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The three of them watch Ciri glide through the exercises she’s mastered a dozen times over, hefting her sword in one smooth motion to slice through the air towards invisible targets. Geralt wonders if he had half her grace at that age, and knows in the way he knows his own heartbeat that she’s showing off here, telling them, “I’m ready, I’m ready.” She’s just past her 18th birthday, and it can’t be a coincidence how she talks about exploring, alone, the dark forests and hidden paths. Geralt’s helpless to dissuade her, not now when she has all the time in the world, now that they, all of them, can relax. It’s not like Geralt hasn’t traveled the continent ten times over on his own, maybe more, and she’s got the control of Chaos he’d only ever been able to taste. He has to let her go now. He’s ready to, even.
Yennefer has been with them, patiently, for the better part of five years now, rarely departing for longer than a month. She’s as much Ciri’s mother as Geralt and Jaskier are her fathers, and it seems to have filled whatever hole she’d spent so long trying to fill. But there are things she wants to see now, to discover, and she and Ciri have talked together about places they wanted to visit, how much of a delight it might be to hunt after the same thing, as competitors now instead of companions.
Which leaves Geralt and Jaskier, to meet back up with the Path and see where it leads them. Jaskier doesn’t quite fit in with their group at a glance, and Geralt is constantly reminded by the other man's habits, so different from his own. Where Geralt has at best two whole pairs of clothes to switch between while the other is dirty, Jaskier has closets full of different outfits, ordered by cut and color, recycled out as the fashions change. He’s always got a piece of paper and quill and ink close by, for the little bits of song that might pop into his head, same as Geralt always has at least a dagger strapped to his ankle in case of danger. And his contribution towards Ciri’s education is a bit street smarts, a bit etiquette, and a whole lot of vocal training, nothing like Geralt and Yennfer’s skills. He and Ciri have got their own little jokes, too, rolling their eyes and agreeing that they’re the normal ones, as if there could be anything normal about them.
And when Ciri wakes screaming in the night, it is still Jaskier who she will seek out, letting him pet her hair and promise her fears away. All Geralt can do in those moments is remind them both that he’s here, letting them stay soft in his shadow.
Now, after almost thirty years, Geralt has forgotten what it’s like not to have Jaskier within arms reach at all times, especially now in the wake of the closest brush with death. Some nights, Jaskier will have to be the one who sleeps nearest the door, only able to relax into sleep when he can convince himself that Geralt will be right next to him when they both wake too soon to the crack of dawn, whole and healthy. On these nights, Geralt holds Jaskier a little harder, a little more immovable, like a heavy blanket holding him in place. He’s not going anywhere.
This thing between them, sleeping in the same bed, tumbling into private corners when they have their scant time alone, the sound their flesh makes as they rock together, sweat-soaked and moaning, the bright teeth-shaped bruises that fade into nothing in no time on Geralt’s skin. He’s not really sure when he knew that this was it for him, that he’d done the thing grilled into him a thousand times not to do. He’d become attached, and he would do anything in his power not to let anything make him let go. The thought of pushing away Jaskier made him feel like the wolf on his chest had grown lungs, shuddering howls through his body.
Certainly, it’s not how he felt the first time they’d crossed paths, on that road towards Posada, hearing someone literally singing his praises. He wanted to smash that lute, priceless or not, into the ground and stomp on it for good measure. Never in his long life had someone gotten under his skin so effectively and quickly, making him regret every second since he’d chosen to answer Jaskier's ridiculous questions.
When they passed an empty hut on the edge of the town, Geralt jumped off Roach with no warning and grabbed Jaskier by both shoulders. To his credit, Jaskier did stop singing, his face flushed nervously. He’s barely a man, Geralt thought as he smelled the unexpected change of pheremones in the air. As if he’s read his mind, Jaskier swallowed and his legs stretched just minutely with an answering thrust. Jaskier wanted him, Geralt realized with a rush, his heart beating faster than he’d felt in years. And he was so pretty like this, licking his parted lips while his eyes searched over every part of Geralt’s body. Geralt doesn’t have to look down to feel how hard Jaskier had become in his ridiculously bright pants; he could feel his cock where it pressed urgently against his hip.
