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The contract should have been easy, really. The city’s council had asked him to confront the mage that has been lurking by their border. Not because she was evil, but because she has been playing childish pranks for months and they’ve finally had enough. The alderman wants her to go away if she won’t cease her tricks, and that should have been easy, right? Geralt only had to walk into her territory and have a civil conversation with her—well, as civil as he can.
Which happened, more or less.
The mage wasn’t powerful enough to be a threat, she didn’t have any formal education on how to handle her magic, but she knows enough to be an annoying pest. Geralt didn’t approach her in search of a fight, but he was prepared, just in case. Maria was young, even by a sorceresses’ standards, and she was more than open to the idea of leaving.
“I’ve been meaning to leave,” she had said when Geralt told her about what the city wants from her. “I’m surprised they’ve been this patient with me. But of course, after a final trick!”
And it’s that damned final trick that has got him in his current predicament. Geralt grunts as he lands on graceful feet, guiding his mare to the stable by the inn he left Jaskier at. He’s thankful that he brought his cloak with him. Without it, Geralt is unsure how he can sneak into their room unnoticed on this bright afternoon. The Witcher makes sure the cloak and its hood are secured on his figure once again before stepping into the inn.
He pushes the door without much preamble and storms up towards the stairs, determined to reach their shared room quickly. Jaskier must be in the city’s marketplace since the bard can’t be found in the inn nor their room. That suits him perfectly. He sets his bag down on his bed’s foot before he throws his cloak off, visibly annoyed.
Geralt, with his back to the door, has his hands on his hips, glaring at the cloak on his bed with a huff. Jaskier will be back perhaps by evening. Knowing the bard, he’s probably off frolicking about, distracted by scented oils and cheese in the market. Jaskier might even mingle with the common people, making friends with the baker or florist. The point is, Jaskier will be preoccupied before he returns to the inn to perform, and that gives Geralt more than enough time to settle his problem.
He rummages through his bag, making a mental list of what ingredients he has and what he’ll require from the city’s herbalist. Geralt can find the needed ingredients himself but it’ll take time and effort, and by the time he has all the things he needs, his problem will be gone. It’s a better move to seek an herbalist as soon as possible. The Witcher grunts as he makes a plan in his head and counts his coin in his pouch. He has more than enough, especially after he was paid for today’s contract, and Jaskier will surely bring them more in tonight’s performance. He can splurge for today. Perhaps after his problem is settled, he’ll purchase a new blanket for Roach. The one they have is old, and winter is nearing, so might as well—
“You would not believe what happened!” Jaskier’s clear voice rings as he barges into their room in a dramatic entrance.
Geralt freezes, his body locking as his muscle tenses. He must’ve been so deep in his thought he didn’t hear the bard’s footsteps.
“Geralt— is that a tail?”
Geralt curses under his breath before turning his body to fully face him. “Jaskier.”
“And ears! Gods, you have a dog’s ears and tail?!” the brunet exclaims with obvious glee, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief as he shoves into Geralt’s personal space.
The Witcher scowls and moves away, the large animal ears, now visible, twitches in annoyance. It only makes Jaskier squeal in excitement.
“It’s that damned mage’s trick,” Geralt grumbles, ignoring the look Jaskier has on his face. A look that clearly meant he wants to touch but he’s barely holding himself back.
The Witcher thinks he might give in if he looks at him, so he doesn’t.
“The one you were hired for today?” Jaskier asks, partly focused on the conversation since he’s blatantly staring at the newly added animal features on his companion.
“The very same.”
The bard sniggers, not unkindly, as he settles himself on his own bed, watching Geralt with rapt attention. “It’s not a curse, is it?”
Geralt shakes his head and Jaskier giggles, trying to hold back his delight. He looks up to Jaskier with a raised brow, wondering what has the bard giggling. It only makes Jaskier laugh more openly, the sound loud and clear. “What?” Geralt snaps.
“It’s because— your ears—!” Jaskier tries to finish his sentence, a lovely shade of pink dusting his cheeks. He tries to ignore that. “Geralt, your ears twitch and pull back and wiggle! And your tail! It swishes!”
Geralt stands at his full height, arms across his chest with narrowed eyes, glaring at Jaskier. “It does not,” he growls with as much intimidation as someone can with animal ears and tail.
“It does and your tail is wagging!”
Amber eyes fractionally widen and the Witcher turns his head to have a proper look on his tail. Sure enough, he sees his white tail gently wagging left to right. He glares at it, betrayed. Damn his tail and Jaskier’s pretty laugh.
“Now, don’t fuss about it, Geralt! It must be a harmless trick if you aren’t running about to fix it.”
The Witcher shifts his glare to Jaskier. “I was about to meet an herbalist before you barged in.”
Jaskier blinks those bright eyes before he slightly tilts his head. “The city’s herbalist? Darling, I’m afraid he’s unavailable. I talked to, hmm, a friendly blacksmith earlier, quite dashing, may I add,” he says with a knowing look and an indulgent smile on his face, “and he told me the herbalist has been gone for nearly two days now. Said that the man has left for his monthly expedition to study more for his expertise and whatnot,” the bard explains.
