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Geralt is always careful when he undresses Jaskier.
Jaskier had not expected it.
Once clothes are off the witcher can be rough or gentle or both in the same night, but only once the clothes come off. Even in eagerness, when Geralt’s fingers are quick on his buttons and laces, they are never rough.
It feels tender. It almost makes Jaskier swoon. He did swoon, once, just to see what would happen. Geralt caught him immediately and even carried him to the blankets they were sharing for the night, cradling Jaskier’s head as he laid him down. His concern had turned to irritation and moved on through to amusement when Jaskier laughed in his arms.
It is partly tenderness that makes Geralt so careful, but Jaskier eventually discovered it was also due to the witcher’s rather extreme practicality.
“Tear my shirt open.”
“What kind of books have you been reading?”
“Bodice rippers, naturally. Come on, do it, tear my bodice off and have your way with me, you scoundrel.”
“No.”
“Why not? I want you to, I’ll be so hard if you do that.”
“You’re already hard.”
“Geralt.”
“I’m sure you’ve never ripped a woman’s bodice off.”
“What are you insinuating? I could do it, I just haven’t yet.”
“Sure.”
“Come on, Geralt, please?”
“I’m not doing it. It’s a waste of a good shirt.”
“I don’t care, I’ll buy another.”
“No.”
“You’d do it for Yennefer,” Jaskier said a little nastily. He immediately regretted it. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” I’m right, but I shouldn’t have said it.
There was a tiny line between Geralt’s brows and his pale lips were downturned. His fingers rested on the carved wooden clasp at the neck of Jaskier’s linen shirt.
“I don’t understand. Why won’t you?” Jaskier asked.
“It’s a fine shirt, good for travel,” the witcher said softly. “It should last you years.”
Jaskier began to thaw. In his own gruff, confusing way Geralt was attempting to take care of him. It even smoothed some of the envy he felt towards Yennefer. The witch was powerful and independent and presumably ridiculously wealthy; she didn’t need taking care of. He wasn’t even sure Geralt and Yennefer knew how to take care of each other.
“All right. I’ll make you an offer of compromise.”
“Hm.”
“I’m going to put on my shabbiest shirt, and I want you to absolutely rip it from my shoulders. And then you can turn it into bandages or rags or whatever you like. If it’s not too badly ruined I’ll even sew up the damage and you can tear it off me again, how about that?”
Geralt had not been able to rip the shirt open. It was adorable.
It was not a physical problem, obviously. Geralt was strong enough and the shirt shabby enough that he could easily tear it to shreds. It was an entirely mental block.
He tried, bless him, Jaskier thought as he watched the witcher gracefully thread his way through the crowd at the bar. Geralt had gripped it and tugged halfheartedly and managed to pop a single button off. Adorable.
The witcher leaned his elbows on the bar, one hand raised to catch the barkeep’s attention. Jaskier enjoyed the opportunity to admire the way his soft flax tunic hung on his broad shoulders. It had been a lovely blue when Jaskier bought it but somewhere after the tenth bloodstain Geralt had gotten stroppy about laundry and dyed it dark grey with oak galls and powdered iron.
On first glance many people mistook Geralt for an old man. Between the white hair, the dozens of scars that crossed his skin, and his generally sour demeanor it was an understandable mistake. But underneath his clothes was a surprisingly slim waist and a flat stomach, the body of a young man only beginning to enter his prime.
After the misfire with the shirt that afternoon they hadn’t ended up having sex, but they’d spent a very enjoyable half hour together before settling down to nap. They held each other, heads close, hands touching each other’s bodies just for the sake of touch. Jaskier talked and Geralt responded with grunts and the occasional sarcastic comment.
The witcher would be working in the local churchyard tonight. Something was making noise in the cemetery - strange scraping sounds and ghastly howls - and blood was repeatedly found on the steps of the church in the morning.
Jaskier had left the shabby shirt on, missing button and all. It meant the neck opened low on his chest, low enough to be rather improper for a meeting hall. His jacket was short, displaying the tightness of his hose around his genitals and buttocks, which was extremely fashionable but risqué for this corner of the world. The overall effect left Jaskier looking mildly debauched and disreputable, and he had already received a look from the landlady of the tavern.
He brushed his fingers over his thigh, thinking of the way Geralt liked to kiss the sensitive skin there. How his strong hands felt as they moved over his legs, making his hair stand on end.
