Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Geralt isn’t very good with his words, he knows. Especially when it comes to telling his best-friend-turned-lover how he feels.

So, instead of butchering confessions and ruining moments through wrongly chosen words, he presses his love into every touch. Every kiss, every caress, every time he runs his fingers over Jasker’s back as he sleeps, says what he can’t put into words. He writes I love you on the back of Jaskier’s hand, leaves it smeared on his thighs at the end of their lovemaking, breathes it out like spores as he breathes into Jaskier’s neck. He can’t say it aloud, so he says it silently. 

Jaskier looks up at him from where he is pressed against their bed, hair askew and eyes wide. Pools to be sunk in, let go all of the air in his lungs to live there forever. A thought he has every day and through the night as he lays close enough as to slip under Jaskier’s skin.

Jaskier's eyes soften and shine as he states simply “You love me. Don’t you.” 

Geralt blinks. He doesn’t think that quite covers it. But he’s never said it, so… “How do you know?” he whispers, staring straight back into the depths of his eyes. 

He receives a kiss on the back of his hand. On his palm. On the pulse of his wrist where his life rests. A smile against the soft flesh of his arm. 

“It’s in the way you touch me. You hold me like you love me. I can feel it-“ another kiss, to the elbow. “In your pulse, when it speeds up. I can feel it,-“ he continues, curling his leg around the back of Geralt’s while moving his mouth higher on his arm. “In the way you pull me closer to you while you sleep in the night.” 

His kisses are ceaseless now, the words pressed into the skin, inaudible if not for Geralt’s heightened hearing. His lips barely leave the skin, skimming back and forth along his arm. Jaskier turns his head to press his lips against the other pulse now. His lips are overly warm, cracked but soft all the same. Geralt barely dares to breath, afraid to make him stop. 

“I can tell, because you never let me go. It’s always my hand,” he raises Geralt’s arm from where it sits beside his head and places his mouth against the palm. “Or it’s my waist.” he shifts up now, sitting against the headboard. Geralt can’t help but follow, shifting his knees to rest on either side of Jaskier’s hips, who hasn’t let go of his hand. "Or it's my lips," which he presses against the base of his thumb and sucks lightly.

Geralt's legs can't help but twitch at the wet warmth of Jaskier's tongue grazing his skin. Jaskier only smiles into his hand and keeps whispering against his skin. “In public, at home, in bed. Always, always touching. And not only for pleasure,” he says slyly, looking up at Geralt through his eyelashes as he lays another gentle, openmouthed kiss to Geralt’s pulse, smiling at his inhale. 

Geralt can’t help but bring his other hand, the one unclaimed by Jaskier, to slip up Jaskier’s shirt and skim lightly up and down his side. The skin, smooth and unbroken, gives way easily under his warm fingers. He presses them into Jaskier’s waistband and runs his thumb in a circle against the hipbone.

Jaskier gives him another small smirk before continuing. “But also…for comfort. To know I’m here. That I’m with you, that we’re together. Did you know you won’t let me go, in the middle of the night? Even your unconscious wants me.” 

“Maybe you should stop trying to pull away,” Geralt manages, breathless from Jaskier’s continuing attention with his lips, now on his fingertips. 

“I will,” Jaskier smiles. “Because you love me.”

“I do.” There, he got it out, finally. He’d meant to, before. It repeats, over and over, in his head, a mantra, a prayer. When they are together. I love you. When they are apart. I love you I love you. When he is asleep, he dreams of Jaskier. I love you. Even this, though, an agreement, isn’t all the way. It isn’t enough. But Geralt can’t give him everything. Not yet. No matter how much he wants to. 

“I know words aren’t your strong suit, darling. Gods know, I know that.” Jaskier tires of kissing Geralt’s fingers, his mouth leaving them tingling. His hands find Geralt’s cheeks, rough and hard. His thumbs rub circles, smoothing out the skin under Geralt’s eyes. One thumb catches a tear. 

“But you deserve them, Jask. I need to give them to you.” A shake of the head in response. “No my love, not at all. Not if you don’t have them. I know what you feel for me. I don’t need to hear it, not until you have the words, are ready to give them.” He shakes Geralt’s head a tiny bit, causing his vision to blur a little more. 