“Fuck,” he said, and kissed Jaskier so fiercly he even surprised himself. He had thought he wanted to take the bard and tie him up in the abandoned hut, just tight enough that Geralt would have the chance to get away from him before he broke himself free. He realized in that moment, what he really wanted to do was crowd Jaskier up against the wall, lickinto his mouth and swallow each moan he made.
Their lips parted and Geralt kissed down the length of his throat, felt the barest hints of stubble against his cheek as Jaskier began to talk, again, praising Geralt’s lips and teeth and tongue, and it didn't rhyme this time, although it was a close thing. “Ah, fuck,” Jaskier whined, starting to buck his hips in earnest, “Touch me, please," and Geralt was touching him but he knew what he wanted and dragged his pants down, freeing his cock. Jaskier moaned again, seemed to enjoy the manhandling, digging his hands into the wall behind him. Geralt is not surprised when Jaskier seizes up suddenly and comes, hot in Geralt’s hand, after only a few strokes.
Jaskier took a few heaving breaths, looking up at Geralt from under his eyelashes, sheepish and also painfully, painfully gorgeous. “Sorry,” he said, “It’s just...you’re you, you know?”
Geralt didn’t know, and stared at him.
Jaskier laughed then, surprised. “Of course you don’t know.” He shook his head, and then his eyes lit up. “You haven’t even taken your cock out yet.”
Geralt would have hesitated, he should have, but Jaskier had fallen to his knees and brushed his cheek reverently into Geralt’s thigh. “You look so good,” he’d breathed, running his hands down leather pants once, and then untwisting the ties that kept them together. Geralt had pushed his hands out of the way, pulling out the string himself and taking his cock out just in time for Jaskier to suck him into his waiting mouth.
Jaskier can’t get his whole mouth down the length of him, but it only seems to make him more determined, his hand coming up where his mouth can’t reach, stroking spit-slick and fervent. Geralt wanted so badly to make this last, he could have really, but it’s too tempting to snap his hips as fast as Jaskier can take him, gripping into his hair with one hand, the other resting on the side of the building to hold him up. Every time he clenched his fist into Jaskier’s hair, or thrust hard enough to feel his cock bump almost to his throat, each moment of roughness seems to spur Jaskier on harder. Geralt gave a bitten off warning, but Jaskier only hummed around his cock and took him just that much farther.
When Geralt hauled him up he could see Jaskier was hard again, and he stroked him again to completion with one gloved thumb pressed against his tongue. Then he hauled Jaskier back up straight, righting their clothes while Jaskier participated half-heartedly, wide eyed and fucked out.
Now, they can part ways and the energy humming under Geralt’s skin since they first met eyes will cool and fade away.
Except Geralt does the opposite of that, manhandling Jaskier in front of him in Roach’s saddle and guiding her as quickly as he could back to Posada. The singing returned, Melitele help them both, and this time it was with a dirtier tilt, as Jaskier apparently wanted to make sure everyone within 10 miles knows they just fucked, in the open, like teenagers.
Geralt realized Jaskier might actually be a teenager, even if not for much longer. He certainly had the stamina, still chattering away even as Geralt fucked him into the mattress, his voice growing light and hoarse from exhaustion and pleasure. Jaskier must have come at least twice more, and Geralt could scarcely believe his enthusiasm that lasted even as he fell into sleep, shifting his hips back towards Geralt’s soft cock.
Geralt drew the covers over Jaskier as gently as he could, and made sure to pile up Jaskier’s clothing off the floor, checked that the lute was tucked safely into her case. Then he extinguished the candle and let himself out, sure that this would be the end of it.
But he and Jaskier kept running into each other, and Jaskier wasn't even mad when Geralt left him in the middle of the night, so enamoured and reverent of Geralt’s chosen profession. And it got harder and harder to tell him to fuck off instead of dragging him into the nearest empty space and ravishing him until he was a sobbing mess. Until Geralt thought, there’s never going to be another that takes him so well, so easily, so happily.
Geralt even, sometimes, would get on his hands and knees and let Jaskier open him up slowly, taking his time through each of Geralt’s hesitant shudders. It got easier every time, to let go completely and let Jaskier see him at his most vulnerable.
“Darling,” Jaskier called him, and “Dear,” and “Sweetheart,” and Geralt let him, went where he beckoned, even when it’s been months or years since they’ve seen each other last. Even as Jaskier bullied him into a banquet and then disappeared into the arms of the Countess as her kept man, even when Geralt’s foolish mouth nearly wished his voice away. Even when Geralt loved Yennefer, for a time, every time he saw Jaskier, the bard had a new song ready for him to hear first, a new trick he’d learned to swirl his tongue around the head of Geralt’s cock just so.
