Work Text:
The first time Geralt saw him… the real him, it all made sense. It was so simple, yet he never thought about it. He only travelled with Jaskier for a few months, and it was one of the first times they couldn’t afford separated rooms. At least they had two narrow and rather uncomfortable looking beds.
Geralt was hunting for a cemetaur. The monster’s spell would mean immediate death to any human being, so after a heated argument, the bard stayed back in the tavern. The mutant told him it will probably take the whole night to defeat the creature, maybe even days, but before he left, Jaskier assured him that he will wait. He said it doesn’t matter for how long; he will wait.
And he did. He always did.
The brunet first sat in the window and watched as the man left the small town with Roach. He stared as long as he could still see the silver-hair and broad shoulder on the horizon. He stayed there on the narrow windowsill. He had his notebook, his pencil, and a kiss from a Muse. He scribbled down some witty rhymes and lines for his new ballad, occasionally looking back up to see the sunset.
Jaskier was fidgeting. His skin was still dusty and itchy from being on the road for days. He clearly needed a bath, but… well, that was a problem. The poet had only taken a bath when Geralt was undoubtedly gone. He couldn’t risk the other man to see him like that.
The troubadour had a secret. Something he hid throughout his whole life. A secret that could ruin everything he has and worked for. His persona in the public eye, his chance to ever be the greatest bard, and most importantly, his friendship with the monster-hunter.
He would like to think that he already know Geralt very well. The witcher may be more complicated than someone would first think, but Jaskier was persistent and stubborn. In the last few months, he did nothing but bombarded the man with hundreds of questions per minute, and sometimes, very rarely, the mutant answered.
And the image of the brooding, mute, barbaric White Wolf changed and grew each day. It became more colourful and deeper.
Geralt wasn’t just some quiet loner who slew beasts for money. He was also kind and loving. Well, not towards Jaskier, their relationship wasn’t quite there yet, but with Roach. The witcher loved that horse, so genuinely, it made the poet’s heart ache. No matter how much he tried to hide it, the bard often saw him whisper sweet words to the mare, even treat her occasionally with something sweet or juicy.
Jaskier had a few pages in his book dedicated to Geralt’s caring side. One day perhaps he will be brave enough to sing about how gentle the man could be.
The witcher was also funny. It surprised the brunet the most. He wasn’t a jokester, no. He had a very dark and dry humour, but when his sarcasm and irony came to the surface, Jaskier was left in tears. He sometimes cackled from Geralt’s rudely mumbled words for hours, earning some annoyed grunts, and hissed ‘shut up, bard’ from the other.
The mutant was also rather ingenious. Not in the same way as Jaskier’s professors at Oxenfurt, or how the King’s advisors were. Geralt was sharp in a way that saved their lives too many times. The brunet was astonished the first time he heard the witcher talk about science and alchemy. The witcher knew more about monsters and other unholy creatures than any of the thick books in the Continent's biggest libraries. Geralt was an excellent hunter as well. He could track and follow the beast’s steps and movements by the smallest difference in the ground or tall grass. He saw the marks and could scent them in the air from miles away.
And Jaskier was utterly stunned by him.
That’s why his heart was so heavy and pained each time he thought about telling the truth to Geralt. He was sure the man would not hurt him, or, Gods forbid, kill him. He wouldn’t. But Jaskier’s kind was rare, and he had been disappointed too many times. For someone, for something like the bard, the witcher could get so much coin he would need another horse to carry it.
Geralt loved money, but he wasn’t greedy. Jaskier saw him gave away his coins to people with bigger needs yet… yet he couldn’t possibly foresee how the witcher would react to him being, well, what he is.
So Jaskier lived with a secret. He avoided having a bath in front of Geralt.
He could, of course, control his shift. He wouldn’t start flapping in the mud like a fish if it rained, but when he was washing himself in a lake, it was terribly difficult to stop himself from revealing his true form.
And the lie he lived with was heavy on his shoulders. He could feel the weighty tug each time he sneaked away from their camp in the middle of the night to get into a river and swim.
