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Jaskier is a study in contradictions and it’s driving Geralt insane. He’s easily one of the most annoying people the Witcher ever met but for some reason, time passes quicker with the bard by his side. He’s too loud all the time but somehow he’s as quiet as Geralt during a hunt. He has the youthful innocent smile but his eyes are dark, eyes of someone who saw too much. He talks too much and yet Geralt barely knows anything about him, aside from his conquests.
It’s really driving Geralt insane. He doesn’t want to care about what kind of person Jaskier is, but he does.
It’s been 3 years since they met and he still denies that the bard is his friend, even though he is. He’s the only person aside from the Kaer Morhen Witchers that talks to him regularly, that isn’t afraid of him.
Jaskier is maddening and Geralt absolutely hates him.
(He really really doesn’t but it’s not the time to admit it.)
They travel together a lot and no matter what kind of monster Geralt faces, Jaskier never leaves because of it. He’s not stupid, Geralt can smell fear on him when a beast gets too close, but other than a momentary slip, the bard is surprisingly resistant to being scared.
He doesn’t enjoy the monsters, but he still holds his ground like someone who can actually defend himself against them, and it’s yet another mystery of the bard.
“I have a spare bedroll,” Geralt says one night, staring up into the tree that Jaskier chose for his bed.
“I’m quite fine here, thank you,” the bard says, making himself comfortable somehow. He seems right at home between the branches, sprawled on one of them, loose and relaxed.
“If you fall, I won’t help you,” the Witcher warns before laying down himself.
Jaskier laughs. “I won’t fall. I never do.”
Geralt keeps glancing at him through the evening, though the bard seems perfectly content to lay there as he would on the ground, strumming his lute and muttering new lyrics. This image clashes with what Geralt has in mind when he thinks of Jaskier.
This is the same brightly-dressed bard, usually so clumsy and chatty, yet here he is, laying on a branch almost 2 meters above ground, relaxed and happy. Just thinking about how he climbed the tree is weird, because there was grace in his movements, smooth and practised. It’s strange.
Geralt decides to ignore it for now and just add it to the growing list of things that ate strange about Jaskier.
He studied in Oxenfurt but he loves nature, Geralt can see it clear as a day. jaskier gathers flowers, makes flower crowns, brides them into Roach’s mane, sometimes just takes some out with roots and plants them somewhere else. Geralt doesn’t know all that much about flowers, but even he knows that they should wilt quicker then they do when Jaskier is tending to them.
It doesn’t fit the image of a city-boy, the ease with which he navigates the forests and nature. Yes, he still stumbles over roots and makes noise, but at the same time, he can be silent, almost completely soundless as they walk during the night.
“You ever hunted?” Geralt asks one time after he came back to the camp to see Jaskier finishing the fire, sticks for roasting ready.
“Hm? Oh, yes, a bit I suppose,” Jaskier shrugs, grabbing the rabbits Geralt is holding. There’s no disgust on his face as he grabs a dagger and starts to skin one. “I’ve been travelling on my own for quite some time, Geralt, I have to have some basic survival skills.”
“Hmm.”
He really doubts it, but Jaskier is pretty smooth in his work, already talking about that one time he had to skin a deer and how much he hates it, adding yet another piece to his puzzle.
Geralt isn’t sure what makes Jaskier so fascinating when he should be just an annoying bard, but there are many parts of him that just don’t fit the image he wants to project. For a scholar, he admittedly has quite a few survival skills, doesn’t frown at blood, nor at killing. He snorts when he sees Geraltr covered in monster’s guts but doesn’t shy away from him. Not something people, even hardened soldiers, can do.
They roast their food, Jaskier still talking. Geralt doesn’t even mind all that much, he learned how to turn him out. The bard almost never says anything important about himself, that isn’t about sex, adventures or his time at university.
After a few short moments, the bard pulls the rabbit from the fire and Geralt glances at him as he bites into it. Some blood drips down his chin and the Witcher stares. It’s not something he ever thought he’d see on Jaskier - the man eating a barely roasted rabbit. Even Geralt doesn’t enjoy meat that rare.
“What?” Jaskier asks suddenly, wiping the blood from his chin self-consciously. “It’s good.”
“Hmm,” Geralt murmurs and stays silent.
Jaskier perks up after eating and starts strumming on his lute again, singing about the night sky and fresh wind. Geralt starts cleaning his swords and they continue like that until the long day catches up with them.
