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Jaskier was not a sickly person. As a bard beloved of the people, he couldn’t afford to be, not when he had to sing and fraternize with the public (yes, fraternize, shut up) and travel often by foot with an insanely rugged superhuman. If anything, the fatigue and sore throat he developed somewhere on the road to Rivia were the consequences of being only a mere mortal subjected to walking miles of jagged terrain without let up — obviously. And Geralt set a brutal pace as he walked ahead with his sword slung over his back. Jaskier’s vexation at this predicament was somewhat mitigated in his eyes by the quite lovely view of the witcher’s rear. Nevertheless, he was both a gentleman and growing increasingly clumsy from his weariness, so he decided to sacrifice some of his dignity to turn the tides of Geralt’s determined stride.
“Geralt,” he said, voice hoarse. He stumbled a little on a tree root he hadn’t seen, which caused his lute to sing discordantly on the side of its case. “Ahem, Geralt, not that I don’t enjoy a good, oh, how do you say, mountain hike? But it’s been uh, hours and my legs are so short. And I don’t have mutant powers, in case you forgot.”
Geralt didn’t respond — shocker.
Jaskier sighed loudly. There was no cue that Geralt heard him. He sighed again, adding a bit of a trill to the end. Nothing, unless the pebble that kicked up from Geralt’s boot and into Jaskier’s shin was not unintentional. Jaskier wouldn’t put it past him.
“Geralt,” Jaskier said. “My non-witcher feet. Are sore. Please.”
Finally, Geralt turned around, though his stride still churned the debris of past mountain slides. In a remote part of his mind that was neither exhausted nor frustrated with the current situation, Jaskier found the witcher’s effortless coordination of navigating the path while staring Jaskier down somewhat hot. Geralt raised his eyebrows.
“Are you trying to ask for a break, bard?” he asked.
“No,” Jaskier said, swiping at his sweaty brow and cocking his head. “Why on earth would you think that and avoid the simpler solution of you biting my neck like a bloody vampire and giving me your super witcher strength and penchant for misery?”
Geralt grunted and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he sighed and looked up at the clear sky. “I wanted to get to the next town in good time. Seems that’s not going to happen with your whining.”
“Oh thank the gods,” Jaskier exclaimed. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to use my secret weapon of playing ‘Toss a Coin to Your Witcher’ in your ear over and over.” He strode off the path, a little tipsily with his over-exerted legs and plopped down in the shade of an oak tree. He probably looked like a fucking baby deer. Geralt followed with more easy grace.
“I would have broken your lute over your head,” Geralt growled.
“Mm, not before I broke your eardrums with my falsetto,” Jaskier said cheerfully as he undid the straps of his lute case. Geralt hummed lightly and laid his sword by his side.
“If there is nothing else your voice can do, it would probably be that,” Geralt said.
Jaskier clutched a hand at his chest. “How dare — Geralt, why would you say—?”
Geralt’s mouth flickered into a small smile while Jaskier faltered. “Oh, you see how tired I am, Geralt?” Jaskier said mournfully, placing his hand over his eyes. “I can’t even come up with a good comeback to that.”
Geralt scoffed lightly and began undoing the clasps on his shoulder plates. Jaskier shook his head despondently, then laid back onto the dirt, not even caring about his nice blue doublet — it was probably ruined by sweat by now anyway. And there really was so much sweat. A frown furled his face as he considered his hand, which fairly glistened with the stuff. He wrinkled his nose in disgust and wiped it off on his slacks. Meanwhile, Geralt had looked up from where he had set his armor down and was gazing sharply in Jaskier’s direction. His expression shifted slightly, and he leaned forward on his bent knees. Jaskier shivered a little, unnerved.
“What?” he asked.
Geralt said nothing, but got up and walked over to him before crouching down before the frankly terrified bard lying supine on fallen oak leaves.
“What?” Jaskier repeated squeakily, bunching up a bit in the middle to scoot a little away.
Geralt’s expression wasn’t concerned per se, but definitely…scrutinous. His head tilted to the side. He then pressed a hand that could have easily covered all of Jaskier’s damn face to the side of his head, just above his ear. Jaskier immediately choked on his own saliva and ignored the heartbeats that collided one by one against his ribs. After a moment, however, Geralt slowly moved his hand to the center of Jaskier’s neck, and rested two surprisingly gentle fingers just below his chin. Jaskier gulped and resisted the urge to shudder. It hurt, to his confusion, and he very much didn’t want whatever this was to continue, despite the fluttering sensation kindling low in his belly.
“Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier peeped shrilly, “if you don’t tell me what the fuck you’re doing, so help me I’m going to scream and I really will ruin your eardrums.”
Geralt quirked an eyebrow and peered down at him, removing his hand at last. He backed away slightly, leaving Jaskier both swirling with relief and lamenting the loss of contact. He sat up and touched the spot where Geralt had laid his fingers. The small enigmatic stretch of skin still felt bafflingly sore, and tingled a little with the phantom vestige of Geralt’s touch.
Geralt sat back on his ankles in a way that suggested he had come to some sort of verdict without Jaskier’s input. As usual. “You are very, very warm and your voice is hoarse,” Geralt asserted flatly. “I thought it was from all your heavy breathing going up the mountain, but you’re breathing more or less normally now and your voice is still rough around the edges. Also, your lymph nodes are swollen.”
“The hell are lymph nodes?” Jaskier huffed.
Geralt smirked a little. “You’re ill, Jaskier. We need to set up camp so you can restore your health, otherwise you’re just going to slow us both down.” He thumped his knees lightly then stood up to walk over to his things, leaving Jaskier fumbling in his wake like a beached fish.
“Wait — wait a moment,” Jaskier stammered, both taken aback by the witcher’s sudden articulation and his decision, “I am not sick.”
“Yes, you are,” Geralt said, opening his pack.
“Am not ,” Jaskier retorted, a little childishly. He cleared his throat, which, shit, was still scratchy and aching. “I don’t get sick.”
“And yet,” said Geralt simply from his pack. He then returned to the bard with some sort of brown bark clutched in his bare, ungloved hand, which he then extended expectantly to Jaskier. Jaskier, somewhat lost in the untread territory that he had been thrust into, gazed up at Geralt.
“What could you possibly want me to do with that,” stated Jaskier.
“It’s willow bark,” Geralt said irritably. “If you chew it, it should help with the pain and the inflammation in your throat.”
Jaskier looked down at the witcher’s hand, then back up at Geralt’s very close face. “Absolutely not.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Geralt said eloquently. He then thrust the bark into Jaskier’s lap and stood before stalking away into the undergrowth. “Chew the goddamn bark or don’t — I don’t fucking care. I’m going to get firewood while you make up your mind.”
