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an opiate; helpmate

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Geralt of Rivia is many things: brilliant swordsman, shitty conversationalist, secret soft touch for children and the maltreated, surprisingly terrible dice player and even more surprisingly talented dancer....

“Fucking son of a whore,” Jaskier chokes through his teeth, rocking back onto three of Geralt’s fingers, barely able to get the words out past the shivers that convulse his whole body each time Geralt’s sword calluses graze against that spot inside him, “gods, you twice misbegotten bastard tease, if you don’t hurry up and fuck me—”

Geralt kisses him before he can finish, deep and filthy, stealing Jaskier’s breath and sending a jolt straight to his cock where it's deliciously trapped against the sheer cliff face of Geralt’s abdomen.

He’s balanced in Geralt’s lap, legs akimbo, one hand snarled in Geralt’s hair for purchase and the nails of the other scoring desperate marks across the vast expanse of Geralt’s back. They’ve been at it for what feels like hours but could just as well be months, decades, centuries — ever since Jaskier glanced up from tuning his lute to find Geralt staring at him with that stupid half-concussed, half-angry look on his face that he’s come to recognize means Geralt wants to kiss him. (He’s rather fond of that look, truth be told.)

Thank gods they’d earned sufficient coin to pay for a private room at a semi-respectable inn tonight; they’d likely have scared away half the creatures in the forest by now. The fire in the hearth has banked down to chittering rivulets of orange flame and Jaskier’s come once on Geralt’s fingers but it’s not enough — he still feels like he’s melting, like he’s being burned from within by some terrible curse and Geralt is just letting it happen, the fucking cunt.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, displaying what he feels is admirable restraint, “if you don’t stick your cock inside of me this very instant, I will tear out your fucking hair.”

He gives a sharp tug, just as a warning, and the effect is immediate, exhilarating: Geralt growls against him, a deep rumble like boulders tumbling down the sides of a mountain in a rock slide (there’s a good one; Jaskier will have to figure out a ballad to use that in).

Geralt pulls all three fingers free of the welcoming clench of Jaskier’s body in a single motion — he cries out at the shock and the sheer unfairness of being left open and wanting.

But then the head of Geralt’s cock is nudging past his balls, leaving a hot slick trail along the skin and then finally — oh, Melitele preserve us — finally pressing against Jaskier’s hole and pushing in, after months and decades and centuries of ‘not now,’ and ‘next time’ and ’get off your hands and knees, Jaskier, this is a public bathhouse.’ Jaskier’s eyes shut and his mouth falls open; it hurts but that’s nothing at all, not when he’s finally going to be able to have this, they’re finally, finally—

Geralt stops.

Jaskier makes a sound he didn’t even know he was capable of. “Oh my gods.

“It won’t fit,” Geralt murmurs into Jaskier’s skin, gentle and terrible.

“It will.” Jaskier feels like crying. “Don’t you fucking stop, don’t you dare —” He tastes salt in his mouth, realizes he already is. “Geralt, no, please —” but he already knows it’s no use.

Geralt pulls out — he can’t have gotten very far to begin with, but Jaskier moans for the loss of those few torturous inches, the gaping hollowness after the searing white clarity that had pushed everything else aside.

Geralt disentangles their limbs, lays Jaskier back down onto the knitted counterpane. The air rushes into the gap between their bodies and Jaskier hisses a protest, but Geralt moves back in to fill the space, smearing kisses into Jaskier’s shoulder. The welcome smothering heft of his body drapes across Jaskier, holding him in place.

Jaskier’s breath escapes his chest in sharp bursts. “Geralt, come on, just—” he reaches out, grabbing at Geralt’s cock, which is just as huge and glorious as the rest of him, a revelation and a tragedy given that Geralt won’t fuck him with it.

Geralt pushes Jaskier’s hand away, says, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I don’t care,” Jaskier says, by which he means, do you know what you look like, you absolute fucking lummox? What do you think I was after, setting my sights on a man built thicker than Vizina’s city walls?

But of course that’s not what Geralt hears. “I will never hurt you,” he says, sombre and sincere, and ugh, what else is there for Jaskier to do but kiss the noble idiot?

