the negligible distance between their mouths as Jaskier leaned forward to focus on what he was doing.
He placed his thumb on Geralt’s top lip and pulled it slightly down and to the right so he could shave the left side. Three deft little strokes, and he took a moment to clean the blade and compose himself.
Geralt’s lip was soft. Not that he’d deliberately dragged his thumb across it as he’d turned to the bowl of water, but with that accidental move, he couldn’t help but notice. He was a bard, he was meant to notice things, to record them. And two of his compositions already had odes to Geralt’s more salient features, so why not add one about his mouth?
“Tell me you aren’t leaving this last bit.”
Jaskier had to suppress the shiver at the low, amused tone.
“Of course not.” Pasting on a smile, he wiped the razor clean and turned with a smile. “Now, let’s see if we can complete this without shedding any more of your blood, hm? No talking.”
“Not something you normally have to say to me,” Geralt said with an honest-to-god smile, and damn it, Jaskier was this close to abandoning the razor and climbing into Geralt’s lap.
“Less of that,” he grumbled, moving back between those thighs again. He placed his thumb in that convenient dip and pressed down and to the left. One stroke, two strokes. He lifted the blade for the third and final pass, and just as he finished, Geralt’s head twitched slightly towards the door, as if he’d heard something.
The razor didn’t move, but the lip beneath did and the tiniest bead of bright red blood welled up.
“Oh, bloody hell, Geralt!” Jaskier exclaimed. He deftly wiped the blade on the rag, folded it up and dropped it on the dresser behind him. “Seriously? We get all the way through and then you go and move at the very last fucking second.” He reached for the cloth which hung over the edge of the basin behind him and carefully wiped Geralt’s face clean. The tiny nick was right on the edge of Geralt’s lip. As he watched, another ruby bead formed.
There was no good explanation for his next action.
Jaskier dragged the edge of his thumb across that spot of blood and stared at the red smear left behind. Skin white as snow, lips red as blood, he thought. With blood. Mesmerised, he stroked his thumb over Geralt’s top lip again.
Geralt’s lips parted and Jaskier jerked his gaze up and away from temptation. Golden eyes were watching him closely and it took Jaskier a moment to notice how wide Geralt’s pupils were, how the ring of gold around those dark centres was luminous in the candlelight and, fuck, that was Geralt’s tongue against the pad of Jaskier’s thumb…
“What-?” he began, but then Geralt tipped his head up, reaching to curl a hand around the back of Jaskier’s neck and that was the limit of Jaskier’s self control.
Kissing Geralt tasted like iron and ale and mountain mornings. There was too much space between them though, what felt like acres of space and Jaskier wasn’t putting up with that. He climbed onto Geralt’s lap, straddling those thighs (broad thighs, heated thighs) so he could press himself as close as possible.
Geralt, it appeared, was more than happy with that turn of events. There was a low growl as the hand on the back of Jaskier’s neck tightened briefly then disappeared. Before Jaskier could complain, however, his shirt was being pulled up and over his head and yes, wow, Geralt had the best ideas because now they were skin to skin, the broad, scarred, heated expanse of Geralt pressed against Jaskier’s chest.
“You drive me insane,” Geralt muttered, nosing into the soft skin under Jaskier’s ear. “Gods, Jaskier, the way you smell.”
“I drive you insane? Hello, pot, kettle, uh, oh, yes, right there,” he tailed off into a groan as Geralt used gentle teeth. “Geralt,” he gasped. “Please.”
“Please what?” Geralt’s lips were now taking a leisurely journey along the side of Jaskier’s neck, pausing every inch or so to suck a small bruise to the surface of the skin, and whilst that was good, great, amazing in fact, Jaskier needed more.
“Touch me before I go out of my fucking mind.”
Geralt’s chuckle was felt more than heard.
“You’ll have to do the laces,” he said, and yes, absolutely, Jaskier could do that. He pulled back just enough to get his hands between them and fumbled with the fastenings of their trousers. He managed to undo them both, but couldn’t push his down far enough for his liking.
Swearing, he slipped off Geralt’s lap, unceremoniously shoved his breeches and small clothes down, and kicked them off to one side. At that point, he turned his attention to Geralt, and oh, oh, dear sweet Melitele’s benevolent spirit, that was a sight he would take with him to his grave. Geralt sat on the padded stool, shirtless, clean shaven, pale skin gleaming in the candle light. His trousers were open, the head of his cock peeping out through the gap where the laces were undone and that, Jaskier decided, was the perfect moment for him to drop to his knees.
“I thought I want meant to be touching you,” Geralt said, both amused and breathless, and yes, Jaskier fully intended on hearing Geralt’s voice do that again.
“I’m improvising,” Jaskier told him. He ran his hands up Geralt’s thighs (solid thighs, powerful muscular thighs), and tugged the laces the rest of the way open. “I’m good at improvising,” he added, leaning forward to flick his tongue over the head of Geralt’s erection.
“I’ve noticed.”
Jaskier would have laughed, but he was too busy trying to remember all the little tricks he used to know, in order to get as much of Geralt into his mouth as possible. There was no way he was every going to manage the entire thing, but he would be damned if he didn’t give it his best shot.
“Fuck, Jaskier.” The teasing had gone out of Geralt’s voice and all that was left was raw want.
“Later,” Jaskier muttered, pulling off to nose up the side of Geralt’s erection. He smelled warm and inviting, clean skin and rich musk, everything Jaskier had imagined but so much better.
“Wait.”
