Archive of Our Own ^beta

Warmth wraps around Jaskier's back, a very small comfort in the long run. The scent of thyme and sage, cinnamon and nutmeg, along with other various herbs and spices swirls and dances, coiling around his stemless wine glass. 

The wine inside tastes like nothing. His hands tremble only the slightest, the constant shake and twitch that jitters his fingers and pulls at his throat with cruel anxiety. The buzz of the Pankratz family siphons in and out behind him, stilted laughter and voices fighting to be heard. 

The window hums a soft chill from in front of him, an aura of frost and nipping wind. It brushes over his cheeks, taps his nose playfully. It's much better than what lies behind the entrance to the study he's holed himself in. 

Dark clouds that hint at heavy sleet spread over the sky in a fast-paced march, dark and gray. The wind pulls at neatly shaped bushes and fallen leaves. Tapping of feet on hardwood, the soft click of high-heeled shoes that have never stepped into the outdoors. "Julian, Dear." A sniff. "Step away from the window. The family is all here."  

His mother's too-strong perfume assaults his nose, a manicured hand rests a little too hard in the crook of his elbow. He doesn't follow his mother's guiding pull away from his vigil, just turns to face her. 

Objectively, Arleen Pankratz is a stunning woman. Brown hair turning silver pulled into a sweeping bun, perfectly formed eyebrows, and makeup shining over her eyelids with red staining her lips. She's thin and tall, bony wrists made elegant by silver bracelets that jingle and clink. 

Her breath is thick with alcohol, the tang of a bit too much wine too early in the day when she leans in closer, words hissed out like it pains her. "Julian, It's been ten years since you've attended our gatherings. Act like the man you are and behave yourself. Do not make yourself a greater fool."

It's a shame that her beauty is only on the outside. Her nails dig into his arm, a perfectly measured pressure to get her point across. It's so achingly familiar it makes bile rise in his throat. For a moment he's only a few feet tall again, pale-faced and lips sealed shut as his mother scolds him and drags him back amongst the throng of distant relatives. 

It didn't matter if it was too loud, too much, so many people bumping and touching, too many people asking big questions for such a little person all with the cold smiles and demanding eyes of his parents pressing to his back. The overwhelming wave of terror that goes with it all threatens to drag him away until he focuses on the wine glass in his hand and the soft wool of his jumper, the silver band on his left ring finger. 

He is not a child. Not anymore. His breath is as even as it can be, the exhale pluming condensation on the window in front of him when he turns back to it. 

"I will join you once my partner arrives." 

It doesn't sound like him when he speaks, not the Jaskier that sings and twirls around a kitchen in a too-big shirt that isn't his and mismatched fuzzy socks, bright and colorful. It sounds like when he speaks to his students about a topic he cannot joke about, every bit the professor he studied to be. 

He stares at his reflection in the window, dares to look at his mother's. Her eyebrows are raised, jaw dropped , and rage flying over her expression. The wild-eyed, angry emotion that Jaskier had fled from so many times is shuttered down just as quickly as it appeared, replaced with pursed lips and a tight frown. 

Her lips tug like she's eaten something foul, her nails dig a bit harsher into his arm. "That's assuming he's coming, Dear." Her eyes glitter with nothing kind, her head tilts with something that could be seen as sympathy if you didn't know her. "Of course, because of the storm." 

Once upon a time, Jaskier would have stepped away from the window. Many years ago he would have turned his back and grasped into the "maybe he isn't coming" , the worthlessness, the uselessness, that pounded through his veins as easily as blood and stood with a faux smile as questions were offered to him merely out of courtesy. 

Instead, it's his turn to raise his brow. He looks at the woman that raised him and takes a sip of crimson wine. It rolls around his mouth and warms his throat. 

"He is coming." 

He's never been more sure of anything in his life. Although that's not particularly true, it feels true at this moment. The bump of hands, hushed giggling, warmth surrounding him in a tangle of limbs, a whispered yes around foggy eyes, those take first place in the list of 'without a doubt', but this is up there. The fingers on his arm tap a few times, a sickly sweet smile drifts across painted lips. 

"Of course, Julian. Come join us in a few seconds anyways." 

She drifts away like he'd answered obediently, a cowed nod of his head. He hadn't, he'd turned back to the window and breathed. 

It's been a week and three days since he's seen Geralt. His partner had needed to go out for business, something neither of them wanted him to have to do. A goodbye filled with soft touches and brushing lips and the promise to be back faster than he'd know, and Geralt had disappeared out the door with his suitcase. 

It had only been a few seconds, ones that Jaskier had spent staring at the door with a slowly growing cloud of gloom when said door swung open so quickly it bounced off the doorstop on the wall. The man he loved stepped back through it and before he could ask if he'd forgotten anything he'd been pulled into strong arms and pressed against a wall. 

Lips pressing to his and hands dancing up his waist and to his jaw, he'd gasped and Geralt had hummed. Kisses pressed to his cheek, his throat, a chilled nose nuzzling into his jaw, a murmured "Julek."  

He'd wrapped his fingers in soft silver hair and buried into his partner's arms as close as possible with a shaky breath. It took longer for Geralt to leave the second time, and Jaskier had followed him out with disheveled hair and kiss reddened lips. He'd pulled open the door to their black jeep with a flourish, Geralt's eyes twinkling at the gesture before he'd slid in.

A final kiss through the open door, Jaskier's hands flexing on the side of the metal and Geralt's wrapped in the collar of his shirt. The brush of noses, another goodbye,  Roach staring at them from the pasture butted up to the driveway with her tail flicking the whole time.

The door had been shut, and Jaskier had waved at the receding jeep with a desperation he didn't try to hide. The same jeep that is now pulling through the too-fancy gates of the Pankratz estate. His heart skips a beat, and he steps back from the window. He follows the still-clinging scent of his mother's perfume out of the study and into the hall. 

He goes unnoticed through the living room, past the den and into the foyer, sets his wine glass down on the entryway table, and strides the familiar path to the grand front door with a single-minded goal.

The door clicks and eases open near silently, the heavy wood of it making it nearly impossible to swing it open as he'd like. Cold air screams into the house in a harsh gust, rustling his hair. He doesn't bother grabbing his coat. The porch is frosted, the steps slippery. The air is cold and his heart thuds and skips in his chest. The path is not nearly as slick with ice as he'd expected. 

The jeep has already idled to its stop, keys out of the ignition and slipped into the sheepskin bomber jacket of his partner. Geralt is one leg out of the car and warmth spreads through Jaskier's veins. 

It's like he can finally breathe again, like he's finally found solid ground amongst fluttering laughs and cold looks, expectations he'd never make and goals that aren't his. 

He's glorious, tall with broad shoulders, hair half pulled up and face set into its resting soft scowl as the man pulls his phone out. A few seconds and a soft ding and buzz emits from Jaskier's own phone, shoved into his pocket. He doesn't check it.

Jaskier must say something or his feet are scuffing, he's not really sure, but Geralt's head is jerking up and his honey eyes melt and his lips quirk. 

The jeep's door is still open, but Geralt steps away from it anyway. The air is cold and goosebumps rise over Jaskiers neck and his breath fogs. He's at a jog now, and Geralt's arms are opening and he's smiling and really, nothing else matters. 

His breath slams out of him when he smacks into his partner's chest, Geralt merely letting out a soft rush of air on the impact. Arms wrap around his waist and his feet leave the ground. His face pressed into Geralt's shoulder and neck, he laughs as he's twirled once, weightless.

The low rumbling of Geralt's own chuckles warm him better than wine ever could and as soon as his feet hit the ground he's lost his footing again because Geralt is still smiling and lips are pressing to his and really, he's never been happier. 

Once again, not particularly true, but at this moment it feels right. His arms wrap around those sturdy shoulders and palms press under his sweater, warm and calloused. The fact that they are both smiling makes it difficult to kiss, but they're trying. 

Happiness bubbles in his chest, his heart so tight it might burst, and Geralt is pressing a kiss to his forehead, his cheek, his lips again, and his throat, all the while Jaskier wrapping his fingers in soft hair like an anchor with his eyes squeezed shut.

He's breathless when he pulls his head back and stares into his partner's handsome face. He cups a cheek still warm from the heat of the car and Geralt nuzzles into his palm immediately. He finds words that don't feel stilted for the first time since he's arrived at his parents.

"Hi." 

Geralt's grin gets bigger and Jaskier tucks a stray strand of silver behind the man's ear. His voice is a deep baritone that shakes Jaskier to his core. 

"Jaskier." 

The name is said so softly and with so much love it makes his head spin, and he's tipping onto tiptoes to close the inches in their height and pressing his lips to Geralt's. 

His partner sighs into his mouth, tilts his head just the slightest, and bends down into the kiss. A hand leaves his back and brushes up his throat, wraps around his jaw, a thumb circling gently. 

It's easy to lose track of time, wrapped in warm arms and pressed close to the most wonderful thing in the universe, but the wind takes a moment to tug at both of them. It nips at their ears and swirls around their clothes, and Jaskier drops his hands to the soft sheepskin lapels of Geralt's jacket and pulls back. 

There's a soft pink blush on his partner's pale face, whether from the cold or the kiss, he's uncertain, but either way it just makes him more pretty. Another gust of wind, colder now that they aren't pressed against each other. 

The home of Jaskier's childhood looms behind him like the storm clouds getting closer. Geralt speaks, low and deep, his brows furrowing and eyes darting up to the clouds.

"Beat the storm by a few miles. Might turn into a blizzard with the cold front. Got here as safely and as fast as I could."  A beat of silence. "I missed you."

"I missed you too." It's not enough, truly, those simple words. It's harder to sleep without Geralt there, harder to eat on time and take breaks from work, harder to live, truly.  He pulls on the bomber jacket's lapels gently, tugs the man into another soft kiss. Lips press together and the world feels a bit better. 

He wishes they were home, he wishes he was pulling Geralt through the door and into bed to curl up around a cup of tea and pester his partner to talk about his trip. His childhood home is a very large, very dead, elephant in the room. Jaskier's heart tugs, and not for the first time, guilt simmers in his skull. Doubt and worry tickles at his spine. They need to breathe eventually, and the first thing he says when they part is something he truly means. 

"You didn't have to come, I could have met you after, at home." He smooths over a wrinkle, worn fabric familiar on his hands. It doesn't matter how much he missed Geralt or how much he wants him here, his family is all kinds of horrible and Geralt is all kinds of lovely and he hates watching them collide into a tornado of emotion. 

The soft leather of Geralt's jacket is very interesting now, he stares at it as he worries at where a button punches through the fabric.

"It's not very good. This. The family. I don't think they count as family, not anymore." He's rambling and it's cold. "I only came for Grandma, she's older and she's looking far too thin, everyone thinks it'll be her last year and you know she was always kind to me, but I-" 

His grandmother took him in when he was fifteen, she finished putting him through highschool, she held him when he cried as his parents collected his things out of the room she had set up for him and moved him back into their home at seventeen. His Grandmother met Geralt at a award ceremony for a one Professor Pankratz, then at a coffee shop, then a restaurant for dinner, and then again and again. His Grandmother attended his wedding. 

Hands collect his own, the flash of a gold band catching his eye as thumbs run over his and their hands are pulled to rest against Geralt's chest. The gold of the ring is easier to look at than the gold of Geralt's eyes. Eye contact hurts, sometimes. 

"We're going to Vesemir's."

It's said as a question but meant as a statement. He can hear the frown in Geralt's voice, and he knows his expression matches his partner's. 

"That's different, they love you, I love them, they are warm and this is cold and stupid and Mom acts like you're some kind of parasite and it makes me so angry, and being here hurts and it makes me ache, it's all bad and I hate it-"

Geralt hums. Lips press to his knuckles. Jaskier runs out of words and thumps his head into his partner's sternum. Hands squeeze his and drop, arms wrap around him and they rock in the cold. Words form around the rumble in Geralt's chest. 

"We could go. I checked the radar before coming. There's a chance we might be able to make it." 

And that right there is like a punch to the gut. If Geralt isn't certain they could make it home, then they probably wouldn't. The man's father lives in the mountains, for god's sake. The road barely passes as a road and Jaskier has squeezed his eyes shut many a time as Geralt steered the jeep without breaking a sweat through almost knee-high snow to pick up a merrily swearing Lambert and sleepy Aiden, whose shitty pickup wouldn't make it up the pass without tire spikes. 

"That would be stupid, wouldn't it."

The fact that Geralt only hums sets it in stone. Driving back now wouldn't be safe, and while he loves watching Geralt work, brow furrowed in concentration, he doesn't love watching hands in a white knuckle grip on the steering wheel and a jaw set with a low buzz of stress as the man drives through a white out. 

He presses his face closer to Geralt's chest and breathes in, leather, coffee, and spruce. 

"Okay." He sighs. "Okay, let's go inside. It's fucking cold." 

Geralt snorts. Arms tighten once more and he leans up and kisses the man he adores. A few more stolen moments, and Geralt shoves the jeep door shut and the car beeps a few times as they step towards the looming colossal nightmare that is Jaskier's childhood home. 

Jaskier swings their joined hands between them as they go, and Geralt, the sweetheart, lets him. It's easier walking towards the heavy wood doors with the man a sturdy wall of support by his side, but it's still difficult. It still makes him want to drop the hand he's squeezing like a lifeline and hide away, fearful of words like venom and consequences that could leave him shivering in the cold or locked up somewhere with no escape. 

The thing is, he doesn't want to let go of Geralt's hand, not now, not ever, so the mere fact that something makes him want to pull away like he's been burned is nauseating. It all is. The hand in his squeezes once, and although Geralt's face is impassive to those who don't know him, he can see the concern written in the small tick of his jaw and the barely there furrow of his brow. 

The reason why Geralt had been gone trickles into his mind as he reaches for the ornate door handle. "You said the Center was alright when you left, everything went okay?" 

The silver haired man nods his head. "We finalized the decision to hold out the reintroduction until spring. Easier to monitor the decline of population based on past birthing rates of the elk." Geralt stomps his feet outside the door, the slight bit of slush that had accumulated on them falling into a puddle. The warm air inside curls around them and leaks out of the house in a way that should be comforting but instead is brutally suffocating. "Also easier to get out there if something goes wrong." 

Jaskier bobs his head, then wrinkles his nose. "You said that it'll affect the landscape overtime, will it be difficult to monitor the river pathways and changes with the snow melt? You won't have a base variable."

Geralt's lips quirk into a smile. "Yes and no. Depending on the snow fall, we can estimate runoff and flooding. It'll also take quite a few years to get a noticeable difference in waterways and land, but it'll all be double checked with past references." His brow furrows slightly. "The numbers from the willow and beaver dam experiments will be more relevant this time around, and we already began working on ecological dead spots unlike last time." 

Jaskier could listen to Geralt talk for ages, and really, he just wants to put his head on his chest and listen to him speak with hands in his hair. Instead, he's tugging at the man's bomber jacket to hang up in the too large entry way closet and wishing he could dissapear inside of it. 

"So it's all planned out?" 

Geralt hums in assent. 

The buzz of voices already seems like too much, the undertone of classical music a dull drone that makes him sick. He turns too fast with Geralt's jacket, spots dance in his eyes and hands land on his hips. 

"Julek." He squeezes his eyes shut and pressing the jacket to his chest, he drops his head. "You need to breathe." 

He hadn't been, not really. His lungs ache and his stomach roils, Geralt steps up behind him and envelops him in a hug, a hand spreading over his chest. It rubs in a soft circle over his sternum, easing the tight ball of anxiety that coils and knots like an unspooled ball of yarn. 

Geralt doesn't leave from where he pressed himself to Jaskier's back, not even when he hangs the jacket next to his own peacoat. There's far too many coats in the closet. He shakes his head, clears some of the fuzz of fear, and turns to press his face into Geralt's turtleneck, his fingers finding the man's belt loops idly. 

"Okay, okay, breathing." A shaky inhale. "I'm good at that, I can breathe just fine." 

Lips press to his hair, another rumbling chuckle. Not cruel, never cruel. The low rolling laugh turns into words. "Straight home after this?" 

Jaskier's own words are muffled. 

"Yes, please. Sorry."

A hand cups the base of his neck, a thumb pressing into a knot idly. Geralt hums. A loud bout of cackling laughter, nasally and pitched, and Jaskier straightens. 

He stares blankly at the texture of Geralt's sweater for a moment before shaking himself out and reaching for much larger hands. Of course, they find his almost as soon as he searches for them. He squeezes them once, then let's go of one hand and leads his partner onward with the one still clasped. The chandelier is bright, droplets of fake crystal bouncing light around in beams, and he clears his throat. 

"Mom didn't think you were coming." 

Geralt's hand twitches in his grasp. He sounds genuinely confused when he speaks. 

"Why. You're here, of course, I'd come." 

His fingers shake marginally less when he reclaims his near-full wine glass. He really hadn't drunk much of it. He'd been too nervous. 

"I'm fairly certain she thinks that if she pretends hard enough you'll just disappear."

Geralt hums. "No. I'm too stubborn."

The familiar safety net of banter is offered and he takes it. He performs a slow turn, raises an eyebrow and oozes ire. The display is ruined because he refuses to drop Geralt's hand. He drops his jaw and swirls the wine in his glass to make up for it.

"He finally admits it!"

His partner's eyes glimmer, soft lips in a smirk. "You have no proof."

He wants to melt. The banter is snuffed before it truly starts with an undeniable truth splitting from his lips. 

"I love you." 

He gets to watch pink dust on the man's cheeks like it always does when he says those words, the way his eyes daze and sparkle. His lips part and Jaskier can see the gears turning inside of his pretty head as he searches for a response. He doesn't let the man struggle long and changes the topic.

*Mom was also trying to get me to join right before you got here, so I'm afraid a secret entrance may be in vain." 

Geralt matches him one stride for his two, and instead of heading right to the large gathering, Jaskier leads his willing companion through a back hall that drops them into the kitchen to acquire his husband a glass of wine. 

The kitchen is busy with cooks, not a familiar face in sight, so it's easy enough to obtain a glass of red and press it into Geralt's open hand. The whole thing is strategic, exit through the kitchen and into the dining room, weave through the piano room and appear into the gathering room, not through the main entrance. 

He gets to hide more from his family and be alone with Geralt for a bit longer. He knows he's prattling nervously as he goes, but Geralt doesn't mind, never minds. 

"Half of these people I don't know, the other half I could maybe recall if I was given an hour to think." An attendee carrying an empty platter snorts near silently with laughter as she passes them, clearly having overheard him. Jaskier spares her a sheepish grin. 

"Bethy and her husband will tell everyone that they are still trying for a baby, the old man with the cane, Chuck, will say the most horrifically racist things if you talk to him at all, and Great Aunt Marie gets handsy after her third glass of wine."

He steps around the large, shiny grand piano while trying not to stare at it. He'd gotten his knuckles rapped with a spoon one too many times for wanting to play it. 

"They are all extremely bigoted and will definitely ask at least once who wears the pants and why we can't just be good friends." 

