@handwrittenhello wrote a super spicy OT3 ABO Geraskifer fic to go along with the drawing I made for the Geraskier Reverse Big Bang!! It's so good, if you enjoy bottom!Geralt and feelings and Yen being a Bad Bitch In Charge then please check it out here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29447181
This hellsite won't let me share the full image so please check it out on my Twitter: https://twitter.com/artcake19/status/1361111926621802496?s=19
we could be married (and then we’d be happy) - chp 6
Part one || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || Part Five || Part Six || Epilogue || AO3
Hey, everyone? It’s the last chapter (apart from the Epilogue). After spending the night with Jaskier, Geralt wakes up alone. Jaskier has to decide what to do next, now everything has changed. RATED E. 9.1k words. No warnings, really.
For @inber, whom I love, and beta’d by @greyduckgreygoose 💖
~
The low, off-white glow of the shaving light above the bathroom mirror was all Jaskier could cope with right now, his eyes too sensitive for anything stronger. He stared at his reflection, hands braced to the cool porcelain of the sink, rivulets of water dripping down his face.
He wondered how he’d managed to work himself into this state. He’d crawled from Geralt’s bed and into the bathroom in a half-daze, sleepy and satiated, but a few moments alone away from the warm, cloying air of the bedroom had woken him to the reality of the position he now found himself in.
Because having left Geralt’s bed, he’d need to decide if he would return. If he could return. And that thought - the choice of what to do next - had mingled with the satisfaction of last night and the renewed intensity of his feelings to leave panic nipping at him, threatening to take hold. Splashing his face with water had done nothing to calm him: all it had achieved was yet another mess, waiting to be cleaned up.
He peered at himself in the mirror. The pale light made the bite marks on his neck and chest look darker than they really were, festooning his skin in red and purple stains. He dragged a single finger over one of them, wincing a little - it didn’t hurt, of course, but it made him shudder regardless.
Goosebumps erupted over his flesh. Jaskier sighed, breaking his own gaze, running his hands through his tangled hair. There was a flash in the mirror, and he paused for just a moment, fingers pressed to his scalp, before lowering his hands and stepping away from the glass, feet sticking to the cool, tiled floor.
He was naked, wearing only bruises and the ring.
It had been - gods - more than he’d dared for. More than he’d dreamed of. When he closed his eyes he could still see Geralt coming apart beneath him, could still hear his breathing, his panting moans. He didn’t even need to concentrate to feel Geralt’s lips still caught around his cock, his tongue hot and wet and urgent.
Of course Geralt had been good. Of course he had. He was passionate and brilliant about everything else: why would sex be any different? Jaskier should have known from the way he spoke in the museum, from the careful care he put into all aspects of their lives, that he’d be just as attentive in the bedroom, typically brilliant.
The itch remained resolutely unscratched. Jaskier had hoped he would be satisfied, but now he just wanted more.
Could it happen again? And if it did happen again - what would that make their relationship? Casual, perfunctory sex, a way for them to get off without all the entanglement of dating and searching and chasing? Just friends, still, despite the rest?
Jaskier wasn’t sure he could bear it. He didn’t want just friends: he hadn’t wanted that for a long time. He wanted more. It was a selfish, grasping urge that left him feeling guilty and desperate: He wanted Geralt to be his. Before, he’d been ignoring it. Geralt wasn’t his, and he had to try to let go of that single, burning wish. But after last night he couldn’t overlook it any more. It wasn’t even the sex, wasn’t the way Geralt had gasped his name, the way he’d carefully and attentively satisfied him.
It was the museum. It was an evening with Geralt’s family, the way he’d taken his arm - taken his hand. He wanted the soft intimacy of being together so much that it hurt.
But Geralt didn’t feel the same way: it was obvious that Geralt wanted him, but not like that. He wanted his body and his hands and his lips - even if it would just be for one night - but not the rest.
Jaskier had rather bitterly memorised Geralt’s choice of romantic partners - both long-term and short - had weighed himself against them, and found himself wanting. He was bright but he wasn’t clever, was too flippant, too silly, struggled to even hold down a job, let alone anything else. He didn’t have that steely conviction that Yen did, all brilliant sharpness with - he’d been told, many times - a softer core beneath. He was just soft, soft all the way through. He wasn’t as politically aware as Triss, not as patient as Regis - although he doubted anyone was.
And that was fine, obviously. It was fine. There were dozens of people out there - plenty more fish in the sea - people who wanted someone like him. Jaskier wouldn’t change himself for anyone, even if that person was Geralt, and he didn’t go much in for moping and self-loathing, but he understood in that implicit, unspoken way that all the things he was were not the things Geralt wanted from a partner, a fucking fiancé. It wasn’t Geralt’s fault, wasn’t some hidden cruelty - it was just a fact.
Besides, Jaskier thought: he was good at this. Very good. If Geralt only wanted their relationship to be roommates and shopping trips and friendship and - yes - sex, then he could give that to him. He wanted Geralt to feel good, and he was going to make him feel good - make them both feel good, even if, afterwards, he ran the risk of only furthering that ache in his chest.
There was another risk, though. One unimaginably worse than the fact that Geralt didn’t love him back.
What if this ruined everything? Last night he’d been too consumed with feeling, too lost in the chance to gain what he’d chased for so long, to think about the consequences beyond getting his heart thoroughly smashed. What if seeing Jaskier come undone beneath his hands, to have his cock in his fucking mouth, was too much? He’d been so focused on Geralt’s touches that he hadn’t considered the much more likely ramifications of sleeping with him: that, after everything, they’d no longer be able to stand one another’s company without it being forced and awkward and - that word again - weird.
There was a chance - more than a chance - that tomorrow, forced to confront each other in the harsh daylight over coffee and soggy toast, that it would be too much. That the warmth of their shared space would mutate to something else: something unpleasant. Friendships had been ruined over less. There was a reason why people told you not to shag roommates, after all.
He’d need to leave, if that was the case. This was Geralt’s house - it was his name on the mortgage. If Geralt found it too awkward to be around him, if this was the beginning of the end, then he would have to find somewhere else to go.
The thought of being away from Geralt only added to the pain, making his stomach tighten in knots. He didn’t want to leave. Even if every day was agony and every night was silent loneliness, he didn’t want to leave.
Last week, Geralt had told him he didn’t know what his life would be like without Jaskier in it. It had been a lie, of course: a well-worded line, part of their foolish game. But he understood, now, what he meant. He couldn’t imagine his life without Geralt. They were too entangled, too crucial to one another.
Or at least, Geralt was crucial to him. Was it the other way around, too? Would Geralt feel the ache of his absence as much as Jaskier would his? Or would he simply move on - would Jaskier be relegated to an occasional friend, an acquaintance, until - finally - nothing at all, just a memory?
If Geralt needed him to leave - to leave not just his bed, but his home and heart too - then he would. He could never make that choice himself, he just wasn't strong enough, but if it was demanded of him then he’d never fight back. He wouldn’t cause Geralt pain - even if that pain was only brought about by simply existing beside him.
But he wasn’t gone yet. Hell, Geralt might even ignore the awkwardness, might invite him to share his bed again: there was no reason for Jaskier to assume that Geralt wouldn’t be interested in a repeat of last night.
There was a dull, constant ache that started in his core and rose, painful and prickling, to his chest, to the gap where his heart was supposed to be. He could feel it building, a wave of panic, the familiar feeling of being too trapped within his own head to think straight.
He breathed in and out, trying to focus, trying to count the seconds between inhales and exhales. Geralt was always on at him to—
He released the breath in a quick, hot gasp. It was not a sob.
He knew, then, with iron certainty, that he should go back to his room. He should go back to his own bed, mess or no, crawl under the duvet and stay there: stay there until it stopped hurting.
If it ever stopped hurting.
He took another steadying breath, trying to regain a semblance of control over his rapid heartbeat, the sickening feeling in his stomach. The pipes had stopped gurgling, now, so he pushed open the bathroom door, moving quietly and deliberately, stepping over the creaking floorboards in the hallway and standing at the threshold between their doors.
He hovered, for a moment. He could run, if he needed to - he could go back to his room and Geralt would never even need to know that he’d been trapped, immobile between two painful choices. To leave would be to wholly give up on whatever had passed between them last night, to turn his back on it. To stay would force him to actually deal with it, when Geralt finally woke - but in exchange, he’d have just a few more moments by his side.
It would be two hours - maybe three, if Geralt turned out to be a heavy post-orgasm sleeper - to bask in the feeling of being with Geralt before everything crumbled around him, if it was to crumble.
When he thought about it like that - well. The choice was easy.
He pushed open Geralt’s door, leaning heavily against it to better control the swing, edging it along the carpet. It moved with a quiet hiss, and he winced even at that low noise. He only opened it a crack, then darted into the room through the slim space between door and frame. He left the door open: Geralt was a light sleeper, and the click of the door shutting could wake him, ruining everything.
Because, of course, he couldn’t catch Jaskier sneaking back in. Staying in Geralt’s bed was fine - it would be natural to stay there till they woke, curled around each other in that warm, satisfied bliss until the sun came up. But leaving and coming back - sneaking back in - was far worse, somehow. If Geralt caught him now, tiptoeing around the bed, then he’d know that the thing that had passed between them was something more, something more impassioned than simple sex.
If it hadn’t meant anything, then Jaskier would have left.
