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The first time someone asks, Geralt doesn’t say anything.
The young earl bursts into the hall where the banquet is in full swing, the huge wooden door slamming, the musicians falling into faltering silence. He’s got Jaskier - naked apart from his boots - gripped by the arm, and is being followed close behind by a handsome, older woman wrapped in a silk bed sheet.
Every head in the room turns at the sudden intrusion.
“Who does this belong to?” The earl bellows, yanking Jaskier’s arm aloft as he desperately attempts to cover himself with his other hand.
No one says anything. Geralt’s only been acquainted with Jaskier for a year or so, and he’s already uncomfortably aware of his unerring ability to always sleep with the wrong person. This, he thinks, is not his problem - but he ducks his head regardless to avoid Jaskier’s panicked, wide-eyed stare from across the hall.
Luckily for Jaskier - and unluckily for the earl, Geralt supposes - it’s at this moment that the bruxa hiding amongst the watching crowd decides to transform, and strike. In the ensuing chaos, Jaskier escapes. When they meet again two days later, he's jogging to catch up with Geralt on the road away from the city, fully clothed, calling for him to wait up.
Neither of them discuss what happened at the banquet, although Jaskier compliments Geralt’s swiftness in dispatching the vampire.
The next time he hears it is three years later.
They’re staying in the home of some baron whose lands are under attack from what Geralt suspects is a werewolf. He’s hoping - perhaps naively - that he’ll be able to cure the creature rather than kill it, which means he needs to stay in the area for at least a few days to work out who it could be and what steps he can take next.
It’s late evening, and he, Jaskier, and a handful of household staff and guards are gathered around the fireplace in the kitchen drinking watered-down beer and discussing the comings and goings of the house. Geralt likes to start in these sorts of places - kitchens, stables, farmyards. Labourers are more likely to tell him the truth than lords.
They’ve just breached the subject of the baron’s son, who by all accounts is an ass, when the baron himself barges in through the door. There’s something gripped in his hand. The chattering falls silent, and Geralt notices the way Jaskier shrinks a little closer to the stone wall behind him.
“Who does this belong to?” The baron demands, waving his hand.
Even in the low firelight, Geralt can recognise what it is he’s holding. One of Jaskier’s chemises. It’s likely he’d recognise it even in the dark - he can smell the scented oils from where he’s sitting.
The baron takes another step closer. No one speaks. Geralt realised some time ago that no one ever does.
“Well?” The baron shouts, face purpling. “Anyone care to explain why I found this in my daughter’s room?”
It’s like Jaskier is trying to merge with the wall. The baron may be an ignorant man but he’s not a stupid man, and it doesn’t take witcher senses to tell who that shirt belongs to. Before the baron can make the best reasonable guess, Geralt stands with such force that the little wooden stool he’s been sitting on screeches across the flagstones, making everyone else wince, and snatches the shirt from the baron’s hand. The linen is soft and light beneath his fingers.
“Is this how you catch a werewolf?” He says, eyebrows raised. “By going through your daughter’s chambers?”
The baron splutters, and Geralt talks over him.
“I don’t have time for this, and I highly doubt anyone else here does either. Unless you want your guards to spend their time watching your daughter’s rooms instead of on patrol? There’s been no killings since they started rotating shifts around the Eastern Wood. But if you think their time is best spent elsewhere…”
He doesn’t finish that sentence. The baron scowls at him. Geralt is vaguely aware that he’s incriminating himself - to posit such an effective defense only serves to make him look guilty. But the baron won’t press the issue if he thinks it’s Geralt who’s sleeping with his daughter, and he certainly won’t oust the witcher who’s the only thing standing between him and yet more deaths.
But a bard? A bard, who spends more time singing and dancing than anything else? It would be easy to remove him. Perhaps permanently. Geralt isn’t about to let that happen.
The baron glares at him, but Geralt stares him down. The seconds pass unerringly slowly, but finally, the baron relents.
“Fine,” he spits. “You’ve got two days left to see off the monster, witcher.”
Geralt smirks. “I only need one.”
“Who does this belong to?”
Geralt isn’t even surprised, this time.
