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Jaskier looks at Geralt, stretched out on the bed, and rolls around what he wants to say in his head, what he’s wanted to say since the night they first kissed.
It’s only been a few nights since, but it’s also been weeks since they last stayed at an inn and they are road-weary, too tired to act on any plans they might have had, unspoken or otherwise.
‘I don’t want our first time together to be in the woods when you’re constantly listening for bandits and danger. We deserve better. An inn with a proper bed when we’re warm and comfortable, please,’ he had said then.
What Jaskier didn’t say was, I want to take this slowly, to enjoy this. This isn’t one of my short flights of fancy, it won’t fade in days or weeks, and I won’t treat it as such. I love you. I love you and I don’t want to ruin this. I love you and I would do anything for you.
Geralt had held his face in his hands, gentle like Jaskier was something priceless and delicate, something he couldn’t bear to break, and kissed him softly. He had pulled Jaskier into his arms and held him there, wordlessly agreeing.
“You deserve the world,” Jaskier had whispered, and Geralt had kissed just above his ear, like he was saying the same words back.
But Jaskier had also been waiting for is this conversation.
“For all the partners I’ve taken to bed over the years—” Which is not how he wanted to start this, but here he is, and he can’t think of anything better to say. “—I’ve picked up on a certain realization.”
Geralt grumbles under his breath at his choice of words. “What’s that?”
“People have… certain turn offs.”
Geralt raises an eyebrow. “Turn offs? Like preferring not to bed a man, or not bed a woman, or not bed someone who stinks of alcohol?”
“No, I mean certain things that, if done by a partner, knowingly or not, ruin the experience. Maybe not the entire coupling, but, a moment that sours the experience.”
Jaskier pauses, looking back at Geralt, hoping he’ll say something. He doesn’t, and the words continue to spill out. “Personal things, with personal reasons. Each turn off, and each reason for it, no matter how insignificant it might seem, is important.”
“What are you trying to say bard?”
Jaskier winces. “Some people don’t like having certain places touched. Their hips or their sides or their breasts or their neck or their knees. Because they’re ticklish or dislike that particular part of their body or associate that kind of touch with negative memories. Someone might hate a specific position, or a specific type of sex. Oral sex or vaginal sex or anal sex, rough sex, loud sex, quiet sex. Sex with strangers or sex with romantic feelings attached.”
“That’s a lot of contradiction,” Geralt mumbles.
“It’s… it’s not contradiction, it’s uniqueness. Every partner I’ve had has been as unique in their likes and interests as they have been in their personalities or appearance. There is no universal formula to sex. It’s… it’s personal, intimate, made unique by the people involved and whatever feelings they share.”
The strings in Jaskier’s shoulders and back are tightening, like he’s preparing for something. But he doesn’t know what he’s preparing for, exactly. It feels like his brain and his body are preparing for different things. Jaskier knows in his heart and his head that Geralt’s reaction will, at worst, be confusion, maybe avoidance of the subject if it gets too personal. His body is prepared for something worse, something it’s learned from bad experiences in the past.
“Jaskier?” Geralt whispers, and the bed shifts as he sits up, inches closer to Jaskier. He puts himself in Jaskier’s line of sight, hand hovering silently.
“Some,” Jaskier chokes for a moment. He swallows thickly, looking down at the bed. “Some people hate being called names in bed.”
“You hate being called names in bed,” Geralt says, putting all the pieces together.
Jaskier nods.
“What names?”
Jaskier closes his eyes. “Boy, little tease, stupid tease, slut, whore, traveling whore…” Witcher’s whore.
He hears them all, smells the drunken breath as those words are whispered into his ear.
But he’ll keep that last one to himself.
“It doesn’t get better from there,” he says, eyes watering. “'Bards are just whores with pretty voices.’”
There’s a low growl in the back of Geralt’s throat. Jaskier’s spent over a decade hearing it, even a few times directed at him, it doesn’t phase him anymore. Knowing it’s Geralt growling in defense of Jaskier?
He leans into Geralt’s shoulder, chasing comfort.
Geralt holds still, keeps that steady, strong presence that Jaskier loves so much. “What about pet names?” Geralt slowly asks, like he had to take his time to collect all the right words, the way Jaskier has to collect all the right notes and rhymes.
“No,” he whispers. “Not right away, at least.”
“Never?”
“No, not never. I just… it depends on how someone uses pet names. I use them all the time, but I don’t necessarily like hearing them directed at me. Some names I hate, some I love, but not always. Some people say them wrong, use the wrong tone. I just…
“I want to know they’re saying it because they love me, not because they’re lost in lust. I want it to be special, when they say it to me, when they call me that.”
Geralt slowly wraps an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, pulling him close. “Any others you don’t like?”
“Bard.”
Geralt tenses.
“It’s different, during sex. It circles back to… back to…” He can’t say the phrase a second time.
“Witcher,” Geralt whispers.
Jaskier looks up. “What?”
“I don’t like being called Witcher during sex. Too many people have called me that.”
Jaskier nods. “It’s like…”
“Like that’s all I am?”
“Yeah. Like they think it gives them permission to…”
“Like I’m not human.”
“Like I’m not a person who can say no. Like ‘no’ doesn’t matter, because bards are just…”
Geralt presses a kiss to Jaskier’s forehead. “You are Jaskier. I know it. It matters. I’ll always listen when you say ‘no.’”
Jaskier buries his head into the crook of Geralt’s neck. He drinks in the warmth and solidness of Geralt’s presence and holds onto that safety in Geralt’s arms.
“I don’t like rough sex,” Geralt whispers into the silence, into Jaskier’s hair. It feels like a confession, a secret, something Geralt isn’t allowed to say to anyone, so he must say direct it to no one.
“Do people just expect… because you’re a Witcher?” Jaskier asks in a strangled voice.
“Hmm.”
“People are so stupid.”
Geralt doesn’t respond to that. Instead, he says, “Gentle, warm, but not rough.”
Jaskier nods against Geralt’s shoulders. “Okay.”
He sinks further into Geralt, softly sighing as Geralt pulls them both to lie in bed, tucking Jaskier ever closer.
“Do you have this conversation with every partner?”
“Not always, but I try to. Sometimes things move too fast to stop and talk, like this I mean. Slow, taking our time. Sometimes it’s just for the night, and you have just to ask about in the moment, before you go further, watch out for signs that your partner is uncomfortable and adjust to make them feel safe again, even if that means stopping altogether.
“With others, when I have more time to know them, I have these conversations, but this…
“This, this is special. This is different. It matters more, to me, because it’s you. I don’t want to screw this up, don’t want to ever hurt you like that. I want this to be safe, for both of us. We deserve to feel safe.”
Geralt hums. A pleased, content little hum. And noses Jaskier’s hair. “May I kiss you,” he whispers.
Jaskier turns to him, a smile pulling the corners of his mouth into a grin. “Please,” he whispers, and Geralt kisses him softly.
Jaskier thinks, I love you, as he pulls away and tips his forehead against Geralt’s. I want to love you just like this for the rest of my life, he thinks when he sees the softness in Geralt’s eyes, the softness he holds for Jaskier. You have my heart, he thinks as he tucks his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck and breathes in the mellow dandelion smell of the soap he had made just for Geralt. You are the love of my life, he thinks as Geralt tucks the blanket over their shoulders and wraps Jaskier in his arms.
You are my home, he thinks as they fall asleep together.