what pleases me

"I'm just... trying to work out what pleases me."

Jaskier's words hang between them, soft and fleeting like the sun that's slowly setting beyond the horizon. Light spills through the mountains, painting everything with a soft gold as threads of pink trail across the sky.

It sparks something in Geralt. He shouldn't feel it – can't feel it, if the stories about him are true and not just a product of fear and misunderstanding. There should be nothing in his blood but power and determination, and the desire to hunt.

Instead, there is a flicker.

"What pleases you?" he asks.

"Mm." It's unlike Jaskier to be so... terse. Usually he's wordy – eloquent, even – and the sudden lack of prosody is unsettling, to say the last.

"Is it not wine, and the company of women wearing little?" Geralt asks. He hears a huff of laughter. "Or perhaps the demise of a certain... what was his name? Valdo?"

"You remember." Jaskier sounds genuinely surprised.

"Mm." Geralt leans back, hands pressed against the rock, eyes closed as the last rays of the sun warm his face before disappearing into the night. "I seem to recall something else – a countess, if I'm not mistaken."

"Ah, yes." Jaskier sounds... unenthusiastic, to say the least. "She was beautiful."

"...but?"

"But not what pleases me."

Geralt tips his head to the side, studying Jaskier's profile. He is a handsome man, rounded features carrying a childish innocence that Geralt will never admit to finding endearing. Determination is there too; in the set of Jaskier's jaw, in the way that he won't leave well enough alone and is always there, appearing when Geralt wants him least.

Or perhaps, when Geralt needs him most.

"What is it that pleases you, then?" Geralt asks.

Jaskier doesn't answer. He shifts on the rock, staring out into the night as he plays idly with loose pieces of shale, scraping them against each other. The sound grates and without thinking, Geralt covers Jaskier's hand with his own.

Jaskier stops breathing.

"Stop that," Geralt murmurs, and instead of removing his hand, he leaves it where it is. Jaskier's fingers are warm and soft against Geralt's, gentle instead of rough with calluses. Everything about him softens Geralt's sharp edges.

"I think I know," Geralt says, voice low and rough, "what pleases me."

Jaskier's voice is nearly a squeak when he responds with, "Oh?"

"Mm." Geralt turns, slipping his hand into Jaskier's. Something about it fits. "There's this irritating bard who keeps following me around. Sings songs about me like I'm a hero." He tugs on Jaskier's hand, pulling him closer until Geralt's lips are next to his ear. "He makes me feel like I am one."

"Wh... he..."

Geralt leans in and kisses him, and the spark starts to spread, burning outward from his chest and racing down his arms. His fingertips feel hot, and when Jaskier breathes out a surprised oh into his mouth, Geralt laughs against his lips and kisses him harder.

When he pulls back, Jaskier doesn't move, just stares at him wide-eyed with one hand frozen in the air. "You..."

"If I'd known that would shut you up, I'd have done it years ago."

Jaskier exhales, face shifting through several expressions before finally settling on something between fond and exasperated. "You arsehole," he breathes. "You fucking shit... years? All this fucking time, and you..."

"You see what I mean?" Geralt says, laughing as Jaskier's hand makes its way into his hair. "You're always talking."

"Shut me up, then," Jaskier says, tugging on Geralt's hair and pulling him in for another kiss.