The hand in his squeezes gently once more, and he remembers to breathe again. His heart thuds. 

"I'd give you a list of who to avoid, but truthfully, that's everyone except for Grandma and maybe Jonathan and as much as I'd like to hide in a closet, ha , the whole time, it's certainly not possible-" 

The noise of the gathering is getting louder, and he quiets down. 

"Either way, you know Mom, Dad, Grandma, and my Uncle. I think. That's already more than enough people to make me want to drown myself in copious amounts of alcohol."

Geralt runs his thumb over Jaskier's knuckles. "No drowning please." 

He grins as the mans thumb hesitates a bit longer over the silver band.

"You'd save me if I was drowning, right Geralt?" 

He turns to get a good read on his partner's handsome face when theres no response. A silver brow is raised and the man just hums noncommittally. He gasps in offense. 

"You wouldn't? You cruel, cruel man. I'll never forgive you, this is the last straw. I'm filing for divorce in my head already. I can see the papers clear as day. I'm taking Roach. She's my child now, and you can't do anything about it." 

Geralt's other brow raises. 

"I'm not splitting custody and I’m signing the paper with my obnoxious purple pen with the poof at the end and I'm flourishing it under your nose, do you hear me? Under your nose!"

They're in the main room now, the noise swarming and different perfumes tangling. It feels like if he lets go of Geralt's hand the silver haired man will disappear. They stay at the edge of the room, Jaskier against the wall and Geralt halfway guarding him from the rest of the room with his broad back. He keeps talking. If he stops, the panic will set in. 

"I'm going to plan a revenge outfit and everything. All because you won't save me from a pool of wine." He sighs like he's being grievously wronged, frees his hand from Geralt's and gently smacks the man's chest. "I thought you loved me, Geralt. Truly, this is the greatest betrayal." 

For the first time since his great declaration, Geralt speaks with a small smile. 

"Of course it is. What can I do to save our failing relationship?"

His voice is so monotone and laced with sarcasm it takes everything in him not to laugh. He pulls off a pout, cocks his hip. 

"Well, a kiss would be a good start."

Geralt, the bastard, grins like a predator. The taller man steps forward, slowly raises two fingers to under Jaskier's chin. The room falls away and it's just honey eyes and the steady pressure of those fingers tilting his head up. His heart pounds for an entirely different reason than before. The man's voice is a low rumble, deep and smooth.

"That can be arranged."

His lips are quirked into a smirk, and Jaskier can't help but close his eyes in anticipation. The kiss will be chaste and all too short but he wants it anyway. He wants it so bad he waits patiently as fingers switch to thumb and forefinger, follows the slow guide of them as they tilt his head back and forth. 

He can feel Geralt's gaze burning on his skin and buzzing over his lips, and just as the warmth of the man gets undeniably closer, he speaks. The words brush over his lips instead of a kiss. 

" Fucking-"

The kiss he wanted is placed to his cheek, soft and pleasant and not quite what he wanted, but when he opens his eyes, he's met with the horrible image of his mother walking towards him with purpose, draped on his dad's arm like the trophy wife she is. She's followed by a handful of first cousins once removed, or something along those lines. He doesn't know them, nor care too. 

Geralt drops his hand to his own hip and Jaskier brushes his hair out of his face and tries not to scowl. The room swirls as his mother gives him a rigid plastic smile, disappointment shining bright in her eyes. He levels his voice low and directs his feelings of the situation to Geralt with one word. 

"Piss." 

The man hides a snort behind his glass of wine. His father looks livid, face ruddy with anger and a bit of booze, but mostly the former. Not for the first time, Jaskier is greatful of the imposing figure his husband cuts. Built like a brick shit house and a glower sharp enough to cut steel, Geralt's a looming presence at his side that he basks in. It's safe, in Geralt's shadow. He has nothing to fear of the man approaching him, not now. He knows that, but his body doesn't. His hands shake.

"There you are!" 

His mother is loud, drawing the attention of some other folk around. She sounds so pleasant it makes his teeth hurt. 

"Julian, Dear, I was wondering where you wandered off too! You always tend to do that."

She laughs like it's funny, her hoard of followers mimicking her giggles like hyenas. She settles in front of them and his father looks him up and down, lips pursed and rage seeping from his pores.

"-And, Oh!" 

His mother's eyes widen with a false surprise meant to convey a shocked joy. It's so fake it makes his face hurt.  The woman that raised him turns to her friends and speaks like Jaskier isn't even there. 

"This is Julian's friend , Geralt." 

The heavy inflection on the word friend makes Jaskier's gut roil and churn, the ground starts to crumble from under his feet. He counts his breaths, the urge to correct what she had said so strong but the instinct of staying silent to get his next meal, to keep what little freedom he has left, to slink away without insults hurled at his back, to come down stairs to sober parents and no finger shaped bruises on his wrists is so much stronger. The world spins and tilts, and a hand spreads over his lower back. 

He feels like a fucking exhibit. Eyes stare at him, at Geralt. He doesn't want them to look at Geralt, he doesn't deserve that. It's difficult to breathe and a chill screeches up and down his spine. His tongue is thick in his mouth, if he wanted to speak he couldn't. 

The hand rubs a gentle circle, thumb smoothing up his spine.

It's warm. The hand presses, he's guided towards a solid body and an arm wraps around his waist. Geralt interrupts whatever his mother is about to say next in his rumble of a voice as all the strength seeps from his legs and he leans into Geralt's side like his life depends on it.

"Husband, actually. For two years."

He can breathe again, just a little bit.

His mother's face twists into a grimace of a smile. 

"Of course, dear." She ghosts a manicured hand over Geralt's shoulder and Jaskier wants to bite her fingers off for touching him. Touching him is not allowed. She speaks like she has no problem with him. With Geralt. "How could anyone forget!" 

It all stings. If he had a wine glass with a stem he might snap it and start stabbing people. Geralt, the incredible, amazing man that he is, just stands stoically and bows his head in a perfectly respectful greeting. His father doesn't say anything, doesn't even look at Geralt. 

His cold eyes stare directly at Jaskier and it hurts. People are talking, Geralt is responding. He can feel the rumble of words, but he can't understand them. His father's gaze is too cold, too harsh, too much. He knows it like a fish knows how to swim. It's a fact ingrained in stone and that stone is being dropped on his head over and over. He is not safe and he cannot be alone with his father tonight. 

He can barely breathe, and he's rather grateful for the man in waiter's garb that swings by because he can put down the wine glass on the tray and not drop it on the ground. The arm around his waist tightens, and he reaches blindly for Geralt's hand. A little too late he realizes that Geralt is still holding his own glass, but the man offers Jaskier his wrist as he keeps a low, rumbling conversation.

He thumbs over his partner's pulse for a moment, counting the steady beats. Blinks, breathes in and numbers off the time to steady the rhythm. A thumb rubs his hip, presses into him. He inhales and ticks off things he can smell, counts things he can feel and labels things he can see. 

It only takes a few moments but it feels like eternity before he's back in his body. When he's finally got his feet back on the floor and grounded, he's able to pay attention to the conversation. The smile plastered over his lips hurts. 

"So what do you do for work?" A beat before the voice of someone he barely recognizes continues. "I'm assuming you do, of course. Forgive me if I'm wrong." 

It's hard to feel anything but anger at whose speaking, but Geralt is level and cool, face unchanging. 

"Conservation." 

The man who had been speaking blinks dully. Geralt grins.

"Environmental and Animal." 

A woman titters quietly before speaking up. "I'm certain you've heard of the Brokilon Forest Project then." She smiles like she's about to murder ten puppies and Jaskier needs to breathe before he snaps. Maybe he should go pack to panicking and not listening.

The man laughs. "Of course. Who hasn't at this point. Apparently it's quite a big deal, rather prestigious, I know that." The man's bushy eyebrows rise, and the woman tilts her head at Geralt like she expects him to back away from the conversation. Voice laced with pity, she speaks to Geralt like he's a child. 

"I'm certain I know a few of the scientists who are working on it. A rather delicate procedure. Maybe you've heard of some of them?"

They're talking about Brokilon. Jaskier knows about Brokilon. Geralt knows about Brokilon. Everyone knows about Brokilon. He wants to laugh. Or cry. His father is still staring at him. Geralt chuckles and it's beautiful. He looks at his husband and could collapse. His eyes are dark and he looks fucking gorgeous. His voice is deep and Jaskier will let him speak because he's so fucking proud of him. 

"You're talking about the Rehabilitation and Wolf Reintroduction Program?"

The woman grins like she's placating a child that's showing her something completely useless. 

"Yes, of course." 

Jaskier wishes he was filming. Fuck, he wishes he hadn't given his wine away. Like Geralt has read his thoughts, he passes his glass to Jaskier, which he gladly accepts. His partner hums before speaking.

"It's tricky, but it's coming along nicely." 

Jaskier is no longer in hell. This is heaven. The man is listening with rapt attention, the woman is blinking, and for the first time, his father speaks. 

"You act as if you know it well, then."

Truly, it's stunning how little his father cares about him and his life. He wasn't certain before, but now he's sure his father doesn't know his new last name. Geralt grins. It's anything but kind. 

"Of course. I'm head of project." 

That's what he'd been waiting for. The proverbial pin drops and the little group that was treating them like circus animals to laugh at is silent. Pitying smiles freeze, confusion and disbelief drench the air. Geralt doesn't stop there, no, he just adds more fuel to a beautiful inferno. Jaskier wants to dance. His mother's smile is falling and his father's jaw ticks.

"I started in Lyria, and after the success in Rivia and keeping the population in good numbers in the Kaedwen reserves, my team and I were able to move to Brokilon."

The woman blinks again. 

"You're Dr. Morhen, then?" 

Geralt just nods. His mother seethes. Apparently, him having a successful partner is too much for her.

" Arleen, why didn't you say so?" The woman gasps and steps forward, patting Geralt's shoulder. "I didn't realize Julian had such interesting friends?" 

Just like that, the switch from pride to anger flips, and Jaskier maybe wants to vomit again. Or stab someone. The hand brushes down his arm. Geralt's stone-cold visage flickers for a moment and before either of them loses it, Jaskier steps in. 

"Actually, Geralt just got back from the research center today, right Love?" 

He may have put a bit more emphasis on the endearment than usual. His father twitches. Geralt's attention flies from the women's retreating hand and lands on Jaskier. The instant switch in his gaze is comforting, the hard-to-soft, cold to warm look is like a balm. His husband nods, smiles in the way he only does for Jaskier. 

"Got back just in time, the storm coming is going to be a rough one." 

He wants to curl up in Geralt's chest and never leave. The blessed man bends down and presses a kiss to Jaskier's forehead. He's so in love it hurts. His eyes flutter shut at the contact, he's not scared, could never be scared with Geralt holding him and keeping him, loving him. The moment is ruined when Jaskier's father clears his throat. 

"It would have been safer for you to stay at your, what did you call it, research center, I'm sure?"

He can feel the rigidity in Geralt's spine, the tension simmering under the man's skin. It's either the fact that he's pressed against his husband's side or that he's feeling particularly stupid at the moment, because Jaskier speaks up. 

"Geralt's more than capable of making wise decisions." He's most definitely feeling stupid because he opens his dumb mouth again. "Although, he did decide to stay with me, so there's one point against him." 

His mother laughs. A little too loudly. Geralt pulls Jaskier just the smallest bit closer. Before the already stilted conversation can turn even more dangerous, the great grandfather clock chimes six bells. 

Still laughing, his Mother stares at him and her eyes are dead. 

"Dinner it is, then. Come along." 

The group that had all but cornered them slip away after his parents one by one, the tittering woman staying for a bit longer and giving Geralt an appreciative once over despite the band on his finger and the rather clear declaration of his relationship status. 

Jaskier's skin itches. The main room is emptying, guests filing past from where they stand and into the dining room. He looks over the crowd of slightly familiar faces for his Grandmother. He doesn't see her. She must have passed them in a group. 

Geralt's eyes are closed, and Jaskier leans his head against the man's shoulder, waits for the swarm of people to disappear before following the group. They'll take a seat at the end of the tables. As far from his parents as possible, preferably.

Managing to catch a seat side by side, dinner is spent with Geralt's leg pressed against Jaskier's and soft brushes of their arms. Jaskier puts the pomegranate seeds from his salad into Geralt's bowl not because he doesn't like them but because Geralt likes them more. Geralt gives Jaskier his roll in return. 

Voices and sounds float around them as they sit mostly in silence, Jaskier trying to breathe and Geralt not caring enough to make quick conversation with their table partners. The odd question is tossed to them like bread crumbs, sometimes cruel and mostly laced with an air of superiority that makes it almost nonsensical to answer. A steadying hand stays on his thigh, and when he's not eating he's linking their pinkies under the table. 

His head hurts. The plate in front of him swims and swirls. Dinner is not over fast enough. During the feast, he'd found his Grandma amongst the faces and Geralt had gladly made the crowd part for them with his sheer bulk to see her when the mass moved out of the dining hall. 

She'd smiled, tugged his husband into a warm hug and kissed his cheek. It's a peculiar sight, his oh so small grandmother dwarfed by his partner as he hugs her carefully, like he'll break her. He can feel his father watching him the whole time. 

His grandmother gently pats Geralt's cheek with a weathered hand and says something witty because her eyes are shining before turning to him. Her arms are thin but strong when they wrap around him and she smells like roses. She's bright and joyful and everything his parents aren't. He loves her. 

They make plans to meet after the holiday season, she asks after Geralt's trip and Jaskier's recent translation project. She listens. She laughs. She asks about Geralt's brothers, Vesemir, Jaskier's music and his garden. She cares. 

All too soon she's being intercepted by a group of five and she smiles apologetically, reaches for both of their hands and whispers a soft farewell and a promise to see them once more before they leave. The only good part of the gathering is pulled away by other hands and smiling faces.

Jaskier steps closer to Geralt and they face the uncomfortable swell of people together. The mass dwindles as the night goes on, but Jaskier's mother seems to hover around him like a horse fly. The bell tolls eight times. His head pounds.

Geralt's hand in his is the only thing keeping him sane. They're trapped in a web of curt small talk, his father looming over his shoulder, and his immediate cousin and few aunts and uncles starting up a long-winded, emotional only for them, conversation. 

Airy questions of "Where have you been, Julian?", "This is your partner, Julian ?" "Are you planning on kids?" "How would that work?", and the most damning  of them all, "We missed you, Julian."  His phone number hasn't changed.

His parents join with their shiny ideas of tiny grandchildren to spoil that have 'Julian's eyes' and his dead grandfather's name. They mourn over the shattered shards of the dream that isn't his and ask again and again, " Why, Julian. Why ," like he's not happy.

His Grandmother says goodbye at some point. Jaskier does his best not to cry when she hugs him and whispers "See you soon. Be well, Dandelion." She hugs Geralt and whispers something and his broad shoulders melt just the slightest. It hurts to watch her leave, the comforting soft scent of roses drifting away with her soon overwhelmed by expensive scents and wine on breath.

The great clock's bell rolls out a solid nine bongs, rich and reverberating. There are only a few estranged family members left and Geralt is finally successful in pulling Jaskier free from the claws of his ever-talking and demanding parents. 

He's clinging to Geralt's arm desperately, counting his breaths and forcing himself to stay inside his body. Never failing or faltering, his husband guides him a few steps away from his parents. 

"I'll start the car, you grab your coat?" 

He just nods, squeezes his partner's bicep silently. They'll say goodbye while wearing coats to make it fast, and they make it through the house to the door without being stopped by the small group left. 

The foyer is blessedly silent, and his fingers fumble on the door of the closet. Geralt slips past to grab the keys from his jacket pocket and sneaks a brush of lips to his temple. The empty hangers clang together as Jaskier collects their coats, and the front door opens with a frigid gust of air.

He expects to hear it close, but what he hears instead is Geralt hum and then swear roughly. 

"Fuck."

Sticking his head out from behind the closet door, he stares at the swirling white out past Geralt's shoulder. Wind howls and blows a few sparkles of snow into the foyer, tries to push the big wooden door open farther, but Geralt fights back and slams it shut. His partner turns, face rosy from the blast of freezing air, honey eyes worried and lips pulled into a frown. 

"Jukek…"

All the blood drains from Jaskier's face and his throat tightens as the wind beats on the house. The long windows on either side of the door are covered in snow plastered to the glass. They're trapped, aren't they.

The world gets a bit fuzzy, Geralt's bomber jacket in his hands the only thing solid. It's soft and warm and safe, he's tugging it over his shoulders and burying his face in the collar as dark specks flick into eyesight. His lungs hurt, his chest raising in sharp bursts as he stares at the closed door behind his partner. 

His partner, who's stepping forward with hands reaching for him. He can barely feel when hands land on his arms, when he's pulled forward. The only thing that sinks in is the heat of the body he's held against and the fingers in hair.

Maybe Geralt is speaking, he's unsure. He grabs at the man's shoulders, presses his face close to a beating heart. The steady thud is all he can hear, his throat clenches in what wants to turn into a sob. He screws his mouth shut tight and desperately clamps down on the sound. 

He wants to go home. Hands card through his hair, curl over the base of his neck, heavy and warm on his spine. He wrestles with words, apologizes. 

"I'm sorry, fuck, Just give me a moment, it's fine , Im sorry I just-" He's clinging to Geralt like he needs him like air. It's pathetic, but he doesn't care. He's stuck here, in a house he hadn't ever truly belonged in, with nowhere to go but the blizzard outside or Geralt's arms. 

The latter is much preferable. It takes a while to center himself, things he can smell, things he can hear, things he can see, things he can feel, and by the time he's managed just that small feat, his brain is already trying to start up another false life or death threat reaction. Shoving the lid on the panic and shaking his head, Geralt's murmuring voice is finally discernable. 

It's mostly words of "I've got you, Jaskier", "Breathe", "You're safe", until he manages to pull his head away from the man's beating heart and blink the fog out of his eyes. Geralt's brow is furrowed still, concern heavy in his gaze and his lips are pulled into a worried frown as he shakes his head.

"We can't…" 

Jaskier nods. "I know. It's not safe." Strong hands pull the sheepskin bomber tighter over his shoulders and he drowns himself in the comfort. They smooth down his arms and drop to his hips. His voice is not as shaky as it should be. "We can-"

The click of heels. His tongue turns to lead.

"Thank the heavens you're still here, Julian." His mother's perfume fills the air and wraps around his lungs, poisoning the hard fought for oxygen in them. The footsteps get closer, the horrible tapping sound like a judges gavel. "The storm doesn't seem to be letting up anytime soon, does it?" 

She stops at their side, doesn't look at Geralt, or Geralt's hands on his waist. She doesn't look at where he holds onto the man's forearms either, just stares into his face.

"You'll have to stay here, it's far too dangerous to go out now. We wouldn't want you getting hurt, would we?"

The words seem foul. Somehow, she sounds pleased, like she's happy to have them trapped here. 

"Is that alright with you, Julian?" 

She never addresses Geralt. Never has. It's like he doesn't exist to her. There's no other option but to stay, and he breaks his gaze from where his mother seems to demand it to face his partner. 

