Work Text:
Winter goes by quickly.
Flurries of snow sprinkle down from the sky and blanket old stone in a sheet of white, not enough to go above the ankle but enough to make going outside on wet stones a slippery venture. Lambert gripes day in and day out about the cold, Vesemir agreeing with a simple nod of his head and an explanation that even though he’s a witcher, old age comes for their bones just as any other living creature. Jaskier himself has never minded the cold. Dragons of his nature tend to enjoy the brisk air and cooling snowstorms if only because of their high body temperature and closeness to fire, something Geralt takes advantage of at night while they lay in bed and watch snowflakes dance around in the dark outside their window.
In between repairing walls and general maintenance and upkeep of the fortress, Jaskier can confidently say he has grown on the witchers of Kaer Morhen. Getting Toss a Coin stuck in Lambert’s head early on in the day always proves to be a hilarious show as he hums it around the castle and irritates everyone else.
Yennefer is still getting used to him being a permanent fixture in the fortress. She doesn’t make snide comments to either him or Geralt, and that in itself is a miracle of the highest caliber. The sorceress hasn’t apologized, hasn’t attempted to right the things and people she’s wronged, but the whole cohabitation situation is already going better than he could have hoped for.
Against all hope, it seems Jaskier’s words are finally beginning to sink in for Yennefer. The looks she gives him when they pass each other in the halls is more considering and thoughtful now rather than muddled in irritation and blatant jealousy.
It’s not much but it’s progress.
After his and Geralt’s discussion when he had landed in the Keep, things fell into place in a way both he and the white haired witcher were comfortable with. There were nights they fought, nights where they truly laid themselves bare to one another to erase past mistakes and learn from them. Jaskier had never had a relationship where that didn’t happen (or at least the ones where the other party decided to keep him for more than a night or a week,) and quite frankly, he knew their relationship was going to have its ups and downs.
He knew all this, yet being here with Geralt in the witcher’s home, navigating through their relationship one day at a time with a partner who sees him as an equal, Jaskier can honestly say he has never been happier.
Two weeks have flown by since his arrival, and while he can confidently say he’s wormed his way into the other witcher’s hearts, the same cannot be said about the sorceress whose life is tied to Geralt. Many nights Geralt has offered to try and search for a way to sever the tie connecting him to the woman through his wish, those yellow eyes appearing so tired and weary as he begs Jaskier to undo his wish if it would make him happy, if it would make Jaskier stop looking like a kicked puppy whenever their paths cross with the sorceress in the halls of Kaer Morhen.
Admittedly, it’s a tempting offer. Yennefer has just as much a right to stay safe in the fortress as he does, whether he likes it or not. She is the one who is to train Cirilla, to show her how to defend herself and control her chaos to keep from falling into Nilfgaard’s grasp. If Jaskier had been able to teach her himself, he knows he would in a heartbeat, no questions asked. The sorceress knows more applied amgics than himself, however, for as long as he’s roamed the Continent, magic has never really been his forte.
No, the sorceress who desires power over everything else in the world has enough knowledge to give Cirilla a rounded education in that field.
So, every night, Jaskier has to remind Geralt that it’s for the best. Every night he very carefully explains that he cannot reverse such strong, ancient magic. There are just some things that can’t be reversed, and this is one of them.
That doesn’t stop the bard from wishing it was his life Geralt had tied himself to, of course, but there is no use in wallowing in past mistakes.
Geralt is here now, and Jaskier will never let him go.
“Jaskier,” Geralt calls him from the other side of the main hall where he has been deep in conversation with Vesemir about something or other, the soft afternoon light casting him in a gentle glow. Jaskier hadn’t been paying attention to the white haired man, too invested in his endeavor to convince Lambert that no, transforming and setting fire to the forge so he could make swords out of dragonfire is not a good idea and will never happen. He’s so wrapped up in explaining just how many ways Lambert’s idea could go wrong when Geralt evidently gets fed up with waiting for him to respond and instead calls out, “Little lark!”
That immediately gets Jaskier’s attention. After their discussion when he arrived in Kaer Morhen, Geralt had taken to calling him that and Jaskier is loving how it sounds in that rough baritone.
Jaskier also loves how it evidently grosses out the other witchers. “Yes, my love?”
Lambert makes a playful gagging noise at Jaskier’s reply and is immediately met with a hand over his mouth, the bard giving him a warning glare even as he can feel the young witcher grin against the skin of his palm right before a tongue sneaks out and licks his hand.
Vesemir's face appears as though he’s aged another twenty years as Jaskier’s loud ’ew!’ rings through the halls. “Boys,” He warns, mostly keeping his glare on Lambert as he watches the young wolf abandon the mess he just caused to run off and cackle somewhere away from retaliation.
“He started it.” Jaskier pouts even as Geralt and his mentor come over, the larger of the two standing just close enough in Jaskier’s personal space to be reassuring.
“Even so, you cannot encourage him. He’s a troublemaker at heart.” Is what Vesemir says to him as he ignores Geralt in favor of lecturing the witcher’s partner.
Jaskier takes the reprimand with dignity even as Geralt smothers an amused snort with a carefully blank expression, but Jaskier can see those golden eyes dancing in mirth at the stern talking to he’s receiving from the keeper of Kaer Morhen. “Lambert is an ass at the best of times. Don’t bother trying to speak to him like he has any kind of brainpower going on upstairs; he’s barely more sentient than a rock troll.”
“Oi!” Lambert calls from the second floor of the castle, clearly able to hear their conversation wherever he’s hiding. “I can hear you, Geralt! What are you, some kind of poet? I thought that was your boy toy’s job!”
Eskel, the poor witcher caught in the middle of his two bickering siblings, simply shakes his head where he’s sitting at the dining table sorting through his Gwent decks and keeps to himself.
Jaskier has come to learn that’s the best course of action when it comes to the White Wolf and his young brother, but giving up a front row seat to seeing Geralt interact with his little spitfire of a sibling like this is unthinkable.
“Oh, but I am one. Want to hear a limerick?” Geralt calls up toward the ceiling, missing the completely done expression on Vesemir’s face as he turns to leave even as Jaskier’s lights up in amusement. “Here’s one I wrote just for you: ‘Lambert, Lambert, what a prick.”
There’s a beat of silence from the floor above them before Lambert’s muffled voice meets their ears. “Not bad.”
The reply to Geralt’s impromptu limerick has Eskel cracking up even as he tries to smother his amusement by pursing his lips together in an effort to not encourage the behavior of his brothers. That endeavour quickly turns pointless as Jaskier absolutely loses it, howling with laughter even as Vesemir disappears from the room and leaves them to their foolishness.
How could he have lived for so long without seeing this side of Geralt?
Never before has Jaskier seen him so laid back, so happy in his own skin and comfortable enough with his surroundings to act like this. It’s refreshing and heartwarming in a way Jaskier never expected when he first arrived at the Keep.
“Geralt!” Jaskier playfully admonishes in faux astonishment as he swats at the larger man’s chest. “You didn’t tell me you’re a poet! I could have been helping you with your songs for so long!”
