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1
Geralt hates markets. On the rare instances that he isn’t immediately run out of town and manages to blend into the hustle and bustle of larger city markets, the vendors are usually selling overpriced shit with poor workmanship or rotten vegetables. This specific morning, Geralt is wandering around looking for, of all things, a gift for his obnoxious sidekick. After tailing him for nearly a year and doing his level best to get himself killed while singing ridiculous songs about Geralt’s virtues, he probably deserves some sort of consolation prize. Geralt is nothing if not fair.
There aren’t many choices which would appeal to a bard, and Geralt refuses to waste coin on frivolous trinkets. He’s nearly given up on finding anything suitable when he spots an older woman selling fruits which don’t look bruised or soft. He approaches her little cart and is greeted with a smile. “Sir Witcher, merry meet.”
Geralt grunts at her by way of greeting and selects two ripe plums, nearly out of season. “How much?”
“I’ll take four coppers.”
Fishing around in his coin pouch, Geralt hands over the coppers and takes the plums. If the bard can’t appreciate good fruit then Geralt will eat them himself.
At the inn, Jaskier is awoken very rudely by two hundred pounds of grumpy witcher nearly tipping him out of bed. He flails, smacking Geralt in the face, and ends up in a heap of tangled sheets and limbs on the floor. “For fuck’s sake, you awful man! You can’t just tumble someone out of a dead sleep like that! I could have died!”
Snorting in amusement, Geralt nudges Jaskier with the toe of his boot. “Get up. I got you something.”
“What is it, a jar of worms? Monster entrails?” Jaskier huffs indignantly and fights his way out of the sheet. “Melitele above, have you finally bought me a weapon with which to defend myself from brigands?”
Geralt frowns. That would have been a more practical gift. However, “You’re more likely to stab yourself than a bandit.” The plums remain the better choice.
Jaskier sighs and sits on the bed beside Geralt, shirt unlaced down to his navel, hair a bird’s nest of brown locks. Geralt notices things like this now and he wishes sincerely that he didn’t. He hands the plums to Jaskier and watches closely for his reaction. He shouldn’t care but he does.
“Plums? Geralt, I take back every bad thing I said about you in the tavern last night.” Geralt’s frown deepens because what the fuck? “You’re a saint amongst men, a shining knight in the dark void that is Kaedwen. These are my absolute favorite.” Jaskier pauses. “But what’s the occasion?”
With a grunt, Geralt gets up and starts gathering his things. “We part ways today, bard. I return to my home for the winter and you go…” Where will Jaskier go? Geralt has no idea. He’s never mentioned his home, his family. In fact, now that Geralt reflects on their past year together, Jaskier talks very little of his background except to tell anyone who will listen about his education at Oxenfurt. “Where will you go?”
Jaskier makes a concerned sound. “I suppose I don’t know.” He looks lost, not anything like the cocky and foolhardy young man who approached a strange Witcher in a run down little tavern at the edge of the world. “Perhaps I’ll go to Novigrad and find work for the winter.”
That seems like a reasonable plan so Geralt continues packing, carefully sorting his provisions and taking stock of what he has and what he’ll need to make the long, arduous journey up the mountain to the keep. Behind him, he hears the usual noises he associates with Jaskier getting dressed—muttered commentary on the sad state of his clothing and mourning the finer shirts and doublets ruined on the Path.
“I need to go settle our tab with the innkeep. I’ll meet you at the stables in an hour? I must say my goodbyes to Lady Roach.” Jaskier disappears downstairs and Geralt continues preparing for his trek.
An hour or so later, Geralt has finished saddling Roach and Jaskier has said his goodbyes, serenading the annoyed horse with a sonnet he wrote specifically for her. She’s only bitten him twice, which is an improvement. Jaskier quits stalling and finally faces the inevitable. “I won’t see you again, will I?”
Geralt grunts and tries not to think about how lonely he was before this idiot bard stumbled into his life in a flurry of song and drama. “Suppose not.”
Jaskier looks as though he’s going to cry and Geralt wonders distantly if anyone besides his brothers has ever cared this much for him. “All right. Well, have a safe journey and… good luck witchering, I guess.”
His eyes are very blue. And he looks so incredibly defeated. Geralt doesn’t deserve that sort of loyalty. He climbs into the saddle and turns Roach north, leaving Jaskier behind.
