Work Text:
Geralt doesn’t dislike Jaskier because he sleeps with men.
He dislikes Jaskier because he’s a terrible roommate - somehow slovenly and prissy at once, creating a whirlwind of destruction one day then going overboard demanding Geralt help him clean it all the next. He’s loud, unpredictable and needy for attention, always going on about people Geralt doesn’t care to know and the petty vendettas he has against each of them. Even when Geralt makes it more than clear that he has no interest in Jaskier’s friendship, he’s undeterred, shoving dauntlessly into Geralt’s sparse existence, smiling guilelessly as he presses every advantage he doesn’t have.
Like with his stuff. Geralt owns approximately three shirts, all in the same shade of black, just one pair of jeans, and somehow his closet has become cluttered with Jaskier’s neon patterned hawaiian shirts and collection of hot pants with sexual puns on them.
Worst of all … he’s incredibly fucking inconsiderate when there’s even the slightest chance of getting his dick wet. Even when Geralt has a hunt the next morning that he explicitly demands his rest for, there’s a 50/50 chance that he’ll hear Jaskier banging into the apartment at 3 AM, tripping over Geralt’s weights in the dark while his date laughs breathily.
“Aw shit,” Jaskier would say, “Geralt’s gonna be so pissed. I’ll, uh, I’ll get that in the morning.”
Then the slick sounds of kissing. The clumsy, hurried slide of clothing pulled off and tossed away. The jangle of a belt buckle hitting the floor.
Jaskier’s bad enough when he’s doing the fucking - plying his one-night partner with whispered flattery and recycled pet names (they must be stupid, Geralt thinks, to believe that dear heart is for their ears alone) - but when he’s getting fucked it’s …
Frantic panting and bitten-off moans.
“Com’on,” his partner had said once, “I bet I could get you to make more noise.”
“No … my -ah, roommate has really good hearing,” Jaskier had forced out, then, “hey, why don't put your fingers in my mouth.”
So yeah. He knows. He knows and he does this shit anyway, even though Geralt’s in just the next room, insulated by walls as thin as paper, grinding the palms of his hands into his eyes as he furiously counts into his mediation breathing.
(He should … one of these days he will just go out there and throw the lot of them out by the scruffs of their necks like misbehaving kittens. He really doesn’t know what’s stopping him.)
If Melitele feels especially cruel that night, and Jaskier’s partner has performed well, he might even pull out his guitar and serenade them after. Something sappy and soft, the husky timbre of his voice dragging something painful from Geralt’s chest.
Geralt doesn’t dislike Jaskier because he sleeps with men.
It’s pathetic how desperately he wants to be one of them.
--
They fuck for the first time after Jaskier just got dumped.
It’s an inauspicious start, but. Nothing in Geralt’s life has been going to plan since Jaskier answered his clumsy, ominously-worded Craigslist ad for a roommate.
(SEEKING: male roommate for 2br1b in downtown Novigrad district, 300cr/mo. Must be quiet. Respectful of personal space. OK with blood & don’t scare easy.)
It’s like the scene from a romance novel, though. Jaskier comes in when it’s storming outside, late enough into the evening that Geralt wasn’t expecting him back at all. He’s drenched through with rain. Sniffling. And at first Geralt doesn’t even look up from his magazine. Jaskier’s a walking disaster, after all, probably left his umbrella on the subway again and caught a cold.
But when Jaskier walks past him Geralt sees that there’s a bruise on his cheek.
“Are you in trouble again?” Geralt asks flatly, throwing aside his magazine as he pins Jaskier with his glare. When he gets worried, it comes out as anger. Most of his emotions do, for that matter. Jaskier’s never had trouble before parsing the intent from his words (erring, perhaps, on putting too much good intent behind them), but this time he flinches back, and Geralt can see he’s been crying. “Shit … sorry,” Geralt mutters, standing to get a better look at him. “What happened?”
“You know how it is,” Jaskier says, smiling ruefully. “I’m just too much … isn’t that what you always say? I want too much. I push too hard. It’s always me who gets hurt in the end.” His dark silk shirt is plastered to his body from the wet. Likely ruined. Geralt remembers him dressing for his date earlier that evening, trying and discarding several outfits because he wanted to impress this woman, this Countess who is all he’s been able to talk about for the past month.
I wouldn’t hurt you, Geralt wants to say, but that’s a lie. He’s a Witcher. That’s all but guaranteed.
Jaskier walks to the freezer to grab a bag of peas. “Wow,” he winces as he presses it against his cheek, “she really put her weight behind that slap.”
Geralt sits back on the futon, his wrists dangling from the edges of his knees. He should say something. A good roommate would. Eskel would say something comforting … you’re not too much, maybe, or wanna talk about it? Lambert would be an asshole and make Jaskier laugh, pull out the Xbox and kick his ass at Mario Kart ... or whatever it was they played together.