Once again, the bard grabs a blanket and climbs back on the tree. Geralt, by now used to it, just grunts and watches as he settles on a thick branch, pulling the blanket over his shoulders. His lute is on the ground, Jaskier unwilling to risk it, so the bard hums under his breath until he falls asleep.
Geralt follows shortly after and they get on their way the next morning. Things are the same as always - kill a monster, listen to Jaskier sing, get some rest, repeat. They part from time to time and Geralt has no idea what Jaskier does when they’re not together, but when they meet again, it’s like no time has passed.
They still camp more often than not, because Jaskier enjoys ridiculously expensive food and Geralt is usually low on potions that they need coin for, so they avoid inns if they can and while Jaskier whines, he doesn’t seem to mind all that much.
It’s yet another moment like this.
Geralt is coming back from a hunt, 3 squirrels in his hand, and he can see the camp already. Jaskier seems to be crouching down and holding something to the ground, so he stops and just watches. Jaskier-watching is quite interesting.
The bard grabs whatever it is he was holding and Geralt raises an eyebrow when he sees it’s a frog. Big, twitchy and dry-looking. Jaskier eyes it for a second and then completely stuns the Witcher by opening his mouth and eating the animal whole.
It crunches under his teeth and the bard seems to be alright, just chewing and then swallowing as if nothing happened.
Geralt’s mouth is open and he’s probably the most shocked he ever was.
He just saw Jaskier eat an aline frog and then crunch down on it as if it was an apple. He saw him swallow said animal, raw, with bones and all, and then sit down next to the fire and start composing.
For a second, he considers that his friend is some sort of a monster. Yet, his medallion is silent and the bard seems safe, if weird. He’s really not sure what to think about all of that, so Geralt just sighs and enters the camp, throwing one squirrel at Jaskier.
“Oh, nice,” Jaskier lights up, already reaching for his dagger. “You’ve been gone for quite some time. Something interesting came up?”
“Hmm,” Geralt hums, considering asking the bard about the frog incident. He decides against it and then just rolls his eyes as the man pesters him for details.
“Where did you grow up?” he asks suddenly, after they ate and settled down, Jaskier directly above him on the tree.
The bard is silent for a moment. “Far away from here,” he says finally. “I hadn’t been back since I went on my journey.”
“You ran away?”
Jaskier snorts. “Certainly not,” he scoffs, as if offended. “I told everyone I was going and no one believed me, but that’s their own fault. I just went on my way and I...don’t regret it. This world is certainly more exciting than my home.”
Geralt frowns at the weird wording but doesn’t comment. ‘Why did you go?”
He’s not sure why he’s asking, but they met almost 4 years ago and they travel a lot, and yet he barely knows anything about the bard. About the only friend Geralt has, even if he never called him that out loud. He’s just curious.
“I was bored,” Jaskier whines. “It was like a glorified cage, where I could go anywhere I wanted if I stayed within the premises. I could do anything I wanted, of course only if the others agreed. I could be whoever I wanted, but only if I fit within what they wanted me to be. It was...very restrictive if beautiful.”
There’s strange anger in Jaskier’s voice, a problem still not resolved but this really isn’t Geralt’s problem.
“That’s why you travel with me?”
“No,” Jaskier says quickly. “I travel with you because, for some reason, I enjoy your company and you’re my friend. I also have no idea why do I consider you a friend as you’re an oaf on a good day and an asshole on a bad one, but here we are.”
“Here we are,” Geralt echoes.
He can’t remember the last time someone called him their friend, wanted to be by his side just because. He’s not sure what to do with that information, so he closes his eyes and tries to sleep.
After a few moments, Jaskier follows, shifting on his branch.
What Geralt doesn‘t expect from the next hunt is to be pressed down o the ground by a huge manticore, snapping its jaws at his face. He’s pinned down, huge wings almost completely blocking the sky above him, and the tail is swishing. He can’t get to his sword, it’s a few meters away and he can’t use any Sign, as he’s pinned down.
Geralt trashes and growls, but there’s no use.
“Geralt!” he hears someone yell and he goes pale when the figure stumbles at them. Jaskier. It’s Jaskier, defenceless and stupid and the manticore hisses at the bard but moves to snap Geralt’s neck in its jaws and then,
“No!”
He has no idea what happens, but suddenly the manticore is flying away from him, pushed by an invisible force. The Witcher looks up just to see Jaskier step into the moonlight, eyes glowing red, wings stretching behind him as he raises his hands and a rush of red energy bursts towards the monster. With a sickening crunch, the manticore drops dead, the magic still swirling around it and then it’s gone because Jaskier is unconscious on the ground.
