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“Geralt,” Jaskier whines, knowing full well it’s useless but trying anyway. “We have enough coin to stop for the night. Let’s lay in a real bed, spring for a hot bath, and then we’ll be back on the road come morning, feeling refreshed and energized.”
Geralt looks down at him from where he sits atop Roach, his head tilting slightly before he gives Jaskier a solid, “hmm.”
“One night,” he says softly. “That’s all I’m asking.”
“That’s all you’re asking at the moment,” Geralt corrects him, yet he leads Roach towards the closest inn. Jaskier would do a little dance of victory if he had the extra energy to spare. But he doesn’t, not when he has something extra special planned for tonight. Tonight has the potential to blow up spectatulary in his face but hey, if there’s no risk then there’s also no reward, right?
As he walks, he chances a glance up at his witcher, frowning to himself. Those broad, delectable shoulders which were obviously crafted by gods are tight, ridgid, closer to his ears than they should be. Those shoulders carry the weight of the world and Jaskier aches to soothe them down.
Jaskier’s hands tighten into fists before he releases them. Oh, all the things he wishes. All those things that are just barely out of reach. He could see it clear as day, practically taste it on his tongue. And yet, it’ll keep being unattainable as long as Geralt keeps him at arm’s length.
Damn Witchers and their need to do everything alone. Lone wolf bullshit.
“You know,” Jaskier says, continuing despite the way Geralt groans in annoyance. He’s long since figured out that means ‘please, Jaskier, keep going, I’m sure this will be a riveting piece of information’. “You smell like death.”
“I’m a Witcher,” Geralt says, like that somehow makes his wretched scent alright.
“More than usual,” he goes on. “A warm bath with some nice oils will do you good. And I can finally take my time and pick all those damn twigs from your hair. You really should take better care of yourself, Geralt.”
Geralt just closes his eyes, letting out a long sigh as they pull up to the Inn. “Don’t worry, I’ll run in and get us a room. You go put Roach in the stables,” he says, not waiting for Geralt to suddenly change his mind.
For half a second, worry flashes through Jaskier. What’s stopping Geralt from turning Roach around and heading out of town now that Jaskier isn’t in his sight? What’s stopping him from running . He looks over his shoulder, cursing himself for not having just a little bit more faith and letting out a long breath when he sees Geralt and Roach at the stables.
The first time they ever rode together, Jaskier was interested in being known. He wanted to be the famous bard charged with singing about the Witcher’s glories. Respect didn’t make one known, or so he said. But things are different now. Jaskier wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s come to some higher power, he’s still the same selfish asshole who’s chasing a Witcher’s coattails in hopes of glory. But he’s somehow merged Geralt into his selfish asshole bubble.
He has enough poems about Geralt stashed away within his notebooks. Jaskier is a bard, he won’t be shamed for waxing poetic about Geralt’s hair, or his strong, broad back, or his downright sinful ass. And he sure as hell won’t be stopping any time soon. They’ll never see the light of day, of course, but that doesn’t stop the words from flowing, especially during late nights by the fire. What else is a man to do when he’s sat across a roaring fire from the one man his heart longs for yet the same man he just can’t have? He’s a simple bard coping in simple ways, damn it.
Jaskier makes quick work of paying for a room, ordering some food, wine, and a hot bath. Up in the room, he paces back and forth, nervous energy making him fidget. He wants to pick up his lute and pluck at a new song but he stops himself. Tonight will hopefully be about Geralt and he’d rather not start it all on the wrong foot. He sits at the edge of the bed, looking down at his clasped hands, only standing when the door finally swings open. Jaskier does his best to ignore the racing of his heart, praying to any god that will hear him to gentle Geralt’s heart and keep him from taking a swing if this doesn’t go well.
“There’s my darling Witcher,” he says in way of greeting, smiling wide and opening his arms at Geralt.
