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They're not long home (or as near to home as an inn can be) when Jaskier makes a bawdy joke, and his hand finds its way onto Geralt's shoulder. Down his arm. Lingers at his elbow. He's met with a questioning look and instead of backing away slowly like a sensible man would do, he makes an open-ended offer in the dim light of their shared room. One so blatant as to be almost artless, but so vague as to be almost dismissible.
'What are you proposing, Bard?' the Witcher growls.
Geralt has no doubt about what it is, but he's wary of giving the idea any attention by admitting it. Perhaps if he can be evasive, Jaskier will lose his confidence in suggesting something so ill-conceived.
No such luck.
The imp is both over-confident and, apparently, not unobservant. 'Nothing you'd object to, I'd expect,' Jaskier raises his brow. 'Considering the fact that I've caught you peeping at me multiple times, this last week of monster-slaying and limited-privacy bathing.'
Geralt doesn't think it counts as peeping if the other party is openly staring at you at the same time. And even if it did — what of it? Observation is imperative to knowing more, understanding, winning in a fight. It doesn't foretell any desperate urge of his. There was no shameful secret there; why be ashamed of seeing the value in another man's body? Doesn't mean he wants to touch it.
'I fail to grasp your point,' he growls.
'Perhaps I could grasp yours instead?' Jaskier says.
'Perhaps not.' Crass little bastard. If he'd known it would bring about this sort of awkwardness, Geralt would have avoided being seen observing. He gets up from his seat and picks up his recently discarded boots. They still smell slightly of some sort of beastly effluent. They can reside in the wardrobe tonight.
'I'd grasp it gently . I'm quite good with my hands. Seven different instruments, I play.' Jaskier flops down on the bed, right where Geralt has just vacated. 'I never said all of them were musical, did I?'
'Leave me alone.'
'Oh, now you want me to leave you alone.' Jaskier tosses a hand in the air. 'Now that I'm done singing your praises and filling your bath. Despite appearances, I'm not your squire.'
'Then why are you still here? I need to bathe.' Geralt moves over to the wardrobe to quarantine his boots.
'Because.' Jaskier softens, smirks. Lets his eyes wander as Geralt looks back at him. 'I've come to realise lately that if I stick around after the bath-running I usually get a good look at your arse. This way, even if you truly do refuse to "grasp my point", I can at least fill my coffers. And later, when you're sleeping, I can,' he raises his fingers in air quotes. "Write a song about it."'
'What?' Geralt pauses with his hand on the wardrobe door.
'You know, stroke out a ballad, sing an oh-oh -ode to the tight plumpness of your buttocks.'
Geralt groans internally. The bard and his metaphors. He tosses his boots inside. Then he feels bad and reaches to straighten them. A lifetime of discipline is hard to shake, even when one is perilously annoyed at one's self-appointed companion. But throwing things around isn't going to put a swift end to any of this.
'You need to stop.'
'You haven't let me start, you boring old man. You're missing out. I am a fine specimen — in my prime.' Jaskier stretches himself out on the bed, as if to prove his words. 'And I'm already attuned to your needs. I bet I know what you like.'
'I like when you're quiet.'
'I'm acquiescent to being gagged, if that's what you're into.'
'I'm into peace , Bard, and you're making it very hard to achieve.' Geralt turns to the wooden baggage rack and rifles through his panniers for something clean to sleep in. Apparently his usual bed attire — nothing — isn't going to be a sensible option tonight.
'Well, at least something’s getting hard,' Jaskier says from the bed. He sounds petulant.
'You're dismissed.'
'You can't dismiss me, I don't work for you.'
'I can dispatch you, if you'd prefer?'
'I'd rather you defiled me.'
' Bard .' Geralt turns with a growl. 'You've seen the way I fight, you can't possibly imagine me gentle. I promise you, with your trail of women, me fucking you would not be remotely similar to whatever you imagine seducing me might achieve.'
'Who said anything about letting you top?'
