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The night’s performance had gone well. He had made the townsfolk merry with a rousing rendition of some well known classics, and he had introduced them to some of his own compositions. He had been received kindly. People were always more receptive to tales of witcher heroism when they had just hired one themselves. After every verse he had looked expectantly towards the inn door. Every time it swung open, his ears perked for the sound of familiar heavy footsteps; but he had been disappointed many times that night.
“Your witcher seems to be taking his time,” the inn keeper had said conversationally when Jaskier stopped at the bar to accept a mug of free ale.
“He’ll be fine,” he replied with a dismissive smile before he knocked back his drink. Swallowing with a grimace, he waved off a second drink and returned to his crowd.
That had been hours ago.
The inn below was dark and empty now. He had long since blown out the candle on the bedside table, having found it difficult to focus on reading. Nothing of value had come of his attempts to compose. The small fireplace on the far wall of their shared room housed only faintly glowing embers, but Jaskier didn’t have the motivation to climb from under the rough blankets and furs to add another log.
It was just a wraith. Geralt had faced countless wraiths before. Jaskier even knew the basics of fighting one. Find and burn the remains, break some curse, and then face the incorporeal spirit with the silver blade and quen. Or was it yrden? One of his witcher magics, surely.
Despite the dark, the warmth and the quiet, sleep wasn’t coming.
If he strained his ears, he could hear the other guests. Nothing so interesting as something salacious, but the walls were thin and people snored.
Wine varieties. He would list wines until he fell asleep. Certainly more fun than counting sheep.
Fiorano, his own preference.
Est est, a close second.
Erveluce, for Geralt.
Geralt.
Well that had taken his mind off of absolutely nothing. With a frustrated huff he laid still and stared at the wall, or the spot of darkness where the wall should have been. Meditation, maybe that could be something. Geralt had tried to guide him through it once before, only to be left with a fidgety, quickly bored bard who had better things to do whilst on his knees.
Jaskier had nearly vanished his final, rambling thought when he heard the heavy steps coming up the creaking staircase.
There was no sense pretending to be asleep; he knew that Geralt could hear his heartbeat. Still, Jaskier tried to lay still as a key turned into their room’s lock. His breathing evened out as he took a few careful, calming breaths.
The door opened, then shut.
The lock clicked once more.
Geralt moved almost silently otherwise. The faint sound of buckles and laces preceded gentle thuds as he removed his armor and equipment, and within a few moments, his familiar weight caused the lumpy inn mattress to dip to one side.
Jaskier rolled onto his back, and smiled at the witcher in the darkness.
“Hey, you,” he said quietly, and he was met with a soft scoff.
“You should have slept,” Geralt murmured as he settled under the rough sheets and moved into Jaskier’s open arms.
“You should have been back hours ago,” Jaskier countered, “It was supposed to be just a wraith.”
“It’s never ‘just a’ anything,” the witcher replied as he settled his head against his chest. Jaskier knew he didn’t need to be this close to hear his steadily slowing heartbeat, or to appreciate his scent but he held him just the same, “Entire crypt was overrun.”
Jaskier could feel Geralt’s breath against the bare hollow of his throat. He absently ran his fingers over Geralt’s scalp as he hummed in acknowledgement, “But you still came back to me. You’re fine. You’ll always be fine.”
Geralt didn’t say anything to that. Jaskier’s heart fluttered uncertainly, and when he turned his eyes down towards the witcher, he was caught by his reflective, golden gaze.
“Not always,” Geralt reminded him softly as he pushed himself up to be at Jaskier’s level. The bard frowned and glanced away.
“You’ll outlive me, that’s for certain anyway,” Jaskier said with a short, forced chuckle. He felt Geralt’s sword-calloused hand rise up to cup his cheek, and with a sigh he met his eyes once more. They were almost all he could see in the darkness.
“Must we really confront the nature of our mortality right now?”
Geralt hummed.