The man nods, the subtlest twitch of his head, and speaks. "We don't have a choice. It's a white out." His voice rumbles into the foyer, the depth of it could rattle the chandelier and for a moment Jaskier thinks he won't have to force his mouth to work to answer his mother as well. 

But it's silence, weighted. Like no one had spoke at all. Truly, like Geralt is just a figment of his own imagination, his mother doesn't recognize his presence. It hurts so much he could scream. He tears his gaze away from warm golden eyes to face blue ones that are much to like his own. 

"We'll stay, Mom." 

She smiles and it's triumphant and horrible, like now that he's said that the keys to his old bedroom will turn and lock from the outside again, like she'll have her baby boy back under her thumb to pin on the wall like a butterfly.

"Oh, perfect! We still have your room set up, you know we keep it clean incase you want to come home to us, Dear." 

Bile rises in his throat. This is not home. He's angry. Hands on his arms slide up and down, squeeze gently. The warm orbit of Geralt's gaze draws him back and he goes so willingly it's almost foolish. He speaks to Jaskier, not his mother, in soft tones. The way he speaks to a young wolf lost from its pack, trapped in a farmer's chicken coop and cowering, terrified.

"My bags in the car."  Jaskier blinks. "Clean clothes for us." 

For the first time, Jaskier thanks the trip that had pulled Geralt away. He nods, like, moving through molasses. "You're incredible, Geralt." The words come out in an airy breath, and he knows he looks absolutely besotted. He is. Geralt's cheeks turn the tiniest bit pink, and the world falls away because he wants to kiss them, goddammit. 

Just as he's rocking to his tiptoes to do so, his mother clears her throat. Loudly. Geralt glowers, and Jaskier's lips buzz. His mother speaks, trying to drown out the fact that her son is showing domesticity with another man. 

"Of course, I'll go tell your Father. He'll be pleased." 

The smile plastered onto her face looks pained. She walks away from them quickly, like she's fleeing a particularly gruesome scene. Jaskier watches her go, wishing her perfect gait would falter just the tiniest bit. As soon as she's out of sight, his hands move on their own.

They fly to Geralt's shoulders, he wraps his arms around the man's neck, and surges upwards. The insistent buzz in his lips falls away and is replaced by warmth and the soft sound of surprise that slips from Geralt's mouth. He eats it up, eats up the pleased hum that replaces it as well. 

He presses close, drags a hand up to carefully run through silver hair, and tilting his head. Arms wrap around his waist and keep him steady, and he leans into the wall of strength his husband provides. 

The kiss is chaste but it still takes his breath away, and he's pulling away to intake air, brushing their noses and keeping his eyes shut. Words, He's good at words. They fall out because just kissing will not convey how he feels. They rush out and take any air he'd gotten with them.

"It's not right, how she treats you. How they treat you. How I-" He shakes his head, presses a kiss to the corner of the man's mouth. "It's not fair and it makes me angry, and I should stop it but I'm stupidly terrified and that's not fair to you either." A kiss to the soft lips that are in a gentle frown. "I'm sorry, I know that's not enough because I need to, want to , stick up for you more, better." 

He dares lean back and stares into Geralt's eyes. How incredible he is takes any thoughts from his mind and his brain stutters. He's so amazing, with his furrowing brows and clenched jaw, the way his eyes dart over Jaskiers face, the way he speaks low and deep like the words are barely grasped. 

"Jaskier, it's fine-"

He shakes his head and presses another kiss to the corner of the man's mouth. 

"Except it's not , Love. I drag you here, somewhere that's already uncomfortable, and can barely stand up for you when they pull you down, and they just try so hard to do that. It doesn't make me any better that I can never say anything, and I'm sorry." He bites down on his lip hard enough to sting. "I can't make excuses for it, or for myself, and I'm so sorry. I love you too much for it, but I brought you here anyway."

He cups a jaw, thumbs over the hard line of it. Golden eyes are so deep he could drown in them, Geralt's tilting into his hand and his lashes flutter shut. He's like an overgrown cat, pressing so hard into his palm Jaskier's wrist strains just the slightest. 

"Geralt, Sweetheart." Golden eyes open. His own water with tears, too many emotions rolling around in his chest. "You're deserving of better, and I need to do better." 

The last thing he ever wanted is for Geralt to have to face any kind of his parents' venom, and in searching for support through it, he'd brought Geralt into the vipers nest. He presses a kiss to the man's other cheek, runs his thumb in circles. 

"I just… I need to, can you forgive me?"

Geralt's hand circles his wrist, his voice rumbles out. "You know I would follow you anywhere." His voice breaks just the slightest. "I told you I would." 

"Love, I know, but that doesn't make this, me, any better." Jaskier's almost desperate to get the point across. Geralt is far better than any of this, deserves far more. The man breathes in slowly, hums before speaking again.

"I wanted to follow you here, Julek. I knew, I know, you're terrified and being here hurts you." His silver brows tick, Jaskier can see him thinking. "I liked that you asked me to come. I came because I knew you would be hurting and I…" 

His partner's eyes close again, screw shut tight and Jaskier watches the man claw and dig at what comes so difficult to the man he loves. He can't help him with it, offer suggestions up, sentences or phrases, not this time. 

"I wanted to be here for you, I can do that, Jaskier. That's all I can do, I can't, didn't, make them stop either and if you need to apologize so do I." 

Finally, eye contact again. Deep and sincere, easy to exist in a world where it's only them. 

"You think you need to apologize. It's, you-” He stutters. “You're not at fault. I came because I knew what was here and I wasn't going to let you take the brunt of it alone." 

A big hand cups his jaw, tilts his head up. Lips barely brush against his own and his heart skips. 

"Not again, Julek. Never again will you be alone in this." 

Geralt kisses him. 

It's slow and deep, warm and safe. Jaskier believes him, of course he does. What Geralt says in sincerity is as good as a blood bound oath. He's clinging to the man, choking back a whimper that threatens to spill. 

Teeth gently nip at his lips, it's not anything more than Geralt affirming that he's here, in his arms and safe as he can be. Tongue carefully tastes, the danger of the environment is too real to be daring, but it's grounding and he's drowning in it. Gasping for it, he kisses Geralt again. And once more. 

When they break to breathe he speaks against his husband's lips.

"I can't thank you enough, you know that, right?"

He can feel the small smile form against his mouth, the buzz of Geralt's bass voice. 

"You don't have to." 

He could just swoon, or do something equally as dramatic. Instead, he just kisses his husband again, murmurs into it. 

"I love you so fucking much."

"And I you, Songbird."

Once more, Jaskier's losing himself in the taste of warm lips and the swipe of a tongue, barely there but enough to send sparks through his entire body. It's brief, but he wants it to last forever. 

Forever ends too soon. To quickly, they part for the final time, for the moment, and Geralt looks at him like he's the world, the sun, and the moon. It makes him burn. For another moment it's just them standing, and nothing else. But the wind is howling and they are, for better or for worse, staying the night. Geralt twitches once, readjusts his bomber jacket on Jaskier's shoulders so it sits better.

"Bag." Is all he says sadly, with a frown and a forlorn look at the door. Jaskier is very much in love. 

"You're taking your coat." 

Geralt frowns louder. "You're wearing it." 

Jaskier is so in love it flames up his entire body and he's smiling. 

"Yes, but I don't need to be." 

Clearly, that's unsatisfactory to his husband because Geralt is quick to respond, somehow even more grumpy.

"I like when you wear it."

It takes everything in him to remind himself that he can't simply tug Geralt into the nearest room and slide his hands under his shirt, ask him to show him just how much he likes it. He has to settle for a quick kiss instead.

"Do you want me to come out with you?" 

Honey eyes watch him slide out of the bomber jacket like if Geralt looks away Jaskier will dissapear. His own coat is on the ground, having fallen off from where he'd left it half hanging, and he's handing off the bomber jacket to go get it, but Geralt shakes his head. 

"I've got it. It's cold." 

His heart flutters again, and he decides it's much more fun helping Geralt pull on the jacket than going to pick his own coat up. As always, a few more stolen kisses are sprinkled among the needless fluttering of hands and small tugs and adjusting he does.

Geralt disappears behind the open closet door, leaning against the wall to re-tie his laces and probably tuck what he can of his pants into his dress boots. It's quiet, empty. The small group of people in the house not loud enough to echo. 

Jaskier bends down inside the closet to collect his own coat, and dusts off the small clumps of dust that cling to it. A gray wiry hair stuck in the sleeve makes him smile, it's from one of Eskel's goats, it has to be. There's a loose string he hadn’t noticed before, and he’s so absorbed in gently pulling it and trying to tug it off that the rest of the world falls away. Finally wrapping the string around his pinky finger and yanking, it comes off with a snap. He stares at it, spins it between two fingers, then drops it and watches it float to the ground. He’s about to hang up the coat after his fussing when he hears a voice.

"Julian." 

His blood runs cold. A slow turn of his head to the left confirms it. His father. Stone faced and walking towards him with unhesitating strides. His heart may have stopped beating. His father's hands are in loose fists, and Jaskier's hands shake. 

The man's pace doesn't slow, not even as he grows nearer. This specific scenario has played out one to many times, they flash through his vision faster than light. His breath picks up, rapid and quick as he searches for an escape. His throat already aches, he can feel the ache of old bruises and bumps, abrasions and marks. His wrists hurt with phantom pain and his cheeks sting.

He wasn't supposed to be alone with his Father tonight. He knew that. He's a fool. It’s hard to remember where he is and who he is. Julian or Jaskier. No father should look at their child like Jaskier’s  is looking at him. Anger, disgust, rage and hatred, like he's nothing more than a horrible little creature plaguing the man's house like a disease. 

He needs to lengthen the distance between himself and the man that raised him. He holds his coat to his chest like a shield, steps out of the closet and backward. The door to the house is only so far. He has his coat. His phone. He just needs to make it out. Everything in him freezes, his mind disappears into fog. Its just haze. Backing away more and then further still, he doesn't dare look away. Until his Father freezes and his face loses all emotion. 

Jaskier takes another step back with his heart now pounding in his throat and bumps into a solid chest he's certain he’s very familiar with. He is not alone with his father. He'd forgotten. Funny, what panic can do. 

An arm slings around his waist. He can barely feel it.  A near-silent snarl emanates from his partner behind him, and there's a solid moment where Jaskier can see Geralt slaughtering his father with his bare hands. He’d told Geralt everything, after all.

It's an odd standoff, and he's the one to break it by pulling on half his coat and grabbing the hand splayed over his stomach protectively. He squeezes the hand so tight his own shakes with the strength of it. His skin buzzes, cold zipping up his spine. There are no words spoken. There is no misunderstanding between Jaskier and his father. They both know exactly what would have happened. 

He's pale, his hands twitch, he needs to leave and he's fumbling for the door to the frigid world until Geralt opens it for him. Geralt, who doesn't turn around until Jaskier is outside of the house. Geralt, who shuts the door with an angry snarl and reaches for him as soon as the blank face of his father is out of sight. 

It's freezing cold, the wind screams and pellets of ice beat against their bodies. Geralt’s tugging him close and he’s following the guide. Down the slick steps, snow clings to his cheeks. The air stings his lungs, he cant really think much. His head is foggy and his legs shake. Through the whipping weather, he follows his steadfast guide. A beep of the car, barely audible above the wind, and he blinks against the torrent of snow that batters his eyelashes and clouds his sight. 

Hands land on his hips, he’s being near lifted into the backseat of the car. The inside is only marginally warmer than the out, the seat cold under him. The door stays open, he watches as Geralt yanks open the driver's door, starts the car by jamming the keys into the ignition and turning them harshly. The engine whines from the cold until it rumbles to life. The drivers door slams, the seat empty, and his partner is sliding in next to him, pulling him forward. 

He falls face first into chilly leather, arms limp at his sides. Vaguely, he recognizes Geralt swearing viciously. His lips feel numb, he’s not sure if it's the weather or the muted panic that's rumbling through him.  It's all foggy still, like he's been plucked out of his body and set into a bog. 

His head is on Geralt's chest, he can feel hands press over his shoulders, grip his arms, tug at his waist. It's numbing, the odd way the touch seems to be through a wall. He blinks. Black seeps into his vision. The car vents whoosh loudly, freezing air turning to warm. He blinks again, his leg jerks.

"Jaskier."

That's his name. 

" Julek." 

His arm twitches, his fingers feel stiff as they curl. He tries to move his head, manages to shift just a little. He fumbles at Geralt's jacket with clawed hands. Eventually his fingers catch and he's able to levy himself up from where he'd been smashed into his partner's chest. The world spins to a slow stop. The man's face is riddled with concern, honey eyes gleaming in the dark with worry. 

"You're with me?" 

The car really is warm. He nods, his mouth dry. Geralt grabs his chin, gently. The weight of his gaze is so heavy it makes him shudder. Whatever Geralt sees in his eyes, finds in his face, it's enough for the man to drop his chin and clasp the back of his neck.

"You're with me." 

Geralt's frowning, looks near murderous. He's angry, but the hand on Jaskier's neck is firm and never hurting. The other hand is on Jaskier's side, pressing under his coat and sweater to his skin. He will not cry. He doesn't want to. He's too tired to cry. Geralt is warm, like a human furnace, and it's easy to just slide his palms up a solid chest and steal heat from the willing body. 

A beat of silence. The windows are iced over, condensation from their breaths fogging them even more. How long had they been in the jeep? His back is stiff from the awkward twist he's sitting in, and if he could be scared of Geralt, he'd jump when the man breaks the quiet. 

"I don't like this." His lips are pulled in a deep frown, and Jaskier reaches out with a shaky hand to touch the expression. Words form against his fingers. 

"You're father. What he does to you. He takes all of your life and drowns it, Julek." 

A hand curls around his wrist, Geralt pulls the fingers away from his mouth just to press a kiss to his palm and speak there instead. It's a deep rumble that shakes his bones. 

"It's been minutes, Jaskier. I could feel you leave, you weren't here. You were empty." 

Honey eyes pierce his soul, stab through his heart when they look at him. His breath is labored because he knows, he knows he'd left. The car is warm and the windows are fogged, the snow on their boots has melted and Geralt's skin isn't cold and he's not shivering. He'd left for a while. 

It's been eight years since he's floated away like that. Eight years since he was last alone with his father. Eight years since it had been this bad. He'd been better, had control over it mostly. His organs shift inside of him, his bones crawl and a headache builds slowly in the base of his skull. Another kiss to his palm. If Geralt kisses him enough maybe the guilt of leaving will go. His husband's voice is careful, agonized in a way that it usually isn't.

"He made you leave? Killed you just like that?"

He shakes his head, pauses, then nods it. His voice cracks. "I left. It's. My brain, it just goes, and it's scary to see, I know, but I've gotten better, this was bad, I just-" 

Geralt hums softly, barely interrupting him. "Scarier for you than me, songbird. I know you've gotten better." A thumb caresses his pulse.

He nods. His voice shakes and it's not strong. It's weak and trembling and it hurts. He's not sure if Geralt can even hear him. 

"It feels like dying, I think." 

Sorrow. That's what sits across his lover's face. Etched into every line and pore. Hands slide from their previous spots and hold his face, touch over his cheeks and thumbs brush his lips. 

"Jaskier." Kind, so kind and loving, Geralt is. If he keeps being kind, Jaskier might shatter into thousands of glass shards. He would be pretty, then. Sparkling and catching light. He would like to shatter one day. 

"I don't like to see you dying." 

Geralt's earnest, says an entire speech in just that one sentence. It breaks his heart. All he can say in return is something so simple he almost doesn't bother with it. 

"Thank you for holding me." 

Steadfast and strong, Geralt nods determinedly. 

"Always."

A few more moments of silent conversation between them, and Jaskier presses himself to his partner's chest and arms wrap around him, pulling him closer, always closer. Murmured words of love and thanks, comforts and assurances, drifting in the warmth of the car. Noses pressing into throats and fingers brushing over exposed skin, confirming that the other is real and there. 

What's a few more minutes when no one is missing them?

Eventually, the wind shakes the car with its force and it's time to leave the safety of their jeep. If they wouldn't freeze, they'd stay out here. If it wasn't dangerous, they'd go home. Instead, Jaskier is straddling Geralt's lap to pull the man's duffle from the back with hands on his hips and thumbs slipping under his shirt. 

Instead, he's fighting with the bag and nearly smacking Geralt in the head with it after he's pulled it free from where it wedged itself between the seat and the ceiling in the struggle. Instead, Geralt's hands are the only thing that stops him from following the force of the bag backwards. 

Instead, he's hugging the bag to his chest and declaring it his prize, and that he'll carry it in, thank you very much. And Geralt smiles, kisses him fervently until he kisses back. 

It's slow, warm. Tranquil. He forgets the bag for a moment and his fingers go lax just as hands smooth under his shirt further. He hums, leans forward and into the kiss, the tongue that begs for entrance to his mouth. Of course, he gives in and he's gasping at the slick slide of it. 

He bites at Geralt's mouth gently, tugs on his lower lip with his teeth and the man rumbles deep in his chest. Fingers score down his sides, he tries to get closer. A gasp for air, warm lips brushing and meeting again.

His back is curled over uncomfortably to fit in the car, the seat belt buckle is probably digging into Geralt's side spread thighs, but he's content. Content until Geralt's hands disappear and steal the bag from between them with a huff of smug laughter pressed into his mouth.

The kiss breaks because Jaskier squawks in protest and valiantly fights for his prize back. His husband with his stupid long arms and big hands keeps him at bay as he flails for it, and the struggle ends with him bumping his head on the roof of the car and an accidental elbow to Geralt's stomach. 

Geralt is wheezing from laughter and the elbow Jaskier had misplaced into his stomach, and despite the still fading ache of death inside of him, Jaskier is laughing too. He can't help it. He fumbles through the glove department for the little box of emergency overnight prescription meds, and Geralt runs a hand over his stomach, his skin exposed from leaning and contorting his body. He nearly falls off Geralt's lap with the feat between the awkward bend and his laughter.

Dying down giggles and hands fixing mussed hair and rumbled jackets, he shoves his medication in the duffles side locked and the jeep door is finally pushed open and held against the screaming wind. Jaskier graciously lets Geralt share the burden of the bag, their hands touching where they both clasp the handle as they do the shuffle sprint one must do when the ground is ice but so is the air.

The wind steals any room for laughter as the bag is tugged lopsided between them, the arm length difference making it a jolting mess. If it wasn't so horribly freezing, if they were home , Jaskier might tug the bag with both hands as hard as he could and send Geralt sprawling into the snow. 

He doesn't.

The light from the house is the guide through the white, and when they reach the door, Jaskier half expects to find it locked. He'd been on this side of the door in the cold with no way in many times, and he has the brief selfish thought that now he wouldn't be alone when the door won't budge, but it clicks and opens. 

The wind makes up for his shock and pushes its way into the foyer in front of them. They follow in the unwanted icy guest, and slam the door before it can invite any of its freezing friends. 

