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A Matter of Preference

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Jaskier is a man of broad and varying tastes. He appreciates the appeal of a plump, rosy-cheeked farm girl and also her strapping, handsome brother. He’s not one to discriminate by age; indeed, the Countess de Stael was a woman of advancing years and their time together had been both delightful and illuminating. He likes to think he sees the beauty in everyone, in people of all ages and genders and backgrounds.

Recently, though, he‘s started to wonder if he’s developed a type.

It was Yennefer, of all people, that had started him thinking on the matter. Geralt and he had met her in a tavern to discuss how Ciri’s magical training was progressing, and while there he’d caught the eye of a barrel-chested blacksmith with long, pale blonde hair and lovely big hands. They’d been eying each other all evening, and when he slipped from the table to make his approach, Yennefer had stifled a laugh.

“Mmm, I can see what you like about him,” she’d said, arching one eyebrow. “He seems just the type you’d be into.”

He had been, as it happens. He’d passed a most pleasurable night with Bjorn, as his name turned out to be, and Yennefer had apparently found the whole thing hilarious.

The next village he and Geralt stopped in, he made the acquaintance of a strong, rugged warrior from Skellige whose gruff demeanor hid a heart of gold.

Then there was the mercenary from Kovir, who knew biology and alchemy and showed Jaskier how to brew herbs for combat and healing, and then showed him some other things besides.

There were a lot of broad, muscular men with long hair and gentle natures, now he thinks about it. He seemed to have developed a tendency towards those with itinerant natures and an air of mystery and danger.

Perhaps it was excitement and adventure he craved, but logically he thought he got quite enough of that from traipsing after Geralt on his hunts. Perhaps he was seeking out men who were his polar opposite, though that had never particularly appealed to him before.

Geralt himself, who had at first been uptight and uncomfortable when Jaskier bedded men, now seemed to find the whole thing highly amusing. He smirked whenever a burly, athletic man took Jaskier’s fancy, and would shake his head fondly and wish him tremendous fun in his endevours when he went off to pursue them.

Tonight, Jaskier has found a partner he thinks might be his best conquest yet. Hjalmar has beautiful, flowing white-blonde hair, with wide shoulders and chunky thighs Jaskier can’t wait to sink his teeth into. Even though he’s gruff and taciturn on the outside, Jaskier can tell he’s kind and funny beneath. He’s perfect.

Geralt hides a smile when Jaskier announces his intention to go and get to know Haljmar rather better. As Jaskier stands from their table, Geralt reaches out and takes hold of his wrist.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he says, and for a moment his eyes are soft, “back at camp. If you should… need anything.”

Jaskier smiles and pats his hand. It’s sweet of Geralt to worry about him. What a good friend he was.