Geralt would ask him why he was back. If he had decided that this would never happen again, he might even be annoyed and tell him to leave. He’d realise, with horrible finality, what Jaskier’s feelings really were, leaving them both to deal with the fallout.
Part of him was shocked that Geralt hadn’t already worked it out. Priscilla had realised years ago, and Lambert and Eskel certainly brought into the lie easily enough that they too must have realised at some point that he was quite terribly in love with their grumpy brother. Maybe Geralt had just never thought to look - too close to the whole thing to really see. Maybe he’d so firmly categorised Jaskier as his friend that to see him - or their relationship - as anything else would have been too absurd to even contemplate.
His back to the door, pressed in the corner of the room, Jaskier peered down to the bed where Geralt lay on his back, his hair spilling around the pillow. The curtains were open just a crack, and the light coming in from the streetlights outside illuminated his white hair like a crooked halo. Jaskier swallowed heavily. Geralt was asleep, his eyes lightly shut, his chest rising and falling in slow, gentle rhythm.
Where he’d moved in the bed - where Jaskier had moved beside him, too - the duvet had fallen away, revealing the smooth planes of his chest and shoulders, the curve of his arm slung up over his head. Jaskier felt his heart stutter, absurdly, his fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and touch him.
He had been foolish - stupid and ignorant and entirely wrong - to ever believe that allowing himself one night with Geralt would cure him of his feelings, would let him toss them aside. Now he knew what Geralt’s skin felt like, the ropes of his muscles under his hands, the crush of his lips against his own - not perfunctory or practical like it had been before, but real and hard and wanting.
He knew the noises made Geralt made when he came, and he would never - never in a million years - be able to forget them.
He tiptoed closer to the bed, avoiding the piles of hurriedly discarded clothes from the night before, including his own boxers, crumpled beside the bed. He pulled back the duvet, taking care not to disturb it too much, and slowly - glacially slowly, his heart thundering - slid back beneath it, lowering himself down onto the mattress. He realised, with another little sting in his chest, just how much he was interrogating every thought, overthinking every movement. He would be doing it for a while, he suspected, no matter what happened next.
The bed was still warm, the sheets soft and welcoming beneath his skin. It smelt of sweat and sex and Geralt - a wholly comforting smell, enveloping him as he slowly pulled the duvet over himself. He was grateful that Geralt wouldn’t be able to hear his heart: if he had, the drumming surely would have woken him by now.
He lay, just for a second, waiting to see if Geralt would stir. He didn’t: didn’t even shift to accommodate the sudden weight beside him, didn’t change his breathing, didn’t even twitch. He must have been deeply asleep to not even unconsciously notice Jaskier’s slow return.
If he was so deeply asleep… perhaps Jaskier could risk a little more. He shuffled closer, slowly moving towards him, searching out the heat of Geralt’s body. He hesitated again, watching and listening for a sign that he’d disturbed his friend, then carefully slid his arm over Geralt’s chest, pressing himself against him beneath Geralt’s raised arm, his cheek on his shoulder.
Gods, but he was warm. He felt so good against Jaskier’s side, so right, like he could lie beside him forever and never grow tired of the way their bodies fit. He closed his eyes and let his hand slowly creep up Geralt’s chest, up towards his neck, aware that he was virtually clinging to him but failing to find the will to care - unable to stop himself.
He breathed out, feeling his frantic heart begin to calm.
And then Geralt moved. He shifted the arm that Jaskier was nestled beneath, moving it down, hooking it around Jaskier’s side and pulling him close. Jaskier’s breath caught, his eyes fluttering open. Perhaps he had a scrap of deniability, here: it wasn’t his returning to the room that had woken Geralt, but his sudden closeness. Jaskier could claim that he’d been asleep, or nearly asleep, and mindlessly clung to him while lost in a dream, like he had done so many times in the night.
“Ah—” he breathed, forcing himself to sound casual and sleepy. “Did I wake you up?”
Geralt tugged him even closer, making his heart stutter. “No.”
Thank all the gods for that. He was about to respond, but Geralt kept talking.
“Where did you go?”
Jaskier froze. Shit. “You…” his low voice cracked. “You were awake?”
“Only after you’d gone.”
He’d noticed. He’d woken to an empty bed, noticed Jaskier’s absence and had lain there, pretending to be asleep, while Jaskier had crept back in.
“Oh.” It was all he could manage, aware of how close he was to tumbling over a cliff edge.
“I thought you’d gone back to bed,” Geralt continued. “Your bed, I mean. You… you can. If you need to.”
Jaskier swallowed, looking up at his face. In the low light, it was impossible to read Geralt’s expression, but his voice had sounded unsure. He would go back to his bed - if Geralt wanted him to. But that uncertainty was too tempting, too dangerous. He had to know.
“Do you need me to?”
There was a long, heavy silence. Jaskier was glad that he couldn’t see Geralt’s expression, now.
“...No,” he said, finally.
Jaskier’s chest squeezed. His heart fluttered against his ribcage, trying to escape. Geralt turned, twisting around till they were face to face, closing both his arms around Jaskier’s body.
“Jaskier…” his hand had made its way to the small of Jaskier’s back, resting there, fingers lightly twitching. Jaskier felt himself shudder, alert to every tiny move Geralt made. “In the museum, you asked me what I wanted. What do you want?”
His ribs were going to explode, his heart was going to give out. He should say nothing. He should say nothing at all - keep his secrets trapped behind his teeth, keep them hidden in his hollowed-out chest and let them die there.
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t, not with Geralt’s arms wrapped around him, not with the slow and quiet and somehow heartbreaking way he’d spoken.
“I want…” he hesitated, fingers twitching together between their bodies, heart thundering so loudly it might deafen him. “I want to wake up in your bed every day. Not because we’re having a phenomenal amount of sex, but because it’s the place where I sleep. I want to be here…” He flexed his fingers, pressing them to Geralt’s chest, “for” —forever— “for as long as you’ll have me.”
Geralt stilled. He didn’t even appear to be breathing, just holding him, just waiting. Fuck. Jaskier knew, immediately, that he’d said too much: but it was a relief, too. Even if Geralt turned him away, even if he swiftly removed him from his bed and his home and his life, at least the truth was out there, now, horrible and ringing and real.
He couldn’t bear the silence, though. Geralt twitched, a little, as if he might be about to speak, but Jaskier got there first, rambling over whatever he’d been about to say, his voice quick and stuttering and growing too loud for this shared, close space.
“Why couldn’t you at least have the decency to be bad in bed, hmm?” He tried to make it a joke, tried to make it hurt less. “I’d hoped, stupidly, that maybe last night would get it out of my system. That I’d be satisfied, and could leave it at that. Yet...” he stopped, and the truth caught up with him once more, like a wave drowning him. “Yet here I am.”
It was so quiet. Outside, a car hummed past. Geralt moved, finally, pulling his arm away. Jaskier’s stomach dropped, his heart a sudden, clenching stone in his chest, winding him. This was it. This was it.
Then - almost desperately - Geralt grabbed his hand, their fingers slotting together in the hot space between their bodies, pressed against their chests. Jaskier could feel Geralt’s heart pounding against his skin.
“Here we are.” Geralt breathed, barely more than a whisper. “In the restaurant, you told me to pretend. To make something up. I didn’t. You have changed my life. And I don’t want to imagine what it would be like without you.”
It was like he’d sucked the air from his lungs, like the room was spinning around him. “Geralt—”
“I love you,” Geralt spoke quickly, forcing the words out, his expression taught. “But—”
“But what?” Jaskier’s voice cracked. I love you, but—
Geralt’s face was set into a frown, a little grimace, unable to keep Jaskier’s gaze. He licked his lips, brows furrowed. Jaskier wished, desperately, that he’d just look at him - just see him - so he could read him properly.
“But...” Geralt swallowed. “My life is… routine. With someone else you could have excitement. But with me it’s just… watching TV and going to Tesco and arguing over who has to unload the dishwasher.”
No. It was absurd. How could Geralt think that was enough - that any of that was a reason not to love him - not to need him with the fierce, unfair intensity that he did? He couldn’t help it - he burst out a laugh, short and loud - and then Geralt looked at him, his expression showing nothing but hurt.
“Geralt, no—” Jaskier squeezed his hand, feeling awful for laughing at Geralt’s earnestness. “Truthfully… once, yeah, I wanted excitement. But I’m not twenty-one anymore! I want going shopping and watching TV and getting in each other’s way in the kitchen, and I want it with you.”
“But—”
He cut him off. “But nothing. You’re a terrible grump and you’re stickler for details and you’re always moaning at me and I love you, you stupid man.”
And then Geralt was kissing him. He crashed his lips against Jaskier’s, desperate and needy and awkward, their noses bumping, their hands sandwiched between them. Jaskier laughed against his mouth and kissed him back with equal feeling, unlinking their hands, wrapping his arms around him.
Jaskier was quickly losing count of all the ways he’d kissed and been kissed by Geralt, but this: this was different. Like removing a mask, dropping an act, allowing himself to feel him, honestly and openly. He didn’t need to pretend: didn’t need to pretend that it was fake, but also didn’t need to pretend that he wasn’t in love, that everything that was happening was spurred on by appetite alone.
It was thrilling, the vice that had been constricting his chest finally giving way, his heart free. He breathed into Geralt’s mouth, laughing, like if he didn’t touch him he might die.