The cocky look on his face beckons Geralt across the room, and he covers the space in a few quick strides. 'Little Dandelion,' he hisses. 'It would take a man far greater than yourself to master my body. I don't suggest you try.' He watches for the submission he's accustomed to. Waiting for the cower, the quail, the wide-eyed regret…
Jaskier looks monumentally unbothered.
'So you'd rather a bit of this…' he twists his hip forward and strokes one hand up the curve of his backside, before bringing it back to the front and grabbing a handful of his cock and balls. 'Than any of this?'
Geralt feels his jaw clench in frustration. 'I'd rather,' he bites out, 'a bath.'
'Of course,' Jaskier says. 'Absolutely. The touching of this fine specimen is rather dependant on the bath, actually. You've got wyvern entrails in your hair, still.'
Geralt sighs. The little twallop is impossible. And fighting him off with words is pointless.
'And you've decided you want to stay here to watch that bath?'
'Yes. And also we're meant to be sharing this room, remember? So there's not really anywhere else for me to go. Even if I didn't want a glimpse of your arse.' Jaskier shrugs. 'Or maybe your cock, I'm not averse to either.'
Geralt fights the urge to roll his eyes. 'The bar is just downstairs. I'm sure you can titillate someone down there into letting you between their legs instead. Perhaps sing them a song about your fine specimen of a dick.'
'Witcher.' Jaskier lays back on the bed, spreading his knees like a thirsty whore. 'Firstly, I'm delighted you think my dick song-worthy. Secondly, there is a very large man downstairs whose wife very definitely let me between her legs previously and he might have taken exception to that. So, no, without your looming presence, I'm much safer up here. Less likely to be damaged. Especially if we use some decent lubricant. You know. Ease the way. Slide into the chorus, so to speak.'
His explanation is typical, he irritates more living things than Geralt is forced to kill. And yet it scratches against his ego, much to his disgust.
'It's so nice to be wanted only second to an ale in a half-rate inn.' Geralt moves back to his bags and pulls out a comfortable shirt and some underwear. Hopefully generic white linen won't inspire the young bard while he's sleeping.
'Now, no, that's not what I said,' Jaskier protests from behind him, the creak of the bed betraying his movement. 'I said I'd rather be up here with you than be downstairs being beaten into a squishy pulp by Lord Cuckold. Obviously, being introduced face-first to your mattress is preferable above all else.'
When Geralt turns back to the room, the bard is only an arms length away, looking abashed for the first time all night.
'Where does sitting quietly in the corner while I bathe fit into your list?'
'Depends on which corner.' Jaskier takes two light steps over to the hearth and drags the armchair back so it's in front of the wardrobe. 'How's this? From here I can enjoy the sight of you, side on, and you can't glare directly at me without putting a crick in your neck. And, perhaps… were I to test the roominess of my trousers with a hand, I'd still be able to fantasize you could see me. It's sort of a win-win.'
'I already have a crick in my neck.' Geralt wonders if the suggestion of interfering with himself is serious. He's both mildly disgusted and morbidly intrigued at the level of his apparent power over the young bard. 'Stay there, then, and try not to bother me.'
'I promise I shall only bother myself.'
A tiny thrill of perverse pleasure whips through Gerault's gut and he ignores it. 'Remember that I am the one paying for this room, and it is of no disadvantage to me to not have to share it.'
'Other than the extreme unlikelihood of you being able to blow yourself, of course,' the bard smirks wickedly from his safe spot behind the armchair.
Geralt glares, silent. Curious. He does rather like being serviced. He raises an eyebrow, and it's immediately misinterpreted.
'You're right. Of course. I shouldn't assume.' Jaskier backpedals. 'You've many unknown abilities, why would sucking dick not be one of them?' He looks down at his hands, clamps them together. 'Your own, no less. I should expect you're very flexible.' He swallows, his throat moving. 'I'll sit in my corner now.'
'Good.'
It is with great awareness of his body that Geralt undresses. It's been a long while since he even considered the company of a young man. Probably since he was one himself. The endless pressures of training drove one to seek comfort in others, and he had, of course. Unlike the other boys, he harboured no illusions that his doing so was out of desperation. He'd liked it. Hadn't thought about it in a while though. Women are simpler beasts. Easily tamed. Soft.
