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As a small child, Jaskier had heard stories about monsters and monster-hunters, the baleful witchers that, as his grandmother used to say, were stomping on a thin line between humanity and becoming a blood-thirsty beasts themselves. Neighboring folks who worked nearly and would hear that, snarled, with no exception, that old hag dares to even compare those damned heartless creatures to anything near human. “They have yellow eyes that glow in the dark! And cat’s pupils! Have you ever seen a man with such eyes? Witchers are Evil’s brood and you should warn your grandson to never speak with one, nor even look at him”. Old woman would wave a hand at them and smile to a scraggy boy who listened carefully with fearful fascination limning in his big green eyes. “They tattle but who do you think they ask for help when drowner appears near the river?”
As a man, he remembered those stories, even used them as a material for his first poems, very uneven with too simple rhymes, but beloved, printed deeply into his memory, reminding that it is thanks to dear grandmother, he is an artist now (‘Useless!’ she screeched when he told her about getting to Oxenfurt University) . Those were stories, only stories, even though he knew that witchers exist, even though saw one’s back and sword once, years ago. But he never really completely believed in them as they were figures from tales, unsettling legends, but only until he met one of them. He was scary, yes, and inhuman in many ways, but for Jaskier, he was mostly a grooming, undefeatable, huge, mesmerizing man who spoke mostly in hums and grunts. He showed no bigger signs of evil than people who paid him and bard trusted that, as they must have been seeing what he had, they don’t harass the Witcher with slurs, just to show some of civility. He wanted to believe in that as he believed in Geralt of Rivia and his own poetic talent. However, soon after he joined the famous monster-hunter, he found out there’s no reason to trust or keep faith in people as they are, in fact, full of shit. Butcher, monster, beast, ugly motherfucker, devil, eyesore, son of a bitch, horror, crud, modified asshole (although Jaskier liked that one) and on and on and on… Every time someone screamed one of those words in Geralt’s direction, bard felt the urge to strangle the source of the insult. But, as his posture and almost non-existent strength wouldn’t let him crush stranger’s throat without getting killed himself, he just watched the White Wolf’s face, searching for some kind of reaction from the man. And he would get frustrated every goddamn time, as Geralt’s face remained the same, showing no emotions. He could explain it with the fact that witchers, as he heard many, many times, feel none of them, but he knew it’s not true, at least not with Geralt. He saw him care and he saw him mourn. Few times he even saw him laugh (and Jaskier was proud to admit that three of these laughs were caused by no one else but him, and yes, he kept the score).
Then he just doesn’t care, he’s used to it, thought the bard, feeling weird, unpleasant tingle in chest right after. He was sitting on the big rock, lightly stroking the strings of the lute and waiting for the Witcher to turn back with food. The bard planned to start a new ballad but soon after his companion left to hunt, he found himself thinking about him, contemplating their relationship, the circles of parting ways and meeting again accidentally in inns all across the continent and the pain he felt when Gerald was accused of things which were far from the truth, when he was insulted, disrespected and slated. Jaskier wasn’t sure why he cared so much for such things, as he also got bad-mouthed all the time, but he was the first person to trust the feelings and act on them. If he felt, it was important, hence, he had to do something about it. And that’s how on this very day he asked himself a big question: who is going to show Geralt his internal and external beauty if not the greatest poet, the master of word and a caring friend? The answer was no one. Maybe Yennefer, but Jaskier felt undefined aversion towards the sorceress and decided to ignore her existence as long as she was miles from him and, above all (for some reason this was really important), from Geralt.
That’s how he found himself, for the first time in life, struggling to delineate the secrets of man’s desirability in a poetic words. It was different than everyday thoughts full of fondness and attraction, he was painfully aware he has for the Witcher, and different from writing another brittle song about random lady. He couldn’t go with ‘lips like roses, eyes like heaven’ bullshit, not this time. Not with this kind of muse he had. Hair… What was Geralt’s hair like? Silver, that for sure. Silver like… like ash. No, no. Ash is nothing like silver. Like wolves’ fur, like reflection of moon on the water, like… Like Geralt’s hair. Geralt’s hair were like Geralt’s hair.