“I love you,” he said it again, against Geralt’s lips, “I love you,” against his jaw, “I love you,” his neck, his collar, his chest.
He whispered it to the palms of his hands, to his wrists, until Geralt tugged him back with desperation, locking their lips together, exploring his mouth with his tongue, nibbling on his lip. Jaskier arched against him, splaying his fingers over his chest, pressing himself as close as he could - lit up from the inside.
Eventually, Geralt pulled away, leaning his forehead against Jaskier’s, one of his hands pressed to his nape, staring into his eyes. So close, like this, it didn’t matter how dark it was: it was like Jaskier could really see him, for the first time.
“Jaskier…” even Geralt’s voice made him shudder, “I love you.” He kissed him, brief yet tender. “I should have told you.”
Jaskier grinned. “And I should have told you. It’s been years, for fuck’s sake.”
He kissed him again, drunk on it, then stilled.
“Hold on…” A thought, sudden and a little scary, pinched at him. “Does this mean - Geralt - does this mean we’re actually engaged? Because while I do love you and everything, that might be a little - ah - soon?”
Or - or was it too soon? If Geralt asked him, right now, if they both wanted it - would he say no? He wasn’t so sure that he would - if he even could. But this was so fresh and new and soft, full of potential fragility. He didn’t want to risk a future with Geralt by tying it down too soon.
“That is, ah…” he realised how insulting he sounded, too, as he rambled “I’m not saying never, of course, just that maybe… maybe not right now, if that’s—”
Geralt cut off his chattering before he could wind himself up any further. “Jaskier.”
He finally stopped to breathe. “Yes?”
“It’s fine. You’re right. It’s probably too soon.”
Probably.
“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” He swallowed. “Probably.” He nestled closer to Geralt’s chest. “We might be awful together, anyway.”
He didn’t believe that, of course, and judging by the low laugh that rumbled up Geralt’s throat and the kiss he pressed to his forehead, neither did Geralt.
“Anyway,” he continued, blithely, “if we really were engaged, I’d want a ring that I didn’t buy from the market for a tenner, thank you very much.”
“Is that right?”
“This one is a little plain, I think. And it turns my finger green…”
“Hmm.”
Geralt reached for Jaskier’s hand, examining his fingers. He pulled off the ring, peering at the skin below. Jaskier felt somehow even more naked than before without it, like a final defence had been removed. But it wasn’t real, it never had been. This tingling, fearsome thing between them now - Geralt’s muttered I love yous - that was.
If Geralt thought his request was unusual he certainly didn’t show it, simply placing the ring carefully onto his bedside table before turning back to him. He linked his hand into Jaskier’s again, squeezing.
“Has it really been years?” He muttered, half sincere, half amused.
Jaskier frowned, mentally replaying their last conversation, then grinned, ruefully. “Years,” he admitted, with a sigh. “I— hold on.”
“What?”
“What about you? How long have you… have you felt like this? About me?”
Geralt ducked his head, and Jaskier could feel his fingers twitching. “A while,” he admitted, eventually.
“And how long is ‘a while’, exactly?”
Geralt shrugged. “Just… a while.”
Jaskier huffed, rolling his eyes. “You’re terrible. You’re terrible and I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
“Urgh,” he kissed Geralt’s fingers where their hands were pressed together. “I don’t. You bastard. I can’t believe we didn’t figure this out sooner… Gods, everyone else fucking did.”
“Did they?”
“I mean… your family must have at least had an idea, considering how unsurprised they were… even Ciri noticed. Priscilla twigged that I was in love with you ages ago. Even fucking Valdo knows… everyone but you.” He laughed. “Clearly I’m not as subtle as I thought. How didn’t you realise?”
It was a wholly rhetorical question - and he didn’t need an answer, not really - but Geralt looked away from him, peering at their hands. “I never thought you would… love me.”
It sounded like a struggle - a difficult, painful admission.
“Why?” Said Jaskier, aghast.
Geralt shuffled, a half-shrug against the bed. “I thought… it’s you. Why would…” he sighed, and Jaskier pressed closer, aware of how hard this must be for him - to spill his closely-guarded feelings. “I couldn’t see why you’d love me like that. Like I love you. And…”
“And?”
“What if I’d told you, and ruined it? It would have ruined our friendship, and you’d have gone. It was better to just... Leave it be, and keep you.”
It was such a soft confession that Jaskier felt his heart break a little, felt his stomach drop for the Geralt who’d spent so long believing that he wasn’t what Jaskier was looking for - wasn’t what he needed. It was a painfully familiar thought, too - one they’d both wallowed in.
Jaskier thought back to the previous night, to Geralt’s attentive, eager caresses, the way he’d touched him till he was trembling and insensible. And then he realised - quite all at once - why.
“You were telling me.”
“What?”
“Last night, I thought… I thought you were just, you know…” he shrugged, “exceptionally good in bed.” Geralt raised his eyebrows in a smug little half-smile. “And, of course, you were. You are. But… but that wasn’t it, was it? You were trying to make me feel good because… because...” He faltered.
“Because I love you.”
“I, well, yes,” even now, that made Jaskier stammer and blush, “but it’s more than that. You were… trying to show me how much you cared. Am I right?”
“I wanted to make you feel good. I wanted to…”
His skin was flushed and warm against Jaskier’s hands. He could feel his heartbeat quickening again - and more, lower, could feel Geralt’s cock twitch, already teased by their desperate kissing.
“You wanted to what?” Jaskier asked, voice low, edging closer till their lips drifted over each other.
Geralt edged just fractionally closer, and now Jaskier could feel more than just a twitch - more than the suggestion of arousal, the ghost of what had happened last night. He was hesitating, Jaskier realised, choosing his words carefully.
“I wanted you to know,” he said, slowly. “And… I wanted to be good enough for you.”
Jaskier felt his chest squeeze. Geralt sounded so sad, so sincere. He couldn’t help but kiss him, cupping his jaw with one hand, pressing their mouths together.
“You’re too good for me, if anything,” he whispered. “Far too good.”
“I—”
Jaskier could tell he was about to deny it, about to spout more humble nonsense, so he silenced him with another kiss, moving their lips together, hoping Geralt knew how wrong he was.
“Anyway,” he said, pulling away. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“I want you…” Jaskier swallowed, thickly. “I want to make you feel good too, you know.”
Another quirked lip, half smile. “Did you not last night? Certainly felt very good.”
Jaskier batted at him with his fingertips. “You know what I mean. I didn’t even realise that you spent all bloody night focusing on me and I didn’t spare a single moment for you…”
“You say that like it was a trial. I wanted to focus on you.”
“But you didn’t have to.” Jaskier was finding it hard to say, exactly, what he meant: the gap between them, the unfairness, the sudden realisation that Geralt had tried, in his own way, to tell him he was in love with him without having to say it
“I want to make you feel good, Geralt,” he repeated, moving closer, keeping his voice deliberately low.
Geralt said nothing - but Jaskier could feel him moving beside him, feel his interest pressed into Jaskier’s hip. Tentatively, slower than the frantic kisses of before, Jaskier brushed his lips against Geralt’s, testing, tasting. He moved his hands, fluttering over Geralt’s side, down towards his hips. Geralt hummed into his mouth, and Jaskier pressed his thumb into the delicious curve of Geralt’s hip bone, the perfectly sculpted line where his leg met his stomach met his crotch.
“Will you let me?” He asked, finally.
Geralt looked back at him, his lips parted, and even in the early morning darkness Jaskier could see how wide his eyes were.
~
Still sensitive from the night before, those sparks still tingling beneath his skin, Geralt could only sigh into the crown of Jaskier’s head as he pressed hot, wet kisses against Geralt’s chest, tonguing at his neck. His body was responding eagerly to Jaskier’s movements, his prick already half-hard as Jaskier heaved his hands to his shoulders and pushed him onto his back, slinging one leg over his hips so he could straddle him where he lay against the sheet, lowering himself down so Geralt nestled in the cleft of his arse.
He kissed him again - mouth, jaw, chest - then leaned back, his hands slowly trailing down from Geralt’s shoulders to his hips, tracing little circles with his fingers to the soft skin below Geralt’s navel. He was still naked, but Geralt could only see the dark outline of his silhouette hovering above him. He reached up, placing a sturdy hand to either of Jaskier’s thighs, thick and warm beneath his palms.
“You should turn the light on,” Jaskier muttered, his hands moving tantalizingly close to Geralt’s crotch.
Geralt blinked up at him. “What?”
“I can’t see you in the dark. I want to see you. You’ve got one of those fancy dimmable bulbs, don’t you?”
Geralt raised an eyebrow, wondering just how Jaskier knew that, but did as he was told, leaning over and switching the bedside lamp onto its lowest setting, filling the room with a muted orange glow. Jaskier was suddenly illuminated, the dim light softening his edges, casting blurred shadows across his face, his chest, the strong lines of his thighs. Trapped beneath him, Geralt could only gaze up, his breath caught somewhere below his ribs.
“That’s better,” Jaskier purred, “Now I can actually see you…”
In this light, Geralt could see Jaskier properly - his dishevelled hair, his cheeky, permanent grin. But he could also see the trail of dark bruises starting on his neck and sneaking downwards, across his collarbone, over his chest. He hesitated, then sat up, causing Jaskier to tip into his lap, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s shoulders so he wouldn’t tumble back onto the bed.