When Geralt yelled at Jaskier in the wake of the dragon’s prophecy, he never expected him to actually leave. He assumed, like always, he'd tune out Jaskier’s constant rambling until he could think straight again, until they made camp for the night and laid their bedrolls out side by side. But Jaskier left, and Geralt let him. The next time they met, he and Ciri were taking refuge in an inn where Jaskier was entertaining for the evening.
Of course Jaskier and Ciri knew each other, and of course he knew to call her Fiona in front of others. Of course he’d written several songs for her specifically, at least five, one for each of her birthday’s that he’d been around for. She’s cheered considerably in a way Geralt had not yet managed between keeping her alive and unseen, and he was so grateful for Jaskier’s need to constantly fill the air with noise in a way he’s never been before.
That night, when Ciri’s asleep in the room Geralt had rented, he’s in Jaskier’s, being kissed hard against the door frame. That night Geralt apologized by bringing Jaskier to orgasm twice, and then he tried for the first time, as much as he could, to apologize with his actual words. And Jaskier surprised him, like he always did, by accepting his apology like it's the easiest thing in the world, slotting his back into Geralt’s chest as if they’d never slept apart.
And then Jaskier stayed with them, growing more and more serious as time went on, no longer spending his nights with anyone else. For the first time Geral had ever seen, he threw away any invitations that found him, unless from the dearest of friends, and then he would drag Geralt and Ciri along to experience their hospitality. He introduced Geralt as “his” witcher, and although he kind of always did that before, not it seemed to mean something. Geralt felt like he was trying to impress Jaskier, unsure how to earn it.
It’s not long after that Yennefer joined them, drawn in by Ciri’s raw and untrained power. Geralt does not go to her as he once might have, even when he’s sure she’d forgiven him. The strangest thing yet, she and Jaskier even formed some kind of secret truce, which involved a lot of casual insults and intense whispers just between the two of them.
Sometimes, Geralt suspects that she at least is communicating to Jaskier with her mind, but he can’t prove it.
Geralt also knows they’ve done something, Jaskier and Yennefer, something so that Jaskier’s life stretches in front of him now like spun taffy, long and indulgent. Jaskier had asked his permission first, as if Geralt had any say in what Jaskier did with his life, as if he didn’t barely stop himself from begging Jaskier to do it, please. Stay with me, he pleaded that night, riding Jaskier and daring to think, for the first time, that maybe he wouldn't spend the rest of his long life alone.
Now they’re here, the four of them. Jaskier and Yennefer look so proud, arm in arm and watching Ciri so intently. Geralt watches her, too, of course, remembering the way she turned each lesson into a piece of her own style. He has nothing left to give her, and he is satisfied. He couldn’t have asked for her to be any better.
It doesn’t seem like anything to muse out loud. “It will be strange, without her, on the road.”
Jaskier turns to him. “On the road?” he repeats, his face strangely frozen.
“Hm.” Geralt nods.
Jaskier closes his eyes and sucks in a breath through his nose. “Right,” he says, and abruptly marches towards Yennefer’s house.
Geralt watches him go. He wasn’t even loud enough to disturb Ciri from her training.
Yennefer rolls her eyes at him, crossing her arms. “Are you just going to let him go?” she asks.
“What did I say?” Geralt asks helplessly.
“If you don’t know,” Yennefer scoffs and shrugs. “I can’t tell you.”
He waits until Ciri is finished, because she’ll want his critique, even though these days he struggles for something of value to tell her. Still, he won’t disappoint her in this, or risk not preparing her enough for life on the road. Only then does he goes to the house, letting his feet take him to the room he and Jaskier had made their own, and would be leaving, soon.
He hesitates outside the door, hearing soft, unhappy sounds, smelling salt in the air. Still, he knocks gently and then lets himself in.
