My opt is needy jaskiers x touch starved witcher(s)
oh yes,
because witchers barely get to experience the sweet loving touch of another person - they normally go weeks or months between brothels, between seeing another witcher or a friendly face.
and even then - it’s the bought touch of a trained lover, mechanic and passionless. it’s the fond slap on a shoulder or a firm shake of a hand. it’s not enough and witchers find themselves wanting to linger, to chase the warmth and the affection.
but whores have strict deadlines and other clients.
and friendly faces are quick to turn sour if they believe a witcher has untoward intentions towards them.
so it’s such a refreshing experience when geralt introduces them to jaskier.
the bard brings with him charming ditties, trilled high and loud - they echo around the lonely halls of kaer morhen until the frigid winter melts away into a soft spring. he brings carefree laughter and joy which lacks the usual self-deprecation and darkness which typically features in a witcher’s joviality. he brings stories which aren’t tainted with hate, with death, with pain.
he brings,
hugs - tight and lasting, around waists and hips and necks. the first time he flung his arms around lambert, the witcher had frozen in shock, unsure and torn between throwing the bard off and clutching him in closer.
for lambert... doesn’t really remember hugs. he thinks his mother hugged him once, before he had been sold off by his cretinous father - but surely he would have remembered such warmth? such love and delight?
he also brings,
a warm body - resting on laps, curled around them on chairs and beds, perched on cocks or trapped between thighs. and he showers them with praise and adoration, every touch burning his witchers with adoration. his fingers are coarse, but his touch is always gentle. his grip is firm, but it pours adoration with every tight squeeze.
it surprises eskel, for he doesn’t think anyone would want to touch his grotesque scars, would gaze upon him and view him as pretty or beautiful. but then jaskier throws himself into strong arms and immediately cups his scarred face - his fingers trace the lines with reverence before he nuzzles at them sweetly with his nose.
he can’t quite remember the last time a human gazed upon him without blanching or gagging or cowering or...
finally, jaskier brings,
kisses - swift, deep, teasing and beckoning. he kisses his witchers for luck before their spars. he kisses them farewell, when they leave to meditate or hunt. he kisses them in gratitude, when they feed him and gift him tokens of affection. he brushes his lips across foreheads and noses, for innocent gestures. he presses kisses along cheekbones and jawlines, nipping at earlobes and collarbones, when he feels playful because he knows it’ll leave him winning arguments and spars.
he sinks kisses against lips, searching and claiming with tongue and teeth. he leaves them breathless and swollen, bruised and needy. jaskier kisses when he wants more because he leaves them wanting more - then he slyly, coyly, drift away from them in hopes of being chased.
he’s never disappointed.
and he always gets caught.
vesemir believes that he is too old, that jaskier is too young - but he doesn’t get left out, for jaskier is quick to grab his hand and place an appreciative kiss upon the weathered skin,
a thanks, he gushes, for keeping geralt safe - without you, i never would have been graced with his existence.
and,
well,
it truly delights the pups of kaer morhen - for they never thought they’d see the day where vesemir’s face turns pink.