It has been a few hours since Geralt left, but the night was still young, and Jaskier knew that the man won’t come back before the morning. He ran downstairs to find a bar-maiden, and he paid for a bath. Young boys took turns in the room to fill up the tub with steaming-hot water. Jaskier sneakily gave them a few coins before they left with a grin and the brunet closed the door behind them.
The bard could feel his skin getting tighter as he started to undress and threw his clothes in a messy pile. He prepared his oils and soaps on a wobbly three-legged stool. The first touch of clean water on his tiptoes was like heaven. Jaskier moaned loudly, deep from his chest, as he laid down in the tub. The hotness rose up above his shoulder as he lifted his legs and propped his heels on the edge of the oversized bucket.
His skin felt like thousands of needles are poking him simultaneously, and the young man groaned. He knew he shouldn’t shift. He knew that it was risky, but bloody hell, it was so unbearably uncomfortable. Jaskier sighed and opened his ocean-blue eyes with a shrug.
Why the hell not? Geralt will be gone for hours, maybe even days. He might as well enjoy his bath fully before he needs to hide himself for weeks or perhaps even months.
Jaskier rolled his head slowly in a loose circle, letting his shoulders relax as he let out a shaky breath while pale turquoise scales started to appear on his long thighs, and he could feel his inner beast triumphantly stretch out.
“Finally.” He grinned as his tail and fins appeared, and he lay down in the tub with a soft chuckle.
Geralt’s contract was for a fully grown, deadly, and vicious cemetaur, yet the creature he found was just a youngling. Still clumsy and rather oafish. It only took him one swing of his sword, and the monster’s head rolled onto the ground.
Roach let out an unimpressed neigh as Geralt picked up the beast’s head and marched toward the saddlebags.
The bard will be thrilled he will get back so soon and without a scratch. Sometimes the mutant felt like a child being scolded by their worried mother because of a bloodied knee when Jaskier saw him after his hunts. The lectures were endless, even if in the meantime, the poet patched him up. He kept on talking and cursing at him.
“Seriously, Geralt, what would you do without me? Bleed out, that’s what. Unbelievable. A grown man and you look like a mess. Look at your arms. I can see your bones.”
“No, you can’t.”
“I can nearly see them. You need to learn how to take care of yourself.”
It was always the same. And Geralt always lost the argument. He chose to stay quiet and let the young brunet be angry at him for a while as he gently cleaned and wrapped his wounds.
The witcher never snapped at the troubadour or told him that he was fine for almost a hundred years before meeting Jaskier. He let the bardling huff and puff as long as he wanted until his voice got softer, and he finished taking care of the mutant, asking the same question as always.
“Are you sure you are alright?”
And yes. Geralt was alright with the overdramatic poet by his side.
It was different travelling with someone so lively and loud and extraordinary. Geralt grew to love the company and honestly looked forward to spending some time with the poet. The witcher buried his emotions a very long time ago, but Jaskier came and dig them all up. And well… the mutant let him.
He didn’t know why, but he let this barely adult songbird march into his boring life and turn it upside down. For the first time in his long life, the witcher had someone to return to, and each day, he tried to open a little bit more. He wanted Jaskier to see he appreciates him and his company. He tried, but it was hard for all those years of growling at everyone who approached him.
The road back home was fast. Roach smoothly raced through the forest; her strong legs left clouds of dust behind them as she rushed on the path.
The town's judge was unimpressed, and a little bit outraged when the witcher dropped the bloodied severed head onto his stairs without a word and not even getting off the mare before he sent the horrified man a wicked grin and trotted away. He didn’t care about formalities, he already got paid for the carcass, and the coins were safe with Jaskier back in the tavern.
The inn was still loud and filled with laughter. The smell of alcohol was heavy in the air as Geralt walked through the tables with his cloak on. Fortunately, he went unnoticed as the people were too busy gawking at the busty dark-haired maiden who served their drinks. The witcher walked up the stairs, and then something hit him.
It was a scent lingering on the hallway so faintly he nearly missed it. Geralt sniffed the air again, and he could feel his mouth water. He couldn’t place the scent anywhere. It was something he never met before. It was flowery, something similar to Jaskier's perfumes the brunet so often used, but this was thicker and sweeter. Like melted sugar. Caramel, yet there was something else in it. Something like the sea breeze.