Geralt’s lip twitches, like he’s holding back a smile and what does it say about Jaskier that that makes his stomach flutter pleasantly? Fuck, he’s got it bad. So, so bad. The stony man who thinks he has to face this world alone, who stands guard between monsters and mankind, yet expects nothing but coin in return. This is the man who’s somehow stolen Jaskier’s interest. It’s gotten so bad that Jaskier hasn’t slept with a nobleman’s wife in so long . It’s a wonder he hasn’t been threatened as of late. Those things can’t correlate surely….
“Hmm,” Geralt grunts as he sets his swords and bags on the ground beside the bed. He eyes the one, lone bed in the room for a moment before his eyes flit over to the tub. “There’s only one,” he says, not specifying which he’s talking about. “What about you?”
Jaskier gives a shrug. “It’s fine. I’ll freshen up in the morning. Let’s get you smelling more like oils than gore.”
Geralt looks at him a long moment before he begins pulling his clothes off. Jaskier’s breath stutters in his throat like it always does whenever he gets to see Geralt’s body. It’s not even an uncommon thing, if he’s being honest with himself. He helps patch Geralt’s body up after a hunt, they’ve bathed in rivers and lakes enough times, and yet, everytime is like the first time. Gods, he’s becoming a true cliche, isn’t he?
Once completely naked, Geralt steps into the tub, letting out a sigh as his body relaxes into the hot water. Droplets run down Geralt’s chest and for a moment, Jaskier is struck silent as he watches it fall past the tight bud of Geralt’s nipple and into the tub. He shakes himself from his stupor and walks over to the side of the tub, squatting down to pick up the cup he’d found in the room, dunking it into the water before using it to wash Geralt’s hair.
“ Bard ,” Geralt gets out, his eyes narrowing. “I’m a grown man, I’m capable of bathing myself.”
“I’m aware,” is all Jaskier says back, flashing Geralt a wide smile before doing the same thing once more. Geralt grunts before sitting up and tilting his head back, making the process easier for Jaskier.
Being able to do this, this small gesture, makes warmth flood Jaskier’s chest, his lips curling up in a content smile. “Thank you,” Jaskier whispers under his breath as he gently runs his fingers through the strands of Geralt’s hair, forever marveling at the feel of it. Despite the mud and guts and twigs he often finds, the white strands are always so soft.
“Are you thanking me for the pleasure of touching me?”
“Yes,” Jaskier says, taking care to rub the fancy soaps he’d bought three towns past into Geralt’s hair and scalp, the smell barely there since he knows about Geralt’s sensitive sense of smell. Evenso it’s a pleasant scent, so much better than the dark scent of death if you ask him. “Thank you for not biting my hand off for daring to interrupt your bath.”
“It’s shutting you up. That’s thanks enough.”
“Ha ha. You’re hilarious. Maybe you’ve missed your calling as a jester.” Geralt grunts. When Jaskier looks at his face, he’s happy to see his eyes closed, his face relaxed as Jaskier cleans his hair.
There’s a deep, dark part of Jaskier that revels in moments like this. Geralt takes care of the world. But Jaskier is the one who’s allowed to take care of Geralt. It might be in the smallest ways but it still happens, and whenever it does, it’s like a drug. Jaskier finds himself wanting to experience it again and again and again, always longing for just a little bit more. He’s not sure if he’ll ever get enough, especially not with how tightly Geralt holds himself back.
Once Geralt’s hair is pristine, Jaskier picks up the bar of soap, dipping it under the water. He brings it to Geralt’s chest only to freeze when a large palm wraps around his wrist.
“Jaskier. What are you doing?”
Jaskier swallows, his eyes moving from that chest made of marble up to Geralt’s golden eyes. “What does it look like? I’m washing you. Well I was about to before I was so rudely interrupted.”
“Why? This isn’t a whorehouse,” Geralt grits out. “I’m not paying you to take care of me.”
Jaskier tries his best to hide the sting of hurt he feels within his chest being compared to a whorehouse. “I’m very aware I’m not being paid to be here,” he says instead. “I’m doing this of my own free will, yada yada yada.” He tries to shake Geralt’s hand away from his wrist but Geralt just tightens his hold, his eyes narrowing.