Geralt’s frown deepens.
“It can’t be that serious, can it?”
He shakes his head. “No. She says it’ll disappear on its own after two or three days.”
“Then just wait for it to disappear. You don’t have to be so angry.”
“I’m not,” Geralt says. “Just irritated.”
The bard quirks a brow, unbelieving. “I’ve had dogs when I was a child, so I’m more than familiar with their body language. And you, my dear, look like you’re ready to attack!”
And maybe he is if Geralt is being honest. See, Jaskier has been traveling with him for six years now, though on and off as it may be. And within that period of time, he has grown some sort of attachment and fondness for the bard, a feeling that a friend shouldn’t have. He’s seen Jaskier love and flirt and woo, unflinchingly and selflessly, to both men and women. Damn him for hoping, even just a sliver, that a mutant can be loved by Jaskier. If he were romantic, he’d say that he’s pining. But Geralt isn’t a romantic so he doesn’t pine. Not at all.
That doesn’t mean he enjoys watching Jaskier flirt with others from the sidelines. This, he can admit to himself.
“Now that I’m properly looking, it doesn’t appear like a dog’s… more like a really big canine. Maybe it’s because of your build.”
“Because it supposedly belongs to a wolf.” Geralt only scowls, pointing a finger at the bard. “You can be blamed for this.”
“Me?”
“You’ve been regaling me as the White Wolf. Look where it fucking got me.”
Jaskier squints his eyes before widening in understanding, nodding his head. “Your mage has simple humor, huh,” he says. “But think of the brighter side! It fits you perfectly, you know! I’m sure you would be in a sourer mood if you had cat ears instead,” Jaskier sniggers.
“You’re having too much fun, bard,” Geralt warns.
Jaskier grins. “I’m sorry, I just can’t take you seriously! Your ears are perked up and your tail is wagging even when you’re scowling!”
Geralt curses himself and Jaskier’s smile. Damn them.
“But really, Geralt, just wait for it to disappear on its own. It’s no harm and less hassle!”
The Witcher mulls over his statement. There’s nothing much to lose, truthfully, if he were to simply wait. On one hand, he won’t be able to go out without his cloak, but he can simply lock himself in their shared room. Geralt will take this as an opportunity to rest.
“You go out for errands, then,” he says.
Jaskier only smiles, small dimples in his cheeks. “Of course, darling. You’ve been so tense the past days; you deserve to rest. You can’t say you don’t like the idea, Witcher, your ears and tail say otherwise!” he teases.
Geralt growls and promptly ignores the bard, disrobing his armor until he’s left with only his tunic and leather pants, then shuffles on his bed to lightly meditate. He doesn’t want to sleep yet, but Geralt wants to rest in the meantime. When his body relaxes and eyes closed, he hears the soft chuckle from Jaskier before his feet shuffles. The Witcher guesses Jaskier is flitting about in their room to get his notebook, then he hears the light strumming of his lute. If Jaskier notices his ears perking up and tail slightly wagging, it’s none of his concern.
***
Geralt is alone in their room, taking stock of his potions and grinding some herbs he has at hand after oiling his swords. He can hear the chorus of laughter and singing downstairs, no doubt that Jaskier is dancing about like he usually does when he performs. Jaskier always lights up the room, even if he’s simply entering it, demanding attention even without meaning to. Maybe it’s just Geralt. He throws that thought away.
Where his human ears should be, his wolf ears twitch at the change of Jaskier’s footsteps and the slowing of his excited heartbeat. The bard must be done performing and should be getting their supper brought up. Geralt only hums as he patiently waits on the floor, putting his potions and mortar and pestle away, the bottles faintly clinking against each other. He looks up when he sees the door pushed open by Jaskier’s shoulder, lute strapped at his back, his hands occupied by their meal and drinks precariously balanced on a tray. Geralt swiftly gets up and takes the tray away from Jaskier lest their dinner topples over.
“Right, thank you for that, dear,” Jaskier huffs, relieved. Geralt grunts, ignoring the fact that his tail is swishing wildly. Of course, Jaskier doesn’t. “Aww,” he coos, “did you miss me?”
The Witcher only narrows his eyes as his tail wags more actively, placing their meal on the small table for two. While he wants to answer that he doesn’t, apparently his tail has other ideas. Jaskier only chuckles as he puts his lute down in its proper case before he looks up with a blink.
“Oh, I almost forgot! Remember that man I was talking about earlier? He came by to watch me perform and, ah, has made some promises,” Jaskier chatters, and Geralt stills, looking down at his portion in his seat. “I’ll have to speak to him before I eat,” he mumbles to his own, lost in his own thought as he straightens himself and his doublet and leaves the room.
