jaskier stops sleeping around shortly after the incident with the djinn.
the ladies in the court titter about a broken-hearted bard; they send him mournful glances and find his pining to be enticingly endearing. they pay him extra coin when he plays, murmur kind words into his ear and warn their friends to leave him be.
the men in taverns are disheartened when he spurns their advances, and soon there is gossip that the bard believes himself too good for peasantry; his fame has clearly inflamed his ego, which only bruises theirs in turn. though, there are some men who send extra drinks his way with a gleam in their eyes, like they understand his pained withdrawal from intimate touch.
jaskier believes his heart is still broken after the countess’ cold discarding of him.
then he finds himself spending countless nights, wide awake and haunted - images of witchers entangled with sorceresses refused to leave him in peace. he had been so elated with geralt’s survival that it had taken hours for the agony to settle in his bones. it had taken hours for him to realise why–
–he’s stunned and startled when he realises that his heart still has pieces left to shatter.
jaskier tries to move on.
the blonds are too dark; it makes him wince and sigh with dreamy yearning.
and the brunettes with eyes that gleam only cause him to recoil and shudder away.
had never realised he had put this much stock into hair colour before.
except, it’s not just hair colour.
because jaskier wants everything from geralt,
he swallows his emotions.
he’s like a wine bottle, corked up tight and unyielding.
geralt would not, could not, approve of such fanciful notions of jaskier feeling for him, and so the bard keeps quiet.
it’s one he’s quite good at - he’s just never played it with a witcher before.
it gets harder, for geralt is so endearing and sweet and kind.
and jaskier feels ever-so honoured for getting the priveledge of seeing such a soft side to him. he silently watches as geralt tends to animals with gentle tones, humours children with wicked wit and bears the hatred with patient tolerance.
he watches and feels his heart swell.
jaskier is no longer a wine bottle,
for his emotions have burst free,
and he feels like waterfall,
openly weeping a cascade of affection and heartache.
naturally, everything comes to a head, when he meets another witcher.
he’s in a tavern with geralt - it’s been two months since their little rendezvous with yennefer and the bard can taste the despondent aura which clings to geralt’s body.
so, he thinks about treating the man, thinks about spoiling him - a true sign of gratitude for saving his life, amongst other things. so, jaskier sways towards the bar, motions for the most expensive bottle on the shelf and wonders if the witcher would appreciate some baked confections.
he lingers at the bar for mere moments, waiting for the barkeeper to return with his request… and then he’s being accosted by a man, thickly built with a strong beard and glimmering eyes.
“you’re the bard, right?” the witcher says, his tone gravelled and deep. it sends shivers down jaskier’s spine as he turns to face the man properly, “the one with the pretty voice, who tells pretty tales of our ugly deeds.”
and jaskier cannot resist, for charming men provoke his own flirtatious nature to appear.
“hard to imagine anything ugly about you,” he replies, purring smoothly as he allows his eyes to wander. he’s never seduced a witcher before - perhaps this will serve as an excellent opportunity to learn some tips and tricks.
geralt clearly isn’t ready for such attentions,
he’s too busy getting all dizzy over gorgeously terrifying witches.
“oh, the little bird can sing a pretty tune,” the witcher says, his eyes gleaming with interest - they’re briefly interrupted by the barkeep, who places the expensive ale before the bard with a wide grin. he takes jaskier’s money, doffs his hat and swiftly moves on to his other patrons, “little bird also has good taste, it seems,” the witcher states, appreciation clear in his tone.
“oh, yes,” jaskier purrs, leaning into the man’s space with a teasing wink, “nothing but the best for me.”
“and i’m sure it’s well-deserved,” the man says, grinning, before his eyes flit across the room - they land on geralt, who sits in the furthest corner behind jaskier’s back, “ah, i was wondering where your guard-dog was.”
“he’s not my guard-dog,” jaskier says, his tone a touch biting.
the witcher arches a brow and then holds up his hands, consoling and surrendering, “settle, little bird,” he croons, “i’m not here to cause offense.”
and jaskier quells his annoyance and takes a deep breath, “so what are you here for?” he asks, his tone gently curious. truly, he doesn’t wish to push the man away with his defensive barbs, but he’s found he’s incredibly sensitive when it comes to his…
“a drink?” the witcher shrugs, before his eyes fall to jaskier’s lips, and then lower, lower, lower, “and perhaps, a little company?”
and something within jaskier’s heart quivers at the offer - because, well. the man is a handsome witcher… but it’s not his handsome witcher. still, perhaps he should be pleased with scraps afforded to him.