“Fuck!”
In a flash, Geralt is back on his feet, running towards the bard. The bard, who has big wings sprouting from his back and fuck, he has no time to deal with it now. He looks for a pulse and only relaxes when he finds it. A bit sluggish but not threatening. It seems like Jaskier is just exhausted.
Very carefully, Geralt hoists the bard into his arms, awkwardly trying to avoid the wings and tries very hard not to think about it too much.
There are more important things to think about than the fact that his bard friend is apparently a fucking Fae.
He lays Jaskier on the bedroll in their camp and then tries to awkwardly arrange his wings so that he won’t hurt himself but he never actually helped a being with wings so he’s not sure how great he does. Then, he sits down and thinks.
Many things are making sense now, the fucking frog incident for example. Geralt isn’t sure what Fae eat, but raw animals seem to be on that list and it’s not that strange. He can recognize the wings even in the darkness. Eagles are predators.
That leaves the question why didn’t Jaskier tell him. Did he think that Geralt would hurt him? Sell him to some of the fucked up humans that desperately want a pair of Fae wings? What made Jaskier keep it a secret for so long, while also travelling the world with him?
“Geralt,” he gears suddenly and his eyes meet Jaskier’s.
There’s a faint gold shining in them now, but they still look the same. Still blue and now looking scared and Geralt never wants Jaskier to be scared of him again. Never.
“I’ll never hurt you,” he says simply, needing to get that out of the way. He can’t stand the stench of fear that’s emanating from the bard. “You can trust me.”
Jaskier chuckles and sits down slowly, clearly still weak. His wings spread with his movements until they’re resting behind him, great and beautiful and soft-looking.
“You never even called me a friend, Geralt,” the bard says tiredly. “4 years and you couldn’t call me a friend. It doesn’t matter if I consider you a friend if you don’t return the favour. I learned to be...cautious.”
There’s a story there, a dark one, he can see it. He doesn’t ask.
“I- You’re my friend,” Geralt says instead. “I’m sorry you didn’t feel like you could trust me.”
It’s the most he said in over a week, but it needed to be said. Geralt slumps in relief when the stench of fear lessens and Jaskier relaxes a bit.
“That looked like it hurt,” the bard snickers. “We need to work on your communication skills.”
“It seems like I’m not the only one not saying important things,” Geralt points out and Jaskier laughs.
“True,” he hums. “Do they bother you?” he asks, gesturing towards his wings. “The glamour is exhausting as fuck and it’s nice to have them out.”
“No, I mean, yes, I-” Geralt stutters. “I don’t mind.”
He can feel heat climbing up his neck and Jaskier giggles, actually fucking giggles. Who gave him the right to sound so adorable?
“Thank you,” Jaskier mutters. “I came here 20 years ago,” he starts suddenly. “I was bored of my home, of that sad rock in the middle of the ocean. You know, after 200 years… I always wanted more.”
“So you went to get it.”
Jaskier laughs and it’s a stunning sound. Free and wild, none of the polished image his bard wants to project. “I did,” he says and satisfaction colours his words. “I never regretted it.”
“Good.”
They fall silent again before Jaskier gets up. Geralt watches him, as he’s still a bit shaky, but now Geralt is the one breathless when Jaskier stretches with a groan and his wings stretch with him.
They’re huge, capable of carrying the bard, powerful. Dark brown, almost back in the moonlight, that matches Jaskier’s hair. They’re absolutely stunning and Geralt wants to look at Jaskier like that every day. Then he remembers,
“The glamour exhausts you?”
“Yes,” Jaskier hisses, still stretching his wings. “It’s crazy, I’m tired all the time, I keep tripping on my own legs, can’t fight for shit. I’m not, um, great with a sword, but quite good with long daggers and spears. I just...can’t, when most of my energy goes to the glamour.”
“Hmm.”
Winter is getting closer and it’s time for him to return to Kaer Morhen. Kaer Morhen is safe, no humans anywhere close, lots of space to stretch one’s wings.
“Come to Kaer Morhen with me,” Geralt says before he can get scared and decide against it.
Jaskier’s blue eyes snap to him and his wings drop in surprise. “What?”
“Come with me. For the winter,” Geralt repeats. “No humans close. You can drop the glamour for a few months.”
The bard stares at him for a long time in silence. “You’d like to spend the winter with me? Aren’t you tired of me all the time?”