“Oh my god no, no more songs!” Lambert shrieks before his voice finally patters off as he moves further into the castle to escape Jaskier’s composing.
Oh well. His loss.
“Jas,” Geralt sighs as Jaskier all but plasters himself to Geralt’s side, eagerly taking one of those battle worn hands into his own and tugging the witcher away from the main hall while Eskel is still trying to catch his breath.
“Yes, love?” Jaskier chirps as he tugs the other man through one of the many side doors leading to other parts of the Keep, mainly the ones that were abandoned and more decrepit than the parts they tended to stay in.
If Geralt wants to have a conversation, Jaskier would prefer they do so out of earshot of Eskel. The handsome witcher is a big softy and Jaskier adores him, but there are some things he wants to keep private between himself and Geralt.
Geralt allows himself to be pulled along until they’ve passed the inhabited parts of the fortress and are slowly making their way toward the south end of it, toward where Jaskier knows used to be where the young recruits were trained back when witchers were still being made.
After all, even after all these years, the stones smell faintly of sweat and agony. Perhaps that’s why Vesemir chose to reconstruct only the parts of the castle he knew didn’t harbor such a stench. It was nearly overwhelming for Jaskier, and with his love’s sense of smell, he knew the white haired man could undoubtedly smell it too, but perhaps a bit more faintly.
“There’s nothing to see past the main hall in this direction.” Geralt warns him even as he continues to allow Jaskier to coax him into an impromptu tour of the Keep.
Jaskier simply hums and takes his time soaking up all the rubble and pieces of walls that were missing, likely from when the humans and wolves of Kaer Morhen fought. “There is plenty to see. There always is.”
The White Wolf stays silent beside him as they come to an area of the Keep that has all but collapsed, nature slowly but surely claiming its rightful place as moss and greenery creep up and over the stones that had fallen decades ago. The holes blown into the walls let in shreds of sunlight that cause dust particles in the air to appear as though they’re dancing. It gives the entirety of Kaer Morhen a more muted, ancient Elven ruin sort of vibe that Jaskier finds sobering. What would this beautiful place have looked like had it not been sacked by humans? How many witchers would be roaming these halls, laughing and living their lives as they were meant to?
“Ah, Kaer Morhen looks so different now,” Jaskier muses as he takes his time strolling through the dust covered hall that had once been teeming with young aspiring witchers. If he listens closely, the sound of laughter from the chests of young boys bounces through the halls and echoes around them, the ghosts of those who failed the trials greeting him like a long lost friend.
Of course, he knows it’s all in his head. The Keep hasn’t had young blood in it for far too long.
Geralt catches his phrasing and raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean, ‘different’?”
Jaskier throws a smile over his shoulder before placing a hand on one of the stone walls, watching intently as his long musician’s fingers spread to feel the cool, rough surface. Some of that creeping moss tickles the lute calloused pads of his fingers. “I’ve been here before,” he clarifies, focusing all his attention on stroking the ancient stone to keep from catching whatever expression is on Geralt’s face as he continues down the hall, dragging his hand along the walls as he goes. “I kept tabs on its construction and the production of witchers. Tried to prevent the alteration to the formula used to make witchers from the School of the Cat. Actually, now that I think about it, Vesemir has had the pleasure of meeting me before, though I doubt he remembers me. He was quite young when we were introduced.”
The immediate lack of footsteps following him halts Jaskier in his tracks. His nose can catch no emotion wafting from the witcher aside from shock, so he carefully maintains a neutral expression as he turns around.
Geralt looks absolutely floored, his eyebrows raised so high they’re practically one with his hairline, the scar over his eye stretching along with his brow. ”What?” He chokes out.
Shock makes Geralt appear so much younger. All the worries and stresses of his line of work, lived day in and day out, vanish from his face and leave behind an almost childlike wonder. It's endearing as all hell and Jaskier can’t fight the pleased grin on his face as he plants his hands on his hips. “What, you didn’t think I was really only forty, did you?”
Geralt sputters as Jaskier throws his head back with a throaty laugh.
Oh, this man is just too much fun.
“Don’t tell Vesemir I said this, but he was a very cute child. Got into almost as much trouble as I imagine Lambert got himself into.”
The poor witcher looks about ready to suffer an aneurysm. Jaskier decides to take pity on him and wanders over to loop his arms over those broad shoulders and lean his body against the immovable object that is his witcher. “Sorry, love, I didn’t mean to break you.”
“No, I just… I’m surprised.”
“Well, try not to take it all to heart. I have it in good faith that you were undoubtedly the cutest little terror of them all.”
Geralt leans forward to plant a chaste kiss on Jaskier’s forehead. It’s a simple show of endearment-- relatively tame, from what Jaskier has experienced in his long life-- but it makes his heart pound like a one man band against his ribs, his cheeks nearly aching with the force of his grin.
“You continue to amaze me, little lark.”
Ah, there was that nickname that never failed to make his knees turn to jelly. Only Geralt would call a beast capable of burning the Continent to the ground such as himself something as harmless as a lark. Still, the compliment sits weirdly in his gut this time, and something must show on his face or in his scent because Geralt pulls away just enough to look him in the eye. “What’s wrong?” He asks worriedly.
He shouldn't. Jaskier shouldn’t say anything, shouldn't bring up what had come to pass long ago, but the guilt he still harbors for being unable to do anything to help against the sacking of Kaer Morhen will be something he carries with him until the end of his days. “Back then, I’m sorry I couldn’t save your brothers. By the time I escaped from my family- by the way, don’t ever piss off a family of dragons when you’re plastered on a barn’s worth of Evreluce- it was too late.”
Geralt takes a moment to piece together what Jaskier is talking about. The witcher seems to be taking this all too well. That stoic face softens further at Jaskier’s admission, and a sword calloused hand briefly cradles his face, a thick thumb resting above his cheekbone. “There is nothing to apologize for.” He hums. “You were held captive. And besides, Kaer Morhen was not your home. You had no obligation to defend it. Could have been killed for doing so, in fact, since the humans seemed strong enough to take out an entire fortress of witchers.”
The truth Geralt speaks is just that- a truth. Though had he been able to break free of his family’s suffocating and ill informed clutches, Jaskier knows without a doubt he would have fought by the witcher’s sides come hell or high water.
After all, there was a specific reason why his family had chosen that time to keep him hostage.
It’s not a memory he particularly enjoys. Narrowed eyes and scathing words bit out in a firestorm of disappointment had burned his skin like no fire ever would, the disapproval of his parents and their clan stinging even when Jaskier knew they were wrong.
Memories of ’Don’t meddle, Julian, they’re simply humans,’ and ’you debase yourself by caring for those lowly creatures. When will you shake yourself free of these silly dalliances and take the throne you know is your duty, Julian?’
The memory still churns his gut to this day.
