#Can someone please wrap Jaskier in a warm soft heavy blanket and hold him?

[thelostgirl21]

Help him...

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

Not Too Late

doing this thing | day 20 - hypothermia

I guess I’m just really into post-mountain reunion fics this week. I wish I had more time for this (I know I keep saying that, but I have like 10k worth of plot for this one).

Jaskier huddles in on himself, trying to remember what Geralt had taught him about keeping warm. All he can think of is Geralt's face and it only makes him more miserable, so he gives up on the attempt altogether. He's still so cold.

As a last resort, he pulls himself toward the edge of the cliff with the desperate hope that some of his own body heat might bounce back at him. It doesn't work and Jaskier is left shivering under his thin blanket, wishing he hadn't been quite so stubborn after they had parted ways on the mountain. If he had gone after Geralt like he wanted to, like he almost did dozens of times, he might not be here, on the brink of death frozen and alone.

He wonders vaguely what Geralt is up to these days, whether or not he'll miss Jaskier when he finds out about his death, wonders if he'll hear about it. He's probably off somewhere with Yen - nothing can ever keep them apart for long. He hopes he's happy. Geralt is the last thing he thinks about before he shuts his eyes against the world.

Geralt is hesitant as he enters the city, acutely aware of his surroundings, ears pricked to any sign of danger. He's fully aware that most of the people here probably hate him, but the offer for the contract had been too good to pass up. Things haven't been great lately - or maybe that's just him - but he hasn't been taking as many jobs as he should and the winter will be setting in soon, he needs provisions before he heads north.

He heads to the mayor's house because the notice was unsigned, but he's quickly turned away, sent in the direction of the academy. It feels like a trap and he's not enthusiastic about walking right into it. But he knows he was awful to Jaskier, knows that if this is a trap, he probably deserves whatever he has coming. He's not at all expecting what he gets.

The professor he's been sent to is a young woman close to Jaskier's age and she smiles at him when she sees him, but he can smell the nervousness on her.

"Master Witcher," she says, "I wasn't expecting you to be quite so prompt."

"Monsters don't just wait around to be killed," he says and she gives him an odd look. He's used to odd looks, especially when he mentions killing things, but this one is new. It's less nervous, more sheepish.

"Ah, well, about that. Actually, sir, there is no monster. It's just you see, our Jaskier's gone off somewhere and no one's seen him for days. It's getting cold and he never goes off without telling someone." Geralt stares blankly at her, waiting for her to get to the point and hoping it isn't what he thinks it is.

"You see," she continues, "we've all heard the stories about how you never turn down a man in need and how you're the best tracker there is and, well, who better to go and find Jaskier than his best friend?"

Ah, fuck.

But he's only been gone a couple of days. Surely, that isn't unusual? And if he's gone on purpose, surely the last person he wants to see coming to collect him is Geralt? How could he want anything to do with him after the things he said? Even Yen is still upset with him and he didn't blame her for everything wrong with his life.

Apparently, he's taking too long to respond because the professor shifts in place and looks up at him hopefully. And because Geralt is a hopeless fool, he agrees. Jaskier could be in trouble after all and Geralt will not be the source of any more hurt for him.

"Do you need something of his?" she asks and Geralt barely resists rolling his eyes.

"I'm not a dog." And besides, there's nothing in the world that could make him forget a scent when it's absence has been haunting him for months.

He sets out immediately, asking around for any information on where he would have gone and all of Jaskier's peers seem delighted to see him. He doesn't understand. It's confusing and overwhelming and Geralt is happier when he leaves the city gates and heads out into the wilderness. He keeps to the riverbank; a heavy snow fell only a few nights back so looking for tracks is useless, but Jaskier knows to keep to the edge of the Pontar. That's how they find one another every spring.

The thought eats away at him. This coming spring will be the first for years that he hasn't met up with Jaskier and it's an uncomfortable feeling not knowing what Jaskier will get up to, where he'll be. Whether or not he'll be safe.

It's hours before Geralt finds any sign of his missing bard and he's worked himself into a panic in the meantime. What if Jaskier's been taken? What if he's run off and gotten himself kidnapped - or worse? He can't keep his mind from reeling and when he finds signs of a failed campfire off toward the treeline, he stumbles in his rush to reach it.

It shows nothing, but there is a trail leading away from it, deep footprints made more shallow by the newly fallen snow. Geralt follows the path to a large, rotting stump and at its base- fuck.

Jaskier is huddled in on himself, his skin a haunting bluish-grey and Geralt drops to his knees in the snow. He tugs him close instinctively only now able to hear the sluggish thud of his heartbeat and a little of the fear eases away. He's still alive, at least, but Geralt needs to get him warm - and fast. He bundles Jaskier into his arms, relieved to find his limbs still moveable, and carries him to the first place he can find shelter.

Oxenfurt is much too far to travel with him like this, but Geralt is familiar enough with the area that he finds a shelf of rock without much trouble. He's loathe to leave Jaskier even for a second, but he needs to get a fire lit and there is little he can do with the few sticks lying around. He tucks him up against the back of the shelter, wrapping him in his cloak. For a second, Geralt pauses, pressing his forehead to Jaskier's and breathing a silent apology before tearing himself away.

It's hard to find usable wood under the snow, but he manages and clears a space in the snow to build a fire. It's rough, but igni will get anything lit, so he doesn't mind. Once it's burning, he turns back to Jaskier, cupping his face in one hand.

"Jask," he says, "are you with me?" There's no response and Geralt takes a steadying breath, his thumb rubbing absently over Jaskier's cheekbone. "Okay," he says to himself and gets to work.

The first thing he has to do is get Jaskier out of his clothes and while he knows it's necessary, it still feels like an intrusion. But his clothes are soaked from the snow and sitting in them will only make things worse. He gets Jaskier undressed and turns to lean against the wall himself, hauling Jaskier into his lap. Getting out of his own shirt is much more difficult, being unwilling to let Jaskier go for a moment, but it's necessary; skin to skin contact is the easiest way to warm someone.

He wraps both blankets around them and he holds Jaskier close, tucking his head under his chin and shutting his eyes. He focuses on every inch of the body pressed against his own, rubs his arms, breathes against his neck.

"Please," he whispers, "come back to me."

Geralt has no recollection of drifting off, but he wakes with a start to something - someone - moving against him. There's a pained grumble and Geralt's arms instinctively hold him tighter as Jaskier shifts slowly in his lap. He presses his nose into Geralt's chest, humming quietly before stopping abruptly and twist himself to look up at Geralt.

"You know," he starts and his voice comes out raw and rough. Geralt hates the sound of it. "If you wanted me naked in your lap, all you had to do was ask."

He's bleary and still looks half-alive, still too cold and pale for Geralt's comfort, but he's okay. Geralt could cry with relief. Instinctively, he hauls Jaskier closer, bundles him up against his chest and buries his face in his neck. It's another hour or so before either of them moves and then it's only for Jaskier to pull his cold fingers from Geralt's chest.

"Put them back," Geralt mumbles and Jaskier pulls back to look at him - as much as Geralt will allow.

"You always get mad when I touch you with my cold fingers," he mumbles. Geralt brings his own hand up, slipping his fingers between Jaskier's and lifts his hand. Without thinking, he presses a soft kiss to his palm, lingering longer than he should as he mumbles,

"I never will again, I promise.

[pillage-and-lute]

Thicker Than Water (Part 5)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, (here) Part 6, Part 7,  Part 8

Ao3 link HERE

Happy to announce that Thicker Than Water will be getting a companion piece from Geralt’s POV called The Blood of the Covenant, but probably not for a little while, because it’s still in the very early stages yet.

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The three days to  Ard Carraigh were torture for Jaskier, and yet they were almost numb. He’d finished his story for Ciri and was talking less. Part of his brain delighted in it. Talking less would make Geralt like him, he was being good, not being too much. He knew, though, he was just too tired to talk. 

It seemed that a weight had taken up residence in his chest. Many weights had, the feeling of being a burden, the constant ache of rejection, but this was a new feeling, cold and heavy and hot all at the same time. He was slower too. Jaskier tried, he tried so hard, but he needed a new cloak and better boots and even with them he got the sense that his body just...couldn’t go any faster.

Since only Geralt had a horse, he’d taken to walking alongside Roach, rather than riding her. Ciri was happy to skip ahead and come back and walk all around so that she probably walked twice the distance Jaskier did. Sometimes she took Jaskier by the hand as if trying to pull him along, and he’d smile at her and trot a few paces to the front of the group, but he just couldn’t manage more.

He wondered if it was because he wasn’t eating much. Jaskier knew he needed food, but he just wasn’t hungry, and wasting food on someone who wasn’t hungry for it wouldn’t get him into Geralt’s good graces.

They day before they reached Ard Carraigh the first snow had fallen. It was tiny and wet and gone by the time the sun was fully above the horizon, but it crunched underfoot and set a chill into Jaskier’s bones. He’d eaten a little more heavily than he had lately at breakfast that day, and he wondered if that was why his body felt so heavy.  He was unable to stop himself from falling to the back of their little group, even with Ciri’s coaxing. 

Once, when she tugged at his hand he chuckled and jokingly said, “Little lady, please spare an old man such exertion,” with a funny little bow, then exaggeratedly put his hand on his back, as if he were too geriatric to straighten fully. When Ciri giggled at that he mimed hobbling along with a cane, and moving his lips as though he were toothless and gumming at something. She laughed, bright and clear, and even Yennefer smiled. Geralt’s eyebrows lowered, though. It wasn’t an angry face, but it wasn’t a happy one and Jaskier couldn’t parse it out. 

As the day wore on Jaskier felt the cold. His traveling cloak had seen too many winters and wouldn’t bear another one. It was patched and dirty and worn so very thin. The wind bit at Jaskier, feeding off of him, feeling like it was freezing the very air inside his lungs. No matter how he tucked his cloak around him, no matter that his doublet was buttoned all the way to his chin, Jaskier felt frozen. 

He slowed down, feeling panic rising in his throat. He was too slow, he was going too slow. His mind hurtled backwards in time. Those times that he’d woken up to an empty camp, with Geralt packed up and leaving while he slept. Waking up in inn rooms that had held two people when he fell asleep, only to find himself alone, all of Geralt’s posessions gone. 

He was going to get left behind again.

His legs were lead, though. There was very little that hurt more than Geralt leaving him behind, but maybe it would be for the best. He felt like he’d just fall forward onto the frosty ground and stay there. The little family could go on and he could just stay, dissolving into the leaf mold. 

