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the motionless eternity of earth

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Jaskier sits by the light of a meager fire some few miles outside of an unremarkable backwater village. The autumn evening is cool, bordering on chill, but the sputtering, lukewarm flames are the best he can manage. He's never been an outdoorsman.

True, one would assume he might have picked up a thing or two, having spent a significant portion of his adult life on the road, traveling wherever the spirit moved him. (Them, he thinks, unbidden, and immediately crushes the thought.) But it was always so much easier to sit back and let someone else worry about the menial details. To let someone take care of him.

"And just look at where that's got you, Jaskier, you twat," he mutters to himself, staring into his pitiful fire.

Thinking about it reignites a mortal ache somewhere deep in Jaskier's chest, and he tries to distract himself from it by strumming his lute idly. His fingers are cold and a bit clumsy, but he manages to pick out a tune nonetheless, an old folk ballad half-remembered from his childhood. 

"There's a feeling I get
When I look to the west
And my spirit is crying for leaving..."

It's not perfect, but there's no one to hear him when he stumbles over the words, no one to growl irritably when he forgets the progression and strikes a discordant note. It really is nice, he thinks, to be able to sing and play to his heart's content without someone grouching at him all the day long. Truly lovely. Fucking spectacular, thank you very much. 

"If there's a bustle in your hedgerow—"

As if on cue, there is a distinct rustling from the tall shrubs at the far side of the clearing where Jaskier has made his camp. His mouth goes quite entirely dry. Probably it's just some little harmless creature—a fox, or a deer, maybe—but then again, experience has taught him that it's usually any number of other things that are scary and bad and want to eat him.

"Hello?" he definitely does not squeak, laying his lute down carefully. " s-someone there?"

From somewhere in the depths of the shrubs comes a loud growl in response. Yep, definitely someone there. Or something, Jaskier thinks faintly, envisioning something large and angry with quite a lot of teeth. And okay, so maybe he does squeak a little this time, as the hedges start to shiver and shake violently, and the growling recommences.

"Don't come any closer!" he warns in the most intimidating voice he can muster, which isn't very, as he scrabbles for the blade hidden in his boot. "I have a knife! And I'm reasonably sure I know how to use it!"

That isn't true at all. Someone he used to know had insisted that he buy it and keep it on him at all times "because you're always getting yourself into trouble and I can't always be around to protect you from angry cuckolds who want to geld you." But it turned out that he had always been around, after all, at least when Jaskier needed him to be, and the dagger had never been used.

Until now. Possibly. How hard can it be, he wonders, holding the blade out before him in one trembling hand.

"It doesn't take a genius, Jaskier," he hears that familiar rumbling voice in the back of his mind. "Just stick them with the pointy end."

"Stick them with the pointy end," Jaskier mutters to himself, totally not hysterical at all. "Right, I can do that. I can. I can do this. Who even needs—"

A sudden loud roar fills the night, and the shrubbery seems fit to shake right apart, as something enormous and leathery and somehow gleaming comes barreling furiously through them and spills out into the clearing.

"Geralt?!" Jaskier absolutely does not shriek.

The figure straightens up, revealing itself to indeed be none other than the infamous Geralt of Rivia, in all his ridiculously musclebound, leather-clad, chisel-jawed glory. Of course it is. Jaskier was finally learning how to get along without him, and doing just fine, thank you, so naturally Geralt would show up now and fuck up his life all over again.

Geralt brushes his white hair, wildly askew, out of his face and fixes Jaskier with that unsettling amber gaze.

"Jaskier," he says—no, breathes—his voice barely loud enough to carry across the clearing, but Jaskier hears him. He always hears him.

Jaskier's already racing pulse quickens inexplicably.

He means to say something clever and devastating, perhaps one of the many scathing responses he's been practicing in his head since that day on the mountain, but what comes out instead is, "Melitele's left fucking tit, Geralt! What, praytell, the fuck?! Are you trying to kill me? You've very nearly done my heart in, now both literally and figuratively, and to tell you the truth—"

He'll never know, later, how it happens. One moment, Geralt is standing across the clearing, on the other side of the struggling little fire, and the next he's in every bit of Jaskier's personal space. One hand grips the front of his doublet, and the other curls into his hair, forcing his head back sharply as Geralt leans in and drags his face up the length of Jaskier's neck, breathing deep.

"I knew I smelled you," he rasps, breath hot against Jaskier's ear.

Something inside Jaskier's brain goes haywire, and the dagger he's been clutching drops from his suddenly boneless hand. "Oh fuck, Geralt," he gasps.