Jakier huffed. Comparing White Wolf to anything or anyone was completely, utterly useless and pointless. Yes, he could say that sulfur resembled Geralt’s eyes, but it didn’t worked the other way around. His eyes were nothing like sulfur. They were so much more, at least for the bard. Anyway, Jaskier remarked, there is a chance Geralt won’t pay attention to words leaving his lips, as the Witcher, quite long time ago, got tired of exasperation that came with listening to the enhanced versions of his journeys and fights. And, to be honest, sometimes it seemed that he doesn’t notice bard’s presence at all (they were the times when Jaskier would start to talk about the most embarrassing, weird or idiotic details of his life, just to get the big asshole’s attention). The Witcher actually listening to the words could be murky vision too. He could kill Jaskier. Or hurt him. Throw him into a river from a high riverside or to a thicket of nettles, what was bad enough. So, in conclusion, poem was not a good idea.
Before he came up with something, Geralt returned with a young deer on his shoulders and beefed on the bard’s lazy, useless ass which couldn’t move and make a damned campfire. He didn’t respond when Jaskier demanded to leave his beautiful bottom alone, unless Witcher wants to give it a massage since the rock was painfully uncomfortable to sit on. Instead, he sighted like he couldn’t believe at what point his life is and moved to gut the animal.
Soon, the deer was frizzling deliciously over the fire and they sat in silence, covered in darkness almost completely, if not the comforting flames licking the air in dance old as the world itself. Jaskier felt the tightness in stomach and chest, still wondering what to do about the ‘Witcher’s beauty issue’. His thoughts wandered further and further, leaving the place and time his body remained in. He searched for words, for occasions, for circumstances. For good days for such a thing, for fancy sentences. But the tightness spread from the chest to the throat and this always motivated him to speak (something like a fear that he will never be able to sing again if he lets himself stay silent for a longer while). Once again that day, grandma came to his mind. She was the best teacher of life, even after her death. He remembered how, on moments when he struggled to speak his mind, to articulate what had troubled his heart, she would hit his head lightly with a towel and squawk: “Don’t fuck around with words, Jaskier! I don’t have time for your mumbling and rhymes, I’ve got whole household on my head!” (she didn’t, she just grumbled at everyone to pass time and feel important). The memory of words which always managed to deflate him, hit him like lover’s husband in the morning and made him shout Witcher’s name all of sudden.
Said Witcher shoot Jaskier a lifeless stare and bard blushed, cursing himself for not using a brain efficiently enough to control some of its processes.
“What”
“Um… Nothing? Just thinking… Yeah… Could you give me some of its leg?” he asked, voice barely trembling, but Geralt must have heard that anyway with this predator-like hearing of his.
White Wolf hummed and fulfilled bard’s request, still gazing at the younger man.
“Thank you. Don’t look at me like that.”
“You are exceptionally quiet today, bard” he remarked. Now his gaze was wandering over the forest behind their camp.
“Well” Jaskier harrumphed “I’m thinking about new ballad but I have some problems with it and it keeps my mind busy, instead of the mouth.”
“Hmm. You could have those problems more often” murmured the Witcher, adding some logs to the fire.
Jaskier took a deep breath. Possibly, he’s going to kill me, he thought, but I must die someday anyways. And to die from those hands, he didn’t mind that much.
“Actually” he mouthed, straightening his back “You can help me.”
Geralt’s eyes spoke of misgiving mixed with weariness. Jaskier felt encouraged. He breathed with full lungs, tasting the air like it was the last time.
“I’m looking for a rhyme for: you’re the prettiest person I’ve ever known, Geralt, and I know plenty of beautiful people.”
For the first time since he met the Witcher, he saw this expression on his face. Eyes goggled, brows, by some miracle, furrowed, lips slightly opened. Disbelief? Maybe anger? Irritation with amazement (that was bold of Jaskier to say, right)? Bard didn’t know, but when Geralt suddenly tensed and grabbed a sword, he screamed, covering head with arms.
“Don’t fucking kill me, Geralt!”
“Stay here”, he heard and, as he stayed unharmed, peered through the fingers. All he could see was the drift of silver hair, sweeping in the rhythm of Witcher’s run and glistening of a blade held high over the head. Soon an earsplitting howl filled the space and a sound of guts splashing on the ground.
“Oh for fuck’s sake” gasped the poet, fanning himself with a notebook, nose puckered in disgust. “This man will be the end of me.”
To his disappointment, Geralt didn’t say a word when he returned covered in monster’s blood. He quickly trimmed the sword and himself, not paying a particular attention to Jaskier. Before he lied down onto dingy bedroll, he kneeled with closed eyes, listening, smelling, making sure they’re safe. Jaskier loved to observe him doing it. He looked so vigilant, yet so calm. Like an old stone, indifferent to changes in weather, times or people. Everything was blurry, unsteady, except him, taking only as much space as he needed but filling every participle of it so profoundly, there was nothing more real and bright than him. The bard preyed on those several seconds every day, feeding himself with the sigh, eliciting the sense of safety before another night under naked stars.