Geralt reached out to skim his fingertips over the largest bruise, Jaskier’s skin warm and soft.
Jaskier peered down, following his movements. “Oh, right,” he said, chuckling. “I’ve got that concealer still, and I’m pretty sure there’s a turtleneck at the bottom of my wardrobe. I’ll cover them up before Ciri...” he spotted Geralt’s expression, trailing off. “What’s wrong? You’re not about to get all maudlin and say you hurt me, are you?”
Geralt swiped his finger back and forth across the blemish. That had been his first thought, one that he’d quickly pushed aside, remembering the noises Jaskier had made when he’d trapped his skin beneath his teeth.
He surged forwards, folding his arms around Jaskier’s body and pressing his lips to the bruise, opening his mouth against it. This time, he didn’t nibble or suck or edge his teeth across Jaskier’s skin, but kissed it, softly and lazily. Jaskier made a little startled noise before sighing into the touch, relaxing against him, twisting his legs around his waist for better balance.
“It’s like…” Geralt growled against his neck, inhaling him, “Ah…”
He couldn’t finish that sentence. Couldn’t complete the thought that was so dangerously possessive. He didn’t need to, though, as Jaskier arched back, lips parted.
“Like I’m yours?” He breathed, looking down at him.
That thought sent another shockwave through Geralt’s body, down his spine, and Jaskier grinned wolfishly at him as Geralt’s cock hardened even more.
“Well,” he drawled, moving his legs and manoeuvring Geralt back down onto the bed, “they’re a little more enduring than a ring, aren’t they? You can’t just take them off…” He leant above him, his expression thoughtful. “Although they do fade… you’ll have to make sure you do something about that.”
Before Geralt could reply, Jaskier kissed him hard, huddling him against the bed. He let one hand press into the side of Geralt’s throat, sneaking beneath his head to dig his fingertips into the buzzed hair at Geralt’s nape, while the other inched down his body, the lightest graze against his ribcage, his stomach. Geralt’s skin lit up where he touched him, his core tightening, his heart thundering once more.
He stopped just short of actually grasping Geralt, of touching him where he ached for relief. He moved his kisses to Geralt’s neck, nibbling at his ear, taking the soft flesh between his teeth with a little tug that made Geralt mutter out a bitten-off swear.
Finally Jaskier released him, edging backwards, sliding himself down his body, peppering it with small, fluttering kisses. Before his lips could reach Geralt’s cock, he leaned away, perching just above it once more, his hands pressed to Geralt’s stomach.
He paused there, above him, his expression hungry. Then at last wrapped his hand around Geralt’s cock, gently at first, then squeezing, rubbing his thumb across his head. Geralt arched into the touch, thrusting into Jaskier’s hand, desperate for more. His other hand moved from Geralt’s hip and down, sneaking between Geralt’s legs, cupping quickly against his balls and then - lower - edging between his cheeks, towards his entrance.
This - this had not been what Geralt was expecting. Jaskier must have noticed the way he stilled beneath his body, because he froze, the hand gripped to Geralt’s cock loosening a little.
“Don’t stop.”
The words slipped out before Geralt even knew what he was saying. He realised - with sudden certainty, with a sureness that made him gasp - how much he wanted to feel Jaskier inside him. How much he needed it.
Jaskier seemed less certain, still reacting to the way Geralt had hesitated. “Are you sure? I should have asked, I just—”
“Please.”
In the orange light, Geralt could see Jaskier’s expression shift - the worry morph into something hot and urgent. He smiled - slowly - and then began once more to stroke Geralt’s cock in long, languid strokes, shifting his fingers, teasing at his hole again. Geralt twitched against him, ready and eager, and Jaskier hummed with a little smirk.
He stroked his cock again, dragging him out, pressing harder with the tip of his finger. Geralt bucked against him, pushed down, wanting more. From his position on his back, staring up at Jaskier, Geralt could see Jaskier’s cock jutting up between them, too, feel it knocking against his stomach. He was about to reach out - to feel the hardness beneath his palm - when Jaskier stilled.
“Hold on,” He said, looking around. “Do you have, um, or shall I—”
Oh. Of course.
“Bottom drawer.” Geralt indicated with his head. Jaskier half-slid off of his lap, Geralt immediately missing his touch, then lowered himself off of the edge of the bed and reached for the drawer, his naked arse sticking in the air above Geralt’s legs. The sight alone was enough to make Geralt stiffen even more with an appreciative hum that Jaskier certainly noticed, giving his hips a cheeky wiggle. Geralt couldn’t resist - he reached up, grabbing, cupping.
Jaskier laughed - “Geralt, you cad,” - then swatted his hand away. “How can I find anything in this mess while you’re trying to distract me, hmm?”
Geralt satisfied himself with another quick squeeze before moving his hand away. Jaskier resumed his searching, pushing things aside, until—
He made a soft little gasp. “Oh, Geralt.”
Geralt suddenly remembered what else was in the drawer. Shit. What if Jaskier didn’t - what if he thought— what if he was expecting—
“I—”
“Now, tell me,” Jaskier arched back, a pair of black leather cuffs dangling from one hand, “are these for you, or for....” he hesitated. “...for your partner?”
Even watching Jaskier fiddle with the cuffs, running his fingers over the soft fabric lining, made Geralt's cock throb. He imagined being pinned beneath Jaskier, bound and begging, or Jaskier beneath him, arms up, wriggling and eager.
“Depends," he managed, voice low.
“On?”
“Lots of things.”
"How intriguing,” Jaskier grinned. “Perhaps… next time, then.” He casually let the cuffs fall back into the drawer, before pausing, looking smug. “Oh, I’m allowed to say that now, aren’t I?”
“Say what?”
“Next time. Before, I was so sure…” he nibbled at the inside of his lip, then grinned again. “Anyway. Next time.”
He leant back over, returning to his rummaging. Geralt wasn't too sure what he was finding in there - although he could make a reliable guess. Judging by the excited little noises Jaskier was making, Geralt’s concern that Jaskier was about to judge him was completely unfounded.
Finally, he pulled back, the shiny wrapper of a condom in one hand and a little bottle of lube in the other. He examined the lube with an apparent expert eye.
“This is the good stuff,” he said, eyebrows raised. “I wasn’t aware you were a connoisseur, Geralt.”
Geralt shrugged, watching as Jaskier positioned himself above him. Jaskier appeared to be watching him as carefully as he was watching Jaskier, as if worried that at any moment he could change his mind, like it all might disappear. That was certainly how it felt: like it was too good to be true, like it could be a dream, and at any moment he could wake and would be alone, again.
But the pressure of Jaskier’s arse against his prick was real enough, the feeling of Jaskier’s hands on his chest was real, the tingle of where his lips had brushed at his neck. Jaskier placed both condom and lube to one side, slowly crawling back up Geralt’s body, his eyes hungry. He kissed him again, and Geralt couldn’t resist - sliding his hand between their bodies until his fingers brushed against Jaskier’s rigid cock, wrapping his fingers around the shaft, tugging.
Jaskier gasped into his mouth, so he did it again - adding a little twist, another tug. He was hotly hard, and Geralt could feel a sheen of pre-come coating his tip. He rubbed his palm against that spot and Jaskier groaned again, then finally pulled back.
He leant away, scrambling for the condom and fiddling with the shiny wrapper. Geralt could only watch as he pulled it out, slipping it over his cock and tossing the spent foil to the floor. Next, he took the lube, popping off the cap with a dextrous flick and dripping it across his cock, across his hand, squeezing it between his fingers.
Geralt watched, enraptured, hyper-aware of Jaskier perched above him, of what he was intending to do next. He slid his slick hand between Geralt’s legs, and Geralt jerked instinctively as he touched him, his finger edging at his hole.
And then, finally, slowly, he pushed in. Geralt released a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding, relaxing his body, arching back against the bed. It was full and tight but not enough - and Jaskier seemed to read his thoughts, slipping a second finger inside him without needing to be asked.
Geralt sighed, and Jaskier grinned. “That’s it,” he breathed, “Gods, Geralt… is that okay?”
In lieu of responding, Geralt pushed down against him. Jaskier moved a little quicker, and Geralt could feel him quirk his fingers - finding the sweet, heady spot inside him that made him feel like he was lighting up - like he was tumbling.
“Can I—” Jaskier started, one hand pressing against Geralt’s hip and the other squeezed beneath him, “Do you—”
“Yes.”
Jaskier slowly pulled away his fingers, leaning back, swiping the remaining lube across his cock before reaching down, pulling up Geralt’s legs, kneeling beneath his arse and positioning Geralt’s legs across his thighs. He stroked himself once, twice, then positioned himself against him, poised there - waiting - his hands cupped beneath Geralt’s arse.
Geralt could feel the tip of his cock, slick and hard, pressed against him. Then, slowly, he pushed - easing in with a long, low sigh. Geralt could feel the edge of that familiar burn, but the slight pain was nothing compared to the exhilarating sense of fullness, broiling in his core, filling him. Once he was inside him, Jaskier stilled, pushed to the hilt - and they paused together for a moment, breathing one another in.
The feeling was intoxicating - but Geralt wanted more.
At last, well aware of how much he was teasing him, Jaskier began to thrust, the burn morphing into just a heady fullness, tight and deep - deeper than Geralt had even considered possible, making him grip his hands into the sheet below. Jaskier moved back and forth, building it, starting with deliberate, slow thrusts that quickly turned sharp and immediate.