Jaskier's father is gone, the foyer empty. The soft swell of classical music seems to be louder before, no longer dampened by bodies and voices. Snow drops from their shoes and coats, melts on the wood floor. He can't find it in him to care, not really. 

Together, they drop the duffle bag near the closet and hang damp coats up. They hang up Jaskier's coat, anyways. He's to busy staring at Geralt's bomber jacket and waiting for it to fall from broad shoulders so he can confiscate it and bury himself in it, the damp be damned. 

Geralt doesn't even try to hang it up, just gives it to him after flicking it and sending what little snow that's on it flying. It's stupid, but a contented hum slips from his mouth as soon as he's wrapped in the warmth. Maybe it's luck, but it's not the slightest bit wet from melted snow. 

A large hand slips into his own, no matter the fact that his is practically swallowed by soft sleeves. Wet shoes squeak and this time, they step into the living room through the main entrance. There's no point in avoiding detection, there's not enough faces to try and disappear into. 

His Mother is in conversation with his Aunt and a few cousins, his Father standing silently with them. It's such an odd thing, well to do people and their aversion to sitting during gatherings. Either way, Jaskier's feet hurt, he's tired, and he doesn't want to be here. Instead of stopping to idle with his family, Jaskier squeezes Geralt's hand and beelines to the kitchen to obtain a bottle of wine and glasses. 

If he has to stay here, he's emptying at least one expensive bottle of wine with his husband. The bottle of red is obtained so easily, alcohol more abundant in this house than love ever was, and sooner than later he's tugging Geralt  to the piano room. 

There's a couch there, leather and worn. The piano room doesn't see much use, so the couch hasn't moved since Jaskier roamed the halls. It's plush and swallows you up, and perfect to disappear into. 

There's a crackling fireplace by the couch, and Jaskier is under the impression that this room was, is, the best in the house. It's next to the dining hall, and the cooks were always kind to him. His parents never came here unless they were looking for him, so it was quiet. There was the piano, big and black, shiny and rarely touched. A wonderful temptation that a younger Jaskier would touch and carefully push the keys down, silently as possible.

The fire is warm, drowns out the stiff ambiance music with its cheerful snaps and pops. This couch is more comforting than anything in this house, the handwoven blanket draped over the arm of it unmoved because no one but Jaskier truly ever used it.

It was some heirloom or another, one that was apparently still in style to have displayed after all these years. Either that or it's been simply forgotten. It doesn't matter because for the first time, the house he's in feels less suffocating as he herds his husband towards the brown leather couch. He sets the wine and glasses on the end table with a little flourish, just to make his partner smile. 

As soon as Geralt is settled into the corner, Jaskier is tugging the jacket off his shoulders and stepping on his heels to peel his shoes off, proprietary be damned. No one's here to scold or stare, spew words that make him sick, so he's curling into Geralt's side, pulling his feet under him and settling the jacket over his chest and pressing his face into it like a blanket. 

Geralt's arm settles around his shoulders and he drops his head to the man's chest, breathing in and going limp on the exhale. He reaches for the hand not tracing patterns into his shoulder and wiggles happily when it's given to him. He finally feels fully like Jaskier instead of Julian again. 

He's where he wants to be, pressed to a solid body and idly playing with long fingers, tracing lines and scars he knows by heart, pressing his thumb to the middle of Geralt's palm and then touching each individual callous with his pointer finger. His socks have ducks on them, a cheerful yellow on navy blue. The jacket on his chest is big and warm, and Geralt's lips press to his temple.

If he closes his eyes, it could feel like home, so he does. The fire crackles and he breathes deep, melting further into the couch and Geralt's arms. Like this, they can ignore everything else, so they do. 

It's just Geralt's hand in his, the steady thrum of his heart under Jaskier's head. Patterns swirl and dip on his shoulder, finally trace up his neck and fingers card through his hair. The tension in his partners body seems to ease out slowly, until the man's core is relaxed and Geralt's nosing carefully at his hairline  

Daring to sneak a peek, Jaskier is rewarded with his partner's relaxed face, his eyes closed and brow unfurrowed. He must stare a bit too long, tracing every familiar inch of the man's face over and over, because Geralt hums and tugs softly at his hair. Honey eyes barely slit open, just enough so his partner can guide their lips together. 

It's just a quick peck, then another, and Geralt hums again, drops his hand to brush down his throat and caress his collarbone while dropping his head back against the couch. Jaskier brings the hand he holds hostage to his lips and kisses each knuckle before leaning over Geralt's waist.

A silver brow quirks, half lidded eyes watching him like a cat, lazy but still calculating. Instead of getting into any mischief, Jaskier just grabs at the wine and fills their glasses. As he pours, a hand spreads over his lower back, a steadying pressure because he truly is at an awkward angle.

He resettles with drink in hand after only a moment. The occasional bout of laughter from the other room is a jerky reminder that they aren't quite able to relax fully, but Jaskier takes what he can get. 

They make their way through about two glasses each before Geralt finally prods the elephant in the room, hesitant and oh so careful.

"That's the piano?" 

He nods. It is. That's the piano that started his love of music, that really started it all. The grand instrument was a forbidden object he orbited around daily. The descent into astronomy started when he'd plunked on the keyboard a little too loud and very much unskilled. He'd been a child, just curious. His curiosity was rewarded with a lengthy stay in his bedroom for being disruptive, a day after day punishment. Alone. 

The stars had twinkled at him at night and he reached for them for comfort when his stomach rumbled and he'd forgotten how to speak. He made abstract shapes in the dark and named them. Eventually, he'd learned that there already were names and shapes attached to the glistening objects in the sky, and that lead to books on constellations and  the mythos and that lead to logic and philosophy and even psychology, and all throughout the whispers of page after page in the midnight hour, he dreamt of forbidden ivory keys under his hands.

The piano was always kept in tune, even when no one played it. The man that came to do so was old and patient, let him sit and watch him work among the strings and pedals. All it took was one question for the man to patiently teach Jaskier the keys. Keys he had whispered in repeat, labeled them silently on the keyboard everyday.

The next month, the old man brought books filled with lines and dots, music notes. Jaskier had desperately read anything he could get his hands on between learning the keys and now, he'd had more questions and he'd gotten actual answers. 

The next month he plunked out a song under the old man's watchful eye, and it was magic. The sound, the feeling of the keys tapping down under his fingers. He'd tried to practice once more when the man had left and he'd been reprimanded, loud, disruptful, be quiet, Julian.

He'd practiced without pressing down the keys from then on. Each month the old man would bring him more books, more information, more knowledge. He learned and learned and played the ghosts of songs over and over, never actually coaxing the keys into singing out of fear. 

One month the old man didn't come back. A stern woman with no time for his questions replaced him. He kept practicing in silence, alone, never fully playing, never hearing the keys ring out. Even the faint click of the peddle felt too loud.

One day his parents left for a dinner party. He'd been alone in the big, empty house, and the piano called to him where it sat, just as lonely as he was. He still remembers walking to the room in a trance and staring. He remembers daring to pull out the bench after a very long, very horrible silence.

He'd sat down and double checked the entrances to the room, waited for someone that wasn't coming, and played the first few keys of "Swan Lake, Theme 1" out of muscle memory. Fully played them. The sound had bounced and reverberated, filling the house and quieting the rumbling of hunger in his stomach. He remembers crying, staring at the keys through blurry eyes as he finally heard the sound that accompanied his well practiced movements, and sobbing as he ran through the entire song. It was beautiful, and he had brought that beauty into the air with his own two hands. 

He'd played until his fingers cramped, song after song, then played more. He'd only stopped and fed when the door to the house had swung open and drunken laughter replaced the music he'd made. 

"It's my." His breath catches. "The Piano, yeah." 

There's no dust on it, there never was. It has always been meticulously cleaned but never appreciated. It was just a status symbol to the ones that bought and maintained it. Not to Jaskier. 

They stare at it. Geralt taps his foot near silently. The piano waits patiently for a player. The hand that's curled around his waist slides away and before he can truly protest, it's gently pulling the wine glass from his hand. 

He could play. Truly, he doubts he would be stopped. He wants to dare them to stop him. Geralt takes a sip from his own glass, still staring at the piano. Jaskier's torn between the instrument and his partner , not quite knowing which of the two to stare at or accompany.

He wants his piano back. It's not truly his, but in the moment of silent midnight performances, it was. He wonders if it would sound different, in a house with his parents in it. He's torn between letting the piano rest or waking it up, he's already so tired and he's not certain he could withstand the pressure of that cold bench, but he wants to  Badly. His fingers twitch. 

Finally, the decision is made not by him but by his husband. Geralt tilts his head and stares at him, honey eyes knowing and kind. A slow nod of his silver head, a subtle motion towards the piano, then a bump of his knee. 

The couch is warm, comfortable, but he gets up anyway. His knees tremble. His socked feet are silent as he pads towards the instrument, the piano waiting for him patiently. 

The bench squeaks across the floor quietly when  he pulls it out, a sound he used to wince from, just another noise to give him away. Sliding the lid open, it rests with a heavy thunk. The keys are cool to the touch, smooth and familiar.

It's nauseating, almost, to sit on the bench and poise his fingers over the correct notes, but he can feel the steady warmth of Geralt's gaze on his back and it's like an anchor. His parents are speaking in the other room, he can hear the scratch of his father's voice and his mother's accompanying laughter. 

He plays the first few hesitant notes of Clair de Lune, expecting for his parents to materialize and scream out. They don't, but he plays softly either way. It's barely loud enough to be considered playing, but he knows Geralt can hear it anyways, the man has always had wicked sharp hearing.

He's about three minutes of playing, in which he's checking the entrance to the room every other moment, expecting the arrival of a scowl and angered voices. Anxiety eats at his fingers, the tempo of the piece stuttering here and there with the envisioned looking shadow of his family. The piece is usually not a challenge, but when tremors shake through his spine, it's like he's never seen a piano before in his life. A quick glance again and he risks a look back at Geralt, whose eyes are closed and his head is tilted towards Jaskier. Listening. 

It's not like Geralt hasn't heard him play the piano before, hell, they have one at home he uses regularly, but he always listens. The silent support stops him from looking over his shoulder as he finishes the song and slips into Chopin Nocturne No.20 , vaguely registering that he's playing at a normal volume and that he can no longer hear the faint buzz of conversation in the other room.

While the piece, once again, doesn't need nearly his full attention, he gives it anyways. The piano buzzes to life under his fingertips, fills the room with lovely, glorious noise. If he squints hard enough he can imagine tiny hands from the past following along with his own. 

The prickle of being watched grows from comforting to slightly unnerving, someone other than Geralt must have entered the room. He does his best to ignore it, slips from Chopin to a slow waltz. 

His own composition. Memories swing in, long nights of trying different notes for a completely different idea, hating all of them, and then bashing out an angry and pounding rendition of 'Mary had a Little Lamb' because his brain couldn't register notes anymore. He'd loudly declared that he was no longer fit for music and that he was wasting away, that his brain cells have finally melted and he was giving up on life. 

At the time he hadn't expected a response, just emptying his rage out and staring at the piano, wishing for it to go up in flames, until arms had slid around his shoulders and lips pressed to his head. Geralt had appeared out of nowhere, forced him off the bench and out into the midnight cold, he hadn't even realized it had gotten that late. 

They sat there with a blanket in the chill, Jaskier fuming and flailing, calling the piano inside their home many foul names and wishing great harm onto it, until he'd run out of steam and slumped into Geralt's side. Geralt, who'd sat patient through his lunacy and offered only the platitude of touch because Jaskier would have just gotten more prickly otherwise.

 He remembers staring up at the sky after using up all remaining energy, breathing in deep as warm hands combed through his hair, and then waking up the next morning in bed with his face pressed to Geralt's beating heart. 

He'd tossed out the composition he'd been working on and started a new one, watched the gentle way Geralt cared for his horses, cleaned wild game, held him, smiled at him in that small soft way of his, and it clicked. After spilling out a horrific amount of music notes in a burst of creative energy that lasted about three days, he had the base, the base, mind you, of a slow waltz that was a long winded love letter after the address of a treble and bass clef. 

Days of composing followed suit, and soon enough the waltz had sat finished and tucked away like a secret, the dot and lined filled paper taunting him with the meaning and inspiration behind it. Too emotional, too raw, too soft, too much love printed out. It had been a declaration and a statement and it had been too much to just share. 

It had driven him more mad than the forgotten piece's creation with its existence, until strung out and wild eyed weeks later, he'd drug Geralt out of their bed after fruitlessly trying to sleep and had played it for him. It had been like scalping himself, carving his chest open, and then dumping his bloody and battered soul directly into Geralt's hands.

Geralt, who'd cradled his soul so carefully that he just sobbed into the piano keys and then into his then boyfriend's chest. At the time, he had no way of knowing that Geralt had a hidden torment of his own in the shape of a silver band. Only a few days later had he proposed. 

The waltz is home in many ways, home because it's love and Geralt and them together and existing in the same space, cohabitating whatever room they find themselves in peacefully. It feels like a strong 'fuck you' to his parents, brining such a piece into life on a piano in his old home, showing them a life and love they never showed him. The song is near its end, it slows to a gentle stop, the pedal his foot presses drawing out the final note until it dies down of its own accord. 

For a moment, he leaves his fingers poised, feeling raw and a bit too exposed, before gently shutting the lid to the piano and turning. Truthfully, he's turning to hopefully catch the brilliantly warm smile spread over Geralt's face and his pink tipped ears and faint rosy blush that comes with the waltz. 

Instead, he sees what remains of his family. It takes every inch of self control to keep the smile on his face. His parents stand arm and arm, wine and whiskey in their hands. His Aunt is smiling, hands clasped to her chest, his cousins hover near the couch where Geralt sits, eyes on him. 

It's silent when he stands up, silent when he pushes the bench back in, silent until his Aunt gasps and explains rather loudly, "Julian, that was beautiful, I didn't realize you played so well?"

The swarm of extended family seems to try and close in on him and he flees to the safety of the couch, smiling pleasantly while he dies inside as words of praise flutter around him.  Someone pats his arm, someone asks if he'll play another song, but his heart is racing because his parents are here and he doesn't want to play anymore.  

Although not as pronounced as it should be, Geralt is smiling at him as he settles back into the couch and tries to disappear into the leather. The small, sad but real smile on his Mother's lips disappears as soon as he snuggles into Geralt's side and presses a kiss to his cheek. 

The anger that rolls off his father is neverending. Like a switch has flipped, the remains of his family take seats by the fire, in uncomfortable winged chairs and a loveseat, a few sitting on the same couch that he and his partner occupy. Those who share the couch make sure not to sit too close, like they'll catch a disease.

It's like playing the music has refocused all the attention on him and it makes his head spin. His Aunt is asking how long he's played, he doesn't have an answer to that, a cousin is asking what the last song was, he won't answer that, and his Mother is grim faced as she dazes out, staring at the piano as she floats off. 

As soon as it's apparent that Jaskier will no longer be entertainment, the conversation topic moves on. Geralt and Jaskier are trapped once again. They can't leave without questions, and truthfully, there's nowhere else that doesn't feel stuffy, so they sit and listen as the conversation is held around them. 

Soon his Aunt is talking about the gentleman she's seeing, she claims it's the first man she's held interest in since her husband died. Everyone ignores that she'd had a few affairs here and there while married and that she'd even had a few flings as soon as her deceased husband was in the ground. 

This, naturally, moves onto Bethy finally going to have a baby, then one of his cousins is talking about someone they recently started seeing, which somehow goes back to Jaskier. 

His Aunt asks about the "Nice young lady that dropped you off, Julian," with her voice loaded by innuendo. It doesn't matter that it was Essi, the sister he never had. It doesn't matter that Jaskier helped her pick out a ring and that she's planning on proposing to her girlfriend, or that Jaskier is nearly curled up in Geralt's lap completely. 

He answers with as few words as possible. The topic switches to children, Bethy and the gender of the baby, grandchildren, and then his Mother is looking at Geralt and bile rises in his throat. She speaks loud enough that the conversation stops and orbits her completely.

"What does your Mother think about you plan for children, Mr. Morhen?" Not Geralt. Not even Dr. Morhen. "Surely she wants grandbabies too?"

Jaskier would like to crawl into the fire pit and die, maybe burst into flames and then explode. His usual restraint is wearing thin and the control on his temper is close to snapping. Before he can say something seething and then hide behind a long drink of wine, Geralt laughs. 

Jaskier's wine glass touches his lips but he's frozen, turning to watch his husband with wide eyes. His husband shakes his head, mirth sparkling in those brilliant eyes.

"My Mother lost any input in my life when she left me in a gas station parking lot, Mrs. Pankratz. I can assure you, what she wants does not matter."

It's Geralt's turn to take a slow sip of wine, his fingers still smoothing calmly over Jaskiers shoulders, and he can tell he's holding back a true round of laughter by the way his lips twitch and his eyes squint. He's a smug bastard, his husband. 

If he wasn't already married to the man, he'd get married immediately. The silence is deafening until someone bravely changes the topic. Miraculously, they are left out of further conversation after his Mother manages out a half sincere apology to Geralt. 

His Aunt oozes about how the impromptu sleepover was just like the one years ago, "Julian, you should have been there," and how it's a 'dream come true', how she's looking forward to the morning. 

The night wears on until the clock rings twelve and they are finally released from societal jail. They leave together to retrieve Geralt's duffle, Jaskier will not be caught alone. He clings to the bag with both hands, fingers white with the hold he has on it. Geralt stands over his shoulder, strong and unyielding, a protective shadow as his cousins and Aunt file away for the night under the guidance of his father.  His Mother takes the role of stewardess for them, guides Jaskier and Geralt up a large set of stairs and towards his old room.

The familiar path is acidic in his stomach, with each step towards the room a reminder of nights of solitude. When they reach the door, Jaskier checks the knob. It's changed, the lock is no longer on the outside. It's a small relief. 

"Well, here we are."

His mother smiles at him. It's tinted with a weary fog and not nearly as plastic as usual. For the first time tonight she looks her age. She looks tired and sad, a mixture he's never seen pointed towards him. Disappointment yes, but never sorrow. 

"The linens in the bedroom and the ensuite bathroom are clean, and should you need anything I'm sure we have it." 

The bathroom attached to his room had been a wonder in his childhood. He'd been able to drink water when he was thirsty, drink it when he was hungry. He'd scrubbed tears from his cheeks in the mirror and filled the sink with water to float things in. 

 "It's good to have you stay here again, Dear." His mother reaches for him, but doesn't make contact. She hesitates and seems to think better of touching him. "It'll be like it used to, yes?" 

He doesn't respond, can't. His mouth is dry and the last thing he ever wants is for it to be 'like it used to'. 

For the second time tonight, she addresses Geralt. The film of performance slips back into her face like a horrible mask. She's nearly grimacing.

"Of course, you may use the guest room next to Julian's-"

Geralt's brow raises with an all too familiar glimmer in his eye and a subtle quirk of the mouth, and Jaskier is far too tired for what's about to happen. Or he's tired enough, he stops caring when he gets tired. He watches Geralt's lips move, forming words that make his eyes widen.