Jaskier watched him go, then looked at the bark resting on his slacks. “Fine, do what you want,” he mumbled indignantly. He leaned down, considering the bark, then scrunched his face and flicked it away. “The only pain I have is the pain that that witcher is being,” he said to the trees. “I’m not sick, and I wouldn’t slow us down.” He crossed his arms and straightened his legs — which turned out to be a bad idea. They thrummed painfully up and down his calves at the motion, yanking a thread of curses from the bard’s scratchy throat. He was, obviously, still very sore.
“Fucking legs,” he muttered darkly, rubbing the wailing muscles.
It was a good half hour before the witcher made a return, toting perhaps a bit too much dry wood. It caught Jaskier somewhat off-guard — he had been otherwise engaged, massaging his temples with his eyes pinched shut to relieve a monstrous headache he felt sure had been caused by some wicked concoction of the bright sunlight and his grievance with Geralt. The wood was promptly dumped unceremoniously with a clatter that could have roused the dead. Jaskier’s soul nearly left his body.
“Fucking shit!” he yelled, clutching his chest.
“Sorry,” Geralt said, considering Jaskier before striding over to his things across the clearing.
“No you’re not,” said Jaskier as he attempted to wrangle his pulse back into normal human standards.
Geralt grunted and rose with dried meat and half a loaf of bread in either hand. He proceeded to pass the bread to Jaskier, along with most of the meat. “Well, clearly you didn’t chew the bark,” he remarked, settling on the ground next to the pile of firewood. “If you had, you wouldn’t have that headache.” Geralt paused. “And you wouldn’t be so irritable.”
Jaskier pursed his lips. There was no way to counter that without proving the witcher’s point, which the other man clearly seemed to be cognizant of. Jaskier pondered the food he’d been given, eyes narrowed. “You gave me most of your rations. Don’t you want some of the bread?” He sensed that he was being plied.
Geralt bit into the stiff meat and shook his head. “Need your strength for your headache, don’t you?”
Jaskier sniffed, internally cursing being found out. There was clearly no arguing with the brute, so he dug into the offering. Geralt wasn’t one to show his hand in any affair, so the fact that he had now given Jaskier two physical affirmations of his concern was...unsettling. Yes, that was the name for it. But something else stirred in his chest that didn’t seem to quite fit within his assessment of his own emotions. He smiled into a mouthful of bread despite himself.
“What?” Geralt asked. Of course he had been fucking watching.
“Absolutely nothing at all,” said Jaskier, realigning his expression.
Geralt grunted ambiguously, then finished off his jerky. “So, tell me,” he said, standing and gazing down at Jaskier. Jaskier looked up, eyes wide, and swallowed his bread.
“...yes?” he asked.
Geralt turned his head to the side. “If I make a tea that will help with your sickness, will you drink it?”
Jaskier nearly choked on his next mouthful, laughing as he pictured Geralt quaintly sipping a cup of tea with his short pinky sticking out. “Tea, eh? Pictured you more of an ale and beer connoisseur, I have to say.”
Geralt bent down over Jaskier, pouring the looming shadow of his torso over the bard’s whole body. It seemed he had sassed the witcher once too many. He began to mentally dictate his will.
However, his spiraling train of thought screeched to a halt once Geralt began to speak.
“Listen to me, Jaskier,” he said quietly. Jaskier swallowed, and, at the silent cue, nodded.
“Judging from your symptoms,” Geralt continued, “this could get worse, and you need to fight it off before shit hits the fan, just in case. It is not weakness to accept help, it is not weakness to chew fucking bark or to drink goddamn tea. Let me help you.”
Jaskier watched the witcher’s intent expression, utterly speechless. None of that whole speech was anything he would have expected to pass the other man’s lips, ever . His chest ached as if he was a lute being played. He felt reprimanded, yes, but also touched. And guilty. The witcher was trying to help, after all. Oh, he had been an utter ass.
“Yes,” Jaskier said, once he’d corralled his thoughts. “Yes, I — of course. I’m sorry, you’re right.”
Geralt’s expression immediately eased. Distantly, it warmed Jaskier even further to see the naked effect that his consent to be cared for had on the witcher. He’d never have guessed.
“Very well,” Geralt said, nodding once and stooping to lug three pieces of wood from the pile. He then moved to the center of the clearing and stacked the logs carefully in a pyramid shape before stuffing some dried leaves in the center. He raised his hand and ignited the whole thing with a symbol from his outstretched palm.
Jaskier watched all of this, still reeling. His innards curdled slightly as he considered Geralt’s entreaty further, in conjunction to his own refusals to admit defeat. Had he become more cantankerous than his companion? But Geralt wasn’t acting cantankerous at all, now. He had begun to rummage in his pack once more, spending a fair amount of time sorting and shoving various items aside to get at contents near the bottom like some sort of foraging bear. He grunted occasionally in frustration, but Jaskier didn’t find the sounds as amusing as he normally did. This might have been because of the throbbing pain that had now nestled stubbornly over either side of his head. But perhaps it was because he now knew that the efforts Geralt was going to were for him.
As Jaskier mulled on these unprecedented proceedings, he looked up to watch the shattered bands of ashy sky shift between the swaying boughs of the trees encompassing their small clearing. The sun had embarked on its steady descent into the horizon behind where he sat, and the effects of the dusk had already begun to settle into his body. Every inch of the marrow in his bones ached with wanton abandon now. He drew his knees to his chest and shuddered slightly under his breath. Geralt, of course, heard anyway. The witcher looked up from where he had removed a cloth pouch and some sort of small earthenware pot and gazed steadily at the bard, who now sat scrunched like some sort of dried-up leaf.
“I’m fine,” said Jaskier immediately, suppressing a shiver that slid up his spine as if it wanted to prove him wrong.
The witcher lowered his gaze and turned to his things once more, removing his cloak from where he had rolled it up beside his sleeping mat. “Jaskier,” he rumbled quietly, getting up to bring the cloak over to the bard. “Remember your promise?” He stood in front of Jaskier expectantly with the cloak held open between his two great hands. Jaskier sighed.
“Yes,” Jaskier relented. “Alright then, thank you, Geralt.”
Geralt nodded, then draped the cloak over the now completely helplessly-shivering bard, tucking one end of the oversized fabric beneath the other with care. The effect was immediate: inadvertently, Jaskier burrowed into the warmth as a sigh dropped from his lips like an evening moth into the air. Jaskier could have sworn he saw Geralt’s mouth twitch as the witcher got up and returned to his grumpy rummaging.
After a moment which Jaskier spent snuggling further into the witcher’s cloak, dignity forgotten, Geralt stood once more with two small sachets tucked inside the earthenware pot, along with his water flask clutched in his other hand. He proceeded to go about making tea, sifting the herbs from the sachets into the pot before pouring a healthy swig of water. There was a practiced ease to these motions, almost as if it was a comfortable procedure to the witcher. It was like watching him slip on his well-worn boots. Even his brow, so often drawn over his eyes, had relaxed into the task.
“Geralt, can I ask you something?” Jaskier ventured.