Geralt winces. “I’m not-I, huh, I enjoy your company,” he finally manages to mutter. “I’d like to spend the winter with you.”
“Oh,” Jaskier says, stunned and happy. He smells like the wind and flowers and his scent envelops Geralt warmly. “I’d love to.”
They set off the very next day, after Geralt witnesses Jaskier putting the glamour back up. He can see how tense the bard becomes suddenly, how he hunches over, how he loses that sharpness the Witcher saw during the night. He can see the exhaustion pulling at his bard and he hates it.
Nothing is keeping them here, so they collect the reward and head to Kaer Morhen. Vesemir may not be there yet when they arrive, but Geralt doesn’t mind. He can stay cooped up for a bit longer if it will give Jaskier an occasion to catch his breath.
The bard is grinning and talking the whole time, but this time Geralt listens.
“Not all Fae have magic, you know, that’s just a myth,” Jaskier is explaining, walking next to Roach. “Some do, some are more powerful, some less. There are no rules. There are different species after different birds, you know, and some are so colourful and beautiful... Oh, I could sing about them forever.”
“Are all of you predators?”
“No,” Jaskier says. “Not all birds are birds of prey, Geralt, Fae are a bit like that. Not all eat meat as well, but I do.”
“I saw you with the frog,” Geralt suddenly confesses and then catches the bard as he stumbles.
“Fuck,” he mutters, straightening himself. “Sorry for that, I usually control myself better.”
“I don’t mind.”
Jaskier doesn’t reply bit Geralt can see his smile. When they settle down for the night, the Witcher stares at his bard until he drops his glamour again. He tries very hard not to look at the wings.
It takes them almost 2 weeks to reach Kaer Morhen, but it’s still autumn when they do.
Jaskier is looking around curiously, wings twitching after he drops the glamour. Geralt once again tries not to stare.
“Not as glamorous as I was expecting,” Jaskier says. “Kind of...run down, really, a sad sight. But! I love the towers, I need a room there.”
Geralt raises an eyebrow and Jaskier shrugs. “I like heights.”
He grunts and leads the bard up to where his room is. The tower isn’t the highest there, but Jaskier still seems excited when he sees that his room has a balcony. He rushes there and stares out at the fortress and the lands, wing whipping in his face. His wings spread but Geralt catches his shoulder.
“You’re tired,” he explains when Jaskier turns to face him. “Rest.”
“But-”
“Rest,” Geralt repeats more firmly.
Jaskier huffs but drops on the bed. It’s musky and kind of old, but the bard groans in relief and spreads there. After weeks on the road, it must be a relief.
Geralt leaves him there and goes on preparing everything. Usually, Vesemir is the one to do it, but he still remembers how it’s done. They don’t have all that much food, they’ll have to buy some in a nearby village, but they should be good for a few days at least.
It’s nighttime when Geralt goes to his own room, stopping by Jaskier’s just to see the bard asleep, wings wrapped around him. It looks ridiculously cosy and Geralt forcefully doesn’t think about how it would feel to be wrapped in those wings.
He wakes up as early as he always does and takes a second to just breathe. The winter is still a few weeks away so they will be staying here for a long time. Probably the longest time they spent together so far. Geralt doesn’t know how to feel about it, so he just gets up and goes to prepare something to eat.
Jaskier stumbles through into the kitchen at least 2 hours later, still sleepy, hair and feathers sticking out adorably. Geralt feels his heart stutter and then Jaskier smiles.
“Good morning! I actually really needed that, a bed sure beats a branch even if I enjoy it,” he says brightly and Geralt stares at his sharp fangs. They’re distinctively predatory, long and sharp. Jaskier’s smile dims and Geralt’s heart tugs.
“No, don’t,” he says before he can stop himself. “I-don’t mind them. I also, um, I also have fangs. It's fine.”
Jaskier stares at him for some time before chuckling. “You’re lucky I know you, Witcher, and I know that ‘don’t mind’ means ‘like’ in your language.”
Geralt frowns and pushes a plate towards the bard, uncomfortable with the subject. He carefully ignores the warmth in his chest, sprouting because Jaskier knows him. He can’t remember someone knowing him that well.
They eat and Jaskier talks about Kaer Morhen, asking questions and then answering them himself, with a nod or a grunt from Geralt. The fortress is big and empty, ruined, but Jaskier talks and finds beauty in it.
“Now I want to fly,” Jaskier announces one he’s finished, fire and anticipation in his voice, excitement in his scent.
