The life of a witcher means you wash up when you can and if you can’t, you’ll end up traveling for several weeks marinated in monster guts. It’s a whole aesthetic like Jaskier would probably say. What it means is that while Geralt is used to being dirty, he’ll soak in a hot bath until he absolutely has to get up. And yes, sometimes he’ll be in for a day and a half, reheating the water with Igni even though he knows Vesemir wouldn’t approve.
That is to say, he’s used to being dirty.
He isn’t used to that dirt not coming off.
So, when he’s soaked in the tub for so long that Jaskier had completed his ridiculous performance for the night—albeit those performances got them a room for three nights and a bath for each night—and stumbled up to their room, red-cheeked and giddy, there’s no reason for Geralt to not be clean. He stands up and ignores the usual sputtering and waft of lust from the bard as he bends over to reach the towel and dries himself off with precise efficiency. And then frowns at the stubborn smudge on his left hip. He rubs it with his towel but the smudge is still there. He cocks his head and brushes over it with his fingers, feeling the way the shape is slightly raised from his skin.
And freezes.
It’s impossible.
His lips draw into a silent snarl as he traces his fingers over the smudge again, the way it’s just warmer than the skin around it, the way it seems almost hum under his touch.
Fuck.
Thing is, Soulmarks aren’t just a legend. They are a real, actual thing that exists, albeit as a rarity. Each person carries a Potential within them, a thing that, when met with a compatible counterpart or counterparts, might bloom into a full Soulmark, uniting them with a permanent bond. They’re more common in smaller towns and close-knit communities where people interact on a daily basis, get to know each other, and trust each other. Soulmarks might develop between a child and an elder, between two women or three men, between a pair, or within a group. Usually, the whole thing ends with the Marked living together and sharing bed and bread, but it’s not necessarily always so.
But never, ever has there been an incident where a Witcher has developed a Soulmark.
Never.
So, when Geralt realizes he has a fucking Soulmark on his hip, it’s only natural that his first reaction is to ignore it. Because if he ignores it, it will go away, right?
But it doesn’t.
It stays and it fucking grows and it pisses him off.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out whose Soulmark it is. Jaskier has been by his side for nine months now, always chattering, always traipsing along, always keeping up with him even though Geralt wishes he didn’t. And while Geralt might have the emotional intelligence of a half-buried boulder, he knows the attraction is there: Jaskier has wanted him since the moment he laid his eyes on Geralt in that dimly-lit tavern in Posada and Geralt can admit that Jaskier is pleasing to look at and, if the stories are true, a very generous lover. Geralt’s own preferences are simple: as long as his partner is willing and not stinking of fear, he’s fine with it.
After scowling at the Soulmark on his hip for three long months, during which time it has slowly expanded from a small smudge into an abstract swirl the size of his palm, he decides to bite the bullet and take Jaskier to bed. Perhaps a good fuck would help him with his problem and he could leave the whole Soulmark thing behind him. Or that’s what he hopes, at least.
For a brief moment, he considers seducing the bard and then dismisses the idea with a roll of his eyes. There’s no need for seducing when he can smell Jaskier’s want from across the room each time he takes off his shirt, so in the end, he goes for the direct approach.
”Jaskier,” he says as he pushes himself up from his bath and turns around with a towel in his hand.
The bard’s eyes are wide and he has bright red splotches on each cheek and he doesn’t seem to hear him. When Geralt clears his throat, Jaskier twitches, blinks rapidly, and finally meets his eyes. ”Ah, yes, Geralt?” He says in a slightly hoarse voice.
Geralt steps out of the bathtub and walks to him. ”I’m going to bed,” he says and raises a brow. ”Care to join me?”
Jaskier stares for a moment and then says, ”Um, just checking here, are you talking about sex?”
Geralt sighs. ”Yes, Jaskier, I’m talking about sex. Yes or no?”
”Yes!” Jaskier yelps. ”Abso-fucking-lutely yes. Bed is fine but I’m fine with the floor or the wall. Or—”
Geralt grabs his collar and shuts him up with a kiss.