“I love you. Which means I know you. Your soul is not hidden to me. So, I know you love me, and I know you don’t have those words yet. But I love you, and I’m staying. See? I can say it enough for the both of us.” 

Tears seep out more from Geralt’s eyes. This unconditional love, acceptance, understanding? He’s wanted this, yearned for this for so long he stopped noticing. Never realized he was missing anything until Jaskier gave it to him, with an open heart and all the patience in the world. 

Geralt nods, smiling through the cloud of tears in his eyes. “Gods,” he chuckles, reaching up to wipe them away, Jaskier’s hands moving to his forearms and rubbing the warmth of his own hands into them before slipping to grip Geralt’s hips in place against his own. 

“You’re beautiful, love.” A smile, constant. Never ending, never doubting. For Geralt alone. 

Geralt leans the rest of the way forward, sinking into Jaskier to fit his head into his neck, and squeeze his arms between Jaskier's waist and the bed to hold him tightly. His legs straighten and tangle with Jaskier's, who pulls his calves over Geralt's. His place, every night. He knows Jaskier loves his weight on him, that it grounds him. A claim. His fingers start running through Geralt’s hair, braiding back pieces as he hums. 

The last few tears seep into the pillow, and Geralt breathes, goes limp, suddenly exhausted. Emotions are tiring, draining with the energy they require to address. And though Jaskier’s love never makes him feel anything but blissful, he can’t help but be overwhelmed by the sheer force of it, so welcome and fresh even after all this time. 

He turns his face into Jaskier’s warmth and smiles, pressing his lips against the skin above his pulsing blood in an everlasting promise. And he slips into sleep knowing what it is to love, and to be loved and loved and loved. 

Chapter Text

Jaskier loved sweets.

Raspberry anything was his favorite, but he liked it all. Caramel taffy spun soft, the square of chocolate he had happened upon once, the cream puffs made by the specific baker around the corner, the orange marmalade Geralt bought for his bread. He ate whatever he could get his hands on, because it wasn’t often that sweet things came along that he could have.

His favorite taste, though, the one he thought he could live on forever and never want for anything, was the taste of Geralt’s smile.

His smiles were so rare, they shone like the gold trapped deep within the caves of the dragons that he refused to hunt. They came more now, since they had found this little relationship, sent to Jaskier over the campfire and across the pillow, pressed into his cheek, his back, his thigh.

But more than anything, Jaskier liked to taste them, fill his mouth with the taste of Geralt’s happiness.

So now, as they lie in their bed, he brackets Geralt’s hips with his knees and lowers himself over his love’s face.

“Hi.” Barely a breath escapes before his presses a kiss to Geralt’s eyebrow, his cheekbone, his chin.

Hands reach to hips and squeeze, Geralt’s breath evening out and deepening as he settles into his space under Jaskier. Here, he feels safest, more at home than he has words for. But Jaskier knows, of course.

“Hello there. What are you up to, hmm?” Geralt asks, voice low and deep but full of affection and satisfaction.

Jaskier brushes his lips against Geralt’s before murmuring “Just trying to make you happy, love. That a crime?” turning his mouth into a pout as he says it. Geralt catches his lips more firmly with his own, kissing away Jaskier’s frown and replacing it with a grin. Geralt’s lips are full and soft against Jaskier’s, probing but not pushy, wanting but not demanding. Jaskier indulges him, inviting him in for a moment before pulling himself away from Geralt’s lips, which let out a whine.

“Well, if you do want to make me happy, that isn’t the way to do it” he scolds, poking Jaskier in the stomach with his strong fingers, making him giggle.

Jaskier’s eyes light up as he gets an idea of how he might make Geralt happy and draw out his tasty smiles. He lifts his hands from Geralt’s side and wiggles his fingers like a phony magician about to cast a spell. “Well, hmmm, I wonder how exactly I might be able to remedy that then, my dear, ticklish witcher.” He gives a little cackle even as Geralt groans and makes a very halfhearted attempt to push Jaskier off his lap.

“Yes, that’s right, love! A poke here,” he does exactly that, right in Geralt’s side, “a light caress heeere,” a slide of fingertips up his side, “and kisses…right here” and he lands his lips on Geralt’s stomach, drawing them up and down so lightly it is if there is only a feather there. He knows exactly how Geralt will react: he will pretend as if he is disgruntled and annoyed, only to finally give in and grant Jaskier the smiles he is so desperately craving.