Geralt gets up and leads the bard up the stairs to the tallest tower left standing, with a good balcony that overlooks the mountains and forests around Kaer Morhen. Jaskier is almost vibrating in his place, wings twitching from time to time. Geralt can’t stop looking.
“It’s been years since the last time I truly flew,” Jaskier breaths, staring out into the world. He steps on the railing, suddenly graceful. It’s hard to ignore how a mere night of having his glamour down improves his overall performance.
Geralt watches in breathless amazement as Jaskier spreads his arms and throws himself off the balcony. It takes a few seconds and then his wings spread as well, catching the wind with a howl from the bard. It’s the first time Geralt can see the wings from this angle and they’re absolutely magnificent. Easily longer than the bard is tall, each wing is powerful and sleek, made for speed and agility, a hunter’s wings.
The bard is laughing as he soars over Kaer Morhen, wings beating against the cool mountain wind, making loops and acrobatics, and Geralt can just stare, eyes wide in amazement. He never saw this side of his friend and to witness it now…
He can see why the Fae were considered one of the most magical and mysterious creatures. With the wings of birds and magic of the old, to see one soaring on the sky must’ve been an experience.
Jaskier looks free, truer than Geralt ever saw him and his heart is full to bursting. He’s laughing, his eyes lighting up almost gold, full of power and happiness. Geralt never wants to see him with any other expression.
The Fae flies for a long time and Geralt just stands there, staring and admiring as Jaskier gets his wings back, hs freedom. If the bard will let him Geralt will bring him here every winter, so that he may have a few months of complete freedom.
It’s nearing the evening when Jaskier finally flies closer and lands gracefully. His wings fold, the ends of his feathers brushing on the ground. The bard is flushed and bright-eyed, energy surging through him. He looks like Geralt feels after good training, after being cooped up in Kaer Morhen for a few months.
Then, the bard is in his arms, squeezing Geralt tightly, his wings following. “Thank you,” he says against Geralt’s neck, smiling. The Witcher freezes but then smiles back and enjoys the touch of soft wings on his skin.
That evening, Jaskier sings of free skies and wild seas, of flying with others, of magical forests and fledgelings. Geralt listens and sees him bloom.
It’s 2 weeks later that Vesemir comes back. They already visited the village and bought some supplies, and they’re sitting in the library in front of the fire. Jaskier is seated on the animal skins on the floor with Geralt behind him, gentle hands running through his feathers.
The bard is almost moaning in delight and Geralt tries very hard (hah) not to think about that fact.
“Fuck, if I knew you were this good I’d ask you to do this ages ago,” Jaskier sighs, loose and relaxed. There are some feathers already surrounding them, dirty and bent, and Jaskier is almost a puddle in front of him.
Geralt doesn’t reply but tugs yet another feather free. Jaskier shudders and he squeezes his eyes shut. This is torture, the bard almost spread in front of him, happy and relaxed, wings twitching under the Witcher’s hands. He may not know the Fae customs but he can tell how much trust it requires to let someone else preen your wings.
He finishes and Jaskier turns around, bright-eyed yet again, fangs peeking through his smile. He smells like affection and gratitude and arousal and Geralt[‘s eyes go wild and then they’re closer and closer and-
Something crashes outside and they both jump to their feet, blue magic swirling in Jaskier’s hand. Geralt raises an eyebrow.
“I had some rest,” the Fae explains as they walk to the door. “I’m not that weak, you know.”
“Hmm.”
It turns out to be just Vesemir, staring at Jaskier with wide eyes. The bard relaxes when he sees Geralt put his sword down and they just look at each other.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Geralt?” Vesemir asks finally, gruff but not angry.
Geralt shrugs so Jaskier rolls his eyes and elbows him in the side. “What Geralt means is that I needed a safe place to drop my glamour and Kaer Morhen seemed like a good option. Stunning towers you have here, really. I’m Jaskier.”
“Vesemir,” his mentor replies gruffly. “The fuck are you doing here, Fae?”
Jaskier rolls his eyes again. “Rude,” he mutters. “I’m resting, as I said before. Flew around a few hours ago. I’m here for the winter.”
Vesemir looks at them for a bit longer, subtly scenting the ar and then Geralt is trying very hard not to blush because his mentor can smell the arousal on them. Or even worse, affection. His mentor doesn’t say anything, however, and they walk back to the library to get rid of the feathers.
The older Witcher stays mostly silent but for some reason, Jaskier picks up on the fact that he wants to talk, so he grabs a thicker jacket and runs to the tower. They’re alone.