“You just did,” Geralt said, stirring the herbs in the pot with some sort of wooden spoon that he must have stored in the pot as well. “But I have an inkling that you’re going to ask another one anyway.” Jaskier exhaled.
“No, seriously, Geralt. Not if you don’t want me to,” Jaskier said. The softness of his own voice surprised him just a little bit. Geralt looked up at him. They both just pondered each other for a moment, before Geralt hummed a bit and cleared his throat.
“Yes, you can ask me a question,” Geralt said, placing a lid over the pot and then setting it in the embers of the fire.
“Excellent,” Jaskier said, fidgeting with the cloak a bit. Now he was, somehow, too warm. He dropped it down beneath his shoulders. “How — how do you know this stuff? The healing stuff, for lack of a better term.”
Geralt leaned over to retrieve a couple of logs from the pile and nested them in the flames. “‘Healing stuff’ comes in handy when you’re traveling. Witchers don’t often become ill, but we’re not infallible. And human companions are much more vulnerable.”
“Oh,” Jaskier said, watching Geralt poke at the embers with a spare piece of wood. “But…it seems so natural to you,” he pressed. “Like you’ve done it a lot.”
Geralt glanced at him. “Does it?” he asked. Jaskier shrugged, and the cloak fell a little farther down. He tugged it back up. Now he was cold again — what the hell were the rules?
“Yes,” he said simply.
Geralt hummed once and turned away again. To be honest, Jaskier hadn’t expected him to elaborate, but his ribs panged a little with a bite of disappointment. They both watched the flames for a moment as the night swooped down around them. A finger of steam gesticulated weakly from the lid of the pot.
“Can I ask you a question?” Geralt said.
Jaskier blinked. “Of course,” he said, surprised at the witcher’s initiative.
“Why is the idea of being ill so troublesome to you?”
Jaskier felt side-stepped. His mouth opened, then closed again, then opened. “I…Isn’t it troublesome for most people?”
Geralt tilted his head. “I suppose, but you seemed more so than most, even downright upset, refusing any attempt I made to help. Why?”
“I — I don’t know,” Jaskier sputtered testily, not liking this line of questioning at all, or what his stammering was doing to his throat. He gestured uselessly. “I didn’t want to hold you up, I think. I didn’t like being a, uh — a burden to you.”
The glowing amber of Geralt’s regard of him settled over him like a stray cinder from their fire, singing Jaskier’s own gaze. Jaskier gulped and averted his eyes to the flames, but they burned less intently than the stare that he could tell remained trained upon him.
After a moment, Geralt spoke. “You needn’t worry about that,” he said softly, “but I think that is part of it.” Jaskier could hear the gentle whirring of the pot as the water within reached boiling point. “I think…” the witcher said, voice lowering impossibly. “I think this, whether you are aware of it or not, is your way of testing the esteem I have for you.”
Jaskier blinked a couple of times, mouth wide. He scoffed. “What?” he laughed. The water continued to boil. He could hear it.
“The more you resist, the more you force me to prove I care about you,” the witcher went on, getting up to remove the pot from the fire using two pieces of wood to push it from the embers. He then returned to Jaskier, who no longer could distinguish his fever from the heat he felt pouring into his cheeks against his will. “And the more I tend to you, the less of a burden you know you are to me. Also, if I were to leave, you could just blame it on your acting like a dick, instead of whatever needs you have.”
Jaskier couldn’t speak. For once. In the meantime, Geralt adjusted his cloak on Jaskier’s shoulders so that it rested there less precariously, then took the lid off the pot to let the steam loose into the evening air. The earthy aroma of its contents danced around the clearing.
“I—” Jaskier started at last, feeling a bit like a fish, his mouth puckered. “I, uh, what the fuck.”
Geralt hummed lightly, then cocked his head in Jaskier’s direction. “Did I offend you?” It didn’t sound accusatory or malicious, but genuinely curious. Even worried.
“I…I don’t know,” Jaskier said. It was the truth; he really didn’t quite know if he was or not. “It — what you said — it feels true? It’s just so calculated of me! I’m not certain if I’m offended.” He paused, massaging his forehead absently. “I thought all you — all you cared about was coin and monsters and…all that. I suppose the less of a burden I am, then the more…the less likely it is that you’ll…” He gesticulated some more, as if he was trying to catch one of the ashes from the fire, while Geralt poured the tea from the pot into a spare clay cup that he had snatched from Jaskier’s bag. “You know,” he said helplessly.
Geralt let Jaskier flail for a moment before stepping in. “Abandon you?” he supplied, handing the bard his cup of tea. “Drink slowly.”
“Uh, yes,” Jaskier said, taking the cup. “Yes. I suppose that’s it.” He steeled himself. “There’s no reason why you wouldn’t.”
Geralt grunted. “Have people abandoned you before?” he asked. “When things went wrong, or you became a burden to them?”
Jaskier let his gaze fall into his tea. It really didn’t look like that great of a drink, but he felt it mirrored how his insides felt quite nicely, so it didn’t really matter. He chucked his head back and quaffed the tea like a shot of whiskey.
“Slowly,” the witcher repeated.
“It sounds like,” Jaskier began, ignoring the witcher’s instructions, “you already know the answer to that question.”
He studied the cup, carefully avoiding Geralt’s seering eyes. It was a trap. It was all a trap: Geralt, his gaze, his concern, everything. If Jaskier fell in, if he looked at the witcher right now with naked emotion, he’d crumble and dissolve right into Geralt’s cloak as if all of who he was had been an enchantment waiting to be broken. A lump started to form in his already sore throat. He swallowed and turned his head away. A breath of steam followed the motion from his cup, clenched tight in his hands like a lifeline. He sipped the rest of the tea down, unsteadily. He could hear Geralt shake his head.
“I actually didn’t know,” said Geralt. “I just suspected. I didn’t know for certain.” Jaskier felt a sudden weight on his shoulder, and yelped a little, to his chagrin, before seeing it was Geralt’s hand. Without thinking of the consequences, he instinctively looked up at the witcher.
There was, perhaps, a millisecond between that moment and what happened next. All at once, Jaskier pitched himself forward, with no real target in mind, the cup dropped from his hands, and Geralt caught the bard in his arms.
Warmth, muscle, and the musk from a day’s worth of travelling flooded Jaskier’s senses. He melted into it, into all of it, unable to do much of anything else. His face burrowed of its own accord into the witcher’s shoulder as Geralt steadied his hands over Jaskier’s back, holding the bard together as he shook apart.
“You really won’t?” Jaskier said, his voice choked by being buried in the witcher’s tunic, but also emotion and sickness and whatever-the-fuck else. He made a half-hearted attempt to clear his throat. “You really won’t leave?”
Geralt’s hands moved up and down the length of Jaskier’s spine, slowly. Jaskier closed his eyes and stilled.