Later that night, once he makes camp in the woods off of the main road towards Daevon, Geralt finds a cloth bundle in one of his packs that he knows wasn’t there this morning. He opens it and finds two loaves of bread, clearly stolen from the tavern kitchen, and a small silver pendant on a chain. Engraved into the face of the pendant is a family crest which Geralt doesn’t recognize.
Geralt wears the necklace under his shirt the entire winter. During a sparring session one day, the pendant slips out of his shirt and Eskel, sweating and breathing like a war horse put through its paces, pauses mid-swing. “Wolf, why on Melitele’s continent do you have a Kerack nobility medallion?”
Certain things slot into place like swords in sheaths. Jaskier referred to himself as the Vicount of Lettenhoven. Perhaps he hadn’t been making that up. The bard had clearly been unused to life outside the city when they met, and his hands had been calloused in a way specific to musicians, not laborers. That would also explain the bard’s complete lack of self preservation.
Geralt huffs. “It was a gift. From a… friend.”
Eskel rolls his eyes fondly. “I hope sincerely that you don’t run this one off.” Geralt oddly does, too. Perhaps in the spring, once the Path thaws and the monsters leave their hibernation, he’ll look for the bard.
2
“Those are absolutely my socks, you thief!”
Jaskier is twenty and furious. Geralt bucks his hips and Jaskier goes ass over tea kettle onto the floor with a yelp. Chuckling to himself, Geralt holds the socks up in triumph. “These are definitely mine. There’s a hole in the toe from that griffin that bit my boot in Poviss last spring.”
From the floor, Jaskier growls. “No, it’s mine and that hole is from getting caught climbing through that duchess’s window to escape her very angry husband three months ago.”
“Hm.” At any rate, Geralt has possession of the socks and that makes them his. He also still has possession of that delightful bar of rose scented soap that Jaskier stole in Toussiant. The bard doesn’t need to know that.
Jaskier picks himself up off of the floor, sulking. “I should pack. There’s a music festival in Novigrad this winter. The college has offered me room and board for three months.”
Geralt tilts his head curiously. “Do you spend every winter in Novigrad?”
“No, but it’s a safe place for me. I certainly can’t defend myself against robbers or survive on berries in the wilderness.”
“You nearly poisoned yourself with berries seven times this year. A new record,” Geralt smirks.
Jaskier throws a different sock at him. It lands harmlessly on Geralt’s chest and he pockets that one, too. “Yes, well, some of us don’t enjoy camping in swamps and eating raw deer meat.”
They grow quiet as they finish gathering all of their meager belongings. Geralt slips a small package from his pack and brings it over to where Jaskier is fussing over the strap on his lute case like a mother fawning over her newborn babe. Geralt pushes the package against Jask’s hand until he takes it.
“What’s this?” Jaskier looks down at it suspiciously.
“It’s a package, genius. Open it.” Geralt wanders back to the bed to search the sheets for any more errant socks.
The sounds of ripping paper fill the tiny room. Jaskier makes a little gasp. “Geralt, you scoundrel. You bought me ink.” Jaskier peers at the label. “You bought me expensive ink.”
Geralt huffs. “It’s for your monster journal. You know, the one filled with lies.”
Jaskier grins. “Darling, we’ve been over this several times before. It’s a fictional bestiary for entertainment, not that dusty old diary you’ve had since the Convergence.” Geralt bristles. He’s barely eighty years old. Jaskier continues undeterred by things like facts. “Unlike yours, mine is riveting.”
“You wrote an entire page about seducing a red dragon. They breathe actual fire, Jaskier.” Geralt extricates another sock from under the pillow and breathes in the soft scent of Jaskier’s lavender soap on the pillowcase. He steals the pillowcase for reasons even he can’t decipher.
Across the room, Jaskier tucks the ink away in a safe place in his bag and gets up, brushing imaginary dirt off of his trousers. “It’s fiction , Geralt. Make believe. Tales and stories. I don’t expect anyone to ever read it, anyway. I’m now two years out of Oxenfurt and I’ve not accomplished any of my goals. It’s hopeless.”
Geralt rolls his eyes. “You’re not dead. That’s an accomplishment for someone like you.”
Jaskier produces another pair of socks to lob at Geralt’s head. Geralt confiscates them and adds them to his collection.
They’re on the road later that morning when Geralt sees a sign up ahead and the road splits. He turns toward the north and sees Jaskier hesitate. “Be well, bard.”