They were wrong to turn their backs on humanity, to carry on with only their own kind like they were too good to even grace the Continent with their presence. Family ties and hoards and inheritance were the pressing matters at hand, not the wars that were wiping out entire species around them. Not a single one thought about how what was playing out on the Continent would affect them, how many lives would be changed and wiped off the map completely.
No, his family believed themselves untouchable. Believed themselves so far above any other creature that they condemned him for his love of humanity, for him watching the growth and influence of humans with more fondness than he had ever shown to his own kind.
Found family has always had a better ring to it, in his humble opinion.
Still, he has a point to make. “While that may be true,” Jaskier says as he leans into Geralt’s touch, pressing a soft kiss to the heel of his hand before pulling away to begin walking toward the wing of the castle that housed the bedchambers, “I will never stop wishing I had been able to lend a hand. If I could not help my family, then I at least wish I could have helped yours.”
Geralt seems to ponder his response as silent boot clad feet carry him after Jaskier until they’re walking side by side, shoulders brushing every now and then as they calmly stroll through the decrepit halls. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Geralt begins, sneaking glances at his bard as they round the kitchens and begin up the stairs to that lead to the bedchambers, “But I don’t know if you would have made a difference. Humans destroyed most of the School of the Cat as well; I’m not sure a fledgling dragon would have been a help to anyone.”
Jaskier remains quiet as he listens to Geralt speak, giving a nod or a hum as they make their way up the stairs.
“Those who retreat would mention a dragon. Others would hear and the word would spread. Hunters looking for coin, lords seeking to make a name for themselves; they would all change their targets to you and your family.”
Despite himself, Jaskier couldn't smother his snort, the scent of his distaste clear even to himself. “I can’t imagine mother trying to fight a hoard of humans. She would sooner shrivel up and die in disgust before touching a single one of them with claws or fire.”
Geralt says nothing to this but nods his head as though in understanding.
Jaskier appreciates that his lover doesn’t pry, doesn’t ask him to voice things about his family that he isn’t so sure he’s come to terms with himself. Their steps fall into sync as they make their way to their bedroom, content with the fact that Lambert had given up stirring up trouble and had taken Cirilla for training for the day. That left Eskel and Vesemir, who, judging by the height of the sun in the sky, had more than likely already left the Keep in search of a deer to hunt down for dinner.
And who has any blasted idea where Yennefer is. Jaskier doesn’t know nor does he care as he can feel Geralt’s gentle rumble of contentment as they reach the door to their room, the sound soft and simultaneously gravely.
But that’s just how Geralt is, Jaskier reminds himself. The White Wolf is gentle in all the ways he’s rough, more intuitive than he believes himself to be regarding matters of the heart. The white haired man has always been a bleeding heart whether he denies it or not, and gods forgive him, but Jaskier loves him all the more because of it.
No one he has met in his centuries of life has come close to being anything like Geralt.
“You know, dear heart,” Jaskier begins as Geralt opens the door to their room, the old wood shrieking and groaning as it’s forced to move on rusty hinges, “I’ve never met someone quite like you. Please, don’t ever change.”
Geralt gives Jaskier an amused quirk of his lips before leaning down to press a chaste kiss to the bard’s forehead, the blue eyed man nearly going cross eyed trying to follow the motion. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Is his rumbled reply.
And, well. How can Jaskier not kiss that content look right off Geralt’s face?
“And what about me?” Jaskier pries in a flirty tone as he slowly walks forward enough to prompt Geralt into backing up until the backs of his knees hit the edge of their mattress. Neither of them are oblivious to the fact that even if Geralt decided to put up a fight, he is no match for Jaskier, especially when the bard wants something. “Am I the only world renowned bard you’ve let into your chambers?”
An amused snort leaves Geralt as he sighs in exasperation before allowing his hands to rest on Jaskier’s hips, the bard’s arms throwing themselves around his shoulders and simply hanging there. “I don’t know about ‘world renowned’,” He begins even as Jaskier begins to pout at the teasing. “But yes. The only one I’ve ever brought here is you.”
Jaskier can tell Geralt secretly takes enjoyment in the surprise the bard knows is showing on his face at that bit of information. “Really?”
“Yes. Kaer Morhen is not a suitable place to bring whores. They wouldn’t survive the winter.”
Before he can help himself, a nasally snort leaves Jaskier’s throat at the unexpected explanation. Leave it to Geralt to be so cut and dry with something like this. It’s endlessly amusing. “And yet we find ourselves housing Yennefer in the Keep.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt warns.
“Alright, alright, I jest. You can stop your scary posturing, you big bad wolf. I was only trying to make you laugh. I know she is a lady of high moral standing and integrity.”
Geralt looks far from pleased at his insult about Yennefer, though Jaskier has a sneaking suspicion it’s because the witcher is afraid of the sorceress hearing them and deciding to abandon teaching Cirilla, who has been excited about her lessons to say the least. Geralt cocks his head to the side as though able to read Jaskier’s thoughts, staring off at one of the depressingly bare walls of their room intensely for a second before making a satisfied noise. “She’s on the other end of the Keep. Can’t hear us.”
Jaskier huffs and begins twirling a few strands of moonlight white hair around his fingers, gradually leaning more of his weight against the immovable brick that is his witcher. “I could have told you that.”
“Everyone else is out of the Keep.” Geralt continues as though Jaskier hasn’t spoken, those pale lashes lowering over catlike eyes as he gives into Jaskier’s soft touches to his hair. “But I would still appreciate it if you didn’t start any feuds while we’re all stuck here.”
The hands at his hips tighten ever so slightly as Jaskier hums in agreement, deciding to acquiesce to his lover’s request. “It would be entertaining.” He tries even as he begins massaging small circles into the base of Geralt’s spine, right at the base of his skull.
“Eskel would rather cook and eat his fucking goat than have to be near her for more than a few minutes. You know that.”
“I do. That’s what makes it entertaining.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Impossibly clever, you mean.”
Geralt’s stern expression melts into one of fond exasperation as Jaskier tires of their back and forth banter and silences him with a kiss, those large hands on Jaskier’s hips pulling him close enough for the bard to be able to tangle his hands in Geralt’s white strands and yank just hard enough to pull a hiss from the witcher.
Huh. Jaskier wouldn’t have pinned Geralt to actually enjoy a lover being rough with his hair, though given how the witcher tends to try and yank his own strands out whenever Jaskier convinces him to comb out knots the size of Roach’s head, Jaskier supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. “Didn’t peg you for someone who enjoys rough hair pulling.” Jaskier whispers against Geralt’s lips as he gives a slight tug on the handful of hair he has in his grasp just to hear that gasp again.
“Never really did before you.” Geralt admits against spit slicked lips as he deepens their kiss.
Jaskier is powerless to stop him. The fact that he’s allowed to kiss Geralt, allowed to love him openly and without hesitation is still such a heady sensation.
And the fact that Geralt loves him back still makes him short of breath.
Their past two weeks in the Keep had been spent repairing whatever damage Jaskier had done in his dragon form and doing other general missions Vesemir had for them, keeping them so busy that by the time dinner was over and Yennefer squirrelled Cirilla away to her bedchambers to brush her up on more magic lessons, Jaskier was so exhausted he could barely keep his eyes open. It was all he could do to strip down to his smalls and crawl into bed beside Geralt and pass out.