Geralt hums, not his usual grunting, but more like a low throaty purr. Jaskier's knees feel weak. Geralt's mouth is impossibly hot, sliding over his jaw, and Jaskier reaches up to grasp at him, pull him in, finally, finally—

Geralt hisses in pain suddenly and jerks away from him. Jaskier hastily snatches his hands back, startled into some semblance of sense, and his right hand comes away sticky. That's when he sees it: the blood, black and thick, oozing from a series of ragged claw marks at the juncture of Geralt's neck and shoulder.

"Oh. Oh gods, you're injured," he says, as if maybe Geralt hasn't noticed. "What happened?"

Geralt grunts and shakes his head, like a drunk trying to clear his mind. "Succubus," he grits out. "Bitch got me."

Jaskier knows very little about succubi—scary demon ladies, fuck you to death, about sums it up—but he does know his way around a wound, thanks to Geralt. "We need to get that patched up. Where are your things, your potions and all that?" he asks, and he hates himself the instant the words are out of his mouth. He hates that, in the end, in spite of everything, he crumbles so easily at Geralt's feet like the spineless, besotted pup that he is. But of course, he always knew that he would; Jaskier doesn't have the blessing of shutting off his emotions whenever they become inconvenient to him.

"Too late," Geralt says, shaking his head again.

"Nonsense. Don't be daft," Jaskier responds easily, almost as if nothing ever happened between them, their broken pieces sliding back together like they'd never come apart at all. "It's not even that bad."

He reaches out to move Geralt's head to the side, to get a better look at the damage, but the instant his fingers graze Geralt's skin, he actually sees Geralt light up all over like a stroke of lightning. So that's new and exciting. And also a little terrifying. As is the way Geralt stares down at him, as if seeing Jaskier for the first time, his pupils blown so wide his eyes are nearly black.

"Jaskier," he says, growls, sounding almost pained. "You don't understand. It's not the wound, it's the...poison. Succubus venom. I'm...already infected. I can feel it."

Jaskier is shattered. "Well," he says, throat tight. "Well, there must be something we can do. Some potion, or something. Anything. Tell me what you need, Geralt."

"I," Geralt rasps, his fingers tightening where they're still fisted in Jaskier's hair. Jaskier quakes. "I need you do me...a favor."

"Yes," Jaskier breathes, all too aware of the tension in the long, hard line of Geralt's body, like he's holding himself back from something, and the sweat prickling on his brow as if every word, every moment, is a struggle. "Yes, Geralt. Anything."

I'll do anything for you, he doesn't say, but it's heavily implied.

Geralt leans in and skates his hot mouth over the shell of Jaskier's ear, slow, so slow, and somehow restrained. "Run," he whispers.

"Beg pardon?" Jaskier mumbles weakly. His brain is fuzzy and nothing makes sense anymore.

"Run, Jaskier," Geralt growls, sounding more like himself than he has done so far. "Get the fuck away from me."

Ah, yes, now everything is making sense again. This is a scenario with which Jaskier is painfully familiar. He jerks away from Geralt, stumbling back a step, and Geralt lets him go, his hands falling down to his sides.

"Excuse the absolute fuck out of me, Geralt," he snaps, hurt and indignant. "Might I remind you that this is my campsite you've blundered your way into. Uninvited, I might add. And now you have the nerve to—"

"Jaskier, you fucking idiot!" Geralt snarls at him, snatching Jaskier by the front of his doublet and all but shaking him. "Succubus venom drives men mad with lust. If you stay…"

He doesn't finish, but he doesn't have to. Jaskier understands perfectly well. A lot of things suddenly become very clear to him very quickly, and he's not entirely sure how to feel about it. Well, actually, he feels quite a lot of ways about it, none of which are probably how Geralt thinks he should feel.

"So," Jaskier says, licking his lips, his mouth suddenly dry, "I'm just supposed to leave you here, in the middle of nowhere, poisoned and alone, what, Geralt? What will happen to you if I leave?"

Geralt seems to have become very interested in the movements of Jaskier's mouth. "Dunno," he responds vaguely, eyes blacker than ever. "Probably die."

"Well, fuck that," Jaskier says sharply.


"Geralt, I will not leave you here to die," he snaps. I won't lose you again, goes unspoken between them. "If...if I stay, W-will you live?"

"Yes," Geralt rasps, and it seems to cost him something to admit it, but obviously artifice is beyond him at this point. It was never his strong suit to begin with.

Jaskier swallows hard and takes a step forward, calculated, until their bodies are flush against one another. "Then I'm staying," he says, quietly, and wonders whether he should feel thrilled or terrified by the thrum of tension he can feel running through Geralt's body.