He peers over the edge of the boat and fishes the knee high leather boot from the water. He looks around, and - there. There’s a room jutting out over the river about a hundred yards away, the bay windows wide open. A pair of lace curtains flutter merrily in the summer breeze.
He can see a couple locked in an argument through the windows. The water below the window is rippling.
Geralt upends the boot with a sigh, emptying the water and a single, startled fish back into the river. “I think I can guess.”
It’s two months before he returns the boot. When he hands it over with a scowl, Jaskier snorts at him.
“I got new boots, you know,” he says. “You didn’t need to lug this about the Continent for me.”
Geralt’s scowl deepens.
They’re drinking with Geralt’s brothers in a tavern just outside of Novigrad. It's a lucky coincidence that all three of them are in the same place, one that Geralt is keen to exploit. This is, incidentally, the first time Jaskier has met either of Geralt’s brothers - and Geralt can’t quite decide if meeting them both at once is a blessing or a curse.
He’s a little nervous, at first; both parties have heard a lot about each other, and now there’s expectations to be met.
But those nerves are quickly dissipated when Jaskier plops himself down on the bench beside Geralt, a tray of overflowing tankards gripped in his hands, and slides into the conversation - continued probing about Lambert’s mysterious Cat, whose name is regularly mentioned but no one has actually met - like he’s known Geralt’s brothers for years.
It’s easy to forget the three have never been introduced, and soon they’re deep in their cups and playing their third round of Gwent, the stakes growing increasingly high. The gull-spiked ale flows freely, although Geralt had been forced to push Jaskier right off of the bench when he’d tried to drink from Geralt’s tankard an hour ago.
Eskel plays a decisive hand, decimating Lambert’s deck, and he swears loudly, throwing his remaining cards onto the sticky table top.
“Fuck this,” Lambert mutters, going to stand, “Who wants another—”
He pauses, his face set in a frown, as if thinking. Then in a single, swift movement he ducks beneath the table as Geralt and Eskel watch. His muffled voice rumbles from beneath the wood.
“Who does this belong to?”
They share a quick look before joining him, bending in unison to peer under the table. On the dirty floor, curled around his lute, is Jaskier. He’s fast asleep. He must have shuffled under there when Geralt had pushed him away to stop him from drinking his spiked beer - it would have almost certainly killed him.
Geralt sighs, but doesn’t say anything as he reaches down and shakes Jaskier’s shoulder. He snorts, face twitching, then blearily blinks awake.
“Hrnkg?” He mumbles.
Geralt pulls him out from beneath the table, loops an arm under his shoulders and heaves him to his feet.
“Come on,” he says. Jaskier doesn’t put up a fight as Geralt half guides, half drags him towards the stairs. “I’ll be back,” he calls over his shoulder to his brothers. “Get me an ale and set up the next round.”
It isn’t until the next morning that he realises he never went back to their game.
The spell had been devastating. Geralt can’t believe that such a simple, foolish thing could be so disastrous. He picks his way through the village and towards the little space cleared on the fallow land for those resting and healing. It’s a basic set-up, mostly just blankets spread on the dry ground, those well enough to walk tending those too exhausted to stand. The healer spots him approaching and waves him over.
“How is it?” He asks her, struggling to meet her gaze.
“Better, now,” she says. There’s blood on her hands, and the sleeves of her dress are torn. “You stopped the mage?”
There’s blood on Geralt’s hands, too. “I stopped the mage.” He flexes his fingers, and rips off his gloves, trying to rid himself of the dark red stains.
The healer nods. “Good.”
“And what about…” Geralt finally lets himself look around the little space, the people sprawled on the ground.
“Most of them will be alright,” the healer says, calmly. “Some…” she sighs. “Like I said. Most will be fine. Just exhausted.”
She shakes her head, chewing on the corner of her lip. Geralt suspects that she, too, has never seen a spell like this. Geralt has only heard rumours, hundreds of years old: entire populations doomed to dance till the spell lifts. He’d always assumed it was just a story.
The healer folds her arms across her chest. “I don’t even know who most of these people are,” she says. “It’ll take an army to make sure everyone goes home to the right place. To the right people.”
She takes a step away, and Geralt follows her as she walks between people. “For example,” she continues, “who does he belong to?”