Now he’d adopted a steady rhythm, Jaskier reached for Geralt’s prick, taking it in a firm grasp. Geralt moaned, aware he was being loud - and not being able to care. He squeezed his eyes shut with a gasp as he pushed back against Jaskier’s hips, moving in tandem with him.
“Gods,” Jaskier muttered, “You’re beautiful, Geralt. You feel so good—” He groaned, squeezing harder, moving faster, “so good.”
Geralt couldn’t respond, his breath catching - his lungs full and burning. Jaskier continued to talk, muttering soft, choking praise.
“Listen to you,” he said, “you’re so… you’re marvellous, Geralt, brilliant—”
It was all too much - Geralt wasn’t sure he’d ever been complimented like this before, and in other circumstances he would have told Jaskier to fuck off. But he couldn’t, now, and with Jaskier buried within him and his mind only able to focus on that enveloping feeling, he was forced to accept that it was true, that Jaskier meant every bit of foolish flattery.
“Jaskier,” he breathed, his name hot and sticky on his tongue.
Jaskier huffed a short laugh - a breathy exhale. “Yes,” he mumbled, “Geralt, say it...” he swallowed, “Say it again.”
“Ah - fuck,” Geralt panted, feeling that warm, familiar ache building in his core, threatening to spill over. Jaskier clearly liked hearing his own name like this, racing before a climax. A cheeky impulse grabbed at him. “Julian…”
Jaskier froze on the thrust, buried inside Geralt, his hands pressed hotly into the backs of Geralt’s thighs. Geralt laughed - he couldn’t help it.
“I can still—” Jaskier chuckled, the words strained, “I can still leave, you know. Take it all back.”
The sensation of Jaskier laughing at him - at the cheeky use of his discarded, thrown-off name - sent vibrations rushing from the point where their bodies met all the way through Geralt’s core in a torrid wave.
“No you won’t,” he said, goading him, clenching around him and making him gasp.
Jaskier stuttered again - possibly a swear - before resuming the rhythm. He was steady and sure and powerful in a way that Geralt hadn’t seen him before - it was devastating. Having Jaskier over him, like this, having him inside him, was new and wild and somehow safe, somehow comforting, like through the careful touch of his fingers and the confident movements of his hips and cock he was holding him close - showing him how loved he was.
“Fuck,” he muttered, feeling himself drawing closer, “fuck.”
Jaskier showed no sign of slowing, tugging at Geralt’s cock with one hand while the other supported the curve of his arse, keeping him steady on top of his knees. He matched his pace - the stroking of his hand to the steady thrusting of his hips - and Geralt could feel himself falling to pieces, all of the sensation in his body coiling and building and concentrating to a single, burning point. Jaskier’s mumbled affirmations drifted over him, soft and constant, burying him.
“Ah—” Jaskier breathed, squeezing him harder, fingers slipping, “Yes, Geralt, you’re so good, so good—”
It was too much, all too much. It was like a dam had burst inside him, years of silent longing building up and over, drowning him, carrying him along.
“I love you,” he mumbled, the words raw and panted. “Julek, I love you—”
And that was it, that was all he could take, his whole body shuddering as he spilled into Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier hissed through his teeth, managing two more thrusts before he, too, came with a hot gasp and a long, broken sigh. He kept his hand on Geralt’s cock, easing him out of the orgasm, and they stilled, for a moment, neither of them moving. Geralt’s heart was thundering, his ears ringing, his skin tingling all over in a sheen of cooling sweat.
Slowly, Jaskier drew out with another soft hiss before letting himself fall heavily on the bed next to Geralt, letting out a deep, contented breath. He swallowed heavily, Geralt watching the movement of his throat, still peppered with bruises.
“Hmm,” Jaskier peered at him, his eyes heavily lidded. “Well, then.”
“Well then,” Geralt agreed, quietly.
“I love you too,” he mumbled. “I’m not sure I quite managed to say it back, just now.”
Jaskier shuffled forwards and kissed him drowsily with another one of those satisfied hums, then with a pained groan he sat up, reaching once more for the box of tissues. When he finally deemed himself suitable, he crawled back into the bed, back into Geralt’s waiting arms.
Geralt held him there, feeling his heart beating quick against his chest, his breathing slowly calming. They lay tangled in each other and Geralt wondered - not for the first time - how this had happened. Yesterday, it would have seemed impossible.
After a few minutes, Jaskier let out a sigh that skittered across Geralt’s chest, and finally spoke.
“We’re going to have to tell your family, you know.”
“I know.”
“And we need to tell them the truth, this time, alright? I don’t want you telling them we’ve just, I don’t know, decided not to get married but are still together. You have to tell them everything.”
Geralt kissed the top of his head. “Everything?”
“Well,” Jaskier wiggled his shoulders, brushing his hand in little circles across Geralt’s chest. “Not quite everything.”
“They’re going to think we’re idiots.”
“We are idiots,” said Jaskier. “What about Ciri? Are you going to tell her tomorrow, or phone her, or what?”
Geralt considered this. “I want to tell her in person,” he said, “although I don’t think she’ll be surprised.”
“I… yeah,” Jaskier slumped against him a little. “I still feel bad about that.”
“Don’t. I think she’s probably been expecting this for a while…”
“What about Yen?”
“Well, I was thinking you could—”
“Oh no, no way.”
Geralt chuckled. “I’ll ring her later. And we can tell Ciri together?”
“Deal.” Jaskier paused, for a second, his hand still. “Are you sure you want to tell everyone? I just… I don’t want to force you if you don’t want everyone knowing about…”
“About us?”
“Not us, really, just… I know you keep things to yourself, sometimes. I don’t want to make you do something you’re not ready for.”
Geralt hesitated. He couldn’t imagine a world in which he’d want to keep this hidden. They spent most of their time alone, of course, aside for Ciri - but he didn’t want to pretend, anymore. He didn’t want to stop himself from pulling Jaskier close, from holding his hand, from kissing him whenever he wanted to.
“No,” he said, finally. “I want them to know.”
“Good,” Jaskier said. “I don’t think I can keep up with any more pretending.”
“Hmm.” Geralt relaxed against him, basking in how warm he was, how soft. And then he remembered. "Where did you go?"
Jaskier looked up at him. "I'm right here?"
"Earlier. When I woke up and you'd gone. Where did you go?"
Absurdly, Jaskier began to blush. He'd had his prick inside Geralt not ten minutes ago but now he was blushing.
"I ah…" he hesitated. "I needed a piss."
Geralt laughed - he couldn't help it. Jaskier scowled at him, the blush deepening.
"Next time I'll just piss in your bed, then, shall I?"
Geralt rolled his eyes at him. At both of them, really: he'd woken alone, convinced that Jaskier had left him unloved and alone, when really he'd just been emptying his bladder.
Fucking typical.
"Please don't."
Jaskier moved up the bed so their heads rested against the same pillow, then nuzzled against Geralt’s cheek in what appeared to be an attempt at a half-hearted kiss. “What’s the time?” He said, his words muffled.
Geralt turned to look at the alarm clock as best he could without dislodging Jaskier. “Nearly quarter past six. Don’t you have work?”
“I booked it off,” Jaskier sniffed, “I’d assumed I’d be getting utterly smashed last night, and I’d either be too hungover or terribly broken-hearted and distraught this morning to go in. What about you?”
“Booked it off weeks ago.”
“Excellent,” Jaskier shut his eyes. “That means I can do this for a couple more hours, at least…”
Jaskier yawned, and Geralt pulled the covers up a little higher, to better cover them both. Usually he would get up if he’d woken this early, even on a day off, but with Jaskier plastered to his side he didn’t quite feel the need.
“So,” Jaskier hooked a leg between Geralt’s, sliding his arm across his chest. “What did you have planned for the day? I’m assuming it wasn’t, you know…” he kissed him again, “... this.”
“Surprisingly not,” Geralt muttered. He hadn’t really planned what to do with his day. He suspected that, rather like Jaskier, he’d assumed that the day would be lost to the emotional hangover of the night before - that he’d spend the day quietly mourning what he’d never had.
He didn’t have to, now.
“Is there anything you want to do?” He asked instead, leaning his head against Jaskier’s on the pillow.
“I need a shower,” he sniffed. “I really need a shower.”
“We both need a shower.”
“Or a bath….” Jaskier paused, thoughtfully. “Is the bath big enough for two?”
Geralt shrugged. “For us? I doubt it.”
“Hmm,” he sighed. “Shame.”
“We need to tidy before Ciri comes tomorrow, too. The kitchen’s a mess.”
“Urgh.”
“And we need to do a shop.”
Jaskier grumbled. “A big shop?”
“Unfortunately. Food, toiletries… we need toothpaste. Bin bags, bleach...”
Jaskier groused again, twisting beneath the duvet so he was facing the ceiling. “Maybe I was wrong about not wanting excitement anymore…”
“What if I buy you a bottle of wine?”
“Interesting proposition…” he said. “Call it a bottle of wine and a cake, and you’ve got a deal.”
Geralt peered towards Jaskier from the corner of his eye, watching him. That little fear bit at him again - the worry that all this wouldn’t be enough for him - but he pushed it back. There was an ache in his chest, his legs, in his core - a comfortable throb. If Jaskier didn’t want this, he knew, he wouldn’t even be there: he’d have left hours ago.