"I will be sharing a bed with my husband. Like most couples do. I'm sure you understand, I've been gone for a week after all."

His mothers face freezes, Geralt's words sinking into her skull at the pace of molasses. Her eyes dart from Geralt to Jaskier, and by the time they move back to where Geralt should be, the blessed man is already disappearing into Jaskier's old room, leaving Jaskier fighting to keep his lips sealed and his jaw shut. 

His mother stares at the door, and she shakes her head. It's barely noticeable. She stares blankly, before her empty gaze slides to him. 

He manages a smile, tired and nauseated. Sometimes, he wishes things were different. They aren't. 

"Goodnight, Mother."

She stares through him, silent for a beat.

"Goodnight, Dear." 

Seemingly emboldened by the lack of Geralt's presence, she reaches out and touches his cheek. It takes every bit of will power he has to not flinch away. The touch is surprisingly soft, her fingers are like ice, and it hurts. It stings and it's like knives and it's horrible because for so long such a kind touch was all he wanted from his mother. Now it makes him ill.

She drops her hand, seems surprised by her own actions, and turns. Jaskier watches her go. The door to the bedroom had swung slowly shut behind Geralt, so Jaskier bumps his knee into the bag, which thunks into the door and pushes it open.

He doesn't make it far into his old room, the door barely shuts before Geralt's arms bracket his waist and his head lightly thuds against the door he's gently pressed against. Geralt's laughing, a slow rolling chuckle, his smile pressed to Jaskier's throat. 

He drops the bag between them. "Fucking hell, I can't believe you said that." 

Geralt snorts, hands slip under his sweater and caress over skin. He shudders under the touch, goosebumps spreading at the warmth. Tilting his head to the side, he gets a face full of soft hair. The room is empty, the walls bare except some art that wasn't there and shelves that look like a display model. Any bits of him have been scrubbed from the walls and shelves and it's empty and fake, for show, just like his parents, and it's better to see nothing than the room around him. Geralt's turned on the lamp on the nightstand. He huffs before speaking.

"I thought she was going to fall through the floor." A manic giggle. "The headlines read "Estranged Son and Son in law melt Mother, no one's horrified, witnesses say 'Glad she's gone.'"

His brilliance is rewarded by Geralt laughing, the sound like music to his ears. Jaskier can't help but laugh too, wrapping his arms around his partner's neck and sagging into the door and strong arms. Silver hair tickles his nose, and he wrinkles his face in an attempt to escape the soft strands. It doesn't work. 

He lifts his hand to brush it away, and Geralt pulls back. His eyes glitter and his lips stay quirked. Gently tugging out the pony tail holding silver hair mostly away from his handsome face, Jaskier's smile wobbles as he speaks.

"They sleep in separate beds."

Geralt's smile grows the slightest bit larger. 

"I know. You told me." 

He cups his partner's face and traces his cheeks. He's so fucking beautiful. He can't get enough, the crinkle of eyes, the single dimple, the faint stubble and the white line of a scar. Words fall from his lips without thinking of what he's going to say in a breathless huff of air. 

"God, I love you."

Geralt's only response is to look incredibly smug and very pleased with himself.

Jaskier snorts, his eyes squint, he laughs once and it cracks into a sob. It wrenches from his chest so fast it hurts as he jolts at the surprise and the pain of it . He blinks once, tears well and his visions blurs. His voice cracks around another sob, this one he bites down to keep silent after his words crack out in surprise.

"Oh, I don't-"

He can't see either way so he closes his eyes, his hands shake and he drops them from his partner's cheeks to hug himself as his world spins and his chest heaves as more cries try and break loose. It comes out of nowhere, the horrible shattering of his entire fucking self. Hysteria rises in his throat, clouds his mind as a manic laugh wrapped amongst a whimper fills the air. He thuds his head against the door as tears trickle down his cheek, and he does it again to keep more pieces of himself from falling before a hand catches the base of his skull and an arm wraps around his waist. 

There's voices outside of the door and his throat closes in misplaced panic, his heart ratchets up in it's rapid beating, and he's being guided forward in the dark world behind his closed eyelids. If he keeps them shut tight, maybe it will all go away. The voices outside grow nearer and louder and for a horrific moment he thinks 'this is it, they'll finally catch me and be done with me' before he realizes he's not a child anymore.

Time doesn't matter, not when you can't breathe and can't figure out if you're safe or not. Truthfully, he's not certain he's even alive anymore. He feels rather dead again at the moment. His chest burns and his limbs ache, his eyes sting and he can't breathe. 

Through all the anxiety that's trying to drown him, there's a thumb pressing up the bumps of his spine, a hand gently drawing through his hair. Lips murmuring words, soft and low. A steady thudding heartbeat pounds by his ear, and he presses into the sound. If he gets close enough, maybe it will envelop him and never let him go. 

Fingers dance up his spine and his knees buckle, but he doesn't collapse completely. Geralt has him. Strong as ever, he's held tight against a chest so close he can't breathe, and it's much better than not breathing because of a noose around his neck. 

He scrabbles at broad shoulders, tries to get forever closer towards the only steady thing he has. The man he tries to press to is moving, and for a horrible moment he's not able to sob into a soft sweater and cling, but the moment is gone when arms sweep under his knees and another supports his back. 

Geralt picks him up near effortlessly, a broken keen slipping from his lips as he's shushed and cradled. He hides in the man's throat, presses his lips to skin to breathe him in, gods, he missed him, and wails. 

The world moves around him, but it doesn't matter because he's so tired and he hates this, this house, the people inside it. A rustle, the hold Geralt has on him shifts and he clings. The man bends, and Jaskier  finds himself on the bed with the covers pulled back. Before the contact of his partner is gone completely and he ratchets from desperate to manic again, Geralt is toeing off his shoes and slipping in. 

Hands skate over his arms, pull him closer as words whisper in his ear. Words of safety and love and he clings to all of it, presses himself to the source of it all with a whine. He feels rather pathetic, he can and has push through attacks like this alone before, but Geralt is combing fingers through his hair, kissing his forehead. 

" You did so well, Julek. I've got you, you don't need to be strong anymore."

Limbs tangle, the weight of arms and legs settling him, and his sobs lessen to hiccups to whimpers. Geralt is offering support, and he's accepting it. He sniffs, tears streaming from his burning eyes, and he rubs his face into Geralt's chest. It feels like he's an open wound, raw and bleeding, that every minor thing that happened tonight stuck to him and is poisoning his bloodstream.

It's a long time of just being held, of lips murmuring against his skin and thumbs brushing away tears and kisses chasing the wet streaks down his cheeks. Seemingly ages pass, his mind racing over ever familial interaction and how it could have been better but sometimes not much worse.

"Come on, Julek. Songbird, breathe, that's it."

It's even longer before he's quiet, uneven breathing shaking his chest. Guilt eats at him as soon as he's not crumbling, this hasn't been hard for just him, and just as he's trying to get his voice to cooperate, Geralt speaks again. 

"Don't apologize, please. You're alright. I've got you." 

So he doesn't. He just hides in his partner's embrace until his breathing is steady and the tears dry. His arms are wrapped around his husband's waist, Geralt holding him close. His mind still runs a mile a minute, and it's even longer until he slows the runaway train of thought.

They lay there for a moment, Jaskiers eyes red rimmed and Geralt a steady presence at his side. Hands slip under his sweater, rub circles into his skin, and Jaskier searches for the hem of his partner's shirt.

Finding it, his reward is feeling over the pale skin that lies underneath, warm, always so warm, to the touch. Spreading his hands wide over his husband's back, he takes in as much contact as he can. For comfort and because he missed him, he presses close and closer still. He sniffs, blinks any remaining tears from his eyes, then pulls back to wipe his face on his sleeve. 

Hands slide up his side, palms calloused and comforting as they press up his bare skin. He dares look into Geralt's face. Honey eyes, tired and loving, worry creasing between his brows and the softest of frowns, Geralt is wonderful and safe and it makes his heart hurt. 

Wiping under his eyes with his sleeve a final time, he reaches out to caress the man's cheek, leans forward to kiss him. Lips brush, soft and careful. He feels exposed, ripped apart, and Geralt doesn't prod at his aching soul and bleeding core. If anything, he spreads a balm over his wounds and carefully stitches him back up.

A low rumble and Geralt is pressing into him, biting gently at his lower lip. He sighs, lips parting and Geralt kisses him, the corner of his mouth, the tiny scar above his lip from some mishap or another. Gentle and always sweet, sighs and steady hands. 

His body is alight from exposed nerves and emotion, sensitive to every touch and before long it's all too much. Tears threaten to well again, he's surprised he even has any left to cry. He conveys the ache with a sound very much like a whimper, and Geralt hums, his hands stop circling and still on his sides. 

His bones hurt, it feels like termites boring through them, so he frees himself from loving arms and falls to his back, gently tugs at his husband's shoulders. It takes little coaxing for Geralt to roll onto him, sitting so his head rests on Jaskier's chest and his hips are bracketed by Jaskier's thighs. 

He props one leg up, presses it to Geralt's side and arches his back so arms can fully wrap around him as he buries his hands in soft hair. He breathes, his human weighted blanket of a partner keeping him grounded. He touches, plays with silver locks and presses on knots, traces the bumps of a spine, feels the cut of a jaw. 

Splayed out on the bed, facing the ceiling, his mind swirls. His body aches, it's exhausted and run down but his overactive brain spins and dances, parts of him wishing to flee and other parts wanting Geralt closer and closer. He feels unloved and also completely cherished, hated and adored, alone and held, all at the same time. 

Geralt's taken to squishing his face into Jaskier's chest, then finding the collar of his shirt and chewing on it absentmindedly for a second before switching to his collarbone and gently nibbling on it. It's familiar and it warms the cold reaches of his broken heart. It's not hard enough to leave any sort of mark, just the absent minded brushing of teeth and odd scrape of a canine. He'd poked fun at his partners' bitey ways, but truly, he loves it. Just as Geralt loves his twitching hands that play with his larger fingers, spin the golden ring on his hands, and use Geralt as one large fidget toy.

He's absent mindedly braiding hair and undoing it over and over, but he's teetering on the cusp of a spiral. He'd like to float away but stay tethered, his body and mind exhausted, not just one or the other. A sharper bite than usual, Geralt hums in apology and kisses the little red splotch before switching to another spot to worry at. 

The bed under him is not as comfortable as the one at home. Home. He wishes he was home, he'd very much like to be there and tucked against Geralt's side in the comfort of their own bed. He'd like their own shower that has two shower heads, his soap and Geralt's ridiculously fluffy towels. 

He'd like to have the flannel sheets that don't make Geralt's skin itch, the mound of pillows he hoards, the emptiness of their house. There's the safety net of home and the things that help ease stress, the familiarity, the alarm system on the doors and windows that he and Geralt have access to, the space to melt from the social form he tries to keep and turn into himself. Not to mention, it's been a week and days since he's been with Geralt. He missed the silent companionship, the steady presence always orbiting nearby. It feels like he'd been gone for months, and even though they'd called every evening, it still was horrible. 

He misses him, missed him, the way his knees would go weak from consuming kisses, the way Geralt would slide up behind him when it's Jaskier's turn to do the dishes and tease him with feather light touches, how he could just press his lips to Geralt's without daggers piercing his back.

If they were home, all of the stress could go away if he just asked, after all. It would just need a single sentence and Geralt could take his body and soul in his careful hands and coax him into nothingness. He'd give anything to be spread out with one of his many pillows under his hips and hands sliding over his bare skin, soft ropes around his wrists to calm his body if he couldn't handle anything else, and Geralt's deep voice clearing his mind with low orders. 

If they were home, all the stress and questions of had he done it right, should he have done something different, was there another option, all of it would be stripped away because he'd have no other option but to give up all his worries to his husband's steady persistence. 

It doesn't help that the last time he'd been rather desperate to lose control, he'd only had his fingers and a long distance vibrator that Geralt's phone had the controls too. It wasn't like he could just assume Geralt would be in the right mindset to help him because he'd been busy with the Research Center and he knew he was exhausted and strung up as well, but he'd nervously set up his laptop with the camera facing the bed and waited. 

He'd been grateful that Geralt was more than happy to deconstruct him into a gasping mess from miles away, but it was still different because Geralt wasn't there. It was still good, it's always good, but the distance seemed greater and it had taken careful handling to keep him from dropping hard.

Now they are here and their home is evidently not, and Jaskier no longer wishes to think about missing Geralt and everything he's stressed about. His parents and their stares and judging, his lonely nights in a home missing its other occupant, tomorrow morning, it all swirls and he'd really liked to be held down and taken so he could stop replaying moments in his head over and over again. His mouth is moving against his better judgment. He's tired, after all. 

"I wish you could fuck me." 

It's silent as Geralt freezes, teeth set gently to his collar mid bite, his entire body switching from relaxed to a low hum of awareness. Jaskier winds his fingers through silver hair, shakes his head. 

"This is stupid." Geralt shifts, props himself up on his elbows and stares at him, unwavering, waiting for him to continue. Jaskier's hand is still tangled in his hair. "I missed you and I want you, and my head can't even let me enjoy you here, right now, and I'm getting frustrated because I'm so tired but my head just won't stop, and I feel like I'm just a little leech stuck to you and zapping all of your life."

Once again, tears threaten to spill. He holds them back, he's cried enough tonight and it's ridiculous that he's falling apart so much. Geralt is still staring at him, waiting, calculating. He feels like he's complaining, an annoying brat that wants more and more.

"I miss feeling you inside of me, feeling you breathe. I want you to have me, I want you to take me apart and keep me that way and then fuck me until I ache. I hate that everyone took little pieces of me tonight with their questions and their talking and I don't want them to have those bits of me."

He's not sure if he's even making sense. He's spewing out proverbial word vomit and hoping it's a sentence. 

"I just want to be yours and forget everything else. I want to let you have me because I want to give you everything. I want to apologize for bringing you here and then not because I would die if you weren't. I feel like I need you like air right now." 

He closes his eyes, struggles through emotions battering his skull. 

"My head hurts, everything hurts, and I want more of you. It feels like you don't want me, which I know isn't true, and it feels like you hate me which also isn't true, and I know this but everything's confusing and my brain just won't stop and I need-" 

He's pressing his hands to his eyes, shaking his head. The only thing he can feel is Geralt's body against his. He thuds his foot down into the mattress, kicks his leg a little in frustration. His voice cracks, and he says that stupid sentence that can give him relief. It's just one sentence, but it's eviscerating and it leaves him vulnerable. 

"I need help letting go." This time, a tear does escape. He's cried too much, he's exhausted, and his skin is itchy and he wants to peel it off. "I'm so tired, Geralt, and I missed you and I feel pathetic. I didn't sleep well when you were gone and that's not your fault, obviously, but it means I felt bad already and then more and more shit just got piled on top of me." 

He doesn't want to know what Geralt looks like right now. 

"I've been doing well, I've self regulated, I stopped god knows how many anxiety attacks, I stayed grounded as best I could, my therapist would be proud-" He laughs, it's a bit self deprecating. "But it's so much and it's not stopping, and I can't do this anymore, please, I just need help let-"

Geralt moves. An arms is freed from under him and a hand curls around his jaw. A thumb taps gently on the side of his face and he turns into the touch before opening his eyes. 

Golden meets blue, Geralt watching him carefully. He feels studied, like the man can read every bump on his soul. His lips are pursed in concentration as he studies Jaskier. The man searches his face, speaks in a baritone voice that buzzes in his bones. 

"Yes and no questions, verbal and nonverbal. Do you understand, Songbird?" 

Jaskier nods his head. Geralt hums and closes his eyes, thinking. Jaskier watches, nearly jumps when he speaks. 

"You do not feel safe. Do you feel safe enough now?" 

He nods. Geralt rewards him with a kiss to his jaw before continuing, low and so deep he can barely hear him. 

"I do not hate you." Another kiss, over his pulse. Words press to his skin like a brand. "I want you always." Another kiss further down his throat. "You are not a leech. You bring life instead of take it." He squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to not shake his head in disagreement. "I didn't sleep well without you either. You are not pathetic." 

A gentle bite, not nearly enough to bruise but hard enough to make a red mark for now. It makes him jerk, it's like a live wire. A hot mouth seals over it in an open kiss, and his head rolls to the side on instinct. 

"Do you understand, Julek?" 

He nods. He understands enough. Geralt wouldn't lie about this. Even if he doesn't truly believe it, he can fathom that if Geralt loves him as much as he loves Geralt, it makes sense. His body is jostled as his husband frees his other arm and he bites down a protest when the heavy weight on top of him leaves. Hands grip his thighs, Geralt leaning over him like a benevolent god. They slide up, over his sides until they reach his wrists. His arms are pulled above his head and pressed into the mattress.

"Good. I am coming right back. You will stay put?" 

He nods. True to his not quite word, he doesn't move even though he wants to fling his arms out and grab for the figure that retreats from over him. The bed shifts, moving as Geralt leaves. He doesn't move his head, just stays put, staring up at the ceiling. 

He's not certain what Geralt has planned, but he listens. The zip of a duffel, rustling. Feet pad near silently, the door of the bathroom opens. Faint sounds of a cupboard or too, and the footsteps come back. The rattle of his emergency pillbox, filled with prescription meds he shouldn't skip. His own breathing seems too loud. His leg twitches. 

It's an eternity and just seconds before the bed shifts and Geralt is returning to him. The crack of a fresh water bottle opening, and a hand rests on his shoulder, gently pulls him to sit upright. The world goes a bit fuzzy as he sits up, and he blinks through it. His medication is pressed to his palm, the water bottle held out after he tosses them into his mouth. 

The water is still cold from where it had presumably been in the duffel bag, and it's a blessing and a curse as it slides down his throat. The coating of one of the pills always tastes bitter, and he winces.

Geralt hums. "Good, Julek." Jaskier gives the water bottle back. "You don't want more?" He shakes his head no. "Alright." A hand spreads over his chest and shoves lightly. "Back down you go." 

He almost nods his head in agreement before he's tilted backward and hitting the bed underneath him. Hands drop to his thighs, feather light and barely there. He wants to press his legs up into those warm palms, and just as he's about to, Geralt leans over him. 

"I'm going to touch you. You're going to let me. I'm going to take care of you. I want you, you're mine, I have you." 

He looks up at Geralt's looming form, his chest aches. Golden eyes look at him lovingly, soft and warm, his lips pulled into a small smile. His voice cracks, words failing. 

"Yes, please." 

Hands press down firmly down to his thighs, drag down to his knees, and his eyes slam shut as he's finally being touched after what seemed like months. Thumbs circle the side of his knees, fingers gently tug at his legs to get him to wrap them around Geralt's waist. 

He does so, he'd do anything. Those warm hands leave him and reappear on his stomach, his breath stutters as fingers slip under his sweater and brush over his happy trail before smoothing up. His sweater pools around Geralt's wrists, palms slide over the soft curves of him achingly slow. 

