It means absolutely nothing

Jaskier knows he’s either gonna get thoroughly fucked or thoroughly beaten after his proposition. There’s also a chance of becoming best buddies and traveling their happily ever afters together, but it seems as likely as meeting a real witcher in this minuscule town. And yet. Jaskier doesn’t believe his luck when he follows the witcher towards a distant part of a forest nearby — ah, yes, there’s a burned down house there, how lovely, how promising. Sure, then, he’s seen worse, and the way the witcher strides, leather hugging his impressive thighs and gorgeous ass — it’s all very inspiring. Jaskier stops questioning reality when the witcher shoves him against the nearest wall, the one that is mostly intact, though it’s still charred and it’s gonna fuck up Jaskier’s clothes. All thoughts about laundry get erased from Jaskier's mind when the witcher — quite unceremoniously, mind you — gets straight to the point, aka Jaskier’s dick. The touch of calloused fingers sends shivers up Jaskier’s spine, and he tries to anchor himself by grabbing the witcher’s armor plates. It’s ridiculous how tough they’re. Jaskier feels like he’s attempting to caress a mountain. Almost no skin is accessible for his touch — the witcher’s face seems too personal, and Jaskier doesn’t want to aggravate the man in the middle of whatever magic he’s doing right now. Speaking of magic — Jaskier clutches to witcher’s shoulder, wants to look down, to imprint the view for future reference, but there’s almost no space between their bodies, so he settles on watching the witcher’s mouth, the rhythm of breath making unruly strands of white hair move a little. Jaskier yearn to touch it, to tuck it under the witcher’s ear, but he also wants to stay alive, thank you very much, so he imagines how those long, strong fingers look around his shaft, moving quickly and surely, and feels the crescendo of heat rising from within. Jaskier is about to come, his breath stutters, he’s not sure if he’s allowed to soil witcher’s pitch black clothes. He feels how the witcher twists his hand just so, thumb touching head’s sensitive skin, and there’s nothing Jaskier can do but grasp those unyielding armor plates and come undone. Jaskier's forehead touches witcher’s jaw and the bard takes a deep breath. The witcher should smell disgusting with all those layers of dirt, cheap onion soups, monsters' blood and other ungodly fluids — but beneath it all there’s that special, very distinct, powerful smell of the man, his skin, his power, his vulnerability and humanity. Jaskier takes gulps of air as this wall of a man continues to work his oversensitive dick. It’s almost painful, but it feels real, like a bright, definite point in Jaskier’s life. As soon as Jaskier gets at least some brain functionality back, he’s eager to return the favor, though he’s not kidding anyone — it’s as much a favor for himself, to take, taste the witcher, to get close to him, to touch, to feel the tension in his thighs as he’s gonna work tender skin of his dick, sucking at it like there’s no tomorrow. The witcher’s hand stops Jaskier’s descent to his knees, vanishing all those glorious dick-sucking plans in a second. “No need” is all the man rumbles, working into his — wonderfully marked with Jaskier’s come — pants, tugging at his dick a couple of times and coming with a bone-deep grunt. Jaskier keeps staring in awe. The world keeps moving. They clean up the best they can (Jaskier is not disappointed that the witcher doesn’t use magic, he’s not, really). Jaskier is ready to be brushed off as a nuisance never to be seen again, but can’t bring himself to straight up admit it, so he tags along with the witcher and his horse. He talks (chatters), he sings (hums) and he follows the witcher until he’ll stop him. Except he doesn’t. Around second or third glorious blow-job Jaskier starts thinking of the witcher as Geralt. They’re definitely on the first-name basis now, though he rarely hears Geralt say anything, let alone his name. They travel as random people who happen to occupy the same space at the same time for whatever mysterious reason. Jaskier doesn’t complain. He feels inspired to create ballads about menacing witcher. He can almost taste transformative power at the tips of his fingers — with a song or two he can change people’s perception of not-so-human warrior, so he sets his mind to do just that. All those pesky emotions will work in his favor, becoming his creative force, his fuel for another ballad. That’s why Jaskier doesn’t question himself when his heart swells with