“I won’t leave, Jaskier,” Geralt rumbled. “I promise.” The bard could feel the truth of it thrumming in the depths of the witcher’s body like its own song. Jaskier shivered, closing his eyes tighter.
By the time they eventually broke apart, the fire had begun to sputter out, in desperate need of kindling. Geralt tugged at the hem of his tunic and stood, but not before adjusting his cloak on Jaskier’s small frame once more.
Jaskier rubbed at his shoulders in an attempt to secure the heat from Geralt’s embrace, then realized his headache had subsided altogether. He lifted two fingers to the place on his neck that Geralt had tested earlier, and only a small answering twinge of pain fluttered against his fingertips. He smiled.
“Geralt, the tea worked!” he cried. “I’m feeling much better.”
Geralt raised his eyebrows and returned to his position next to Jaskier. “Oh?” he asked. He lifted a hand. “Is it alright if I check your temperature?”
“You didn’t ask last time,” Jaskier grumbled. “But yes.”
“Sorry,” said Geralt. “I should have asked earlier.” He pressed lightly at Jaskier’s forehead, then checked his…lymph nodes, were they? Jaskier couldn’t remember.
Geralt paused then, considering. “You know…” he began. “There’s a better way of testing your temperature, if you’ll permit me.”
“Oh, alright, then,” Jaskier said, not quite sure what he was getting into, but blindly hoping that it meant the witcher would keep touching him. “Uh, yeah, go right ahead.”
Geralt hesitated a moment even so, and then leaned forward, very, very close to Jaskier’s face. The bard squeaked, frozen in place as Geralt pressed his lips against Jaskier’s forehead, soft as ash.
Every inch of Jaskier’s skin ignited at once. The intensity of the sensation contrasted starkly against the tenderness of the touch, but Jaskier was in far too deep to be confused by the disparity. Before he could quite get a grasp on what was happening, Geralt had drawn away and Jaskier was left once more in the wake of the enormity of a moment that had passed but couldn’t comprehend.
“Uh,” he said. Ah yes, that fine Oxenfurt education had lent him such a mastery of words. “That was — that was the way to test my temperature?”
“Yeah,” said Geralt.
“And?” Jaskier asked.
“You are…still a little feverish,” Geralt responded finally. “But the tea helped.” He fidgeted, rolling up his sleeves as the fire snapped and cackled behind him like a laughing dragon. If Jaskier didn’t know better…no, surely not. The witcher couldn’t be…bashful. No. Bashful wasn’t even in Geralt’s expression vocabulary. However, it was very much in Jaskier’s expression vocabulary, so he steered his gaze toward the fire in a futile attempt to hide his face.
“Ah, right,” Jaskier said, pulling the cloak more snugly around himself.
“You should get some rest,” Geralt said, standing. “It’s getting dark and it will only do you some good.”
Jaskier grumbled indignantly and crossed his arms. It was impossible to deny his exhaustion, much less to the witcher, who could probably…smell it off him or some shit. “Fine,” he said.
Geralt smiled, or as close to it as he could. “Thank you.”
“For what?” Jaskier asked.
“Letting me help you, bard.”
Jaskier blushed. “Thank you for helping me,” he said. “And you know, not…leaving me behind.”
Geralt hummed, and Jaskier smiled.
Jaskier woke maybe a couple of hours later, paralyzed by screaming pain in his joints. A choked sound somewhere between a croak and a whimper weedled between his lips. Geralt must have still been up and stoking the fire, because it was only a moment before Jaskier heard a faint, telltale grunt and the witcher shuffling toward his bedroll.
“Jaskier,” Geralt said. From what Jaskier could tell, the witcher had crouched beside him. He couldn’t move his neck very well.
“Hurts,” was all Jaskier could muster to say.
“Where?” Geralt asked quickly.
With significant effort, Jaskier lifted his arm to gesture at his knees and neck, vocal cords contorting with pain, then dropped it again with a sharp exhale that pierced his lungs perfunctorily. He coughed once.
With a humming noise, Geralt adjusted his position. Now Jaskier could see him more or less clearly, his outline limned by the fire still smoldering behind him. He had undid the ribbon tying his hair sometime while Jaskier had been asleep. Strands of silver fell over his face, the color set ablaze by the firelight, causing his face to look like it was cracking to reveal gold underneath.
“Can I massage your neck?” Geralt said. “Should help with the aching.”
Jaskier nodded, almost crying at the glimmering prospect of relief. Geralt grunted and, without further ado, slowly brought his hands to rest on Jaskier’s shoulders, gripping there slightly.
“Tell me if it hurts too much, alright?” he said. “I’m going to sit you up so I have more to work with.” He then proceeded to lift Jaskier’s torso off the bedroll.
Jaskier squeaked and whimpered at the motion, and Geralt paused, then continued more slowly. “Alright?” he asked.
Jaskier nodded again, sinching his eyes tight shut.
“Okay,” Geralt said in affirmation. Once Jaskier had been raised to a full sitting position, Geralt released the bard’s shoulders and shifted behind him. Jaskier’s eyes were still closed, but he heard the witcher exhale before he felt his large hands settle on the nape of his neck.
It was a wonder to Jaskier how fingers so often clutching the hilt of a sword or the Roach’s reins could be so soft and gentle. After a few moments of Geralt’s kneading into the muscle at the base of his neck, Jaskier sighed and relaxed his shoulders. He hadn’t even realized they’d been tensed from the ache.
“Better?” asked Geralt.
“Oh, yes yes yes,” Jaskier slurred, dropping his head forward onto his chest. He couldn’t help it. It felt so amazing, especially after the undiluted agony that had been replaced by Geralt’s miraculous fingers.
“Miraculous, hm?” Geralt said, amused. Shit. Had Jaskier said that bit out loud?
After a moment, Geralt drew his hands away, and Jaskier, without thinking, whined a little at the sudden halt. He could have sworn he saw Geralt smirk as he moved back to Jaskier’s side.
“Now, I can help the pain in your knees, too, if you’d like,” Geralt said.
“Did you even have to ask?” Jaskier laughed breathlessly. Geralt chuckled and bent over the other man’s legs, then placed both just above Jaskier’s left kneecap. It was surprisingly tender. Jaskier nearly yelped in a most undignified way when Geralt pressed against it. The witcher froze, looking at him.
“Sorry,” Jaskier said, “sorry, I’m okay, go ahead.”
Geralt nodded and continued to apply shifting pressure. It didn’t feel nearly as nice as the neck massage, but when the witcher eventually switched his attention to the other knee, the relief was palpable.
“At the risk of repeating the question,” Jaskier said, “how do you know how to do this?”
“At the risk of repeating the answer,” Geralt mimicked, leaning further into the task, brow drawn in concentration, “it comes in handy. Don’t often have time to see a healer when your muscles seize up after a fight.”
“Fair enough,” Jaskier responded. He watched the witcher work for a moment, attempting to ignore the arousal he felt seeing Geralt bent over the lower portion of his body. He gulped and bit his lip. Seeming to hear this, Geralt glanced up once more.
