It was starting to become something of a routine for Jaskier, bursting into a bedchamber only to find Geralt of Rivia locked in mortal struggle with a creature of darkness. Jaskier had thought about composing an ode to it, but really, the audience for that would be one, and a very unappreciative one at that. Jaskier sniffed to himself, always ready to spare some derision for those who didn’t appreciate art. Geralt looked a little distracted, anyway, grappling as he was with the creature. Jaskier took a moment to catch his breath, tugging his doublet into a more rakish alignment before clearing his throat and waving in a manner that he hoped came off as casual and just a bit insouciant.
“You can’t keep leaving me behind,” he called over conversationally. “It’s very annoying, and ineffective.” He ambled into the bedchamber, which was exceedingly spacious, taken for a moment by the flash of Geralt’s eyes reflected in a murky mirror atop a vanity. “I always catch up,” he continued, dragging his gaze off of Geralt’s big hands, clenched around the creature’s wrists. “That’s just embarrassing for you.”
Geralt made a slightly winded noise of disgust, which cut off abruptly when the creature of darkness shoved him hard against a giant chifferobe. The cupboard doors clattered in their sockets, likely not designed to accommodate airborne witchers. Geralt staggered to his feet breathing hard, blowing loose strands of hair out of his eyes. Jaskier found it deeply unfair, how attractive that was.
“You need to go,” Geralt gritted out, grappling the creature once more. “It isn’t - argh - safe.” He cut off again, face scrunched up as he attempted to contain the creature’s flailing arms.
“Hmm,” Jaskier said, trying for Geralt’s patented noise of disapproval. “You’re doing fine, don’t be so hard on yourself.” He made for the vanity and perched elegantly atop it, freeing quill and parchment from his satchel. “Really, first rate, er, Witchering.”
“Hmm,” Geralt said back at him, looking immediately regretful. He pointedly refocused his attention on the creature, turning a very broad shoulder away from Jaskier. Jaskier took that opportunity to examine Geralt’s foe.
The creature currently trying to throttle Geralt might at first glance have passed for a courtier. He was deeply beautiful, elegantly turned out in fitted breeches and a slashed velvet doublet of which Jaskier was rather jealous. Smooth, fair hair floated around the creature’s lovely, finely boned features. He was moon pale, and his eyes were hauntingly large and dark. All in all, he was at first glance the sort with whom Jaskier might readily have agreed to a tumble, though the effect was somewhat spoiled by the creature’s rather prodigious number of very long, sharp looking teeth. Jaskier made a note of that, wincing when the creature managed to punch Geralt in the throat, causing him to stumble and choke, gasping for air. Jaskier had found that he very much did not enjoy when creatures actually managed to hurt Geralt.
Geralt recovered quickly, managing to shoulder the creature out of his way even as he gasped air back into his lungs. He twisted suddenly, sinuously, freeing himself to duck down for his sword. He came back up swinging, and the flat of his blade connected with the creature’s head, resulting in a resounding thunk. The creature stumbled, dropping dazedly to the bedchamber’s carpeted floor, and Geralt let out a sigh of relief, dropping his blade once more to reach for a nearby coil of rope. “Help me tie him,” he called over his shoulder, dropping to his knees.
“Oh, but you’re doing so well,” Jaskier returned, hopping gracefully down from the vanity. “What do you need a useless bard for, eh?”
“To help with the rope,” Geralt repeated, slow and exaggerated. And wasn’t that just typical, the way his voice made Jaskier’s stomach twist up with want. It was the tinge of warmth under the annoyance, the way Geralt’s lips curved up just the tiniest bit, as though he couldn’t help himself.
Jaskier lowered himself at Geralt’s side, unwinding the rope for him. Geralt was gleaming with sweat, his chest heaving beautifully against the constraints of his shirt. Jaskier was torn between arousal at all of the pale flesh and dismay at the ugly bruise marring his sternum. His throat was mottled purple and tender, pulling with each of Geralt’s breaths. Jaskier sighed, pressing his shoulder to Geralt’s as he unwound the rope. It wasn’t much, but it was all Geralt would let him give.
“So,” Jaskier said, swallowing down his myriad and contradictory feelings. “What is this fellow, then?” He reached for the creature’s wrists, wrapping the rope around them.
“Siren,” Geralt grunted, and as if on cue, the siren’s eyes popped open, wrists twisting free of the loose bindings as it pressed a hand to each of them, eyes suddenly fathomless and wide.