He does not expect to see Jaskier screaming into a pillow shoved into his own face. As soon as Geralt closes the door behind him, Jaskier is hurling the pillow at him, shouting, “You!” Geralt grabs the pillow and tosses it away just in time for Jaskier to crowd into him. “Do you know what I’ve given up for you!” And Geralt wants to speak, for once, even if he doesn't know what to say, but Jaskier wont let a word in, "I raised a child with you, cleaning up skinned knees and dirty clothes while you threw yourself, and her, into the mouth of danger at every turn!” With each word, he crowds Geralt impossibly closer until their hips are flush “I was a household name!” he hisses, breathing hot into Geralt’s space. “I could have gone anywhere and I'm here with you in the middle of nowhere mountains!"
And oh, the thought that he's kept Jaskier here against his will. “You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to,” Geralt says very, very quietly. “I don’t want to keep you from what you want.”
But Jaskier kisses him then, and no one has ever kissed him like this, like it might end their lives, or save them. The sudden silence feels heavy, weighted, with nothing but the gasp of heavy breaths and moans, the scrape of clothes falling to the ground
Every time Geralt tries to speak, tries to understand, Jaskier silences him with another kiss, until they're on the bed, Jaskier straddling Geralt's hips. He starts to speak then, in time with each thrust of his hips, "I want to be with you, you giant, stupid," and he's overwhelming, ethereal, face damp with sweat and tears, mouth twisted in fury. It's all Geralt can do to go where Jaskier leads him now, to take the jar of oil and spread it over his fingers, and when he hesitates for just a moment, Jasker takes him by the wrist, muttering, "Get ON with it," moaning and arching his back when Geralt's finger is finally inside of him. "I'll follow you to the edge of the world and back," he swears, like a curse, like it's going to destroy him.
He doesnt let Geralt get him ready enough either, fucking back on his hands too fast, too rough, seating himself all the way down on Geralt's dick and punching the air out of them both. Then he moves, fingernails scraping over Geralt's chest, calluses catching against scars. Little gasps of pain/pleasure fighting out of his lungs. He rides Geralt with a speed to put them both to shame, so fast he could never sustain it, stripping his own cock fast enough to match. And if Geralt ever thought Jaskier could break, he knows now he would hold himself together through his will alone.
Jaskier comes, jerking up and down on Geralt's cock, keening, digging so hard into Geralt's hips, like hes trying to bruise him in a way that will last, as impossible as that is. Geralt lets himself lose control with a fierce growl, grasping Jaskier around the waist and moving him up and down for as long as it takes for his own release. It's not long, it couldn't be.
Afterwards, Jaskier lays across Geralt's chest and presses his forehead into his neck, panting and twitching in little aftershocks that rock them both. And he keeps moving, but Geralt stills him, as hard as it is. "What the the fuck, Jaskier," he asks, stroking the back of his head, curling the damp hair in his fingers.
Jaskier lifts his head and meets his eyes. "I'm not done with you," he promises.
This time, they go slow, Geralt doing most of the work, and Jaskier lets himself go along with it, past the point he should even be enjoying himself. But his cock hardens again, slipping against the mess on his stomach. His head is still pressed into Geralt's neck, kissing and sucking almost bruises until Geralt can't stop himself from kissing him again. It's messy, and slow, more like sharing hot wet breaths as the minutes slip by. "I've never been angrier with you," Jaskier sighs, voice broken, and Geralt knows it's true, all the while he can't fathom what he's done.
Geralt flips them over, hooking Jaskier’s legs around his back. He can't thrust as deep now, but he doesn't want to, wants to store in his memory each rise and fall of Jaskier's chest, every line on his face as his eyes squeeze shut in pleasure. Even though he's crying now, sobbing. He seems to realize it suddenly, scrubbing the back of his hand over his eyes. "I love you, you oaf," he gasps, half-laughing, twisting the sheets up in his fingers.
Fuck.
Geralt knows that Jaskier loves him, the same as he knows the wind blows, knows steel for humans, silver for monsters. The way his armor always finds its way to gleaming freshness, how he never goes to bed forgetting a meal, or when his coin purse stretches to its limits because the last string of mayors hasn't dared to short him his due. He knows it, and he's allowed it, because no amount of trying has ever stopped the truth from sinking in to his old, broken heart. And that was the agreement, never spoken. He'll hold Jaskier tight to his chest even when the night is warm, and they've never put a name to this thing between them. It’s burned strong all the same.
"Stop," he begs in the only way he knows how, his voice low and threatening. Both of his hands fold into Jaskier's own, gripping tight. "I didn't ask for you," he pleads, beyond the ability to explain himself. He bows his head, thrusting in, Jaskier's heels digging hard into his back.