“Alright?” he asked, hands resting on his thigh. The witcher had to know what this was doing to him. There was no way he couldn’t know.
“Yes,” Jaskier said, a little too quickly. Oh, well. “Better than alright. Very, very good.”
Geralt grunted and resumed for a brief stretch of time, before pausing with his hands, yes, still resting on his leg as if it was normal. “How’s your pain, Jaskier?” he rumbled coarsely.
“No pain,” Jaskier said. It was a little true — his throat felt far better than it had, and his headache had waned to a mere discomfort.
“ No pain?” Geralt asked, shifting his hands just a little bit. His hair trickled over the bridge of his nose like a loose stream of water, glinting in the faint light as the witcher tilted his head doubtfully.
“Well,” Jaskier amended, “ some pain, but it is so, so much better. Thank you, Geralt, for your magic hands. Truly. I am indebted.”
Geralt hummed and removed his hands at last. “No need for theatrics,” said Geralt as he moved to the fire. “But I’m glad…you feel better.”
“Wait!” Jaskier said, before he could stop himself. His hand was thrust out toward the fire and the witcher, and he silently chided the betrayal of his haloed, outstretched fingers.
Geralt turned. “Yes?” he said. His voice lilted a little with confusion, probably due to the volume in Jaskier’s voice. The bard swallowed. Oh, dare he ask? Dare push his luck?
“I — I’m really cold,” Jaskier said, then squared his shoulders and shivered for effect. “I think it’s the uh, fever, you know, talking. Or the chills.” He looked away, threading resolve he didn’t feel into his voice. “Would it — could you possibly — would you be willing to lay next to me? To share body heat? It’s just — you’re so warm, and—”
“Yeah,” Geralt interrupted, moving back toward the bard. Jaskier blinked.
“What?”
“Yeah, I can do that. Move over a little bit?” Geralt said.
That was it; Jaskier had lost himself in bliss. He shifted over at the request and laid back on his bedroll, facing up at the tangled boughs of the trees, completely floored at the idea of the witcher actually indulging him, at the sensation of Geralt lowering his body down next to him, at the sound of the witcher’s breathing, so close. Jaskier turned his head to the other man.
“Thank you,” he said. “This is far better.”
“I’m not even touching you, bard,” said Geralt haltingly. His voice was low and jerky, almost unsure, like a bear walking a bridge. “Wouldn’t it, uh be more effective if I—”
“Held me?” Jaskier squeaked. This was way more than he could have asked or imagined in the realm of remote possibilities.
Geralt cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah.” He gazed steadily at Jaskier in the dim light. The gold of his eyes burning against the dark almost caused the bard to melt into a buttery mess. “Would that be alright?”
“Yes,” Jaskier breathed. He was afraid to move, afraid to even inhale for fear of shattering whatever spell caused Geralt’s arms to unfurl over the bard’s back and pull him gently toward the witcher.
“Relax, Jaskier,” Geralt whispered. “You’re tense as a fucking bowstring.” Jaskier laughed quietly.
“Right,” he said in a low voice. “Right, just relax.” He spent a great deal of effort trying to do just that, but that felt a little beside the point. Instead, he trained his thoughts on the witcher’s steady breathing. And then, in a moment, he trained his thoughts on the slow movement of the witcher’s hands as they began to stroke his back: a steady stream of warmth pouring down his spine.
He shivered involuntarily. He then realized he had a bit of a problem.
Oh, he couldn’t enjoy an innocent moment for what it was, could he? Oh, no no no. No, his body just had to go and ruin everything by making his enjoyment very, very tangible, didn’t it? Shit.
The bard held his breath, pleading with whatever god was in charge of erections to release him, to just move on and let go of his dick, or at the very least just keep Geralt from noticing. He twitched his hips a little away, as subtly as he was capable of. Nevertheless, Geralt paused. Oh, no. Oh, shit. Fuck.
“Are you okay?” Geralt asked after a moment.
Jaskier coughed lightly, grateful, for once, for the height difference between them because it successfully hid the blush blossoming across his face like an invasive plant. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Your heart’s racing,” Geralt pressed, continuing to rub Jaskier’s back. The bard promptly shuddered again, and his problem got much worse. “You’re not relaxing.”
“It’s just,” Jaskier relented, closing his eyes and rubbing them, “bodies, you know, are so fickle, and we’re very close right now, and it is…affecting me, Geralt. If you catch my meaning.”
There was a drawn-out pause, during which Geralt still massaged the bard’s back, more slowly, deliberately. “I catch your meaning,” Geralt said lowly. He shifted a little closer, and now there was no hope of retracting what he’d said or denying the physical evidence of it as it brushed against Geralt’s thigh.
“Oh, great,” Jaskier said amid a mirthless, breathy laugh. “Lovely. Wonderful. Please don’t kill me.” He raised both his hands over his head protectively.
“...Jaskier,” said Geralt. He removed one of his hands from Jaskier’s back and brought it to the bard’s wrists. The other hand remained on Jaskier’s back, holding him still closer. Jaskier looked up, and immediately shriveled against the sheer intensity of Geralt’s gaze. The firelight didn’t mitigate anything at all, either. The undulating fingers of firelight stroked the witcher’s face reverently, taking turns to nest within his irises. The two were close enough now for Jaskier to notice mottled patterns in the gold rings surrounding his dilated pupils. They were beautiful. He was beautiful.
Jaskier gulped, wondering what his fate could possibly be as Geralt held both of his hands in his own, and brought them away from the bard’s face. He gazed helplessly up at the witcher, who leaned down to press his forehead against the bard’s as he lowered Jaskier’s hands down, down and away. All of a sudden, it hit him where this was all going.
“Oh,” Jaskier said, breath hitching. Geralt paused for a moment, then continued to steer the other man’s hands still farther down until they came to rest over the witcher’s own very present erection. “Oh,” Jaskier said again, more hoarsely. The tent in Geralt’s breeches seemed to throb with scalding heat. Jaskier bit his lip.
“Is this,” Geralt whispered, letting go of Jaskier’s hands and looking down at him, “okay?” His voice was hoarse, burgeoning with so many unnamed emotions teeming in just those words that it struggled to hold them all.
Jaskier looked up at the witcher. “Yes,” he said, not removing his hands. “Very, very, oh-so-okay.”
Geralt smiled and hummed once. “Then is it also okay if I kiss you, bard?”
“By all means, my dear witcher,” said Jaskier, stroking once up Geralt’s dick playfully. The witcher’s hips twiched a little at that, and then all Jaskier was aware of was Geralt’s whole body held mercilessly against his own, but especially his lips.