Jaskier realized he’d been staring at Geralt’s backside. He also realized that he was a little hard - not obviously, indecently hard, but noticeable if someone happened to be looking right at his crotch.
The bartender set their cups down in front of Geralt. Jaskier shifted in his seat, cheating his body towards the witcher, legs splayed as if he just happened to be relaxing like this.
The witcher turned and stopped abruptly. A little beer sloshed over the edge of a horn cup and onto his fingers. Jaskier smiled.
Geralt resumed walking, not looking at Jaskier until he was seated and had taken a long drink from one of the beers. He set it down carefully and kicked Jaskier in the shin.
The bard laughed hysterically the whole time.
The church was at the other end of the village, close enough that Geralt didn’t need to ride. The street was empty apart from the two men that walked side by side: most of the townsfolk had gathered at the inn for the night, fearful of running afoul of the graveyard monster or the witcher himself.
Geralt wasn’t concerned about whatever haunted the churchyard, which meant Jaskier wasn’t concerned, but…
“Jaskier.”
“Hm? Oh.” Geralt was trying to tell him that it was time to say good night. “Sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely sure? I can help you stay warm.”
The corner of the witcher’s mouth twitched. Jaskier beamed back at him.
“Well if I can’t keep you warm, I’ll warm your bed for you instead,” he purred, stepping closer.
Geralt looked about them, and though the street was still deserted he walked off to the side, out of sight behind a stone cottage. Jaskier followed and let out a little yelp as Geralt tugged him abruptly into his arms.
No matter the state of things, whether they were irritated or angry or not even speaking to one another, there was always a goodbye kiss.
Jaskier sighed as he felt Geralt’s broad hand press against the small of his back. He leaned in again, nose bumping gently against Geralt’s as they quietly breathed the same air.
Jaskier could smell Geralt’s armor: not a sharp new-leather smell, nor the pleasant mustiness of old leather, but something worse. The bard had been lucky enough in his younger days to avoid knowing what a battlefield smelled like. But he knew it now, and he knew that this was the smell that clung to Geralt’s thick leather armor no matter how well the witcher cleaned it.
He pushed his nose into Geralt’s white hair instead. This was the smell he wanted, the one that was forever linked with the witcher. A human, masculine smell suffused with the smoke of a campfire.
The hand on his back stroked up, then down.
“Keeping my bed warm, huh?”
“It’s quite the sacrifice, I know. Feel free to tell me how selfless I am.”
Geralt snorted softly, puffing Jaskier’s hair away from his ear. Jaskier pulled back with a smile. He pecked Geralt on the tip of his nose just to see the witcher roll his eyes.
They walked back to the still-empty street.
“Good night, Geralt.”
“Good night, Jaskier.”
Geralt’s warm, rough hand squeezed his, a last reassuring goodbye.
The bard watched him go with a hand over his eyes to block the rays of the setting sun. Geralt’s bag was slung over his back alongside his swords and he looked in no particular hurry.
What now?
Jaskier had been engaged to perform the following evening (“if the town is still standing” the burgermeister had said dourly) but for tonight he had nothing to occupy himself. There was no brothel in town - and in any case Geralt tended to get irritable about Jaskier paying for sex when they were together and he could get it for free.
Geralt would have spent the evening being productive. Jaskier grimaced. He had several compositions whose deadlines were approaching, he needed to air out his clothes for the performance, and he hadn’t decided on a set list either.
He heard a shout and a chorus of cheers. He followed the sound back the way he’d come, circling the tavern until he was in the yard behind it. A group of men were gathered around a long table: one of them had a dense, flat round of bread in his hands, and he gave it a toss. It slid along the length of the table and stopped short a foot from the edge. The men jeered and groaned and Jaskier saw coins change hands.
Excellent.
Jaskier stirred as he heard a crow cawing. With one eye cracked he looked at the window. The sky was lightening to a deep royal blue, and dawn was on its way. Geralt had been away all night. Jaskier stretched and snuggled under the covers against the morning chill.
He’d been a little tipsy and more than a little horny when he came to bed. He’d been tempted to masturbate; Geralt certainly wouldn’t have minded. But he wanted to wait for the witcher.
Jaskier sighed. So much for his plans of seduction… Geralt was undoubtedly going to fall asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. At least it was an opportunity for a lie-in.