The bard isn't completely useless, though, and not hideous to look at, which is a troubling combination. And he was… enthusiastic. There's something to be said for supplicance and a clear understanding that ongoing romance (or any romance) was both impossible and unwanted. And if he tries to claim ignorance on that, he'd be easily discarded. Geralt has had a harder week than usual, even in a life this hard. It is cold and he aches. Perhaps he deserves one more comfort.
There's no sound from the corner as he removes his armour, fingers practiced on the many straps, flying with little thought as he keeps his eyes fixed on the bathwater. He doesn't want Jaskier to know what he's thinking, so he'll keep his eyes to himself this time. The surface of the water is still and black and steaming slightly, even in front of the fire.
His shirt peels away from his skin and it tingles and itches and sticks where it's bloody. Nothing hurts though; his healing potion has done its work well while he waited for the water to heat. He forgets not to look in the corner as he tosses the garment aside, and the second it takes him to remember is enough to prove Jaskier wasn't blowing his interest out of proportion like he's prone to do with everything else.
He's sitting in the chair, eyes fixed on Geralt's bare chest and one hand splayed lovingly across the front of his own trousers.
Geralt looks away as he loosens the buttons at his fly. He wants very much to be perfunctory, quick, meaningless in his actions, but his fingers betray him and he has to slow so as not to fumble. The whole thing feels like a farce; it should mean nothing for him to have an audience. This body, its parts, are the only thing he still has in common with an average man. Having them seen by one should mean nothing at all, even in the privacy of an inn.
There's a sound from the chair, though, as he bends and peels the soft, black leather from his legs. A low hum of approval that bothers him. Approval should also mean nothing.
Geralt puts his back to the chair in the corner and turns the trousers right way out. They'll need cleaning before he sleeps and his used bath water will do. He'll find a rag somewhere, later. For now it's enough to keep them away from the drying heat of the fire. He looks for a place to hang them that doesn't require turning around just yet.
He expects his glutes look tense. He tries to relax and not think about anyone's chatty mouth wrapped around his dick.
He casts about for his towel, and briefly considers covering himself with it as he gets into the tin bath.
But no, that's ridiculous. Let Jaskier look. It does no harm, so long as he can keep himself from writing a fucking song about it. Geralt turns back to the room, forcing himself to project confidence, and steps toward to the bath. He knows the moment when the firelight hits his cock because Jaskier's hand twitches and his eyes widen shamelessly, breath leaving him in an audible huff.
Geralt preens slightly and hates that he does it. He steps over the edge of the tub, knowing the muscles of his legs are flexing in a way people find pleasing. He lowers himself on strong, sculpted arms and feels both smug and regretful.
That feeling — regret — is a telling mistress, an omen, an indication that maybe, deep down, he knows he's going to let himself do something actually regrettable. Why else would he be so disdainful of having this bath with an audience, if he knew he wasn't liking being watched? And liking Jaskier's eyes on him is a slippery hillside toward liking Jaskier's hands on him, then his mouth, then wanting to be encompassed completely and then what? They "slide into the chorus" together? Will he inadvertently help the bard write a new song: The Ballad of the Witcher's Britches? Toss One Off On Your Witcher? The White-Splattered Wolf? The bard would sing it the second he got some ale in him. Possibly whether it happens or not.
And if you look at it like that, if Geralt knows Jaskier would sing that it happened regardless — and if he knows that he, himself, would deny it happened regardless — why not take what was being offered?
It’s an option. One to think on.
He pushes it to the edge of his mind and lets himself soak, waiting until he's truly relaxed, heated through, before he scrubs himself clean. He does it with more care and grace than is typical, he can admit. And if he sees a rhythmic shift of colours out of the corner of his eye while he moves, and if he pays careful attention to the cleanliness of certain parts of his anatomy, then so be it.