It was safe to say that they had both thrown the kiss off the deep-end from its very beginning. Within moments, both of their mouths had opened and panted into each other. Jaskier moaned breathily as Geralt prodded his tongue along the bard’s bottom lip, then dipped into his mouth. Jaskier’s leg intuitively wrapped around Geralt’s hip, pulling him impossibly closer. The witcher, in turn, growled, clutching at the meat of Jaskier’s sides. Jaskier gasped into his mouth.
“Oh,” he said breathlessly as Geralt removed his lips from the bard’s to trail wet heat down his neck. “Oh, lovely, yes. You can mark me up, too, if you want.”
Almost immediately, Jaskier’s back arched off the mat at the sharp bite of the witcher’s teeth, jaw working just hard enough to bruise.
“Fuck!” he cried, clutching at the witcher’s shoulder blades. Geralt rumbled against him.
“You like that, do you?” Geralt teased raspily against the bard’s skin. Jaskier didn’t respond, but unraveled a whole spool of colorful curses as the witcher sucked at what felt like the entire right side of Jaskier’s neck, biting occasionally and deliberately.
“Had a feeling you were a bit of a masochist,” Geralt continued, nuzzling the bard’s skin once before raising a hand to knead at the fabric of Jaskier’s doublet over one of his nipples. Jaskier sobbed.
He clutched at Geralt as the other man continued to simultaneously work marks into Jaskier’s neck and rub into his chest. Somewhere in the middle of things, the other man had moved his hips back, so Jaskier had nothing to press against to relieve the pressure building in his lower body. His back arched helplessly as Geralt’s clever fingers pinched lightly through his doublet.
“Witcher,” he said shrilly, able to articulate at last, “if you don’t fucking remove my garments right now, I will implode and you will have to scrape my innards from this campsite and that will be that.”
Geralt actually laughed, the bastard. He removed his head from Jaskier’s neck and slid his hands beneath the bard’s doublet, then untucked his undershirt with Jaskier’s eager help.
“More threats, Jaskier?” he said, lifting both shirts over Jaskier’s head once the bard had raised his arms. “I’m afraid those won’t get you far right now.”
Jaskier held his breath as the witcher tossed the clothing aside, then brushed his fingers softly against the bard’s torso. It felt surprisingly erotic. The touch of the witcher’s fingers on his bare skin was so gentle, it almost tickled, and also almost eviscerated the poor bard.
“Wait,” Jaskier said, breathing heavily. The witcher stopped, face open as he gazed at Jaskier through strands of his silver hair. “I want to — I want to touch you, too.”
Geralt paused, then nodded and leaned back to undo the clasps of his shirt. Jaskier helped, but his hands were shaking a little.
“Is this — is all of this okay, Jaskier?” Geralt asked. The bard laughed and was about to comment that the witcher really didn’t need to check in so often, but Geralt cut him off, lifting the tunic over his head. “I mean, do you feel up to this, illness-wise? Answer honestly.” He looked steadily at the bard, torso bare. “Please don’t just say yes if it’s not the truth. I want us both to enjoy this.”
Jaskier opened his mouth, then closed it again, taking the time to make sure. It would not be fair to Geralt to lie if he really was not feeling well enough. He touched his throat where it had ached, tensed and untensed his knees as if he were a puppeteer testing his marionette. “I — I believe I do feel up to it,” Jaskier said slowly. “My aches are gone, along with my sore throat.”
Geralt considered him as his chest heaved slightly. Dear gods, those pecs. “Are you sure?” he asked, thumbing up Jaskier’s ribcage.
Jaskier smiled. “Yes, he said. He then rose from the ground and placed both of his hands on Geralt’s torso, before climbing onto the witcher’s lap. He placed his knees on either side of Geralt’s hips and spread them mischievously farther. “Now,” he whispered into Geralt’s ear, “let’s get on with it then, shall we?”
Geralt smiled wolfishly, teeth glinting in the firelight, then bore down on the bard, prying Jaskier’s parted mouth open farther with his tongue. The witcher’s heavy hands then proceeded to garner quite large handfuls of Jaskier’s ass. The other man moaned slightly, digging into Geralt’s back with blunt fingernails as the witcher worshipped every inch. It really was quite flattering.
“Do you have any fucking clue,” Geralt said, tilting back to rest his cheek against Jaskier’s, “how long I’ve wanted to do this?”
“Please,” Jaskier said as Geralt bit hungrily into the bard’s neck. Jaskier bumped his hips a little forward. “Please, touch me, Geralt.”
About a millisecond passed before the witcher slid his hands to the front of Jaskier’s slacks. The pressure was so good, so right. Jaskier nearly choked as Geralt palmed a rhythm up and down.
“It’s always vexed me, bard,” said Geralt into the abused skin of Jaskier’s neck, “how tight your breeches are. How your ass looks in them, how I could guess your size.” He proved his point by gripping lightly at the base of Jaskier’s erection. Jaskier keened shamelessly. Any idea of holding onto a semblance of pride, any notion of shame, was far, far out the window. Shame was gone. Shame was dead . Shame was a ghost banished to the ether. There were only Geralt’s hands and Geralt’s whispering, rumbling voice, and how much the bard needed both.
“Keep talking, please, Geralt,” Jaskier choked. The witcher growled and levered the bard back down onto the mat, cradling his back so that he didn’t land there too hard. Jaskier’s knees were still wrapped around Geralt’s waist like he was some sort of kinky boa constrictor. As Geralt breathed heavily in Jaskier’s ear, taking care to move the excess fabric of the mat out of the way, Jaskier leaned up and kissed at the witcher’s collarbone, sucking along the ridge greedily. Geralt faltered and pressed farther down over the smaller man. Their clothed erections lined up for a moment, and they both shuddered and froze.
“Geralt, please keep talking,” Jaskier murmured against the witcher’s neck.
“Kinky, aren’t you?” Geralt said, undoing the ties of the bard’s slacks. “Is this alright?”
“Yes,” Jaskier said, fearing that he would die of impatience. “Yes, fuck, Geralt.”
“What is it, Jaskier?” Geralt asked. Jaskier could feel the smirk against his skin as the witcher’s fingers finally sidled under his waistband. “Don’t like it when I take my time? Bit of a restless little bard, are you? A flighty song bird?” Geralt hummed and twisted his hand in just the right way over Jaskier’s dick. The bard nearly fell apart right there and then, releasing back down all the way supine with an audible thunk, clutching desperately at Geralt’s hips. “I don’t think so. I think you like it when people take their time with you, tease you until you can barely stand it.” Geralt kissed the smaller man’s cheek. “Tell me if I’m right.”
At that moment, Geralt once again gripped at the base of Jaskier’s dick in his palm, and Jaskier arched his back with an open-mouthed moan, hips bucking once. Geralt chuckled. “That’s what I thought,” Geralt rumbled above him. Jaskier opened his eyes, which had shut of their own accord somewhere in there, and scrunched his face at the witcher.
“I think you like to hear people beg,” Jaskier said, lifting his hips and pushing his breeches and small clothes down and off his feet, then kicking them hurriedly away.