Jaskier sniffed. Geralt stared at him - his messy hair, his sparkling eyes, the trail of marks on his neck that disappeared below the soft cover of the duvet. Later, they’d wash away the sweat of last night’s - and this morning’s - adventures, but those marks would remain. So would, he suspected, the little green stain around Jaskier’s finger: at least for a day or so.
As if feeling his gaze, Jaskier turned, eyebrows raised.
“You’ve got that face on,” he said. “What’re you thinking about?”
He was thinking about last night. He was thinking about that morning - Jaskier’s lazy kisses, his urgent thrusts. He thought how later, washed and dressed and irrevocably changed, they’d go to Tesco and buy potatoes and washing up liquid and pasta like the world hadn’t suddenly started spinning in a different direction, taking both of them with it.
He licked his lips and shuffled forwards, pressing their foreheads together.
Geralt/Jaskier – mer!Jaskier; bottom!Geralt – Jaskier got hit with some spell (what's new) and now he just has to wait things out in a new body... good thing Geralt is there to take his mind off of things.
---
Geralt hops off Roach’s back as she is still lightly running, gently pushing her shoulder away as he does so to get her to turn away from the cave. He throws her a small glance to make sure she is trotting off to the side to search for a bit of grass to chew on, then pats the little satchel in his breast pocket and moves inside the cave’s opening.
“Jaskier! I got some herbs! But the hag said it should revert by itself anyway!”
His voice echoes off the slick walls of the cave. Further inside he can hear the splashing of water and he follows it and Jaskier’s pitiful voice calling back at him: “You really think so?”
He shrugs. His first instinct is to say ‘beats me’, but he’s not in the mood to hear Jaskier’s whining, so he keeps it under wraps.
There are a few candles deeper in the cave, illuminating the place where he dumped Jaskier to go and see about a cure to revert the weird shit that seems to happen to him often enough that he wonders if its a kind of kink for him.
Jaskier has moved to the edge of the little pond and is looking at him with large, luminous eyes. He does look a little creepy in his new mermaid body… but Geralt is used to shrugging these things off.
He comes to a stand close to the edge, looking down at Jaskier, trying to think of something to say that could prevent him from breaking down into a wailing mess yet again.
Nothing comes to mind, really. Jaskier just stares up at him and makes up his own comforting speech, as so often.
“Yes, yes, you are right, of course. You know how these things are. You’ve seen it all, probably. Getting hexed into being a siren? No biggie! These magicks have to run out at some point, right? Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Thanks, buddy – you’re a real help.”
He sounds so genuine that Geralt actually has trouble parsing whether he is just pulling his leg or not.
Until Jaskier is actually pulling his leg. From underneath him. With his snake-like tail that Geralt hadn’t even realized had been wrapped around his ankle.
He grunts as his legs are pulled from beneath him and into the water, his ribs hitting the edge of the pond hard enough to punch the air out of him.
The water is dark and cold and feels full of algae until he recognizes Jaskier’s fumbling, hectic fingers tugging on his clothes and pushing them away.
“Jaskier! What the fuck?!”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, it’s just… this body’s crazy, okay? I’ve been thinking about this since you left. You know how difficult it is to fuck a hand that’s got these weird webby th-things between the fingers? It’s hard. No pun intended.”
Jaskier is holding his hand up in front of Geralt’s face to show him the thin webbing stretching between his fingers. In his opinion there’s nothing easier than to fuck the warm, soft skin in between and just get it over with, but he’s too preoccupied with what is happening to start a discussion with Jaskier right now.
“I swear, I just need a little… you know. It won’t take long. I just feel like… like I’m burning up, you know? I couldn’t think of anything else other than your cunt, Geralt, I swear to god. Just your hairy little hole. This tight, warm snatch that feels like a virgin’s pussy every damn time I fuck you-”
Geralt’s ears are burning. He jerks his elbow back with a grunt, ramming it into Jaskier’s ribs and causing him to pause with a hiccup before he continues his rambling again as if nothing had happened.
“I’ll be quick. And gentle. I promise. Shit, please- I just need…” Jaskier trails off for a moment. Geralt feels how his pants are tugged down until his ass is exposed in the cold water of the pond. He is trying to get a purchase with his boots against the rock but everything is slippery with algae and he keeps sliding off.
Jaskier grabs his cheeks and spreads them open. The cool water rushes between them and touches his hole.
Geralt growls, but Jaskier either does not listen or is not particularly impressed by it. He can feel him move behind him, sliding back into the water and dragging his long, wriggling tongue right through Geralt’s crack. Hissing through his teeth, he instinctively tries to pull himself up and out of the water yet is stopped by Jaskier’s hands gripping his hips with an unyielding grab.
Wherever Jaskier’s tongue touches him for too long, his skin starts to become numb. He tries to kick out but water muddies his movements and as much as he hates to admit it… Jaskier has the upper hand right now.
He’s no idiot. He knows what is going to happen; especially after Jaskier’s inane babbling about his body. He is not surprised when the bard comes back up and doesn’t waste any time with niceties, instead pressing himself to Geralt’s back and all but crushing him against the stone to keep him nice and still for the weirdest cock he’s ever felt.
Geralt’s hole is… loose thanks to Jaskier’s tongue, but it is not too numb not to feel the long, thin cock starting to wriggle its way into his body like a tentacle.
“The f-fuck do you have there?”
His voice is too strained for him to sound as annoyed as he wants to. His insides are alight with the feeling of the wriggling appendage pushing and prodding against his inner walls, and his lungs start to burn from the small panting breaths he is forced to take due to Jaskier crushing him against the stone.
“I… honestly don’t know? But it feels so good? You feel… you feel really good, Geralt. Has anybody ever told you? That you got the pussy of a little virgin? Like let me tell you, I’ve had virgins, but you? Oh damn, you take the cake, Witcher! You’re so… so hot inside… I feel like I am burning up. Your body squeezes down on me like it wants me out-”
Geralt bares his teeth at nothing in particular. He has too little breath to tell Jaskier that probably that has a fucking reason… he is also suitably sure he wouldn’t care either way.
Jaskier has him right where he wants him, that weird slippery cock forcing his hole wider with ease. He has too little feeling in it to even try and clench down. Whatever his body is doing, it is doing it completely on its own, just moving out of sheer instinct as he gets fucked by Jaskier in that weird body of his.
“Y-You said it’s just… a few hours? M-Maybe days?” He did not say anything of the sorts. “Maybe I can just keep fucking you until then. I-I’ll be gentle. You feel so good. I-I could m-maybe s-sing you something, too?”
Jaskier’s voice has started vibrating some time ago. A low vibrato to the words that distorts them enough to make it difficult to understand what he is even babbling about anymore.
Geralt can feel the vibrations in his teeth, his whole body feeling sensitive to the point of being painful.
Jaskier has a habit of posing everything he says as a question… but Geralt knows that he will not have a say in the matter whatsoever.
For the foreseeable future he will be nothing more than Jaskier’s whore. Might as well… enjoy it.
Hi! So I saw that you write for Geralt, and I had this in mind: he gets called to a village where they say that there is something sinister lurking in the forest bc sometimes men and women who venture out come back deranged, like they want to go back into the forest no matter what, and they believe it's a monster, so Geralt goes to investigate and he stumbles across a cottage and when he enters he is surprised by how cozy it looks, but more specifically the reader who is (1/2)
(2/2) who is small and so innocent looking. So the reader is like, “I wondered why it took you so long to get here witcher’ and Geralt is like ”???“ bc how’s it possible that this innocent looking reader be the one who has caused all this mess right, so long story short the reader is like a succubus or some thing similar and like she seduced people and is dominant and shit, so she ties up Geralt and fucks his brains out, or maybe she teases him and doesn’t let him cum? Like there is many options
OKAY i love this
Bottom!Geralt is so UGH!!!
alright, so he is immediately mesmerized by you. Honestly, it only took a few seconds, or maybe less. But he surely was under your spell the moment he first saw you
this wasn’t what he expected, to be honest. When he received the message that a certain village needs his help, Geralt thought it might have been some horrible looking, Kikimora type of monster.
he certainly didn’t expect a beautiful, beautiful young lady. Living all by herself in her cozy cottage in the middle of the woods; alone. How is she a threat? She doesn’t even look like a monster, Geralt thought, blinded by your beauty and charming smile.
“I see you’re finally here, Witcher. What took you so long?” you asked, softly, innocently. For a moment there, Geralt felt like he could just melt upon hearing your smooth voice. So soft, and angelic. Yet it fueled the fire in his loins, he couldn’t help it.
“Who are you?” he asked, trying his hardest to get a grip on himself and focus on his job. But that was so hard to do, it was near impossible because there you were, standing just a couple feet away from him; wearing a gown with a dangerously low cleavage. And you weren’t even bothered with hiding your modesty; because he distracted him, you could easily see that.
“I’m Y/N, and i assume the villagers sang my praises?” you teased, stepping closer to him. He wanted to take a step back, he so wanted to. But he couldn’t. Your scent, your hair, that look in your eyes, your smooth skin… it all pulled him in like a trance.
Geralt scoffed quietly. “What you’re doing to these people, you need to stop it. Now. Or i will make you.” You got closer to him as he spoke, and touched his face gently. The fire inside him burned brighter. Hotter. He felt something grow inside him, a need. A desire perhaps. He tried to sound intimidating, but he failed.
you chuckled. “Giving into your strongest, deepest desires is not a sin, Witcher. You know that, don’t you? Besides, what exactly it is that i’m doing?” You faked a pout and looked up at him, leaning closer to the tall man.