She gestures to a man sprawled on his back on a blanket. His face is flushed, his breathing heavy. Someone - presumably the healer - has removed his boots and bandaged his feet. The pale linen is stained with blood.
Jaskier.
Geralt’s on his knees beside him before he can even speak. He’d been right at the centre of it, hours ago, when Geralt had first lost control of the situation. He places a hand to Jaskier’s cheek, and he’s burning hot, skin clammy. At the touch, Jaskier starts and wakes, turning on the blanket. There’s wide, dark circles under his eyes.
“Oh,” he mutters with a smile. “It’s you.”
“How do you feel?”
Jaskier winces, his nose wrinkling. “Like shit,” he says.
He stretches out on the hard ground with a sigh, attempting to right himself. Geralt grabs his shoulders, supporting him as he sits. He looks down at his feet and the bandages wrapped around them with a little grimace.
“Looks like you’re going to have to let me ride Roach now,” he says, slumping against Geralt’s chest with a yawn.
Geralt wraps an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders as his eyes slide shut. “Looks like I am.”
It’s the very end of the night when Geralt returns from an unsuccessful hunt, exhausted and desperate to collapse into bed. The landlord is the only person in the little tavern below their room, tidying away the day’s mess.
“Any luck, witcher?” He asks.
“Fuck all,” Geralt grumbles.
The landlord gives him a sympathetic nod. “Tricky beasts, from what I’ve heard. Would you care for a drink before you retire?”
Geralt would kill for a drink. He slumps down at the bar and the landlord tosses the cloth he’s been using to wipe tables over one shoulder as he heads towards the back wall. He pours Geralt a foaming pint of beer from one of the casks leaning against the cool stone and pushes it across the bar top.
“On the house,” he says. “You look as if you need it.”
Geralt raises the tankard in a silent cheers, and brings it to his lips. The beer is good, for once, and he’s happy to drink in silence as the landlord returns to his cleaning, muttering occasionally about the mess.
“Busy night?” Says Geralt, finally.
“Aye,” says the landlord. “Your bard…”
Geralt considers, for a moment, correcting him - not my bard. But he doesn’t. “What about him?”
“Brings in the customers,” the landlord says, “but trouble, too.”
Geralt laughs into his pint. “That he does.”
They lapse into companionable silence once more. The landlord throws the now-damp cloth onto the bar, disappears into a back room and returns with a broom. Geralt listens to him pushing tables and chairs out of the way as he sweeps.
There’s a pause. And then—
“Now, who does this belong to?”
Geralt turns. The landlord has pulled a fancifully embroidered doublet in bright red silk from beneath one of the chairs. They both know who owns such a garish bit of clothing.
“Pass it here,” says Geralt.
The fabric is cold - clearly abandoned some time ago - but it still smells of Jaskier. Chamomile and wine and, beneath that, the scent he’s never been able to really describe as anything other than bard. It’s a softly comforting smell, especially after the useless hunt.
It’s odd, though, that it’s been left so carelessly. Geralt knows how much this cost.
“He must have left it behind,” says the landlord, as if sensing the question. “He was rather distracted by, ah, what’s his name, the lad from the smithy…”
Oh. Of course. Geralt won’t admit it to himself, but he’d been relishing the thought of crawling into bed beside Jaskier’s slumbering form. Now he’ll just be alone, again.
It’s probably for the best. He doesn’t need to add more fuel to whatever this thing is that’s started to flutter in his stomach.
He finishes off the drink swiftly and heads up to the room. It’s oddly quiet. Too quiet. He pulls off his armour, dumping it unceremoniously on the floor, then slides beneath the sheets. Jaskier’s doublet is still gripped in his hand.
Geralt thinks, for a moment, of where Jaskier may be right now - no doubt sandwiched between the legs of what’s-his-name from the smithy - and for a moment something else flares in his chest: something more akin to anger, white-hot and painful. He wants, but it’s more than that, too.
He presses the discarded doublet to his nose, inhaling Jaskier’s scent.
He’s not sure when he falls asleep, but when he wakes the next morning the doublet is gone and there’s a warm, familiar body tucked beneath his arm, gently snoring. There’s no one else who’d sneak into bed beside a sleeping witcher, but he opens his eyes anyway, just to look.