He tries to roll his hips up, but Geralt’s weight is still pinning him down. “Come on, at least let me—”

“I know, I’ve got you,” Geralt says, shoving two fingers back inside him, which, fuck, is lovely, but it still isn’t quite enough, not when they came so close.

And maybe Geralt realizes, or maybe this is his method of distraction, because he dips his silver head down between Jaskier’s thighs, nosing the seam of Jaskier’s ass to slip his tongue between his spread fingers.

“Oh, fuck,” because Jaskier’s always known that Geralt played dirty but he never thought — this isn’t just a distraction, this is the complete and wanton devastation of Jaskier’s brain, of his ability to argue further or even think beyond the inexorable onslaught of Geralt's fingers and the flickering press of his tongue. This is carnage.

Geralt leans in, pressing his whole face against Jaskier’s ass, licking long and slow. His broad frame pushes Jaskier’s legs so far apart that he can’t keep his feet on the bed, can only weakly sling his thighs over Geralt’s shoulders.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. Jaskier gasps at the feeling of his own name, a hot exhalation of breath that cools when it hits the saliva on his skin.

Geralt can’t possibly expect him to reply — he’s not that big of an idiot — so instead Jaskier kicks his heels against the divots in Geralt’s lower back, urging him on.

That much at least, the big lump is willing to go along with, fucking him fast and open with his fingers, pulling off and sucking wet kisses against Jaskier’s hole before pushing back inside, relentless and ruthless until Jaskier can feel himself rushing towards the edge of the world, the pounding of his blood almost like hoofbeats.

At the very last moment he reaches down, tries to get a hand around himself, but somehow his fingers miss and wind up in Geralt’s hair instead. And it’s the weak, trembling sound that Geralt makes when Jaskier uselessly thumbs the upper curl of his ear that sends him over, that pulls down darkness over his head like a heavy tarp made of night sky, shot through with stars.

When Jaskier finally opens his eyes again, Geralt is leaning over him, his golden gaze intent.

“Hello,” Jaskier says, stupidly. His mouth isn’t quite working right yet, or maybe his brain.

Geralt gives a little huff that Jaskier recognizes as a laugh.

A quick glance down confirms that he’s come all over himself, drying streaks spattered across his overheated skin from chin to belly.

Geralt’s cock, meanwhile, presses against Jaskier’s hip, as huge and hard as ever — maybe even bigger, somehow. Jaskier gives it a little rub, just to see.


“What?” He rolls his thumb under the head, his gliding touch made easier by precome and sweat. Loops his fingers around the shaft, and marvels at how thick Geralt is, how far his fingertips are from touching. Truly the most remarkable...


“My dear Witcher,” Jaskier’s voice is still shaky, “it’s a bit presumptuous of you to imagine that after that particular performance, I’d still be looking for you to—”

“No,” Geralt repeats.

“Oh, fine.” With one last affectionate pat, Jaskier pulls his hand away.

Geralt’s gaze flicks down. “You’re a mess.”

Not half as much as I would be, Jaskier thinks. “And whose fault is that?” he says instead.

“Mine,” Geralt grits out. His cock twitches against Jaskier’s side.

Well, then.

In truth, Jaskier’s not even sure if he’d be able to come again tonight, but the one thing he likes almost as much as a (breathtaking) cock is an audience.

He trails his fingers along the come-stippled ridge of his hip bone. “Look what you’ve done,” he says, rubbing a bit of it into his skin.

The gold in Geralt’s eyes is molten, and his regard keeps shifting from Jaskier’s face, to his torso, to his still spit-slick asshole as though he can’t decide what interests him more. His breath is coming high and fast like a spooked horse.

“Can you smell it on me?” A rhetorical question — Jaskier’s just recovering from a head cold and even he can pick up the sharp scent of his own release.

But Geralt inhales deep: first through his nose, then through his mouth, tongue slightly out, as if to taste Jaskier’s come in the air. “Yeah.”

“What do I smell like to you?”

“Good,” Geralt rocks forward, his cock skidding over Jaskier’s thigh, “how do you smell so fucking good.” He sounds almost angry about it.