The window unfortunately faced east, and Jaskier struggled to sleep again as the light against his eyelids brightened. He rolled away and pulled the extra pillow - the one that should have been Geralt’s - over his head. The witcher could fight him for it if he was still alive.
He was almost asleep when he heard the quick thud of boots coming down the corridor. The door burst open and Geralt was inside, hastily bolting it closed again.
“Geralt?”
The skin around the witcher’s eyes looked deeply bruised, and the eyes themselves were a shining, wet black.
“Get up,” Geralt barked, pulling lightning-quick at the buckles and laces of his armor.
Jaskier leapt out of bed, scrubbing at his eyes. “What is it? Geralt?”
The witcher loosened his gauntlets and shoved them off over his hands. He lifted his armor over his head and let it fall to the floor with a clattering thump. Jaskier tried to help but he was still half asleep, and he struggled with the closures on the bracers around Geralt’s thighs until he was batted away by impatient hands.
“Geralt, please, what -“ he gasped as the witcher seized him by the front of his shirt, driving him backward and making him stumble, and he hit the wall with a loud thud.
“You fuck,” Geralt cursed, and Jaskier was kissed furiously, mouth taken over by Geralt’s. He bit at Jaskier’s lips and tongue, growling low and deep in his throat, and Jaskier felt it reverberate from the witcher’s chest into his.
Jaskier was dizzy from the sudden change in circumstances. He could taste a faint herbal bitterness in Geralt’s mouth, traces of the potion that blackened his eyes. He tried to get breathing room to speak but Geralt grabbed his hair to hold him in place.
“Germlphm,” he attempted.
The witcher in question finally pulled away. “You fucking fuck.”
“What did I do?”
“Everything. Nothing. Fuck.” He shifted and pressed closer. Jaskier felt Geralt’s cock, hard and huge against his thigh.
“Oh my.”
“Oh my,” Geralt mimicked.
“Am I getting angry sex? Is that what this is?”
Geralt cursed again. He occasionally got tremors in his fingers as his elixirs burned off, and he was struggling against the ties of Jaskier’s leggings. He was really only making it worse for himself, turning the neat little bows into tight knots.
“Fuck,” Geralt said, and with two hands he grasped the fabric and tore it with a loud rip.
The leggings slumped around Jaskier’s thighs. They might have fallen down if not for Geralt’s knee shoved in between his. They both stood there, staring at each other, Jaskier breathless as Geralt panted.
“Geralt -“
The witcher snapped back into action, one hand pulling hard at his hair and the other rubbing Jaskier’s exposed cock.
Geralt used his hair to take him to the bed. Jaskier’s legs hit the mattress; he would have toppled over if the witcher hadn’t held him up, and he grabbed fistfuls of Geralt’s shirt.
He felt lightheaded, off kilter. It was a precarious and vulnerable position: his legs were tangled in the torn leggings and he couldn’t get his feet underneath him. Geralt’s grip was so tight in Jaskier’s hair he thought he might actually lose some if he were to fall. Geralt was stroking him, a little clumsier than usual and cold from the morning air, but still it felt good to be touched. He clung to Geralt, gasping against the witcher’s mouth. There was nothing to do but hang on and be kissed.
He had just begun to relax into the pleasure he felt when Geralt let go. Jaskier was pushed onto the bed with a strong hand and quickly - so quickly it was almost frightening - the witcher straddled him, lips twisted in a snarl, and he gripped Jaskier’s shirt in both hands and tore it right down the front.
The remaining buttons clattered and bounced over the floor. The left shoulder split, threads popping. Jaskier felt cool air on his shoulder and chest and looked down to see the left front panel nearly separated from the rest of the garment.
He looked up at Geralt and felt a frisson of fear. An ancient, primal sense had awakened to tell Jaskier that the man crouching over him was dangerous. It was exciting. It made Jaskier’s blood pound. His cock throbbed with a pleasant, pulsing ache.
Jaskier had once asked Geralt what it felt like to take a witcher’s potion. He’d spoken at length about adrenaline and hormones and something called lactic acid, concepts which Jaskier didn’t fully grasp but which seemed to be somewhat analogous to the humours.
Whatever the mechanism, the draughts made Geralt faster, made him tireless, let him see in the pitch dark and resist poisons that would have felled twenty men. They made him violent. A well-buried ferocity flared when he drank the elixirs and he seemed to be an animal restrained only by a warrior’s discipline.