Now, though. Now they were done fixing the walls for at least a little while, and no eavesdropping ears were around to intrude on their privacy.
Not that Jaskier particularly cares for privacy and discretion in the first place, but he was determined to not have Geralt’s family hear them if only to keep Lambert’s jokes from having any actual substance to work off of.
They’re finally alone and gods, Jaskier can’t wait any longer.
Heat passes between them and warms their skin to a sweltering degree as Jaskier all but rips Geralt’s shirt over his head and shoulders, tossing the offending black garment stained with Melitele knows what to some corner of their room before making quick work of undoing the witcher’s laces. Geralt hums his appreciation against Jaskier’s lips as he tangles one calloused hand in Jaskier’s short locks and the other slides up from his hip to around Jaskier’s trim waist, pulling him in close enough to press their bodies together tightly.
“Get...these…off,” Jaskier huffs between stolen breaths as Geralt ravages his mouth, licking into him and causing his toes to curl in his boots before he manages to push the witcher back far enough to help him divest himself of his stupidly tight trousers and smallclothes.
Jaskier doesn’t even get a chance to admire Geralt below the belt before the witcher is making motions to grab the bard’s doublet, a spark of impatience lighting up those enchanting yellow eyes even as the White Wolf’s clothing falls in a heap around his ankles.
Geralt’s desperation and eagerness to touch him stokes a fire deep in Jaskier’s gut, a fire he had dreamed of for years yet never believed would come to pass.
Fuck, he loves Geralt so much. And thankfully he knows just how to show his affections.
Before he can voice his desires, Geralt has a hand cupping his rump and the other tilting his head to deepen their kiss, a flash of teeth nipping against his lower lip threatening to make Jaskier’s knees give out from the surge of mind consuming want that spreads through him. Questing fingers slip down the back of his trousers to feel around the crack between his arse cheeks and Jaskier breathes a muffled moan against Geralt’s mouth, the noise swallowed up by the White Wolf before Jaskier can manage to pull away long enough to speak. Geralt keeps his hand on one of Jaskier’s arse cheeks, that wide palm hot like a brand on his skin.
“Lie down on your stomach and spread your legs, dear heart,” Jaskier rasps against Geralt’s mouth as he makes quick work of his own doublet and chemise, not trusting Geralt to treat them with the patience they require to be unlaced and unbuttoned. Not that he truly cares at the moment about some measly silks, mind you, but it’s the principle of the thing at this point.
It’s not until he’s divested himself of all his fancy clothing aside from his trousers and smalls that Jaskier takes note of how utterly still Geralt is.
Geralt, standing stark naked in their cold, drafty room, looks more confused than Jaskier has ever seen him even as he dutifully steps out of his trousers and smalls and stays standing in front of the bed. It’s almost as though he’s trying to put together what it is the bard plans to do, the ridgid way he’s holding himself betraying his calm expression.
The sheer confusion in Geralt’s eyes makes Jaskier stop.
“Geralt,” The blue eyed man begins, all but freezing as the witcher avoids his eyes, that sharp gaze of molten gold affixing itself to somewhere above Jaskier’s shoulder. “Why are you so tense, love? Have I done something wrong?”
Those otherworldly eyes meet his gaze immediately at his question, appearing taken aback before Geralt can wrestle himself into an air of nonchalance tinged with guilt. He does not sit on the bed. Instead, the large man seems to be incapable of doing anything but standing rigidly in front of it. “What? No, of course not.” He denies.
“Then why do you appear as though I’ve sent Roach to slaughter?”
“I’m fine.”
It’s a weak denial and they both know it. “Why are you not meeting my eyes, Geralt? If you wish to stop, we will stop. I have waited years for you to simply look at me. I can wait however long you need.”
The reminder that Geralt has the reins in this, that Jaskier will stop the second the other man shows any kind of hesitation, causes Geralt’s expression to melt into something more relaxed. “I know, Jas,” He rumbles as he closes the little distance between them to press a chaste kiss to the bard’s lips, hiding his appreciative rumble against the edge of Jaskier’s jaw as he pulls back enough in order to lather kisses over stubble rough skin. “I just- I don’t know what you’re planning on doing. I would like to know. The… the whores never asked me to do this.”
Ah.That makes sense. Geralt had told him about the very few male prostitutes he'd had throughout his years wandering the Continent, but he had been very brief and unwilling to go into detail about those experiences when Jaskier had excitedly prodded for more information. He hadn’t even specified if they had been whores or simply men with a wandering fancy for other men who could overpower them. Hell, Jaskier wouldn’t be surprised if more than half of them were simply grateful townsfolk who were drunk on the relief of not having to live in fear of monsters any longer and agreed to a romp in the hay with Geralt. Whether any of those past experiences are good memories or not, Jaskier knows at least half of Geralt’s apprehension stems from a purple eyed sorceress who would worm her way into his mind to read it and act on things he hadn’t been explicitly clear in desiring.
There is a stark contrast between verbally voicing what is wanted and having a fleeting desire without the urge to follow through, a mere passing idea that has no right to be picked apart and used against him.
All at once, Jaskier’s shoulders sag in relief. For a moment there he truly believed he had somehow crossed a boundary or offended Geralt in some way. “Oh, darling,” Jaskier breathes as Geralt bestows his jaw and neck with more kisses, the bard preening at the attention. “I want to try something I’m fairly sure you’ll like. I want it to be a surprise though, I’m sorry. Telling you would take away from the pleasant shock I know I'll see on your face.”
Geralt simply hums against his skin as he sucks a mark onto the junction of his neck and shoulder.
“It’s nothing bad, I promise. I just… well, so little in life surprises me anymore, and I know it’s the same for you. We have lived lives that are too long to be truly caught off guard, so I would like to remind you what it feels like to experience a happy surprise.” Jaskier continues as he places his palms against shoulders strong enough to fell monsters twenty times their own size until Geralt is lying on the bed on his back, gazing up at him with such a level of trust shining in gold depths that Jaskier forgets to breathe for a moment.
Fuck, he would do anything this man asks of him even if it leads to his own death.
It’s a fact Jaskier has known the first day he met the witcher in Posada, an echo of pain spiraling in his stomach at the memory of that gut punch he received for calling Geralt the Butcher of Blaviken. Oh, what a mistake that had been, though the sheer power in that punch alone was enough to leave Jaskier breathless for more than one reason.
“Alright.”
The soft sound of Geralt’s baritone voice coupled with the trust shining so clearly in his eyes has Jaskier suddenly blinking back tears.
No. No, he will not have Geralt see him cry while having sex with him for the first time.
Instead, a watery smile tugs at Jaskier’s lips as he covers Geralt’s body with his own the best he can and presses a loving kiss to Geralt’s forehead, hoping beyond hope that a single press of lips conveys the sheer depth of emotion he feels for the man below him. “Alright,” He parrots back just as softly, taking a moment to study Geralt’s golden gaze for any signs that he doesn’t want this, doesn’t want to cross the line they will never be able to uncross once they’ve stepped over it.