“What’s your game here?”
At that, Jaskier finally gives up and falls back on his heels, dropping the soap into Geralt’s bath so he’ll let go of his wrist. Jaskier rubs at said wrist, glaring at Geralt as he does. “I’m not playing a game,” he tells Geralt because it’s the truth.
“Is this your way of finally trying to woo me into your bed?”
Jaskier lets out an incredibly undignified snort at that. “If I thought this was all it would take, I’d have tried this ages ago. All my flirting and advances before had fallen on deaf ears. So no, this is not my elaborate way of getting into your tight trousers.”
“Then why , Lark?”
Jaskier dips his fingers into the water, happy that it’s still warm to the touch. He stares at the little waves he makes. “Is it so hard to believe I wish to take care of you for once?”
When Jaskier looks up, Geralt looks away, his face closed off and hard. “I can take care of myself.”
“You say that like I’m not aware. You’re the big strong Witcher who rides alone and needs no one. News flash, Geralt. You don’t ride alone any longer. You haven’t for a long time.”
Silence fills the room and tension rises so thick Jaskier is sure he could practically taste it in the air. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe this is the final straw that forces Geralt to push him away. This will be the thing that makes him ride away in the middle of the night.
At this point, he might as well put it all on the line, let himself be flayed open and exposed. “I want to care for you,” he says softly, his words barely above a whisper. “You take care of everyone. You save people, you shield them from unimaginable horrors. You’re good .” At that, Geralt makes a noise, one that Jaskier doesn’t quite understand.
“You’re an idiot,” Geralt says, refusing to look at Jaskier. “I need no one. And the last thing I need is someone needing me.”
Jaskier swallows around the lump in his throat. “That’s the biggest pile of bullshit I’ve ever heard,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “You’re not better than me just because I need you.”
Jaskier tries to stand, to pull away, but a hand darts out of the water, holding him still. “Wait,” Geralt says with a long sigh. “I didn’t mean that I was better than you. Because I’m not. Not at all.”
“Could have fooled me,” Jaskier says with a sniff, sitting back down. He waits for Geralt to say more but he stays silent, his hand still resting against Jaskier’s wrist. “You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. And you do it well. But when it’s just you and I, when it’s just us in a room alone, you don’t have to carry it all,” he tries his best to explain. “When it’s just us, you could let me take care of you sometimes. Hell, you’ve taken care of me enough times to count. Saved my plump, perfect ass from a monster or two,” he adds, smiling when that makes Geralt’s lips twitch up. “Just… let me care for you, when we’re like this. I promise, this will never end up in a song for the country to hear,” he adds hopefully.
Geralt tilts his head slightly in a way that Jaskier has come to know as either a friendly gesture, or a sarcastic gesture. He holds his breath, waiting to see which it is this time. “Fine,” Geralt grunts out, handing the bar of soap over and leaning back against the tub, closing his eyes.
Jaskier only hesitates a moment before running the bar of soap over Geralt’s chest. His movements are steady and gentle, not giving Geralt any reason to take back his agreement. Warmth and something close to pride wells up within his chest. He’s almost giddy with it and has to bite his bottom lip to keep himself from outright laughing.
After washing his shoulders, chest, back, and neck, Jaskier brings the soap below the water, taking his time washing each of Geralt’s arms, paying special attention to his hands and fingers. He cleans under each nail before moving down to Geralt’s legs, his feet, up to his thighs.
“Well?” Geralt says, his deep voice making Jaskier shiver. His entire body has gone lax under Jaskier’s hands, his face smoothed of any tension. And yet, he still sounds like he’s the one in control, like he’s the one calling the shots. “Getting cold feet?”