And he does exactly that, batting Jaskier’s hands away with his own uselessly for a moment, while letting him continue to draw circles on his stomach with his lips and breath and poke him with whatever fingers he can free from Geralt’s faint attacks. And then finally, Jaskier can hear him huff, can feel in the air the change from feigned annoyance to true amusement and pleasure.

While Geralt is ticklish and Jaskier’s sweeping lips and skimming fingers do make him squirm, it is more the knowledge that Jaskier is so dedicated, so intent on making him happy and giving him joy in his life, so invested in seeing him satisfied and content, that makes his slight smile spread into a grin.

   Jaskier makes his way up Geralt’s chest and neck, laying kisses all the way, before making it to Geralt’s smile, which he catches in his own lips. At this, Geralt swiftly flips them both over, lifting himself over Jaskier with one arm which he draws through his hair, smoothing his cheek with the other. Jaskier grabs this arm by the wrist and around his bicep, pulling his lips with their delicious smile back to him.

   Always the same yet ever exhilarating and novel every time, Geralt’s smile is addictive, sweeter than any berry and warmer than any cup of tea. Jaskier can never help himself from smiling too, matching Geralt’s curved lips with his own. It’s openmouthed and full of teeth and Geralt cannot stop smiling long enough to fully take his mouth in his own, but that is exactly as Jaskier wants it. He feels their joy and love gasp out of their mouths and mix between them, and he chases it, swallows it down and breathes it back out again and wills it all to flow through Geralt’s mouth to his soul.

Over and over, their smiles revel in the taste of the other’s, blissful in the knowledge that it is them making the other so ridiculously happy. Jaskier draws Geralt’s smile into his own, and Geralt just responds by broadening his own grin so far it is impossible to reach both lips at once. Jaskier is left to direct his attention to one at a time, still sucking the sunshine out of Geralt’s mouth for as long as he can. Eventually, still smiling, Jaskier pulls back slightly, leaving just the edges of their lips touching, feeling Geralt’s mouth twitch and press against his own. He pauses here a moment, relishing the feeling of Geralt’s smile and the lingering taste in his mouth.

He hums against Geralt’s lips, who pulls him in once more for a deep kiss before finally letting him go, at least partway. He continues weaving his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, while Jaskier smiles up at him, playing with Geralt’s fingers. He kisses every knuckle, as he always does. His own little prayer, a supplication, a message.

Geralt smiles at him once more, whispering, “Thank you. For caring enough to work for me. To try so hard to make me happy that it’s impossible for me not to be. I can never tell you how grateful I am to you for that.” He traces the outline of Jaskier’s face, who only smiles slightly sadly up at him.

“It’s not work to me, Geralt. Not if it’s you. Loving you is not work at all,” he responds, bringing Geralt’s palm to his mouth to lay a kiss there.

And there they will stay, surrounded by the love and contentment that pours out of them whenever they are together. Jaskier will make Geralt smile, will drag the taste from his lips, and Geralt will never, ever stop thanking him for it.

Chapter Text

Geralt wasn’t very verbose, Jaskier knew that. He never used more words than necessary, and he chose them carefully. Yet it seemed lately, whenever Jaskier asked Geralt for a favor or to do something, he only responded with one phrase, never varying.

As you wish. 

“Geralt, you really must take a bath, I will not be seen traveling with you when you look like this. And the smell!”

“As you wish, Jaskier.”

“We can go to the tavern tonight, right? I haven’t gotten to sing my new song yet, you know the one with the king, and the house on top of the rock? I have to spread my brilliance to the people, they miss me!”

A groan, but then: “As you wish.”

“Oooooo, Geralt, can we get the cream puffs? We haven’t seen those since Etolia and I’m dying for one.”

“As you wish,” rumbles Geralt’s rocky voice.

It seems that Geralt can’t say no to Jaskier, except when it’s something that might endanger him. It’s sweet, Jaskier thinks, how Geralt always puts out an arm to keep him from approaching whatever creature passes them, and how he examines all the berries they find before letting Jaskier put them in his mouth.  