Jaskier looks handsome, even with his mouth hanging open and his hair in disarray. This isn’t the first time Geralt has had that thought, but it feels more urgent, now. Jaskier twitches under his arm, right on the cusp of sleep. Geralt goes still. Jaskier mutters something he can’t quite make out, then wriggles closer before sliding back into oblivion.
Geralt waits just a moment, then huddles closer, burying his face against Jaskier’s neck.
He smells of wine and chamomile and bard. But he doesn’t smell of anybody else.
Geralt doesn’t like using Jaskier as bait at the best of times, but this is unbearable.
They’re looking for a succubus, and have tracked her to a party in a secluded house on the edge of Vizima. Geralt has grown used to balls and banquets, even if he doesn’t enjoy them, and has come to expect them as part of his hunts. But this is something entirely different - something he’s not as used to.
He can hear a couple fucking behind the thin sliding wall to his left. There’s a man in the other corner of the room getting his cock sucked while a woman bounces on his face. There’s two women sprawled beside the fire playing with a thick glass phallus.
And there, in the middle of it all, is Jaskier, looking like…
Like he belongs.
He’s certainly dressed for the part; although, Geralt thinks, “dressed” is perhaps too strong a word to describe Jaskier’s attire. He’d be completely naked were it not for the delicately laced scrap of silk that takes the term ‘smalls’ to its most literal interpretation. That is where his dressing ends - everything else is just… embellishment.
Pearls drape over Jaskier’s shoulders and chest in delicate loops, framing his chest like a shimmering spider’s web. They’re fake, of course - they had neither the time nor the money for such extravagance, given how quickly they had to prepare for this evening - but in the low, flickering candlelight it’s impossible to tell. They wrap around his neck like a collar before cascading down, the lowest string of beads brushing just above his navel. The pearls nestle temptingly in the thatch of hair across his chest, a contrast that makes Geralt desperate to touch.
Further strings of faux pearls rest against his arms, almost like sleeves - or pauldrons. When he moves, they roll against his skin, tapping softly where the beads strike each other.
Around Jaskier’s waist is a fine, golden chain that hangs lopsidedly past his navel and down towards his hip. It glitters as he walks, and Geralt can’t take his eyes from the shimmering metal. These past six months have been good to them both, and after a decisive win at the spring Bardic competition and a string of well-paying contracts, they’ve been able to live a little more indulgently. It shows in the new layer of soft fat around Jaskier’s hips and stomach, and paired with the glint of the golden chain Geralt finds himself desperate to taste.
He imagines, suddenly, pinning Jaskier down and taking that chain between his teeth, snapping it away and sinking his teeth into the flesh of Jaskier’s hips. The chain is light and fine - it would give way beneath his canines like it was made of nothing more substantial than thread.
Geralt tries to shake that thought. No. It’s just the heady atmosphere, the cloying air heavy with the scent of sex, exacerbated by the effect of the succubus he knows is hiding here. It’s nothing more than a physical reaction - he can’t help it. It’s not real.
That doesn’t excuse the dozens of other times he’s caught himself staring at Jaskier, or the twist in his gut when he gets too close. It doesn’t excuse the hot little sting of jealousy that’s started to feel whenever he goes off with some new lover, pink-cheeked and keen. It doesn’t explain how he’d been just as eager to grab and touch and claim when they’d been in their tiny shared room, preparing for the evening - Jaskier with his pearls and Geralt strapping his dagger to his leg - the windows wide open and the only scent the smell of Jaskier’s oils and the fresh air from outside.
The best solution - the only one he has, right now - is to attempt to ignore these feelings. There’s a monster about, and however willingly Jaskier has offered himself up as bait, this is just as dangerous as any other hunt. Geralt had warned him as such when they’d planned it out that afternoon - that if he wasn’t careful, he could still get himself killed.
Jaskier had only laughed. “What a way to go, though.”
And now here he is, acting as bait, tempting and delectable. If the succubus is here - which Geralt is sure she is - she’ll be unable to resist.