Jaskier finds nothing but adoration and anticipation in Geralt’s expression. For a man so many say is incapable of experiencing emotions, the witcher is the most expressive person Jaskier has ever had the pleasure of knowing. Kiss reddened lips part slightly as Geralt watches the top of Jaskier’s head trail kisses down that thick throat and over sharp collarbones, making sure to press soft kisses to each and every scar he comes across. The little hitched breaths that come from the witcher are music to Jaskier’s ears, though he’s still mindful to keep an ear out for any noises of discomfort as he moves onto a larger scar spreading over Geralt’s pecs, the mottled skin not yet having turned silver with age. It surely must have been an ugly wound, and definitely one that had been obtained during their two years apart, for Jaskier is sure he had never seen this one before in all the times he bathed Geralt.
“Noonwraith.” Geralt answers before Jaskier can even think to question him about it. Not that he wants to at the moment, mind you, but his silence must give Geralt the wrong impression because the witcher turns his gaze to the ceiling and recites details of the battle in the way he probably thinks Jaskier wants to hear. “Was told there was one. There were four.”
Rage for whoever it was that sent Gearlt on a contract for a single wraith but ended up being four boils Jaskier’s blood for a moment before he forces it down to a low simmer, this lips moving gently over the ragged edges of mending skin. “We’ll be talking about that later.” Is what he says as he moves onto the next batch of scars, this time much smaller and clearly deeper. They’re sized more appropriately for a blade than a monster’s claws, and Jaskier smothers the wave of sadness he feels at the thought of someone stabbing Geralt when he’s just trying to help.
And it’s obviously not a one time thing. Geralt is absolutely covered in scars, physically and emotionally. Jaskier has known the witcher is damaged, has seen most of the visceral marks left on his skin that tell a story no one could put into words, and yet he still sees the way Geralt eyes him oddly as he insists on bestowing each mark with a loving kiss.
Evidently no one has taken their time to truly love him before.
“Has no one ever taken their time with you? Ever brought you to the brink with soft touches and loving words before?” Jaskier whispers, brokenhearted at the realization that no, clearly no one has taken the time to pull Geralt apart in the most visceral of ways, let alone engage in any kind of foreplay.
What a tragedy.
Geralt grunts, embarrassed. “Whores get paid to do one thing and one thing only. Don’t like to draw it out longer than they have to.”
And isn’t that just a right shame. It should be a crime for anyone to try and rush through intercourse with this magnificent specimen of a man, though Jaskier knows how bigoted people can be. It’s not surprising Geralt hasn’t truly been on the receiving end of gracious praises through physical contact or praise but it saddens the bard all the same.
Of all people on the Continent, Geralt is the one man Jaskier believes wholeheartedly deserves to be loved without exception.
Trailing light fingertips over the spattering of white hairs that span the tops of Geralt’s thighs and up to the junction of his leg and hip, Jaskier blows out a mournful sigh. “That’s a damn shame,” He comments as he runs his hands up and down those sturdy thighs, enjoying the way Geralt’s body slowly relaxes into the comfortable mattress. “But no matter! I will take it upon myself to give you the most thorough loving you’ve ever experienced. And no, I am not taking any objections.”
Geralt’s muffled snort has Jaskier beaming, drunk on the feeling of love as he gives Geralt’s left hip a playful tap to communicate he wants the witcher to roll over onto his stomach.
Slowly, so slowly, Geralt turns himself over on the mattress and props himself up on his forearms, just enough to give himself the ability to turn his head and stare at Jaskier as the bard makes himself comfortable between the witcher’s parted legs. “What is it you said you’re going to do?” Geralt drones in a voice Jaskier is sure the white haired man believes sounds unaffected. The inflection in his words is all wrong though; Jaskier can tell he’s excited about whatever it is he thinks Jaskier is about to do.
How delicious.
“Nothing I’m sure you’re not familiar with,” Jaskier assures the other man as he settles more comfortably on his knees between Geralt’s spread thighs, long musician’s fingers trailing reverently up the backs of those ridiculously strong thighs toward that deliciously plump yet taut arse, amusing himself at how the wisps of hair spread over that pale skin follow his palms as he slides them up to cup the bottom he has spent the better part of twenty years admiring.
Geralt, for his part, allows Jaskier to pet his thighs and cup his arse with a simple roll of his eyes. “Hmm.”
“Alright, well,” Jaskier amends as he gently kneads the soft globes of Geralt’s arse, more than happy to take his time and indulge himself a bit. “It’s a little different. You don't have the same parts for this to be familiar to you experience wise but I’m confident in my skills so just lie there and relax, love.”
“Jaskier.”
It takes everything in Jaskier to not huff a laugh at the impatient tone in Geralt’s voice, that single word enough to convey such a wide array of emotions. So instead he simply jiggles the two handfuls of arse in his palms and watches with a giddy grin as they bounce. Truly, this man has the loveliest arse on the Continent. “Trust me, dear heart. If you don’t like it I’ll stop immediately and we can try something different. All you have to do is tell me to stop and I will the second the words pass your lips.”
And with that, Jaskier takes the plunge.
Quickly, feeling as though his body will erupt in flames if he doesn’t get his mouth on Geralt that instant, Jaskier parts those glorious cheeks and buries his face between them. A slick, deft tongue darts out to taste the hidden furl of skin he’s reasonably sure no one has kissed before.
The muscles in Geralt’s thighs and buttocks jump and tense at the first swipe of his tongue. A confused sort of grunt sounds from somewhere deep in the witcher’s throat, but he doesn’t make a move to reject what Jaskier is offering.
No, he stills for a moment before settling back onto the furs and throwing a confused glance over his shoulder, narrowed eyes a pool of black rimmed with gold.
Fuck, how he has longed to taste this enigma of a man.
Jaskier will be the first to admit he’s a few decades out of practice with this particular activity. Simply no one but his White Wolf would do, after all, and he isn’t nearly flexible enough to have practiced on himself through their travels. Thankfully his mouth knows the motions like it knows his immeasurable repertoire of witcher praising ballads, and he is more than happy to relearn whatever he’s forgotten, the noises Geralt is making the most beautiful music he’s ever heard.
Their room echoes with the sound of slurping and wet sucking, the filthy sounds filling his chest with such strong affection that Jaskier is forced to smother his smile against Geralt’s hole, giving the rim a gentle suck when he feels it flex against his lips. “I knew you’d like this,” He gloats as those solid thighs tremble, another quiet groan tearing itself from Geralt’s throat as Jaskier pulls back enough to blow a soft huff of air over the twitching, spit slick muscle of his hole.
Geralt says nothing to defend himself as he loses himself in the sensations, slowly rocking his hips back and forth to urge Jaskier’s tongue deeper without words.
Jaskier is more than happy to oblige for as long as the witcher will have him.