“Love how you just sit in the corner and brood,” Jaskier says. “You’re really my rock, you are.” He sits heavily on the futon next to Geralt and leans on his shoulder. His hair is dripping on Geralt’s shirt, making dark wet spots on his jeans. Geralt should get a towel, at least, but he doesn’t really want to move.
“You’re cold,” Geralt says. It’s usually Jaskier’s job to state the obvious, but it’s contagious tonight.
“Yeah,” Jaskier laughs, “warm me up?”
It’s a tired flirtation. He doesn’t mean anything by it. He’s always saying these things when squeezing past Geralt in the kitchen or openly admiring his body as he does push-ups in the living room.
He even said it himself once: hah, it’s a force of habit. I like what I like! Don’t worry, though, I’d never fuck things up between us.
That’s what Geralt is doing, isn’t it, easing Jaskier down onto the futon, sliding his mouth over him for a kiss. Jaskier makes a surprised noise. His fingers tangle in Geralt’s shirt as he kisses him back. He doesn’t say no.
It’s exactly what Geralt was always afraid of.
Geralt is gentle with the bruise on Jaskier’s cheek, brushes his thumb over the chilled skin there, and kisses it. He tastes the salt from Jaskier’s tears, diluted from the rain. He grips Jaskier around his slender waist and strips off his damp, stupidly tight pants.
“See,” Jaskier says, his voice trembling. “I’m shivering.”
Geralt runs his hands up and down Jaskier’s thighs, feeling them jump under his touch. Jaskier spreads his legs for him as Geralt leans back to pull off his shirt.
They are - he is doing something terrible. Taking advantage of Jaskier in an emotionally weakened state. He’s always been able to hold back his urges - as a Witcher, as a man.
Apparently not where Jaskier was concerned.
There’s condoms and lube under the coffee table, stashed there for Jaskier’s last-minute hook-ups. Geralt tries not to think of that when he hitches Jaskier’s hips up and presses his cock against his entrance, Jaskier’s lube-slick fingers overlapping his own. They’re so eager that they're fucking before Geralt is even completely undressed, his jeans still hitched low around his hips, his belt jangling softly with his movements.
Jaskier arches sharply as he’s entered, the thin edge of a whine to his voice. He’s tight. Probably hasn’t been fucked since he started dating his now-ex.
He can be surprisingly faithful when he gets, in his words, stars in his eyes for someone.
“Am I hurting you?” Geralt asks, his voice low.
“You’re big,” Jaskier breathes, “don’t stop.” He squirms until Geralt is sheathed within him completely and Geralt breathes through it, trying desperately to last. Jaskier is hiding his face with his arms, the damp silk shirt pulled up to expose his chest.
That’s right, Geralt thinks as he bends over Jaskier’s body, biting gently at his ribs. Don’t remember me. I’m just a nameless, faceless man you picked up to comfort you for tonight only.
It almost hurts to kiss Jaskier but he can’t help himself. Jaskier’s lips taste like the salt of his tears, and Geralt hates it, never wanted to hurt Jaskier like this, but whenever he tries to pull back, Jaskier links his ankles around Geralt’s hips, holds him tightly like he’s afraid they’re going to fall apart.
Geralt shifts his thrusts just a little and Jaskier cries out.
“Sorry,” he mumbles immediately, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, then, “oh.” He looks up as if seeing Geralt for the first time. “I guess-,” he groans breathily as Geralt rolls his hips. “I can be as loud as I want.”
Yes, Geralt thinks. If he can have some little bit of Jaskier for his own it might be this. He strokes Jaskier’s cock and sucks kisses along his neck and fucks him as hard as the creaking futon can withstand, and in return Jaskier wails for him, his gasps intercut with slurred half-sentences.
He never calls Geralt dear heart.
He doesn’t play anything for him afterwards, though he comes spectacularly, fingers digging into Geralt’s shoulder as he spasms and twitches and writhes.
Geralt takes his own pleasure with his eyes closed, and when he opens them again he realizes that his hair has fallen around his face, and Jaskier is staring at him with large, somber eyes as they both pant in the silence.
He should say something.
A good roommate would.
“Sorry,” Geralt says, his eyes cutting away. “This won’t happen again.” He grabs his clothes and escapes to his room, the silence of his departure ringing hollowly behind him.
--
Geralt remembers when Eskel had confessed, drunkenly, to sleeping with a succubus.
“No!” Lambert had said with surprising vehemence. “That’s how they get their hooks into you!”
“It was just the once!” Eskel had snapped back, perhaps surprised at the reversal in their usual dynamic.