Geralt had to shake his head to snap out of it.
The mutant was a simple man. He didn’t believe in destiny or a higher power but at that moment… As soon as he caught that scent, for a second, he was sure that it was his soulmate. He couldn’t explain how he knew it. He couldn’t explain why it made sense, but for a split second, it did.
He snorted and walked towards their room as he rolled his eyes.
Nonsense. Soulmates were nothing but children’s tales to make life seem better than what it really was.
Geralt reached their door and stopped. Jaskier was singing inside. More like humming to himself. The witcher didn’t walk in yet. He enjoyed the soft sound for a while. He was never brave enough to tell the poet how much he loved his voice.
He never let himself be too vulnerable. Not even around the brunet.
He wished he could let those thick curtains fall and let himself be just Geralt.
Not the White Wolf, not a witcher, not the Butcher of Blaviken.
Just Geralt.
The silver-haired man sighed as he heard someone walk up the stairs. He grabbed the rusty doorknob and opened the door.
The scent that lingered on the hallway fell on him like a heavy, wet blanket. The mutant gasped, nearly blinded by the steam and that sweet smell.
“G-Geralt!”
Jaskier’s yelp was terrified, and Geralt had to blink his eyes open as they fell closed without him even noticing.
And all of a sudden, it all made sense.
Golden eyes were wide as the witcher took the sight in front of him.
The bard was in the massive tub in the middle of their room. Fog twisting and turning in the candlelight. Worried, sky-blue eyes enlarged by fear as he looked up at Geralt. Brown hair curling next to his ears and on the side of his neck. Strong fingers turned white as he grabbed the rim of the tub.
His chest pink from the heat, rising and falling fast, lips agape as he waited for the witcher’s reaction.
Geralt slowly closed the door behind his back.
“I can explain it. I’m sorry I-”
Jaskier’s stutter was coming from deep down his chest. His heart was beating so fast it slightly shook him.
The mutant had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.
As the young bardling’s broad shoulders narrowed into delicate hips and disappeared under the foamy water, Geralt was expecting strong, lean legs dangling over the edge, leaving puddles on the floor. But the mutant was wrong.
Where Jaskier’s legs should have started, there were turquoise and purple scales, like the dark, night sky. It was mesmerising. The wet, smooth surface of the tail was shining and glistening from the bath. The brunet’s bright eyes were petrified as he licked his trembling pink lips, waiting for Geralt to say something. Anything.
But Geralt didn’t. He let his pack and swords slid off his shoulders as he dropped them on the side.
Jaskier’s whole body jerked as the monster-hunter let his belongings fell loudly on the floor. The hardwood miserable creaked under the witcher’s muddy boots.
The poet pulled up his aquamarine, glossy tail that curled over the side of the tub.
“Are you n-not going to say anything?” The troubadour asked as he sat further up in the water and wrapped his arms over his flat belly. Blue eyes looking away from Geralt. “If you want me to leave, just give me five minutes and… and you never have to see me again.” He rambled fast as he looked up cautiously to the frowning man. “Melitele’s tits, Geralt, say something. Please!” He snapped angrily, but the witcher knew that he was on the verge of tears. Jaskier’s voice cracked as delicate porcelain, and he had to bit his bottom lip between his pearly white teeth.
“What do you want me to say?” Geralt spoke slowly in his rough tone of his, and amber eyes met Jaskier’s furious blue gaze.
“Well, I don’t know. Do you want to guess?” He rolled his eyes and threw his hand in the air dramatically, tail flapping around, splashing some water on the floor and on Geralt’s trousers.
“So you’re a merman.” The mutant shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest.
He was still wearing his armour. From where Jaskier sat, he looked huge. Wide and deadly. So bloody gorgeous and perfectly shaped, it made the brunet dizzy. Yet Geralt was everything but threatening. He leaned against the closed door and scowled at the poet.
“A siren, to be specific.” Jaskier murmured bitterly, and the witcher nodded.
“Hm.”