Geralt stalks the edge of the party, observing. Jaskier isn’t the only one dressed so provocatively - although he’s certainly one of the more extravagantly attired members of the soirée. Wherever he goes, eyes are on him, and Geralt supposes that’s a good thing: this way, they’ll locate the succubus quickly and have a better chance of convincing her to move on - or at least stop draining locals to the point of near-death.
He’s never too far away - it would be impossible to be, in such a small space - and it’s probably clear to the other party-goers that he and Jaskier are attached, although not in the way they’re assuming. Regardless, Jaskier is approached by a number of people, and every time he is Geralt can feel that grip around his chest tightening. He wants to call it jealousy, but that doesn’t feel quite right.
A couple walk up to Jaskier, both wearing long, transparent silk gowns that leave nothing at all to the imagination. They chat, for a moment, and Geralt can hear their conversation even over the babble of other guests and the slow music.
“So…” one of them says. “Who do you belong to?”
It takes every last drop of Geralt’s well-honed self control not to stride over there and grab him, to wrap his arm around his waist, bunch those maddening pearls beneath his fingers and scare away the interlopers. Mine, he thinks. He’s mine - and there’s an unbidden rumbling in his chest and - fuck - no.
He presses himself against the wall and waits for the urge to pass. He’s felt this way before, but never with such strength, and he can feel his hands shaking. He’d close his eyes so he doesn’t have to watch, but he can’t let his guard down for even a moment, and is forced to remain a silent observer as Jaskier laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, licks his lips and sweeps his gaze up and down the pair.
And then Geralt realises. The look Jaskier is giving them isn’t the lustful appraisal of a man looking to get laid, but careful - examining. He’s looking for the signs to watch for that Geralt had taught him earlier - the tell-tale quirks that betray a succubus wearing a human disguise.
Jaskier smiles, sweetly. “I’m waiting for someone,” he says.
The couple seem disappointed, but accept his excuse with grace before moving away. When they’re gone, Jaskier turns, spotting Geralt brooding in the corner. He winks.
Geralt is glad for the sturdy stone wall behind him as his knees attempt to buckle. Thankfully, Jaskier doesn’t appear to notice as he sashays away, back into the fray. It takes a further two hours - Geralt’s grip on his self control growing ever-more slippery - before they finally find the succubus. After another hour talking to her, reassuring her he doesn’t want to harm her, and (much to her disappointment) throwing off the more powerful of her charms, Geralt feels ready to throw himself into the lake - but it’s over, finally, and they can leave.
Jaskier wraps Geralt’s cloak around his shoulders, aware that what might have been a suitable costume for the party is not suitable for the short walk back to the inn. Geralt is already dreading the moment he returns it, knowing just how intensely it will smell of him.
That night, he sleeps on the floor. The wiser choice, he knows, would be to remove himself completely from the situation: see how many times he can walk around the lake before the sun rises. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s gone without sleep.
But he can’t, the temptation to just be near Jaskier too strong, and he drifts away on the hard floorboards. He dreams of the taste of Jaskier’s skin.
The Toussaintois know how to celebrate, Geralt is forced to admit.
It had only been a small contract - clearing out an infestation of archespores - but the monstrous plants had destroyed nearly an entire harvest, and the owner of the vineyard had been desperate. There’s something like irony, Geralt thinks, in clearing out one’s stock to celebrate the destruction of the creatures who rendered this year’s harvest unusable, but he’s not going to turn the man down when he pushes a bottle of fine red wine into his hands and demands he and his bard stay to celebrate.
There’s been… a shift, in their relationship, of late. Geralt is trying not to examine it too much, lest he see something he doesn’t like. The contract with the succubus nearly six weeks ago had been the start of it; or at least the point of no return. This fizzing thing has been building for years, he knows, but now he can’t ignore it.
He tries to tell himself that it’s a hitherto unexplored quirk of his mutations, this sudden sense of possessiveness. It makes him feel wild and untethered - placing his inhuman nature that he tries to hide beneath a magnifying glass. But it’s always there, even if he pretends it isn’t, and he knows his stretched control can only take so much more tugging.
Jaskier is chatting about - something. His eyes are sparkling and his hair, which has grown a little shaggy over the past few months, keeps falling in his eyes. Geralt can’t help but watch as he tucks it behind his ear. His lips are wine-stained as he leans against the low outer wall of the courtyard, his doublet long-since abandoned, his chemise unbuttoned nearly to his navel. In the baking Toussaint heat, his skin glistens.