“If it happens once, it’ll happen again and again,” Lambert had said darkly. “Like exes. No way to make a clean break. Once the bar is lowered, it’s gonna get harder and harder to say no.”
Geralt thinks about that a lot. Especially when fucking Jaskier becomes a semi-regular occurrence.
He’d wanted to bolt after the first time, though it would have meant leaving a well-priced flat in a city rich with work. Good luck finding cheaper rent now that the dockside’s been gentrified all to fuck.
But the next morning, Jaskier had been ... Jaskier. Cheerful, chatty, for some reason determined to make blueberry pancakes. Geralt hurriedly leaves for the gym when Jaskier manages to pour half the batter across the top of the stove before he even put down a pan.
And it’s been ... fine. It’s been fine. They bicker about who broke the dishwasher, and split take-out over beer and watch those gimmicky dating shows Jaskier likes, their knees bumping warmly on the futon.
(”I could make a killing on one of those.”
”Looks a lot of work for quick divorce.”
”No, see, the point is not to win it, the point is to amass a fan base that you can leverage into social capital to boost your influencer-”
“Now you’re just talking gibberish.”)
Jaskier’s still dating. When is he not? Geralt buckles and gets a pair of soundproof headphones. He can still hear the edges of sounds, the words muffled and indistinguishable, the strum of guitar in the quiet.
It only tortures him a little, remembering the taste of Jaskier’s mouth.
And it means that he almost misses it when Jaskier bangs on his bedroom door at 2 AM in the morning, reeking of booze and swaying on his feet.
“It happened again,” he says, and pushes into Geralt’s room like he has any fucking right. Like he can just come in and claim Geralt’s body and heart like he owns it.
Only after hauling Jaskier’s body roughly against his own does Geralt realize, maybe, Jaskier just wanted some friendly company. But by then Jaskier’s kissing him back, and pulling the tie out of his hair, and Geralt is fumbling with the clasps on Jaskier’s unnecessarily fussy pants and blowing him as he writhes on Geralt’s sleep-warm bed.
It does happen, as Lambert warned, again and again.
When a bubble-headed chit throws him over for forgetting their 3-month anniversary (??), Geralt fucks Jaskier against the shower stall, the water sluicing hot over their straining bodies.
When a man with truly terrible mustache dumps Jaskier for not being “interested enough” in his “life”, Geralt bends Jaskier over the kitchen counter, making the cupboards shudder and the dishes clatter in time with Jaskier’s moans.
And he’s handling it all very well, considering. It’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? Sex and not to have to talk about it. Jaskier’s monogamy never factored into the equation.
So why did it feel so terrible?
Jaskier is waiting for him one evening, looking somber.
“I think I should move out,” he says.
Yes, Geralt thinks, even as his chest spasms and his stomach roils. It would be for the best. He wants Jaskier all the time now, can think of nothing but his careless smiles and easy company. It’s messing with his head, making him want things ... Jaskier can’t possibly give him.
“I know you’re allergic to conversations, but I can’t ...” Jaskier draws in a quick breath, smiling mirthlessly. “Here I go being too much again. Next month’s rent is here on the table. I’ll even write you a new ad, one that doesn’t make you sound like a serial killer.”
Jaskier’s eyes look bright. Geralt steps forward and, with pure muscle memory, reaches out to touch Jaskier's arm.
“Don’t,” Jaskier says shakily, and Geralt snatches his hand away like it’s been burned. Curls it into a fist at his side. “Look at me, I’m a fucking spigot these days,” Jaskier mumbles, scrubbing his eyes with the back of his wrist. “I just ... I just want love, Geralt, and I’ll never be able to find it if I just keep sabotaging myself for an excuse ...” he falters here.
“Can I touch you?” Geralt asks, his voice rough.
Jaskier swallows, his eyes luminous. They cut straight to the core of him, pares his flesh from his bones and leaves him ... exposed. His heart in an empty cage.
“What’ll you do if I say yes?” Jaskier asks quietly. “Will you take me to your bed, and fuck my brains out, and act like nothing happened afterwards? I’ll probably let you. Because I’m weak, and I’m stupid-”
“No,” Geralt mutters through the pounding in his heart, “I am.” He wishes desperately he could pull Jaskier close, say to this with his body instead of his words. But Jaskier has not given him permission. “I’ve always just wanted ... you.” He closes his eyes and when he opens them Jaskier is there, in his arms, like he always was meant to be, like he would never leave.
“We’re both fucking morons, then,” Jaskier says, laughing through his tears as Geralt presses a shaking kiss to his temple.
--
Afterwards, he plays a song for him, then another, and another. He calls Geralt my love, which is a new name, and one Geralt is determined never to share. They make blueberry pancakes and there are too many kisses to count, and when Jaskier looks at Geralt, it is ever with stars in his eyes.