pride after Geralt saves a bunch of little children and refuses payment. Jaskier isn’t surprised to learn that Geralt usually chooses less self-preservation way of doing things and more save-people-and-refuse-to-admit-it-later way. Jaskier catalogs all those tiny details and big sacrifices, turns them into more upbeat and hopeful songs, beaming with satisfaction when people greet Geralt by throwing wary glances instead of rotten vegetables. Jaskier has little doubt that sooner or later everyone will know how great and kind Geralt really is. That is, of course, when Geralt goes off to his own adventure and it’s not like they had promised each other to stay together forever and ever. They’re not even friends, not really. Jaskier isn’t stupid to believe that Geralt would burden himself with any kind of connection. Does this realization hurt? Probably, but Jaskier isn’t the one to dwell on destiny’s decisions. He takes them in stride. He lives his own life and hopes that it’s gonna intertwine with Geralt’s at some point. And intertwine it does. Geralt saves him from an ugly swamp monster. Not that Jaskier didn’t have any kind of plan how to eventually get out of this mess, but it was extremely satisfying to see Geralt in action, moving like a white-haired beast, all sharp turns and precise cuts (Jaskier knew he’d had to rework on this description for a ballad, he had standards after all). Getting back to their usual routine afterwards is easier than breathing. Eat, travel, slay, sing, sleep. An elevation of their not-relationship to proper fucking is a glorious bonus. Jaskier didn’t know that he was capable of sounds that he makes as Geralt pounds into him. He also didn’t know that Geralt could be unashamedly tender in bed. It’s heady to see Geralt mapping Jaskier’s body with his hands, eyes, mouth, like he’s looking for hidden locks and treasures. And does he find them! Jaskier squirms under Geralt splayed fingers, feeling too hot, too incoherent to understand what is happening. When he sees Geralt’s smug smile above him, Jaskier hits the witcher on the shoulder, but it feels like self-punishment, the way Geralt's muscles absorb the impact. Geralt smiles wider, he looks almost feral, and yet the kind twinkle of golden eyes gives away his true intentions. He lowers to kiss Jaskier’s open mouth, licks into it and withdraws when Jaskier gathers enough power to respond. It elicits a whine from the bard and Geralt laughs, deep rumble reverberating into Jaskier’s body. It’s a bliss. A torture and a bliss. Jaskier squeezes Geralt steely bottom, digs his nails a bit to make a point and arches for another kiss. Geralt generously obliges. Jaskier is in heaven. So naturally it’s all about to fall apart. Geralt meets Yennefer. Jaskier’d say it’s his own fault, but destiny is a tricky bitch, so his final verdict is not here, nor there. Yennefer saves his life. Geralt does too. Then Geralt saves Yennefer’s life as well. It’s a merry life-saving festival, you see. At first, Jaskier is grateful and happy. The elation of being alive is akin to being drugged by the most powerful potions. The view of Geralt fucking into Yennefer exquisite body will be burned into Jaskier's excited retinas forever. It’s much later when the reality of what has transpired would settle into every bone of Jaskier’s body. The melancholic echo of what-could and what-didn’t humming in the distance, never truly fading away. Jaskier starts fucking other people. He did fumble here and there before and after the-Geralt-phase, but now it’s a necessity. To ease that growing worry that dug its cave inside his heart. To prove to himself that everything’s fine, nothing changed, and he’ll get by, find someone better, someone who isn’t Geralt. It’s a big fat lie, but there’s no mage to see through his bullshit. Jaskier enjoys sex, bathes in other people’s attention, appreciates himself enough. It’s harder to keep his facade when Geralt asks if he’s all right, while he’s slowly moving two fingers into Jaskier’s ass. There’s honest worry and openness in that question, the molten gold of Geralt’s eyes shining in the candlelight. He even stops his ministrations when Jaskier doesn’t answer right away. Geralt touches his cheek, combs away stray hairs and repeats the question. Jaskier has to squeeze his eyes shut to stop the feelings from showing, betraying him. Instead, he nods and fights with prickly tears to keep them at bay. He’s not that emotional, whatever some might say. He knows his place, he has accepted his fate (seriously, fuck you, destiny, you cruel mistress) and he’s