There was an innate wrongness in the witcher that was magnified by the potions. The beautiful, golden cat eyes that were obscured as black poured into them. His unusual paleness, which under the elixirs became even paler, so pale he looked like a walking corpse.
Or perhaps it was just instinct that whatever this man was, he might not be quite human. The potions made him seem truly monstrous.
The witcher was - by necessity - very good at blending into the background, but once you got a decent look it was obvious there was something uncanny about him. When they’d first met, that wrongness had hit Jaskier so suddenly it felt almost physical. It was difficult to look at the witcher and even more difficult to look away. His heart thudded, faster and faster, and it felt like… like…
The memory was vivid, and Jaskier knew as long as he lived it would never fade.
It had taken them a long time to get to this place of easy trust. Jaskier had - perhaps foolishly - trusted Geralt from the beginning, convinced that the witcher wouldn’t willingly hurt him, while Geralt wisely judged Jaskier a halfwit who didn’t know what he was talking about.
Now, years later, when they lay together at night, Jaskier would occasionally smirk and poke his friend in the side and say, “I told you so.”
Even now Jaskier was proven right. The witcher held his body at a distance, curved over Jaskier’s, his fingertips barely pressing into the mattress. Jaskier knew how difficult this was: the elixir made every muscle in Geralt’s body scream at him to move. Still he waited, and Jaskier knew he would wait forever if asked.
The deep bruising that ringed Geralt’s eyes had begun to change, a sickly green blooming alongside the purple. Jaskier could see the gold in his eyes now, as if ink was slowly draining away from the center. The thin golden ring around his pupils reminded Jaskier of an eclipse.
He was beautiful, in the way that wolves and wildcats and monsters could be beautiful.
Jaskier held Geralt’s face in his hands. His cheeks were chilled from his night outdoors. The witcher leaned unconsciously into his touch. His cat-like eyes refocused, pupils narrowing.
“Hullo, Geralt.”
“Hey.” Geralt clenched his jaw. He couldn’t quite hide the tremor that swept over him.
“Bad?”
“Unpleasant. I’ve been worse.” He turned into Jaskier’s hand, nose brushing the inside of his wrist. His mouth opened, huffing air in, tasting the smell of Jaskier’s skin.
“You tore my clothes off,” Jaskier said with a grin.
“Not off.”
“Well, you ruined them admirably.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“It was fantastic. Everything I could have imagined. Ah,” he hissed as Geralt left a particularly sharp nip on the thin skin of the inside of his forearm. “Oh don’t stop, keep going.”
A bad shake overtook the witcher, and he hid his grimace against Jaskier’s shoulder, teeth pressing, not quite a bite.
“You’re all right,” Jaskier whispered in his ear.
Geralt’s hands gripped the blanket beneath them. His breathing was harsh.
“You can do it. Come on.” Jaskier bit the shell of his ear, hard, grinning around his teeth at the noise Geralt made into his arm.
Jaskier reached one hand between them to rub Geralt’s cock and hummed as the witcher groaned. It was so pleasant to feel it under his fingers, the hot, firm swell of it.
“Jaskier,” Geralt said, voice strained.
“Hm?” Jaskier rubbed a little harder and smiled as Geralt made a lovely, breathy grunt.
“Can we fuck?” Geralt asked bluntly. Jaskier began to laugh and wasn’t surprised when Geralt kissed him deeply, licking into his mouth as if he could taste the sound there.
“Of course - we can,” Jaskier said between kisses. He shifted in preparation to get up, but Geralt wasn’t done.
He rolled his hips, rubbing his clothed cock against Jaskier’s. The sensation of fabric against his naked erection made Jaskier’s breath catch. Geralt bit him gently, first on his jaw and then down his neck. Pleasure shivered out from the bites over Jaskier’s body.
“Oh fuck. Ah - shit.” He lifted his hips to meet Geralt’s, and his hands grasped at Geralt’s ass, trying to pull him closer.
His reaction was clearly pleasing the witcher, who did it again, and again, and again.
The next slide of fabric against his cock was slick with precum. Jaskier couldn’t be certain if it was his or Geralt’s or both, but he was suddenly aware of how close he was already getting to orgasm.
“Stop, stop,” he said breathlessly, and the witcher froze. “I’m all right, just need a breather. Fuck.”