"Fuck. Jaskier." A brief struggle plays out on Geralt's face, which only someone who knows him the way Jaskier does would be able to detect. "I don't want to hurt you."

Jaskier laughs, a brittle and fractured sounding thing. "I hate to break it to you, but that ship has sailed, wrecked, and sunk to the bottom of the ocean," he says, words from a different time, a different place. A different Jaskier.

Geralt's brow furrows, and for the first time it seems as if a fog lifts. "Jaskier," he says, low, a certain indefinable quality to his voice that makes Jaskier tremble worse than the heated looks and barely restrained touches. "I...I wish—"

"None of that, now," Jaskier says gently, cupping Geralt's stupidly chiseled jaw and pressing his thumb against his lips to stop him talking. "The last time you made a wish at me, I nearly died. Just shut up, Geralt, and let me help you."

At the touch of Jaskier's skin against his, Geralt seems to lose whatever tenuous grasp he has on his self-control. His eyes flutter shut and he makes a low, throaty noise as he sucks Jaskier's thumb into his mouth. The noise Jaskier makes is utterly undignified, and he will never admit to it later, but for now he's too overwhelmed to care.

"Ngh," he says eloquently as Geralt rubs his tongue firmly along the underside of his thumb in a way that makes his knees go weak. "Holy fuck, Geralt."

Geralt laughs, a rumbling, almost dangerous sound, as he lets Jaskier's thumb slide out of his mouth with an obscene pop. He grips Jaskier's hand in his, tight, and nuzzles his face over the palm to the underside of his wrist, scrapes his teeth over the pulse point there. "Do you have any idea what I'm gonna do to you?" he breathes against Jaskier's skin.

Jaskier goes hot all over. "No," he murmurs weakly, so dizzy with want he doesn't even realize what he's saying, "but I have a few suggestions."

Geralt laughs again against Jaskier's skin, stares into him with those lust-blown eyes. "Save your breath, lark," he advises. "You're gonna need it."

And because Geralt doesn't make threats but promises, the next moment his mouth is on Jaskier's, hot, demanding, licking into him until Jaskier is breathless with it. Jaskier opens for him willingly, groaning into Geralt's mouth, and grasps at his chest, his shoulders, anything he can reach, trying desperately to find purchase in all that gods damned leather.

He always knew it would be like this. Not that he ever thought about it, of course. Especially not at night, alone in the dark, touching himself frantically under the covers, or spread out underneath some tall, strapping lad, gasping the wrong name into the sheets. But if he had ever thought about it, he would have imagined it like this, Geralt kissing the way he fights, with everything in him, taking, taking, until his partner is spent and defeated.

Bet he fucks like this too, Jaskier thinks dizzily, lust spiking low in his belly.

Geralt must sense it, can probably smell it on him, because he growls into Jaskier's mouth. His hand finds its way to the small of Jaskier's back, holding him steady as Geralt rocks forward against him. Jaskier can feel the hard bulge at the front of Geralt's pants pressing into his hip, and something in his brain fizzles and pops. Suddenly, his hands are in Geralt's tangled white hair, pulling him in harder, biting at his lip, his jaw, his neck. He grinds his own desperately hard cock against Geralt's thigh, and Geralt hisses filth into Jaskier's skin, both of his very large, very strong hands sliding down to grip Jaskier's ass, urging him forward, as they thrust against one another again and again and—fuck. Jaskier is going to come in his pants like a teenage boy.

"Not yet, little lark," Geralt murmurs, because of course he would know.

Jaskier doesn't even have time to be embarrassed. Suddenly, the world is turning over on itself, and he finds himself flat on his back on the blanket where he was sitting before Geralt's unlikely intrusion. He stares dazedly up at the night sky, trying to remember how to breathe, watching the autumn constellations twinkle peacefully overhead. The Lovers, he notes, are directly above them. Because of course they are.

There is a loud clanking noise as Geralt's swords drop unceremoniously to the ground, followed by his spaulders, and finally his cuirass. Jaskier has no earthly idea how he gets them off so quickly; he's tried to help Geralt with his armor many times over the years, but somehow his normally nimble fingers always seem to get tripped up by the many straps and buckles. Then again, being close enough to Geralt to touch does tend to do strange things to Jaskier's brain and body.

His body which, by the way, he never thought would be quite this close to Geralt, who drops down on top of him, now in just his linen shirt and those ridiculously impractical, mind-numbingly tight leather pants. Jaskier can feel the heat of him now, the way it rolls off of Geralt in waves, can see the way his shirt sticks to his sweat-damp skin. He reaches out for him, desperate to touch, to feel, but Geralt wrests his hands away roughly. His fingers are like brands encircling Jaskier's wrists as he presses them firmly against the ground above Jaskier's head.