“Seriously? That’s it? A ‘hm’? I… I have a tail Geralt. I… I lied to you about who I am, about what I am, and all you can say is ‘hm’?” The bard hissed at him, and the scales started to change their colours into something fiery. Blues turned into reds, purple shifted into hot, rosy shades, and Jaskier’s tail looked like a forest fire in Autumn.
It was stunning, and the young man caught him staring.
“I’ve never used my voice on you. I… I know witchers are immune to most magic, but I swear I’ve never even tried. I would never. I… wouldn’t play with your trust like that.”
“I never thought you would.” Geralt answered lazily and stared at the squirming young poet.
“Are you angry? That is why you are not shouting with me? Too furious to say something?” Jaskier asked in a small voice and glanced up at the mutant who raised one single silver eyebrow at him.
“Do I look mad?”
“You always do.” Jaskier snapped back fast, and after a silent second, both of them had a grin on their lips. “I’m sorry.” He said with a chuckle, and Geralt shook his head.
“You thought I would hunt you down?”
“No. Maybe. I thought you would sell me to a circus… maybe to a mage.” The bard mumbled and shrugged, trying to ignore how the witcher glared at him.
“Your kind is rare, but I would never…”
“I know now. I’m sorry. I just… I never told anyone. Only my family knows. Nobody else. Not even at Oxenfurt.”
Geralt looked at the flushed young man. Scales turning back to light pastel colours.
“I planned to tell you. Later on. I swear… it was just… I didn’t want you to hate me.” Jaskier whispered, and Geralt pushed himself away from the door, walking towards the bard whose eyes widened as the man came closer.
The witcher grabbed a chair and dragged it on the floor, right next to the tub where the stunned brunet sat. Geralt dropped his body on the chair, or more like stool, as to how wobbly it was and propped his elbows on the edge of the tub.
Jaskier slightly quivered as those honey-coloured eyes caressed his exposed body.
“You do realise I’m still naked in here, yeah?” The bard tried to joke, but the crimson blush on his cheeks was too honest. He liked having Geralt's eyes on him. He always did. How could he not? The witcher was absolutely gorgeous in a wild and alluring way. Jaskier never tried to deny it that he fancied the silver-haired man. How could he? He was sure Geralt could always smell the lust on him.
“Jaskier…” The witcher groaned as he took a deep breath and looked into those ocean eyes.
“Can’t help it… t-the way you look at me.” Jaskier giggled and threw his head back. Moving his tail to touch Geralt knuckles.
The witcher smirked widely and stood up from the chair so fast it tipped and fell over. Pale fingers moved quickly to untie his armour. His heavy shoulder plates slipped off, and Jaskier stared at him with a dazed smile.
“Scoot over.” Geralt grunted, and the bard’s mouth fell open.
“Have you lost your marbles? It’s not big enough for the two of us!” Jaskier argued with a giggle, and the scent of excitement filled the steamy room as the mutant took off his tunic and started to unbutton his tight trousers.
The poet sat up straight. Licking his top lip when snow-white, scarred skin got revealed in front of him.
Jaskier wanted a taste. Right there from Geralt’s hipbone. The poet wanted to bite and suck his skin, leave a bruise on him.
And in a few seconds, the mutant stepped into the tub and sat down. Water splashed everywhere on the floor, making a bubbly mess.
Jaskier’s tail was in Geralt’s lap and over his shoulder, and the mutant’s legs were bent on each side of the poet. It wasn’t comfortable at all, but the intimacy made up for it.
Sword-hardened fingers were sliding up and down on Jaskier’s smooth, scally tail. The colours changed under the witcher’s palm. It got deeper and darker, just like Jaskier’s eyes.
“I could smell you from outside.” Geralt grumbled and turned his head slightly. Letting his stubble scratch the thousands of delicate, pearly scales.
“Yeah?” The brunet asked with a hectic inhale as his eyelids fluttered while he fought to keep them open.
“Hm.”
Geralt pressed his lips against a whirling blue patch on the strong tail, and Jaskier breathed in sharply. His lungs nearly whistled as he gasped.
“We need to talk.”
The mutant grinned and stopped assaulting Jaskier’s sensitive scales.
“Then talk.”