Jaskier preens at the compliment. “Have a taste,” he says, turning his head and Geralt falls on him like a sudden downpour, sucking the half-dried remnants of Jaskier’s pleasure off his neck with the desperation of a man dying of thirst. (And there’s another ballad: something something the sweetest nectar? Geralt’d kill him, but.)

Jaskier presses a hand against the base of Geralt’s spine, urging him forward. “There you go,” he murmurs. His other hand reaches below, and he cups his fingers loosely around the underside of the massive shaft, creating not a hole to fuck, but a trough to guide Geralt so that his cockhead smears across Jaskier’s stomach with each thrust.

Even at this angle, Geralt’s cock feels huge, a creature of legend from a song Geralt would mock him for. It shouldn’t exist at all, and certainly not here, some rickety bed in a backwater inn in the armpit of Kaedwen. Remarkable.

“Look what you’ve done to me,” Jaskier says. “How wet I am. Dripping with it.”

The low ragged sound Geralt makes — the way he keeps trying to say Jaskier’s name and then failing….

Jaskier digs his fingers into the top of Geralt’s ass, wonders how hard he’d have to press down to actually leave a bruise there.

Geralt’s breath climbs higher and strangely sweeter each time the thick ridge of his cock catches on Jaskier’s navel. His tight control is beginning to slip, the metronomic precision of his thrusts growing more uneven — Jaskier hisses when he accidentally grazes his left nipple. The jolt of rekindled excitement draws his stomach muscles tight on reflex, and Geralt groans.

“More,” Geralt says, “please, I — ”

“Imagine how soaked I’ll be when you come all over me.” Jaskier brushes his lips against the bell of Geralt’s earlobe, letting the words buzz against those tiny hairs there. “What I’ll smell like.

“Even after I wash it off, you’ll know, won’t you?” he says. “You’ll be able to smell it on me. What you’ve done, what I let you do to me.”

Jaskier feels Geralt tense up, from his wire-taut calf muscles pressed against the inside of Jaskier’s knees to the diamond-precise pricks of his teeth against Jaskier’s pulsepoint. Every part of this deadly machine, laid trembling and bare before him.

He takes a breath, holds the moment between them as long as he dares — the performer’s instinct. “Mark me as your own, witcher.”

And that’s enough: Geralt barks out a cry and shudders to pieces above him.

This time, not consumed with his own pleasure, Jaskier registers more clearly the obscene sensation of Geralt’s release hitting his skin, the wet warmth splattering over him, painting his body.

Geralt’s mouth blindly searches for Jaskier’s, less a kiss than the sharing of mutual breath, slack and sloppy with release. His hands slide long slow passes over Jaskier’s chest and stomach, working his come into Jaskier’s skin, hot and indelible as a branding, a claim.

He’s mumbling something against Jaskier’s lips, repeating it, but it’s not until a while later when Geralt moves to cradle Jaskier’s face in both hands that Jaskier can make out what he’s saying.

“Thank you,” Geralt says, stroking Jeralt’s cheeks, “thank you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier tilts his head, catches Geralt’s thumb between his lips to taste the intermingled spendings of their two bodies. It’s a sharp counternote to Geralt’s gaze as he looks at Jaskier, unbearably soft, with his kiss-stung lips and his hair falling over his shoulder. Jaskier’s stupid heart clenches.

He bites down, startling Geralt into a proper laugh, for once.

“What was that for?”

Jaskier hums. There are any number of reasons. “Just felt like it. I hope you’re not expecting us to stay like this all night.”

With one smooth motion, Geralt lifts Jaskier up enough to pull down the now-ruined counterpane and toss it onto the floor. Turning them both onto their sides, he settles one mammoth tree-trunk of an arm over Jaskier’s waist and tugs him close.

“Aren’t you going to call us a bath?”

Geralt grunts.

“Geralt.” Jaskier can feel the places where they’re already starting to stick together.

“In the morning, bard,” he says, arm tightening around Jaskier, which — no, gross, except he shoves his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck and breathes deep, whuffling the hairs at the nape of Jaskier’s neck. “Tonight, you’re mine.”

You oaf, Jaskier thinks. You utter clod.

“In the morning,” Jaskier says instead, and pulls the sheet up over them both.