And just like that, Geralt is alone again. He knows what Jaskier meant. The bard was obviously propositioned and he plans on accepting. Why Jaskier even bothered sharing supper with him, Geralt doesn’t know. He glares at his own food, appetite lost for a moment before he forces himself to shove a spoonful of stew in his mouth. He’ll start without Jaskier. The door is pushed open again after two minutes or so, Jaskier entering the room before stopping short for a bit after he had closed the door behind him.
“Rude,” Jaskier admonishes with a huff, mock offense, as he sits across Geralt. “Couldn’t wait for me, could you?” Geralt only glowers, resolutely ignoring the bard.
The clatter of utensils can only be heard in their otherwise silent room. That’s fine by him. Geralt only keeps his eyes on his meal, eating and drinking without pause.
Jaskier stops, putting his fork down, before he asks, “Geralt, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong, bard,” he answers without looking up, too quickly to be natural.
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. If nothing is wrong, you wouldn’t look like,” Jaskier gestures a hand towards Geralt’s general direction, “that. You’re obviously upset since I’ve returned.”
“There’s nothing wrong,” Geralt answers, teeth grinding.
“Don’t be stupid, it doesn’t suit you. You look like a kicked dog. Or a wolf, to be more precise.”
“Why don’t you just eat and finish up quickly so you can return to that blacksmith,” he finally snaps as he looks up with a clenched jaw. He watches Jaskier’s brows furrow in confusion.
“Is that what this is about?” he asks with narrowed eyes. “Are you… jealous?”
Geralt looks down. “Forget it.” He returns to eating and was about to shove another spoonful of stew before he felt Jaskier’s hand on his, stopping him.
“I turned him down, you know,” Jaskier says with a small smile. Geralt blinks at him. “I also turned down that lovely woman from the last town a week ago. And the barmaid before her, and the stableboy before her, and the poet, and the baker’s daughter, and the healer, and the town’s mayor—what I’m saying is, I’ve turned all of them down.” The Witcher knows Jaskier has a point he wants to deliver, but he just can’t seem to grasp it yet. “I haven’t been in anyone’s bed for months if you haven’t noticed.”
Carefully and slowly, distant thumping sounds slowly increasing, he asks, “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he says, interlacing their fingers together now that Geralt’s hand has become lax, “that I only want to sleep in a certain someone’s bed. Specifically, yours.”
Geralt swallows, mouth suddenly dry and watering at the same time. “You do?”
Jaskier nods, a bright smile gracing his lips as his eyes crinkle in the corners, dimples now more obvious. “I do. And judging by your enthusiastic reaction, I’d say the feeling is mutual,” he says with a cocky smile.
Geralt is momentarily brought out of his daze. He realizes that there’s a rhythm of loud, continuous thudding in their room and blinks, trying to figure out where it’s coming from. Jaskier only seems to be ecstatic and unbothered by the noise, his blue eyes focusing solely on him. The Witcher gives a glance over the room and couldn’t find where the thumping sounds are coming from. Given Jaskier’s pointed look, he realizes it must come from him. Geralt looks over himself and, like a burn, he swiftly turns to watch his tail banging like crazy against the chair.
If he were a man, Geralt swears that his face and the tip of his ears will flush with heat. But since he’s a Witcher, he’s left to remain pale even in embarrassment.
Jaskier burst out laughing, the sound so whimsical and lovely, pulling back his hand to clutch his stomach. “You— if you could see your face!” he shrieks, wiping away the tears from his eyes. “Darling, I—!” and he goes back to laughing.
Geralt only growls without heat since he can’t do anything but be flustered. He can’t stop his wagging tail nor does he want to stop Jaskier’s laughter. As he watches the bard trying to catch his breath, he realizes that he can have this. That he is allowed to want and he is wanted in return. Whether it’s his restrain snapping, the adrenaline of knowing it’s mutual, or just simply the desire to forget his mortification, Geralt quickly stands up, their supper as the last thing in his mind. Jaskier yelps as Geralt pulls him away from his seat and carries him in his arms without effort before plopping him down on the Witcher’s lap once he’s settled on the nearest bed.
Jaskier blinks his surprise away, before his lips spread into a wide grin, making himself comfortable in the Witcher’s lap as he throws his arms around Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt has a hand on the small of Jaskier’s back and the other on his hip, snug and secure. “I can have this?” he whispers as he looks up, his lips inches away from the bard’s, soft and vulnerable but so eager and hopeful.
“You can.”
“You’re mine?”
“Always have been. From the very beginning.”
Jaskier ducks down and Geralt finally closes the distance between them. For a moment, it feels like magic, like the world has stopped and resumed but has become brighter, with more purpose. Jaskier’s lips are soft and his taste is sweet and it’s everything Geralt has imagined and more. He growls at the back of his throat in satisfaction when Jaskier combs through his white locks with slender fingers before petting around his ears. Geralt feels something warm settle in his chest and stomach when they finally pull apart, admiring the dazed look that has settled on the bard’s face.
“My darling wolf,” Jaskier whispers with obvious adoration.
If Geralt’s tail is wagging like crazy and loudly banging against the bed, it’s none of his concern when he’s busy kissing Jaskier stupid.