Ciri would worry though. She’d come back and take his hand and he knew if he stopped he couldn’t get up again and she’d worry. She might even cry. Making Ciri cry, those big green eyes filling up because of him, that would be worse, even than being left behind. Hurting Ciri would be worse than anything. 

Jaskier found a few more steps. 

It was like turning a crank handle that never did anything, or riding a horse all day, but every time he thought of Ciri, lip trembling, he could continue. 

When it was almost evening he slowed further. He was maybe twenty paces behind Yennefer and Geralt. Yen, despite looking much better, was still not healed, and walked slower than her standard, brisk pace. Geralt, of course, walked at her side. Jaskier considered that twenty paces was good enough. The wind was behind them and it almost seemed to push him forward, digging icy fingers through his cloak. 

Part of him fretted for his lute in the cold weather, even inside the case, but what did it matter. He would sell her in less than a day. 

He wasn’t going to cry about it. Tears prickled at his eyes but he wouldn’t let them fall. Not one. Because there was Ciri, up ahead, so bright in her Cintran blue cloak. She’d found a stick and was stabbing at imaginary villains. Jaskier would do anything for her. He would make it to Ard Carraigh, he would make it up the mountain and to the keep. He would even sell his lute. 

His body had other ideas. 

Jaskier stumbled on a root, hidden under fallen leaves. He fell, one knee down, the opposite hand catching him against the ground. It was like Atlas, carrying the world, as if a weight was pressing him down. He couldn’t stand back up. 

Ciri trotted over and took his other hand. His fingers were stiff and going blue, but he wrapped his hand around her mitten, which was slightly too big for her hand. He stood, Ciri tugging him slightly.

He smiled wanly at her and she grinned back. 

It happened again, though, only a few more paces along. Bumps and ditches that would normally mean nothing overrode his weakening limbs and shaky balence. He stumbled and fell, catching himself again and feeling the cold ground ache his knee where it hit. 

His head spun. 

Ciri was tugging at his hand but his ears were ringing. Something big and warm wrapped around him. It was slightly rough fabric, and it smelled like horse. Geralt’s cloak was sturdy enough to block the wind and the hood over Jaskier’s head warmed his ears. 

Jaskier’s eyes were open but he wasn’t seeing anything. He could feel, though. There were arms around him, warm, big arms, cradling him as easily as if he were a sack of flour. He recognized the feeling, too, from more than a decade ago, when blood had welled from his throat and Geralt had held him. Jaskier felt the lift as Geralt mounted Roach, settling  his head into the crook of Geralt’s neck.

“We’ll stay in an inn in Ard Carriagh,” Geralt was saying. Jaskier didn’t care. He was too tired to care even that he was being a burden, because his eyes slid shut and Geralt was holding him as though he were something precious.

As if Jaskier were something to be cared for.

-- -- -- -- -- --

Jaskier woke up in an inn room. Alone. 

His heart raced, tears welling in his eyes. He’d been a burden. He couldn’t keep up and they’d left him in some inn and moved on. The blankets were suffocating and he kicked them away, getting tangled in them. He could hardly see for the tears in his eyes. They’d left him. He hadn’t been good enough, not fast enough or strong enough and they’d gone. Even Ciri.

“Jaskier?”

Geralt was standing in the doorway. 

“Uh, Geralt, hi, wasn’t expecting you here.” It was the truth.

“...I heard your heartbeat.” 

Of course, his heart had been beating out of his chest, it was only now calming down.

“Oh, well,” Jaskier said, trying to play it off. “Woke up in this room and I didn’t recognize where I was.”

“Hmmm,” Geralt said. “You passed out.”

Jaskier hung his head and fought tears again, feeling hot shame seep down his neck. He’d failed. He’d really failed. All that work to not be a burden and it was all down the drain. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking down at his hands. I’ll do better, he thought. I can do better please don’t leave me behind. Please don’t take me off your hands.

He didn’t say it. It was battered and broken and worth very, very little, but he still had some pride.

“You’ve been eating little,” Geralt said. There was an undertone there, a soft undercurrent of something else. Jaskier didn’t know what it meant but he wanted to sink into it and wrap it around himself.

“I just haven’t been hungry,” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I would faint, I just truly wasn’t hungry.”

Geralt shrugged awkwardly. “We would have stopped here anyway, Ciri needs it.” 

“Is she alright? You’re not disguised, is that safe?”

Geralt shook his head. “I am disguised, you can just see through it.” Geralt shook his head again, a little more dramatically, and just for a second it was as if the magic needed time to catch up, and his hair and eyes were dark, a full beard covering his face.

“Woah,” Jaskier said. 

“It tired Yen out,” Geralt grunted. “So don’t annoy her.”

Right. With the almost easy companionship and tentative worry Jaskier had almost forgotten. He was just an annoyance.

Jaskier stood, fighting his spinning head. “Right,” he said, glancing out the window at the water light. “Morning, and I have things to do, so...” He picked up his lute in her case and...

And they were in Ard Carriagh. Where Jaskier needed to sell her. 

“I might just tune up this lovely lady,” he said, sinking back onto the bed and cradling the case. 

“Yen is consulting on an apothecary’s question,” Geralt said. He was standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, like at any moment he would either sit down or leave.

“Good for her,” Jaskier said, not looking up from the lute case as he flicked open it’s latches, savoring the familiar click. 

“Ciri is with her.”

“That’s good, she’s safe then.” Jaskier dragged his fingers over a scratch on the wood, it was thin and long, but had no effect on her sound.

“So you have to stay with me.”

“Why?” Jaskier let his index finger curl over the lovely inlay work on her front. In his opinion, it was unmatched, but what did he know of wood working?

“To be safe,” Geralt said, still in his odd posture.

“I can take care of myself.” Jaskier, looking down at his lute, felt, rather than saw the skeptical eyebrow raise. “I’ll just eat something and be right as rain, promise.”

“I’m going with you.”

“Fine.”

Jaskier strummed one sweet chord and closed the case. No need to torture himself further. He stood and adjusted his clothes. He’d slept in them, but there was nothing nicer for him to wear. Then, he proceeded down to the taproom on the first floor of the inn. Geralt followed like a shadow. A very tall, broody shadow.

They ate in silence.

The taproom was well packed, but early enough that no one was rowdy. Between the spaces of their unhappy silence, Jaskier could hear the inkeeper complaining about the maid going off to get married and leaving him shorthanded.

It was a while since Jaskier had been to Ard Carriagh, but he had a good memory, and walked quickly through the winding streets to the luthier. His breakfast wasn’t sitting well, it was too much and too little all at once and he felt sick, but he said nothing. Any bard was an actor and Jaskier was the best. He was fine. The luthier’s shop was between a ladies clothing store and a jewelry store, tucked in and not as well kept as the shops on either side.

There was a bell above the door and it jangled as Jaskier stepped in, Geralt just behind. 

“Lute strings,” Geralt said, looking around. “Can you afford that.”

“No,” Jaskier said simply. “I’m selling my lute.”

The words burned like acid. The pit of his stomach rolled like he’d swallowed one of Geralt’s disgusting potions, but he knew his face was totally impassive.

Geralt’s however, twisted. It looked like panic, anger, and pain all at once. It looked like Jaskier felt. He almost looked to check that Geralt hadn’t dropped something heavy on his foot to make that face.

“Ooh, you wish to sell,” said the shopkeeper, next to a display of gitara picks. “The case looks very good but let’s see...”

He reached forward. His hands were pale and sweaty, fingers grabbing and outstretched and Jaskier wanted to step back, yearned to clutch his lute case to his chest rather than relinquish his beautiful girl to this man. 

He set the case on top of a glass display case instead. The clasps clicked under his unwilling fingers. The lid creaked.

“Oh, what a lute,” the shopkeeper said. He stroked the strings and Jaskier noticed his dirty fingernails. “rather mediocre condition, though...”

Jaskier wanted to audibly scoff. His lute was in mint condition, apart from the single scratch, and he knew it.

Geralt snapped the lid of the case shut, nearly catching the shop owner’s fingers. “He won’t sell it.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t buy it,” the owner protested. “Beautiful lute. Elven made?”

Jaskier nodded grudgingly. It wasn’t fair, but he didn’t like this man.

The shopkeeper hummed. “I thought so, I would probably have the frontal piece,” he opened the case again and traced the wood with the inlay. “Removed. For use on a different lute.”

Chop her up?

Geralt shut the lid again, more carefully this time, but somehow the slower closing felt angrier, rather than calmer. 

“He’s not selling. We’re leaving.”

He lifted Jaskier nearly off the ground, taking the case in one arm and gripping the bard by the back of his collar with the other hand. Jaskier spluttered as he was frog marched out of the shop.

“I was going to sell it!” He protested, back out in the watery sunlight. He clutched at his lute case, though, as Geralt pressed it back into his arms.

Geralt’s jaw was tense and his lips were thin. 

“No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“You aren’t selling your lute.”

Jaskier felt guilty and relieved all at once. Here was Geralt  saying he didn’t have to sell his lute. He was free of that burden, but they also needed to purchase a cart and supplies. He himself needed a cloak, boots, and gloves. Probably a hat and scarf as well. The pair ambled, unhappily silent yet again, to the center of town. Jaskier glanced at the notice board. 

“Ghoul problem,” he noted.

“No.”

“You need a contract, they have a harpy issue too, looks like. Two contracts, Geralt.”

“You have to stay with me--”

“And you won’t take me into danger, blah blah,” Jaskier rolled his eyes. He knew he was being a pest, but two contracts would likely solve their money problem. Hopefully. Not for sure.

“You should go back to the inn,” Geralt said. “I would do the contracts, they’re quick, then get you.”

An idea glimmered in Jaskier’s mind. He yawned. “Yeah,” he said. “That sounds good, I’m pretty tired still.” It wasn’t a lie because Geralt could basically smell those. Going back to the inn did sound good, and Jaskier was definitely still tired.

Geralt huffed, and they walked back to the inn. It was too late for breakfast and early for lunch, so the little taproom was basically deserted. Geralt hummed again, pressed one hand onto Jaskier’s shoulder as if trying to stick him to the floor, then left.

Jaskier walked up to the inkeeper. 

“Hi there,” he tried. He was too tired to really flirt, but the inkeeper put down his barcloth at least.

“What?”

“I couldn’t help but overhear that you’re a little short handed at the moment...” he let the sentence linger. 

The inkeeper scoffed. He was a big, red faced man with red hair to match, and when he scoffed his whole torso moved with it. “You want to do a little work for some coin, then,” he said. He didn’t sound opposed to the idea, though, so Jaskier beamed at him.