“No, just you,” Geralt had the nerve to say, nipping at Jaskier’s ear. Jaskier tutted breathlessly.
“As if your ego needs any more boosting,” he laughed.
“You are my barker,” said Geralt. “Isn’t that kind of your job?”
“You’ve got me there,” Jaskier said, stuttering a little as Geralt twisted his hand along the underside of his dick. “In more ways than one.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt whispered into Jaskier’s ear, brushing aside a stray, sweaty strand of brown hair with his free hand. “Jaskier, what do you want? Tell me.”
Jaskier…had had his fair share of sex. It wasn’t boasting — okay, well, maybe it was — but it was true. And despite the numbers, no one had actually asked what the bard wanted. He found himself taken aback, blinking at the witcher through a fog of lust and pleasure.
“You — you can just do with me what you want,” he murmured. Geralt continued to stroke him, and his hips snapped again. “I — I don’t mind.”
“I can’t do that,” said Geralt, grunting into the side of Jaskier’s throat. “Not if you’re not also satisfied. Is there nothing you want?”
“Geralt,” Jaskier said, utterly touched. Most men he’d fucked, or who’d fucked him , had simply wanted to get off and leave him be. He wasn’t necessarily adverse to this all of the time, but it was why he usually preferred women over others; there was often an established foundation of the proceedings and the roles of involved parties in finding each other’s pleasure. They cared more than to just use him, probably because they were so often used themselves. They were invested. And now Geralt was demonstrating his investment. He exhaled, realizing he’d forgotten to do that as he considered. Geralt kissed softly up his neck, patient. Jaskier felt he should thank him, but he wasn’t sure how to do that, except by showing his own investment.
“Geralt,” he said again. “I think — I think I want you inside me.”
Geralt grunted and nodded, his stubble tickling Jaskier’s cheek.
“I also think I want your pants off, if that’s all the same to you,” he added.
Geralt chuckled and drew back. “Very well,” he said, undoing the laces at his breeches. His hair fell over his forehead and upon the upper portion of his chest. Jaskier swallowed.
“Let me help?” he said, reaching forward. Geralt hummed and allowed the bard to tug on one of the strings, then tug his pants over the witcher’s dick and down his thighs. The leather caught a little on the head of his dick at the motion, and the whole thing bobbed heavily. Jaskier had suspected, of course, that Geralt was big in the…nether regions, but gods . Saliva welled in his mouth.
“Okay,” Jaskier said as Geralt shucked his pants off and tossed them aside, “actually, Geralt, I changed my mind.”
“Oh?” Geralt asked, peering concernedly at the bard. “Just fingers, then?”
“No, no I mean,” Jaskier said, tearing his gaze away from the…valley of plenty below Geralt’s navel, “can I — would it be alright if I sucked your marvellous dick instead?”
Now that Geralt’s breeches had been cast aside, the bard could see the great thing twitch at the request. Although he was now pretty certain of the answer, he waited patiently for the witcher to respond.
“Yeah,” Geralt said, clearing his throat. “But I think both requests can be managed.”
“Of fucking course,” Jaskier grumbled with fake peevishness as he lowered himself onto his stomach and propped himself up on his elbows. “Of fucking course the man with a giant cock also has stamina in spades.”
“I didn’t say that,” Geralt said, gripping Jaskier’s hair just hard enough to turn the bard on. Jaskier smiled and shook his head at the witcher’s dick, which dripped with precome.
“It was kind of implied there, witcher,” Jaskier said.
Geralt grunted. And, without further ado, Jaskier extended his tongue to its full length and gave the witcher a long, drawn-out, lascivious lick from his balls to his tip.
“Shit!” Geralt said. Articulate as usual. Jaskier prodded the flushed head with his tongue, gripping the base with both of his hands while looking up at the witcher. The other man had tilted his head back, Adam's apple bobbing. Jaskier allowed himself a grin before pressing his lips over the tip, and then swallowing quickly down.
Geralt moaned wantonly as Jaskier hollowed his cheeks and drew back up, oh-so-slowly. He wanted his witcher to enjoy this. He wanted him to remember it. He wanted Geralt to unravel.
After reaching the head once more, he bobbed his head and set about sucking a rhythm into the witcher’s dick.
He’d have never thought Geralt would be so vocal. His mouth remained closed during the groans Jaskier pulled from him, but every time Jaskier sucked up his length, a smattering of curses, some in other fucking languages, shattered his pressed lips.
It was almost too much for Jaskier’s own throbbing need, but he lost himself in the task, only grinding a little against his bedroll as he closed his eyes. He hummed lightly in appreciation, and Geralt nearly choked above him, tugging at his hair. Jaskier got the message and leaned back to sit up on his haunches. A string of either saliva or precome followed and clung to his lips. They both watched it for a second, Geralt’s breathing heavy between them, before it snapped and fell.
“Fuck,” Geralt intoned.
“Yeah, Jaskier rasped, wiping his mouth.
Geralt swallowed. “Now,” he said, “oil?”
“Yeah, there’s, uh, some in my bag,” Jaskier admitted, pointing in the direction of his things. Geralt lifted a corner of his mouth and leaned over to retrieve the small bottle that the bard kept tucked away beneath a spare pair of slacks. He only spent a moment before returning with the oil, biting down on the cork and popping it off. Jaskier opened his mouth, irked.
“You knew where it was!” he cried.
Geralt grunted. “Saw it when I was looking for a cup,” he said, spreading a fair amount of the contents of the bottle over three of his fingers. “Lay back?”
Still huffing, Jaskier let himself be pushed gently back on the mat and spread his legs. He shifted a bit to get comfortable.
“You’re only acting offended because you’re embarrassed,” Geralt observed, lifting Jaskier’s left knee over one of his crossed legs.
“Preposterous!” Jaskier said as Geralt lined a finger up to Jaskier’s entrance. “And maybe true.”
Geralt chuckled and pressed lightly against Jaskier’s hole. Jaskier gasped as the witcher circled the stretch of muscle.
“I’m about to enter you,” Geralt rumbled.
“Okay,” Jaskier breathed. “I’m ready.”
“Relax,” Geralt said calmly, sliding his finger very slowly forward. Jaskier held his breath, then, realizing that was probably counter-productive, released his exhale and eased into the frankly lovely pressure. He leaned his head back on his pillow, sighing softly. He heard Geralt grunt from above him.
“Can I kiss your neck, Jaskier?” asked Geralt, sliding his finger back out again.
“Of course,” Jaskier responded with a smile. Almost immediately, he felt the witcher’s mouth contort above his collarbone, sucking another bruise there while he pushed his finger back in.
It was a few more pumps before Jaskier loosened up and Geralt increased the speed. Jaskier moaned, arching his back off the mat when Geralt added his middle finger and crooked both of them simultaneously forward. Geralt bit into Jaskier’s neck, humming softly as the bard pressed desperately down on his fingers. When the witcher scissored them, Jaskier wailed.