Jaskier chews his lip a little, radiating nervous energy. “We’ll see each other again in the spring. Right, Geralt?”
It’s a little more difficult to turn away from Jaskier this year and it unsettles the witcher. “Don’t think so.” He doesn’t stay to see Jaskier’s shoulders slump or his face fall. He doesn’t want to remember that. He hears a soft, “Goodbye, Geralt,” and urges Roach into a dead run.
At a road camp miles away, Geralt finishes cleaning the blood from his blade on the tunic of a bandit he’s killed and sighs. There’s a family—or what’s left of it—cowering under an overturned wagon nearby. He doesn’t bother trying to coax them out. They smell sour with fear and he thinks they’re more afraid of him than the vandals.
Geralt goes to Roach, waiting patiently nearby, and digs around in one of her saddlebags for his blade oil. His gloved knuckles brush against something soft and yielding. He pulls it out of the bag and stares at it for a long time. Clenched in his bloodied fist is a small bear made of an old sock stuffed with straw. Jaskier has even drawn a scowl onto its face that rivals Geralt’s.
It’s so unexpected and out of place in this grisly tableau that it knocks the wind out of Geralt’s lungs for a moment. He tucks the little bear, fabric stained red from his hand, safely back into the pack. He’s a Witcher and that’s a life which doesn’t accommodate soft things or sentimentality. Eventually Jaskier will realize this and stop asking if he’ll see Geralt again in the spring. For now though Geralt keeps the bear. He gently washes it in a stream later that night and dries it by the fire as he eats a meager supper. It ends up in his bedroll with the lavender scented pillowcase. He doesn’t think about it.
3
Jaskier is twenty three and bleeding and it’s entirely his own fault. He’s not quite panicking but his blue eyes are wide and his heart is rabbiting in his chest and Geralt can’t fix it fast enough. Jaskier is rambling wildly. “Fuck me, that’s a lot of blood. Geralt, how much blood do humans have? How much can I lose before I succumb? Do you think Roach will miss me? Will you miss me? Don’t let them bury me in Kerack, Geralt. I don’t want them to have the satisfaction and my bardic reputation would suffer.”
Geralt doesn’t want to think about burying Jaskier. He doesn’t want to think about that ever. “Shut up and hold still.” He wrenches Jaskier’s hand into his lap and presses his shirt against the slice across his palm. Jaskier cries out in pain but Geralt holds firmly. “You have to apply pressure to stop the bleeding. It’s not even that bad. You just have a lot of blood vessels in your hands so they bleed more.”
“Not even that bad? Not even that bad? ” Jaskier is gearing up for a tirade and Geralt is exhausted. “I put a knife through my fucking hand and you’re telling me it’s not that bad? Just because you don’t mind getting skewered by the latest monster of the week doesn’t mean I, a lowly human poet, enjoy being a pincushion!”
Geralt sighs and maybe presses harder than he truly needs to. “It’s a dagger, not a knife, and it didn’t go through your hand. If you hadn’t been snooping through my damn bags this wouldn’t have happened in the first place.”
Jaskier bristles. “I was looking for my shirt, but you’ve gone and booby trapped all of your bags and now I’ve been mortally wounded.”
“You’d be a lot more palatable if you stopped whining all the time.”
Jaskier gasps in offense. “You’d be a lot more palatable if you washed your ass on a regular basis!”
Geralt snorts a laugh. “Probably.”
Jaskier’s heartbeat is slowing to a normal rhythm and Geralt feels the tension in his own shoulders leave. They sit in the straw on the floor of Roach’s stall, Jaskier leaning heavily against his shoulder. After a few minutes of silence, Jaskier sighs. “Why did you have a dagger wrapped in my shirt in your bag, anyway?”
It would be easier to lie but Geralt doesn’t have the energy for that. “It was supposed to be a gift for you, but now you’ve gone and injured yourself with it like I knew you would.”
Jaskier hums. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with that jackass who tried to kidnap me in Maribor?”
“I’m not always going to be around to scare people away from you.” Geralt lifts the balled up shirt gently to check the wound and finds it bleeding sluggishly. He starts tearing strips from the linen to bind Jask’s hand.
“That’s incredibly thoughtful of you. I appreciate it. I’ll try not to stab myself again.” Geralt snorts rudely and Jaskier punches him half heartedly in the shoulder with his good hand.