“Absolutely sir, I’m a very helpful--”

“I’ll not have you around food,” the man cut in. “That man brought you in half dead and you still look pale. Bad business getting customers sick.”

Oh. Jaskier deflated. 

“Got a water barrel needs filling though, so’s long as you don’t cough in the water. Privies need cleaning too.”

They haggled a little over the pay, but Jaskier was a world class haggler. Finally the man slapped his hands on the bar top. “Fine,” he said. “And a meal for you thrown in if you get the privies really clean. One for the little lass too.”

“She eats a lot,” Jaskier warned. He felt it was only fair, considering he would be paid decently for his work. To his surprise the man grinned. 

“My youngest does too, eats like a lion and she’s only nine. I’ll have as many helpings as your daughter wants, no problem.”

Jaskier thanked him profusely and the inkeeper waved his hand. “Just consider playing something tonight at supper, brings in customers. And get that privy really clean, mind.”

Jaskier, figuring he wouldn’t find a better deal that day, hightailed it out of there to look at the water barrell.

It was a big barrel. It would need between thirty and fourty buckets of water to fill it, and it was empty right down to the bottom. The well was at the center of town, like wells tended to be, and the inn wasn’t close, but there was a pump in the inn’s yard.. Jaskier sighed, rolled his aching shoulders, rocked slightly on his aching feet, and began to pump.

One bucket at a time, Jaskier filled the water barrell in just under two hours, feeling blisters form on his hands from all the pumping. Then he filled two more buckets and went to the privies. 

Yuck.

He sloshed one bucket each into the men’s and women’s privies and went back to the inn to ask for some soap and a scrub brush. Then the real work began. Scrubbing the wooden walls and floors of the fetid outhouses was backbreaking, and of course he had to pause every time a patron wanted to use them, but the grime came off the wood eventually and Jaskier was willing to work hard sometimes. He wasn’t being a burden.

An unintended benefit of the work was that Jaskier’s mind was temporarily taken off of how miserable he felt. HIs chest still rattled a little, and he was tired beyond belief, but maybe all he’d needed was a full meal after all.

It was late afternoon when he fetched the inkeeper to inspect the privies, and the man nodded in approval at them. Then he gave Jaskier one last task.

“Fill that tin tub by the door with water and put it over the fire there,” he said, pointing to one of the two large fires the inn’s kitchen had. “Then haul it upstairs and bathe because you smell like a privy yourself.”

Jaskier grinned tiredly and took the offered coin before doing just that, wincing as his aching muscles protested. When the water was warm but not boiling he took the small tub upstairs to his room and washed what he could. It wasn’t a big enough tub to properly bathe in, but with soap and a rag he managed to at least get clean.

He tipped the tub out and replaced it in it’s spot then curled up in the inn bed in a change of clothes, dozing. He’d been there perhaps a quarter of an hour before Geralt tapped on the door.

Geralt looked at him. “You’re clean,” he said.

Jaskier shrugged. “Struck a deal with the innkeeper. Contracts done?” Geralt held up a bag of coin in answer. 

It was odd, he thought. It was like normal, almost. Walking along at Geralt’s side. Several times he had to bite his tongue to keep from commenting on this or that. It was so hard to remember that they weren’t friends, or at least travelling companions. Whatever they had been before the whole...dragon hunt thing. His brain argued that they were still traveling companions now, and it was true, but only in the literal sense. Geralt didn’t want him around.

It got easier to remember because Yennefer rejoined them, Ciri trotting at her heels.

“Julian,” Yennefer said, using his real, more innocuous name. “Cleaned up I see, and dressed in finery,” it was a jab, although not very sharp. His clothes were worn and badly patched. “Going to go cuckold some poor husband?” It was said lightly and Jaskier smiled. 

“How do you know I haven’t already,” he said. Yennefer laughed, but Geralt growled.

“Are you and your conquests going to get us thrown out of town?”

Jaskier startled, skittering a few steps away in shock at the low, angry tone. “I was only kidding,” he protested, but he cursed his stupid mouth, always running ahead of his brain. Just like that, it seemed, the brief truce had broken, and he was back to being a shit shoveler once more.

Ciri slipped her mitten into Jaskier’s hand. “Yennefer says I need a hat,” she said. 

“I need one too,” Jaskier confided. “Why don’t you and I go get hats and scarves while those two grab other supplies.”

“You aren’t going off on your own,” Geralt growled and Jaskier wanted to flinch, but then Ciri would notice.

“I’d be only a street away,” Jaskier said. “I’ll look after her.”

“Can’t even look after yourself,” Geralt snapped. Jaskier did flinch that time, just a little bit. It was true, though. He was kind of worthless, especially if there was a fight.

“We’ll all go,” Yennefer said, glaring pointedly at Geralt. Jaskier wondered what that was about.

They all went. Jaskier paid for his new cloak, hat, and gloves, and ignored Geralt asking where he got the money.

“Did you steal it?” Gerals said, quietly, so Ciri wouldn’t hear. Jaskier sniffed.

“I’m not a thief.” 

Geralt dropped it, but his expression was stormy. 

They bought a small cart, light enough for Roach to pull by herself, and some more supplies. Yennefer even bought Jaskier new boots.

“Just giving advice on apothecarial matters is worth a hefty fee,” she explained. “I have plenty of coin.” Pleasantly surprised, Jaskier thanked her. When he tried the boots on in the shop he made a show of how much he liked them, going over the top until he heard Ciri giggle. Mission accomplished, because he made Yen smile too. 

Geralt didn’t smile.

Back at the inn Jaskier ate a big dinner, even as his stomach rolled, and delighted in seeing Ciri do the same. They were all well fed, but seeing Ciri’s delight in getting a second helping was worth any amount of blisters, or privies. 

He played after dinner, although he barely felt up to doing so, and of course was careful to avoid all mentions of the white wolf. He winked at a few patrons and even the inkeeper just out of habit. Then he ended his set early.

“Any reviews?” he asked his table, cheekily. “Three words or less?”

“Tolerable,” Yen said, smiling widely. She looked younger when she did that.

“Great,” Ciri chimed in. 

“Should’ve sold it,” Geralt grunted. Jaskier felt ice slip down his spine.

“What?”

“Should’ve sold the lute,” Geralt growled, lowly. 

Jaskier’s fingers wrapped around the strap his lute hung from, feeling hurt well up like spring water.

“No,” Yen snapped. “You two go outside and sort that out, I’m not dealing with it. Ciri and I will finish our dinner while you idiots figure this out between yourselves.”

Jaskier obeyed, feeling the heat of shame and hurt in his face and longing for some fresh air. Geralt lumbered out behind him. 

The night was cold and felt icy against Jaskier’s burning face but he turned to Geralt fuming.

“What the hell,” he said. “You tell me not to sell the lute, then you make me sit at the inn all day like a child, then you tell me I should have sold it after all? Do you hate me that much or do you just like seeing me do things wrong?”

“Better you sell the lute than whore yourself,” Geralt growled. 

That was so far from what Jaskier was expecting that he actually stepped back. “What?”

“Struck a deal with the innkeeper? All that coin? And you move like your knees are bruised,” Geralt said, jaw moving tightly. 

“I didn’t have sex with the inkeeper!” Jaskier said, half amused. “I didn’t have sex with anyone. I thought we needed the money, so I cleaned the privies, that’s why my knees are stiff. My hands are sore too!”

Geralt took one hand and turned it over to see the red, irritated skin. 

“You--?”

“No,” Jaskier interrupted. “I don’t care what you have to say.” Even though he did, he cared so much. “First of all, don’t pretend that there is anything wrong with prostitution, we both know you visit those ladies from time to time. Second, even if I was having sex with someone, for money or not, it isn’t any of your business, and third, nothing about your assumptions gives you any right to be so...so rude!”

Jaskier was ashamed to feel tears leaking from his eyes but right now he was angry, so angry and hurt, so he just kept going. 

“I am sorry,” he said, softly. “That life couldn’t give you the blessing you wanted, but the least you could do is not make this worse for both of us.”

Jaskier turned on his heel and went back to his room, where he curled up and cried himself to sleep. 

He was awoken later by a tap on the door. It was Yennefer and Ciri standing in the hallway.

“She wants to be with you,” Yennefer said.

Ciri sat on the bed and looked up at Jaskier with wide eyes. Jaskier sat next to eachother.

“Dandelion,” Ciri said, using her special name for Jaskier. “Do you hate Geralt?”

Jaskier sighed and hugged her close. “Not at all,” he said, truthfully. “But it’s like I said, bards aren’t welcome forever, it’s just how it is, and I’ve overstayed my welcome a little bit.”

“No you haven’t,” Ciri said into his shoulder. “I think you’re welcome. I want you around.”

“Thank you, little highness.”

“Geralt doesn’t hate you, I’m sure of it, he was really worried about you when you fainted.”

“He worries about everyone, that’s just the way he is,” Jaskier said. Geralt had a big heart, even if those feelings came out gruffly, he was a real hero. He just couldn’t stand Jaskier so long as Jaskier was concious.

“When my grandmother was worried,” Ciri began. “She could seem sort of mean, she’d yell or snap and it was scary unless you knew that she was just scared. Maybe Geralt was scared for you.”

Jaskier wished it was so. Could almost believe it was true. Ciri didn’t know about the dragon hunt though. She didn’t know he was a shit shoveler. Didn’t know about Geralt’s unfulfilled blessing.

Jaskier curled on his side, letting Ciri bury her head into his shoulder until she fell asleep. Eventually, face solemn but eyes dry, Jaskier slept too.

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I promise, I PROMISE Geralt isn’t trying to be an asshole. Like I said, I intend to write this from his POV as well, he’s just worried for Jaskier and thought that Jaskier had prostituted himself, despite his illness, becuase he wanted to earn them money. Geralt felt so guilty that Jaskier would do that and, well, he’s not good with emotions and can’t control his tone well, so it came out like he hates Jaskier. He just loves him very much and is very worried about him. He also thinks Jaskier hates him because he tried to sell his lute, which Geralt also sees as a tie between him and Jaskier, so it hurt his feelings.

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[longing-and-heartache-and-lust]

the drug, the dark, the light, the flame, Ch.XIII

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First day of the final week of posting my work for this year’s @geraskierbigbang in collaboration with my favourite @gen-syz-art as my artist 💕

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My love.

Geralt keeps thinking about it the entire time it takes him to change out of his clothes into the shirt that he usually sleeps in and overall get ready for bed. It’s not even midnight yet, but he feels absolutely exhausted.

He didn’t really mean to say it so soon.