Up and up, those hands go. It's reverent, a slow worship that speaks of re-accompaniment and love. They circle and smooth, dance over his skin and pause over little marks and moles, skitter back down over the surgical scar from appendicitis, trace up a bruise he'd gotten from opening a cupboard and then running into it. A thumb presses into the mark and almost all of his restraint breaks, a small whine of numbed pain slipping from his lips and it takes everything in him to keep from arching into the touch.

His eyes slit open, his heart ratchets up when he catches the faint glimmer of gold, Geralt's eyes near shining in the dim light. The man's lips are parted, focused gaze solely on each exposed inch of skin that just grows larger as hands continue their journey. Thumbs bump over his ribs, slide down and skate up the inside curve of them. It burns, sends shivers up his spine as cool air is chased away by warm palms. 

He watches Geralt, focused and sure, bend down slowly in a near bow. Gold flickers up and catches on his own eyes as lips press at the soft part between his ribs. A kiss to the skin there, tender and exposed, and those lips trail down, down, further down towards his navel. His heart pounds and his skin sizzles. Hands press wide over his ribs and keep him from moving as lips brush over the surgical scar and then slide to the bruise. 

Teeth nip at the bloom of purples and green, a shock of pain within the soft, and he slams his head back into the pillows and bites down on his own lip. He's itching to the bone, the scratch is Geralt's lips dancing to a beauty mark and then to another. His nose trails through the hair under his navel, Geralt's breath warm over his cool skin. 

"Jaskier." 

Whispered soft and sweet into his flesh, and he gasps at the reverence in his deep voice. Fingers dance down his side and bump at the gentle v-line of his hips, tracing the indent sweetly. His fingers trace down the line until it meets the hem of his slacks, and he jerks at the touch. His breath quickens as fingertips hook under his pants, sliding towards the button. 

He can't move as Geralt presses another kiss under his navel and simultaneously eases open the button. He's not sure what Geralt's planning, doesn't know what he's going to be given. The slow haze of a silent headspace had been carefully fuzzing the edges of his mind but the sharp guilt and fear of where they are battles it. 

His husband's nose trails down, further towards the hem of his slacks as the sound of his zipper being undone fills the air loudly, combining with his harsh breathing. Hands leave the limbo between his boxers and his slacks, curl over his hips and cup at his rear, lifting him up onto Geralt's knees almost too easily. 

His eyes fly open as he's settled against Geralt's body, ass resting on solid thighs and in a position so familiar it makes his head spin. Panic surges into his skull, a resurgence of guilt, his breath is fast and rushing, faintly he realizes he's clawing at the sheets under him in a fight between reaching out and staying put. 

" Jaskier , eyes up. On me, songbird." 

The command is spoken into his skin, and he follows it through the shot of fear based adrenaline blindly. It's an image he wants engrained into his mind, and thumbs catch and slowly slide his slacks down his hips and over the swell of his ass. 

"When we get home, songbird. You're all mine." 

Somehow he's moved, legs together so large hands can free his legs from clothing, he's uncertain how. He's trapped in an amber gaze, frozen to words that balm over his fear and misplaced guilt. 

"I'm going to have you completely, you're going to be mine and every bit of you will be labeled and reminded as such." The fabric slips over his knees, down more and more. "I'll fuck you until you're sobbing, begging for more and screaming for me." 

Over his ankles and finally gone, the pants are dropped somewhere in the room. Geralt's spreading his thighs, a pleased rumble in his chest and for a moment he wants to hide away from the golden gaze that scrapes over his exposed skin. 

His thighs twitch, try to shut around strong hips as his cock twitches, starting to plump up under the attention lavished to his body and the words that drip like honey over his soul. He's gasping, his leg is being tossed over a broad shoulder and his hips buck upward. He can't look away as Geralt smoothes a hand up his calve and fingers press into the tender dip of his knee cap, surge up towards his overly sensitive thighs. 

"You'll cry out so nicely for me, Songbird. So sweetly as I take you apart."

Lips press to the skin there, kiss after kiss pressed to his inner thigh and he nearly squeals when teeth sink into the meat. His brows furrow with the intensity of it, the strain of keeping quiet. He's gasping and his leg shakes, another mark made into his pale skin with each tremor. Sucking kiss after bruising bite, over and over his thigh is riddled with red splotches that darken slowly and will turn into bruises. 

Geralt's holding him still, captive. His words ooze over the skin of his leg slowly and like molten lava. 

"I'll take that sweet cock of yours and swallow you down, make you cum in my throat." Golden eyes meet his, it's like a bullet through the heart. "I'll eat you out until you're writhing, kiss over your little hole until you're begging for it to be filled." 

Fingers press into his leg, Geralt's grinning sharp toothed against him. "Keep you until your voice is hoarse and you can't even move, twitching and shuddering." 

He's already shuddering, he already can't move, and he's frozen as his partner nuzzles down his thigh and towards his cock. It's horribly lewd, the way the man breathes hotly over the clothed shape of him, getting harder by the second. A hum, Geralt's nosing into his pelvis and bumping into his cock, rubbing his cheek against it and inhaling. 

Jaskier can't breathe. He's still, stuck wide eyed as his lover takes his body and adores it, touching his fill. Kisses press through fabric, a hot mouth brushes over his cock, wetting his boxers and dragging it across his hardening length. He's near panicked with the feel of it, he's shuddering and his leg twitches and jolts. 

A sound from outside the room, some type of thud in the house, and Jaskier flinches so hard his husband almost loses his grip on him. The captive hold the man had held on his gaze is broken and he's jerking to stare at the door, his breath quickens and it's panic that makes his heart race. He's whimpering, he faintly notices, out of fear instead of pleasure. 

Suddenly there's a palm cupping him through his boxers, his thigh is dropped open, it bounces on the bed. The palm grinds down and it aches, he jerks up and he's scrabbling at Geralt's shoulders, comes face to face with the man and he's shaking. Lips capture the panicked sounds that slip from his mouth, a tongue sweeps any more that try to form away.

He's grasping at silver hair, his hands tremble and the palm of his lover grinds slowly against his cock, pressing and massaging, and Geralt's speaking against his lips while he pants. 

"Eyes on me, Julek. You are here, you are mine, the door is locked and I have you." 

The hand pressing and squeezing over the shape of his cock doesn't leave, but his partner's other slips to his lips and a thumb presses into his mouth. The sound he tries to make is stolen from him and his eyes roll as that thumb massages his tongue, presses down and tests his gag reflex. 

"I will muffle any sound you make, take care of any need you have, Jaskier. I will not let anything but you stop me." Faintly, he recognizes that he's lapping at the digit in his mouth, making little breathy noises as he huffs for air. "I'm going to help you let go, I'm going to take care of you, is that alright, Songbird?" 

He can barely nod, the fuzz from before coming back heavier and harder, overwhelming him and pushing everything but Geralt from his mind. He manages, nods with the thumb pressing down on his tongue and he grips the man's wrist, grounding himself as he floats. 

The thumb presses and thrusts into his mouth, it makes him keen, and then it's replaced by lips that take over him and steal anything he has left. The hand on his cock slips up and presses his stomach down and into the bed before dragging under his boxers. 

He jerks, his fully hard cock wrapped in a calloused palm, warm and sure. Geralt's free hand collects his wrists and presses them above his head as his body jolts and arches away from the achingly slow pump of the dry hand on his cock. The subtle pain of it sends him spinning into the headspace he'd been grasping for, pulls him closer and closer towards it. 

He's writhing as Geralt steals the breath from his lungs, swirls a thumb over the head of his cock. He feels beautifully broken when the kiss stops and Geralt is rumbling against him. 

"There we go, Julek. So pretty. I've got you." 

Everything's taken from him mere moments later, the slow pump of his cock and the palms holding his wrists. They dissapear, and he's shuddering, silently gasping as Geralt looms over him, pulls his limp limbs and tugs off his boxers. His cock hits against his stomach and the cold air makes him shiver. 

The sweater pushed up on his chest is too warm, the air everywhere else too chilled. His legs jerk and his hips twitch, he's shuddering and shifting, trying to press his skin to anything to relieve the building ache of feelings.

"So good for me, Julek. My good boy. I've got you." 

His eyes flutter, he's nearly utterly exposed. His legs spread around a broad body, his cock against his stomach, hard and aching, palms start sliding up his stomach and to his ribs, press down and ruck up his sweater. Up and up, over his furred chest and pecs until the fabric is bunched at his throat.

Cool air swirls over his heated skin and he shivers, his nipples peak from arousal and the chill, and he jerks like he's been struck with a live wire when Geralt presses palms to each one. They press down, grind and rub. He's sensitive there and Geralt knows this, circles heavy and almost cruelly. 

His breath catches and he just barely silences a moan, pained and pleasured. Relief for a moment as those palms leave, but it's right back to a pleasured hell when fingers pluck at his nipples, twist and pull again and again. He jerks and jolts, tries so hard to keep his hands pressed above his head as he fights between pushing into the touch and pulling away from it all.

"So pretty, shaking under me. I missed you, Jaskier. I missed you so fucking much." Geralt's voice is low and rumbling, shakes him to his core. " Fuck , look at you, you're already leaking. Try not to make a mess, love." 

His cock is drooling precum, his hips rock with each tug at his abused nipples. It's becoming too much, his chest burns and pinpricks of pain spread through him and to his lungs. Just as he could scream, the loving abuse stops and lips seal over one, a heavy palm rests over the other. 

A tongue laps and soothes, warm and heated and it chases away the cruel and lovely ache from before. The attention just makes the swell in his chest turn from a pained too much to a shuddering whine. Kisses travel across his chest and the attention shown to one is given to the other. Free hands slide the sweater up and over his head, off his arms and he shakes. 

The sweater lands somewhere in the room with a thud and lips leave his chest. He's totally open, cock leaking and nipples perked and rosy, Geralt looming over him and grinning at the mess he's made. 

"Sweet, lovely boy. So fucking gorgeous."

He's looking up at his partner through a fog, shaking when hands loosely travel over him with no real goal. A single finger slides up his cock and he could cry, it swirls around his swollen head and he whimpers. 

"Good boy, Jaskier."

Geralt sounds so pleased it would normally make him joke, but his eyes are too busy rolling back into his head as a heated palm collects his precum and slicks the way up and down his cock slowly. It's so slow it shoots pins and needles up his spine, his lips pressed shut to hide the moans building in his chest. 

Over and over, that palm rises and falls, swirls over the head of his cock. Geralt's spare hand curls over his throat, dances to his collar, scratches over a nipple and he could scream. Slowly and surely, Geralt murmurs and whispers to him, pumps his cock and stops just to continue a few moments later. It's hell and heaven and pretty soon all he can feel is the slow and aching pull on his cock and the build of his release always out of reach.

In the back of his mind, Jaskier mourns Geralt still being fully clothed. He's starting to sweat, he whimpers and he's begging softly, "Please, I'm so close, Geralt, please just a bit more, I need-" 

He's shushed and the hand squeezing his cock leaves. His chest aches and a nearly silent sob cracks though him. A hand cups his jaw, a finger swirls in the precum pooled on his stomach and is pushed into his mouth. 

"Open wide, Julek. Sweet boy, you're so good, just like that." One finger turns to two, pumps in and out of his mouth and it makes his eyes roll and his spine arch. His fingers squeeze the pillow above his head, his cock aches. It's heated and throbbing between his thighs, flushed so much it hurts. Spurts of precum coat his stomach and chest, his hips rock, trying to find any sort of stimulation. "Easy, Songbird. Lovely, so fucking good, I know sweetheart." 

The fingers pump deep into his mouth, the hand on his jaw squeezes as they stay deep, nearly gagging him. He swallows around them and his eyes water, his chest lurching and back arching. Fingers slide against his tongue, heavy and warm, hypnotizing.

Geralt is pressing marks to his collar and throat, around an invisible line Jaskier can't figure out because it's all spinning. Teeth sink harshly into his shoulder and he sobs, broken and loud around the figures in his mouth. The noise is softened so it's barely there, but Geralt chuckles into his marked up skin. 

A kiss to soothe the sharp indentation of teeth, the fingers slide from his mouth, slick and dripping with his saliva. Geralt's speaking, rubbing circles into his hips. He can't understand him, so lost in pain and pleasure and want. It takes far to long to get what's being spoken to him into his head. It's a mantra of his name and praises until he makes a soft sound, a tiny bit of coherency. 

"There we are, Julek. I'm going to leave you."

Jaskier sobs, throat wrecked from holding back whimpers and moans. He clamps his thighs down and it jerks his cock, he grips at Geralt's wrist and can't find the words to plead. 

"Not for long, gorgeous. When I'm gone you're going to touch yourself, feel over that pretty cock of yours and cup your balls. Touch yourself in the way I know you love." A mark sucked into his throat. "You're going to play with your perky nipples until they hurt, you're going to be so quiet and gasp my name for me. Isn't that right, Love?"

All he can do is whine for a moment, he's scrabbling until a hand curls around the base of his cock and squeezed before stroking gently. 

"Come on Julek, my good boy, you can do that for me, can't you? You're so good." 

He's nodding, and Geralt laughs, a slow chuckle that shakes him. A hand guides his own to replace Geralt's grip on his cock, and he shudders as he wraps his fingers around his length and bucks into it. 

"You're not going to cum. You're going to pull yourself to the edge and leave yourself there for me again and again, just like this, all spread out and pretty. Isn't that right?" 

He nods again, he can't do anything else. He'll do anything Geralt wants him to do. He can't breathe, his chest burns and his mouth feels so empty. He pumps his cock and plays with his chest, whimpers when hands leave his overheating body. 

"Good boy, Songbird. So fucking gorgeous." 

He tugs at his nipples, twists his wrist and thumbs over the drooling slit of his cock. His mouth moves, his lips forming words he'd been commanded to say. 

" Geralt , fuck, Geralt-"

He could cry when he feels the bed shift, his thighs tremble as his lover leaves him. Speaking is so difficult but he needs to be good, he says his lover's name like a soft prayer, a repeated mantra. 

Over and over he twists and plays with his chest, strokes his cock and loses himself in the building pleasure. He writhes and shakes, his eyes squeezing shut as he forms the image of large hands grabbing his hips and lips wrapping around his cock. Of fingers slicked with oil, tracing up his thighs. The lovely pressure of digits pressing at his entrance. He's so close he nearly forgets his orders. 

"Geralt, need you, Geralt, Geralt, fuck, mhh, ah-!" 

He remembers the last second and a panicked whine leaves his lips.Tears well in his eyes and he squeezes the base of his cock as his hips jerk. His thighs tremble, he presses his hand into his throat and shudders, precum spurting out and making a bigger mess of his stomach. 

It takes so long for his limbs to stop shaking, but he has to do it all over again. The torture starts over again and his lips continue their near silent prayer of his lovers name. All he can hear is blood pounding in his ears and his own breathing, the slick sound as he jerks his cock. 

He wants to roll to his side, but he promised he wouldn't. Promised he'd bring himself to the edge again and again splayed open like this. So he does. It's a single minded goal, chanting Geralt's name in a whisper, running his hand down his ribs and back to his chest, fucking into his fist. 

" Geralt, please, fuck, I need, Geralt, ha.. ah -!"

His spine arches painfully, his foot pounds to the bed after he stops another orgasm from bringing relief. He sobs, tears well in his eyes and he can barely speak. 

"Geralt, Geralt, Geralt-" 

A hand on his hip, another on his cheek, wiping away tears. Tears that come faster now that Geralt is back and here, warm and touching over him. 

"Oh, fuck, Julek, you're so fucking good. You're so good for me, you did so well. Look at you, so fucking messed up for me." 

Blinking through tears, he's greeted by a face so soft and filled with wanting it hurts to see. He lets his hand fall limply to his stomach, his cock bobbing and he arches his chest and keens as Geralt stops his other hand from plucking at his nipples. 

A kiss to his lips, one he eagerly opens his mouth to. A tongue laps at his as a warm rag gently swipes over his stomach, mopping up the mess he's leaked all over himself. It's soft but still too much on his sensitive skin. He goes to grip at clothed arms, gasps as he meets bare skin. 

Hoping, he reaches and meets skin where he splays his hand over Geralt's chest. Finally, he's given access to his lover's broad chest and warm skin, bare and perfect and he wants to touch and touch and touch- 

Teeth nip at his lips and he drops his head back, peers up through teary eyes and goes to wrap his legs around Geralt's waist. As soon as he does he's rewarded with a gravelly voice in his ear. 

"Arms around me, sweet thing." 

He does so, his cock presses against Geralts stomach and he ruts against the expanse of skin he's been given. Hands on his hips, he's pulled in once again so he rests on Geralt's lap, keens as his ass meets the hard length of his lover, clothed in what feels like boxers instead of trousers. 

He scrabbles at shoulders, jerks as arms wrap around him and he's lifted into strong arms and off the bed. He hides his face in his lover's shoulder, arches into the chest he's held against and shudders. 

" Geralt, Geralt, Geralt-" 

He's shushed gently, hands knead at his ass and he sighs, droops into the man's arms. He rolls his hips into the man's stomach, sighing as he's basically encouraged to do so. Sinking his teeth into warm skin, he muffles his sounds as Geralt walks with him. 

The sound of a shower gets nearer, Jaskier barely recognizing it until he's carried into a room with warm air that costs his lungs and rolls over him with humidity. Bleary eyes and glossed with arousal, he pulls his head back and blinks into Geralt's face, soaks in the soft smile over his pretty lips and the warmth in his gaze. 

A hand leaves his ass, Geralt still holding him in a way that seems effortless. The roll of a glass shower door opening, and Geralt is speaking softly. It takes a moment to decipher what he's being told. 

"In you go, Jaskier. Come on, love. I'm right behind you." 

He blinks owlishly before lowering his legs from around his lover's waist. His knees tremble and his cock aches, he turns and barely makes it into the shower standing. Leaning against the shower wall, it's almost too cold against his burning skin and hot water. He watches through clouded eyes as Geralt strips from his boxers, a moan spilling from his lips as he catches his lover's cock, hard and hanging heavy with its length. His mouth waters and he can't look away. 

All he can think about is pale skin pressing against him and his knees shake even more, the only thing that keeps him up as Geralt joins him is the arm that slings around his waist and pulls him close. 

Chest to chest, their cocks brushing and rubbing, Jaskier nearly collapses. Water beats down around them but he tries to kiss soft lips anyways. It's difficult, water rushing between them and over their lips. He fumbles, wraps his hand around his lover's cock, thick and hot as he pumps it between them. 

"Fuck, Julek." 

Geralt's hand wraps around his length, brings the proof of their arousal together. His larger hands wrap around the both of them, and Jaskier cries out at the sight of their cocks pressing and rubbing. Geralt grunts and smoothes a thumb over the head of his cock before bumping Jaskier's forehead with his own, guiding him into a kiss. 

Between the hot presses of lips and tongues, Geralt murmurs deep and low. 

"Around, Love. Turn around for me."

He barely does so, Geralt mostly doing it for him. Close to the shower wall he rests his forehead against it, breathing around water that runs over his lips and down his cheeks.