The witcher pulled away and studied his face for a moment, eyes narrowed. His face cleared, and Jaskier could faintly see the relief in his expression. “You almost came.”
Jaskier chuckled. “I was getting there.”
“Can I kiss you?”
“Always.”
Geralt’s mouth was warm and the kiss was soft. Still, Jaskier could feel a tremble in Geralt’s body, evidence of the alchemy that still overwhelmed him.
“Still want to fuck?”
“Yes.” Geralt’s voice was rough.
“How much do you want to fuck me?”
“A lot.”
“How much? Say more.”
“A whole damn lot.”
Jaskier laughed. “Fine. You get your clothes off,” he landed an open-handed smack on Geralt’s ass, enjoying the abrupt grunt the witcher made, “and I’ll get some oil and then we’ll be right back to it.”
The witcher sprung off the bed, tugging his shirt up over his head and trying to kick off his boots at the same time. Jaskier giggled as he rolled upright and shook his ruined leggings off. He knew exactly where to find the bottle, in the little pocket of the smaller bag that made his toiletry kit.
No sooner did he have it in his hands than Geralt was on him, pulling the remains of his shirt roughly from his shoulders, and then his skin was on Jaskier’s skin and his mouth was on Jaskier’s mouth.
Geralt led him to bed without breaking the kiss. He walked backwards, one hand on Jaskier’s hip and the other on the nape of his neck.
As they reached the bed Jaskier tried to get up on all fours, but Geralt grappled him and threw him down on his back. Jaskier stared up at him, mouth agape.
Geralt grasped Jaskier’s hand in his, pulling it down between his legs. “Get me ready,” he growled.
Jaskier hurried to obey, spilling the fragrant clove oil on his palm, a little of it dripping down onto the sheets.
Geralt squirmed as Jaskier’s fingers moved in him, pushing the oil in as far as he could reach, stretching the tight muscle around his fingers. Geralt’s breath was hot on his face, and Jaskier wished he could have a better view but the witcher was holding him by the hair again, making Jaskier look him in the eye. Geralt’s cock lay heavily along the underside of his forearm, and each time the witcher moved the head of his cock dragged against Jaskier’s skin.
The angle was difficult but finally Jaskier managed to press his fingers just right. Geralt’s whole body stiffened. His hand pulled painfully in Jaskier’s hair and his muscles clamped down on his fingers. And then he breathed out, relaxing, and rested his forehead against Jaskier’s.
There was a warm slickness on Jaskier’s forearm where Geralt’s cock leaked. Jaskier pressed again and again, gently pumping his fingers over that pleasurable spot inside his lover. Geralt made soft noises, little huffs and grunts, his mouth very close to Jaskier’s own.
Jaskier was debating whether to add another finger when Geralt pulled away, snatching the bottle and tipping it over Jaskier’s cock, smoothing and spreading the oil with his hand. Jaskier tightened his pelvic muscles, working to hold himself back, and his cock twitched in Geralt’s hand. It felt much too good.
Geralt grasped Jaskier’s cock, guiding it. Jaskier held his breath as he pressed against him, head popping past the outer ring of muscle. Geralt only paused a moment to shift his weight before he took him steadily all the way in.
Jaskier gulped in air, trying to regain mastery of his body. Geralt’s stamina already embarrassed him enough, and he wanted to enjoy at least a few minutes before it had to end.
He was so tight and hot inside. Jaskier felt himself throb again.
Geralt’s cock was large enough that it never stood fully upright. He watched it bob as Geralt breathed, waiting, getting used to the stretch.
He reached out and stroked it slowly, pulling the foreskin back. There was still a little oil coating his fingers and Geralt’s eyes drifted closed in pleasure. It felt good in his hand, thick and heavy and hot. Despite the witcher’s general paleness his cock was ruddy, a little more purple towards the head.
Much to Geralt’s displeasure, Jaskier had written a small but growing collection of poems and songs about the witcher’s sexual ability. He’d secretly released one under a feminine nom de plume, his best and dirtiest, meant for bordello performances. It was Jaskier’s filthiest thoughts set to music, all about Geralt’s cock and what he’d like to do with it.
He’d received an extremely snippy letter from Geralt some months later.
Jaskier had no regrets.
He rubbed the sensitive ridge under the head of Geralt’s cock with his thumb and saw a muscle twitch in Geralt’s jaw. There was a sheen of sweat on the witcher’s forehead, another effect of the potion: without it Geralt hardly perspired at all. It made Jaskier wish he could change position and lay the witcher out underneath him, bury his nose under the witcher’s arm and breathe in the wonderful smell of him.