It’s true, of course, and it’s way too late to deny that he loves Jaskier with his entire being, but actually admitting it to him seemed… terrifying.

And while Geralt knows that calling him “my love” and actually confessing his feelings are two different things, for him, utterly inexperienced in either, it’s still just on the verge of overwhelming.

He goes through the process of getting ready for bed as fast as he can, knowing that Jaskier is waiting for him in his own bedroom and unwilling to leave him alone for too long. He still looked so shaken when they parted on the staircase, so exhausted with his own memories and emotions, that all Geralt really wants to do it to hide Jaskier in his arms and keep him safe there until he feels better again.

Geralt remembers the way to Jaskier’s bedroom just as well as the way to the downstairs library, even though he’d only been there once. Down the hall, up the stairs to the fifth floor, and then to the left, all the way into the far end of the west wing.

It’s a little cold in the corridors but Jaskier had given him a heavy, warm dressing gown some days before, and though Geralt is still getting used to the feeling of black velvet against his skin, he can’t deny that it keeps out the cold.

Geralt stops in front of the door, and before he can reach up and knock, it opens. The medallion hums against his chest but Geralt has already grown used to the magic that fills the mansion.

Jaskier is already in bed, the warm fur blankets pulled all the way up to his chest, and it takes Geralt everything he’s got not to comment on the number of pillows and cushions that he’s got on his bed.

The room is illuminated only by the fire in the hearth, long shadows slowly swaying on the walls, and it’s so… intimate, that it feels like Jaskier is letting Geralt into his own world, not just a room.

Geralt leaves his robe on an armchair by the bed and slips under the covers, immediately moving closer to Jaskier. Asra and Lucio, already half-asleep by the bard’s side, flick their ears at him but move towards the other end of the bed, giving him space.

Jaskier finds his way into the witcher’s arms easily.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he murmurs, almost inaudibly, tucking his face into the curve of Geralt’s shoulder, his warm breath ghosting over the witcher’s skin.

Geralt wraps his arms around him tighter and adjusts the covers, placing a gentle kiss on Jaskier’s temple. He smells like himself again, without those sharp notes of fear, and if there’s still that lingering heartache somewhere under the familiar vanilla and dried herbs, it’s growing fainter.

Jaskier is only wearing an oversized shirt and smallclothes, and Geralt finds it very hard not to concentrate on the feeling of his warm skin against his own when the bard settles in more comfortably and tangles their legs together. It would’ve been easier had it not been the first time them being this close.

Unable to help himself, Geralt lets one of his hands slip from Jaskier's waist and onto his thigh, brushing his fingers over the soft skin there and squeezing just enough to feel resistance.

Jaskier huffs a quiet laugh, nosing at Geralt’s neck and, though he still sounds exhausted, it makes warmth spread through Geralt’s chest.

“Enjoying yourself, Witcher?” he teases, touching his lips to Geralt’s neck.

Geralt hums an affirmative, brushing his thumb back and forth over the bard’s thigh. It’s perfect to the touch.

Jaskier shifts just a little, moving even closer to Geralt, and throws one leg over his hips, giving the witcher better access. Something possessive deep inside Geralt’s chest purrs in satisfaction and curls into a ball.

He doesn’t allow himself anything more, knowing that now is not the time and that both of them are too worn-out by the conversation in the library anyways, but it feels nice to be this close, to know that Jaskier is comfortable with him.

“You don’t have to hide anything from me,” he says after a few seconds. “No matter what it is, Jask.”

Jaskier falls silent for a long moment, slowly tracing circles onto Geralt’s chest before finally pressing his lips to the witcher’s neck one more time, warm and gentle.

“I know,” he says. “It’s just-- hard sometimes.”

He raises his head from Geralt’s shoulder to look at him, and shifts forward, catching Geralt’s lips in a long kiss, making him forget about everything else.

“What do you say we stay in bed for a couple of days, hm?” he murmurs, running his hand through Geralt’s hair to find the leather strip holding it together and untie it without looking. “Just you and me.”

Oh, that sounds like everything Geralt could even want.

He hums in agreement, never breaking away from Jaskier’s lips and not even trying to suppress the little shiver that runs down his back when the bard unties his hair and runs his fingers through it to smooth out the silver locks.

Jaskier breaks away first, leaving one last quick kiss on the witcher’s lips, and settles into his arms again, closing his eyes.

“Will you hold me like this through the night?” he asks. “Will you be able to sleep?”

Geralt snorts and smooths a hand down Jaskier’s thigh.

“I’m a witcher, Jask. I can sleep in just about every position you can imagine, including standing up. Surely, I won’t have trouble falling asleep with your weight in my arms.”

Jaskier looks up at him for the sheer purpose of rolling his eyes, but there is a smile tugging on the corners of his lips that helps Geralt keep his worry at bay.

“Alright,” Jaskier nods, tugging the blankets over his shoulders and hiding his face in the soft furs. “Goodnight then, my darling.”

Geralt leans down to touch his lips to the bard’s hair one last time before settling into the countless pillows and cushions more comfortably and closing his eyes with a content sigh.

He stays awake until Jaskier falls asleep, guarding his peace and listening to the bard’s deep, even breathing, and as soon as he feels sure that nothing will disturb them, he, too, slips into pleasant darkness.

***

Geralt wakes a few hours after the sunrise, warm and comfortable.

Before he even opens his eyes, he registers the pleasant weight on his chest, the warmth of someone else’s breath against his skin, and the familiar scent of dried herbs and vanilla.

Jaskier is still asleep, his head resting against Geralt’s shoulder and one arm thrown across his waist. He’d barely moved since he fell asleep, and when Geralt shifts on the pillows, he can still feel his leg hooked over his hips.

There’s a low, soft thrum of pleasure coursing through Geralt’s veins, and it takes him a few very long seconds to realise with bashful urgency that he’s half-hard against the soft flesh of Jaskier’s inner thigh.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, praying to every god he knows that the bard won’t wake up before he gets the chance to calm his body down.

He closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath to try and get control over his body back. It’s not like it’s anything new, and it’s certainly not limited down to him of all men, but he still can’t help the heat crawling up his chest and towards his cheeks.

What he doesn’t take into consideration, however, is that every time his chest rises and then falls as he breathes, his shoulders move with it, disturbing Jaskier’s sleep.

When he finally realises, it’s way too late.

“Geralt?--” Jaskier murmurs softly, still half-asleep.

Fuck.

Geralt makes his entire body go absolutely still, not even breathing, but Jaskier arches his back, stretching as he wakes, and as his thigh presses closer to the witcher’s hips, Geralt can’t bite back a shaky breath.

“What did I-- oh,” Jaskier whispers. “Oh.”

Jaskier shifts, not even trying to hide that he does it deliberately, and Geralt groans with something between pleasure and shame. He can feel the blood spilling over his cheeks, and reaches down to grip Jaskier’s thigh, making him stay in one place.

“Is that blush I see on your cheeks, Witcher?” Jaskier grins, significantly more awake now as he props himself up on one elbow. “Or are my eyes deceiving me?”

With little to no effort, he twists out of Geralt’s grip to straddle his hips and lean in closer, brushing his thumb over the witcher’s cheekbone before touching his lips to it, making Geralt shut his eyes against the windstorm of emotions rising in his chest.

It’s all so new and so, so much that it’s almost unbearable.

“Is it something you’ve dreamed of?” Jaskier prompts, pressing his nose to Geralt’s cheek to get his attention. “Or is it just me?”

With much effort, Geralt makes himself open his eyes and meet Jaskier’s.

“It’s you,” he says, barely even registering as his hands come up to rest on the bard’s thighs. “Your scent, your warmth, the weight of your body against mine. It’s hard to control myself when you’re this close.”

Jaskier makes a pleased little sound somewhere in the back of his throat and rolls his hips against Geralt’s, tearing a choked moan out of him. Before Geralt can say anything, his lips are already captured in a long, soft kiss.

“Well,” Jaskier murmurs against his mouth. “I suppose this will save me having to take the first step, hm? Because gods, Witcher, I’ve wanted you for months , and I don’t want to wait any longer.”

He breaks away just enough to get a proper look at Geralt, and it’s all that Geralt can do not to chase his lips again immediately. Jaskier’s words get right under his skin, burn through his veins, and he can’t suppress a shiver that runs down his back.

He sits up straighter, resting his back against the pillows, and pulls Jaskier closer to his chest, until there’s barely a breath between them.

“Are you sure?” he asks softly.

It almost hurts, just how much he wants him, but he needs to be sure, needs to do this right. After all, it’s almost like an entirely new experience - sharing the bed with someone that you love. It’s not just sex, and he wants them both to feel that way.

Jaskier throws his arms around the witcher’s neck and pulls him into a warm kiss, smiling against his lips.

“I’m sure,” he murmurs, breaking away.

And, by the gods, how could anybody refuse?

Geralt wraps an arm around the small of Jaskier’s back and props himself up, flipping them both around to lie the bard down onto the pillows and cushions, keeping him as close as he only can. He dips his head down and catches Jaskier’s parted lips in a gentle, comforting kiss, barely suppressing a low moan when the bard spreads his knees for Geralt to settle in-between.

He only breaks away to take in a shallow breath, and then slots their mouths together, again and again, until they’re both breathless with it.

He kisses a line down his jaw and neck, comforting rather than thrilling, and nips at the smooth skin of the curve of Jaskier’s shoulder, making him gasp and then laugh, running his fingers through the witcher’s loose hair.  

Somewhere behind them on the bed, one of the dogs sneezes as it wakes up, and Geralt stops, giving them both a look over his shoulder before turning to Jaskier again.

“Will they mind too much if we send them away?” he asks.

Jaskier rolls his eyes in fond exasperation.

“What, you dislike being watched?” he teases but quickly raises his hands in surrender when Geralt nips at his shoulder again, a little harder. “Alright-alright, give me a second.”

Jaskier clicks his tongue, getting the attention of both dogs, and moves his wrist through the air, opening the door of the bedroom. They both give him a little look, flicking their ears, clearly unwilling to get out of a warm bed, but Jaskier tilts his head expectantly, and that does the trick.

“Go on,” he tells them. “Arthur will let you out into the gardens.”

Both Asra and Lucio give them what Geralt could swear is an accusatory look, but jump down from the bed and disappear behind the door, regardless.  

“You’re gonna be the one apologising to them,” Jaskier warns, moving his wrist again to close the door and turn the key, locking it.

“I shall be repentant, then,” Geralt grins with exaggerated theatre. “For I fear nothing less will suffice.”