“Shit,” Geralt got out, and then, suddenly urgent, “Cover your ears!”
It was too late. The creature let out a long, shrill sound, something between a scream and a melodious whine, setting Jaskier’s ears to ringing. Its hand was a vise around his wrist, and Jaskier could feel Geralt tense beside him, the place where their shoulders touching suddenly burning like a brand. Jaskier only half felt himself falling back, the force of the scream flattening him to the weave of the carpet. He felt like he was floating, disembodied but for his connection to Geralt. His vision blurred into a haze of color, then gradually cleared. He could not feel the siren’s touch any longer.
Jaskier rubbed dizzily at his eyes, managing to pull himself back up to sitting. He squeezed his eyes closed and then opened them again upon a very tousled Geralt, staring wide-eyed at the now empty pile of rope.
“Hmm,” Geralt said, and then, “Fuck.”
Jaskier was always pretty keenly aware of Geralt’s particular brand of gruff, looming sex appeal, as evidenced by tonight. He had spent some pretty dramatic nights alone, reliving the first rate torture that was Geralt sopping wet, emerging from the bath like some sort of giant, grumpy water spirit. Night-time fancies aside, though, Jaskier generally tried to avoid thinking about Geralt, mainly out of self preservation. After all, Jaskier was well aware that there was out of his league, and then there was out of his league, and Geralt was very firmly in the latter camp.
Suddenly, though, Jaskier’s head was thick with want, and good sense seemed to have left him entirely. The desire to topple Geralt and clamber on top of him was so palpable that he swallowed against the feeling, stomach tight with want. His fingers clenched with the effort of not reaching out for Geralt, not pressing his fingers to Geralt’s pretty mouth, finding the pulse that he knew would race hot and strong beneath his touch. Jaskier heard Geralt draw a shaky breath and chanced a look up at him, regretting it immediately. Geralt looked wrecked, suddenly, eyes blown wide and chest heaving, his whole body tensed and leaning forward toward Jaskier. He was radiating heat, even more so than usual, and his mouth was open and wet, tongue darting out to pass over his parted lips. Jaskier could feel Geralt’s breath, cool against his flushed cheeks, and it was like a tickle of lightning, sharp and electric.
“Um,” Jaskier managed. “Something’s happening.”
Geralt snorted, though it sounded a little frantic. “Yeah,” he managed, between short, sharp breaths. “Siren call. That’ll be the sex magic.”
“The, I’m sorry, the what?” Jaskier huffed out. He was trying very hard not to plaster himself to Geralt’s side, but his body didn’t seem to be asking him for permission.
“You heard me,” Geralt said. Jaskier could feel the rumble of Geralt’s voice in his chest, and oh. He was pressed close to Geralt now, his nose brushing the sharp dip of Geralt’s collarbone.
“I -- sorry,” he said. “I’m not sure why I’m doing this, exactly.”
Geralt huffed a laugh against his forehead, short and humorless. “It’s the siren’s magic,” he said, mouth moving slickly against Jaskier’s fevered brow. “Makes you uncontrollably desperate for, well.” Geralt had the good grace to trail off there, but in the meantime his hands had found their way to Jaskier’s hips, and he was cupping around Jaskier’s hip bones, thumbs rubbing where his skin was thinnest. His hands felt huge, rough and hot against him. Jaskier shivered, pressing shamelessly into the touch.
“I know I’m not your usual type,” Geralt rumbled, not looking at Jaskier. “We could ride for the nearest town, see if we can find you a brothel.”
“No!” Jaskier said, panicked at the thought of Geralt not touching him for even a moment. “Er, I mean. It’s affecting you too, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Geralt said shortly, as though it was a vast admission of guilt.
“I never said you weren’t my type,” Jaskier said, a little petulantly. Then, “We’re both afflicted. It would be stupid not to, er, help each other. That is, if you want to.” He hated how unsure the last bit came out, but there was nothing for it.
“Fuck, yes,” Geralt gritted out, and then he was pulling Jaskier into his lap, fitting their mouths together in a deep and frankly filthy kiss.