Geralt was snoring silently and Jaskier smiled. How come, he found such stupid details adorable in a well-known beast and butcher? Must be poetic sensibility, his dower of seeing world in its most wonderful form. He knew not many have the ability to recognize true beauty, not many paid attention to it, let alone talk about it. Jaskier was convinced, Geralt already forgot the compliment and he was ready to forget it also, as many other things he said or felt, which were unpleasant or unimportant to their addressees. For that he was ready from the beginning (it was quite big part of the plan, to be honest). Not for whatever-the-hell was Geralt’s behavior the next day.
***
The first singularity Jaskier noticed right in the morning. Geralt observed him. But not like he always did: with the corner of an eye to make sure if the dreamy idiot won’t trip on his own feet and twist his neck. No. Now it was a full, almost constant, illegible stare that made Jaskier feel the weight of all his sins on the shoulders. Was Geralt judging, he didn’t know, but dragging behind Roach’s croup, so Witcher’s back also, became very attractive just to have a sense of privacy for a second. Geralt of course couldn’t let it happen and would slow down from time to time to make it too annoying for the poet to follow horse’s step. Jaskier never felt so uncomfortable in his life. And he once stood naked in the center of some town’s market with a wooden tablet saying ‘lust-ridden lady-stealing pervert’. If you paid him, he would admit he was a tad proud he managed to fuck so many wives, fiancées and daughters in just three days, oh, stamina in those times, wonders, and standing there was not such a big punishment – there was someone who got interested and took a good care of him in the night. It appeared, he was able to steal sons also. A shiver went down his spine at the memory of pleasure that came with pulsing sensation of being filled by cleaving heat. Not the best time to think about such stuff, because he got a ‘hmm’ from Geralt. A fucking ‘hmm’.
“What the hell is with you?” he burst, propping hands on jacquard-clothed hips and walking backwards, to look at the Witcher. Lute was hanging on his back, hitting his elbow with muffled pings. “I get it, I’m a nice object to look at, very pleasant, though I could use a razor and bath, yes, this is a suggestion we should stop at some town, but what the fuck, Geralt?”
“What are you talking about?” responded the Witcher with such obliviousness, a thought of cutting off his head crossed bard’s mind. I would cut it clean, dissect it and carry around as a piece of art, he devised.
“You are gawping at me.”
“What, makes you uncomfortable?”
Jaskier’s mouth opened in outrage. “Well- yes, it is!”
“I thought you like attention.”
Geralt smirked and galloped leaving the shouting poet behind.
Jaskier was stubborn and had some pride sometimes, so instead of running, he chose an elegant, well-balanced pace and a rhythmical song about mean bastards. A good thirty minutes passed before he saw White Wolf again. And the sight took him off track. Geralt was leaning on the tree, his hands folded in a bowl and – Jaskier was convinced he’s hallucinating – a bunch of oxeye daisies between his teeth. It must have been hallucination: first, Geralt picked flowers only if they were useful for potions and oxeye daisies had no special properties as poet learned from the Witcher (“Of course, who would like some useless weed if not you”), second, those were Jaskier’s favorite flowers and there was no way Geralt would keep that in memory and, what’s more, use that knowledge. Not for him.
But daisies were still there when bard stopped under the same tree. He stood, silent, not sure what to do as it was quite an unusual situation, and stared dully at the scarred man, who reached out his palms full of fresh berries, mumbling unintelligibly through the stems and pointing his eyes perpetually at Roach. After hearing an angry grumble, Jaskier flinched and leaped to the mare to find a leather pouch to put fruits in. When Geralt’s arms were freed, he took out the flowers from between his lips and held them out to the poet.
Jaskier hesitated. What if Geralt knows and is making fun of him or he’s possessed by some kind of forest charm? It felt like a dream.
“This- this is for me?”
Geralt grunted. His brows were furrowed and that was all what Jaskier could read from man’s face.
