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“You have a birthmark here.”
Jaskier traces the familiar map of scars on Geralt’s shoulder as his witchers lies prone between tangled sheets, his fingers threading into white hair, moving it to one side.
The passion of sex fades in the air. Sweat cools on Geralt’s skin with his back exposed, his head facing away and pillowed comfortably.
A small birthmark rests on the back of Geralt’s nape, right below his hairline.
“Right here.” Jaskier smiles, tapping on the tiny, inconspicuous thing.
A lazy noise rumbles from his witcher’s chest, warm and languid.
“Hmm.”
Jaskier leans down to kiss the mark, tasting the salt on Geralt’s skin.
“Must you always be so eloquent? You’d think a few orgasms should trade me more than a half-pleased hmm.”
“It was an exceedingly pleased one.” Geralt sighs long-sufferingly. “Why do you never just roll over and sleep like most men?”
With that, the muscles under Jaskier’s palm flex, and Geralt shifts on his side, finally facing Jaskier, his cheeks dusted with pink and his eyes sated. White hair pools on the pillow like molten silver.
“Well.” Jaskier mirrors Geralt’s pose so they are face to face. “Most men are terribly rude.”
Geralt brings Jaskier in for another kiss, the pull of his callused hand feather-light. “You are terribly rude,” he says against Jaskier’s lips, into their shared smile.
A poet’s weapon is his word. The cutting edge of it is only part of the job.
“I am,” Jaskier breathes, “but not here. Not to you.”
“Is that so?”
“Have I not proven it? Does my attention not please you? Or do you not wish to be admired for a little while?” Jaskier nuzzles into the crook of Geralt’s neck, carefully avoiding crushing his hair. “It’s my way of showing gratitude, dear witcher. Plus, I love it, exploring…you. There’s always something new to find.”
Geralt snorts quietly. “Like a birthmark.”
“You laugh, but,” Jaskier muses, looking up at his witcher who barely has one eye cracked open, indulging him, fighting sleep for him, “it’s strange that I never noticed it before. You wear your hair down, and I’ve only seen it today. I bet even you didn’t know.”
“I did. My mother pointed it out once.” Geralt’s voice grows heavy the way he does when speaking of his childhood. “Said it was a sign of luck.”
“Oh.”
Jaskier is quiet, but not for long. It’s true that he can never fall asleep right after sex with all that energy still humming in his bones. So he keeps on bothering Geralt.
“Will you tell me more?” he asks.
“About what?”
“About you.” Jaskier finds Geralt’s hand and pats gently. “Things like this. Small things. Inconsequential things.”
The answer comes as an incoherent mumble. For a moment, Jaskier thinks Geralt has fallen asleep, leaving him alone in his wakefulness. Disappointed, he lets out a dramatic sigh.
“I…” Geralt starts after a pause, his whisper soft as a breath. “I wouldn’t know.”
Jaskier blinks. “What do you mean?”
Geralt gives a faint shrug. “A birthmark, forgotten a century ago, but you notice it. I wouldn’t know what it is that you might find…fascinating.”
“So many things are fascinating when it’s you.”
“I know. That’s the thing about you. You see me, in ways I don’t.”
Pride rises in Jaskier’s chest, making him giddy, but perhaps he shouldn’t tease Geralt for too long. His witcher is truly worn out, barely hanging there just to entertain him.
“I don’t think you realize how easy that is,” Jaskier murmurs, pressing a kiss to the thin crease between Geralt’s brows.
But it’s not without effort on Geralt’s part, lowering his walls over the years to let Jaskier in, letting himself be seen. In the end, his happiness and his sorrows are no different from any other man, and Jaskier can paint it all across his heart just from memory.
“Sleep, bard,” Geralt says, finally.
Right now, there are more pressing matters.
“Yes, sleep,” Jaskier answers. “We have time.”
He has a lifetime to delight in discovering new things about his witcher, and he has a lifetime to celebrate each one of them.