Jaskier, eager to change the subject, pressed close and caught his witcher’s lips in a soft kiss. It didn’t take much encouragement to get Geralt to reciprocate. Their pace was slow, languid. As Jaskier’s tongue dipped past the seam of Geralt’s lips, Geralt’s hand slid to the back of his head, though he didn’t need to hold him in place.
Jaskier’s deft fingers traced down Geralt’s side to his hip, then slid between them. His palm pressed against the heat at Geralt’s front, before he went to work on the laces of his trousers. Soon enough, his touch was sliding beneath his waistband and he petted down the length of him. There was a satisfaction in feeling him twitch and firm for his hand. The subtle, almost imperceptible changes in his breathing and the soft sounds of pleasure spurred his own desire.
With a low sigh of pleasure, their kiss broke. Jaskier made a soft, disappointed noise that died down as he felt Geralt press his forehead to his own. Jaskier found his eyes caught up in Geralt’s once more, and he realized their conversation wasn’t over.
“Whether you like it or not, witcher, I’m going to worry about you,” Jaskier interjected just as he heard Geralt take a breath to speak. He distracted him further by freeing his shaft, and curling his fingers around him. His thumb swiped against the head of his cock, then traced the flare of his crown dragging a soft sigh from the witcher, “I’ve lost sleep over far less worthy things. The least you can do is humor my belief in your continued survival.”
Geralt snorted softly.
“How can I argue? You have me in quite the vulnerable position,” Geralt pointed out, to which Jaskier scoffed.
“You haven’t got a vulnerable bone in your body,” he replied as he felt Geralt’s hand slide down his back. As his fingers curled over the swell of his backside and kneaded into him, Jaskier arched his back to push himself against him and into his touch. Jaskier ran his free fingers through Geralt’s hair as he caught him in another slow kiss. Geralt groaned into Jaskier’s mouth as he gave him a first proper stroke.
“Unless you want to chafe, witcher dear, I’ll need to reach for the oil,” Jaskier said as he pulled back, his voice breathy but amused. Geralt gave a quiet grunt, but released enough of his hold to let Jaskier roll free. He reached into his bag on the nightstand, and by the time he turned back to Geralt, it had been just long enough for him to get distracted again.
“You haven’t lost someone,” Geralt stated. Jaskier, having thought they were finally done with the serious talk, frowned and rolled onto his back to think.
“You really are determined to kill the mood,” Jaskier said with a soft snort that did nothing to distract or amuse Geralt. With a sigh, he pushed close to the witcher and reached to take his hand in his own, “Is that so surprising? I wouldn’t know of my extended family, and so very few of my acquaintances lead a life even half as dangerous as mine. So, no. I’ve never lost anyone.”
Geralt hummed in acknowledgement. Jaskier stared into the darkness of their room for a moment, when realization hit him. He moved to prop himself up on one arm so that he could properly look down at Geralt. The witcher’s bright cat’s eyes met Jaskier’s, and the bard cleared his throat.
“I’m no fragile thing, Geralt. I know a time will come, Melitele willing, that I will grieve someone. If you think you would spare me that pain by denying me this… well, then you’re not half as intelligent as I thought you were.”
Geralt huffed and his eyes softened. Jaskier reached forward to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Geralt’s ear, then eased back down to push himself against Geralt’s chest. He pressed a kiss just above his slow, steady heart, then draped an arm over his waist. Even without advanced senses, Jaskier knew Geralt’s scent: Leather, sword oil, often blood, and the alchemical mixtures that let him fight so effectively. He didn’t want to think about losing that, not now, and perhaps not ever. Fingertips ran through his short hair before a strong arm wrapped around him, keeping the two of them closer still.
“Besides, I would make the world mourn your passing by writing the most obnoxiously catchy, heart-felt and tender song about your death. The continent would mourn with me. Buxom women would let me lay my head upon their breast so that I could stare wistfully into the middle distance, sighing about my great and ultimate loss...”
“Jaskier.”
Jaskier smiled sheepishly against Geralt’s chest then placed a placating kiss against his collarbone.
“Just keep coming back to me, Geralt. Just keep coming back.”