“A Fae?” Vesemir asks finally, judgement in his voice.
Geralt frowns. “I didn’t know he was a Fae until recently. He’s a...friend.”
Vesemir grunts and they’re silent again. “You trust him?”
“With my life,” Geralt replies immediately. He didn’t have an occasion to see what Jaskier is really capable of while rested and full of energy, but the bard did already save him once. He knows Jaskier will do it again, without hesitation.
“Good. He helps to hunt, though, one more mouth to feed,” Vesemir warns. “Especially once Lambert and Eskel come.”
Geralt winces but nods. That’s the end of the conversation.
Jaskier prods and annoys Vesemir for the next week and a half, asking questions and writing stupid songs about him, until the older Witcher storms off with a huff. It seems to make Jaskier preen.
They carefully don’t talk about that almost kiss until one day, when Geralt is waiting for Jaskier to land so that they can eat. The Fae is almost there when a strong gust of wind sends him crashing to the ground. The Witcher reacts before he can think and a moment later they’re both laying down, groaning.
Jaskier raises from Geralt’s chest and for a second, they just stare at each other. Jaskier’s eyes are very very blue and very very warm.
The bard smiles and it’s like a sun peeking through the clouds. All Geralt can do is kiss him and hope for the best.
It takes a second, but then Jakier is returning the kiss with passion, biting Geralt’s bottom lip with sharp fangs, fingers tangling in his hair. Geralt groans and shifts and then he can nip at Jaskier’s pointed ear, making the man gasp.
“Here?” Jaskier asks breathlessly, wings twitching and pupils blown wide. Geralt growls and kisses him again, shoving his hands into Jaskier’s breeches.
The bard moans an arches against him, and when Geralt opens his eyes he sees that his wings are spread high and bold above them, an impressive display of power and beauty. It makes Geralt even harder in his own pants and it must show because Jaskier is knocking his hand to the side and fumbling with the belt and the opening.
Geralt sits up with Jaskier in his lap and they kiss and moan into each other’s mouths, rubbing against each other like animals. Jaskier’s wings are still spread, twitching and brushing against Geralt’s skin from time to time. They bite each other’s neck,s drawing blood and making each other moan.
It’s hurried and exposed and they’re outside in the cold air but Geralt never felt warmer than he does with Jaskier in his lap, their cocks rubbing together. There’s blood on Jaskier’s lips so Geralt kisses him, tightens his grip on their cocks and they’re coming together. The bard’s wings close around them, warm and soft and they shake, plastered close.
“Fuck,” Jskier mumbles, face hidden in Geralt’s neck. “That was as intense as it was hurried.”
Geralt snorts and pets the man’s wings, which are still quivering under his touch. “Good?”
“Very good,” the bard promises. “Next time, how about we use a bed and have fewer clothes on?”
It’s a great idea.
Eventually, they have to get up because even under Jaskier’s wings the wind is cold, and they stumble into the room, wiping down with a dirty rug. The bard is frowning so Geralt rolls his eyes and promises him a bath.
They sit close together during dinner and Vesemir is frowning, they probably reek of sex, but Jaskier is almost glowing and Geralt doesn’t care.
That night, they curl in Geralt’s bed together and he can finally discover what it’s like to be wrapped in the Fae’s wings. They’re soft and sturdy and he doesn’t have to worry about hurting them. They make him warm.
“How powerful are you?” Geralt asks suddenly, curious. Jaskier’s hands pause in his hair before the bard shrugs.
“I’m not, you know, I’m not like a mage. My magic is different,” he says quietly. “But. The Elders said that if I tried, I destroy a city. Level it completely.”
Jaskier sounds scared and Geralt understand. Not everyone wants that kind of power and usually, those who possess it naturally, hate it. Those who don’t have it, seek it.
“The glamour takes it away.”
The bard’s laughter is bitter. “It takes most of it away. I can’t do...many things. Maybe after this winter, it’ll be better.”
“How about every winter?” Geralt asks impulsively. “Every winter here. With me.”
“Oh,” Jaskier breaths and pulls him into a kiss. “Do you know what you’re offering?”
“Yes.”
Jaskier smiles and they kiss again and when they have sex again, it’s making love, slow and careful and full of passion. They’re both covered in marks the next day. Geralt doesn’t plan on letting them fade.
Almost 6 years later, Geralt makes a wish and then holds his lover as he cries in his arms, magic swirling around them. He never sees Jaskier exhausted after that.