The bath is murky with soap and dirt once he's done. He feels heavy as he stands, listening carefully to the sounds from the corner as he sluices the water from his skin. When he looks up, Jaskier is lying back bonelessly in his chair, both hands in his trousers. His face is flushed, his mouth slack, eyes blown wide and dark. The front of his shirt is open to reveal a thatch of dark hair, incongruous with the near-elfin youth of his face. Geralt feels his lips curl into a smile at the sight of him. It mightn't be a bad option at all.
The jug of clean water on the hearth rinses away the last of the soap and the last of his hesitation. His doubts. Possibly the last lick of sense this night will see, but so be it. There is no one permanent in his life who will ever know it happened or care enough to remind him if it turns out to be a mistake. At worst, he'll be bored. He steps onto the hearth rug and slowly rubs himself dry.
Grey eyes follow his hands and go with him to the bed when he's done. Geralt sits on the end of it and waits until Jaskier's gaze skitters up his chest to meet his own.
'My feet ache,' he says. 'Come rub them if you're so keen to have your hands on me.'
Jaskier wastes no time in crossing the room, the laces loose on his trousers and the pink flush of his cock visible amongst the folds of cloth. He kneels and lifts one of Geralt's feet into his lap, settling it only inches away from his open fly.
Warm fingers dig into the arch of Geralt's foot and he praises his own recklessness. He lets his eyes close as Jaskier works his way up, fighting a smile as his toes are rubbed, and sighing out his pleasure as the bard's nimble hands work away the miles they've travelled. By the time his other foot is soft and soothed he's almost forgotten what he's started.
He remembers quickly when he feels those nimble hands slide up the back of his calves.
'How are your legs feeling?' comes a murmur from the floor. Uncharacteristically quietly. Maybe this had been the secret to shutting him up all along.
'Tight,' Geralt replies. Let Jaskier make of that what he will.
Apparently, it was all the invitation required for him to slip his hands around Geralt's knees and push forward, palpating the thick muscle of his thighs. Credit to the bard, he has strong hands.
And warm breath…
The brush of linen against Geralt's knees accompanies the rising creep of hands and the soft tickle of of a sigh against the sensitive skin of his cock. He checks his moral compass but still finds no resistance in himself, no urge to deny himself this pleasure. And it could well stop here, he reasons, absently, as he settles back on his elbows, leaving himself open for anything else that was offered.
Fingers reach the smooth planes of his hips and skim across the ridges of hard muscle and bone. Warm air, closer now, huffs out as Jaskier speaks,
'And how's your cock feeling?'
'Like talking isn't the best use you could be making of your mouth.'
'Right. You're sure?' Jaskier looks up at him with wide eyes.
'I'm sure you should stop talking.'
'You aren't going to throw me out of the room afterward, or leave town at first light rather than face an awkward acknowledgment of our coupling over our breakfast?'
Geralt turns his gaze away at that word — coupling. He stares at the dim ceiling. 'That depends if you're any good at it. Your reputation doesn't promise much about your experience or abilities with men.'
'I am able . It's simply that no men have irate husbands to come after me.'
'I don't expect to come after you either.'
In reply, Geralt feels the hot lick of a wet tongue slide along his shaft, tip to root. 'Understood,' Jaskier whispers into the damp hair at his base, and then another swipe of hot tongue. Geralt hopes this isn't all he’s in for. Licking. He needed more than the ministrations of an obedient cocker spaniel.
He needn't have worried. The hands of a bard are always quick and dextrous, but his mouth… His mouth is wielded like a fine-tuned instrument, his lips soft and his throat home to a rhythm unsung. Geralt finds himself just as incapable of talking as his companion. He manages still to breathe. Not pant, precisely, but there's a slight heaviness to his breath, an impetus. He hums his approval and Jaskier hums back, a vibration that carries between them and pushes an uncharacteristic gasp from the mouth of The Witcher. Much to his dismay.
'You like that?' asks Jaskier, the smirk audible in his husky tone.
'Shut up.' Geralt reaches his hand deep into Jaskier's hair and pulls him back to his task with a gentle urgency. A plea.
With renewed vigour and a soft mouth, Jaskier has Geralt murmuring curses at the ceiling within moments. He finds his rhythm, one that pleases both of them, but his hands are strangely absent from where they had been. No longer are they skimming over Geralt's thighs, his hips, tracing fingers over his balls and carding gently through his coarse hair. He misses it.