gonna persevere, he’s gonna shine, he’s gonna be happy, damn you. Above him Gerald hums his ambiguous neither yes, neither no and touches all the places that would make Jaskier forget. Geralt’s hair tickles Jaskier’s sensitive skin and it’s almost enough. Jaskier puts his forearm over his face. He might be crying silent tears, though it’s hard to tell if it’s from pleasure or bitter realization of what he truly feels. Most likely both, because ain’t love a bitch? Strangely enough, it doesn’t hurt that much when Geralt fucks other people. Jaskier can’t feel jealous of another body. It’s like a different training ground for the mighty witcher. Another conquest, another victory. Jaskier is proud of himself. He’s almost at peace with everything that’s going on in his life. He almost believes that he can live like that. It all comes to an inevitable halt when Yennefer meets them on the damn mountain. She’s just as displeased as Jaskier is, and he’d feel sorry for another unfortunate soul that got too close to the real witcher, but alas he’s not that generous and neither is she. They tug at Geralt, each honest and unguarded. Turns out Geralt is not as invulnerable as he looks, and he breaks into a million little pieces — of what he must do, what he wants to do, what he’s capable of and what he’s gonna do. Somehow Jaskier thought that he’d be allowed to be by Geralt's side when the witcher puts all those pieces together, when he figures himself out. That Jaskier would be a part of this painful process. Instead, he gets hurt by Geralt. He gets cut by those million little pieces. Jaskier knows that there’s nothing else for him to do or say. It’s Geralt’s life and Geralt’s heart. So in a way it’s good to get his own broken so thoroughly, so cruelly and be set free. Except his idiotic, hopeful, silly heart doesn’t listen. Ignores his reasons and dulls his pain, day by day. Every time he has to sing about the witcher in a crowded tavern smelling of cheap beer and dirty feet, his heart soars. Every time he learns that Geralt did another stupid, life-risking heroic thing, he smiles. Every time he feels less like crying for what was and what isn’t, and feels more like calmly accepting his heart’s choice. When you know that there’s no time-limit to your suffering, you can breathe easier. There’s serenity in defeat. So naturally, Jaskier meets Geralt as soon as he feels that he can truly live without him. Jaskier observes Geralt's swift motions as he slays all the thugs that captured poor bard in hope of getting hefty ransom from the witcher (so Jaskier's ballads worked, though not in a way he hoped). Jaskier laughed at their plan so genuinely, they had to gag him for a while. Jaskier thinks that they were more optimistic and strangely right in the end. They believed that the witcher would come and he did. Oh, he did. As Geralt is becoming bloodier and bloodier, Jaskier’s gaze turns softer and softer. His destiny wasn’t as cruel as he thought. She was bitchy, sure, but Jaskier’s not the one to hold grudges. Almost all is forgiven by the time Geralt lowers his weapon. He’s breathing fast, his clothes are almost intact (save for all the blood. Not his, of course). Jaskier has never seen something more beautiful in his life. He feels the metal cage that he built over his heart is falling apart, one metal bar after another. Jaskier is afraid his heart is not going to survive past this moment. It’s too much, too sudden. This pure, blinding emotion is engulfing him. Geralt is standing between broken bodies, and he doesn’t move. So Jaskier takes a first step, then a second and all the others that are needed and kissed stupid witcher on the lips. It’s a sad kiss. It’s forgiveness and hello wrapped into how are you. It’s “I know you”, “I accept you” and “how the fuck it’s been so long” kind of kiss. Geralt’s moves are sharp, his fingers are too strong, his kisses are biting and his grunts are inhuman. Jaskier basks in it. He’s overwhelmed and oversensitive. He’s floating somewhere else. He wants to participate, but even more so — he wants to make sure that Geralt is fine. He doesn’t feel fine — at all. Jaskier is going through the motions, but all he can feel is Geralt’s pain, mixed with guilt and uncertainty. He wants to soothe it away, but now’s not the time. He wants to reassure, but he won’t be heard this way. He’ll get his point across later. By small, innocuous actions, repeated day by day. His light will shine over dark, unused, closed and sealed parts of Geralt’s heart. It’s a long process, but Jaskier got all the time in the world.