"Stay," he commands, and his voice is barely audible yet it brooks absolutely no argument.

Jaskier's cock jerks hard in his pants, and one day, maybe, he'll explore the implications of that. But right now, Geralt is growling low in his throat and grinding down against him, his own erection rubbing against Jaskier's just so, and Jaskier can't think about anything but that.

"Fuck," he gasps, and "yes," as his eyes roll back in his head.

Perhaps that's why he doesn't see the flash of silver until it's at his throat. Geralt is suddenly holding Jaskier's own dagger, pressing it to the hollow of his throat, dragging the flat of the blade carefully, so very carefully, over the exposed skin of Jaskier's chest where his collar is open. Probably, Jaskier should be terrified. The problem is that he never has been scared of Geralt, and even now, after everything that's passed between them, he still trusts the witcher implicitly.

Jaskier draws in a shuddering breath and concentrates on lying very still. Geralt flicks the edge of the knife against the buttons on the front of Jaskier's doublet, cutting them away one by one. And normally, Jaskier would be absolutely furious with him—he would rant and rave, he would call Geralt every foul name in his repertoire, he would make him swear a blood oath to pay for the repairs—but even when Geralt slips the blade under the hem of Jaskier's shift and cuts the fabric straight down the middle, Jaskier can't bring himself to be anything but hopelessly turned on.

It doesn't take long before Geralt has cut away the rest of Jaskier's clothes, leaving him bare and shivering beneath him. He looks down at Jaskier with burning coals for eyes, and when he licks his lips, flashes his sharp white teeth, Jaskier doesn't know if it's because Geralt wants to fuck him, or eat him.

The big bad wolf devours the lovesick bard. There's a song in that, Jaskier thinks deliriously just before Geralt, as if reading his mind, puts his mouth on him and makes him sing.

Geralt sucks bruises into Jaskier's chest, down the flat plane of his stomach, sinks his teeth into the sharp jut of a hipbone. Jaskier cries out, shaking and fisting his hands into the blanket, trying desperately not to thrust toward Geralt, whose hot breath he can feel ghosting over his cock. He thinks Geralt must, even in his current state, be able to sense his struggle, because his hands move to grip Jaskier's hips, fingers biting in, pressing him firmly into the ground.

And then—then, O gods mighty and bountiful, runs the hymn composing itself in Jaskier's head—Geralt leans in and licks a hot stripe up the length of Jaskier's cock. The sound that erupts out of Jaskier's throat is almost inhuman.

"Geralt, oh fuck, Geralt," he groans, sweating in the chilly autumn air. "Wait, wait, wait."

Geralt does not, in fact, wait. With slow and excruciating precision, he slides the tip of his tongue along the slit at the head of Jaskier's cock. It takes everything Jaskier has in him not to come immediately.

"Fuck, Geralt, please," he begs, panting. 

Geralt looks up at him with those lust-black eyes. "Please what?" he asks, his mouth hovering so maddeningly near Jaskier's cock that he can feel the vibration of each syllable.

"Please, just—let me—" Jaskier reaches out for him, grasping at any part of Geralt he can reach. "Can I—?"

Geralt says nothing, but he doesn't seem unwilling. He straightens up and tugs his shirt off in one smooth motion while Jaskier fumbles at the laces of his stupid leather pants. In the end, even between the two of them, they can only get them down a little past Geralt's hips, but it's enough. Geralt's cock springs out, flushed and swollen and fucking enormous.

"Gods," Jaskier blurts. It's not that he's never seen it before—two people can't travel the continent together for the better part of a decade and not see one another in various states of undress—but he's never seen it like this. Never so close, never hard, never dripping precome from a head purple with need. It makes Jaskier feel both scared and wanting in some secret, dark place inside of him.

He reaches out to touch, fingers trembling, brushes the backs of his knuckles lightly along the underside of Geralt's cock. Geralt's hips jerk forward, a growl ripping its way out of his throat, and Jaskier startles when Geralt's hand suddenly closes around his wrist, fingers bruising.

"Don't tease me, bard," he hisses. There is danger in his tone, but Jaskier can detect something else as well: a brittle edge of pain and desperate need.

"Patience, witcher," Jaskier answers back. He doesn't know how he even dares, except that perhaps he's completely lost his mind. It would explain, well, pretty much everything.

He wraps his lute-callused fingers around Geralt's cock, lightly at first, testing the size and the feel of him. He is scorching hot—so hot Jaskier doesn't know how he can stand it. It almost hurts to touch him, but Jaskier has never known how to back down from anything, even to save himself from pain or heartache, a fact to which his entire life is a testament.