Jaskier laughs and pulls him into a kiss, most likely to shut him up, but Geralt can’t quite find it in him to mind. He kisses back, slowly and sweetly, leaning into the touch when Jaskier runs his hand down his back.

There isn’t much clothing to separate them, but Geralt doesn’t rush, despite the fire in his chest gradually growing hotter and spreading through his veins.

He takes his time with really learning the taste of Jaskier’s lips, obediently parting his own when the bard runs his tongue over them, and then takes even longer with discovering what little sound he can coax out of Jaskier’s chest if he licks into his mouth just right.

Jaskier melts in his arms like a lit candle, leaning into every touch and arching his back to be closer.

He throws his head back to give Geralt more access when the witcher moves on to his neck again, and breaks off into breathless little moans every time Geralt sucks a mark into his skin, slow and deliberate. It makes Geralt’s head spin.

He slowly makes his way down Jaskier’s neck, keeping himself propped up on one elbow, and when there is no open space left, pulls on the lace keeping the front of Jaskier’s shirt closed. It sends a thrill through his entire body - undressing him.

Jaskier keeps one of his hands in Geralt’s hair, playing with the long strands and pulling on them just right when he wants another kiss in the same spot, while his other hand slips under the fabric of Geralt’s shirt.

“Have you thought of me like this?” he asks, arching off the bed when Geralt kisses over a particularly sensitive spot just above his collarbone.

Of course Geralt has.

Almost ever since they met, he couldn’t stop thinking about what it would feel like to get Jaskier into his bed, strip him of all his expensive silks and take him apart. Couldn’t stop thinking about all the little sounds that he’d be able to coax out of him, each next one louder than the one before.

“I have,” he admits, nosing at the bard’s neck. “Had a dream about it once.”

He doesn’t have to look to know that Jaskier’s eyes light up with interest at that.

“You had a dream about being in bed with me?”

Geralt hums an affirmative, opening the front of Jaskier’s shirt as far as he can and running a line of soft, dry kisses down the centre of his chest, smoothing his hand up his thigh. He’s not going to tell Jaskier the details, of course, but it’s nice to tease him just a little.

“And what did you-- ah, gods,” Jaskier breathes, biting his lower lip as Geralt sucks a mark onto his collarbone. “What did you do to me in that dream?”

Geralt raises his head, considering whether or not to tell the bard anything more, and Jaskier pulls him down to his lips immediately.

“You’ll have to wait and see,” Geralt grins after he breaks away.

Jaskier gives him a gorgeous little whimper but doesn’t ask again, letting the witcher go back to his chest.

Geralt pays special attention to Jaskier’s collarbones, sucking marks into them and then licking over the bruised skin to soothe the pain. He’s fully hard under the thin fabric of his smallclothes, mind hazy with pleasure, but they’ve got nowhere to rush.

Carefully, he runs his hand up Jaskier’s forearm before lacing their fingers together and bringing Jaskier’s hand up to his lips to press a kiss to his knuckles, catching and holding his gaze.

“May I?” he asks, smoothing his thumb over the lace holding the cuff of Jaskier’s sleeve tight around his wrist.    

Jaskier falls silent for a long moment, eyes searching, before he nods.

“Yeah,” he whispers, pulling Geralt into another kiss. “I’ve got nothing to hide anymore.”

He never takes his eyes off the witcher as Geralt undoes the lacing on his sleeve and rolls it up, exposing the tender skin and the long line of a scar underneath.

Geralt’s heart skips a beat at the sight but he makes himself stay calm, keeping his emotions at bay, and dips his head to run a line of soft kisses up the inner side of Jaskier’s forearm. It makes the bard shiver, his breath getting heavier, but he doesn’t recoil.

“You can always stop me, alright?” Geralt reminds softly, shifting to undo the lacing of the other sleeve. “If it ever gets too much.”

Jaskier nods, watching his every move carefully, and, gods, Geralt could drown in those eyes, the pupils blown so wide that there is almost no blue left.

He wants to say that he loves him, that he has never felt this way about anyone before, but the words can’t quite pass his lips. Maybe, it’s not yet time.

Once the lacing gives way, he reaches down to find the hem of Jaskier’s shirt and pull it up, all the way to his chest, not taking it off him just yet, giving them both time to get used to this closeness. He moves lower, running his lips over Jaskier’s stomach, and the bard arches into the touch, biting his lip when Geralt slips a hand under his thigh, holding him in place.

His skin is soft and warm, every line of his body even more perfect than Geralt had imagined, and he allows himself to be just a little greedy about it, nipping at the tender flesh with sharp teeth and then watching the faint red marks bloom over it.

The scent of arousal is thick and heady in the air, and when Geralt makes his way to the band of Jaskier’s smallclothes, he’s not surprised to find him fully hard. Not that Geralt himself is in a different state.

Jaskier spreads his legs even further, giving him better access, and arches off the bed with a breathless moan when Geralt presses a wet kiss to the inner side of his thigh.

“Gods, please--” he pleads, and his voice is so wonderfully sweet that Geralt can’t help but pull him into a proper kiss, finally tugging his shirt off over his head.

And, gods, he’s gorgeous.

In nothing but his smallclothes, with marks scattered all over his neck and shoulders, he looks like he belongs to Geralt. Everything about him: his parted lips, his smooth pale skin, the perfect lines of his muscles and bones, even the scars on his arms - all of that belongs to Geralt and to Geralt alone.

It’s a heady, intoxicating feeling.

Geralt breaks away from the bard’s lips only to find his way back to his chest, listen to the quickened heartbeat, and then graze his teeth over one of the hardened nipples, sucking it into his mouth.

Jaskier throws his head back and whimpers, clasping his ankles behind Geralt’s back and pulling him closer, pressing their hips together. He rocks against him, sending sparks of pleasure up Geralt’s back, and tightens the grip on his hair, his other hand clinging onto the witcher’s shoulder.

Geralt rolls his hips in return, barely able to take in a breath as his cock slips over Jaskier’s, and lets his nipple out of his mouth only to move on to the other one, biting just a little harder before circling his tongue around the sensitive flesh and closing his lips around it.

Jaskier moans, open and loud, his hips snapping forward, and when Geralt finally breaks away, he’s left panting.

“Gods, Jask, I didn’t think you’d be this sensitive,” he murmurs, a pleased little purr to his voice as he helps the bard strip him of his shirt. “Have you ever done this before?”

“Have I ever done-- gods, Geralt, of course, I have,” Jaskier says, shoving the witcher in the shoulder with no real force and flipping them both around to straddle his hips again. “Never wanted anyone as much as you, though.”

Before Geralt can answer, Jaskier already presses his lips to his neck, and all words leave the witcher’s head altogether. Jaskier slips his fingers under the hem of the witcher’s shirt, rucks it up to his chest, touching everywhere he can reach, and tugs Geralt’s shirt off him, letting it drop off the bed and onto the floor.

He runs his gaze over the witcher’s shoulders and chest, all the way down to his abdomen, tracing over the scars with the tips of his fingers, and it sends a shiver down Geralt’s back, making him lean into it.

“Have you thought about me this way?” he asks, smoothing both hands down the bard’s sides as he runs his lips over the curve of his shoulder, paying special attention to the scar there, still not fully healed and overly-sensitive.

Jaskier hums, brushing a lock of hair out of the witcher’s face, and rolls his hips against his, mouth falling open in a soft gasp.

“I have,” he says, sucking a mark into Geralt’s neck, slow and thorough. “That day that you left all those marks on me - do you remember? I went to bed that night and couldn't sleep for what seemed like hours, thinking about you. Wanted to sneak into your room and see what you’d do about it. What would you have done, Witcher? If you’d found me in your bed?”

Geralt runs his hands down the bard’s sides, gets a proper grip of his thighs, holding himself back from leaving bruises, and slips his fingers under the band of his smallclothes, tugging them down until he can wrap a hand around the base of his cock, making Jaskier roll his eyes with pleasure, breaking off into a moan.

“Had I found you in my bed that night, I would’ve made sure you remember it,” he murmurs, slowly moving his hand over the entire length to brush his thumb over the head, making Jaskier shiver and hide his face in the curve of Geralt’s shoulder.

He’s hot and slick beneath Geralt’s fingers, the veins throbbing deliciously, and, gods, Geralt is but a man, and he can’t always control himself.

He takes his hand away, earning a disheartened little whine as a reward, and brings his fingers up to his lips, licking off the precome to learn the taste. Jaskier watches him with darkened eyes and whines breathlessly at the sight, pushing Geralt’s hand away to bite into his lips.

Geralt helps him to finally undress fully, and immediately pulls him closer to flip them both around once more, settling in-between Jaskier’s spread knees. No matter how much he enjoys being the one pressed to the bed, right now he wants to properly study his bard - his prince .  

Jaskier doesn’t seem too opposed to it, either, throwing his head back to grant access to his neck when Geralt leans down to run his tongue over the fresh marks. He strips the witcher of the rest of his clothes before he even really notices, but then their bodies finally slot together without any barriers between them, and they both gasp at the heat of it.

Over the years, Geralt had had many lovers - both men and women, but it has never felt this good to just have someone else’s body next to his.

He stops for a long moment, just letting himself register and feel all the places where they touch, and then tips Jaskier’s chin up to kiss him sweetly on the lips.

“Don’t want you to dress back up ever again,” he murmurs, brushing his nose over the bard’s cheek and then moving on to his neck again in a line of slow kisses.

Jaskier laughs, running the tips of his fingers over Geralt’s side, soft pinpricks of magic making the witcher’s breath stutter, and reaches between their bodies to wrap his fingers over both their cocks, pressing them together and breathing a soft moan.

“We can stay in bed for as long as we want,” he smiles, running his other hand through Geralt’s hair and stroking them both slowly. “And not even think of clothes.”

Pleasure sparks up Geralt’s spine brighter with every move of Jaskier’s wrist, and the fire in his chest is now burning so hot that it’s making it hard to breathe.

He leans into the touch, keeping his balance with one arm, and rolls his hips to meet Jaskier half-way. The bard seems to take that as an encouragement, picking up the pace just enough to have them both panting.

“Fuck, I don’t think I’ll last,” he whispers, biting his lips as Geralt reaches down to switch the bard’s hand for his own. “It’s been long since anyone touched me like this.”

“You don’t have to,” Geralt murmurs softly, touching a comforting kiss to the sharp of the bard’s jaw. “Not with me. I just want you to feel good, hm?”

Jaskier shudders, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s neck, and pulls him closer to hide his face in the curve of his shoulder again. Geralt allows for it without any words, though he’s dying to see the pleasure on the bard’s face, and concentrates on the soft moans that he gives him, instead.