It was evident that it was getting harder for the witcher to restrain himself. Each time Jaskier’s hand stroked him the witcher’s thighs and buttocks tensed against Jaskier’s body.
He reached up with his free hand to touch Geralt’s stomach and the soft trail of silver hair that grew up over his chest. Geralt swayed, arching into his hand. His eyes opened and Jaskier held his breath as Geralt smiled. Despite what people thought, the witcher had many smiles, and this was one of his sweetest.
In the blink of an eye Jaskier’s hands were pinned on the mattress on either side of his head. Yellow eyes were inches from his own. The surge of blood as his heart raced was dizzying.
And then Geralt began to move. His hips rolled, still restraining Jaskier. The position was awkward but the witcher managed it effortlessly. His cock dragged on Jaskier’s belly. Even for a poet, it was hard to find the words to describe how blissfully good it felt. Jaskier couldn’t help the high-pitched little grunt that escaped him.
The witcher looked pleased.
He moved slowly. Jaskier was glad; sometimes Geralt got impatient and began before his body was ready, and while he got over the soreness within hours Jaskier loathed hurting him.
He tried to tug his wrists free. Geralt grinned at him; it was impossible. He planted his feet and pushed his hips upward. Geralt let him do this, but he held tight with his thighs and there was no chance of bucking the witcher off. Jaskier did it again.
The witcher laughed, a brief bark of a noise. It was the closest he ever got to showing delight.
Jaskier felt himself fall just a little more in love. It was always an astonishing feeling, because each time he thought he had already reached the limit of what was humanly possible.
He moved without thinking, trying to embrace the man above him, and remembered himself as Geralt’s fingers tightened on his wrists again, leaning in to bite Jaskier’s throat. He didn’t stop fucking. The bite was hard - not enough to break skin, but it hurt, and Jaskier hissed in a breath.
“Geralt…”
The witcher immediately let go and kissed the bite mark, licking it with a broad, flat tongue.
Jaskier tipped his head back to let Geralt know he could continue.
This bite was gentler. In fact, it was exactly how Jaskier liked it, and he groaned as Geralt began to suck and bruise the skin between his teeth.
The witcher’s muscles tightened every time Jaskier’s cock slid outward. Jaskier wasn’t sure if it was a reflex or if Geralt was doing it intentionally. It hardly mattered when it felt so good. Each slow squeeze drove Jaskier closer and closer to the edge.
“Geralt, please… my hands.” They felt empty, and the need to touch the man above him was maddening.
A nip made his breath catch, almost too painful but quickly subsiding to a pleasant ache. Geralt’s grip shifted. He pressed his thumbs in Jaskier’s palms and massaged them from the center outwards.
That was enough, and Jaskier melted completely.
He shut his eyes and listened: to the sound of their breathing; the rustling of the straw-stuffed pallet below them; the slick sound of his cock as Geralt fucked himself slowly on it.
Fuck, it felt good. It felt perfect. His whole body buzzed with pleasure. A warm, familiar tension was slowly building within him, gradually carrying him towards orgasm.
He grunted as Geralt kissed him fiercely, mouth open and hungry against his. Suddenly his hands were free; Jaskier tried to catch him, but the witcher pulled away, sitting upright.
Jaskier didn’t have more than a moment to protest.
Geralt rode him fast and hard. Jaskier’s back arched with an involuntary spasm, hands scrabbling to grasp onto something and luckily landing on Geralt’s hips. With each rise of his body, each roll of his pelvis, Geralt’s thighs squeezed against his sides.
Stupidly, Jaskier thought of Roach. The witcher was a skilled horseman, able to direct her with his legs alone. Jaskier swept his hands over them to feel the thick muscle tensing. At least all that time on a horse is worth something, Jaskier thought, and let out a weak laugh.
The witcher made a strange face, a smile that turned into a snarl as he grunted and cursed and repeated the motion that apparently was hitting just the spot he wanted. He braced himself on Jaskier’s chest. Jaskier held on to his thighs and breathed and just tried not to come too quickly, which was becoming very difficult.
The morning light warmed Geralt’s skin, made him look golden instead of the deathlike pallor that had been upon him when he first returned to their room. The sweat on his body shone. His white hair seemed to glow.