“well,” jaskier hems, gesturing to the bottle beside him, “as you can see, i do enjoy a drink - a little company more so.” and he can feel his body grow warm under the glowing gaze of the witcher - fuck, he doesn’t even know his name and yet, that makes this little exploit all the more alluring.
“come, leave your white wolf to brood in peace,” the witcher murmurs invitingly, “and come perform for me for a night. you’ll never know, maybe i’ll give you some new material to sing about.”
how could he possibly say no?
“darling, you had me at pretty voice,” jaskier sighs, biting his lip at the thought of leaving geralt to sample some witcher treats - but, his witcher had never felt such torn emotions when he had left the bard in cintra.
and it is just for one night - so maybe, he’ll leave him some coin, inform him of his plans, and buy him something extra special come the morning?
the witcher’s lips curl up in a wicked smile as he leans in close, “ah, little bird,” he rumbles, “i fear it shall be hard letting you go.”
which, oh, has tingles racing down his spine and so jaskier simply cannot resist and says, “i sincerely hope it isn’t the only hard thing–”
but he’s interjected by an abrupt, “jaskier.”
and geralt steps beside him, a silent and stony pillar with a threat burning brightly in his eyes. he’s staring at the witcher before him - there’s a hint of recognition, but there’s no warmth.
“wolf,” the witcher states, inclining his head slightly.
“cat,” geralt replies coldly, which sparks a little flame of curiosity within jaskier, but it quickly snuffs out when his witcher turns to him with a grim expression lining his handsome face, “come, it’s getting late. we should retire for the evening.”
and queries, “late? am i child?” because it’s barely gone past dusk. and geralt only quirks a single brow in response, which has jaskier’s straightening up with unadulterated indignation flooding his veins, “my darling, i think you’ll find i can’t retire just yet - i’m busy entertaining my new friend.”
“he’s not a friend,” geralt growls, his eyes flickering over to the witcher with a hint of distaste twitching in his downturned lips. oddly, it has the other witcher’s lips stretching upwards widely, smugly.
“no, not a friend,” the witcher agrees in a slow utterance, delicate and provocative, his golden eyes piercing jaskier with their gaze, “i’m hoping to be something more.” and then he’s reaching for the bard, with fingers that aim to grasp and claim–
but then jaskier finds himself being tugged into geralt’s side, a firm hand wrapped around his arm. he’s honestly too stunned to fight, to react - his skin tingles and burns under geralt’s touch and he feels himself melt from the witcher’s body heat.
tries to utter a protest,
“no,” geralt states in a tone which brooks no argument,
and then he’s stiffly leading jaskier away from the strange witcher, away from their expensive liquor, away from prying eyes and ears,
and towards their shared room upstairs.
jaskier bares his teeth and wrenches his arm away from the irate witcher once they’re tucked away in their room - he doesn’t know why the man is angry with him this time and truly, it’s beginning to irritate his nerves.
“i’m sorry,” he says snippily, when geralt turns to face him with eyes that burn like fire, “have i ever interrupted you whenever you sought a little carnal pleasure?”
“you don’t need to get it from him,” geralt states, looking acutely uncomfortable as jaskier’s eyes flash dangerously, “you can source your bliss elsewhere, but not from him.”
and jaskier’s heart is beating heavily in chest, threatening to claw its way out of his chest to present itself to the witcher before him. he takes several deep breaths, before he takes a slow step forward, inching his way closer to the solemn man.
“why?” he asks, his fingers twitching as he tries to quell the storm of feelings which rise within his gut, “why can’t i have him?”
geralt’s nostrils flare, as if he can smell the upheaval of emotions which pours from the bard’s body - jaskier tries to calm himself, tries to tell himself to not get too excited, too eager, too–
“you wouldn’t possibly survive an encounter with a witcher,” geralt says, his eyes flicking over jaskier’s form with a carefully hidden expression, “especially one like him, he’d only hurt you.”