He tightens his grip and strokes upward slowly, his fingers sliding easily through the precome slicking Geralt's cock. Geralt's eyes close and his brow knits together, his face a perfect picture of agony and ecstasy. Jaskier thinks he's never looked so beautiful. He strokes Geralt steadily while he tries to memorize every line, every shadow, every detail, so that he can remember, later, when all of this is over. 

"Fuck," Geralt breathes.

Jaskier agrees.

He squeezes Geralt a little, just to hear the sounds he makes. He is usually so stingy with his grunts and his growls, but when Jaskier grips him tightly, pulls at him in one long, smooth, torturously slow motion, it's like something opens up inside of him and everything he normally holds back comes spilling out.

"Gods, Jaskier—fuck—yes."

And when Jaskier rubs his thumb all over the sticky, swollen head, the sound Geralt makes is animal. His fingers clamp down where they're still holding Jaskier's wrist, so tight that Jaskier gasps in pain, though he's helpless to resist as Geralt holds him steady and fucks uncontrollably into his fist. That shouldn't be as hot as it is, Jaskier thinks, Geralt holding him at his mercy, using him, taking his pleasure from Jaskier's body as if he were no more than an object. And yet.

"Oh," he says weakly, and again, with feeling, "Oh. Geralt."

He scrabbles frantically for his own cock with his free hand, jerks himself hard and fast and without finesse. It doesn't take much before he's shaking apart, coming spectacularly all over himself, painting his stomach, his chest, even his throat. He hears the rumble of Geralt's voice, but faintly, as if from a distance, and then he feels Geralt's thrusts falter in the moment before he comes, too, spurt after hot spurt spilling out over Jaskier's torso until he's positively filthy with it.

Jaskier stares up at Geralt, dazed, and Geralt stares back. His eyes look more normal now, Jaskier thinks, or perhaps it's only a trick of the light—there's still a darkness there, still a burning hunger, holding Jaskier in thrall. Slowly, as if in a dream, he drags his hand up through the mess of their release coating his stomach, brings his fingers to his mouth and, oh, the look on Geralt's face is exquisite when Jaskier's tongue snakes out to taste.

"Damn it, Jaskier," he says, an old refrain, but where normally he would sound angry, instead he sounds only strained and almost hurting, like he's been gut-punched, as he watches Jaskier press two fingers into his mouth and suck them clean.

Jaskier doesn't miss the way Geralt's cock twitches, still hard inside his fist. "Still?" he asks, half-muffled around his sticky fingers. "I guess it's true what they say about witcher stamina."

"Mmm. You're not getting off that easily," Geralt says, well deep, eyes hot and following the movement of Jaskier's tongue as he licks the lingering taste from his lips.

"Actually, dear witcher," Jaskier says, smirking up at him, "I rather think I did."

The answering curl of Geralt's mouth is more predatory than it is smiling. Jaskier imagines it's the sort of look innocent woodland creatures see just before being eaten by something big and scary. It should not make his dick try valiantly to get hard again. And yet.

"Yes, so easy, little lark," Geralt murmurs, looking down at the mess covering Jaskier's torso. He releases his grip on Jaskier's wrist finally (finally, there'll be bruises there by morning, a thought which gives Jaskier a thrill in the pit of his stomach) and moves to run his fingers through the evidence of Jaskier's pleasure, and his own. "So eager for me. Tell me, will you be so eager when I'm working my cock into you? Will you come apart just as easy when I'm fucking you senseless?"

Yes, Jaskier wants to say, fuck yes, do it. But he can't seem to form words, suddenly. Geralt is reaching down between their bodies, down, down, pressing messy fingers against Jaskier exactly where he's definitely never had a thousand and one wet dreams about having Geralt touch him. All he can manage is a helpless little noise, and then Geralt is sliding come-slick fingers into him, and he can't even manage that anymore, just goes weak and shivering under him.

"Like that?" Geralt breathes. "Good. Good, Jaskier. Open up for me."

As if he has any choice. Geralt's fingers work into him, stretching him open mercilessly, and it's too much too quickly, but gods, so fucking good. Jaskier arches up into it, yields himself up to the sweet ache of Geralt making a place for himself inside his body, and tries to stifle his cries against his fists. But Geralt moves Jaskier's hands away from his face, presses them above his head again, but gently, so terribly gently that it makes Jaskier tremble worse than whatever Geralt's fingers are doing to him.