Jaskier couldn’t help his ridiculous, wanton moan. Geralt was, well he was not at all what Jaskier had imagined. He could feel the edge of Geralt’s fraying self control, and yet the kiss was almost sweet, the tiniest bit unsure, soft where the rest of Geralt was all heat and coiled muscle. Geralt kissed as though he was trying to tell Jaskier something, with a depth of intensity that might have been terrifying if Jaskier hadn’t felt so much the same way. He snuck a look and found that Geralt’s eyes were squeezed tightly closed, his expression nothing short of desperate. That was a relief, since Jaskier was feeling pretty desperate himself. He rolled his hips and was gratified to feel that Geralt was hot and hard with arousal beneath him. Geralt groaned at that, head falling back as he pressed up into Jaskier’s rhythm. Jaskier found something heartbreakingly sweet about that gesture, the vulnerability of Geralt’s exposed throat. His fingers found the edge of the bruise and he ducked his head to brush his lips there, feeling Geralt’s moan before it reached his ears.
“I don’t like when you’re hurt,” he whispered fervently, mouth brushing Geralt’s skin.
Geralt chuckled, the vibration buzzing against Jaskier’s lips. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, soft and warm, and Jaskier groaned against him, hips shifting fitfully.
“I want,” Geralt started, shaking his head frustratedly. “Can I touch you?”
“Obviously,” Jaskier said impatiently,” and then, when Geralt didn’t move, “Please, please touch me.”
Geralt huffed a laugh, and managed to get a hand down the front of Jaskier’s breeches, calloused fingers closing thick and hot around Jaskier’s erection. Jaskier didn’t bother to bite back his moan, bucking into Geralt’s hand. Geralt made a ring of his fingers and moved his hand experimentally, watching Jaskier’s face intently.
“Have you done this before?” Jaskier panted out. “With a man, I mean.”
“Yes,” Geralt said briefly, and then, “But not so much as with women. Is it-- am I doing it wrong?”
“Oh, now he’s humble,” Jaskier said, pressing kisses to Geralt’s jaw. “You’re magnificent. Keep touching me, just like that.”
“Wasn’t planning to stop,” Geralt said wryly, but he was kissing Jaskier again, open and needy, and Jaskier felt his heart twist in his chest as he fucked into the heat of Geralt’s hand.
“Not going to last long,” he managed, between kisses. Geralt kept dipping back in for more, as though he thought Jaskier was going somewhere, as though Jaskier could ever want to be doing something that wasn’t kissing him open mouthed and dirty and with a lot of very clever tongue. As if that wasn’t a totally ridiculous notion.
Geralt groaned at the admission, an open, wounded noise that made Jaskier’s hips buck hard. “I want to see,” he said, muffled against Jaskier’s mouth.
“Please,” Jaskier panted, dragging his teeth along Geralt’s ridiculous jaw. “I’m no witcher. I don’t have all your--” he waved a hand at Geralt. “Physique.”
“I like your physique,” Geralt rasped, and then he was cradling the base of Jaskier’s skull as he lowered him to the carpet, pulling clumsily at Jaskier’s laces and pulling down Jaskier’s trousers. His breath caught audibly when Jaskier was bared before him, and he was already ducking closer, mouth trailing down Jaskier’s chest as he asked, “Can I put my mouth on you?”
“Yes,” Jaskier said fervently, and then Geralt’s mouth was closing wet and hot around him, inexpert but so, so perfect as he swallowed Jaskier’s erection deeper. His hands were on Jaskier’s hips again, urging him to move as Geralt ducked his forehead to Jaskier’s belly.
“Too good, not going to last,” Jaskier managed, and then Geralt was making an impatient noise and urging him on, and Jaskier came so hard his vision went white, body arching in Geralt’s hands, heels hooked hard around Geralt’s legs.
Geralt made a pleased noise and worked Jaskier through his spending, petting absently at Jaskier’s thighs as the tension eased. Jaskier drew a shaky breath, blinking rapidly as his vision cleared. He felt as though he’d just run a league, his heart hammering in his chest.
“You--” he tried. “Good god. I mean it, Geralt. That was --- good god.”
Geralt chuckled again, pulling off of him with an obscene pop. “I liked that,” he admitted, dipping his head in Jaskier’s direction.
“Happy to oblige, any time,” Jaskier said, a little hysterically. “Let me take care of you now.”
Geralt’s gaze shot up to meet his. “You still want to? Is the magic still--?” He trailed off, brow furrowing.