Geralt's cock presses against his ass, a large fist curls around Jaskier's length and he arches into his lover's chest. A hand presses against his sternum, keeps him close as that fist pumps his cock at a torturous pace. 

He squeezes his eyes shut against the pleasure, thrusts into the tight hole Geralt makes for him to fuck into, small gasps and whines spilling from his lips as he chases relief. 

Geralt's rutting against him, his cock pressing to his skin and branding him, until the man guide it so it finally slides between his thighs. He dares look down, a moan bubbling from his throat as he catches the sight of the ruddy cockhead of his lover pressing through his thighs.

"I've got you Julek, you can take one more tease, can't you?" 

He grips at the arm holding him up, crescent moon marks from his fingers pressing into the offered stability. The words barely make sense as he watches his lovers hand jerk him, pleasure running through his nervous system. 

He nods despite himself, dares to peer over his shoulder and at his partner. His lips brush a stubbled cheek and he closes his eyes. 

"Yes, Geralt , yes, anything, I can-"

Geralt pumps him fast and steady, speaking to him in low words all the while, rutting his own cock between his thighs. His partner's length rubs against his balls, a slide helped by precum and water and it's all so good he can barely breathe.

The hand on his sternum brushes up, squeezing his throat just a little before dropping to play with his chest, Jaskier holding on the whole while desperately. Fingers pinch at his nipples once, twice, and he jerks hard.

"Geralt! Close, I'm close, fuck, Please-"

A snarl, teeth set to his shoulder and he spreads his hand over the shower wall, reaches for wet silver hair with the other as his lover's fist squeezes at the base of his cock again, denying him again . This time, his voice cracks and he sobs softly, tears stream down his cheeks as his hips buck and he has no relief.  

"So pretty when your desperate for me, Julek."

The hot line of Geralt behind him feels so good, the man still slipping between his thighs and against his balls torturous. His head his clouded, fog and pleasure, he barely hears what his lover says right into his ear. 

"Play with your pretty chest for me, Love. I'm going to jerk you until you cum all over my hand." 

He arches, hands flying to pinch and pull at himself with the order, the fist around his cock pumps fast, twisting and thumb brushing over his swollen cockhead. The slit is drooling precum heavily and his balls ache, he has to close his eyes to breathe. 

He's gasping and trembling, water coursing all around him and Geralt touching him and thrusting against him, teeth nibbling at his throat and words caressing over his body. The spare hand of his lover slides over his stomach, scratches gently before flying to his throat. 

It squeezes, fingers pressing into the artery that makes his head spin, and his mouth falls open in a silent scream. His spine snaps and he jolts, the pleasure tightening deep in his stomach before he's sobbing, cock jerking and his vision whitening as he finally finds the edge and falls over it. 

It slams into him hard and heavy, he cums with Geralt telling him, " Good boy, Julek" and fingers squeezing his throat and a fist pumping his length, taking him for all he's worth. His fingers are frozen on his chest, stuck in a harsh pinch, his body shuddering as he finally is given release. 

His vision blanks and pins and needles fly up his body, Geralt still pumps at his cock and he goes to clutch at the hand around his throat, hips jolting and pulling away from the pain pleasure being inflicted on his sensitive length. 

He can't seem to escape from it, he writhes and twists, but Geralt keeps him still until he can't take it any longer and he goes limp, body finally giving out. He slumps as hands support him, saving him from the torture they had inflicted. His vision goes dark and it swirls, he's faintly aware of his own whimpers going quiet and Geralt rutting once, twice, between his thighs before he spills.

Ropes of cum stain his skin, hot and claiming as it spurts between his thighs that he's unconsciously clamping. Geralt teases the head of his cock in the tightness he creates, making sure to press his claim to all the skin he can while all Jaskier can do is force air into his lungs. 

He floats in warmth and water, hands that lather soap over his skin and wash away the efforts of their combined relief and love. His head is lax against a sturdy shoulder, he can't control it as it lolls when fingers scrub through his hair. He drifts and lets his husband touch him in the softest of ways.

At some point, he's ushered out of the water and dripping hands tug a towel around his waist and then over his shoulders. He follows the guide of hands supporting him and slowly lowering him to the ground from under his armpits. He sits and breathes warm air for who knows how long, water dripping from his hair and onto the towel. His eyes close. 

Water runs until it doesn't. The glass door slides open and then closes. The shower fan runs loud and comforting, a steady buzz. The rustle of fabric, and then after another moment, he's being touched again. 

Hands pull the towel from his shoulders and carefully ruffle it through his hair, wipe down his chest and throat carefully. " Good boy, Julek. You did so good for me, so pretty, coming undone." It drifts down his arms, collecting water droplets and moisture before swiping gently over his stomach. 

That towel leaves and he's being pulled to his feet, his legs weak. The towel on his waist is unwound and rubbing down his pelvis and he shivers, body twisting at the touch because he's still buzzing and overwhelmed, too sensitive and feeling too much. 

"I know, Love. Perfect Songbird, lovely and gorgeous." 

The towel disappears and hands guide him into soft boxers, the clothing a few sizes too big. Arms guide and move him, he's pressed against a very strong chest and his head is being tilted up. 

"Look, Julek." Soft and sweet, the words drift into his ears. His eyes flutter open, and a gasp stills in his lungs. He's bare chested and framed in the mirror by a much larger body behind him. His collar and lower throat are filled with pretty marks and bruises, red splotches and blues and purples, so colorful and lovely he wants to touch them. "All mine, see?" 

Geralt touches them for him, feather light and gentle. He can't help but coos at the display, leaning further into his lovers chest and nuzzling under the man's chin. His eyes slip shut as a thumb smoothes over a particularly sensitive one, and he loses time as each bruise and mark is felt over. 

"I've got you, Jaskier. You're all mine. You're good, you're alright." Soft words filter through the darkness and his heart thuds peacefully in his chest. Eventually, he's picked up bridal style. He's still pressing into his partner's throat with his face, humming at the warmth of the bare chest he's held against.

The bed he's laid in is clean, the sheets not sex stained. Geralt had been careful in pulling him apart, it seems. He's left for a moment, turning to his side and snuffling into the pillow under his head. Covers shift and he's being swallowed by blankets, soft and warm. 

His head swims pleasantly, the world dull and warm. A hand curls around his jaw, taps under his eyes. Obediently, he blinks and sits up, looks at Geralt, who is sliding in next to him.

"Wrists please, Love." 

Jaskier offers his wrists, watches through a haze as a so deep blue it's almost black rope is looped loosely around his wrists. He's far enough gone that he doesn't even question why Geralt has some of their rope with him. He watches as steady hands execute the correct knots through a haze and a finger slides between rope and skin to test the tightness, and the tension he didn't know was still in his body falls away when Geralt tightens the rope. 

He stares down at his wrists, tugs apart gently. A hum and then a gasp slips from his throat without permission when he can't move his hands apart. As if through a fog, he looks up and sees gold. Gold eyes, warm and loving and tired. 

Hands land on his shoulders, Geralt watching fondly as he plays with the restraints a little more, brow furrowing as he tugs his wrists and wiggles his hands until a weight settles in the back of his mind, heavy and warm. He can't move them. Stuck. It feels nice. 

He gives another tug, and Geralt chuckles. The hands on his shoulders squeeze softly, slide to cup his cheeks. Lips press sweetly to his, gently and chaste considering everything they've done. 

The covers shift, Geralt sliding in next to him. Arms loop around his waist and he's pulled into his partners arms. His entire body is heavy and weighted down, it feels like he's lost all control. Not lost, given up.

The one who has his control arranges him so he's held with his head over Geralt heart, the steady rhythm making him even more sleepy. Lips press to his head and a hand cards through his hair. His partner's phone glows and he faintly recognizes the screen of their home's security app. He watches the little bubble that turns on the sensors turn blue, and his eyelids grow heavy. 

His head is blissfully empty, he doesn't have to worry because Geralt has him, his body and mind. There's nothing but the solid strength under him and the hands curling through his hair. He drifts into a beautiful empty nothingness. 

Sometime later, he opens his eyes. The room is lit up by a gentle glow, and an odd mumble falls from his throat. The fuzz clears from his head, and a thumb presses into the base of his skull, rubbing gently. Geralt's breathing is steady under him, and he blinks a few times, the room focusing around him.

He shifts a little, readjusts on the sturdy chest he's using as a pillow, and meets honey eyes on him. Geralt sets his phone down, focuses completely on him, it makes him feel lightheaded. The man's lips quirk into a small smile.

"There you are, Songbird."

Practiced hands slide to his wrists, they're still tied. He hadn't even realized. Watching as the rope is tugged and then falls away, he marvel at the faint red lines on his skin. Warm hands replace the ropes, rub into his skin to rid any ache. 

There really isn't any. Limbs still weighted, he flops back down to his human pillow, rubs his cheek into Geralt's soft chest hair like a cat. The man laughs, a low chuckle that rumbles deep in his chest and Jaskier can feel it.

He drags his own arms up and around his husbands neck and sighs as arms wrap around his waist. A nose brushes through his hair, lips pressing a line of kisses. It takes a moment or two for the comfortable fog that his husband had lovingly wrapped him into to fully fade away, and when it does, he mumbles out the first question that comes to his mind. 

"Why did you even have rope?" 

Geralt laughs again, arms tightening before he speaks. "That's the bag we packed for the last trip we went on. The cabin." 

Ah. He blinks as he remembers exactly what they did at the cabin, and ignores the flush that turns his cheeks red. As soon as images of Geralt spread out under him and over him, tied and tying, are tucked away again, he manages to wrestle his tongue into speaking again.

"Did we not unpack fully?"

His partner shrugs. "We didn't unpack much. If you remember, we had other things to take care of more immediately." 

He distinctly remembers the 'other thing' being him, and it's his turn to snort. "Not unpacking has it's perks." His voice is scratchy from dissuse, and he winces before speaking again. He lowers his voice, a soft whisper.

"Thank you, Geralt. You didn't have too."

Lips press to his head again. "Of course, Jaskier. I wanted too."

Sleepiness crawls at his spine and weighs Geralt's words, so he blinks a few more times and peers up at his partner. 

"Sleep now?"

The man smiles, nods his head. "I've got it." 

Jaskier gets to watch a muscular arm reach out and turn the lamp off, and the man's phone is set screen down on the nightstand. In the dark, it still feels safe. Bodies move and shift, falling into the position the both know intimately well. Curled up in his lovers arms, sleep comes just as quick as it had before, and he's barely managing a murmured "I love you." 

He just catches the response as he falls into slumber, the same words echoed back to him no less sincere. All that really matters is he's with Geralt, warm and safe. 

The cocoon of strong arms, love, and warmth is broken all too soon by the morning. Jaskier wakes first, his face pressed into his Geralt's shoulder and his arm tossed over the man's chest. What little sun that filters though the curtains makes his husband look ethereal, silver hair glowing and hallowed out. 

He's so pretty, and Jaskier has to force his hands to himself less he wake his slumbering partner. He likes tracing the shape of his husbands face with his fingers, likes memorizing him over and over again. Instead of touching and caressing, he snuggles in to the warmth Geralt radiates and closes his eyes, breathes in the peace.

He counts the steady beating heart, each inhale and exhale. Sleep is not so evasive when he's near Geralt, because between the lull of life and the warmth, Jaskier drifts in and out of sleep comfortably. Always half awake, he stays pressed to his lovers side untill Geralt's nose wrinkles like it always does when he wakes up. 

As predicted, between silver brows crinkles and his lover makes a discontent face, attempts to hide his head under the blankets from the waking world. It's so predictable that Jaskier giggles. Sleepy honey eyes flicker open, warm in the early light. It's precious, the way the man blinks slowly and focuses in. As soon as he registers Jaskier's presence, Geralt presses a kiss to his forehead and pulls him closer, like some kind of giant teddy bear. 

Jaskier goes limply, let's himself be manhandled and arranged until he's tucked close, Geralt curling around him. He wiggles his hips to get just the slightest bit closer, revels in the half hard cock his ass nudges up against. A catch of breath, a slightly hitched inhale and a heavier exhale is all he gets from his partner until hands grip his hips and he's pulled tight against his lovers length.

In the sleepy haze of morning, slow and languid, Jaskier curls his fingers through messy hair and rocks his hips, Geralt sliding a palm up his chest. A nose buries in the crook of his shoulder, he feels more than hears his lover moan and shudder as he presses back harder. 

The more he rolls his hips, the more he's held closer, the more his body reacts. The more he wants. Geralt's length, hot and hard, presses against his ass, rocking between the cleft with stuttered ease. He's reaching down with half lidded eyes to curl fingers around his own cock, shivering when his cold hands wrap around himself and tug.

He's half hard and getting more and more turned on, soft sighs brushing against the nape of his neck. A warm hand slides down his chest and joins his own where it teases the sensitive head of his cock. He bites down on his arm to stifle the little moan that tries to slip out as Geralt's much larger hand encompasses his, pumps slowly as he rocks back and forth. 

Puffs of hot hair against his bare skin, Geralt rutting towards him and meeting him as he rolls his hips, the hand around him jerking him faster but still lazy. It's a slow build, pleasure piling until it bubbles over. Geralt shudders, swears softly and gasps against his spine, jerks his hips forward once, twice, then stilling with a near silent whine.

He's not too far behind, tossing his head back and sighing into the air, lungs heaving. He thumbs over the leaking tip, bites his lip as Geralt cups and massages his balls, squeezing lightly, and it's his turn to jolt his hips into the pleasure and cry out softly as he finds a near gentle release. 

It's silent but their slowing breaths, the sleepy warmth of the morning intensified with the intimacy shared between them. He's not sure how long they rest, basking in the afterglow and eachother, but soon enough he's getting tired of keeping his sticky hand in his, Geralt's, actually, boxers and he's carefully extracting himself from blankets before freezing. 

He groans with the realization, and he hears Geralt's questioning hum immediately after. His brain stutters to life and he speaks, voice raspy with sleep.

"We got off in my childhood room." He can almost hear Geralt's shrug and soft smirk. He rolls his eyes. "Twice, Geralt. If my parents didn't love me before, they sure won't now." 

A wounded noise behind him, like he's struck a puppy. He risks a glance over his shoulder and Geralt's looking at him so sadly it hurts. If he didn't have a cum covered hand and wasn't holding up blankets to stop a mess from occuring, he'd caress his lover's cheek. 

"Oh, don't look at me like that. It's true." 

The kicked puppy sound is now replaced by a kicked puppy look. This horrible, horrible man and  his huge loving heart. Jaskier sighs, drops his shoulders. 

"Alright, maybe they love the idea of me at least. Is that alright to say?" 

Geralt's brow furrows and he can see the man thinking before the man bobs his silver head with an unhappy frown. Jaskier's knee pops as he gets to his feet and wanders sleepily to the bathroom. 

"That's fine, the idea of me is pretty good, you know. What else is good is the happy accident of not fully unpacking that bag of yours." The bathroom tile is cold under his feet as he pads forward in the darkness and smacks the sink faucet on. "Surprised we didn't miss that rope, you keep a meticulous stock of things." 

A sleepy mumble of incoherency that sounds vaguely like protest from the bedroom, and Jaskier smiles as he quickly washes his hands. "To be fair to you, we have a lot of rope." 

Still in the darkened room, he shuffles to where the shower is and misses the handle once before sliding the glass door open. Another tired noise, this one of agreement.

"What are we gonna do, label them 'rope a through m' or something?" An image of a tack room filled with certain toys and soft ropes fill his head and he snorts to himself. The make believe tack room slides to their actual tack room, and then horses, then hay, and then Roach and Pegasus and- "Oh, are the horses all good?" 

He turns on the shower after he hears an affirmative grumble. Stubbing his toe on nothing, he winces and dramatically limps towards the light switch and shower fan. He flops his hand over the general vicinity until they turn on and he blinks in the sudden bright light with a hiss. He fumbles with the dimmer with eyes near squinted shut and strips, sliding into the shower. 

He scrubs his hair with soap that's a bit too floral for his liking, conditioner that is so perfumed it makes his nose itch, and body wash that seems to strip all moisture from his skin. He'd think that his parents would buy good soap, but clearly the name brand is better than benefits.

Geralt's silhouette appears in the doorway, and Jaskier blinks through the water running over his face as he rinses out the conditioner. His husband's voice raises over the water. 

"Clothes." 

He hums in thanks as the silhouette places a bundle of dark blobs on the vanity and then dissapears before realizing he can't be heard. 

"Thank you. Showers yours in a second." 

The glass door slides open and he snatches a towel that Geralt must have hung up at some point to dry his hair and then body, wrapping it around his waist. Just as he's about to stick his head out the door and call for him, his husband steps into the bathroom with his own bundle of clothes. 

It's always pleasant having a near bare Geralt nearby. He's so handsome it makes Jaskier's head spin, he doesn't even bother trying to hide the fact he's ogling. Luckily enough for him, his husband is giving Jaskier an appreciative once over as well.

Lips brush his shoulder when Geralt passes him, and he steps towards the fogged mirror to let the hulk of a man by. Unfortunately, he misses when the man strips fully because he's drying off his thighs a bit more thoroughly, but soon enough he's pulling on a pair of clean boxers and his pants from last night. 

Geralt had a tendency to wash his clothes wherever he had stayed if he was there long enough, and while it was always helpful, Jaskier was so much more grateful for it now. Clean underwear was a very good thing. 

A little wiggle and a hop, and he's buttoning his pants and zipping them. Reaching with his towel to quick clear the moisture on his mirror, he raises his voice to be heard over the rushing water. 

"The plows should have the roads cleared by maybe eleven? We should go as soon as possible, I really-" His brain short circuits. He interrupts himself with an indignant squawk and whips his head to where Geralt is behind clouded glass. If the man was in reach he would smack him and then kiss him. Instead, he's whipping his attention back to the mirror and sliding the light dimmer all the way up. Geralt mumbles in protest from the shower and he stares. 

"Good fucking gods." He peers closer at his reflection, fingers flying up to his skin. He's caught between awe and a slow building horror, stupidly worried if he touches it'll be more obvious and somehow spread. 

A beautiful spread of bruises dance over his lower throat and collar, purples and greens, blues and navy. It's like a field of flowers on his skin, colored and loving. A heavy set of bruises from teeth on his shoulder, another on the ridge of his collar bone. If the growing horror of where he currently is standing wasn't building and taking over everything else, he'd love it. 

Oh so carefully, he spreads a finger over one of the higher bruises, his breath catches and his eyes flutter at the tenderness of the spot. The shower turns off. He traces the patchwork of colored love over his skin, emotions battling with themselves. He gets lost in it, doesn't even hear Geralt get out of the shower or get semi dressed. 

His odd state of love and appreciation, fear and dread, is jolted when shower warmed arms wrap around his bare waist and teeth set to his shoulder, biting just a little. He jumps, a gasp stills in his throat when a thumb slides up his chest and rubs over a deep blue mark. Golden eyes stare into his from the mirror, and he's near frozen as lips dance up the side of his throat. Teeth gently tug at his earlobe, and his eyes shut.