"Wanna hear you, lark," Geralt says, which of course is not something he would ever actually fucking say. Jaskier knows that. And he knows, on some level, he should be bothered by it—this isn't Geralt, not really, he isn't himself—but on another level, he is acutely aware of Geralt's fingers inside him, the way they press in deep, deep, and twist, and Jaskier simply can't care about anything else.

"Geralt," he pants, sweating in the cold night air. "Geralt, fuck."

"Hmm," Geralt rumbles, a subtle variation that denotes agreement or acquiescence.

He moves his hand away, leaving Jaskier empty and aching, and Jaskier would love to complain about that, he would, except he seems to have forgotten how to say anything that isn't Geralt's name. Even that dies on his lips as Geralt slides his hand through the mess cooling on Jaskier's stomach and slicks it down over his cock, his lip caught between his teeth, hips stuttering forward like even his own touch is overwhelming. Jaskier watches him, throat tight, and waits, knowing what comes next.

Geralt presses Jaskier's knees up toward his chest with a surprising amount of tenderness for someone who's supposed to be going out of his mind with lust. Jaskier imagined this going entirely different. Well, maybe not entirely. Somewhat different. He didn't expect tenderness, at any rate. He didn't expect Geralt's free hand to slide up to cradle the back of his neck as Geralt settles himself between his thighs. He didn't expect Geralt to whisper, "Jaskier," and, "Look at me," so soft, or for Geralt to hold his gaze while he presses the head of his cock against Jaskier where he's wet and ready. Somewhere beneath the fever gleam and the hungry maw of those dilated pupils, Jaskier senses Geralt—the real Geralt, his Geralt—looking back, watching him carefully as he pushes inside, trying to restrain himself as much as he is able. Jaskier doesn't know why that makes his chest ache.

"Geralt," he says, barely more than a punched-out breath as Geralt works into him with short, sharp thrusts. His hands are in Geralt's hair before he's even aware of moving them, his fingers twisting into the coarse white strands, tugging Geralt's head down toward his, and he means to kiss him, of course, but all he can manage is to gasp hot and wet against Geralt's mouth, "Yes, yes—fuck—just like that."

Geralt groans, a low sound that exists somewhere between pleasure and pain. He sinks the last glorious inch of his cock into Jaskier's body, burying himself fully, and then stills. Jaskier can feel the tension thrumming through him, every muscle pulled taut like a bowstring, and he strokes Geralt's hair, kisses his panting mouth, his jaw, his eyes.

"Jaskier," Geralt rasps against his throat, and Jaskier has never heard him sound so helpless. "Fuck, you feel—you're so—"

"Full. So fucking full, gods." Jaskier draws in great shuddering breaths, trying to adjust to the brutal stretch of Geralt's cock inside him. It's too much, too much and not enough, and he feels like he might die from it, and he knows he will if Geralt stops. "Don't stop, don't—just wait—"

"I can't. I can't. I need—"

"Yes. Yes, darling. Anything. You're so—"


"—good. You're doing so well, my love." Jaskier kisses Geralt's feverish brow, soothes his hands down the muscled plane of his back, feeling the quiver of tension beneath his fingers. "It's okay. Just let go. I can take it."

He doesn't know if that's true. Maybe this will break him. Maybe it'll ruin him. Or maybe he was already ruined the instant Geralt kissed him in the cold starlight and said, I need you. But he doesn't care, doesn't even care if Geralt takes him apart piece by piece here in this dingy forgotten corner of Velen, as long as Jaskier can have this—Geralt touching him, Geralt needing him, Geralt wanting him—even just for tonight. 

All the tension bleeds out of Geralt at once, as if he only needed Jaskier's reassurance, and then he's pulling out slowly, so slowly, until just the head of his cock is holding Jaskier open for one impossibly long and agonizingly perfect moment, before pressing in again in a long slick slide that makes sparks pop behind Jaskier's eyes.

He doesn't really know what happens after that.

He thinks he says a lot of things he wouldn't dare if he thought Geralt would remember them in the morning. He thinks maybe he even recites poetry. He's known to do that when the spirit moves him, and oh, how it moves him, and over him, and in him. Geralt fucks like a dream, that's all Jaskier knows for sure, all he needs to know when Geralt has one hand fisted in his hair, and the other hooked behind his knee for leverage, and his teeth set into Jaskier's neck while he fucks into him again and again and again.

It starts out slow and steady—a prelude, an overture. But sometime between when Jaskier moans a breathless stanza, "My love, my heart's fire, I burn for you," and when he gets hard again (which hasn't happened so quickly since he was a younger man) and thrusts into the delicious friction of their bodies pressed together, Geralt starts to lose his composure entirely. When he makes a sound low in his throat and starts to snap his hips sharply, Jaskier digs his fingers into the meat of Geralt's ass and pulls him in hard.