Geralt is barely listening to his story, happy to simply exist near him, when they’re approached by a drunken man wearing an absurd hat and a lewd grin. He swaggers towards Jaskier.
“My, my,” he says, with a wink. “Who do you belo—”
Geralt’s patience snaps. His control finally falters. He wraps his arm around Jaskier’s waist and tugs him to his side, his fingers digging into his flesh.
“Me,” he says. It’s almost a growl. The man backs away so quickly he stumbles over his own feet.
Geralt immediately regrets his impulsivity as Jaskier freezes beneath his touch. But instead of the citrusy scent of fear or the spice of anger that he’s expecting, he’s suddenly bombarded with the honeyed, syrupy scent of arousal.
Jaskier twists in his arms, one of his hands resting against Geralt’s chest.
“You?”
The door to their shared room slams open, and they stumble inside in a heady mess. Geralt’s not sure how they managed to get back here - can’t remember the route they took back into San Sebastian, or how they even navigated the stairs up to their room. Jaskier’s skin is warm and slick with sweat beneath Geralt’s palms, his fingers furring through the thick hair across his chest, and - oh - somewhere along the way Jaskier has lost his chemise. No doubt it’s out in the hallway, or lost to the Toussaint breeze and some poor farmhand will find it tangled in a bush tomorrow morning.
Geralt kicks the door shut with his foot, twists them both around and presses Jaskier against the wood with a thud that makes the doorframe shake. Jaskier gasps, but his hands are still gripped to Geralt’s waist, his mouth pressed to Geralt’s neck in hot, desperate kisses.
Fuck, but he’s wanted this for so long that it doesn’t even feel like a want any more - it feels urgent, like a need, like he wants to pull Jaskier between his ribs and keep him there. He surges forwards, nuzzling into Jaskier’s neck, inhaling him. This close, the smell is a dizzying mix of oils and arousal, making him numb to all else. He opens his mouth against Jaskier’s skin, tonguing at it, and Jaskier stutters out another little gasp, his hand reaching up to cling to the back of Geralt’s head, fingers tugging at his hair.
Encouraged, Geralt scrapes his teeth against Jaskier’s skin. The response is immediate - he’s met with another intense wave of that honeyed scent along with the unmistakable press of Jaskier’s erection against his leg. He smells so fucking good, and Geralt can’t resist - sinking his teeth in like he wanted to all those weeks ago.
Jaskier cries out, and Geralt suddenly stills, panic gripping at him. He pulls away, worried that he’s been too enthusiastic - Jaskier is human, after all, and easily broken beneath him. There’s a purple blemish against his neck, and Geralt can even see the outlines of individual teeth dark against the rest.
“Fuck,” he mutters, leaning back, “Jask—”
There’s no way he can get away with this. And, worse: the mark makes him ache for more. He never intended to hurt Jaskier, but like this… it’s obvious what’s happened. He’s marked. Just the thought of it makes his already eager cock throb. Jaskier turns, his fingers still tangled in Geralt’s hair, and peers down - although from this angle he surely can’t see the damage.
“Did you leave a mark?” He says, lowly.
“...Yeah,” Geralt admits.
Jaskier grins, then tugs Geralt closer, locking their lips together. He slides his tongue into Geralt’s mouth, just for a moment, before taking his bottom lip between his teeth with a little tug.
“Good.” He kisses him again - this one light and fluttering. “Do it again.”
Geralt doesn’t need telling twice. He slides his hands beneath Jaskier’s thighs and pulls him up, keeping him balanced against the door. Jaskier makes an eager-sounding squeak, wrapping his legs around Geralt’s waist. Geralt can feel his stiff prick pushing against his stomach and he pulls him closer, grinding against him, making him sigh into his mouth.
Jaskier shudders, and Geralt moves his kisses from his mouth across his jaw, back down to his shoulder to the mark he’d left there earlier. He moves across his collar bone, licking and sucking and biting at the skin, leaving behind a necklace of bruises. He can taste Jaskier’s arousal, and it’s too much - but not enough. He needs more. In a swift movement, he takes a step away from the wall, balancing Jaskier in his arms. They’re lucky the room is small, and he crosses it in three strides before tossing Jaskier down onto the bed.