“You can feed it to Roach on the road, she likes it.” Now, oh now, there was a shade of red spreading from Witcher’s neck to the lower jaw. Jaskier’s belly did a weird somersault. He could laugh now, burst out with raffish chortle, joke about spell Geralt’s must be under for sure, but something stopped him. Maybe it was the way Witcher’s eyes escaped him once or two, maybe it was the unexpected weakness of always sure arm, or maybe it really was only about Roach (if Geralt loved anyone, it would be her), but it engendered mellowness in the bard. He took the flowers with whispered ‘thank you’ and followed the road, smiling endlessly at the dirt.
They made it to the town when stars were already shining over their heads. It was pretty calm in the inn, what got a relieved sigh from Geralt. He ordered a room with two beds and tub with hot water. They ate while waiting, finally tasting something that saw some seasonings before landing on plates. Jaskier’s tongue was numb after days with bland hare and water.
Witcher eyed his ale, sitting still on the wooden bench. He sighed few times, what got Jaskier’s attention.
“Something’s worrying you, my friend?” he asked, trying to catch yellow eyes, unsuccessfully, as usually.
“Play something.”
What the hell.
“Sorry, I’ve misheard. What did you say?”
“I think I said clearly enough. Play something” mumbled Geralt through clenched teeth.
“All of the gods, save me! Geralt, what was that monster yesterday? Was it capable of casting spells? Are you even my Geralt?” he was actually worried.
“Not yo-” Witcher was ready to snap, but stopped in the middle, something changing in his face. He leaned back with arms crossed on the chest, muscles bulking under dirty linen sleeves, and eyed the bard with pensive look. Jaskier recognized it and gulped the air he just breathed in. He saw Geralt watching Yennefer with this kind of misty stare. “I do sometimes appreciate music, you know? You’ve got some good stuff amongst all those shitty doggerels about tits.”
Jaskier didn’t know if he should feel offended or pleased, so instead of choosing emotional reaction, he said plainly:
“I need to buy new strings tomorrow. Those are damaged. No songs today, I’m afraid, but I promise you a special performance, for you only.” There was a hint of regret in his voice. Damn the rain that surprised them in open field two days ago. No instrument could abide that amount of water. Jaskier could only hope it wasn’t a one-time thing coming from Geralt. And that stare… It still burned in his chest.
“Pity” murmured Witcher and stood up. He paid for the meal, asked the innkeeper about monsters in the area and went upstairs, to their room. Jaskier stayed at the table for a while, finishing a bottle of sweet Temerian wine and contemplating passing day. When he already overcame disappointment with the lute, he started to have ideas about Geralt’s behavior and, as much as he liked them, he was almost sure they were far from truth so he had to get rid of them. Sitting and looking at the burning fireplace wouldn’t help for sure. It conjured a well-hidden, rarely arising, need for a hearth and warm, strong body he could snuggle to. So instead of dreaming, he headed to the room, hoping for a bath and good sleep.
Once he stepped to the corridor, he saw two boys with buckets full of hot water heading the same direction as him. There were clouds of steam coming through the last door. Their door, as he discerned, counting the number of entrances. Geralt must be still bathing, so he will have to wait with sleeping. Though, at least I will be blessed with the sight, he thought and chuckled. Wine was showing its effects, freeing his mind from self-imposed restrictions.
But Geralt was already clean, when Jaskier entered the chamber. Wet hair stuck to his neck, entwined with the strap of wolf medallion, some of them falling lose on firm, naked shoulders. Sun-licked, scarred skin was moist, some drops of water streaming down man’s chest to muscular abdomen, disappearing in the fabric of thin cotton trousers. Bard let out a sigh. He had no words in the face of such dangerous beauty. No wonder he wasn’t able to write no line the day before.
“Jaskier.” Low, raspy voice filled poet’s ears causing a tremble to appear deep inside his stomach and fanning out through whole body. Witcher was piercing him with long, intense but unreadable stare.
“Geralt” he almost whispered.
“I ordered to bring clean water for you. You bathed me many times. It’s my turn to bath you.”
“Wha-… No, Geralt, you don’t have to!” Jaskier laughed, sounding fake to himself, as stress bumped blood through his temples.
“I want to.”
Oh.
Few second passed, before they broke the overwhelming eye contact and Geralt turned around to give Jaskier some space for undressing. Bard did it slowly, folding every piece of cloth and placing it at the chair, eyes on the Witcher’s candles-illuminated back all the time. Then he stepped into warm, herbal water and closed eyes, facing the ceiling, his head falling on the edge of barrel. He heard quiet steps and shivered, feeling a delicate rubbing of wet towel on the chest. Geralt then took care of his neck, stomach and arms, touching so lightly, Jaskier wanted to check if he is really here, but at the same time he was afraid he might spoil the magic by looking. He did not expect to find such delicacy it those strong, rough hands and he had to bite a lip to stop a moan which lurked in his throat.