Jaskier puts a smile on his face, tilting his head to the side before splashing a little bit of water against Geralt’s chest. “Not even a little bit,” he says before his hand is diving under the water, cleaning Geralt’s groin. He can feel the way the other man is hard. He takes a deep breath before wrapping his palm around said erection, stroking it slowly. His eyes never leave Geralt’s face, watching as he closes his eyes and tips his head back against the side of the tub, his breath hitching just barely. The sound might very well be the most beautiful sound Jaskier has ever had the privilege of hearing.
And just like that, he pulls his hand away. “All clean,” he says with a wide grin, excitement filling him at the annoyed sound Geralt makes, his amber eyes snapping up to meet his. “Satisfied?”
Geralt’s lip curls. “I think you’ll find I’m not easily satisfied.”
The innuendo isn’t lost on Jaskier. His hand comes up to Geralt’s face, gently caressing his cheek. He knows he’s pushing his luck but he doesn’t care. “And I think we both know I’m quite determined when I put my mind to something.”
Geralt hums. “So you are.”
They stay like that a long moment, staring at each other as Jaskier touches Geralt’s face. The moment makes him feel brave, like he’s allowed to take a chance. Like maybe they’re in a small bubble of time, where the consequences of tonight won’t touch tomorrow. “I wish to give you everything.”
“I need nothing.”
This time it’s Jaskier who hums. “I know,” he whispers. “You take nothing for yourself but that which you need to survive. And yet, I wish to give you the world and watch you experience what it’s like to live beyond surviving.” He pauses as his thumb gently strokes over Geralt’s right eyebrow. “But I’m aware I’m a greedy bastard when it comes to you, Geralt.”
“There are worse things,” Geralt says back, his eyes not leaving Jaskier’s. “I might not need . But sometimes, when I’m with you, you make me want .”
Jaskier opens his mouth to respond but Geralt’s hand reaches out of the water, his finger touching Jaskier’s lips. His eyes widen as Geralt gives him a gentle smile. Without thinking, Jaskier purses his lips, kissing Geralt’s finger. With that, Geralt moves his hand to cup the side of Jaskier’s throat, pulling him gently and he gets the picture, understands exactly what Geralt wants and he’s more than happy to give it to him.
He leans over the side of the tub and kisses Geralt’s full, chapped lips. He’s been dreaming about this moment for so long, so fucking long. He closes his eyes, savoring it, trying to memorize the feel, the smell, the atmosphere around them. This moment will be sung about by generations to come if Jaskier has anything to say about it! The most achingly beautiful ballads about the Great White Wolf and his humble, handsome bard.
But instead of getting lost in his head, for once, Jaskier focuses on the here and the now, truly experiencing it instead of rattling off words that rhyme with warm, wet tongue. He opens his lips, moaning into Geralt’s mouth as their tongues touch for the very first time, his belly swooping with delight. He feels like he could sit here and kiss Geralt all day everyday for the rest of his life and not grow tired of it. Geralt’s hand continues to cup his neck, a warm weight that steadies him. He knows for a fact that Geralt is hard, had his erection in his hand, but now he’s hard and throbbing as well, set ablaze by Geralt’s gentle kisses.
It’s the feel of the water Geralt is still sitting in growing cold that forces Jaskier to move. It would be no good for Geralt to be uncomfortable, not when he’s working so hard to spoil him and take care of him.
“I thought you were planning on caring for me tonight?”
“If you truly think we are anywhere near finished, you barely know me, Geralt.”
At that, Geralt’s lips curl up into a pleased smile. “I think I know you well enough by now, Jaskier,” he says gently. “But I’m not sure I’ll ever understand you. Time and time again I thought you’d head for the hills screaming. Yet you always came back. Even at my worse.”
“Your worse isn’t so bad,” Jaskier tries to say but Geralt just snorts, shaking his head with self-deprecating humor.
“I’m an ass. I’m a Witcher . But through it all, you never smelled of fear. You’re the first human who didn’t smell terrified of me.”