“i don’t know.” he replied through gritted teeth, trying his best to control himself and trying his hardest not to lean into your touch. Your touch was warm, and cool at the same time. It calmed him down, but it also drove him crazy.
“Well, you would like to find out, wouldn’t you?” the fire in him burnt brighter, and he could no longer hold back, he almost nodded at your question. You leaned in to kiss him, gently stroking his lips with yours and from then on, he was in a haze. As though drugged.
next thing he knew was that he was following your orders like a lost puppy. Removing his heavy clothing upon your command, getting into your bed when your ordered, and surrendering. Completely.
you had him bound and restrained. Hands tied to your bed post, above his head. And he lied there, without a single complain leaving his lips, his heartbeats racing, and his desire growing.
“You know, when i heard the villagers were planning on calling for you to get rid of me, i thought you’d be a tough one to deal with.” you whispered in his ear, straddling him and kissing the side of his face gently. “But here you are, like a perfect little pet.”
Geralt knew he should’ve tackled you to the ground and put an end to this, and save the village from your charms, because rumor was that once people met you; they were spell-bound. And they’d be ready to lay down their lives if you simply asked. Slowly, but surely, you could take over an entire village, and make people become your own personal little slaves in a matter of days.
but Geralt was being treated like a toy in your hands, and he didn’t want it to stop.
“Fuck…” he cussed in a quiet whimper as you slowly kissed your way down his body; down his neck, across his bare chest and all the way to his thick, erected cock. Without any warning, you took him into your mouth, all of him. And he moaned out loud, mindlessly.
You took his cock deep into your mouth, then took it out and stroked it; watching him grunt and struggle against the ropes you tied him with. He would have easily freed himself if it wasn’t for your seductive magic. “Not so strong now, are we, Witcher?” you taunted and took him into your mouth again.
Geralt nearly whined when you did so, he was getting desperate and your ability of bringing him right to the edge and mercilessly keeping him there for as long as you wished to was driving him insane. He knew this was wrong, and that he was falling right into your trap, but it felt so good.
maybe he loses all self control the moment you sink down on him, your wet warmth wrapping all around him; making him cuss and groan. You lean in and caress his face, looking him deep in his golden eyes while you rocked your hips against his. “That feel good, hmm?”
he’d nod, way too quickly. He was quite a sight; all big, and strong, and handsome but tied to your bed at your mercy. You chuckled and leaned in to bite his lip, tugging on it as you pulled away - surely making him lose his mind.
you’d move against him perfectly, your walls gripping him tightly and making him get louder and louder each time. Maybe just when you’d feel him twitch inside you, you’d pull him out of you and watch him whine and smirk at his helplessness.
“Getting greedy, are we?” you’d tease and smirk at how frustrated he was getting; grunting and moaning for you.
at some point, he’d be nothing but a sweaty, moaning mess under you; messy hair, swollen lips, and a throbbing cock. But you wanted more, you wanted to hear him whine some more, you wanted to hear how desperate he could get. You needed to know that you had complete and utter control over the big, bad Witcher.
maybe you’d tug on his hair, or maybe pull him closer by gripping his locket. “You’re gonna have to work for this, come on. Beg.” you’d whisper softly, lips hovering above his parted ones. Maybe you’d even kiss his open mouth carelessly. But he was ready to do anything for you. Absolutely anything.
he couldn’t believe that someone so innocent looking, having such a spotless and angelic aura could make him beg in bed. But here you were, dominating him; making him whine and whimper for a brief touch from you. And oh did he beg. And whimpered, and whined.
“Y/n… please.” perhaps his voice was low, barely even a whisper. But you heard it. His desperation was quite clear.
and he was so sensitive, from all that teasing, that once you started riding him again; he would thrust his hips up trying to match your movements. But you’d mess with him even then, you’d slow down your pace whenever he got too excited, and you’d speed up when he least expected it.
he’d get loud, very loud; growling each time you messed with him, and whining your name whenever you teased him for too long. You’d alternate between having him in your mouth and riding his cock, and there was nothing else he could focus on in that moment.
at some point, you’d eventually give in; seeing he was physically worn out. And you’d fuck his brains out, making him cum in no time. Your walls clenching around him, gripping him and milking him perfectly. He was completely at your mercy, begging you to slow down when you kept riding his sensitive, throbbing cock even after he came.
he’s breathing hard and fast after you’re done with him, trying his hardest to calm his racing heart while you still have him securely under your spell. You kiss his chest, murmuring how good he was and how much of perfect “play thing” he was.
“Now, you’re gonna go out there, and tell them that i’m no threat. Because i’m not, am i?” you’d grip his jaw gently, and look deep into his eyes while you spoke. His hands were still tied, and sore and they were itching to just reach out and touch you.
you’d kiss his parted lips while he nodded frantically. “No, you’re not.” And just like that, you had the Witcher under your charm as well.
And he did go out there, and managed to make up some lie about you being nothing but an innocent girl living on her own. He convinced them that it was some other source of magic which was taking control over their people. And they were stupid enough to believe him.
And so, you became his little secret. And kept working your magic on people doing what you did best.
Because even witchers get tired of topping sometimes…
‘It’s been forever since he’s fucked another man like this and he’d never even dared to fantasize about Geralt like this, not until they were literally in this bed tonight. If this is the last and only thing in his entire life that’s given to him it’ll be more than enough to let Jaskier die with satisfaction....’
“Come on, Jask…I’m tired.” He tilts his head just so, his eyes rolling languidly to the side as his head falls back further into the pillow. His voice is thick as syrup and heavy with a note of pleading. The sound of it alone warms Jaskier from the inside out. He knows he’s going to give his companion whatever he wants already but he can at least pretend he’s got restraint.
The room is warm and quiet, the sun is falling and the evening growing thick outside the window. The witcher looks like some sort of wild king reclining there on the humbly furnished bed. He sinks further into the bedding, a soft rumbling mmm comes from his throat. He obviously bathed just before Jaskier came back to their room and he’s only in his soft breeches and shirt.
The bard looks down at him with put upon skepticism. “And what did you do’ today that was soo hard? I’ve been at the Seven Cats Inn all day busking…wait” Jaskier looks at the fresh cut on his arm, looks at his armor with mud on it strewn on the chair. “Did you go on a hunt today?”
“This afternoon. Man in cart stopped me on the road outside town. He’d lost his wares in a ditch, had some trouble. A hag, namely.” The witcher closes his eyes restfully. “Took awhile to find her.”
Jaskier’s shoulders relax. His face softens. “I didn’t know. Well, you didn’t tell me so how could I. Alright, ok,” he sighs. “I’ll get dinner- and yes I’ll go check on Roach.”
“What would I do without you,” Geralt purrs at him. Teasing. Jaskier can’t handle Geralt’s teasing. The teasing is somewhat new. It was serious at first, he thinks? The comments and insults that became playful, became suggestive. Now Geralt could flatter him jokingly and Jaskier would still roll over for the witcher without hesitation. Geralt doesn’t look all that tired as he raises his arms and rests the back of his head in his hands, the pose accentuating his biceps ridiculously.
Jaskier can hardly look straight at him.
He transforms his lustful gaze into a harmless glare before the witcher can see it and goes out the door.
When he returns Geralt is where he left him, eyes shut, chest rising and falling in gentle rhythm. He sets down the tray of food he’s scavenged and goes to Geralt’s side. He sings the witcher’s name quietly as he leans over the bed.
And Geralt opens his eyes. They stare at one another before he reaches for Jaskier, grabbing his shirt and pulling him so that Jaskier has to put his hands on the bed in order not to fall on top of him.
“Hungry?”
”Yes,” the witicher’s voice is a seductive growl slipping through his sly smile.
“Hmm, “Jaskier says in a vague impersonation of the man he’s come to know without words.
When Geralt tilts his head back Jaskier takes what is being offered. Lips brushing against lips just lightly, not giving too much. Then he’s standing up straight, taking a piece of fruit off the tray, sucking it into his mouth even as he watches Geralt sit up and peel off his shirt like he’s unavailing a statue, his muscles flexing and elongating as he drags the material up over his head, down off his arms…
Jaskier drinks him in, skin pale but glowing warmly in the candlelight, watches as Geralt hesitates before leaning back to unlace his pants.
“Perhaps the food can wait…”Jaskier says sauntering to the table near the bathing tub. While turned away from Geralt, he reaches around to the ties at his lower back, pulls them free with practiced fingers and the back of his pants come loose, exposing skin beneath the patterned silk fabric as he pulls his shirt out of the waist of them. The pants all but drop to the floor. He hears Geralt make an appreciative sound and he looks over his shoulder to simper at him.
The scent of lavender, and crushed herbs- and something almost spicy, escapes as he unscrews the cap on a jar he’s taken from the table. His careful fingers find their way into the oil. He crawls onto the bed with the witcher…puts the jar aside…
his hands reach for Geralt’s pecs first. Geralt watches him unblinking with hot embers in his eyes. Jaskier’s long daring fingers splay across the broad chest in front of him, oil coating their skin, he drags them down pressing into the firm flesh, feeling the rise of scar tissue beneath his fingers tips and the brush of hair as they slide all the way down the firm stomach. And he guides them up again over the curvature of Geralt’s sides, ribs beneath muscle, muscle beneath skin, skin hot beneath Jaskier’s touch…
Geralt arches just a bit into those hands, thumbs brush his nipples, press into the tender places beneath his collar bones. He reaches for Jaskier’s bare thighs, the bard is straddling him but not sitting on him and his shirt hangs down between his legs hiding everything there, but not very well. The shape of his member jutes through the cotton fabric.