“I love you.” Jaskier’s mouth, as was often the case, was moving before his brain had caught up.
The hands on his chest clenched, fingers digging into the muscle of his pectorals. Geralt was glaring at him but that could mean anything, and Jaskier took it to mean, Yes Jaskier, please keep talking, I love it when you talk to me.
“You look so beautiful, I love your body. You’re fucking me so well.”
Geralt let out a soft sound, almost a moan, one that Jaskier could tell he hadn’t meant to make.
“Look how fucking hard you are, fucking yourself on my cock, you love how it feels, I know you do. It makes you feel so good.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt said through gritted teeth.
“Bet the whole way back you were hard,” Jaskier panted, and Geralt’s eyes snapped to his, staring. “Oh, I’m right, aren’t I? Couldn’t wait to get back and be fucked. Fuck, I love how much you love it.”
“I do love it,” Geralt said in a low voice.
Jaskier very nearly came. “Did anyone see you?” he asked, hoping that more talk would allow him to last. “Your erections are not subtle but I suppose the armor helps-”
“Why are you so fucking annoying?”
“You - oh, fuck, just like that - you like it when I’m annoying.”
“Shut up,” Geralt barked, voice tight.
Jaskier knew he didn’t really mean it, or at least he didn’t mean it in a hurtful way. “Make me,” Jaskier said, doing his best to snarl back at the witcher, and Geralt shuddered, rhythm faltering as he grasped his cock with one hand. He began stroking himself quickly, hips moving in more of a grind now, muscles tight around Jaskier’s cock.
Fuck, Jaskier was close. He wanted to come, but coming meant it would end, and he never wanted this to end. He dug his fingers into Geralt’s thighs, body tense, desperately trying to hold off his climax. He closed his eyes, unable to look at the witcher, it was too much, he was going to come if he watched.
“Fucking look at me,” Geralt growled, and Jaskier’s eyes flew open.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Geralt’s muscles rippled as his hips rolled, back arching, his hand squeezing that beautiful thick cock. Jaskier gasped, abdominal muscles tensing, cock swelling, so close to the tipping point. FUCK.
Geralt grinned at him, a dark, wolfish, almost ugly grin, and Jaskier fell over the edge. It felt so right to come buried so deeply in his lover. His cock pulsed, each spasm flooding more inside. He could barely see Geralt through the haze of climax, trying to keep his eyes on him as he lost himself in bliss.
He realized his nails were digging hard into Geralt’s legs, his hands aching, and he loosened his grip. Geralt was grinding in tight little movements right where he needed it, hand moving furiously over his cock. Jaskier lifted a hand to help but before he could touch him Geralt groaned, cock spurting over Jaskier’s stomach.
Jaskier felt his cock twitch again weakly as he watched. The witcher’s eyes were shut, his brow furrowed. He let out soft moans and grunts as Jaskier ran his palms over each part of Geralt’s body that he could reach, up his thighs and sides and down over the forearm that was still pumping him through his orgasm. His hips kept rolling as he pulled at his cock. Jaskier swept his thumb over the head and groaned as Geralt let out a hoarse cry, shivering, and another small stream of come hit Jaskier’s fingers.
Jaskier wasn’t sure if a witcher’s orgasm lasted longer or if this particular witcher just liked the feeling of oversensitivity after climax. He hadn’t asked; occasionally Jaskier noticed unusual things about Geralt that he wasn’t yet aware of himself and remarking upon it usually made him self-conscious.
Jaskier breathed deliberately, from his diaphragm like he’d been taught: he wanted Geralt to enjoy himself fully but he wasn’t sure how long he could wait before he had to ask the witcher to stop. It was getting painfully close to too much.
Luckily, Geralt’s hips slowed and stopped, and Jaskier let out a gust of air as the tension in his body drained out of him all at once. The hand that had been on Geralt’s cock slapped back down on Jaskier’s chest, holding the witcher upright.
Geralt’s body quivered, head hanging forward, breathing heavily. He rather reminded Jaskier of a horse that had just run a hard race. He lifted Geralt’s hair away from where it stuck to his face and neck, giving him air to cool the sweat that beaded on his skin.
Geralt’s eyes opened lazily and the corner of his mouth curled upwards. He lowered himself on shaking arms until he was nearly lying on top of Jaskier, whose softening cock slipped free. A trickle of spend followed and Jaskier wrinkled his nose. Sex was really a bit gross, unless you were currently doing it.