He hasn’t totally figured out why Geralt puts so much attention into protecting him, when he always says that Jaskier is more a burden than he’s worth. But he definitely doesn’t mind it, not at all. It feels nice, to be protected, looked out for, to have someone willing to do things for you, even if you aren’t sure why they do. He is even more confused by Geralt's quiet agreement to do things that Jaskier wants or asks for, when he knows that whatever he does, Jaskier would follow him. So why bother agreeing to do things for Jaskier, when he could just do what he wanted anyway?

Until one day, Jaskier does figure out why.

Nothing much changes. In fact, almost nothing at all – it is almost imperceptible.

Except, the next time Geralt says it, as you wish, Jaskier notices that his eyes soften and his lips lift the smallest amount, as though giving Jaskier things makes him happy.

He watches him, and it’s the same every time now. His eyes stay on Jaskier, and they smile. Jaskier didn’t even know that eyes could smile, but his do. But only for Jaskier.

Maybe…maybe that means something.

Maybe when Geralt says as you wish, it is his way of saying I love you.

And one day, Jaskier can’t stand it anymore. It has been a long day of riding across the edge of the Gory Pustulskie mountains down to Temeria, and all Jaskier wants is to find an inn and collapse into a real bed, not just a flat little piece of bedding on the forest floor.

“Alright, Geralt, I’m being serious now. That’s it! I’m gunna lay here and die!” Jaskier announces, dropping dramatically on the grass when Geralt finds a place for them to rest for at least a few minutes. “I honestly, truly can’t go on unless you promise me that we can stay at an actual inn, or at least in the loft of some barn somewhere. I can’t do another night on the ground with the rocks, and the bugs.”

Geralt looks over at him from across their resting spot, a scowl on his face and a sigh already coming out of his mouth. He groans, acting as though he isn't going to agree to spend their night in a true lodging. His eyes roll as he says, "As you wish, Jaskier. But tomorrow, don't think you'll get away with getting what you want so easily."

But Jaskier can see his emotions underneath – his eyes are shining, dancing with warmth and something else, too. He sees how Geralt always gives in to him, looks at him with those eyes and the smallest hint of a smile that no one but Jaskier could notice.

He doesn't think he's imagining it. Why else would he only respond with as you wish if it were not a simple code for something else? And even if he's wrong, and Geralt doesn't mean I love you, what's the worst that could happen? Geralt thinks he is joking and they move on as if nothing ever happened. There's no risk, not really.

So he summons all of his courage and says what he only says in his wildest fantasies, the ones he indulges in late at night, the ones he never let himself think of or hope for, because he never thought they would happen.  

“Kiss me,” Jaskier said, softer than anything, a fragile hope let out into the world. Easily dashed to pieces with one of Geralt’s words in response. He hadn't meant to sound so vulnerable, but is there any other way to be when asking for something like that to someone who could harm you so easily with a word? 

Geralt just looks at him, he eyes darting slightly up and down his body. He shakes his head the smallest amount, barely noticeable.

“What?” he stammers, barely getting it out. “Why, why would you want me to do that?” he manages, fingers dancing along the strap of his saddlebag in his lap.

“Because I think you want to, and I’m starting to think I want to know what it feels like. And I like the way your eyes smile at me,” Jaskier says, knowing it to be true even more as he speaks. And even more than what he says, he wants to feel Geralt’s smile on his own, wants to know that he’s right about Geralt’s desire to make him happy, to know that maybe Geralt…wants him?

Geralt’s eyebrows draw together as he asks, “My eyes do what?”

Jaskier only smiles and shakes his head slowly at him. “Nothing Geralt. Just do it. Just kiss me.” More aching this time, desiring it more than he ever had before. And he had, thought about it, many times. He just never thought anything would come of it, so it was more a fantasy, a dream, rather than anything he actually took seriously.

He partially thinks that Geralt will scoff, roll his eyes and get up and walk away, and that he will have lost him. Worries for a minute that he misread everything, that he let out his hopes too soon, that Geralt will break them as Jaskier is only starting to realize that they are what he is hoping for.

But apparently it wasn’t too soon, and Geralt doesn’t do anything to ruin all of Jaskier’s deepest hopes.

Instead, he just stares at Jaskier for a moment, and it is impossible to tell what he is thinking, even to Jaskier who knows him so well. He can see the thoughts swirling in Geralt's head - Is this a joke, a trick? Why would he want me to do that? Do I want to? Do I do it? and Jaskier isn't totally sure about the answers to most of them. But when Geralt stands up a little straighter and mumbles under his breath, barely audible, Jaskier does know the answers.