"Yes," he hisses. "Fuck me like you mean it. I want to be able to feel you for weeks."

Geralt growls something filthy that Jaskier doesn't entirely catch because, suddenly, Geralt is sitting back on his haunches and dragging Jaskier half into his lap. The new angle, when Geralt drives into him, turns his spine molten, and Jaskier is fairly sure he makes a series of embarrassing noises that he would be mortified about, probably, if he were able to do anything but melt under Geralt's thrusts.

"You like that," Geralt grits out. It's not a question. His fingers dig bruises into Jaskier's thighs as he yanks him up to meet his thrusts. "Show me. Be a good boy and come for me again."

Jaskier moans weakly. He'd like to think that he has a bit more self-control than to come so quickly a second time, but really, only so much can be expected of him if Geralt insists on saying things like that, gods. The molten feeling in Jaskier's spine floods into his belly, spiking low in his groin, and when Geralt, the bastard, somehow manages to rub every inch of his cock against that spot inside of Jaskier that makes his whole body ignite, he tips over the edge before he can so much as get a hand on himself.

Geralt fucks him through it, his hips snapping a brutal rhythm. "Good. Good, lark. So good for me," he murmurs, each word barely more than an explosive breath punctuating each thrust.

In spite of his narrow vocabulary, the praise goes straight through Jaskier. He whimpers helplessly as his body, still shuddering through aftershocks, tries to do more than it already has. He tenses up all over, feeling himself clench down around Geralt's cock, which seems suddenly, impossibly bigger, almost too much to take.

Geralt makes a choked, bitten-off noise. "Fuck," he says, with feeling, and that's all the warning Jaskier gets before Geralt presses in deep, deep, and spills inside of him.

It seems to take a long time, Geralt gasping and shuddering over him, filling him up so full that Jaskier swears he can feel that slick heat inside of him. The thought makes him feel hot and shivery, and when Geralt is finally spent, when he finally eases out slowly, Jaskier squirms under his gaze, knowing he can see the mess he's leaving behind. The fire has gone out, and Jaskier, with his inferior human eyesight, can't make out Geralt's expression in the dark, but the sound he makes is low and unmistakably hungry.

Fuck, Jaskier thinks. He's exhausted, and he aches, and he doesn't have anything left to give, but he doesn't protest when Geralt eases him down onto the blanket and rolls him on his side. Geralt presses up against his back, aligns their bodies at shoulders and hips and knees, and it's so intimate and so lovely that Jaskier can't help but close his eyes and relax into it while he can. Geralt, surprisingly, only nuzzles at the nape of his neck with a little contented hum and slides an arm around Jaskier, pressing his palm flat against his chest over his heart.

"You should rest," he rumbles, ruffling Jaskier's damp hair with his breath. "Gonna need you again soon."

As if to illustrate his point, he rocks his hips and slides his still-hard cock along the slippery cleft of Jaskier's ass. Jaskier groans. "You're a menace," he accuses, but his voice is thick, indistinct; he's already fading.

Jaskier falls asleep to the gravelly sound of Geralt's laugh.

Geralt does indeed take him again that night. Twice, in fact. The first time, Jaskier wakes after an indeterminate period to the feeling of Geralt's teeth in the back of his neck and the tip of Geralt's cock pressing into him where he's still slick and tender. He makes a few sleepy noises of protest, but Geralt smooths a hand down his side and murmurs words of encouragement (like he's gentling a fucking horse, and Jaskier is so going to tell him what he thinks of that in the morning) until Jaskier calms. Geralt fucks him slow and gentle, barely more than a rocking of hips, and Jaskier doesn't come again, doesn't even get hard, but he does revel in the way Geralt strokes over his chest and his stomach and his thigh, the way he licks around the knobs of Jaskier's spine at shoulders and neck, the way he hums contentment into his skin.

The second time is in the still, small hour just before dawn, when everything is hazed over purple, and the world is hushed and almost reverent. Geralt grapples them around until Jaskier is on top of him, straddling his hips, and begs, "Please." His eyes are amber again, the overblown pupils shrunken back to their normal size, and Jaskier lets himself believe, just for the moment, that Geralt is himself again, that this is something he could actually want. He thinks he'll be too sore to take Geralt inside of him again, but Geralt lets him set the pace, and Jaskier is so enraptured by the raw, unshuttered expression on Geralt's face that he barely feels the pain as he sinks down on him. He rides him slow and sweet, until Geralt is shaking under him and clutching at his hips, until he comes whispering Jaskier's name like a prayer.

When Jaskier wakes again, it's late, and he is curled up under his own cloak, alone. His heart sinks.