The witcher tipped slowly to the side, falling onto the mattress beside Jaskier. They lay there silently, catching their breath.
Jaskier felt pleasantly wrung out. It was as if he was floating in warm water, light as air, his body brimming with love and satisfaction. He looked over at Geralt, who looked back at him from half-lidded eyes. His hair was sweaty and tangled, flyaway strands sticking up all over. Something about the sight made Jaskier’s heart stumble for a few beats.
He rolled towards Geralt and swept the witcher’s damp white hair back, immediately latching his mouth onto the sweat that had trickled down Geralt’s neck. He let his mouth lead him, covering Geralt’s neck and jaw and shoulder with kisses.
The witcher made contented little rumbling sounds with each kiss. He began to shake again and Jaskier pressed himself close, feeling the shake echo through his body.
It made Jaskier’s heart ache a little, the way Geralt punished his body for the sake of his work.
A long time ago he had asked the witcher if there might be some alternative. Something to be done was the phrase he used as he helplessly watched Geralt spasm and retch into the dirt of their camp, pressed so tightly to the ground the spittle on his mouth turned to mud, as if he might get close enough to pass some of this poison into the earth beneath him.
That’s the way it is, Geralt said, and the flat resignation in his voice had broken Jaskier’s heart.
He closed his eyes. The warm morning light glowed red through his eyelids. For a long, blissful moment the world began and ended here: he thought of nothing but Geralt’s smell, the soft sound of his breathing, the solid heaviness of his body, the feel of his warm exhales tickling over his neck.
A door slammed somewhere in the inn. The wind changed and the window rattled. The illusion was broken.
“All right?” Jaskier asked.
Despite the lingering tremors he seemed to be so. He was hot but not burning, sweaty but not clammy the way he got when he pushed his body to the edge of overdose. Geralt hummed at him and patted him heavily on his flank. Jaskier felt the last piece of tension release inside him, the release that always came after his friend returned to him in one piece.
“Good hunt?”
“Mm.”
Jaskier noticed a fresh bruise on the witcher’s bicep and kissed it. Geralt gave him another contented grumble.
“You smell good and you’re not covered in gore, so I assume you didn’t get to face the beastie. Just observing? What was it?”
“‘S a dawnwraith. Only takes form in the light before sunrise.” His speech poured out slow and thick like molasses in his deep voice. Geralt only ever spoke like this when he was utterly relaxed. This occurred most often when he was soaking in a hot bath, but a close second was when they were in bed together, and Jaskier’s heart throbbed happily.
“Tricky.”
“Mm. Rare.”
“Usually you get a little… I don’t know how to describe it. You smell dusty after you kill a wraith. In a - let’s say in a less-than-nice way, not dusty like working in a field or cleaning house.”
“Like the dust in a crypt,” Geralt rumbled, “ash and bones. Old rot. Death.”
“Very descriptive,” Jaskier said, hastily moving on. “You don’t smell bad at all now.” He indulged himself and swept his fingers through the damp hair under Geralt’s arm, spreading the sweat across his skin. “You smell good.”
Geralt grunted, pleased. “Almost got me before I trapped it. Broke the curse another way.”
“Oh, bravo! Will you tell me about it?”
“No,” Geralt said, and Jaskier heard the weariness behind the word. He brushed his lips over the witcher’s collarbone and up the column of his neck, moving slowly, a long, drawn out kiss that ended just below the witcher’s ear.
“Later, then,” he said softly. “We’ll just sleep for a while. Thank you.”
A light shiver passed through Geralt and his fingers twitched against Jaskier’s chest. Not so bad, Jaskier thought with relief. Geralt hadn’t even braced for it, body still loose and slack.
“Thank me for what?” the witcher said through a yawn.
“For everything. For a job well done. For the astoundingly good sex.”
“Mm.” Geralt’s eyes closed. The skin around them had finally gone back to normal, pale with only the barest hint of lilac. He was smiling one of his peculiar almost-smiles.
“Here, let me up. Don’t complain, Geralt, I’ll be back so fast you’ll hardly know I was gone. Going to get a rag to clean us up and then we’ll have a good sleep.”
“Use your shirt,” Geralt said, a trace of mirth in his voice. Jaskier bit him. Geralt only smiled wider.