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Over his long life, Jaskier had had many partners, over many lone nights. But this would be his first time having a witcher.
He laid back against the slightly cracked headboard of the inn’s shitty bed, knocking back another long drink of mead. It was good, better than good. The best he’d had in quite some time.
The witcher stood at the window, bare, smoking a pipe of something Jaskier could not quite discern. His body bore the marks, the sweat of what they had just done. For the third time.
Vesemir, or so Jaskier thought. He had lost track a few hours in, both of them cloudy with mead and flirting. It didn’t matter much.
Jaskier pushed sweat soaked hair out of his face, breathing a sigh of relief. Each movement he made only caused another twinge of pain throughout his body.
“Are all witchers this merciless, or is it just you?” His voice was hoarse as he spoke, lungs aching from the strain.
Vesemir chuckled, smoke blowing out into the cold night.
The noise, the hustle and bustle of Cintra was in full swing, perfectly hiding everything they said and did from prying ears. Even Vesemir standing entirely naked in the open window wouldn’t be the strangest thing to see on a night such as this.
“Haven’t fucked enough to say. I’ll get back to you.”
Jaskier hummed. “I’d rather find that out for myself, but the thought is sweet.”
“I’m known for my kindness.”
With one last puff from his pipe, Vesemir set it down on the windowsill, ashes spilling over the stone. Jaskier watched the smoke trail lazily into the sky, before being swept away by the winter winds.
Vesemir settled beside Jaskier, the bed dipping with his weight.
“Here, make room, make room.”
With another wince, Jaskier shifted over, giving ample room for Vesemir to sit down. As he was getting comfortable in his new spot, the bottle of mead was yanked from his hand, tipped to Vesemir’s kiss bruised lips.
A droplet escaped his mouth, slipping down his chin, inching across the skin of his neck, and Jaskier wanted to curse him for it. Did he know how wild it drove him?
He could have written a song about that one lucky droplet, and nothing else.
Vesemir’s golden eyes flicked over to Jaskier and he smiled around the bottle. He held it back out for him.
“What, did you want it back that bad?”
Jaskier shook his head. “Nah, not really. But I would like the taste back.”
He took Vesemir’s chin in his hand, pulling him forward and into a kiss, met with no resistance. In fact, Vesemir melted against him, greedily pressing against him. His hands wandered over Jaskier’s body, rough palms skimming against the bard’s still sensitive skin.
Vesemir pulled back, eyes still heavily lidded as he attempted to open them.
“I like this mood you’re in.” He murmured.
“You brought it out in me.”
Jaskier pulled him back in.
Contrary to his previous belief, Jaskier’s first experience with a witcher was not his last. Far from it, in fact.
Because now, he sat in the halls of Kaer Morhen, awkwardly trying to not cause much more trouble for the wounded and sparse witcher band.
Outside, Geralt and Yennefer spoke with Ciri about matters they likely thought he wasn’t important enough to be included in.
Jaskier sat with his back against the wall, letting the adrenaline of the day’s events seep gradually out of him. His head gently rested against the frigid stone walls, his eyes slipping closed.
His peace, however, was quickly interrupted by someone sitting beside him with a heavy grunt and a groan or two. He didn’t have to look to know who it was.
“You’re starting to make old man noises, Vesemir.”
The man chuckled, his voice easily betraying his true age. “And here I thought you wouldn’t remember me.”
“Nonsense. You never forget your first experience with a witcher.”
“Your first experience or your first experience?”
Jaskier laughed, the first time he’d done it since dawn. “Both.”
Finally, he opened his eyes, looking over at Vesemir.
Where once his hair had been a rich brown, his face glimmering with youth, both had faded. Though, he still cut a handsome figure, if a different sort.
“You look good.”
Vesemir smiled, rather bitterly, and looked down. “You look better. Haven’t aged a day.”
“Untrue! I found a white hair a week ago and screamed so loud that Zerrikania heard me!”
It earned him a slight laugh, and it was only mostly a joke.
For a moment, neither spoke, merely sitting in a comfortable silence.
“They’ll want you out there.” Vesemir gestured to the solemn group on the broken balcony, all mixed in various shades of black and white.
“A bit too gloomy for my taste.” His attempt at a joke fell utterly flat.
“Jaskier.”
Jaskier sighed, rising to his feet, and took a few steps towards them. Before he stopped.
Turned on his heel.
And extended his hand to Vesemir.
“Friends?”
Vesemir smiled, that wry smile Jaskier remembered so well, and took his hand, allowing himself to be helped up.
“Friends. Now go.”
Jaskier nodded, heading out to meet with Geralt and Yennefer.
In the back of his mind, he could still taste that burning honey mead he shared with Vesemir so long ago.