Turns out, fucking the bard does, in fact, not get Geralt rid of his Soulmark. If nothing else, it starts to itch and the abstract shape slowly morphs into a more distinctive shape that Geralt refuses to scrutinize closer. He makes sure to cover it with a paste he learned to make ages ago because Jaskier doesn’t need to see it.
It’s fine.
Everything is fine.
…everything is not fine.
Jaskier turns out to be just as good in bed as the stories imply. He’s loud, generous, incredibly responsive, and up to anything Geralt suggests. He’s gorgeous when he’s writhing under Geralt and he’s gorgeous when he’s riding Geralt, eyes closed and lower lip caught in between his teeth. And when Geralt fucks into him slowly, almost lazily first thing in the morning, the breathy moans he lets out are prettier than any birdsong Geralt has ever heard.
It’s a problem because Witchers aren’t meant for Soulmarks. And yet, the Soulmark on his hip keeps evolving, keeps growing. It turns from an abstract shape into an oak that stretches across his hip and digs its roots into his thigh.
It’s a problem because Jaskier doesn’t have a Soulmark.
It’s a problem because no matter how many times Geralt promises himself that this is the last time he loses himself in Jaskier, it never is.
Jaskier is like a scorching flame and Geralt is a moth, more than willing to burn himself into ashes.
He thinks Yennefer might be the solution to his problem. Or that’s what he tells himself when he gives in and fucks her even though they both know he can’t give her what she wants. After, when she’s wrung him dry and she’s finally resting across his chest, she trails her fingers along the lines of his Soulmark.
”Does he know?” She asks without looking at him.
Her touch feels wrong and he wants to smack her hand away. ”It doesn’t matter,” he says instead.
It doesn’t matter because he wouldn’t stay, he thinks. Even if he wanted to stay, he’d grow old and die anyway, leaving me alone.
”Oh, Geralt,” Yennefer says and shakes her head, somehow sounding fond and annoyed at the same time.
Later, Jaskier serves him a bright smile and a selection of crude jokes and he rolls his eyes and snorts.
It takes him some while to realize that the bard hasn’t shared his bed after what happened with Yennefer. They still share the room but Jaskier rarely stays in, opting to spend his time in a different bed each night. When it finally sinks in, Geralt swallows his jealousy, grits his teeth, and tells himself that this is good. This is what he wanted.
The oak on his hip shivers and starts dropping its leaves.
But it’s a good thing.
Right?
By the time he loses his temper at the Dragon Mountain and chases away the only people he’s let himself love in decades, his oak has three leaves left. It looks sad and lonely which should be just fine because he’s a witcher, he’s supposed to be alone.
The next time he washes up, he sees his Soulmark is bare and looks dead. It suits him.
He grits his teeth, finds his way to Ciri, and resigns to his Destiny—and then feels like banging his head to a wall when he realizes he actually enjoys having her near. They slowly make their way to Kaer Morhen to spend the winter there and Geralt feels ridiculously proud the first time Ciri swipes Lambert’s feet from under him.
Vesemir keeps giving him long, significant looks but he pretends he doesn’t see them.
The next time he meets up with Jaskier, it’s been four years since the Dragon Mountain.
”Witcher,” Jaskier says with a smirk when Geralt finally mans up and looks up from his stew. ”You look good.”
He didn’t have to stay in the common room to eat, he could’ve just as well taken his food up to his room and eat there. But he thought that perhaps…perhaps it is time.
”Jaskier,” he says. ”You look...” He pauses and blinks. ”The same,” he finishes lamely.
Jaskier raises a brow and sits down. ”Really, Geralt?” He asks. ”I thought you’d catch up sooner.” When Geralt doesn’t comment, he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. ”How long have we known each other? No, never mind. I know you witchers don’t grasp the passage of time like normal people.” He cocks his head. ”You really don’t see I haven’t aged since we first met?”
”Huh,” Geralt grunts and narrows his eyes. Now that Jaskier mentions it…yeah. It does seem odd he has no grey hairs and the crow’s feet around his eyes are just as they were back in Posada. ”You’re not human,” he says slowly.
”No shit,” Jaskier snorts, amused. ”And you still need someone to point out the obvious.”
”Ciri keeps saying the same,” Geralt grumbles.