They part ways as they always do in Murivel, Jaskier heading west and Geralt to the north. It’s nearly a month back at Kaer Morhen before Geralt discovers a small bag of thin leather strips tucked into one of his trouser pockets. They’re useful, utilitarian, the sort of gift he wouldn’t mind receiving. Geralt uses them to tie his hair back and thinks about Jaskier’s repeated requests to braid his hair, all rebuffed. He wonders what Jaskier’s hands would feel like running through his hair. He goes outside into the training grounds to hit something.
4
Jaskier is twenty seven and warm. He’s tucked into a pile of blankets and clean clothing, making soft and happy little noises while Geralt works on his potions. Outside, freezing rain is lashing the thin window panes. An early winter storm is battering the small town, but inside their cozy room at the inn, the fireplace is roaring and Geralt is honestly starting to sweat a little.
“I’m going to spend the entire winter in here.” Jaskier smells like freshly washed skin and contentment. It’s addicting.
Geralt carefully portions powdered kelpie bone into three different glass vials, watching his work with a practiced eye. “The innkeep will charge you and you spent the last of your coin buying overpriced wine last week.”
Jaskier pouts audibly. “Yes, but as my dearest and most loyal friend you have to support me, Geralt. I’m a starving artist in a cruel and callous world. You’re my knight in shining armor.”
“You’re no fucking princess.” Geralt lightly taps the bottom of his vials to consolidate the ingredients inside and wonders what Jaskier would look like in a dress. His dick perks up in his trousers at the idea and he glares down at it, betrayed.
“I’d never want to be a princess. Dowries, arranged marriages, life as a glorified caged bird? No, thank you. I’ll take my chances on the road.” There’s a shuffling sound, rustling of fabric, and Geralt isn’t quite sure what to do with this whole traitorous dick situation. Jaskier sits beside him wrapped in at least three blankets and squints at his vials. “What are those? Eye of newt? Harpy bladders? Gobbledygook?”
Geralt snorts. “Yes, Jaskier. The famous Gobbledygook witcher potion. It makes us immune to bad singing.”
Jaskier preens. “Sounds like you don’t need it, then.”
Geralt drawls, “You haven’t heard yourself singing.”
Jaskier turns and throws himself bodily at Geralt, tackling him to the floor. “Take that back, you foul mouthed bastard!”
A wrestling match ensues, Jaskier attempting to pin Geralt to no avail and Geralt utterly amused by it. As Jaskier wriggles and tries with all his strength to get Geralt’s arms pinned over his head, his backside drags over Geralt’s lap several times and suddenly it isn’t funny anymore. Geralt is half hard against his best friend’s very pert ass and he needs to end this immediately. He rolls them, pinning Jaskier under him and staring down at him with wild eyes. This is a terrible idea.
Jaskier looks up at him, face framed by Geralt’s white hair cascading over his shoulders, and there’s clear, unmistakable desire in his eyes. Geralt pushes himself up and sits down in front of his potion ingredients again, busies his hands with something he’s done a thousand times, something familiar and comfortable and normal.
For his part, the bard hasn’t moved. He’s staring up at the ceiling a little dazed, like he’s had a religious experience and needs time to digest his feelings.
They don’t talk about it.
Geralt hands Jaskier a new pair of boots outside the inn and doesn’t walk him to the fork in the road. He waits months to open the clumsily wrapped parcel Jaskier had handed him, improperly dressed in the pouring rain. It’s an elven hair comb made from an elk antler. Geralt slips it into his pack and doesn’t use it, afraid the perpetual knots in his hair might break the fragile teeth of the comb.
5
Jaskier is thirty and old enough to know better, by now. He’s in his cups, playing a complicated card game with some travelers from Redania who know his music, and the handsy bloke beside him is pressing his luck. He insists on buying Jaskier another ale and excuses himself to go to the bar. Geralt glares at him from his spot in a nearby booth, sequestered in the corner, “Like a gargoyle, Geralt. Really. Would it kill you to lighten up once in a while?” Geralt resents that. He’s plenty of fun. Just that morning he’d toppled Jask into the Pontar fully clothed for being a brat. Loads of fun. Besides, the corner is the most strategic place to sit in any tavern—back to the wall, full view of the crowd, eye sight on every exit. And a clear bead on his idiot best friend getting thoroughly wasted.