“Witcher, you really are an idiot,” Jaskier said, and dragged Geralt down for a bruising kiss. He managed to hook the strap of his satchel with a free hand, and made a triumphant noise against Geralt’s mouth when it fell to the ground beside them, spilling out a few rolls of parchment, a ruff that was the cutting edge in avant garde court attire, and, ah yes, a vial of oil. Jaskier’s fingers closed around the oil, and then he was drawing himself up to kneel in the vee of Geralt’s splayed legs, urging Geralt’s trousers down over his hips and off.
“Gorgeous,” Jaskier muttered, briefly distracted by the deeply inspirational sight of Geralt’s impressive erection, straining so slick and hard just for him. He palmed it once, just to drink in Geralt’s shuddered moan. “Anyway,” he said matter-of-factly, “I wanted you before the siren, and I’m certain I’ll want you after, spells be damned. Honestly, I’m shocked you never noticed.”
“I-- what?” Geralt said, sounding outraged. “But, the girls at the ball last week. And the month before that, the one who threw books at you.”
“I never thought you were interested,” Jaskier said, and it came out more plainly by far than he’d intended. “Can you blame me for looking elsewhere, to save myself that hurt?”
“I’m interested,” Geralt said firmly, though the effect was rather spoiled by his plaintive, “Now will you please touch me?”
“With pleasure,” Jaskier said delightedly, and then he was drinking in Geralt’s groans as he breached him with a slick finger, his own erection quick to revive with Geralt writhing against him.
“Are you--” Geralt panted out. “Can you-- inside me?”
“So eloquent,” Jaskier said, only a little smugly. “It’s a good thing I’m the bard, here. Are you asking if I’ll fuck you?” He took pity on Geralt, who looked very much beyond coherence. “The answer is yes, but not just yet. Let me enjoy readying you.”
The noise Geralt made was downright criminal, and so Jaskier had to reward him, sucking him off fast and filthy as he stretched Geralt open for him until Geralt was shoving back wantonly on his fingers, grinding back on him and then forward to thrust against Jaskier’s tongue.
“Please,” Geralt said thickly, hips stuttering forward, “Please, now.”
Jaskier couldn’t say no to that.
Jaskier’s first press was deliberate but slow, giving Geralt a chance to accommodate his girth. Jaskier wasn’t sure whether Geralt had ever felt this before, but he seemed more than pleased by it, writhing against Jaskier, gasping sweetly as he bore down on Jaskier’s erection. Jaskier could not possibly have contained his wanton groan, shivering a little as he bottomed out inside Geralt, their bodies pressed flush. He could feel Geralt’s nipples, hard against his chest, and he couldn’t resist ducking his head to catch one in his mouth, rolling it gently against his teeth. Geralt strained forward again, and then they were moving together, the rhythm quick and hard and ridiculously good. Jaskier found the angle that made Geralt swear and squeeze down on him, and then he got a hand wrapped around Geralt’s erection and Geralt came hard and sudden, making a hoarse, surprised noise as his body locked and spasmed. Jaskier was abruptly close himself, and he made it only a few more sharp, hard thrusts before he was coming too, the strength going out of his arms as he fell forward onto Geralt’s chest.
Jaskier came to a few moments later, his forehead still ducked against Geralt’s chest. Geralt’s breathing had slowed somewhat, and he was stroking his palms absently across Jaskier’s back, his arms loosely ringed around him. Jaskier made a pleased sound and stretched luxuriously, shifting to fit himself more comfortably into the curve of Geralt’s body. He ran his fingers over Geralt’s hair, realizing only as he did it that he’d wanted to do so for quite some time. Geralt sighed, leaning into his touch. He was rather like a cat, Jaskier reflected, obliging him.
“I think it’s wearing off,” Jaskier said, the words coming out a bit smushed against Geralt’s very pleasing bicep. “Are you going to come to your senses and be horrified, now?” He was trying for casual, but he could tell Geralt felt him tensing, waiting for his answer.
“No,” Geralt said, with finality, and then he was stroking his hands over Jaskier’s shoulders, sloughing off the tension. It was probably going to be this way, Jaskier realized, finding himself a bit giddy. Geralt would never say enough, and then Jaskier would have to do it for him.
Geralt butted their foreheads together, exaggeratedly slow and gentle. He pressed a kiss to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth, soft and sweet, and then another straight on, as if to say, yes, this.
Jaskier kissed him back, slow and easy, and thought to himself, That’s alright, then. I’ll find enough words for both of us.
He didn’t think he’d said anything aloud, but Geralt said, quietly and firmly, “Hmm,” and that was all the talking they did for quite some time.