Jaskier’s scales slowly turned into smooth, lightly tanned skin. The strong, thick tail became elegant calves on Geralt’s shoulder, and the witcher pulled the man closer by his ankles.
The brunet ended up sitting in the man’s lap. Arms wrapped around his broad shoulder, their wet chest brushed together as they breathed in each other’s scent.
And Jaskier kept on rambling.
He told Geralt how much he suffered in the first few weeks when he couldn’t shift. How itchy his whole being got when he had to wash himself in a lake and stay fully human. And each time the poet whined and moaned, Geralt quietly apologised. His thumbs were drawing tiny circles into Jaskier’s hipbones.
And the brunet kept on going.
He told Geralt how terrified he was; he will shift in the middle of the night when they slept on the wet ground in the rain. He mumbled into the mutant’s neck that each time the silver-haired man left to collect firewood, the siren dipped into the river and swam a few minutes before the man came back.
He told Geralt how his family begged him to stay home where he was safe. How terrified he was that one day someone will see him and kill him for coins.
And the mutant held his cheeks in between his palms and promised he will never let anyone hurt the poet, and Jaskier was flabbergasted.
“What caused the change? I… I always hoped deep down you let me travel with you because you might like me as well, but… I never dreamed about this.”
“This?” Geralt teased and tilted his head to the side, enjoying Jaskier’s clever fingers running through his hair.
“Yes. You being so open and loving. I adore this side of you, but I don’t know what brought it out? Not like I’m complaining.” The poet chuckled and looked into those shining amber eyes.
“I’m too tired of being in denial.” Geralt answered quickly and easily as he ran his lips over that pink collarbone. Dragging his fangs over thin skin as he mumbled. “And you are too bloody persistent to ignore.” He growled, and Jaskier's fingers pulled his hair back forcefully, earning a throaty moan from the witcher.
“Don’t you mean seductive and gorgeous?” The bard whispered against his lips and licked Geralt’s cupid’s bow.
“Hm. Maybe a little.” The mutant said dryly and tried to chase that smart mouth, but the bard moved back. Geralt let out a frustrated puff.
“I don’t want this to only be… I… I want all of it. Is that too much?”
Jaskier’s eyes were honest and scared. Geralt stared back at him and wondered how the poet could be ever too much?
“It’s not enough.” He whispered, and he watched those blue eyes tearing up before the bard sealed their lips together.
The water soon turned cold. It didn’t matter how warm their bodies were; they couldn’t keep the heat. Jaskier was shivering in between his arms but still kept kissing him. Licking into his open mouth. Biting Geralt’s bottom lip and moaning when the mutant returned the favour until the brunet’s lips were all swollen and bruised.
They were both uncomfortably hard and wanting. Jaskier’s hips kept twitching, trying to find friction, but the witcher was holding him still in his lap. Still too scared of letting himself go.
“Geralt, please! Please touch me… I need-I need you. Please, Darling!” Pleaded the young man as he wrapped his fingers around Geralt’s wrist, trying to pull those strong, deadly arms away.
“You could use your voice on me. I wouldn’t be able to resist.” Geralt mumbled with a grin as he licked a straight line on Jaskier’s jawline.
“I would never.” The bard gasped when the monster hunter started to press kisses behind his ear.
“You could tell me what to do. Force me. Force a witcher to please you.”
The idea of using his siren voice on Geralt was intoxicating. Of course, the mutant could fight against him, but Jaskier’s magic was strong, and it would take a lot out of the witcher if he wanted to resist. Especially if he gives up immediately.
The bard’s brain got cloudy with ideas. How easy would it be to tell Geralt to take him, to fuck him right here and right now.
“I know you would never do it, Jaskier.” Geralt rasped against his ear, and one of his hands let go of that bony hip, pressing a large palm between the poet’s shoulder blades. “You’re too fucking pure. Too good to me.”
“Not too good. Just good enough. Good enough for you.” Jaskier moaned and threw his head back as the witcher started to drag his scorching lips over his neck. His jugular got caught between Geralt's fangs, and he felt the other suck and nip at his skin. “Please, Geralt!”
