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Summary
Not once had he met Jaskier, hadn’t exchanged a single word, and yet Geralt knew exactly how to fuck him.
Whatever flag should have blown in the wind, Geralt didn’t see it. He’d continued on, had followed Jaskier to the grocery and back, had made sure he came back out of the club he’d gone into. His job suffered, a little, but it was more than worth knowing Jaskier wouldn’t end up drugged and gangbanged in a corner.
Everything he did, he did for him.
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Or: Geralt catches sight of Jaskier through his window. He can't tear himself away, or draw the line where he should.