He moves his wrist just a little faster, keeping a steady rhythm, and clenches his fingers tighter every now and then before relaxing the grip, just to tease them both a little, to build up the sensitivity.

His own pleasure grows hotter, sharper, pooling low in his abdomen and threatening to overspill if he’s not careful, but all he can concentrate on is Jaskier.

He brushes his thumb over the tip of his cock, smearing precome over it, slips to the underside, where the tender flesh is even more sensitive, and catches every little sob that falls from Jaskier’s lips, letting the sound flow through his veins with blood.

Jaskier whimpers and moans, rolling his hips to meet Geralt half-way but losing the rhythm of his thrusts almost immediately, clawing at the witcher’s shoulders and sucking marks into the same spot on his shoulder, until it’s so hyper-sensitive that it hurts.

Geralt doesn’t have to see his face to know how close he is, his scent alone is enough.

“Don’t hold back,” Geralt murmurs, nosing at the bard’s tousled hair and pressing a kiss into it, gentle and comforting. “I’ve got you.”

And that is all it takes to push Jaskier over the edge.

He arches off the bed with a breathless moan, sinking his teeth into the witcher’s shoulder, and spills over both their stomachs, holding onto Geralt painfully-tight and trembling all over. Geralt holds him through it, still moving his hand over the length of both their cocks, making the pleasure even sharper, even hotter, just on the right side of too much.

His own cock throbs almost painfully, and it’s getting harder and harder to think, but he still takes his hand away when the aftershocks of orgasm in Jaskier’s body subside and every touch starts bordering on painful.

“You didn’t--” Jaskier starts, but Geralt just pulls him into a kiss, mentally apologising to him for wiping his hand off on the sheets. They’ll ruin them anyway.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, closing his eyes to calm down and nipping at Jaskier’s lower lip. “Witcher stamina, remember?”

Jaskier doesn’t open his eyes to look at him, only hums something and keeps holding Geralt close for a few long, blissful minutes, just breathing. Where their hips are pressed together, he’s still half-hard.

Geralt gives him his time, keeping himself busy with soft, comforting kisses that he peppers all over the bard’s neck and shoulders. He pays extra attention to the fresh marks, most of them already changing from red to a deep purple, and every time he runs his tongue over one of them, Jaskier holds onto him a little tighter.

“Have you ever had anyone else in this bed with you?” he enquires, unable to help himself.

Jaskier reaches down to tip Geralt’s chin towards him and holds his gaze for a few long seconds before pulling the witcher into a long, heartfelt kiss, not letting him go even as all air leaves their lungs. When he does finally break away, it’s with a soft, distinctive sound.

“No,” he says, holding Geralt’s gaze. “Everyone I’ve slept with in this mansion, I’ve slept with in one of the guest rooms. And before you ask - no, never in your room. You’re the first one to stay there.”

He doesn’t let Geralt answer, just pulls him back to his lips, deepening the kiss as he slips his fingers into the witcher’s hair, and, gods, it’s impossible to resist.

They both shift, just enough for Geralt to reach down and catch the bard’s ankle, lifting it up to his shoulder, and Jaskier gasps sweetly but doesn’t resist.

“Checking how flexible I am, Witcher?” he teases even as his breath catches in his throat once Geralt runs his fingers up his thigh.

“I promised to show you what I did to you in that dream, didn’t I?”

Geralt leans in closer, until he’s got his shoulder under the bend of Jaskier’s knee, and wraps his fingers around his cock again, making the bard whimper with overstimulation and snap his hips forward. It’s just what Geralt needs to get his fingers slick and sticky with precome.

“I got you,” he murmurs softly, nosing at Jaskier’s neck as he reaches down between their bodies to brush the tips of two fingers over his hole.

He’s dying to turn Jaskier around, get him onto his knees and see what he would do if he was to press his lips to the mark in his back at the same time as he’d slowly stretch him open, but right now he can’t bring himself to look away from the pleasure on Jaskier’s face.

He circles a finger over the entrance, teasing, and Jaskier leans into it, rolling his hips impatiently. With his other leg, he pulls Geralt in even closer, hooking it over his hips.

“You just love making me wait, don’t you?” he purrs, pressing his lips to Geralt’s neck, right under the sharp of his jaw, and tugging on his hair. “Weren’t all those months enough?”

He looks like he wants to say something else and already takes in a breath, but then Geralt finally pushes a finger inside, and all words fail him. Jaskier moans breathlessly, eyes fluttering closed as the witcher presses his lips to the inner side of his thigh, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses on the tender skin as he slowly sinks in deeper.

Jaskier takes him eagerly, even as he tries to match Geralt’s gentleness, and his body is so hot and tight that Geralt’s vision goes dark with the thought of what it will feel like to be inside.

“Where do you have oil?” Geralt asks, controlling his breathing as much as he can to ignore his throbbing cock even as it drips with precome.

It takes a little time for Jaskier to register his words but then he blindly searches for Geralt’s other hand and, before the witcher really knows it, there’s a glass phial being pressed into it. His medallion hums, and he can’t suppress a laugh.

“So this is what you’re using your magic for?” he asks.

Jaskier gives him a look from under his eyelashes, still holding onto his shoulders tightly and rocking his hips in a slow rhythm.

“Would you prefer to reach all the way into the nightstand?”

And that’s, well… that’s a very compelling argument.

Geralt shakes his head, capturing the bard’s lips in what’s almost an apologetic kiss, and pops the phial open, dripping the oil onto his fingers, though that requires him to pull away. Before Jaskier can protest at the loss, however, the witcher already pushes back inside, two fingers instead of one this time, and Jaskier arches off the bed with a gasp.

He’s fully hard again, his cock curving up towards his stomach beautifully, and had Geralt not been busy with stretching him open, he would’ve already wrapped his lips around the head. But they will have time for that later.

Jaskier’s body is pliant and malleable, easily giving way to Geralt’s fingers, and when he brushes over just the right spot inside, Jaskier drags his nails down his shoulders, leaving burning scratches behind and trembling with pleasure.

Geralt can’t hold himself back from sucking a mark into his inner thigh, making the bard whimper and bite his lips, the pain bordering on just too much. He then takes his time licking over it, comforting and soothing as he slowly stretches the tight muscles with his fingers, and that makes the scent of Jaskier’s arousal spike up so much that Geralt feels dizzy with it.

“Gods, Geralt, please--” Jaskier begs once two fingers slip in and out of him easily. “Please, I’m ready, I can’t wait any longer.”

And maybe, Geralt shouldn’t listen to him.

Maybe, he should give them both more time, add a third finger to get the bard ready properly, but it’s been so fucking long of him dreaming about this, that when Jaskier asks, it’s just above him to refuse.

“Alright,” he whispers, reaching for the oil again and catching Jaskier’s parted lips in a kiss.

The soft lavender scent of the oil makes his head reel, and as Geralt drips more of it into his hand to slick himself up, he has to clench his jaw not to wrap his fingers around himself tighter.

He slips his fingers out, and Jaskier whimpers at the loss but the sound drowns in another kiss.

Geralt feels a hot thrill of anticipation that runs through his body, and he moans into Jaskier’s lips even as he lines himself up, the pressure on the painfully sensitive tip of his cock almost unbearable. He pushes in slowly, giving them both time to adjust, and Jaskier is so fucking tight around him that Geralt knows immediately that he won’t last long. Not after having waited all this time.

Jaskier’s mouth falls open in a gasp, and the way his brows knit together in pleasure leaves no air for Geralt to breathe.

“Fuck,” Jaskier whispers, his breath hot against Geralt’s lips as he pulls him in, holds him close enough for their lips to touch. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

It’s too hard to talk with the haze of pleasure over his mind, so Geralt just surges forward, biting into Jaskier’s lips as he slowly rolls his hips, sinking in deeper. Jaskier takes him, urges him closer where his leg is pressed into the small of the witcher’s back, and once Geralt is finally fully settled, they both stop, just breathing together.

Pleasure courses through Geralt’s veins like fire, fueled by the flames in his chest, and he can only take it for so long before he starts moving again.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs for what feels like the hundredth time, calming Jaskier’s soft whimpers and gasps. “I’m here.”

Jaskier clings onto him as he slowly picks up the pace, turning slow, shallow thrusts into deeper ones, pulling away almost entirely every time only to sink back in a second later. He’s just as flexible as Geralt had imagined, arching his back and desperately trying to pull Geralt closer even as his knee remains hooked over the witcher’s shoulder.

“Gods, Witcher, I hope you know that when I said that we’re not leaving this bed for the next couple of days, I meant it,” Jaskier pants, brushing his lips over Geralt’s jaw in a heated, wet kiss.

Geralt shifts just a little, adjusting the angle of his next move, and Jaskier cries out as he rolls his hips, leaving another set of burning scratches on his shoulders, almost hard enough to break skin.

The witcher takes that as an invitation, dropping his forehead to Jaskier’s sweat-slick shoulder and moving even faster, keeping the same angle and hitting the right spot every single time, making the bard tremble all over, gasping for air.

He’s very distantly aware of just how loud they both are, and it makes his head reel even more to know that they are allowed to be this loud, that they’re in their own bedroom, in their own bed, and not it a cheap inn with thin walls where they’d have to keep quiet not to get kicked out.

Their own bedroom.

Jaskier desperately tries to keep up with the witcher, meet him half-way every time to take him in even deeper, but he loses the set rhythm more and more with every second, until he just gives up, letting Geralt guide them both.

There are going to be bruises on his thigh where Geralt is holding him, but it does nothing if not thrills both of them.

“Fuck, Geralt--” Jaskier gasps, his eyes nearly black when he catches the witcher’s gaze. “Fuck, I’m so close.”

Geralt doesn’t have to hear it to know that he is. It’s in his every move, every breath, every sound, but his voice still pushes the witcher closer to the edge with him.

He lets go of his thigh, reaching in-between their bodies, but Jaskier intercepts his wrist with shaking fingers and takes his hand away,

“No,” he says, rolling his eyes with pleasure when Geralt snaps his hips forward again. “Let me come untouched.”

And fuck, that immediately pushes Geralt to the very edge.

“Together, then,” he whispers, biting into Jaskier’s lips as soon as he nods.

He’s already so fucking close that it almost hurts, fingers numb with hyperventilation, and it only takes Geralt one more snap of his hips, one more drag of Jaskier’s nails over his shoulder for an orgasm to crash over him in a wave of hot, suffocating pleasure.