Suddenly the touch disappeared, leaving Jaskier bereft. Geralt walked around the room, looking for something apparently. Bard heard the noise behind himself and sensed the fluctuation of air. Soon, he felt a gentle touch of fingers tangling in his hair, then Witcher’s palms wandered at bard’s stubbly cheeks and stopped. Jaskier was already tense as a string, so it was only thanks to terrific wish of not destroying the moment that he didn’t scream, when warm lips brushed his hair.
“Did-“
“Hush.”
Did you just kissed my head?
The question rumbled in poet’s skull like loop of thunders, but being appeased by Geralt closed his mouth for good. He let himself open the eyes however and now he watched as Witcher fills the jug to wash down the soap from his hair. When the man was done, he grabbed a towel and dried them off carefully. He touched Jaskier’s elbow, prompting him to stand up and get out of the barrel. Many times has Jaskier been naked in front of the Witcher, but never before it felt like that. Fragile, vulnerable, safe, honest, sweet. He was breathing steady and deeply, what was quite hard in hot, steamy room, and costed him a lot of energy, but it was the only way to not throw himself at the Witcher who was now approaching him with white linen nightgown, ready to dress him.
They stood in front of each other for a while, observing. Geralt’s face was calm and mysterious. He walked away, blown the candles and opened the window, letting the moonlight in. Chill breeze dabbed bard’s shoulders, bringing a reassuring relief. He made few steps, standing behind the Witcher, who was leaning on the windowsill and looking at the city’s roofs.
“Why?” he asked quietly.
Geralt turned around, grunting.
“Because I wanted to”.
“Yes, you said so. But why?”
Witcher sighed, turning his head so Jaskier could see man’s profile mellowed by cold full-moon glow. Poet fiddled nervously with nightgown’s too long sleeves and waited for answer, burning a hole in Geralt’s face.
“You were looking for a rhyme yesterday. Very specific one. Did you found it?” asked Geralt, eyes fixed on the sky.
“No. Did you?”
“I don’t know poetry, you know that.”
Geralt finally looked at him and there was something… Question and sadness, and longing and Jaskier felt it in his stomach, like a falling stone.
“Oh I think you do” he snuffled with certainty, although everything inside of him was quaking in tentativeness.
“Did you mean it, the words? Or was it just a funny play?” Geralt spitted last two words like they were filthy.
“I may seem like someone with death wish to you, Geralt, but I really find no fun in playing with death. I meant it and I was ready for consequences.”
Witcher snorted. “I’m not that fierce, Jaskier. More is needed to rile me up.”
“Well, I’m a lot” said poet, grinning. He hoped the smile will take away some tension from Geralt’s posture and he felt warmness in the chest when Witcher’s shoulders really loosened a bit.
“Never, anyone told such thing to me. Whores maybe, bored countesses but those were empty words. Not that I care for my appearance-”
“Noticeable, sometimes.” Jaskier interrupted. “But I didn’t mean look only, Geralt.”
“I know. And that is what… surprises me. Why would you? But…” Geralt hesitated, clenching his jaw, glancing at Jaskier, whose posture was speaking with timid impatience.
“Yes?”
“I don’t know poetry, so it’s not a rhyme. I did weird things today, hoping you would know it without me saying, but I just made you suspicious.”
Jaskier chuckled, feeling an expectant, tingling squeeze in the stomach.
“But… Jaskier, you are also the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. Yes, I’ve met lots of beautiful people in my life, Yennefer be the last, but you’re the best of them when it comes to spirit. You’re pure in a way that I learned to appreciate. You might have fucked half of this continent, but no truly, deeply despicable thought have crossed your mind, I believe.”
“I-… I-… Geralt” Jaskier was out of breath, his mind blank in shock, prompting him with single words but no full sentences he could respond with. “I’ve never heard you say so much at one time!” he stuttered, tittering nervously and calling himself an idiot right after.
Geralt didn’t say anything, just observing and waiting, and Jaskier calmed down immediately when he noticed a regret creeping on Witcher’s face. “I… Oh, Geralt. You’re the only one who makes me forget words. I lose my poetical abilities when you’re the object of my thoughts and it’s so frightening. Can I- Can I just hold you instead?” he asked, reaching out his right arm, praying for invitation.