Narrow hips twitch and grind into the furs below them, muscles in his pale arse rhythmically clenching and unclenching around Jaskier’s tongue as Geralt all but humps the furs below him. Jaskier hums an appreciative noise where he has his mouth busy, one hand gently cradling Geralt’s left hip and encouraging him to thrust his hips back into Jaskier’s face while the other keeps one pale cheek pulled to the side to give himself better access.
It’s a true crime no one has ever done this for Geralt before.
The witcher clearly loves it. Silky white hair slips along his shoulders as Geralt puts more effort into rocking himself forward to drag his cock along the furs only to all but force himself back onto Jaskier’s face at the end of each thrust, every swipe of the bard’s clever tongue against his hole drawing a choked off groan of appreciation from the large man.
And, for his part, Jaskier won’t lie and say he doesn’t enjoy this particular act. While it was rare others were willing to perform it on him in the past, he knows firsthand how good it can feel. Personally, Jaskier thinks he far enjoys doing this for his lover more than actually receiving it himself, though there’s no denying the thought of Geralt eating him out sends a wave of hot warmth down his spine to pool in his gut at the mental image.
Oh, yes. They’ll have to try that another time.
“Jas-” Geralt chokes out in a groan as Jaskier swipes his tongue more firmly against the ring of muscle until it allows him entry, ”Jaskier,” Geralt pleads.
“Mmm?” Jaskier hums against Geralt’s hole. Stopping now when the witcher is clearly so close isn’t quite what Jaskier had in mind when he coerced the white haired man into their room and onto their bed, but he supposes he should relent a bit and allow his lover to gather his thoughts.
Geralt takes a second to find his words. “Enough,” he pants, broad shoulders shaking as he tucks one arm against his chest to roll onto his back, effectively cutting off Jaskier’s ministrations.
Jaskier licks his lips and watches in delight at how Geralt’s eyes follow the motion like he’s trailing a monster on a hunt, unwilling to allow his prey out of his sight. “Oh, are the rumors about witcher stamina not true?” He taunts as he shifts back enough to look Geralt in the eye, a lithe hand slipping into his trousers and beneath his smallclothes to grasp himself just hard enough to take the edge away.
Getting himself off is not the goal here- well, alright, that’s a tiny bit of a white lie- but Jaskier wants Geralt to experience as much pleasure as he can before the selfless oaf can redirect his focus on Jaskier’s cock instead of his own.
He’s trying to prove a point, dammit.
Those golden rimmed pools of black dart from his face to where his hand disappeared to and back again as Jaskier silently begins to pump himself to the image of Geralt spread out before him, hand moving completely at odds with what his mind is deciding.
Vain and pompous though he might be, Jaskier can’t deny just how stunning the sight of Geralt spread out on his back for him like this is. That broad, scar filled chest heaves with each breath sucked in between harsh pants, strands of silver-white hair sticking to the skin of his face from the layer of sweat beading across his pale visage. Abdominal muscles Jaskier is sure others would kill for clench and shift as Geralt makes himself comfortable, widening his legs just enough to show off what Jaskier has seen when they bathed in cold rivers and took perfunctory dips in freezing ponds.
Jaskier would love Geralt regardless of his size and appearance. He is a lover of all shapes and genders, though he can’t help but internally preeen at the sheer size of his lover.
A proud flushed cock bobs between thick pale thighs from a bed of white pubic hair, the veins along the shaft visibly bulging and leading to a soft, shapely head that is currently drooling precum beside his belly button. A slight curve to the right gives it character, as do the heavy balls that hang below, covered in a fine dusting of white hairs.
Jaskier has never been one to throw around the term ‘perfect’ lightly, but he can confidently say that Geralt’s cock might be the most mouthwatering cock he has ever seen.
“Do all witchers have cocks this big?” Is what comes tumbling out of Jaskier’s shock slackened mouth as he reaches out a trembling hand to fist the monstrous thing, thrilling silently when he finds his fingers can’t quite exactly wrap around the entire thing.
Oh, this night is going to be a fun one, indeed.
Geralt makes an interesting noise, a pleased grunt from the contact with his erection mixed with disgust at the thought of his brother’s and mentor’s junk. “I don’t want to know.” Is what he replies as Jaskier’s hands explore every inch of skin laid bare between them, smooth palms sliding up and down scarred sides and detouring only momentarily to tug on that magnificent third leg Geralt calls his cock.
“That’s fair.” Jaskier agrees as he loses himself to the task at hand, piercing blue eyes flickering between the cock in his hands and the expressions flickering across Geralt’s face faster than a normal human would be able to keep up with.
First is pleasure, obviously. The sensation of having someone else touch such an intimate part of yourself is always breathtaking. The second emotion Jaskier can pick out is surprise, almost as though Geralt is shocked Jaskier is taking the time to simply pump him for the fun of it, just to see his reactions and hear the breathy noises he makes at every twist on the upstroke.
The last one is what gives Jaskier pause.
Love.
Jaskier sees love shining in Geralt’s eyes, so bright it nearly drowns out their surroundings as Jaskier’s gaze tunnels to show only the witcher beneath his hands, the witcher giving him something he has never given anyone else before; the sheer trust consuming every inch of his love’s face once again threatening to bowl him over.
“Geralt,” Jaskier rasps, hurriedly blinking away tears in fear of giving Geralt the impression that he’s done something wrong, which of course he hasn’t. “Geralt, would you be opposed to making love to me?”
The hips slowly rocking into his gentle tugging on Geralt’s cock stutter as a sharp breath is sucked in through clenched teeth. Wide, catlike eyes stare at him in open surprise as Geralt mulls over his question, a prickle of heat working its way over his neck and shoulders.
And wow. Who knew witchers could blush like that?
Geralt licks his lips. “Jaskier,” he groans, brows furrowing at a particularly good swipe of thumb against the head of his cock. “Only if you’re sure you want this.”
All at once, Jaskier stops jerking Geralt and stares at him in open mouthed silence. “If I’m sure?” he parrots.
The witcher spread out on the bed below him appears confused for all but a handful of seconds before Jaskier hurriedly lets go of that glorious erection and scrambles off the bed, making a beeline for their travel packs that had been haphazardly shoved against the far wall close to the fireplace when they first arrived. The bard tears them apart searching for the bottle of chamomile oil he knows he placed in there after rifling through the bandit’s belongings, and- aha!
Glass bottle in hand, Jaskier quickly wiggles out of his trousers and smalls before he books it back to the bed and climbs back onto the mattress to straddle Geralt’s hips this time, allowing the cold glass to fall onto the witcher’s sweaty belly with a soft smack. “If I’m sure, he says,” Jaskier grumbles to himself as he situates himself so Gerat’s cock is pressed against his cheeks and nudging along his crack, thrilling at the sensation of skin on skin as Geralt alternates between openly staring at the man astride his lap and down at the bottle of rapidly warming liquid on his stomach.
“We don’t need this,” Geralt rumbles confusedly as he makes a move to grab the little glass vial Jaskier had dropped on him, an endeavour that is quickly thwarted when Jaskier swipes the vial away from him and holds it aloft just out of the witcher’s grasp.