"Fuck it," Geralt murmurs, and he rushes forth, moving towards Jaskier across the grass faster than a thought. He pulls him to his feet with his hands on his collar, closing the inches between them in only a second before stealing his breath away with a kiss. It was delicate and fragile, but strong and purposeful and absolutely desperate.

He kissed him as if he’d been waiting to do so for all the years they’d traveled together, like he'd been slowly losing grasp of his ability to keep his hands off of him for a long time and now that he was acting on it, all of his desires were coming out at once in a flood which he had no power over.

And he had, although Jaskier wouldn’t come to know that for a while.

Instead, Jaskier kisses him and kisses him, just as desperately wanting as Geralt was, wanting for Geralt to be his and to be allowed to give him everything, all the comfort and care and joy he could ever muster. He wanted to give Geralt everything he deserved, because he was good and caring and too easily broken, and because he gave Jaskier what he asked for, every time. Even if he couldn’t touch him, kiss him like this, Jaskier had wanted that all along, but had only recently realized what that was called.

Love.

Their lips part, reluctant but knowing they have eternity, to do this now, that it won’t slip away from them. They simply breathe in the other, Geralt’s hand still fingering the tips of Jaskier’s hair while he holds back a small smile.

Jaskier does what he hadn’t dared to do before, too worried to get a negative response or scare Geralt away. He pulls Geralt in, arms tight around his neck, pressing his face into Geralt’s shoulder, his chest to Geralt’s chest, his thighs bumping Geralt’s thighs. Touches of electricity, all the way down.

Geralt only tries to pull him closer, tries to bring Jaskier into him. Close enough to keep him tucked up in his chest, safe and near, for as long as he could. He presses his lips to the side of Jaskier’s neck, close enough for Jaskier to feel his smile, growing.

They stay that way for a while, just standing, holding, happily and content. They are in no rush to move on, talk about what this is, about what they do now. They don't need to do any of that immediately.

They have forever, after all.

Chapter Text

The moonlight streaming in the window glints off the metal in Geralt’s fingers, lighting the skin under his fingers where it falls. Geralt lifts the metal chain and wraps it around the tip of his finger, it being long enough that the movement barely tightens the chain around Jaskier’s neck.

Geralt’s fingers flit down the chain of the necklace, reaching the object at the end. A tuning fork, silver as the moonlight itself, practical and beautiful. Of course this is Jaskier’s choice. The metal is warm from Jaskier’s skin, smooth from being worn away by his fingers over the years.

Jaskier lies silent beside him on the creaky bed as Geralt plays with the chains, watching Geralt’s hands through half lidded eyes. His own hands skim up and down Geralt’s bare sides, barely glancing the edges of his body, tracing scars and dips and hard muscle under the thinnest layer of skin. Jaskier’s chest, bared, rises and falls gently under his touch, warmed only by the heat of Geralt’s body next to his.

Geralt’s fingers brush the other chain, thinner and shinier, worn for long enough that it shines brightly in the moonlight. Strung on this older chain is a ring, simple and silver as the tuning fork, a man’s ring. When Geralt holds it in his hand, it looks as though it would be a perfect fit on his fourth finger, where the vein to his heart is meant to reach.

Jaskier’s fingers press more firmly into Geralt’s hips, an automatic reaction to Geralt’s attention to the ring. His breath hitches, and Geralt’s fingers still. His eyes flit from the ring to Jaskier’s eyes, nearly black in the darkness, the moonlight making them flash ever so slightly. Jaskier gives a tight smile, bringing his own hand to the necklaces and twining his fingers with Geralt’s, the ring between their hands.

Geralt’s hand is rough, callouses on every fingertip and scars from front to back. The harshness of his skin only makes his easy touch gentler, the strokes of his fingers more tender. His hands may have been built to hold a sword and break bones, but they are better at loving Jaskier than they have ever been at killing.

Jaskier’s voice is cracked and raspy when he finally speaks, quiet as to not disturb the stillness of the room and the air between them. “It’s a reminder. The ring, I mean. The tuning fork is just useful, and I’m terrible at keeping track of things, so the necklace helps.”