“It’s hard to be frightened of a man who baby talks his horse.” Jaskier stands up, holding out his hand for Geralt to take. Surprising absolutely no one, Geralt pulls himself out of the tub without any help, standing before the bed in all his naked glory. Jaskier looks his fill, unashamed by how attracted he is to the other man. He can’t be blamed, dammit!
“Lie down,” he says, nodding to the bed. “On your belly.” Geralt’s eyes narrow, his lips thinning as he crosses his massive arms over his massive chest. “Come now, Geralt, don’t be a brat. I promise I’ll make it worth your wild.”
“Hmm,” is what Jaskier gets in response but thankfully that’s the end of that stand off as he gets onto the bed and lays on his belly. Jaskier’s mouth waters at the sight. He wants to get his mouth on Geralt’s skin, wants to mark the paleness despite knowing it’ll no doubt be healed before the sun rises. He’ll know. He’ll know he marked the Witcher as his own.
Fuck. He may be getting ahead of himself. Best not bite off more than he can chew. In this case quite literally.
Jaskier quickly grabs the oil from his bag, popping off the top and smelling it. It’s close to scentless, bought specifically because he knows Geralt’s sense of smell can be overpowering. This way, he won’t be complaining about the smell tomorrow in the light of day.
Once he’s removed his own clothes, he stares at Geralt’s stretched out body. Nerves nip at his belly but he pushes them away. Finding his bravery, Jaskier gets onto the bed and straddles Geralt’s ass. He gets a hum back and the familiar sound makes him smile.
Jaskier drips the oil down Geralt’s spine and he’s rewarded with a shiver from the Witcher. There’s something heady, knowing he can pull reactions from a man who has such a tight grip on his emotions. Geralt holds his feelings with a vice like grip, but sometimes, just like with sand, if you hold it too tightly, a little bit will break free. That’s exactly how Jaskier feels right now, like he’s getting the accidental drippings. He can work with that. He will greedily take everything Geralt gives him.
For a moment, Jaskier wonders how he can live like this, loving someone with every fiber of his being, getting leftover scraps in return. But then he remembers love doesn’t mean reciprocation. Love means putting the other person above yourself, taking care of them, protecting them as best as you can. And when he thinks about it, Geralt does all of that, just in his own way.
Finally, he lets himself rub the oil into Geralt’s skin. There are ridges and bumps littering Geralt’s back and shoulders and arms, but that doesn’t bother Jaskier. They’re beautiful, they’re a part of Geralt. Yes, he realizes he’s a poet who’s spent years mastering his craft, but there’s something so indescribable about finally having his hands on Geralt like this, finally being able to feel each and every scar. He doesn’t trace them, doesn’t even really pay attention to them, just continues to rub the oil into Geralt’s skin before using his thumbs to work at the tense muscles around Geralt’s upper back. Probably so fucking tight from carrying the entire fucking world. Overachieving Witcher twat.
His thumbs press down on either side of Geralt’s spine before slowly following each vertebrae down. Geralt makes a noise of approval and it spurs him on, makes him wanna do even better, stirs something deep within his gut, something dark and primal that wants to ruin Geralt for anyone but him.
Geralt breaks the silence in the room and it might very well be the first time that’s ever happened. “So far you haven’t done anything I couldn’t buy at a whorehouse,” he says, looking over his shoulder. Jaskier narrows his eyes, surprised to find Geralt’s eyes to be soft with challenge rather than his normal hard stare.
“You’re a stubborn asshole, you know that?”
Geralt buries his face back in his folded arms but even from here Jaskier can see he’s smiling. “I might have been told a time or two.”
Jaskier pulls Geralt’s hair to one side before he’s leaning down, putting his mouth on the side of Geralt’s neck. He presses a simple kiss there, wanting to see Geralt’s reaction and gods, he’s not disappointed. The soft inhale of breath is music to his ear and he promises to write at least one sonnet describing that sound, knowing full well it won’t compare to hearing the real thing.
“You’re very funny when you wish to be,” Jaskier breathes out, stopping to nip lightly at Geralt’s ear just to hear the barely there breathy noise he’ll make. “You might save your words for when they matter, but when you use them, you can sass me tit for tat.”