“and yet a common whore does just fine?” he asks, arching a brow as he places a deliberate hand on his hip, “so what makes me so fragile and delicate?”
geralt sighs, a faint furrow appearing between his brows, “that’s not what i’m saying, he’s a–”
“i could ruin a witcher with the knowledge i have,” jaskier persists, his tone growing sharp, “i may just be a mere human, but i’m not weak,” bitterness swallows him whole, “i can handle a witcher,” dormant envy bubbles over before he can restrain it, “i may not be a fucking sorceress, but after travelling with you, i think i know what to anticipate!”
geralt furrows his brows, “a sorceress… are you– are you talking about yennefer? what does she have to do with this issue?”
and jaskier chokes out a laugh, because how can one man be so utterly blind to what’s in front of him?”
“everything - she has everything to do with this issue!” the bard says, slowly curling his arms around himself, “i know she’s probably your destiny and i know you adore saying fuck destiny, but you don’t need to literally fuck your destiny, do you? i mean, there’s other options out there and–”
and geralt is suddenly shying away, his eyes shining with confusion as he gazes at jaskier, “i don’t,” he utters, pauses, begins again, “it’s not just that, i–”
he’s interrupted by jaskier’s broken, wet laughter - it’s cold and lacks warmth. it radiates resignation as sorrowful realisation gleams in jaskier’s shining eyes.
“fuck, you love her,” he says, his hollow words magnified in the silent room, “how did i not see this? i’m such a fool.”
geralt looks pained, lost and conflicted - like he wants to offer comfort, but isn’t quite sure how or whether it would be welcomed. and right now, the last thing jaskier wants, is empty affection.
“jaskier,” geralt utters weakly, his body growing rigid in the dull, tense quiet which stretches between them, “i didn’t know–”
“how can you not know?” jaskier interjects, disbelief clinging to every syllable which falls from his tongue. he watches as geralt falters before him, watches as the brave, bold butcher of blaviken shrinks before a brazen bard. the deluge of feelings within him suddenly desiccate and he’s left with an emptiness that cannot be remedied.
he looks up at geralt, feels the heavy weight of exhaustion hit him and sighs.
“i don’t think staying here,” with you, “is a good idea,” he says, his gaze skittering away as his body deflates, “i’ll see you tomorrow, geralt,” and then he turns to leave, with aims of finding another room to stay in.
he doesn’t even consider finding the other witcher - the last thing he needs is a warm body playing spectator to his pain.
but as he reaches the door,
he’s halted by a strong hand wrapped around his arm,
and he’s being pulled back,
“don’t go,” geralt bursts out, his tone coated with desperation, “not to– i can’t– i don’t– don’t leave. please.”
jaskier gazes at him steadily before a laugh, tired and numb, erupts from his throat, “you don’t know what you want, do you?,” he replies, “my darling, i’ve been here before and i cannot put myself through such heartache again, not even for you. i’ve played the part of novel sex toy, exciting and new, until something shinier comes along. and you can’t get shinier than a witch, right?”
and geralt releases him like he’s been burned, his face a picture of horror.
“jaskier…” he trails off, quiet and low.
of waiting, of hurting, of not being good enough.
of being the second choice.
and whilst he’s all too willing to share and take what he can get, the bard knows geralt is not of the same persuasion as he. and he knows, that if pushed to choose, the witcher would not…
“i love you, geralt,” jaskier says, soft and weary, “but i’m not yennefer - i don’t have forever to wait for you to make up your mind. i only have the here and now and– and if you can’t make your choice, then allow me to do it for you.”
his witcher blinks, his bright eyes wide with panicked chaos - he wonders if geralt can taste the crackling calm which hides the raging tempest in his soul. wonders if the witcher can scent how wounded he is. wonders if his darling can hear his heart shattering for the last time.
“julian,” geralt murmurs, his tone softly disbelieving and pleading,
but jaskier resists the temptation of lingering by his witcher’s side - he needs to retreat, lick his raw wounds and build himself an armour from the scattered pieces of his heart.
he softly closes the distance between himself and geralt, darts forwards on careful feet and presses a kiss to the bristled cheek of his witcher.
“may our paths cross again,” jaskier murmurs as he pulls away, dancing out of reach before geralt can trap him - he cannot be a prisoner again, caged with only his heartbreak to keep him company.
“don’t,” geralt utters softly, his eyes wet and wide.
and jaskier drifts back to the door, stepping backwards until his hand reaches the cold brass of the handle; he scans the witcher’s body, savouring and committing every inch to memory.
“you may not wish to be my witcher,” he professes, “but i shall always be your bard.”