Geralt gives him a small smile, murmurs, “I know,” breathing the words lightly. His fingers fall free of Jaskier’s to trace about his hand, fingertips to fingertips, his callouses scratching against the soft skin of Jaskier’s palm.

Their hands press flat, fingers outstretched along each other. Geralt’s hand is wider, his fingers longer, and the tips of Jaskier’s press into the inside of his first knuckle. Jaskier watches their hands, stringing his fingers in and out of Geralt’s.

“The ring is merely…a reminder. A hope. It has no purpose, at least not yet.” Jaskier seems to want to speak, yet the words are forced and tense. He swallows hard, the lump in his throat visibly bobs up and down again.

Geralt simply watches him, his eyes soft and wide, following his words intently. He does not say a word, allowing Jaskier to speak as he will, stop when he wishes not to share anymore, or lay himself completely bare.

He begins again, his voice stronger now. “I bought it, at a market. I saw it, and I thought…I would love to give a ring like that to someone. Someday, if there was a person I…” he trails off.

Words have failed him, which they never do. They flow off his tongue, melodious and fluid, but for the thing he wants the most. Love is not enough. He wants someone who would live and die for him, he wants to live and die for them. Anything less is not enough, and the words do not exist for everything he aches for.

He speaks faster now, trying to get it all out before he loses his slight hold on the words he wants to say. “But I thought, what are the chances of that? No one has ever loved me, wanted me enough for that, to spend forever with me. To wear my ring.”

Geralt listens only, fingers still moving around his arm, the planes of his stomach, every dip and curve, the freckles splayed out over his skin. His touches are careful but thoughtless, his hand moving almost of its own accord.

Driven solely by affection and a desire to be as close to Jaskier as possible, and a deep appreciation for the meaning behind the simplest gestures. And just because he can, because Jaskier is here, and wants him, and never pushes him away as does everyone else.

“Except, that’s not the right way to think, is it? It gets you nothing except despair and heartache and a never-ending sensation of hopelessness.” His voice is bitter now, resentful of the intensity of his every emotion from which he cannot escape.

He continues, breathing deeply to think through his words. “So, I bought it anyway. To remind myself that I could be worthy of the love I want so badly. To say to myself Hey, you will give this ring to someone, and they will love you as deeply as you desire, so much that you don’t know how to take all of it, and you will be theirs and they yours. So that I don’t have to feel that overwhelming sadness and desperation all the time, as much anyway. The hope keeps it away, even if it’s a futile little thing.”

Geralt’s eyes pinch together, a frown on his lips. He presses them onto Jaskier’s stomach, chaste and simple, a comfort. He lifts his head and rests his chin on the flat plane of Jaskier’s chest, and he speaks finally, Jaskier showing no signs of continuing.

“You will have that, Jaskier. You will, and you will deserve it and more. And you won’t have to feel that despair, ever again. They won’t let you.” His eyes are concerned but not pitiful, and he means every word he says, as confident as he is about everything.

Jaskier just huffs and rolls his eyes to the darkened ceiling, a motion which is achingly familiar from the million of times Geralt has seen it. “How can you promise that? You may be many things, but you aren’t a future teller.”

“I just know.” Geralt gives him a small smile, as if he has a secret to spill but intends to keep it in. Another kiss, to the chest, up his neck, placed on the soft skin of his chin, Jaskier’s neck bared to him.

He reaches his lips, hovering over them for a moment, warm breath between their faces. Ever so slowly, he dips his head the slightest amount downwards, catching Jaskier’s lips in a painfully sweet kiss.

It is the kiss of lovers, undemanding and pure, the intent only to press adoration into Jaskier’s whole body, to delight in the ability to be this close, this vulnerable. To relish the intimacy of being oneself with another, with no barriers or reserves.

Geralt knows what Jaskier does not yet see, that he will be that someone for him, that he already lives and dies for him. Geralt is confident about this, more than anything else in his life. What else need he desire in the entire world, but to wear Jaskier’s ring and to love and be loved by him?

Geralt has been saving up his love all his life, with no one to give it to who would not break his heart, no one who wanted it. Until now, until Jaskier, who wants love so much it might destroy him. So Geralt promises to himself that he will be exactly everything Jaskier has ever yearned for, will give him so much love that it spills out of every pore.

A give and take, a balance, the hunter and the lover, the hated and the performer, together made whole.