“Spending too much time with you,” Geralt grumbles.
“Just enough time,” Jaskier says back, his mouth moving over Geralt’s right shoulder, stopping to suck a mark into the skin right beside a large scar. One mark from battle, one mark filled with longing and love. If he can’t say the words, he’ll mark the words into Geralt’s skin. One way or another, the Witcher will feel good and loved by the end of the night.
“These shoulders,” Jaskier starts and for once in his life, he’s struck wordless. Thankfully it only lasts a moment. “These arms. This body. It’s a goddamn temple and deserves to be worshipped properly.”
“ Jaskier ,” Geralt hisses out, his body tensing and no, they can’t be having that, not after Jaskier has worked so hard at getting it lax.
“None of that, Witcher,” he says, his voice soothing. “You know I have a hard time not filling the air with words. Just lay back and enjoy my waxing poetic about you.”
Geralt lets out a growling noise, the feel of it vibrating through Jaskier’s chest where it’s pressed against Geralt’s back. It makes his cock fill with blood where it lays resting against Geralt’s crack. As much as he’d like to thrust down against that perfectly sculpted backside, he holds himself back.
“How many times has this body carried me to safety? How many times have these hands put me back together?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, only moves his hands down Geralt’s arms, lacing their fingers together and squeezing before moving them back up to his shoulders. “You claim to have no stakes in good or evil, you claim to have no place for destiny, but we both know that’s not true. When there is good, you lean towards it. And when there is evil, you slay it.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes, but this time it’s different, like just maybe his words are getting through that thick skull of Geralt’s. Like just maybe he’s letting them sink in.
“You’re so good .”
Jaskier’s mouth never stops moving but instead of letting words flow, for once, he wordlessly moves it down Geralt’s spine. He presses dry kisses in one spot before running his teeth against the next. The next spot he lavishes with his tongue and a little lower he sucks , fire building up inside his gut at the noise that move draws out of Geralt.
“Not only are you good,” Jaskier says, his breath fanning over Geralt’s lower back. “But you are a sight for sore eyes. Staring at you is no hardship, my dear Witcher.”
Geralt lets out a snort, his golden eyes looking back. “I thought a poet would have more profound words to describe my ass.”
“If I didn’t think they’d be a waste on you I’d recite the most awe striking lyrics just for you.”
“I appreciate your restraint.”
Jaskier strikes Geralt’s hip hard, hissing when his hands stings from it. But pain is love and all that. Not to mention he’s rewarded with those glorious hips rising, ever so slightly away from the mattress. Jaskier uses this to his advantage, sliding off of Geralt’s hips, widening his thighs so he can kneel between them. His hands slide over Geralt’s thighs, feeling the toned muscles underneath before cupping his arse.
“Such a glorious arse,” Jaskier doesn’t keep himself from saying. “Crafted by gods themselves, I swear.”
“You’d be wrong,” Geralt tells him but Jaskier can hear the way his breath is catching, his voice going the tiniest bit softer than normal. Jaskier might not have Witcher senses but even he can tell that Geralt is turned on, that his cock is hard.
Instead of remarking further, Jaskier asks, “can I kiss you?”
“You’ve been kissing me. Why ask now?”
“Oh no. You misunderstand,” he says gently, his hand cupping each of Geralt’s asscheeks, his thumbs teasing at his crack. “I mean here, Geralt.”
“Fuck,” Geralt says, his voice somehow even deeper than usual.
“Is that a yes?”
“Shut the fuck up and do it, Jaskier.”
“I’m taking that as a yes,” he says, licking his lips. He uses his thumbs to pull Geralt’s cheeks apart, his mouth watering at the sight of his hole. Without waiting a second longer, Jaskier dives down, getting his mouth on Geralt.