He keeps moving even as he spills deep into Jaskier’s body, and a second later, the bard follows, arching his back as he comes for the second time, making a mess of both of them. Geralt fucks him through it, doesn’t let go until it gets too much, until there are tears in Jaskier’s eyes, and both their stomachs and chests are marked with his spend.

Slowly, with the aftershocks still running through his body, Geralt comes to a stop, holding Jaskier close to his body as they both tremble with exhausting pleasure.

Time stretches, and he’s not sure how long it’s been before they finally move and he gently lowers Jaskier’s leg back onto the bed, falling onto the mattress beside him and pulling the bard into his arms.

Jaskier turns to hide his face against his chest, heart still beating hard and fast between his ribs, and murmurs something grateful when Geralt pulls one of the soft furs over him.

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs softly, leaning down to nose at the bard’s damp hair before touching his lips to it. “Do you know that?”

He wants to say that he loves him. Oh, he fucking aches with it.

But he also wants Jaskier to know that he means it, and while they’re still riding off the high, it might not be the best time.

Jaskier doesn’t answer for a few long, comfortable minutes, just touches his lips to Geralt’s chest to let him know that he’d heard him, and when he does finally raise his head, propping himself up on one elbow, he looks more beautiful than Geralt had ever seen him.

“It’s not fair,” he breathes, one hand slipping under the covers.

It takes Geralt a few long seconds to decipher the little half-grin on his lips.

“What isn’t?” he asks.

Jaskier leans down to his lips, runs his tongue over them and catches the lower one between his teeth before finally kissing him properly.

“I got my pleasure twice, and you - only once.”

His fingers brush over Geralt’s stomach and lower abdomen, slipping lower as the bard bites on his lower lip in what might just be the most suggestive gesture Geralt’s ever seen.

“Well,” he murmurs, running his fingers through Jaskier’s hair as he runs a line of kisses down his chest, moving lower. “We can always fix that, can’t we?”

[pressedinthepages]

Mysa

Swedish. verb. to engage in an activity that is comfortable and pleasurable, especially at home; being content and cozy.

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Jaskier x Reader

Word Count: 2337

Rating: E

Masterlist

a/n: Reader Request: “Hey! Could you please write a oneshot, where the female reader is a talented healer but even after years she hasn't found a proper solution for her menstrual cramps and she get's so annoyed and desperate that she agrees to Jaskiers (who is a friend of her) suggestion to have sex with him (because he heard somewhere that that helps some people)? Where first she tries to just see it under a scientific issue but soon things get really hot and at the end fluffy? :3″ (this has also been posted to AO3 but I don’t wanna link to an outside site cause of the whole thing with the tags…we’ll see what happens)

Tags:  @whitewolfandthefox @havenoffandoms @MishaFaye @criminaly-supernatural   (There is a link on my page where you can be added to my taglist :D)

Warnings: smut, period sex, cramping, no graphic descriptions of blood.

You have reached the end of your rope, frustrated beyond belief, but Jaskier extends an offer to help you.

    A fresh blanket of snow has settled over the town of Oxenfurt. A lit fireplace warms your little home in the residential wings of campus. You work as an instructor, teaching courses in alchemy and healing. You’ve even written several books on the topics, so you’d think that people would trust your opinion when you say that there is nothing that you can do.

    “Are you sure that you’ve tried everything???” Jaskier’s voice rings through the air, walking towards where you are settled on the couch in front of the fire. You roll your eyes as he hands over a warm mug of chamomile tea, careful not to disturb the little pouch of raw beans placed low on your stomach. You’ve been in pain for two days now, your bleed has always been a source of horrible discomfort for you. You’ve been able to manage during those days, and have tried concocting countless mixtures to attempt to quell the pain. So far, however, nothing has proven effective. 

    You have also told Jaskier this several times already. You know he’s just trying to help, but it’s getting to be a bit much. He showed up at your door right at the beginning of winter, bashfully telling you that he was in search of a place to stay for the season. You happily welcomed him into your home, grateful to have an old friend keep you company for a while.

    Now, Jaskier sits on the couch by your feet, the picture of relaxation. You’ve always held a bit of a candle for him, but you have long accepted that he only sees you as a friend. You adore his friendship, but in moments like this, you can’t help but wonder what could’ve been. 

    You watch the light from the fire dance across his features, licking tendrils of warmth down his neck and across his chest where a dusting of dark hair peeks from the open buttons of his chemise. The sleeves have been rolled up to his elbows, and his shoes have been kicked away in a corner. Even Jaskier’s hair seems relaxed, the chestnut locks gently disheveled as they fall over his forehead.  

    “You know,” he startles you out of your dream as you feel a cramp low in your stomach, as if someone had stuck their hand in your abdomen, grabbed a hold of your insides, and decided to give them a good squeeze, just for the fun of it. Jaskier notices the grimace of pain on your face and continues, his voice low and soothing, “There was a woman I once knew, lovely lady really, she had a similar problem and I actually ended up being able to help her!”

    He looks over at you with a smile, boyish dimples in his cheeks, and his eyes shining like a clear sky on a summer day. You crook an eyebrow at him, skeptical to say the least. When you were at university together, Jaskier had never excelled at the sciences, his talents being more focused on the languages and arts. You were both miserable at maths, and would always end up sulking together after exams with a large bottle of wine.

    “And how, pray tell, did you help?” you inquire, nudging the side of his leg with your foot. He looks over at you then, his bright blue eyes meeting yours as a blush climbs up his chest and settles on his cheeks.

    “Ah-well, she had told me, uh, that she had, in the past, uh...had others, well other men-”

    “Come on, Jask, spit it out already, I’m sure it’s nothing I haven’t heard before,” you cut off his stammering with a stern eye, sipping your tea as you wait.

    Jaskier clears his throat, looking back at the fire as he murmurs, “She said that having sex, and reaching a climax, would help with the pain…”

    Your eyebrows shoot to your hairline, the tea scalding your throat as you quickly swallow. “Well,” you cough, “I actually hadn’t heard that one before.”

    You both sit in silence for a moment, your mind racing. What was he implying? Are there any books on this? Who was this other woman, and why do you care?

    “Did it work?” you whisper, barely audible over the crackle of the fire. Jaskier huffs out a smile, still refusing to meet your eyes. 

    “Yeah, she said that it had helped immensely...besides, even if it hadn’t, she would’ve still enjoyed herself anyways.” Jaskier looks over at you now with a wink, his eyes glinting with mirth and hubris. 

    You gasp, mockingly astounded as you sit up, setting the mug of tea on the floor before you do. “Hmmm, the theory is intriguing...are you offering?”

    Jaskier’s eyes widen, a small tremor in his voice as he speaks, “I would be happy to help you, if you wish.”

    You bite your lip, mulling over your options. It’s not a difficult decision on your part, the voice in the back of your head screaming triumphantly as you hold out a slightly shaking hand to him. Jaskier looks down at your hand and back to you, seemingly making a decision in his head before placing his own hand in yours. He rises to a stand, pulling you with him as you leave the now cooled bag of beans on the couch. 

“Shall we go to the bed, dear?” He whispers, gently pulling you back towards it. His hand is soft in yours, his fingers calloused from years of honing his craft. You both come to a stop at the edge of the bed, hesitating to take the next step. 

“Are you sure about this Julian?” you ask, his true name slipping out from your lips. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to do this…”

Jaskier takes his free hand and brushes a stray piece of hair from your face. “Darling, I promise you that I only ever do things that please me, and this? This would please me more than anything.”

His words send a shiver down your spine as you feel a low ache in your core. Not a cramp, something deeper, sweeter, harder to ignore. He pulls you close, leaning his head down to yours as he closes his eyes. You close yours as well, meeting his lips as you rest your hand on his shoulder.

Jaskier’s lips are soft, a warm back and forth as you sink into his chest. He is a rock, steady against your rising sea. You can hear the blood rushing in your ears as you move your hand to thread in his hair, gripping his hand tighter with your other. 

“Wait, wait,” you say, suddenly breaking away from the kiss. Jaskier has always worn his heart on his sleeve, but he looks truly open and vulnerable when you look at him. You move your hands up, feeling his heart pound against his chest under your fingers. His chemise is soft from years of wear, and he smells lightly of the rosemary soap that you keep by the tub.

“We should take these off,” you say as you tug at Jaskier’s shirt. He chuckles as he pulls back from you, lifting the chemise over his head. He then takes your hand and spins you around, his fingers working at the laces of your dress at the nape of your neck. You feel the fabric gradually loosen around your shoulders as he pushes it down, placing a hot trail of kisses over the newly exposed skin.

The dress puddles on the floor as Jaskier’s hands rove over your body, his chin resting on your shoulder as he admires your body. His touch leaves embers in its wake, up and down your hips and around your breasts as he kneads the tender flesh. He makes a small noise in your ear, something light but lined with wanting.

You turn back to him, your own hands traveling through the coarse hair on his chest. You feel him suck in a breath as they travel lower, swiftly undoing the laces on his trousers before he steps back and shucks them off. You take the opportunity to step out of your own underthings, along with the soiled rag that you use to protect your clothes,  throwing them unceremoniously across the room. 

You feel Jaskier’s eyes burn a trail over your form as he approaches you, placing his hands on your hips as he leans to whisper in your ear, “Lay down on the bed, love, let me take care of you.”

You do, resting on your elbows as you watch him settle over you. You can’t help but appreciate the art that has presented itself in front of you, shamelessly studying the planes of his body. Jaskier has always been lean, but seeing him bare like this exposes the strength that his clothes typically conceal. His shoulders are broad, arms lined with muscles built from years of traveling the continent with his lute in hand. His legs are much the same, long and sturdy as they straddle your own. 

Now, you’ve never really been one for the arts. You tend to stumble over rhymes and prose, but by gods, just looking at Jaskier’s cock makes you want to write volumes of poetry. Jutting out from his hips in a hard line, with just the most delicious curve upwards, you can’t help when your hand moves to wrap around him. 

He chokes a strangled gasp as your fingers circle his length, his hands tightening on your hips. You stroke him slowly, feeling the heavy throbbing as he starts to rut into your grip. You remove your hand and reach up, Jaskier whining as you bring him to lay atop of you. His weight encompasses you, secure but not suffocating as you feel him try to discreetly rock his hips where his cock now presses against your thigh. 

“Jaskier,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair as you look into his eyes. They shine in the moonlight from the window, this corner of the room far enough away from the fireplace that the waves of fire only barely touch his figure. His eyes feel like they are staring into your soul, peeling back the layers that years of silent yearning have built up. 