"Damn you," Jaskier says, squeezing his hands so hard, all of his muscles taught, a bow ready to fire. He tries to break his hands free, and Geralt should let him go now. But he can't let go, no more than he can stop the thrusts of his hips that get more erratic as he comes, as Jaskier gives in and uses their joined hands to draw him in deep.
Jaskier waits for him to come down, his hands soft now where they were once so unyielding. He's still hard between them. "Let me," Geralt says quietly, but Jaskier shakes his head. But he doesn't move, staring into Geralt so intensely. "I love you," he says again, "but I can't, not anymore, not if..."
Geralt has never understood Jaskier, until he realizes now, he does understand him, in fact, completely. He understands the feeling clawing at his throat every time Jaskier so much as coughs, every near miss that slashed his doublet instead of his throat, every time Geralt has been on the other side of that joy-filled smile, every pleased sigh. And he understands how he's done such a disservice to them both, and that Jaskier has come home every night without ever knowing for sure he wouldn't be cast out the next day.
Geralt cups Jaskier's face as the other man struggles for the first time to find the right words. "You're right," he hums, thumbing another wave of tears off his face. "I love you," he says, knowing for the first time, that he does love him, he has loved him for so long and what a fool he was for not knowing it.
"I would have you by my side," Geralt says to Jaskier's wide, uncertain eyes. "If you will still come."
Jaskier shakes his head, so desperate, "I can't."
Geralt nods, understanding. He leans in so close, kissing each eye in turn. They're still joined, and Geralt soothes down Jaskie’s sides with his hands and kisses him in the lips again. It feels like an ending. "I know," he says.
Jaskier touches his face. "Are you crying?" he asks, full of wonder.
Geralt doesn't answer him. Instead, he asks, "Have you thought lately, about the coast?"
Jaskier shudders, making a soft, broken sound. "Don't," he begs.
Geralt shakes his head. "I would have you by my side, if you will still come," he asks again, "To the coast, or wherever your heart desires."
"I," Jaskier starts, and stops suddenly, realization washing over him in the sudden pink flush of his body, stopping at his cheeks. "You'd better not be fucking with me," he swears, crushing their mouths together in an unforgiving kiss.
Geralt pulls his cockout gently, pressing a finger into Jaskier's loose, warm hole. "Are you sure you don't want...?” His cock twitches at the feel of his own spend leaking around his fingers. But this isn't for him, not now.
"Now you fucking talk," Jaskier groans, taking himself in hand almost unconsciously.
That's answer enough. "I can be quiet," he says with a smirk, lowering himself to lap his tongue around Jaskier's rim.
"Fuck!" Jaskier cries out, "Do not stop, in fact, unless you are trying to kill me, but we are having a real conversation about this later." Geralt hums in agreement, and fucks Jaskier with his tongue until he falls apart into a mess of cries and comes, babbling mostly nonsense, but always Geralt's name, like a prayer he hasn't realized has already been answered.
***
Their home is small, and it takes months of Geralt and Jaskier taking turns between washing and repairing to finally fight it into something they can live in. Somewhere along the way, a dog follows Jaskier home from the market and refuses to leave his side, so he names her Dandelion and lets her snuggle smugly next to him on the bed. Ciri has her own room, and she visits with Yennefer’s help, and sometimes Geralt goes with her if the foe is dangerous enough or she’s found something interesting enough. Sometimes Jaskier goes with them, Yennefer’s enchantments keeping their home safe while they’re gone, but usually he’s happy to stay behind and compose.
Once, Geralt is gone for nearly a month and when he comes back, he’s found that Jaskier has built an entire fence around their house in order to procrastinate finishing a commissioned ballad, which he completes just after midnight the day he’d promised to deliver it. Geralt gets used to it, and gets used to turning the corner in his own home to find a fresh bouquet of wildflowers, or a simple ornament in the shape of a howling wolf. Geralt gives Jaskier a pendant, adorned with the shape of buttercups that glinted in the sun, blessed with magic meant to keep him safer. He’s not surprised at all when Jaskier wears it proudly for anyone to see.
Geralt didn’t expect to be here, watching the sunrise and standing on his own porch. And yet he welcomes it, and when Jaskier pads quietly behind him, yawning and stretching and coaxing him back to bed, Geralt lets himself be led.