“Oh, no no no, my dearest witcher,” Jaskier begins, “I have waited years to have you inside me, and there is no way you're fitting without some help.”
That, if possible, just makes Geralt look more confused. “Spit isn’t enough?”
What.
“What?” Jaskier squeaks, nearly dropping the bottle in his shock. “Wait, wait. Did you just say spit is enough?”
Gearlt simply grunts in affirmative, though he gently begins running big rough palms up and down Jaskier’s thighs where they’re spread over his hips for a bit before reaching up to grasp Jaskier’s cock. “Does the same thing oil does.”
“Sweet Melitele,” Jaskier groans as he uncorks the vial and pours a decent amount of oil on his own fingers, rubbing them together for a moment before reaching behind himself, hips making aborted thrusts into Geralt’s sinfully tight hand as he does so. “We are going to have a talk about that later. Has no one used oil with you? I just- I can’t fathom any fun being had with just spit!”
Geralt doesn’t say anything to that. Wide, yellow catlike eyes follow Jaskier’s arm as he slowly works in a finger, hissing at the stretch after having not indulged in this particular activity for so long. It’s clear Gearlt is completely enraptured as Jaskier hurriedly works in a second finger alongside the first, and before he can react, there’s suddenly a third, much thicker finger probing around where he’s stretched wide over his own digits. “Geralt-”
“I want to do this,” Geralt whispers, not taking his eyes off Jaskier’s own as he swipes up some of the extra oil leaking down the back of Jaskier’s balls and rubbing his taut rim. “Can I?”
Let it be known that Jaskier has never been able to deny Geralt anything and is not about ot start now. ”Fuck yes, please,” He babbles as the white haired man carefully pulls jaskier’s own lithe fingers out of his hole and replaces them with his own much thicker ones. It isn’t long before he’s working the third finger in alongside the other two, pumping in and out in gentle motions and spreading his fingers to loosen the ring of muscle. ”Oh,” Jaskier breathes as he bears down on the considerable stretch, thighs locking around Gearlt’s hips to keep him right where he needs him.
The hungry growl Geralt makes when he realizes he can’t shift beneath the grip Jaskier has on him with his thighs sends a wave of arousal through his body so strongly that Jaskier swears he can taste it. “I-I’m ready, that’s enough, please,”
Gearlt, apparently satisfied, slowly works his fingers out and holds out a hand for Jaskier to pour more oil into, but the bard simply upturns the entire vial into his own palm before reaching back behind himself and slathering Geralt’s erection with the slippery substance, making sure to squeeze teasingly as he works the oil over the hot skin. Once Geralt is sufficiently oiled up, Jaskier raises himself on his knees to properly situate himself, the fat cockhead of his lover nudging at his rim for a moment before he bears down and feels it breach him.
Thank Melitele that Geralt had prepared him so thoroughly. Jaskier feels as though he’s being torn apart on the head of Geralt’s cock, speared like a pig set to roast in the best of ways. ”Fuck,” Jaskier hisses through his teeth as he takes Geralt in inch by mouthwatering inch, arching his back and rotating his hips to find the best angle to take his thick lover the quickest. Large, pale scarred hands reach out and rest themselves on Jaskier’s thighs splayed astride Geralt’s hips, those calloused fingers stroking small circles against his sweat slicked skin as Jaskier breathes through the stretch. A soft hum of encouragement from the witcher is all it takes before Jaskier slams himself the rest of the way down, absolutely done with waiting.
He has waited twenty yeras to have Geralt like this; like fuck a mere inconvenience such as discomfort will stop him.
Jaskier’s arse cheeks hit Geralt’s lap as he bottoms out with a harsh moan, every throbbing inch of the witcher buried deep inside. “Oh,” Jaskier breathes, eyes slipping shut for a moment in pure bliss as he adjusts to the sheer girth of Geralt inside of him. ”oh,”dear heart,” Jaskier slides his hands slowly up Geralt’s abdominals to give himself enough leverage to shift his hips, testing the burn of having the other man so deep and finding it just as delicious as he always imagined it to be.
Geralt, for his part, has his head thrown back against their pillows, pale white hair an icy halo as he pants through an open mouth, those golden eyes refusing to break eye contact with the dragon astride his lap, the sheer love in his gaze pouring oil onto the fanning flames in Jaskier’s gut.
Not a word is said between them as Geralt slides his hands from Jaskier’s thighs, up to the junction of where thigh meets hip, and then to the bard’s own leaking cock once again. Warm, battle worn fingers grab him in a loose grip and tug him, jerking him off at a pace that’s more teasing than relieving, and that is all the warning Jaskier gets before Geralt lets go to grasp his hips and thrust up into him.
And just like that, Jaskier forgets who he is.
For who could he possibly be without this gorgeous, brave man fucking him so gently, so lovingly?
The sheet force of Geralt’s hips rutting into him at the perfect angle has Jaskier falling forward just enough to hang his head so their foreheads press together, soft ‘ah, ah, ah!’s falling from his lips like prayers as he does his best to grind back into those world altering thrusts to give just as good as he’s getting, chasing a high he knows only Geralt can give him.
“Speechless already?” Geralt rumbles with a grunt as Jaskier tightens around him just right, nudging him against the spot inside that has the bard keening.
“Hard to- ah! Hard to t-talk while I’m- oh, right there!- getting the most thorough f-fucking I’ve had in centuries,” Jaskier retorts as he bestows a chaste peck to the middle of Geralt’s forehead before straightening back up and using his inner thighs to begin bouncing on the witcher’s lap, rising up until just that enormous tip rests inside his ring of muscle before dropping himself back down to take Geralt in as far as he can go. “Gods, I swear I can f-feel you in my throat,”
That earns a breathless laugh from Geralt as his pace slows to something more leisurely, more gentle. “Never thought I’d see the day. You, Jaskier the Bard, Master of the Seven Liberal Arts, speechless?”
Jaskier doesn’t even think before he opens his mouth. “It’s Julian, actually.”
The words come out before Jaskier realizes what he’s saying, only catching onto the tail end of them when Geralt’s thrusts fizzle out until he’s buried all the way to the hilt and frozen still, those wide golden eyes staring up at him in confusion. “What?”
Ah, fuck. This isn’t how Jaskier wanted to tell him, but now that it’s out in the open, he supposes now is as good a time as ever. “Do you know how rude it is to just stop like this?” He whines as he manages a good few grinds before strong hands come to grip his waist hard enough to stop him. A frustrated noise leaves him as he fixes his lover with what he hopes is a pleading look. “Geralt, can we talk about this after?”
That is apparently not what Geralt wants to hear, for as soon as Jaskier says this, the previously heartwarming openness on his face shutters and a more carefully constructed mask is placed there instead. “No.”