They’re not speaking currently because Jaskier’s favorite shirt had been ruined. That’s fine. He’ll forget all about it when he sees the gift Geralt has gotten him. But not before Geralt punches Mr. Feely in the jaw. There’s something about him that rubs Geralt the wrong way, like unpleasant textures against his skin or things that taste too close to other things. He doesn’t like this at all.
He’s nearly drifted off in his seat when Mr. Feely pours a few drops of what looks to be a reddish hued liquid into Jaskier’s latest tankard of ale, unseen by anyone else at their table. Geralt growls and gets up. He’s on the man in seconds, dragging him up from his seat and sloshing ale all over their card game. The other patrons make startled noises and move away from the table quickly, but Jaskier snarls at Geralt. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Geralt continues growling at the man he’s got held up by his lapels, eyes flashing. “What did you put in his drink?”
The man turns white as a sheet and stutters. “It was nothing! I swear!”
Geralt drops him unceremoniously on the floor and grabs the tankard, taking a drink of it and swirling it around in his mouth before spitting it onto the wooden floorboards. “Arsenic? That would have killed him in minutes. Who do you work for?”
Sweating now, the man cowers. “It was a love drought, not arsenic! I bought it in Lyria from an enchantress!”
“Waste of fucking air is what you are. I ought to gut you like a fish.” Geralt drags the man up and shoves him towards the door. “Go, before I change my mind.” The man hauls ass out the door and into the night. Geralt turns and meets the eyes of an entire tavern full of stunned patrons. Jaskier is there amongst them, looking down at the poisoned tankard and rubbing the back of his neck. Geralt sighs. “Try not to get poisoned again.” He turns and heads upstairs to their room, ignoring the stares boring into his retreating back like arrows from enemy bowstrings.
Not long after Geralt has dressed down for bed does Jaskier come into the room, a lot quieter than usual and almost contrite. He stands uselessly beside the bed twisting his hands together, a nervous habit he developed long before Geralt met him. “Thank you. For saving me. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
Geralt grunts and lays down to sleep. Jaskier worms his way under the blankets beside him and doesn’t say another word. In the morning, when Geralt wakes up with an armful of sleepy soft, warm bard slumbering against his side, he knows what he needs to do.
Quietly he slips out of bed and dresses, lingering long enough to tuck Jask back in to sleep off his booze. He heads through the early morning streets to the edge of town where a well appointed home sits between the apothecary and the butcher. The front door is open and Geralt goes inside. He’s been here dozens of times and the owner remembers him. She greets him warmly, much more warmly than he’s used to even now, and he asks her for a specific item which he knows she’ll have in stock.
Purchase acquired, Geralt goes back to the inn. This year he leaves the gift on Jaskier’s clothing folded on the chair by the hearth and pays the innkeeper for an extra night for the bard. He’s down the road within the hour, and he hopes Jaskier will use the poison-detecting amulet the next time he accepts drinks from strangers.
1
Jaskier is thirty three and livid. He’s grabbed onto Geralt’s left stirrup and is tugging, trying to force Roach to a stop in the middle of the fork in the road. It’s snowing and his boots are sliding in the mud and ice. “No, you stubborn, shithead, know-it-all bastard! You’re not disappearing on me again!”
Geralt is a bit stunned. He’s never seen Jaskier this angry before, and the bard gets mad a lot. Geralt brings Roach to a halt and dismounts, frowning at Jaskier. “What’s the problem?”
“You! You are the problem, Geralt! These past few years you sneak out without saying goodbye, I spend months trying to find you in the spring, and this year I finally ran into you on accident a week ago! Have I done something so unforgivable that you’d go out of your way to avoid me? Is this about Cintra?”
Geralt huffs in immediate dismissal. “No, it’s not about Cintra.” That was a problem of his own creation, thank you very much.
“Then what have I done to offend you? It’s been fifteen years. You owe me at least that.” Jaskier looks like he’s about to start begging. He smells desperate. Geralt hates it.
“You haven’t done anything. It’s just… difficult,” Geralt hedges.
“What’s difficult?”
Geralt looks anywhere but at Jaskier. “Leaving you behind every year.”
Something has shifted in the dynamic between them recently and Geralt doesn’t quite know what to make of it. Sometimes he looks at Jaskier and sees the outrageous man who follows him around singing silly songs, and other times he sees how handsome and brave Jaskier truly is. Sometimes he wakes up with an armful of bard and lays in bed wondering what it would be like to wake up like this every day for the rest of his life.