“Oh you sing so nicely,” said the witcher. “I see why you chose your profession.” Jaskier bit his lip helplessly as Geralt scissored once more, clutching at the witcher’s back. “Ready for another?”
Jaskier nodded quickly, and Geralt slid a third finger inside. Geralt held the bard steady as his back curved once more up off the bedroll. “You — you know,” Jaskier stammered as Geralt began to draw the slickened fingers in and out, “you know quite a lot of the, uh, ins and outs of this business very — fuck! — well, witcher. I didn’t know you liked — sweet Melitele! — having men.”
Geralt exhaled, amused. “Of course,” he said. “When I can find someone willing, I find these proceedings with whoever very enjoyable — gender doesn't matter. Though, sometimes I’m the one on my back.” He curled his fingers once more, hitting that bullseye of a spot effortlessly. The combination of the pressure on his prostrate and the mental image of Geralt being stretched and moaning on the ground was nearly too much.
“Geralt, Geralt, I’m close,” Jaskier said, gripping the witcher’s arms. Fuck, those biceps were so muscular. “Please, please, I’m ready.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Geralt said, drawing his fingers slowly out of Jaskier’s heat. Jaskier nearly sobbed at the loss of contact. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes yes yes,” Jaskier babbled. “ Gods yes, please, I need—” He was promptly cut off when the witcher drew his hands down, towards Geralt’s groin.
“Help me with the oil?” Geralt said. Jaskier whimpered as dick twitched beneath his fingers. Oh, he was so fucked.
“Yeah,” Jaskier said. Geralt poured a bit of the oil onto his own hands, then spread them over his erection. Jaskier massaged the slick into the velvety, impossibly-hot skin, taking care to rub a blunt fingernail very gently on the underside. He was rewarded with a punched-out breath from above him.
“Okay,” Jaskier said, falling back down and pulling the witcher over him. “Okay, we’re both ready. Let’s do the thing.”
Geralt smirked and let Jaskier guide him towards his stretched and aching entrance. At first contact, both groaned.
“Oh gods,” said Jaskier. “Oh dear gods, please, Geralt.”
Geralt pressed in, gently, until the head passed his hole. Jaskier whimpered.
“Okay?” Geralt asked.
“Yes,” Jaskier whispered, holding the witcher’s hips. Geralt grunted and proceeded to push farther, until he finally bottomed out. Jaskier shuddered. Geralt breathed against his ear, and pinned both of the bard’s slender hands to the ground, weaving their fingers together. After a moment, Jaskier opened his eyes.
“You can move,” the bard said, a touch impatiently. “I’m not the fine china, I won’t shatter.”
It must have been supremely difficult to have been holding still for so long, because almost immediately after Jaskier’s words, Geralt drew back out with an obscene squelch, and slammed back in. If Jaskier hadn’t been so agonizingly prepared beforehand and if he also wasn’t exactly the masochist Geralt had named him as earlier, it might have been far too much for him. However, he had been and he was, so the loudest moan he thought he’d ever, and would probably ever dare to utter, pushed lecherously from his parted lips and sliced through the night air.
Geralt set a brutal pace. No surprise, if the trek they’d embarked on earlier that day was any way to measure. “So good,” Geralt murmured, kissing Jaskier’s cheek amid the slapping sounds of flesh against flesh ringing around them. “So damn tight, Jaskier.”
Jaskier was utterly wrecked. It was, to his embarrassment, only a few more thrusts before he was done in, and Geralt released a hand to press just beneath the flushed tip of Jaskier’s dick. He came with a broken-off cry like some sort of wounded bird, spilling all over his stomach and the back of Geralt’s hand. Geralt actually wasn’t all that far behind him. His hips kicked into high gear, slamming ruthlessly into Jaskier’s abused prostrate as the bard’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, still savoring his high. Then, just like that, the witcher groaned into Jaskier’s neck, teeth bruising the stretch of skin just below his right earlobe, and Jaskier could feel the witcher’s release churn deep inside him.
Much to Jaskier’s gratitude, Geralt avoided landing on the bard as he drew very slowly out, and fell to the side, back onto the sleeping mat. Jaskier was too blissed-out, too tired, to care about the mess or even open his eyes. But not to reach for the witcher blindly, still panting from the climax. Geralt rolled over to him and wrapped his well-muscled arms around his heaving torso, pulling him closer. He felt like a stuffed animal, and he loved it. He snuggled into Geralt’s lovely pectorals with a content sigh, every bit the cat who got the witcher’s…cream. Shit. He needed to write a song about that.
They laid there for an indefinite stretch of time, just listening to each other’s breathing even out. Eventually, Jaskier became aware of the bird song stirring about the clearing.
“Good gods, it’s morning?” he asked disbelievingly. Geralt must have fallen asleep, because Jaskier felt the other man jerk a little before exhaling over the top of his head, ruffling his hair.
“Yeah, we fucked for a while,” Geralt said, voice wonderfully gravelly from the night’s events.
Jaskier laughed. “Must have.” He snuggled further into his witcher as he kissed Jaskier’s forehead. “I don’t feel sick though. I think the fucking cured me.”
Geralt chuckled. “You were already feeling better before the fucking part.”
Jaskier raised a finger blindly up toward where he hoped Geralt’s mouth was. “Sh, shhh,” he said. “Magic sex.” Instead of Geralt’s lips, however, his wandering finger unfortunately found the witcher’s left nostril. “Oops,” Jaskier said as Geralt grunted and twitched his face back. “Sorry. Thought that was your mouth.”
Geralt grunted and nested his chin amid the curling lengths of Jaskier’s hair. “Will you agree to not write a song about tonight, if I promise to do it again some more with you.”
Jaskier sputtered weakly, too tuckered out to mount a defense. “How did you—?”
“You’re literally a bard,” Geralt said, “and you’re my barker, too. It’s what you do.”
Jaskier sighed, admitting defeat. “Fine,” he said. “As long as we do do this again, witcher, I won’t write a song about your dong.”
He didn’t need to see Geralt to know that the witcher was rolling his eyes. “We have an accord, then," was all he said.
“Yes,” Jaskier agreed. “But let’s wait til the actual morning and we clean up a bit before we make good on that.”
Geralt rumbled. “That soon?”
“Lemme sleep,” Jaskier said, as if he hadn’t just woken the witcher not five minutes ago, “and I’ll tell you when I wake up.”
“Sounds like another accord, bard,” Geralt said. He began to stroke Jaskier’s back, and the bard sighed.
“‘Nother accord,” he repeated softly. Geralt kissed the top of his head, and then the whole world was contained in just the witcher’s level breathing, the birdsong above, and the witcher’s hands as they strummed along his back. It was a lovely song, whatever Geralt’s hands played. Jaskier needed to remember to pin it down to melody. When he woke up. Maybe after more sex.