He begged again, both of his hands, all ten of his blunt nails digging into the hard, scarred flesh of the mutant’s back. And finally. Melitele’s tits, finally Geralt seemed to snap out of it.
“Hold on.” He grunted so deeply from his chest Jaskier felt it rumble through his own body and the witcher hoisted him further up in his lap with a single arm under his thighs, and Geralt stood up in the tub.
It was so effortless. As if Jaskier weighed nothing to him. He lifted him with one arm, for fuck’s sake. Geralt’s other hand was pressed against the bard’s nape as he demanded a kiss, and the poet gave everything he had. He moaned against those lips he was pining after for weeks. He knew that he needed claws to leave a mark on Geralt’s alabaster skin, but, Gods, he did try to carve his own name into those broad shoulders.
The hard bed wasn’t so uncomfortable when he had the witcher’s whole weight on top of him. The sheet under their bodies was soaking wet in seconds, and it was so cold, so cold it made the brunet shiver. Or maybe it was the way Geralt pinned him down and started to plant kisses on his chest and stomach.
Jaskier stared at the ceiling. He had no idea how did this happen. How did they get here?
Only a few weeks ago, he had to beg for Geralt to stop and have some rest. His feet were sore and bleeding after running after the witcher all day long. Yet the mutant kept sitting on Roach, not even slowing down until Jaskier threw his waterskin at him and started a fight.
How did they end up here?
Of course, Geralt kept saving his life as Jaskier kept getting into trouble. They somehow warmed up to each other, but this… this was everything he hoped for, and everything he knew he will never get.
And yet, here we are…
“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice was raggedy. His throat was aching, and his eyes were filled with unshed tears. He lifted his head and looked down. The witcher had one of the brunet’s thighs over his shoulder as he kept biting and bruising the delicate white skin.
Amber eyes were glowing in the dim room like flickering flames. The bard pushed himself up on his elbows, looking down at Geralt, who never looked more desirable than in that moment. His cheeks were slightly flushed. Lips shiny and bitten red. His hair was a mess, a mess that Jaskier created with his trembling fingers.
“Is… Is this happening because of what I am?” The young man asked, and as much as he tried to control the quivering of his voice, he still sounded weak and terrified. Geralt’s frown was confused and, for a split second, furious.
Maybe the witcher had a thing for creatures. How would Jaskier know? The timing was too convenient. Perhaps it wasn’t about him being Jaskier. Maybe it all had to do with him being a rear, exotic beast.
“You don’t want this?” Geralt asked back lowly and let Jaskier’s toned leg slide off his shoulder as he crawled back on top of the troubadour. The shoulder and thick arms flexed as he supported his weight, and the brunet fell back onto his pillow with a bitter chuckle.
“Of course I want this. Whatever this is. I want you, Worry Wolf. But do you? All of a sudden, do you want me? It doesn’t make any sense.” Jaskier babbled and was too afraid to look the man in the eye. He turned his face away, and Geralt let out a growl.
“Do I not look wanting?” He asked, and strong fingers grabbed Jaskier’s chin and turned his head back with force. Hazy blue eyes widened at the hiss, but quickly the poet had his eyelids fell closed as Geralt rolled his toned hips, pressing himself against the bard.
“Ngh.”
“Huh? Jaskier? Do I look like someone who doesn’t want this?” Geralt whispered again, looking down on the shivering poet like a starving, bloodthirsty animal. “Don’t you feel it?” He breathed into Jaskier’s open mouth as the bard moaned.
The witcher’s body felt glorious against his own. They were both so hard and sensitive each twitch and sway of Geralt’s hips sent a wave of pleasure through Jaskier’s shaking limbs and trembling torso.
“Why now?” He whined as slick fingers finally wrapped over his length and slowly started to slid up and down on him, matching the rhythm of Geralt’s tongue as he licked over Jaskier’s bobbing Adam’s apple.
“Because I can have you for decades, bard.”
“What?” He asked back because the silver-haired man wasn’t making any sense. Of course, he could have him for decades. Centuries even. Sirens age slower than humans. Nearly as slow as witchers.
