It means absolutely nothing

Sex with Jaskier is pleasurable. Geralt will give it that. It’s part of their routine — traveling, slaying (on Geralt’s part), chattering (on Jaskier’s part), eating, bathing, fucking and not talking about it ever (on both parts). It’s just the way it is. From the moment Jaskier unceremoniously slid into the bench in that damn tavern (fuck you, destiny), from unspoken proposal and heady glances — it was set. Jaskier’s breathy gasps when they ground into each other outside the city, eager to get it over with — abandoned house with charred walls, cracking floors and spectacles of dust getting everywhere. Jaskier’s nimble fingers trying to find purchase on Geralt’s unyielding clothes. It was pleasurable. So Geralt allowed it to be. He should’ve known better. They’re not exclusive. They’re the opposite of that. They’re definitely, deliberately the opposite of that. Geralt hmms when he sees Jaskier smiling at another conquest (with a dick or lovely breasts — no matter). He turns away when Jaskier’s happy laughter fades on his way to another room, to another bed, to someone else’s hands (and mouth, not that Geralt is thinking about it). Sometimes Jaskier will share tiny details of his encounters — nothing too salacious, just little something that Geralt will hear in the bard’s future songs anyway. Geralt usually rides Roach a little faster, to make a point, to mute Jaskier’s affronted huff at such betrayal. But it doesn’t stop Jaskier from continuing his tale, it just makes him a bit more breathless. Geralt grinds his teeth and endures. He definitely should’ve known better. Geralt fucks like he fights. Efficiently and giving it everything he’s got. It’s like a bonus exercise with lovely results. Women are kind and grateful. Men are brisk and impressed. It’s a simple affair, even though sometimes Geralt feels a flicker of something more. When Yennefer is so close, her warmth is melting that painful feeling inside. When Yennefer smiles and Geralt feels his lips moving in return. When she whispers tender words that shape the foundation of mutual understanding. It looks promising. It almost looks real. Until it isn’t it. Until the warmth and shared past isn’t enough. Until their future is so far apart, it’d take a life to mend it and it won’t budge. Geralt is not in the busyness of hope. He makes decisions, and then he stoically suffers the consequences. It’s just the way it is. Geralt finds Jaskier after their falling out. He’d call it something else, but he’s too concentrated on fighting off bandits that captured the bard. Everything’s over too fast, leaving Geralt to his hardest battle. Saving Jaskier is easy. Talking to him — not so much. So they fuck. It feels wrong. Broken. Off-key. Jaskier whimpers when Geralt accidentally presses into one of his bruises. Geralt smoothes it over with his fingers and feels as powerless and unhappy as he ever was. He holds Jaskier tighter and pretends to not notice wetness from where Jaskier’s face is pressing into his neck’s juncture. It’s the saddest love-making Geralt has ever had. Geralt doesn’t let himself linger on that new label either. It shouldn’t matter that love-making is not in his life’s dictionary. Jaskier is trying to be talkative after, but trails off and gives up entirely when Geralt pulls Jaskier closer to himself on a bedroll. As Jaskier’s tense form softens and his breathing evens out, Geralt finally knows better than to believe that it means absolutely nothing at all.