Jaskier found himself being hauled to his feet as Geralt stood, Geralt’s big hands wrapped around Jaskier’s biceps but the hold was firm, not crushing.
“But Geralt…”
“There is a perfectly good bed, right there,” Geralt pointed out. He pulled Jaskier close and kissed him for a long moment, hands running up and down Jaskier’s back. Then those big, broad hands took a good grip on Jaskier’s bare arse and lifted him up like he weighed little more than a bag of grain.
“Holy fuck.” Jaskier wrapped his legs around Geralt’s waist, arms around his neck. He could feel Geralt’s cock brushing against his backside and groaned. “Okay, yes, bed is good, bed is great.”
He’d halfway expected Geralt to just toss him onto the faded quilt and ravage him, not carefully sit on the edge of the bed so Jaskier was held firmly in his lap. He couldn’t ask what Geralt’s plans were though, as his mouth was rather thoroughly occupied.
Dear gods, the man could kiss. He’d honestly not thought about it (much) but he really hadn’t expected Geralt to be such a fucking good kisser. He’d always thought that Witchers would be more of the ‘wham, bam, here’s a coin, ma’am’ kind of lover.
He was very happy to be proven wrong.
When Geralt finally moved, lying back and pulling Jaskier with him, it gave Jaskier the chance to work Geralt’s trousers down, shoving them off the end of the bed and finally, finally stretch out across all that warm, smooth, naked skin.
“You wriggle,” Geralt muttered, moving his mouth back to Jaskier’s neck.
“I prefer to call it shimmy.” He absolutely did not wriggle a little then, but it was worth it for Geralt’s bitten off groan as their erections aligned.
“You smell so good,” Geralt muttered into the soft skin behind Jaskier’s ear. “So fucking good, gods.”
Geralt had a hand in the small of Jaskier’s back, pressing down so their erections were sliding together, delicious heat and friction just this side of too rough. Oil, Jaskier thought, somewhere in that satchel.
He was loathe to move and get it, however. Moving would mean not touching Geralt, and after all this time, all these years of wanting and waiting and, no, absolutely not pining, there was no way Jaskier was going to separate himself from Geralt for even a second.
Teeth closed around the tendon at the side of Jaskier’s neck and he bucked. The hand at the small of his back was still there, stopping him from moving away, and the hand in his hair kept his throat to Geralt’s mouth, and fuck, fuck, he was suddenly so close just from that.
“Please,” he whispered, hips moving faster. “Geralt, fuck, please…”
“Anything you want,” Geralt murmured, and he rolled them over, pinning Jaskier down. “Anything.”
Before Jaskier’s scrambled brain could come up with a suitable response, Geralt slipped a hand between them and took hold of both their erections. Now Jaskier had something solid to fuck up into, hips twitching in time with Geralt’s firm strokes. Geralt’s kisses stole the breath from Jaskier’s lungs and there was nothing that wasn’t Geralt, his touch, his smell, his taste, his weight.
When Jaskier came, it was with Geralt’s name on his lips and Geralt’s teeth in his neck, shortly followed by Geralt’s release on his belly, mixing with his own and gods above, he needed to breathe only fractionally more than he needed to stay right there, forever, pinned down by Geralt’s everything.
“Can you… I…” He shoved weakly at Geralt’s shoulder, completely lacking the coordination to do anything more constructive. “Air.”
That was definitely a chuckle, he thought, as Geralt rolled off to one side. Jaskier took a deep breath and pushed himself up onto one elbow so he could look down the whole glorious length of Geralt’s body. It was beautiful, a work of art in spite of the smear of their combined releases over his abs. Jaskier tugged the shaving rag off his wrist and used it to wipe them both down as well as he was able. Tossing the rag to the floor, he smoothed a hand across the broad chest.
“Why weren’t we doing this years ago?” Jaskier complained, brushing a finger over one flat nipple. Geralt shivered. All the nicks and cuts and scratches from the belaur were healing, and Jaskier’s fingers danced over the scars criss-crossing Geralt’s torso, learning yet another aspect of the Witcher.
“Didn’t figure you wanted me like that.”
“What?” Jaskier reared up to stare at Geralt in shock. “I’ve been told I’m not exactly subtle, you know, and if I recall correctly, I’ve been flirting with you from the moment I saw you. Three words, Geralt, remember?”
“You flirt with everyone.” Geralt’s eyes tracked off to one side for a second, and no, oh no, Jaskier wasn’t having that.
“You thought I wasn’t serious?”
“You bed everything in your path.”
“Only because-“ He swallowed the rest of that sentence. Get a grip, Jaskier, he thought. Now was not the time to let his rampant romanticism loose. “Fuck, forget it. We’re here now, right?” And he leaned down to kiss Geralt again.
“Only because what?” Geralt asked, minutes later as they paused for breath.
“What?”
“You only bedded everything in your path because?”
Jaskier drew a shuddering breath. Oh well, he thought.
“Because you weren’t interested.”
There was a long pause, followed by a rough huff of what might have been annoyance, it might have been amusement.
“I’ve always been interested. But you were too irritating, too young, too fragile. Too fucking human.” It was said in a growl, but there was something oddly vulnerable in Geralt’s expression.
Jaskier’s breath caught, and for a long moment, he couldn’t think of anything to say. Geralt’s eyes stayed fixed on him, glowing in the candlelight, his expression more open than Jaskier had ever seen before.
“What changed?” Jaskier asked, softly,
Geralt blinked, then a slow, wry little smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“You held a blade to my throat.”