“Fuck,” Geralt hisses out, his hips moving back, pressing back onto Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier smirks before getting back to work, running his tongue bluntly across Geralt’s hole. The broken noise Geralt makes causes a shiver to run down Jaskier’s spine. His fingers dig into Geralt’s cheeks, tighter than he normally would because he knows Geralt can take it.
Pointing his tongue, Jaskier paints random patterns against Geralt’s hole, feeling the tight pucker soften with his strokes. Geralt shakes beneath him, his muscles quivering. He lets out a grunt when Jaskier pushes his pointed tongue into his hole, swirling it around.
He pulls back, wiping his mouth with his hand. Geralt looks over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed in displeasure. He lets out a grunt of displeasure.
“Now now,” Jaskier teases, leaning past Geralt and grabbing the oil. “Stop your boorish grunts of protest. I’ll be back after just a moment.”
Jaskier drips the oil down Geralt’s crack, delighted by the way the Witcher pushes his hips up. Jaskier runs his finger through the oil, gently pressing it against Geralt’s hole which is starting to relax from his gentle licks just a moment ago. He presses and presses until Geralt’s body gives, letting him in. They both moan in sync.
Geralt is so tight and hot around his finger and his cock throbs . He’s no stranger to want and lust, but this feels different, this feels all encompassing and overwhelming because it’s his Witcher he’s experiencing this with.
“Jaskier,” Geralt says, his voice coming out closer to a moan than a grunt, showing just how far he’s letting himself go. He’s allowing himself to have that and Jaskier feels like he’s winning, like he’s been given the most breathtaking gift in all the land.
Gently, he pushes a second finger into Geralt’s arse, pulling his fingers apart and licking the space between them. A hand comes back, burying itself in Jaskier’s hair, tugging hashly at the strands. The pain only makes him even hotter and he doesn’t stop himself from grinding his cock down against the mattress.
He adds a bit more oil before pushing a third finger in. He pumps them slowly, teasing Geralt, keeping him on edge as he moves to lay himself against Geralt’s body. “So perfect,” Jaskier whispers, his lips gently brushing against Geralt’s spine. “You look incredibly like this. I’d go so far as say you’re indescribable.”
“High praise from a bard.”
“Sounds like you’re finally getting it through that magnificently thick skull of yours, Geralt.”
Geralt snorts but the sound cuts off into a groan as Jaskier twists his fingers just right, brushing against that wonderfully pleasurable spot inside Geralt. He keeps teasing that spot, making little circles over it with the tips of his fingers until Geralt can’t hold himself still, his hips writhing, his skin growing tacky with sweat.
“Jaskier. Fuck. Get inside me already.”
In response, Jaskier lays flat against Geralt’s back, kissing the side of Geralt’s neck. He bites down, hard enough he knows there will be a mark at least for the night. “Beg, darling.”
“Fuck you.”
“I think it’s I who will be doing the fucking tonight.”
Geralt makes a sound that’s more growl than anything else. It’s animalist and sexy beyond belief. Jaskier thrusts his groin down, moaning as his prick rubs against Geralt’s cheek. Pleasure races through him and he bites his lip, thinking about how much better it’ll feel once he’s inside Geralt.
“Come on,” Jaskier murmurs, licking Geralt’s ear before nipping at it.
For a moment, Jaskier thinks Geralt will keep fighting, keep refusing to let himself go. But then his body goes lax beneath Jaskier and he breathes out, “Jaskier. Please .”
This? This moment will live with Jaskier forever .
As gently as he can, Jaskier pulls his fingers from Geralt’s body, only to replace them with his cock. He goes slow, so, so achingly slow. But with one constant push, Jaskier is buried fully within Geralt’s perfect ass.
“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes, his body completely limb beneath Jaskier, his hands holding onto the sheets on either side of his head so tight his knuckles turn white. Jaskier pauses, letting him have a moment to adjust. When the grip around the sheets slacken, that’s when Jaskier moves, pulling out before slowly sliding back in.
“Fuck,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “You feel incredible. No words will ever be able to be sung that will do this divine arse justice.”
