"Geralt’s pupils are like black pits, the bright, unnatural yellow in them lost in their bottomless depths. It’s disconcerting. He seems out of touch. Drunk even. Jaskier can readily accept that, going by the slow, lethargic sway of the witcher’s head." Or: Geralt hunts a wraith and things go just a little wrong, in the sexiest of ways.

Years and years after Kaer Morhen, in the bed of a particularly skilled prostitute, Geralt learned that other things besides injury and stress could trigger his strange mutation. Warmth. Safety. A lovers’ touch. He’d also learned that no matter how good of an actress a lady of the night may be, there were limits to what a human would put up with for the sake of coin. When Jaskier comes along, the White Wolf already knows to hide his freakish nature as best as he’s able.

Fuck, what has he done until now? Told Geralt… nice things because he thought that he’d like to hear them and was proved right about it, on top of it? One day he’ll have a long chat with Geralt about how much his previous partners had no taste. Right now, though — “What,” he asks, moving closer, “that you’re lovely?” Geralt… doesn’t flinch, not exactly, but a few more tears fall down, and — “You don’t have to lie if —” “I’m not,” Jaskier interrupts him at once, letting his hands go to grasp his face, pressing their lips together to try and start making his point. “Fuck, you are lovely, other than drop-dead handsome, but then again I haven’t been staring at you like that for months for nothing.” Or: in which it turns out Geralt does have a praise kink that hits him harder than he'd thought. Jaskier is more than glad to indulge in it.

“You wouldn’t say no to a woman with bread in her skirt, would you?” the bard says.