Dammit. Jaskier opens and closes his mouth a few times before his brain manages to refocus itself from the thick cock lodged in his ass and back to the topic at hand. “Um,” He begins, muscles in his thighs jumping with the effort it takes to keep still, “My name isn’t exactly Jaskier. I mean, it is, but it’s the name I chose for myself, not the one I was given.” Geralt remains silent and, like always, Jaskier scrambles to fill the silence. “My real name is Julian Alfred Pankratz. I… it’s the name my family gave to me, and after they shunned me, I decided to make a name for myself, one I could be proud to have.”
Geralt says nothing for what feels like ages but is in reality only a few seconds, visibly digesting the information he had just been given before those piercing eyes crinkle at the corners and a lopsided smile tugs at his lips. “I like Jaskier better.”
Relief so strong it threatens to bowl Jaskier over rushes through his veins in a wave, the bard dropping even more weight into the witcher’s lap from the sheer weight taken off his shoulders. “Yes, I can honestly say I prefer ‘Jaskier’ much more. It has a certain ring to it, doesn’t it?”
And with that, Geralt hums and reaches out to jerk Jaskier back to full hardness, his erection having flagged during their discussion. It’s enough to let the bard know Geralt isn’t upset, isn’t willing to stop what they’re doing to yell at him for keeping another secret that large from him for so many years.
Geralt half a year ago would have brooded and become more standoffish than usual, Jaskier is fairly certain. But the fact that he doesn’t now…
It shows the witcher is trying, shows that he’s putting more thought into how he acts instead of simply falling back on that attack dog mentality he had when things that confused or upset him came to pass.
That alone gets him to grind back down against the cock inside of him, pushing his hips back to get it as deep as possible as Jaskier starts back up a rhythm the both of them enjoy.
Desperate, admittedly loud noises fall from Jaskier’s lips as Geralt picks up the pace, shifting his hips around until he finds the right angle and brushes past the sweet spot in Jaskier’s body with every other thrust, pulling even louder sounds from the bard.
It’s a blessing that Cirilla isn’t in the castle, for with how Jaskier’s cries and pleads rose in volume, she surely would have heard them and found out what they were doing.
Or maybe she wouldn’t, but Jaskier can’t focus on the possibilities as he feels Geralt begin to put more force behind his thrusts as he plants his feet on the mattress for more leverage, his hips losing their rhythm and simply chasing his own pleasure as he slams Jaskier down on his pelvis and holds the bard there with trembling hands on his hips, forcing Jaskier to take every ounce of his release.
Not that Jaskier is complaining, of course.
How could he, when his hoard was filling him, marking him as his? How could he be anything but utterly enraptured with the faint flush turning Geralt’s pale as death skin a light rose color?
Geralt keeps his hips hostage as he grinds a bit into Jaskier to work his spend deeper, and Jaskier doesn’t bother ignoring the desire to have the evidence that he pleased Geralt as deep in him as he can possibly be. A few wiggles of his hips has Geralt hissing after a handful of moments, so Jaskier stills and makes sure the witcher stays firmly seated in him as he feels the last few shudders of that huge cock inside himself.
Filthy praises fall from his lips before Jaskier can think them through, blissfully content where he is at the moment and unwilling to move a single inch until he physically couldn’t keep Geralt tied to himself any longer. The witcher, for his part, doesn’t seem to mind being buried in Jaskier’s heat as he comes down from his high, mouth slack and panting and that barrel chest heaving for breath.
Jaskier is right where he’s always wanted to be.
Nothing, not even a surprise invasion of the Nilfgaardian army, would be able to move him from his spot.
Or at least that’s what Jaskier thinks just before he feels a subtle shift of powerful thighs behind him and the world tilts on its axis. The sudden feeling of emptiness pulls a cry from Jaskier’s throat as Geralt all but picks him up off his lap, pulling himself free in the process before flipping them so Jaskier is the one on his back with a broad witcher caging him in between thick arms.
“Wh-”
Jaskier doesn't get to finish his questioning before Gearlt slides down his body and slurps him down until he feels himself hit the back of the witchers throat, the white haired man burying his sharp nose into the bed of curls at the base of Jaskier’’s cock. Words fail Jaskier completely as Geralt bobs his head, coming up to tongue around the tip of his cock and teasing his foreskin before taking him back down to the root.
No one has ever sucked him like this. Never has anyone ever looked at him with eyes so full of love and adoration before.
The simple flickering glances Geralt bestows him with as he all but sucks his soul out through his cock is what sends Jaskier over the edge, a broken cry cracking in his throat as he feels a thick finger worm its way back into his loose hole, the burn soothed by the cum he knows is leaking out. Jaskier clamps down on that finger and throws his head back as his orgasm takes him by surprise with its intensity, the breath stolen from his lungs as he feels Geralt suck him through it, humming happily when Jaskier’s body loses the tension it was holding and the bard all but melts back into the mattress. “Oh,” Jaskier whines as he tries to catch his breath, chest heaving with the effort as Geralt kisses his way back up his body to press his lips tenderly over his heart, the brown curls of chest hair there making the witcher’s face scrunch up for a moment as it tickles his nose.
Jaskier is still struggling to calm his heart rate when Geralt slides his palms underneath the sides of Jaskier’s ribs, just enough to hold him close as a crown of white hair suddenly tucks itself underneath his chin. The scent of camomile, horse, sweat and home invades Jaskier’s senses as Geralt pins him underneath his considerable bulk and nuzzles into his chest, a contented snuffle being breathed across his skin in a way that sends goosebumps racing up and down Jaskier’s limbs.
“Geralt…?” Jaskier whispers as he reaches out a shaky hand to begin carding through those sweaty white locks, adding more pressure to his scalp in massaging little circles when he feels Geralt rumble his approval and lean into him more. “What are you thinking, love?”
A few minutes of silence pass between them with Geralt all but pinning Jaskier to the bed while the bard runs long fingers through his hair in soothing motions, his other hand gently cradling the witcher to his chest. Jaskier can feel it when Geralt sucks in a slow breath. “I… you smell like home.” Geralt says as he tries to tuck himself further into Jaskier’s embrace, silently pleading with the bard not to stop playing with his hair even as Jaskier stares at him in open astonishment.
Never would he have ever expected something like that to come out of his witcher’s mouth. Hadn’t allowed himself to dream of anything like this lest he break his own heart more than the witcher ever managed to do himself.
“I do?” Jaskier’s voice wobbles in a way he knows sounds as though he’s close to tears, and really, he is. To him, Geralt and Roach have always smelled of home, of a place he could feel safe and loved and cherished in a way he never got to experience with his actual family.
But family doesn’t make a home; not if he doesn’t want it to.
Geralt presses a series of soft kisses over Jaskier’s chest, likely able to tell how fast the bard’s heart is beating from the admission. “You do. You always have. I just… I couldn’t acknowledge it before, didn’t know the right word to put the smell to.”
“Oh, love,” Jaskier breathes as tears prickle at his eyes and his mouth contorts into the biggest grin he’s worn in a long time. “I hope you know that you’ll never be rid of me now.”
And for once, Geralt shifts his head to meet his eyes and grins unabashedly, wide and lopsided and so breathtakingly beautiful.