Geralt hesitated for a few endless seconds, but finally grabbed slender hand and brought it to lips, kissing gently. Then he led Jaskier, whose legs were shaking, to the narrow bed and sat on it. He stroked poet’s sides, looking up to meet green gaze and sighed in delight at the sight of blissful face which almost glowed in the darkness, with shiny tears like little crystals reflecting moon in the corners of tender eyes.
“I don’t deserve you” Geralt’s whisper was hoarse with peculiar combination of bitterness and fondness.
Jaskier grabbed Witcher’s palms, bringing them together in his not so much smaller ones and pressed them to his heart as he sat down on Geralt’s lap. He stroked rough cheek, following one of the scars with thumb and kissed it on a way to snuggle into Witcher’s neck, inhaling the scent of herbs from the bath.
“You do” he mumbled, lips touching hot skin.
Geralt breathed deeply and wrapped one arm around Jaskier’s waist, bringing the bard closer.
“For what?”
“Hm… Let me think” Jaskier lifted his head with playfully thoughtful face. “Those daisies today were nice, even thought our dear Roach savored them all. I like your hair and eyes. I actually like your brooding. You’re funny when you want to. And you care for good people” he listed while playing with gray strands. “You want to be righteous and humanitary – don’t snarl! Oh, and you saved my life few times. Also, I think I may be in love with you. Is that enough?”
“Hmm, I think so.”
They stayed silent for a while. Jaskier was still winding damp flocks over his fingers, lost in the sensation of Geralt’s warm breath dabbing his temple and hand caressing his thigh. He felt surprisingly calm, not at all like he expected to feel when his most grievously hidden dreams were coming true. It was like putting two puzzles together and finding out they fit each other perfectly, after worrying that they show different pictures because they seemed to belong to separate boxes while laying apart. Jaskier’s hands were made to care for Geralt’s hair the same way Witcher’s ones were made to hold the bard in safe embrace. Geralt’s silence was made for Jaskier’s words, his physical strength for bard’s tenacious sincerity. It would be hard to find men who differ more, but even harder to come by two whose differences complement each other so well.
“Tell me something about me, Geralt” he murmured, placing a wet kiss on Witcher’s mouth.
“What?” gasped Geralt, searching for warm lips. He lied down, bringing Jaskier with himself so they faced each other and put a hand on poet’s chest to feel his heartbeat.
“Anything. Anything good, my dear. Tell me I’m pretty.” Jaskier giggled and the sweet sound brought a smile on Witcher’s face.
“Jaskier,” he groaned, “how can you be so greedy for compliments? But alright. You are pretty. You are pretty like dandelion. You see? It was even poetic. Things I do for you.”
“Such dedication! But dandelion? There are prettier flowers, Geralt. I’m not satisfied.”
“I like them. More than other flowers. They not only please eyes but are good for potions too. They’re everything a flower should be. They’re bright like you.”
“Oh… Geralt” gasped Jaskier, blessing the darkness for hiding his red cheeks. He moved closer to Witcher and hid face in the crook of man’s neck. Geralt embraced him tightly, pulling a stained duvet on them. He kept on kissing bard’s hair pleased with little sighs and whines, which died away when Jaskier has fallen asleep.
“I’m in love with you too” whispered Geralt in poet’s ear.
Quiet ‘hmff’ was all he got in answer but it was enough to make him feel more joy that ever. This day required more courage from him than any hunt for monster or human. He was never good with feelings. He was told he shouldn’t be. For decades he damned the mistake that happened in his training, the mistake which left him feeling. It made things so hard. But it let him be stupid, spontaneous, uncertain and lovestruck and he couldn’t be more thankful for it now. It’s not like it gave him Jaskier. Jaskier simply appeared. Swathed over Geralt’s life like ivy and became inherent part of it but it was only his doing and stubbornness, not Witcher’s. If poet was less determined, they would part ways week after the first meeting and Geralt felt blunt pain in the chest every time he remembered the punch he dished out into Jaskier’s stomach then. Now he wanted to kiss that belly and protect it from every evil in this world and it wouldn’t be possible if some stupid magic worked as it was supposed to, when he was nothing but a little boy.
Before he sank into sleep, a simple wish crossed his mind: may Jaskier never find words to write a romantic poem about him. It was a honor to be the most well-spoken person’s reason of silence and the biggest compliment Geralt’s could ever get. Also, added Witcher at the second thought, Jaskier was really adorable when stuttering like a teenager with a first serious crush.