“Stop,” Geralt snaps, looking over his shoulder with a growl. “Stop being so poetic and shit. Just fuck me already. I don’t need your platitudes and lies, you already have me in your bed.”
Jaskier’s hands tighten around Geralt’s hips, his movements slowing until he’s fucking in and out of his Witcher with smooth, gentle thrusts. “Oh, my dear,” he breathes gently. “There are no lies or platitudes. There’s only me, a humble bard, praising the time he’s been granted, knowing he must treasure it while he’s got it.”
“Stupid fucking bard,” Geralt hisses out before pulling his hips away, dislodging Jaskier. Then, in a move Jaskier has no hope of fighting against, Geralt flips them over until Jaskier is on his back with Geralt hovering over him. “Don’t you get it?”
“Get what, darling? That you’re a magnificent specimen? That your body deserves to be worshipped after everything it’s been put through and continues to go through to keep humanity safe? That you are good ?”
Geralt looks away, his eyes closed as Jaskier speaks. Without saying anything, Geralt reaches behind himself, positioning Jaskier’s cock against his hole before pushing down all the way until his ass meets Jaskier’s hips. Jaskier’s hands go to Geralt’s hips, holding on as the Witcher slowly rides him.
“No,” Geralt finally answers. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about any of that.” Before Jaskier can feel hurt, Geralt is going on. “There is no ‘as long as I allow you’. There’s no need to treasure something that’s always here.”
And oh. Oh . Jaskier suddenly feels like there’s a vice around his heart, holding on for dear life as he processes this. His eyes grow glassy but he blinks it away.
“Then come down here and kiss me already, you big brute.”
And Geralt does. Their lips meet and he’s expecting it to be hurried and heated and filled with teeth and tongue. But instead he’s granted something even better. Their lips trade gentle kisses back and forth. It’s a kiss that promises more in the future and Jaskier knows he’s lost. He knows he’ll give Geralt anything and everything, will give himself and more if he’s able to. The man who needs nothing wants him.
“Geralt,” he moans out, his hips rising off the bed to thrust up into Geralt, meeting each of his thrusts.
“Yes,” Geralt breathes into his mouth, their teeth clashing a moment before they’re panting each other’s breath. Jaskier puts his hand around Geralt’s cock, stroking him as Geralt rides him. Geralt’s belly tightens before his cock is throbbing in Jaskier’s hand, his cum landing across Jaskier’s belly.
“Oh, fuck,” he gasps out, unable to hold himself back as he watches Geralt come, the sight branded within his brain. Pleasure races through him, stealing his breath and knocking him back against the pillow. His prick throbs within Geralt’s body, marking him from the inside, marking him as Jaskier’s . If it’s possible he comes all over again just with the thought.
After a moment, Geralt pulls off his cock, flopping beside Jaskier. He’s expecting to be pushed away but instead, large arms wrap around him, tugging him until his face is against Geralt’s chest.
Geralt lets out a long breath before he’s turning his head and kissing Jaskier’s hair. “Thank you,” he whispers, just barely above a whisper.
Jaskier thinks about teasing him, or running his ever working mouth. But instead he begins running his hand up and down Geralt’s chest, leaning over and kissing his peck. And then, because it’s him and he can’t not, he asks, “hmm, I wonder what I can use to rhyme with fuck.”
Geralt snorts, his arms tightening. “Maybe you can finally write that you’re no longer a cuck.”
Jaskier’s mouth opens in shock, his eyes widening. “ Geralt !”
“It’s a beautiful day when I can strike you speechless, little Lark.”
Jaskier rolls his eyes, pretending to be annoyed but pleased beyond measure at the nickname. He doesn’t know what tomorrow will bring but there’s a hope welling up within his chest, hope that things will be different after this. Hope that just maybe Geralt will allow himself to be taken care of once in a while.
By the small smile Geralt gives after Jaskier kisses his lips, he thinks maybe he doesn’t have to hope , but instead look forward to it.