He leans over him for a moment, taking him in. Jaskier’s eyes are wide, his pupils dark. In the low light, the bruises on his neck are even more apparent, and Geralt can still see the indentations of his teeth. His cock is straining against the thin fabric of his breeches, his chest rising and falling in open-mouthed breaths.
The air in the room is thick with heat and lust.
“Well?” Says Jaskier, cocking an eyebrow.
Geralt rumbles, and pounces.
Jaskier makes a muffled little noise as he throws himself on top of him, smothering him beneath his lips. He’s about to pull away, vaguely intending to do away with his breeches, when Jaskier sits up, pushing him back, pulling away his shirt too. Geralt lifts his arms, twisting around as Jaskier pulls the tunic over his head and tosses it to the floor.
Now granted access to Geralt’s bare skin, Jaskier is suddenly insatiable, pawing at his chest, his lips pressed to the space where Geralt’s neck meets his shoulder. Each touch lights him up, his whole body over stimulated, each kiss like a bolt of lightning. Jaskier nuzzles beneath the chain of Geralt’s medallion, taking the heavy wolf’s head in one hand as he moves it aside, then licks a warm line across his collarbone, nibbling at the skin. A soft moan escapes Geralt’s lips. Jaskier smiles against him, repeating the movement - this time with more force - before hauling himself up onto Geralt’s lap.
Like this, their pricks are pressed together, and Jaskier gasps as he grinds harder against him, gripping him tighter, twisting his legs around Geralt’s hips.
Geralt takes the opportunity. He throws them both down onto the bed, kneeling between Jaskier’s legs as he places a line of kisses down his neck, across his chest, towards his stomach. He remembers the moment at the party, the tempting glitter of the golden chain, and bites down into the soft flesh.
Jaskier moans, arching against the bed, so he does it again, moving his mouth across the expanse of skin above the waistband of Jaskier’s trousers, feeling his prick jutting against his chin and chest.
“Fuck,” Jaskier mutters, “Geralt, please…”
Geralt smirks, then finally reaches for Jaskier’s breeches, sliding his fingers beneath the band. He leans back, tugging them away with such speed and desperation that the fabric rips. Gods - Jaskier’s completely naked beneath, not even wearing the cotton smalls he usually favours, his prick jutting free against his stomach.
Geralt tosses the ruined piece of clothing aside and places his hands on Jaskier’s knees, keeping them carefully apart - like he’s on display - then runs his hands down his legs towards his thighs, squeezing as he goes. Jaskier sighs, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, and while he isn’t looking Geralt bends down, placing an open-mouthed kiss to Jaskier’s cock. Jaskier gasps again as Geralt tongues his length, enjoying the little noises he makes - savouring his taste.
He laps at him till Jaskier is squirming beneath the touch, then finally abates, peering up Jaskier’s body. His skin is flushed, nipples dark, hair a messy halo around his head.
“Do you have oil?” Geralt mumbles, loath to move away.
Jaskier takes a deep breath. “In my pack,” he pants, gesturing vaguely with a limp hand.
Geralt hums, then swings himself from the bed and over to the pack. He’s aware of Jaskier’s habits enough now that he knows exactly where to look, swiftly pulling the little vial from an inside pocket. As he heads back to the bed, he takes the opportunity to quickly shuck off his own trousers and smalls as Jaskier watches with an eager expression.
“Fuck…” he whispers, as Geralt approaches. Geralt can only smile.
Instead of returning to his position at the foot of the bed, Geralt leans over him, kissing him till they’re both breathless. When he pulls away, Jaskier chases the touch, but Geralt moves too fast for him, positioning himself back between Jaskier’s knees with another smug hum.
He looks so good like this, his body shining with sweat, waiting for him. Geralt takes the oil and dribbles it carefully over his fingers before reaching down between Jaskier’s legs, teasing - but not touching. Jaskier swears at him. Geralt doesn’t move. Jaskier swears again, the tip of his cock already slick.
“What?” Asks Geralt, all innocence.
Jaskier throws a pillow at him.