"I've got you, Julek."

He keeps them that way as the hands leave him and a sweater is tugged over his head and settled over his chest. Pushing his arms into sleeves as he's helped into the shirt, he blinks as the fabric piled around his neck doesn't disappear as the clothing falls correctly. His voice cracks when he speaks.

"Oh, I-" It's Geralt's turtleneck from yesterday. It smells like him, not the expensive soaps that are too fragrant for their own good. It smells like home. The high collar covers all the bruises and marks with room to spare, and his eyes water. The words seem so quiet when they fall from his mouth. "Thank you." 

His husband carefully pulls the collar down to expose his throat and his Adam's apple bobs. Lips press to his skin, teeth just barely grazing, and his hands search for the silver hair of the man behind him. 

His husband's deep voice rumbles into his throat, shakes through every part of him. "I told you I had you, that I'd take care of you." He can scarcely breathe around the love building in his chest. "No matter what, Jaskier. I have you." 

He has to blink hard to clear tears from eyes. The collar is released, covering the marks of love and he's given a final squeeze before the body behind him slips away and out of the bathroom. It takes a moment for his brain to turn back on, and when it does, he's silent and a bit foggy. 

He opens drawers on the vanity until he finds packaged toothbrushes and small tubes of toothpaste and claims one of each. The pleasant fog wars with the rest of the world, but he finds he doesn't mind just quite yet.

Geralt joins him fully clothed, a steady presence by his side and a warm hand on his lower back when he leans down to rinse his mouth. The water is a cool shock to his system, and he grimaces at how cold it is. When straightens he moves on auto pilot, adjusts the fluffy mop of his hair and discards the flimsy disposable toothbrush. 

Instead of leaving, he tucks himself into Geralt's side and closes his eyes. The hand around his waist never leaves, and he happily tucks his hand into his partner's back pocket. He's humming softly, cuddling in untill Geralt has to take his arm back to put his hair up into a half bun.  

He shuffles behind the man and wraps his arms around his waist and presses his face into his spine. He can feel the man's shoulders shift and his muscles move, and he very happily smooshes his face closer. 

Hands fall to his own and squeeze gently before Geralt turns and collects him into strong arms. Jaskier buries his face into his husbands throat, places a few kisses here and there. Hands scratch through his damp hair, and he rocks closer. 

The take as long as possible packing up what little they had unpacked. Clothes from yesterday, the conspicuous rope, phone chargers. Geralt had switched their phones out at some point and they sit at fairly even charges. 

Jaskier even strips the bed and piles the linens at the foot. He knows his parents won't be the ones dealing with it, so he may as well make it easier to whichever cleaner they hire. They orbit around eachother closely, touching and brushing whenever they can. They waste as much time as possible puttering around a room that isn't theirs to care for before they have nothing left to do.

Bag in Jaskier's hand, his self proclaimed prize once again, they head down stairs to face the nightmare. The house is buzzing as they slip past the main hub, grabbing Jaskier's coat and Jaskier reluctantly relinquishing Geralt's. 

The door is frosty to the touch, and the air is freezing in their lungs when they head to the jeep together, Jaskier swinging the bag idly. The snow is deep, white covering everything in a thick blanket. It's fluffy with an icy underlayer, and it's fun to kick at the powder and watch it roll into little clumps. 

A few too many enthusiastic kicks on Jaskier's part, and Geralt's hand is steadying him before he topples into shin deep snow. Given the balance to kick more and bigger, he does. Geralt smiles. 

The jeep is frosted and icy, the door crackles when  Geralt tugs it open and Jaskier flings the bag into the car and then himself into Geralt. Steady arms catch him and he wraps his fingers in the collar of his husbands jacket and kisses him like his life depends on it. 

Kissing Geralt will never get old. Hands cup his jaw and he sighs happily into his lover's mouth, nips gently at a lower lip. A tongue laps at the seam of his, and he is rather content in allowing the kiss to deepen. Warmth and shared air, pleaseant hums and tongues sliding. 

He tilts his head just a bit and their mouths slot together just that much better. It's heated enough to make his toes curl but chaste enough that he still has butterflies in his stomach. Pulling away is never easy, but the pink tint to his partners cheeks is always a good enough reward. 

Cheekily straightening the collar of the leather bomber he'd rumpled, Jaskier grins. "I'd say we just leave without saying anything, But Grandma would hear of it and have to smile and nod." 

Geralt's face is grim but his eyes sparkle. "We must protect Grandma." 

It's near impossible to match that incredible poker face, but he does try. "If she hears you say that, she'll lovingly chase you with her handbag." 

Geralt tugs open the driver's side and sticks the keys into the car, the engine starting with a squeal because of the cold. By the time they make their quick goodbye and cursory exploration of whatever is offered as food, the car will be warm. 

He grabs his husband's hands and squeezes them once before turning and leading the dreary way back to the house. His kicking of the snow is a bit more subdued. The return trip is not nearly as fun as the escape. 

They stomp their feet before entering, but Jaskier is rather pleased that he still trudges in some snow with him and drips it on the near pristine floor as they wander towards the kitchen. There's laughter again, high pitched. It hurts his head already. 

Geralt brushes over a knuckle with his thumb, tugs Jaskier back a little before murmuring. "We'll be gone in a bit, Love." 

All Jaskier can do is nod. His hands are swallowed by Geralt's sweater sleeves, and hes content to hide in the oversized garment as they enter the kitchen. The only welcoming thing is the scent of coffee wafting through the room and the white bakery box of muffins. 

Jaskier near floats towards the coffee pot, Geralt willingly following him and letting Jaskier prepare them both a cup. He does it like he's a ghost. No one seems to notice them. If it wasn't so damning, it would be nice. Geralt carries the coffee mugs, like always. 

Jaskier's hands are a bit to unreliable for that, twitchy and shaky as he is. but for ages he'd try anyways, merrily swearing at himself when the inevitable drips of coffee sloshed over the rim and scalded his fingers untill Geralt had begun plucking the steaming cups from his hands silently. Instead, he picks out muffins from a big white bakery box and is about to escape with their bounty to some secluded corner when he turns on his heel and nearly runs into his father. 

Any warmth in him freezes. He's taller than the man. He hadn't noticed that before. Infact, the older man looks fragile, hair gray with black flecks and face sullen. Jaskier is still terrified. Ice creeps up his spine, spreads out along his nerves and chills his fingers. He takes a step back and his father doesn't move. 

His dead eyes look at the sleeves of Jaskier's, Geralt's, sweater, then Jaskier's chest and face. He looks disgusted, disappointed, angry, hateful. He doesn't say anything, just stares and Jaskier can't handle it. Geralt's steady and seething at his back, and he breathes as he steps around the man that raised him to know fear. A wrinkled hand shoots out and grips his elbow, Geralt jolts behind him but stills just as quickly. 

"Next year, Boy." His father's voice is dry and toneless, it sounds like a threat but of what he doesn't know. The hand squeezes painfully and Geralt steps forward just as Jaskier tugs his arm away under the guise of readjusting his sleeve. "Same time, you'll be here." 

It's a command. One that he can't enforce and Jaskier sure as hell won't follow. His father stares into Jaskier's face, nods curtly and emotionlessly. He watches as Jaskier steps further away, Geralt stuck to his side bubbling with anger, and near flees to the dining room. They pass his mother, who smiles at him but it's sad, like she's mourning. 

The cold bench of the dining table is rock hard under him, and he presses himself close to Geralt when his husband sits beside him. Side to side, but not nearly close enough. A warm hand lands on his thigh, a thumb circling in silent question. He shakes his head, and slides the chocolate muffin he'd snagged for Geralt towards him. 

The apple cinnamon muffin he'd taken for himself is tasteless when he tears the bottom off and eats it. It sticks to his throat and he has to take small sips of just hot enough coffee to get it down. An ankle hooks around his, and he slumps. 

Apparently, the fact that they'd chosen to sit attracts the rest of his extended family. They all wander in shortly after, speaking amongst themselves and taking seats at the table. An odd false inclusion, surrounding Jaskier and Geralt but never speaking or addressing them. He eats the top of the muffin. Geralt slides him a chocolate chip.

They finish their coffee and stand up, conversation buzzing around them. All Jaskier does is perform a curt nod, says to no one in particular when the conversation lulls as they stand. 

"We'll be off. Have safe travels."

The smile on his face stings, he wishes he could have the guts to stare cooly and frown like Geralt. His mother's mouth opens, lips move as if to say something, her brow wrinkling. His husband's hand finds his, and he's gently led away from the dining table and past the piano room. He floats a hand over the instrument, and continues on. The ground is like marsh under his feet, threatening to swallow him up with each step.

They can't get to the door fast enough. The cold of the outdoors is biting enough to remove the false security of the warmth behind them, and Jaskier shakes his shoulders. Geralt is stiff at his side, angry, but not at him. He swings their hands between them before the motion almost makes him slip on ice. 

The car idles softly, the cheerful rumble of the engine muffled among all the snow. Geralt deposits Jaskier on the passengers side before going to the driver's and pulling out the ice scraper. He wants to do that. Jaskier makes grabby hands over the snowy hood of the car. 

"Gimme gimme, mine please!" 

Geralt just smiles and patiently hands over the ice scraper and gets into the car, leaving Jaskier to smack snow off the windows of the car with the brush end of the scraper. He likes the way the snow thumps to the ground, the way it clings on and then let's go. He circles the car, swiping off the feathery powder where he can and chipping away at ice when it stubbornly coats the glass. 

He sweeps the back window clear and then scrapes it before tapping on it rapidly. Geralt's honey eyes flicker to him in the rearview mirror, brows raised in concern until Jaskier's cheeks pull into a grin and he waves frantically before leaning forward and breathing out a steady stream of air on the glass. 

Fog coats it and he uses his finger to draw a heart in the condensation, then another. And a flower, for good measure. Geralt is laughing inside the car, eyes crinkled and face bright. He wishes he could hear the sound of it, but he's alright with just watching it before he moves on to smack snow off the license plate and back lights.

Around the car he goes until he's clearing the windshield, the heat of the car making it easier now than it would have been before. Scrape and sweep, snow and ice goes flying, and unfortunately, he's cleaned the car and there's no more left so beat with his ice scraper. It would be completely disappointing if he didn't get to go into the car and kiss warm lips and rosy cheeks as a reward. 

Shaking off the ice scraper, he tugs open the back door and slides it onto the ground before slamming it shut again. The snow puffs around his feet as he steps towards his door, and just as he's going to open it to slide inside, a voice hollers.

"Julian!"

His mother. His head whips to the house as she finishes tugging a burgundy coat around her shoulders and hurries towards him. He sees Geralt shift in the corner of his eye, his husband about to leave the car to join him, but Jaskier shakes his head at the man he loves. His partner's expression stays the same, no longer the light from earlier but a concerned frown. 

It's comforting, golden eyes on his back as he steps away from the safety of the car and meets his mother halfway between the house and his escape. She's out of breath from the cold and her rushing, her cheeks turning red from the nip in the air. 

"Yeah, mom."

As always, the title feels a bit dead on his lips. She stops a few feet in front of him, her eyes darting across her face. She fusses with the buttons of her coat, nervous in a way she's often not. Her voice is loud, too loud in the quiet when she speaks.

"We had something, you know. A family." 

A heavy pause. She takes another step forward. Jaskier shoves his hands in his pockets and clenches his fists. She bites her lip, searches him for something. For what, he doesn't know. 

"Seeing you smile and play that piano you were always so infatuated with, it made me think." Her tone drops soft, almost weak. She sounds like she's pleading. He's never heard her beg. "We miss you, Julian. We miss the way it used to be. Truly, your father and I, we raised you as best we could, and we're getting older."

"Seeing the ring on your finger at your office because we couldn't contact you anywhere else, it made me hope. But you hadn't even invited us to the wedding-" 

She shakes her head, doesn't even try and finish her sentence. Tears well up in her eyes and he just feels sick. He feels numb, watching the woman he'd spent so long avoiding and hiding from form sentences that almost sound like she wants him. Jaskier. She breathes shakily, reaching out for him. He can't find it in himself to reach back. For a moment he's wondering if this is the apology that for so long, he'd wanted. He doesn't want it now. She trembles and her voice wavers.

"If you weren't so-" 

There it is, the catch. His mother shakes her head, blinks her eyes. 

"If you didn't need to go against everything your father and I told you, wished for you. Julian, we wanted you to be happy, to have a family. The house would have been big enough and-"  

Ringed, slender fingers grab his arms, tug his hands from his pockets and grasp them. She looks crazed, desperate. He wants to run, the emotion she's showing is not adding up  because he can't smell alcohol and she's crying, and he's here, taller than her because she's not wearing heels and she's not even wearing makeup , and he feels sick.

"It could have been good, Julian. We could have all been happy. If you just, give it all up, whatever it is you're playing at, it could be good again. He's not, that man, he-" She jerks her head behind him, at Geralt. "He can't be what you truly want, can't be what's good for you, I can-" 

His heart stopped beating a while ago, he thinks. He's angry. His blood cools with a stiff rage, because how dare she, and he does something he never dared do before. He takes a deep breath and interrupts her. The words catch in his throat, heavy and raw.

"Did you know he has brothers?"

His mother is frozen, her cruel pleading halting. She is still, staring at him silently and he wonders if she even heard him. 

"He has two, mom." 

She blinks. Shakes her head. "Please, Julian, I didn't know that but it doesn't matter- "

He closes his eyes, his voice shakes and he squeezes the hands in his. He interrupts, again. 

"Eskel is the eldest and he's the sweetest man you'll ever meet. He's got goats and a farm and he does woodworking. He made the sweater I wore yesterday, Mom." His throat aches, tears push at his eyes. "He made the table in our dining room. I made him carve his initials in it because he didn't think he should, didn't think he should claim the masterpiece he created. We love him so much but sometimes he still feels like he doesn't belong." 

The world swims behind his closed eyes. 

"There's Lambert. He's bright and fiery and has a heart of gold underneath everything, and he has a brewery and a bar and he somehow still makes the worst of concoctions involving alcohol when it's just him and his brothers. He's wicked smart and knows so much more than I could ever imagine , mom, but he doesn't think he deserves to speak his mind or feel what he feels." 

He blinks, the world is bright and white around him. 

"He helped me with my garden. He made the strawberry boxes and the window boxes. His husband is just as sharp and witty as he is. Aiden, he lost his eye and nearly his life but he still tries to make me smile when I'm sad and he can cook like nobodies buisness." 

His mother is watching him with wide eyes, her lips parted in some type of emotion, maybe shock. A tear slides down his cheek, he clenches his jaw. He frees his hands from her grasp, crosses his arms and shakes his head.

"And then there's their father, Vesemir. He calls me son and he means it. He welcomed me into his home like I was his own, and he doesn't mind that I'm loud and disruptive." His mom winces, flinches back from him. "He wants me to play music and let's me ask questions and he's so patient with me, with all of them. He cares for us, for me." 

She's reaching out for him again. " Julian , you can't possibly-" 

He jerks away from her, desperate to stay away. 

"I love them so fucking much Mom, and they, somehow and despite it all, love me ." His voice wavers and drops. "I thought, for the longest time, that I was unlovable.Truly, I did. I thought I was nothing, that I could do nothing." 

He steps back towards the car. She doesn't move, just holds her hands out towards him, silently pleading for him to come back. 

"They are my family. And that man?" He gestures towards where Geralt has his hands on the steering wheel, anxious because his fingers aren't tapping. "That man is my husband. I love him so much it burns, he's offered me love and life and everything I never thought I could have. I adore him, and you know something?" 

His hands are shaking, he reaches blindly for the door. 

"He adores me just as much. I won't just stand there and let you talk about the life we have together like that. That man is my husband and he has a name. It would be good of you to learn it, as I share his last." 

His entire body trembles and he swings open the car door with a snarl on his lips. 

" Goodbye, Mom." 

She's pale and crying, he's not any better but he's vibrating with anger. He's so mad, so fucking done and Geralt is waiting for him, worry carved into every line of his handsome face. The door slams shut. He shakes his head, lips trembling, and reaches for his husband. 

He cups the light of his life in his hands, a traitorous sob slipping from his mouth as he smooths out a worried frown with his thumb before kissing the man he'd die for. 

His husband melts into his hands and into his lips. Jaskier holds the most precious thing in the world in his hands and kisses him. Geralt leans towards him, cards a hand through his hair until Jaskier pulls back with a shaky breathe.

"Home, Please?" 

Geralt's gaze speaks volumes, and his partner doesn't need to say anything as he backs the jeep up and steers them out of the Pankratz estate. 

He doesn't turn around, but he flicks his eyes to the rearview mirror. His mother stands in the driveway and watches them leave, her arms loose by her side. He feels sick.

The drive home is silent except soft eighties rock playing through the stereo. Geralt's hand is in his, resting on the center console, and Jaskier's head is tilted back and his eyes closed. 

He breaks the stilted quiet after around thirty minutes.  "Never again." 

He rocks his head side to side in a desperate shake of his head. "Truly. Never, ever again." He frees his hand from Geralt's to press his palms to eyes untill he sees sparks and then drags them  down his face.

Rocking his head to look at his partner, Geralt's eyes are on the road but his lips are quirked. A split second glance of golden eyes, and Geralt snorts softly. Jaskier reaches over to pat the man's shoulder gently but rapidly. 

"I mean it. I want you to take me out back and put me down if I ever suggest it. I need to be eviscerated and put through a meat grinder if I even think about it." 

Geralt chuckles, deep and low. "Julek, I'm glad you said it first because you could not pay me to go back there." 

A moment of silence, Geralt focused on the road and holding back a grin, and Jaskier laughs. His head tilts with it, eyes squinting and chest wheezing with the force. His hand finds his partners and he brushes his smiling lips across knuckles. 

The remaining tension fades completely, leaving nothing but a content companionship with Jaskier noisily humming or tapping out the song and Geralt focused on the road but still listening to whatever sound he produces.

It's a decent trip home, not nearly as bad as it could be. It's only three and a half hours, and halfway through they switch seats, Jaskier driving and Geralt in the passenger's seat. 

Time flies, and before too long their home is in view. Roach is near the fence by the road, surrounded by a few other their horses snuffling through snow. The quirky horse she is, she follows the car up the drive and stares daggers into them when they stop the vehicle and get out. 

Of course, they both go to greet her, Jaskier smoothing over her silky nose and murmuring apologies for leaving her by herself and Geralt sidling up behind him, bracketing him in warmth. Hands place on his hips and a chin rests on his shoulder, Geralt bending down to do so with a pleased hum. 

After Jaskier is done smoothing down Roach's temper tantrum, Geralt strokes her nose and the blaze on her face. The cold gets to them soon enough, and it's Geralt this time that grabs the duffle and holds it above his head, high enough to where Jaskier can't reach it. 

He still tries, flailing and jumping, skittering over ice and near tripping a few times. The bag stays out of reach and Geralt is smiling, his eyes crinkled and cheeks red. Laughter and half hearted, loving insults slip from Jaskier's throat, and for now, they're home.