Geralt’s pants are off almost to the knee. Jaskier wipes his hands on Geralt’s thighs leaving the excess oil there before he grabs his shirt gingerly with fingertips to avoid staining it and pulls it over his head letting it fall away somewhere half off the bed, and then he takes Geralt’s breaches and pulls them down, down, down, until they are lying on the floor. Until they are both naked but for a medallion, a set of gold rings, and one earring.
Geralt’s cock commands Jaskier’s attention now where it lays thick and ruddy against his stomach. He goes down until their bodies are pressed one to one.
And Geralt groans in gratitude. “So good…” he mumbles, his hands finding Jaskier’s back.
“Yes…”
The aches and the weariness all melt away into hazy pleasure and heat.
“I think I’ll let you do the work tonight,” the witcher says with a smile and half lidded eyes as Jaskier writhes against him, trying to somehow feel every inch of his body with every inch of his own, legs tangled, thighs and calves caressing.
“Work, you say? If you mean what I think you do it won’t be a very difficult job to preform.”
Geralt smiles at him and the smile doesn’t go away until they kiss. And they kiss slowly, in rhythm together, everything smelling like herbs and lavender and hot skin.
Geralt’s movements are unhurried tonight, his hands don’t wander overmuch, but he keeps a firm hold on Jaskier’s hips, squeezing softly, holding him down firmly in place as if he might slip away and escape. Sometimes they wander over to clutch at the roundness of his buttocks, fingers digging into soft thick muscle.
Jaskier has a feeling it was a potion imbibed earlier that’s subdued his witcher, his strength and energy accelerated in the frenzy of battle, now ebbed away leaving him slow and languorous like some large restful panther after having vanquished it’s prey - but Jaskier feels now that the prey might be him, fallen to the witcher’s lethal grasp by much more subtle means…
Geralt’s thighs part trapping Jaskier between them and Jaskier’s cock twitches against the crook of Geralt’s hip. The witcher is looking at him with something like expectation -so Jaskier grabs the oil again and this time his slick careful fingers wrap around the other man’s cock, pumping it’s length with long intentional strokes. He works a relieved moan out of the witcher. He bites his chest. He tugs at Geralt’s nipples with his hot mouth. He’s thankful that Geralt enjoys it when he does these things because he doesn’t know if he could ignore this part of his body if he wanted to. He’s encountered many a buxom woman but never a man with a chest so broad, so plush, with muscles that swells like this, giving him so much to grab and taste and suck.
The stubble of Geralt’s jaw is sharp on his tongue. Geralt’s legs tighten against him and force him closer, his hands grabbing Jaskier’s ass to pull him in, coaxing, demanding. And it’s Geralt’s turn to grab the oil and slather it on Jaskier’s rigid shaft. Jaskier shudders as his whole body convulses, he’s forced to pull away from the witcher’s hand holding him tight like the hilt of his sword. He doesn’t wanting to lose himself too quickly with what’s about to come. He nestles down further and his cock finds it’s way instinctively to the heat between them. He feels Geralt’s sack against his shaft heavy and warm and he presses further behind the weighty flesh of his balls , smearing oil along the way. And when he finally brushes the ring of muscle within all this heat and soft flesh Geralt moans behind closed lips. Jaskier strokes him as he continues to prod and rub with his hard cock, now leaking and sticky, adding to the slickness.
Soon Geralt is breathing hard, lips parted, pupils dilated his eyes are locked on Jaskier as Jaskier uses every drop of self control just to do what he’s doing. The head of his cock is barely breaching the tight ring of muscle that’s threatening to devour him but he can feel Geralt’s body giving way to him even more, opening up to his cock hungrily-
he’s never been allowed to have something like this! It’s all he can do not to let himself slip into him now and burst like a dam in a tight waterway. “Gods…it’s torture..” he gasps. “Geralt..”
“Yeah. Yeah that’s good…slow…”Geralt urges him but even while he’s saying slow he’s forcing Jaskier deeper- gripping the bard’s hips and pulling him further…
Jaskier has to drop his head to Geralt’s chest as he feels the head of his cock fully slip into that hot ring, and he bites his own lip. It’s just the head and Geralt’s fingers are like a steel vice on his hips, keeping him from going deeper or pulling away. He cries out absolutely senseless. It’s not fair.
Geralt is grabbing his own shaft with one hand, still gripping Jaskier with the other, he strokes it as Jaskier is trapped unable to thrust.
“Please Geralt…pleeease…” he wraps his arm under one of Geralt’s muscular thighs.
And Geralt finally releases him and his hips move of their own accord.
“Slow…slowly,” Geralt pants softly… “Yes.” His head falls back against the pillows, yellow eyes closing. “Oh yeah..uhn…”
Jaskier’s thighs are quivering as he urges his cock into Geralt as slowly as he can manage. Geralt doesn’t seem a stranger to this kind of pleasure. He wants to ask if anyone has ever done this to him. He wants to know, but he can’t speak and wouldn’t try if right now if he could.
It’s been forever since he’s fucked another man like this and he’d never even dared to fantasize about Geralt like this, not until they were literally in this bed tonight. If this is the last and only thing in his entire life that’s given to him it’ll be more than enough to let Jaskier die with satisfaction.
-which is a lie of course. Tomorrow he’ll want more and he’ll want it even more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life but in this moment- this moment is all that exists.
“Fuck me,” Geralt says -
and Jaskier has to close his eyes and think of the most disgusting monster he can possibly conjure in order not to cum right then. He breathes deep and steady and sits back. He holds onto Geralt and fucks him as much as he can without losing control. It’s an impossible task because he can see Geralt’s fingers wrapped around his own cock moving in time to Jaskier’s thrusts, and he’s making sounds that Jaskier hasn’t heard before…
There have been similar noises but not the same. These moans are unbound, indulgent, aching. These moans are light in his throat. They aren’t the deep grunting moans of him fucking Jaskier so hard that his soul takes leave of his body.
These are different.
Geralt’s brow is furrowed and his expression is almost pained but his mouth is open in silent pleasure as he stares at the bard and Jaskier’s expression must be similar he thinks. He knows his own mouth is open and he can’t fucking close it because he’s too far gone.
He doesn’t know if he can handle it and he he finds words tumbling out breathless and mindless-
“Hit me- slap me! I can’t- take it- Geralt- please”
and Geralt does, but not too hard. Stinging heat flares across his pretty face and it helps for a second, the shock enough to let him fuck Geralt faster, but the second time Geralt does it Jaskier has to stop completely and blow out a breath as he holds back his orgasm.
Geralt pushes him off and suddenly turns over, and Jaskier is dizzy and incoherent, and unable to even appreciate how incredible Geralt’s perfect ass looks before he’s fucking him again- before he can even register what happened. And he knows he’s fucking a good spot now because the witcher starts cursing. Maybe it’s only minutes or seconds later but it feels like he has been lost for hours when Geralt tells him he’s going to cum.
“Please…” Jaskier begs needing Geralt to cum so Jaskier can finally stop holding back. He uses his last shred of will power to fuck Geralt hard until the man is shaking and his muscles are clenching around him and he can tell Geralt’s over the edge. Jaskier’s vision goes white as he releases inside Geralt with a whimper and moan.
And slowly but suddenly times resumes. Geralt stretches out with a groan on his stomach and doesn’t move. Jaskier very slowly pulls his cock out from between the sticky muscular cheeks with a shudder, and then he lays on top of Geralt.
After he’s caught his breath he says deliriously, “What just happened?”
Geralt’s chuckle is smothered by the bed.
“Wow.” Jaskier sidles over and grabs a pillow for his head. “Can we do that again sometime?”
Geralt slowly raises himself to look at the bard. His smile is tired and satisfied. He lets out a heavy breath as he adjusts himself so that he’s on his side with the pillow under his head. “We’ll see, but first” he lets his hands flop over towards Jaskier. It’s covered in his own sticky seed and Jaskier is almost tempted to lick it. He gets them a cloth and and when they’ve cleaned themselves and the bed as best as possible they lie close together. Geralt puts a heavy arm across the bards chest and is soon fast asleep. Jaskier has so many questions and feelings but they’ll have to wait until another time. It isn’t long after he’s dragged the covers across them that he drifts off to sleep along with his witcher.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Rating: E
Geralt has a surprise for Jaskier's 41st birthday--a stay at Novigrad's most exclusive hotel. And Jaskier thanks him the best way he knows how, sweetness, sex, and a litany of Geralt's most beloved attributes.
Words, images gathered in his mind. Geralt. Fighting and fierce. His face by camplight. The hard lines of guilt he so often carried. The soft wanting when he set it down.
Jaskier licked and moaned at the sensation tingling on his tongue.
“You are a flashing blade,” he said. Pressed his lips. “The winter wilds.” Found the other nipple and licked hard. Set it between his teeth and pulsed his jaw, eliciting another gasp.
Then letting go.
“Dangerous…”
He looked up. Met Geralt’s eyes. “Beautiful.”
Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
