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Maybe it was wrong of him to be watching Jaskier like he was, sitting in the shadows with a drink clasped in his bloodied hand. He couldn’t find it within himself to mind.
The little bard had no idea he’d returned from his hunt, too caught up in the excitement of being loved and adored for his talent. White teeth flashed as he sang of their adventures and, in the beginning, Geralt had tried to avert his gaze from those smiling lips.
Geralt, in all of their years travelling together, had never really stopped to listen and watch as he performed. He thought it a waste of time in the beginning and then a job to be done on Jaskier’s part, only a way to make money. Maybe Jaskier had thought so too, when his name hadn’t been praised across the kingdoms.
But now, with his cracked lips twisting into a smile that felt genuine, he wondered if he had been missing out. Jaskier was a sight to see, his clever fingers plucking at his instrument and his hips swaying to the beat. He looked sinful, his body moving through the crowd as he kissed outstretched hands and slid against willing bodies for mere moments before retreating.
He was teasing, making his performance worthy of coin, but Geralt felt something well up in his chest that wasn’t familiar: jealousy, raw and heated. His cup cracked in his hands, shoving splinters into his palms, and Jaskier, the observant little bastard that he was, lifted his gaze to meet eyes with the witcher.
He smiled, and Geralt’s worries were put to rest.