Now he moves, gripping Jaskier’s cock in one hand and finally pressing his fingers to his entrance. Jaskier shudders, pushing down against him, but Geralt moves slowly - working him open, sliding his other hand in firm, gentle strokes up and down his shaft as he does. By the time he deems Jaskier ready, he’s huffing hot breaths, his hands twisting in the sheet below him, begging.
Geralt doesn’t intend to keep him waiting. He pours a generous amount of oil over his own prick, positions himself, and eases himself forwards. Jaskier gasps, tensing at first before quickly relaxing, pushing back, his fingers releasing their grip on the sheets.
“Gods,” Geralt mutters, “Jask… you feel so good…”
Usually, he’d take this slow, ease both him and Jaskier into a rhythm, but they’re both too eager - too desperate for more. Jaskier whines beneath him as Geralt grips onto his waist, pressing his thumbs into the soft divot of his hip bones. He lowers himself down so they’re flush together, sucking at Jaskier’s chest, flicking a tongue over his nipple. Jaskier moans, and Geralt reaches between them, gripping his cock in his hand once more.
He bites again, this time to the space above his ribs, knowing he’ll leave a bruise, relishing in the permission to do so. Jaskier bucks into his hand, stuttering Geralt’s name. He can tell he’s close - they’re both close.
“Jaskier…” he breathes against his skin, Jaskier’s hair brushing his lips, “You’re so good. You’re so fucking good.” Jaskier whines, but doesn’t respond. “Who do you belong to, Jaskier?”
Jaskier arches against the bed. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Geralt— you.”
And then he’s spilling hotly into Geralt’s hand with a noisy cry.
Geralt follows soon after.
It was a good set, Jaskier thinks. Very successful. He’s enjoying the chance to perform in these larger spaces while he can before they’re forced to move away from Oxenfurt and back into the wilderness, where the largest audience will be one composed entirely of sheep.
He can feel his face flushing guiltily as he steps from the stage. Technically, he reminds himself, he hasn’t broken the rule that Geralt set for him. Technically.
It’s a simple rule - that’s what makes it so easy to bend. He’s more than welcome to continue writing songs about Geralt’s various heroic exploits, as that’s what brings in most coin, but under no circumstances is he allowed to write songs about fucking Geralt.
And he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t: he can understand why Geralt would be hesitant to hear his sexual liaisons sung about up and down the continent, no matter how praise-heavy the songs would be. But Jaskier does sing about sex - as he always has done - and there are a few new songs in his repertoire that may be a little familiar, if only to those who know what he’s singing about.
He has to admit, it’s a little thrilling to stand in front of a hundred people singing about his own sex life. Perhaps that itself would make a good song, he muses, as he heads from the stage and towards the table in the very corner of the room where Geralt has hidden himself.
He slides beside him with a cheeky grin, placing his lute on the table and grabbing the full mug of beer beside Geralt’s half-finished one. As he sits, he hums the chorus of one of the newer songs - a popular little ditty about cock-sucking. It doesn’t say that explicitly, of course, but everyone knows what it’s about anyway.
At least, they think they do. There’s only one other person in the room who really knows what the song is about, and he’s currently giving Jaskier an expression he’s grown very familiar with over the past few months. It means, succinctly: finish off that beer before I finish us both over the table.
It’s a very nice expression, Jaskier thinks, as he slides a hand across Geralt’s leg and sips, slowly, at his beer.
“What did you think?” He says, keeping his eyes forward.
“Very good.”
“It was, wasn’t it. Good takings, too. I should perform here again tomorrow, if they’ll have me…” As he speaks, he moves his hand higher, fingers sliding against the leather. “I’ll have to play the new songs again, people seem to love them, don’t they?” His hand finally comes to rest at the top of Geralt’s thigh. “Don’t they, Geralt?”
He moves forward in a quick movement, cupping Geralt’s straining cock through his trousers. Finally, he turns to look at him, eyebrows raised in faux surprise.
“Oh, hello.” He mutters. “Who does this belong to?”
Geralt surges forwards, leaning into his grip. His lips flutter over Jaskier’s ear, close enough for him to feel his breath against his skin.
“You.”
Jaskier grins. “I was hoping you’d say that.”