Sometimes Geralt wants to bring Jaskier—the friend of witchers with no real home—to his own home high in the Blue Mountains. Geralt looks at Jaskier, at his beautiful blue eyes and ridiculous bedhead and the freckles he’s gotten from being out in the sun more than he is indoors, and makes a decision. “I’m not leaving you behind this year. Let’s go.” Geralt turns and heads north.
Jaskier makes confused squawks behind him. “Go where?! Geralt, have you lost the plot? What is happening?”
“We’re going to Kaer Morhen. If you whine at any point I’ll leave you for the yeti to find.”
“Yeti aren’t real, Geralt.” He hears boot steps behind him, running to catch up. “You told me so three years ago when I asked what beasties live in the Blue Mountains. They’re not real, right? Geralt?”
The journey takes several weeks and they barely make it before the ice and wind render the trek impossible for a human to survive. Jaskier is exhausted after the treacherous climb up The Killer and collapses into Geralt’s four poster bed in his room in the drafty keep before Geralt has a chance to get him out of his wet and freezing clothes. He sleeps for a day and a half, and when Geralt finally gets tired of waiting for him to wake up he starts the complicated but familiar process of extracting Jaskier from his blanket cocoon. “Jask, wake up.”
“No.” The lump of blankets shivers. “It’s cold out there.”
Geralt huffs fondly. “I brought you warmer clothes. You need to eat. And bathe.” He pauses. “There’s a natural hot spring below the keep.”
Jaskier sits bolt upright and wiggles in delight. “A hot spring, you say? Is there soap? And clean bath sheets? Do you have wine?” He carries on babbling to himself in excitement and Geralt gets up, crosses the room to his bureau. He picks up the carefully wrapped gift he’d been saving for Jaskier and carries it to the bed. Jaskier is still murmuring to himself about the possibilities of bath salts in a hot spring when he sees the package and quiets. “What’s this?”
Geralt hands it to him and waits quietly. Inside he’s screaming like a banshee. Jaskier opens the paper wrapping and finds an envelope inside. “Geralt, have you bought me a mansion?” He chuckles at his own joke and opens the envelope, peering inside. He frowns and turns it upside down, shaking it, before turning to Geralt. “It’s empty. What a cruel prank, you horrible man! Lure me up to your witchery castle and then play with an exhausted man’s emotions? I should report you to the Witcher Council! Is it a council? Or more of a tribe of elders or something? Geralt, I truly don’t appreciate this sort of foolishness—“
Jaskier stops speaking abruptly when Geralt takes his face in his hands and kisses him firmly. Both their hearts are racing and Jaskier gets a handful of Geralt’s shirt to drag him down onto the bed. Geralt rumbles, “It wouldn’t fit in the envelope.” Jaskier laughs incredulously and Geralt tries to get impossibly closer to Jaskier, one hand buried in his hair and the other wrapped around his warm, bare hip. They kiss for what feels like days, completely wrapped up in each other.
Some time later, when both their mouths are kiss-swollen and there’s a trail of bite marks down Jaskier’s neck to one nipple, they lay together contentedly and very naked. Jaskier’s head is pillowed on Geralt’s chest and he’s drawing little nonsensical shapes onto Geralt’s pec. “I didn’t get you anything.”
Geralt grunts softly. “Don’t need anything.”
Jaskier lifts his head, chin resting on Geralt’s sternum, and looks at him. “Nothing?” He drags a hand slowly down Geralt’s stomach to just over his groin. Geralt’s dick twitches under the blanket. “There’s absolutely nothing I could give you right now that you would need, Geralt?”
Geralt pretends to think about it, ignoring Jaskier’s fingers barely brushing his dick. “I have been running low on gobbledygook potion.”
Jaskier groans in annoyance and drags the blanket down, shoving Geralt’s leg aside and rolling his eyes. “You are so fucking insufferable, I swear to the gods…”
He takes Geralt into his mouth easily, still muttering somehow, and Geralt makes a devastated whine when he touches the back of the bard’s throat in one quick swallow. “Changed my mind. Great present. Fuck.” Jaskier makes a pleased rumble and sucks Geralt dry.
It’s a great winter, and Geralt doesn’t have to spend time trying to locate his wayward bard in the spring.