'Where are you hands? Bring them back.'
There's a wet sound and his cock smacks down onto his belly. 'You aren't the only one wanting a good time.'
'And you're not the only one capable of giving it. Complete your task and I will see to you after.'
Geralt sits up then, knowing he's scowling, to find Jaskier with one hand fisted around his own surprisingly capable-looking erection and his trousers bunched around his knees. The other hand is snaked behind him in what Geralt can only assume is some sort of self-torture, considering.
'Are you doing that without lubrication?' he asks.
Jaskier barks out a small laugh. 'You might have missed this about me, but I do not hate myself, so no, I'm not doing this without lube.' He looks defiant. 'I had a small bottle in my pack.'
Geralt gives himself a moment to consider the implications of this and finds he's no longer bothered by Jaskier's repurposing of his hands. 'I hope not too small a bottle.'
The bard smirks, clearly pleased. 'It would be plenty for tonight, at least?'
'Good.' Geralt manoeuvres himself backward onto the bed to wait, giving himself an encouraging stroke as Jaskier rises from the floor on wobbly legs and climbs up, a small blue bottle in hand. 'Are you ready to use it, then?'
'I thought I was getting there, but looking now, perhaps not.' Jaskier stalks up the bed on all fours, eyes fixed on the flushed length in Geralt's fist and passes the bottle over. 'Best you slick yourself up too.'
'Of course. Do you need a hand?' Geralt secretly hopes not, he rather likes the idea of watching the preparations from here.
'I can manage, but some visual stimulus might help me relax?' Jaskier drops his gaze back into Geralt's lap and keeps working his hand behind him. The angle looks awkward but the bard is tireless.
Geralt lifts his free hand and uncorks the bottle, drizzling oil onto the head of his cock, both of them watching it slide down his shaft in drips. Two swipes in his fist and he's slick and shining.
'Would some manual stimulus also help you relax?' Geralt asks, reaching out a finger to wipe warm oil over the head of Jaskier's cock, clutched tight in his fist. He's gifted with a heartfelt shudder and a strangled sigh.
'Well. Er, yes. Yes, I rather think it would.' Jaskier lets go of himself and his cock bobs free.
He twists further back for better reach inside himself and grunts with the effort. Geralt tries not to like it too much. When he wraps his slippery fist around Jaskier's cock, the bard's hips flex reflexively toward him and his knees slide further apart, wanting.
' Nggh . Lord, fuck, oh my—' Jaskier hisses and sinks onto his own fingers, eyes closed and mouth slack. He pants through each gentle stroke, tiny thrusts of his hips betraying his growing need. 'I think we're probably ready,' he says after a short while. He lifts off his fingers and shifts his knee as if to move from his position, poised as he is over Geralt. As if he expects to be, as he put it, introduced face-first to the mattress.
'Stay where you are.' Geralt's voice is soft, soothing, pulling Jaskier's knee back to the bed. He wraps a hand around his own cock, pointing it directly upward. 'Shift forward.'
Wide-eyed, Jaskier complies. His hands come down either side of Geralt's shoulders as he positions himself above, his eyes darting about, resting on Geralt's chest, his brow, his mouth. It doesn't exactly look as though he's thinking to kiss him, but it doesn't look as though he isn't either.
Geralt doesn't know what to make of that. Women liked kissing — needed it, unless you were paying for their company, and even then. Even those women always seemed to give in to him eventually, begging for his mouth on theirs as he showed them what a Witcher's enhanced stamina means. He'd not really kissed men before, though. The boys at school were looking for release, not affection. They didn't need for soft touches.
Perhaps, though, it was strange to take pleasure in a man and not kiss him simply because he wasn't a woman. Especially if he was a man that likely, habitually, kissed women as well. A lot. Was used to it. And maybe Jaskier kissed men just as easily, without mulling over it, maybe that was the world's normal. Geralt isn't an expert in normal.