“Shh, love, I’ve got you,” he kisses you deeply, moaning into your mouth as you shift your legs to wrap around his hips. You feel the tip of his cock tease your entrance, sparks flying under your skin with the slightest touch. He moves slowly, pressing into your core and stretching you as your back arches off the bed. This feels so much more than the other times you’ve been intimate, the typically dull ache now a roaring fire that burns with pleasure as he stills once he is fully inside of you. 

You rake your nails down the length of his body, reaching to grab handfuls of his ass where he is sheathed in you. Jaskier gasps into your mouth, a dark growl that sends vibrations through your veins. You begin to rock your hips against him, insatiable in the face of such strong pleasure. You can feel your climax already building, quickly becoming an approaching tide that you can’t outrun.

“Ah, wait, wait love, or this will be over far too quickly, I won’t be able to last long like this,” Jaskier’s voice is husky as his lips brush against yours with every word. His hips start to thrust into yours despite his words, snapping quickly as he builds your pleasure even quicker.

“Good, I-I’ll not last long either, please, Jaskier,” you murmur against him, trying to pull him impossibly closer as he spears deep within you. You can feel him groan into your lips as his resolve snaps, animalistic as his thrusts turn sloppy. He presses against a spot deep in your core with each movement, causing you to cry out with every touch. His lips move to suck a mark into your neck as you fall over the precipice of pleasure, your vision whiting out as sparks fly behind our eyes. 

Everything is so much more intense like this, everything is so much more sensitive and he is over you and in you and mindlessly rutting into you and you cry out into the void as your climax overtakes you. You instinctively curl up around Jaskier, but he holds you open with his body as his thrusts speed up and he suddenly stills inside of you. He bites down hard on your neck and moans your name as he finds his release, hot and thick as your walls flutter around him, coaxing every last bit of his pleasure from him. 

You stay like this for what could be minutes or days, neither of you wanting to move from the aftermath of bliss. Although, now that you are able to think about it-

“You know what?” you say, pulling his gaze back to you. His eyes are a bit hazy, still coming down from the mind-shattering that orgasm brings, though he seems intent on listening to your words. “I think it worked.”

Jaskier smiles and it is like the sun is shining into the little room in the middle of winter, warming you through in his embrace. He leans down and presses a kiss to your lips as he pulls out of you, your body shuddering at the sudden emptiness. Jaskier reaches around him and sets your legs down onto the bed as he moves to rise, only stopping when you reach out a hand to him to stay.

“I just thought of something else that may be quite nice,” he purrs, his eyes glinting with something so distinctly Jaskier that it takes your breath away. When you hum in question, still not moving, he threads his fingers through yours and pulls you to sit up.

He leans down, his mouth right next to your ear as he whispers, low and dark, “how about a bath?”

[witcher-smut-sideblog]

E-O5 (sensory deprivation) for Geraskier Kink Bingo

On AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26106073

Geralt watched Jaskier from the back corner of the tavern, trying to tune out the ambient noise around him and focus on the bard's voice and the notes he plucked from his lute. He wasn't even really listening to the words, just letting Jaskier's smooth tenor wash over him. It was hard to admit, but he really did love Jaskier's voice - it was soothing, and easy to hone in on when things got overwhelming. The end of some jaunty ballad or another faded out, and Geralt grimaced as he recognized the first notes of Toss A Coin; he caught Jaskier's eye and jerked his head toward the stairs, going up to their room before the drunken rabble became unbearably loud. The song was a large part of why he was able to pay for a bath and a bed in most towns they passed through, and he didn't mind Jaskier singing it to every crowd he could, but everyone liked to sing along to the chorus, and some nights it was just too much for his sensitive ears. So, they'd fallen into a routine: whenever Geralt needed to leave a performance early, he'd catch Jaskier's eye to let him know, and then wait for him in their room or their camp, wherever they'd chosen to sleep that night. Jaskier always cut his performances off a little early on those nights, coming back to his witcher as quick as he could, and Geralt was grateful, though he had trouble saying as much.

"Hey." Jaskier's voice was soft as he stepped into their room, another thing Geralt was immensely grateful for. "How're you feeling?"

"Tired. Tense. Everything's just... too much." He'd left the lamp on for Jaskier, but had his eyes shut tight against the light, and even from two floors up and with three or four tankards of ale in his system, the crowd downstairs was grating on his nerves.

Jaskier made a small sympathetic noise, setting his lute in its case on the table and toeing out of his boots before moving to join Geralt on the bed. "Can I touch you?" Geralt nodded and Jaskier pulled him closer, pressing a soft kiss to the nape of his neck. "I had an idea about that, actually."

"Mm?" Geralt leaned back into Jaskier's touch, nearly losing his balance as the bard reached down to root through his bag with one hand, the other still curled protectively around Geralt's waist.

"Oop, sorry dear. Anyway, you don't have to use them of course, but..." He pulled out a few things and held them out in front of Geralt: a pair of small wax plugs, and a wide, thick piece of supple black leather.

"What are they?"

"A blindfold and earplugs." Geralt turned to look at him, almost confused, and Jaskier immediately began to worry this had been a mistake, something he shouldn't have pressed. "L-Like I said, you certainly don't have to use them, I just thought what with-" He broke off midsentence as Geralt leaned in, kissing him softly.

"Thank you." The raspy whisper against his lips made Jaskier shiver. "Help me put the blindfold on?"

"Of course." Jaskier pulled the leather up to cover Geralt's eyes as the witcher put in the earplugs, checking in that the tightness was okay before tying it carefully behind his head. "What do you think?"

Geralt didn't respond for a moment, but he could feel the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, and he was sure Jaskier would be able to feel it too. The blindfold was wide enough and thick enough that it actually blocked out all light, and the earplugs worked well enough to block out the buzz of ambient noise and chatter from below them, but Jaskier was close enough he could still be heard. It was the first time in decades he had known this particular sort of peace - usually the closest he got was by slipping under the water of a bath and holding his breath as long as he could, but even that didn't stop all the light and noise. Not like this.

"Geralt? I just want to make sure you're okay." Jaskier was growing tense even as Geralt relaxed in his arms, and the witcher quickly nodded to reassure his bard.

"I'm okay. Better than okay, this is... this is really nice. Thank you, Jaskier." His voice was soft and warm, and it made Jaskier's heart leap in his chest to hear the usually-reticent witcher thank him so genuinely. He reached out a hand to trace down Geralt's arm, but pulled his hand back and leaned away when the witcher jumped.

"Geralt?"

"Still okay, just... usually I can see you, or at least hear you, when you move. I can't remember the last time I was surprised to feel someone touch me." Dimly, Geralt registered that the relaxation he was slipping into was tearing through the carefully-constructed walls he put up like they were naught but paper, but between the darkness and the ale he couldn't find it in himself to care right now.

"Huh. Can I...?"

"Please." Both of them spoke in little more than a whisper, as if the moment would be shattered by any sound too loud, as Jaskier reached out again and touched the same place on Geralt's arm. This time, the effect was substantially less, though the surprise was still evident in the brief pull of his shoulders. Geralt shivered a little as Jaskier dragged the tips of his fingers up his arm, to his collarbone and up over his throat. The air bloomed with the warm, heavy smell of arousal, and his breath caught in his chest.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," Jaskier whispered against his ear, leaving one hand wrapped loosely around his throat and bringing the other to trail up his thigh, his stomach, his chest. Geralt whimpered as he pinched one of his nipples just a little roughly, just how he knew the witcher liked, though it had never been quite so effective in the past.

Geralt's skin felt like it was on fire everywhere Jaskier touched him, his fingertips leaving trails of heat in their wake, his legs and chest a deep, constant warmth where Geralt leaned into him. He could hear his own blood pounding in his ears, could see pops of color sparking behind his eyelids as Jaskier toyed with him. Never in his life had he been so turned on so quickly, and soon Jaskier had him panting and writhing without even touching his cock.

"Color?" Jaskier's voice filled his head, unaccompanied by the usual cacophony of background noise and chatter.

"Green," Geralt gasped out. "Jaskier, please..."

"Please what?" Jaskier traced a fingertip teasingly along the waistband of Geralt's smallclothes, feeling the witcher jump in his arms. "Be specific, love."

"Touch me."

"But I am touching you."

"My cock, please, Jas, won't even take much just please let me come." He groaned as Jaskier's hand slipped down under his waistband, wrapping firmly around his cock, the hand around his throat still holding him gently in place. Lute-calloused fingers teased and stroked and Geralt's hips bucked, it was too much and not enough all at once and he reached his arms up to loop around Jaskier's neck, stretching taut as he got closer. A few more pumps of the bard's fist was all it took for Geralt to fall apart in his arms, a soft, punched-out whine escaping his throat as Jaskier worked him through it. When he was done, he collapsed back into Jaskier's lap, panting and shivering, but the bard instead guided him to lay himself out on the bed, head on a threadbare pillow.

"I won't be but a minute, I promise." Geralt felt Jaskier's weight vanish from the bed, and not being able to hear or see him was more alarming than he'd expected, but he trusted Jaskier to come back quickly. "Here." The musician helped him sit up, pressing a mug of water to his lips. "Do you want me to take the blindfold off?" he asked as he set the empty mug aside. Geralt only nodded, too tired and wrung out for anything else. He felt deft fingers untie the knot behind his head and before he knew it he was in a dark room, staring into deep blue eyes, and the affection he found in them threatened to overwhelm him yet again.

"Jas..." Geralt reached sleepily for his bard, but Jaskier only tutted.

"Soon, darling. First I want to clean you up a bit." He tugged Geralt's smallclothes down, and the witcher had to admit the cooling come trapped against his skin hadn't exactly been comfortable. He hissed through his teeth as a cold, wet rag wiped across his skin and Jaskier used a free hand to stroke his hip soothingly. "I know, hon, almost done though." Satisifed that Geralt was at least clean enough he wouldn't be uncomfortable come morning, Jaskier tossed the rag into a corner of the room with a wet thud, then shimmied down to lie beside his witcher, pulling a blanket up over the two of them. "How are you feeling?"

"Mm." Geralt's voice was heavy with pleased exhaustion and Jaskier smiled softly, placing a soft kiss to his forehead and wrapping his arms around his sturdy frame. "Wait, but you didn't..." a sleepy murmur rumbled against his chest.

"That's okay, love. Tonight was about you." Geralt made a grumpy noise at that, hugging Jaskier tighter. "Contrary to popular belief, I can go a night or two without orgasm now and then," he chuckled. "Now c'mon, get some sleep. You've earned it, being so good for me."

"Mmmfine," came the soft reply, and Jaskier threaded his fingers through his white hair as he held the nearly-sleeping witcher close.

"Goodnight, love."