Well, Julian, what did you expect, he thinks bitterly, and he doesn't reflect on why his inner voice sounds so much like his fucking mother. That one night of uncontrollable passion would change everything? That if only he tumbled you, once, he would realize he's madly in love with you, and forget that everything you are is abhorrent to him?

"Jaskier." Geralt's voice, laced with a familiar undertone of fond exasperation. "You're awake."

Jaskier rolls over to find Geralt watching him over a blazing fire. His expression is guarded, but he meets Jaskier's gaze and holds it.

You're here. You stayed. Jaskier's throat aches with the effort of choking down the words. Instead, he says, "How did you know?"

"Because you're thinking so fucking loud," Geralt grumbles, a perrenial response, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, and if Jaskier didn't know any better, he'd think Geralt had missed this.

"Well," Jaskier sniffs, playing his part, "one of us has to."

Geralt rolls his eyes, as per usual. He makes a few complicated motions over the fire, then, retrieving some small, charred thing from the flames, and it's only then that Jaskier realizes he's been roasting a rabbit. It's a skinny thing, barely any meat on its bones, but Jaskier sits up eagerly nonetheless—which, on second thought, is a terrible idea because fuck.

He gasps aloud before he can stop himself, and Geralt's eyes are on him again instantly. His gaze flits over the expanse of Jaskier's exposed flesh, focusing in with hawklike intensity on the dark finger-shaped bruises at his wrists and the bite marks at his neck and shoulders and stomach, before settling where the cloak has pooled in Jaskier's lap, hiding the places where he's most tender.

"Are you—" Geralt's throat works as he struggles to find the words—"well?"

Jaskier bites his lip. "I'm...fine," he says, haltingly, and it's probably the least expansive he's ever been about anything in his life, but...well, it's not as though he can be entirely honest with Geralt about it, is it? He can hardly tell him, for example, that he likes the ache, that he'll savor it until it fades because it's proof that Geralt wanted him—that he wanted him—even if it was only in a succubus-induced delirium. He can't tell Geralt, who undoubtedly thinks Jaskier offered himself up as some sort of sacrifice out of friendship or duty or gods only know what, that he would let Geralt do the same, or worse, to him again in a fucking heartbeat if Geralt so much as breathed the hint of a suggestion. And he certainly can't tell Geralt that he will absolutely be pressing his fingers into those bruises and bites and tender spaces later while he jerks off frantically thinking about how he got them.

Geralt is looking at him with one of his many inscrutable expressions, and Jaskier averts his eyes, worried Geralt will see in them everything he isn't saying. "What about you? How are the—" Jaskier makes exaggerated clawing motions over his own shoulder.

Geralt rolls the injured shoulder experimentally. "Pulls a bit," he admits, and then shrugs. "Head feels like the morning after that time we drank with Zoltan. But…"

"You'll live?" Jaskier offers helpfully. 

Geralt hums agreement. He rips the rabbit in half easily, as if it were paper, and offers Jaskier the larger portion. "Eat," he commands, forceful, and Jaskier hears: Thank you.

Jaskier takes the offered food, and if his fingers brush against Geralt's for a little longer than is strictly necessary, it's because he wishes he could say, You're welcome; and, Anything for you; and, I love you. Geralt swallows and turns away. They eat in silence, heavy with things unsaid, and afterward, Jaskier cleans himself off as best he can with water from his canteen and the tattered remains of his clothes. 

"I suppose this is a lost cause," he says sadly, turning the doublet over in his hands. It's made of lovely embossed satin in a periwinkle blue that really brings out his eyes, and the tailor who made it would sooner wring his neck than make him another one, on account of the fact that Jaskier slept with his only daughter three nights before her wedding.

Geralt makes a funny noise, and Jaskier looks at him just in time to see the guilty look that skitters across his face. "I—" he starts, then stops, shuts his mouth with a sharp click, and then opens it again. "I'll buy you a new one. When we get to Crow's Perch."

"Crow's Perch?!" Jaskier splutters indignantly, because of all the fucking shitholes—

He stops.

The doublet falls from his suddenly nerveless fingers.

"We?" he asks in a small voice, his breath catching in his throat.

Geralt isn't looking at him. Probably because Jaskier is naked and vaguely damp and covered in marks left by Geralt's very own teeth. But he sighs, long-suffering, and growls, "Yes, Jaskier," in a way that's almost affectionate, and Jaskier's heart soars.

So he puts on fresh clothes, and they go collect Geralt's bounty, and then they head toward Crow's Perch.

And if they never talk about it, well, Jaskier assures himself, that's okay.