He's pretty good at the next bit though. He grasps Jaskier where he's hovering, arse cheeks gently clasping the head of his cock. Geralt places one thick hand on each buttock, teasing them apart and pulling them further down around the tip of his cock, pressing up against the slick ring of muscle. Jaskier's prepared himself well. With little resistance, Geralt feels the slide and squeeze so reminiscent of his youth, memories in tumult, his senses alight. He still manages to pause, though. To let his companion adjust to the intrusion. Some things aren't forgotten so easily.
'Okay,' Jaskier breathes, after a time, and lifts off slightly, the pleasant drag of pressure over the ridge of Geralt's crown tugging a soft noise from his throat.
Jaskier lets himself sink back down, further this time, before repeating that slight retreat and the long press down. Again. Again. With a whine, his buttocks touch down over Geralt's thighs. They wait silently together for the intensity to ebb.
'I'm going to write songs about this,' Jaskier breathes, already sounding destroyed.
'No, you aren't.' Geralt flexes his hips and relishes the whimper it provokes.
'I promise I'll only sing them to you.' Jaskier folds down onto one elbow, eyes shut tight.
'I promise I'll find better ways to occupy your mouth again.' Geralt utters and wonders immediately where that thought comes from and what it means.
Maybe Jaskier takes it as his consent to be kissed, because that's when he lowers his head and presses their mouths together, hands coming to curl into his hair. Geralt reflects, just for a second, that it isn't much different from kissing a woman. When their mouths shift, slanting together and the graze of stubble moves across his bottom lip, he thinks maybe it might be a tiny bit better.
In tandem, they find a rhythm, firm tongues seeking each other out and the smooth rock of their hips seeking out something else. The heat of their bodies drives through aching muscle, melting away the stiffness and fatigue until Geralt is thrusting up, eager, as Jaskier is grinding down, their panted breath eventually too heavy to sustain a kiss. Jaskier buries his face in the soft crook of Geralt's neck, whimpering and cursing in turn.
The end comes upon them unexpectedly. Jaskier's breath is hot as the bard's lips brush against the tendons of Geralt's shoulder, his tongue peeking out to swipe a stripe along it's ridge. It's a sensitive area, not often touched, and a vulnerable place on anyone at the right end of a sword, but especially one who fought beasts. The sort of beasts who went for the scruff or the jugular, or both at once, a human neck nothing but a snack. So when Jaskier presses his teeth into Geralt's neck, it’s inevitable the reaction will be… animal. Visceral. Quick.
Instinct has Geralt flipping them, pinning his adversary down, before his mind catches up to the adrenaline surge and instead of killing him where he lay, he finds he can thrust harder with the new ease of this position. The residual need to dominate his prey burns in his veins and he lets it thrum.
'Holy—' Jaskier breaks off into a moan, wrapping his legs around Geralt's waist and pulling him close. Grabs at his back, fingers digging into his flesh.
Geralt remembers vividly now, the times he'd done this before, and so he keeps their bellies pressed together, giving Jaskier the pressure, the friction, that he needs. For himself, he keeps his rhythm. Lays a light hand over Jaskier's throat. Lets the thrill of dominance dance in his blood.
The rush — the tingling, reckless abandon that comes with pleasure — overcomes Geralt in a great shining wave, and he feels himself tense and spill inside Jaskier, impossibly deep, again and again, the telltale throb and pulse around his cock indicating that he does not arrive alone. He lets his hips rock forward until Jaskier's last quake is drawn from him with a sigh.
Post-orgasmic clarity fights with fatigue and Geralt thinks he should probably send Jaskier to his own bed soon, on the other side of the room, lest he overthink any of this. Get ideas. Instead he simply lets himself slide out and flops gracelessly onto his back, his eyelids heavy and his body sated.
Jaskier says nothing, the rhythm of his breathing seeming to ease a little as Geralt drifts helplessly into sleep.
He wakes some time later, the fire low in the grate and a blanket thrown across his body. There's a tall glass of fresh water on the bedside table.
Tonight, he would let Jaskier stay in his bed. Just tonight. After all, it didn't mean anything.