”Oh, how is the young lady?”
”Not very ladylike,” Geralt says dryly, thinking back to the previous week when he’d last seen her, covered in mud and drowner guts and grinning like a maniac. ”You’d like her,” he continues before his brain catches up with his mouth.
Something painful flashes in Jaskier’s eyes and his lips draw into a wry smile. ”Well,” he starts and falls silent for a moment before he pushes himself to stand up. ”See you around, Ge—”
Geralt’s hand shoots out and grips his wrist. ”Don’t—” he starts and then realizes he’s probably holding on too tight. He twists his wrist so that instead of his wrist, he’s holding Jaskier’s hand. ”I was an asshole,” he says, haltingly. ”I’m sorry.” He looks up to Jaskier’s bewildered eyes, slowly brings his hand to his lips, and kisses his knuckles.
”Don’t do that,” Jaskier chokes out. ”Don’t toy with me.”
”I’m not. I won’t.”
Jaskier gives him a long look and then quietly asks, ”What do you want, Geralt? And please, use your words like an adult.”
It strikes him that this is the moment he has to make a choice: to swallow his pride or let Jaskier go. He tried the latter and it didn’t work so maybe it was time to grow up.
”I want you,” he forces himself to say. ”I want you in my bed and I want you by my side. I want you to come with me to Kaer Morhen and meet Ciri.”
Jaskier stays silent and Geralt glances at him. His eyes are suspiciously bright and he’s fighting a smile.
”You look like that physically hurt,” he says.
”If you ever make me repeat this, I swear to gods I’ll gut you,” Geralt growls.
The bard chuckles. ”That’s more like it.” Then he just looks at Geralt for a long, silent moment before he rolls his eyes and asks, all coy and demure, ”Well? Aren’t you going to take me to bed, witcher?”
Geralt huffs and throws him over his shoulder, ignoring the scandalized looks from the other patrons in the tavern.
”Aren’t you going to ask what I am?” Jaskier asks when Geralt slams the door shut behind them and crowds him against it.
”Does it matter?” Geralt asks, purring the question into the crook of Jaskier’s neck.
”Ah—no, not really but I—mmm…wanted to come clear—”
Geralt raises his head and looks him in the eye. ”If it’s important, tell me. But I really don’t give a fuck.”
”I’m a fae,” Jaskier blurts.
Geralt frowns and cocks his head. ”Huh. It suits you,” he says and is about to dive back to devour Jaskier’s neck when he realizes how tense he is. ”Jaskier? What’s wrong?”
Jaskier bites his lip. ”Um…just, please, don’t freak out?” Jaskier dives under his arm and stops in the middle of the room, tugs his shirt off, and pauses for a short moment before letting out a huff. The skin on his back is smooth and pink, and then it ripples.
In front of Geralt’s bewildered eyes, two puckered, jagged scars emerge, running down Jaskier’s back on each side of his spine. They’re angry red and painful-looking even though it seems like the tissue was healed long ago.
That’s not what takes Geralt’s breath away, though.
No, it’s the tree growing between the scars.
”…Geralt?” Jaskier asks.
”Jaskier, when was the last time you looked at your back without the glamour on?” He asks.
”72 years ago,” Jaskier says and continues, more quiet, ”After the scars had healed enough that I could move. I spun the glamour and pushed it into my skin and only looked long enough to make sure it was properly in place.”
Geralt reaches out and touches the branch curling around the base of the scar tissue on the right. Jaskier flinches at the contact and turns around to hide his back, curling his arms around himself. ”Why do you ask?”
Without a word, Geralt lowers his pants and shows the Soulmark on his hip. ”You have my tree on your back,” he says softly.
”What?” Jaskier asks faintly and stares at Geralt like he doesn’t understand.
Geralt steps forward, cups his face between his hands, and kisses him until the wild look in his eyes turns into hazy pleasure.
Later that night, when the witcher and his bard sleep entangled together, the tree in Jaskier’s back shivers slightly and reaches down to meet its counterpart on Geralt’s hip. A small lark emerges from under the gnarly scar and flies down, settles on the branch that sprouts new leaves, and starts to sing.