“Jaskier, I would have never touched you if I can only have you for a lifespan of a human. Thirty, forty years flew by in a second for a witcher, but you are not human, are you?” Geralt smiled, and it wasn’t those ‘I’m going to rip your throat out’ grins. No. It was genuine and loving. His dimples were causing Jaskier some physical pain as he watched his dear witcher with unbelieving eyes.
“It’s because of who you are and what you are.” Geralt said and pressed a kiss on the tip of Jaskier’s nose, earning a chuckle that turned into a groan when a fist tightened around him.
“And what am I to you?” The brunet asked back with a smirk and loved the way those golden eyes darkened instantly as he dragged his nails down on Geralt's abs. Reaching for his throbbing and dripping cock.
Geralt inhaled sharply through his fangs, and his whole deliciously ripped body shook as Jaskier started to move his fist around him.
“My Bard. My Friend.” The mutant groaned as he tried to open his eyes and glared at the grinning poet. “My Siren.” He sighed as he lost his control and started to fuck into Jaskier’s tight grip. “My Lover!”
“My Witcher.” The brunet flashed a toothy smile and pulled the man down for a desperate kiss.
Watching Jaskier as he lost himself in pleasure was mesmerising. His voice was rising in the quiet night. His throat was shining with blue light as he called out and screamed Geralt’s name over and over again.
Pale blue and purple scales reappeared for a few seconds when the mutant dragged his hands over sensitive flesh. The poet’s whole skin sometimes turned into the starry night sky's colors, only to vanish after a minute. Geralt kept staring. He couldn’t look away. The heat of the bard’s body was borderline painful. The tightness of it was impossible. And Geralt was drunk.
He didn’t actually know if Jaskier used his siren magic on him as he kept demanding.
‘More’
‘Harder’
‘Don’t stop.’
Maybe it was just Jaskier’s power over him. It didn’t matter because Geralt did as he was told. He gave everything, and in return, he got more than he ever imagined.
The morning came fast, and they were still tangled in each other bodies.
The bard was lying on Geralt’s chest, playing with the witcher medallion, enjoying the feeling as the silver sizzled a wee bit as he poked it with his fingertips.
Geralt felt boneless. He had a lazy smile on his face as he kept running his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, listening to the soft humming.
“Soulmate.” Geralt said huskily, breaking the long silence between them. The bard looked up at him, where his head rested on the witcher’s peck. “You asked why. Because you smell like my soulmate.”
Jaskier knit his eyebrows together as he listened to the deep rumble.
“Witcher’s don’t have soulmates, but…”
“Sirens do.” The poet finished for him with a grin.
“Hm.”
“You really don’t mind that I’m like this?” Jaskier asked as he scooted further up until he could look into those tired yellow eyes.
“Half fish? No. I don’t mind it.” Geralt smirked, and the brunet bit back his laugh as he slapped the mutant’s shoulder.
“So what does a soulmate smells like?”
“I don’t know about others, but for me, it smells like you.”
“How romantic.” Jaskier rolled his eyes and rested his head on Geralt’s pillow. The mutant slowly turned his head to look at him.
“Smells like flowers on a field. The ground after it rained. Smells like the ocean. That honeyed pastry you made me try once. Smells like your perfumes and soaps. The oil you use to protect your lute. It smells like you.”
“I wish I could say the same, but you usually smell like death and gore, my Love.” Jaskier grinned, but the witcher knew it well that the bantering was hiding the fact of how fast the poet’s heart was beating.
“We could head to the coast. Get away for a while.” Geralt said suddenly, and the bard’s smile fell. “Somewhere, you don’t have to hide.”
Jaskier needed a few seconds before he could swallow down the lump in his throat and answer.
“I would love that.” His voice was weary and weak. Geralt grinned at him and pressed a kiss onto his temple, pulling him against his chest as he dragged the blanket over their bodies.
“Sleep. We can leave in the afternoon.”
And Jaskier closed his eyes. His long eyelashes caressed the witcher’s collarbone as he blinked. The bard let out a massive sigh before he drifted off. He was exhausted. His body was covered in love marks, bruises, and he was sore in the best way. He couldn’t wait until he can shift and stretch his muscles as he swims. With Geralt by his side.