#This is a method Soap uses to lure Ghost to his room

[tanked-up]

She really is

(Part 10 of my collection)

[agoodgoddamnshot]

Worship - Geralt/Jaskier [E]

Warning: Smut (sex; praise kink)

Word Count: 6,399

Originally posted on my AO3

“No one has ever been gentle with you, have they?”

That’s what started it – a comment from the bard after an exhausting hunt. Most things did tend to start by Jaskier commenting on something or other. And Geralt might not have thought much of it, if the bard’s fingers weren’t curled through his hair and warm bathwater lapped against his chin. Jaskier always tended to poke the fire when he had the Witcher on the right side of pliable.

He can still remember Jaskier’s voice. Nothing more than a coo, just as gentle and still as the water around him. Even with the bard behind him, Geralt imagined a small smile lifting the corner of his lip. Something sad tinged his voice though, as if he waited for Jaskier to tell him otherwise.

But he couldn’t help how his mind wandered back through every memory he could recount. Being as old as he is, most of them are nothing more than afterimages; there, but faded and blurry, and just an odd mix of muted colours and echoed words. What he can remember are old flames of his; bed-mates that never took up residence beside him for more than a few days or weeks or months. It wasn’t their fault. Geralt was just chronically allergic to having emotional ties to people.

They expect too much. One way or another, rumours stick and settle and burrow into the soil of the Continent. That’s when he finds himself with bashful tavernmaids and curious whores all asking the same sorts of questions. The sorts of questions that now, years and decades later, have him rolling his eyes and sighing.

Is it true that Witchers have increased stamina?

That tended to crop up more than others. When he was younger, more bashful and shy, he just explained that it was for fighting and nothing more. But when his partners lay beneath or on top of him breathless and spent, and he was still hard, well, more questions only grew.

So to answer Jaskier’s question; no.

Not really. He doesn’t think so, at least.

Not like the bard.

He remembers the first bath Jaskier corralled him into. His cuts were still fresh and bleeding and dirt and kikimore guts were clumping and sticking to every stretch of skin on him. The tavernkeep might very well have kicked him back out on to the streets if not for Jaskier piping up, threatening that if the Witcher goes, then he would do – taking his lute and the merriment he brought the town with him.

So Jaskier hauled him into a tub full of scalding water, faintly scented with lavender and chamomile, and set about cleaning him. When his skin was scrubbed clean and his cuts knitted back together again, Geralt could have melted into the water. For the first time in a long time, his shoulders dropped and he could fill his lungs with deep, measured breaths.

Jaskier likes baths. Jaskier likes inflicting baths on other people, namely Geralt. Before the engagement at Cintra, after hunts, after days or weeks spent hiking the trails of the Continent. Jaskier always came armed with sweet-smelling lotions, soaps, and oils. And every time Geralt would come away boneless and content.

It’s...different. It’s different from how other people treat him. Townsfolk and villagers look at him with either fear or disgust, hissing cursing under their breath even when he clears them of their monster. His skin has hardened over the years with the number of verbal lashings he shoulders. Sometimes rocks and fists are included in that too – not that they hurt him any more than words do, Geralt will just end up taking his coin and leave.

So when Jaskier comes to him with soft words and sure hands, speaking of all the good he’s done in the world...

“No one has ever been gentle with you, have they?”

Geralt’s eyes open. He isn’t sure when they closed, but the room is still the same as it was when he drifted off; dimly lit with candles dotted in every corner and on the tops of cabinets, their bed a modesty screen away, already laden with fresh sheets and furs to stave off the chill of the storm outside. His ears twitch at the sound of the tavern lulling with life below, a gentle chatter as ale and mead continues to flow. Jaskier likes leaving crowds to enjoy the aftermaths of his singing, hopeful that they can make their own merriment while he tends to his Witcher.

Jaskier sits behind him, slowly carding some sweet-smelling oil through the Witcher’s hair. Warm eyes look down at him while his hands work. “You always fall asleep on me,” Jaskier murmurs, mindful of the quiet that has fallen over the room. The flames of the candles barely shudder as the bard works; dutifully perched on his stool at the head of the bath, luring the last of the day’s stresses out of his Witcher.

Geralt hums. It’s a rumbling sort of noise, often reminding Jaskier of thunder on nearby hills. He quirked an eyebrow at the first time the bard made the likeness, through a song, no wonder.

He always falls asleep because he never realises just how tired he is all the time. And as Jaskier likes to point out, no one has ever been gentle with him. People have their vile words, and anyone who falls into his bed insists on it being fast and rough.

If he were to fall asleep now and drown in this bathtub, it wouldn’t be the worst way to go. Better than dying out in the wilds, huddled in some ditch somewhere and bleeding out.

But he won’t, just because Jaskier is here, and for all the love the bard speaks of having for him, he doesn’t doubt for a moment that he would delight in singing of the Witcher Who Died In A Bath.

Jaskier works quietly. It’s the only time where the bard can be quiet. Sometimes he’ll hum some sort of tune under his breath, barely trembling the air around them; but for the most part, he sits where he usually sits and does what he usually does.

And the bath is only the first part of it. Geralt’s core already starts to tighten with every brush of hands that wander down his neck and across his shoulders. Jaskier’s hands could and should be classified as weapons.

They palm down his neck, working away the last stubborn sting of pain sitting at the crook of his neck and shoulder. It isn’t easy to budge. None of his pains are. But Jaskier has some way of lulling his muscles to relax and for pain to ebb away. And for something warm and trembling to start. Geralt’s eyes open again at the first pass of hands over his chest. Jaskier’s breath dusts his ear as the bard leans down. When he turns his head, his lips quirk at the gentle nudge Jaskier gives back. “I’m working,” he says softly. Geralt lets his head dip back and rest against Jaskier’s shoulder.

He can never be like this with anyone else. People who have tumbled in and out of his bed, only staying the night, would never envision this version of him. Not when they have a dangerous and feral Witcher prowling after them. Those who have stayed longer, women he’s left behind in their cities to look after idiotic kings and their fantasies, maybe. Some of them managed to see past the golden stubborn glint in his eye, but none managed to wade in far enough to see what it was.

And Yennefer – no. A hurricane-force that rivals the worst storms battering the Skellige Isles. Their time was tremulous and left scars.

Jaskier’s hands take their time, wandering over ridges of old wounds and taking stock of how the most recent are healing.

The bard turns his head, dusting his nose against Geralt’s jaw. Everything he can say about Jaskier’s hands fail in comparison to what he can say for the bard’s hands. All that lute-playing came in use, leaving the man with callous, sure fingers that know just where to go to lure out the right sounds.

Geralt’s breath catches in his throat when fingers brush his nipple and travel further down. His abdomen trembles with every attempted breath he tries to take. Jaskier is a maelstrom in his own right. He’s slow and methodical, knowing how to ease the Witcher down only to wind him tight again.

Geralt draws up a leg. The benefits of staying overnight in a town are better amenities, including a bigger bath. He was able to stretch out his legs and let the water lap against him. The water barely tremors as he draws his leg up and lets it splay to the side. Already, with the promise of more sure touches and familiar lips on his skin, he can feel his cock start to fill.

Jaskier arches an eyebrow. “What are you doing, darling?”

Geralt’s arms hang off of the sides of the tub. His fingers curl with every wave of warm pleasure that rolls through him. He clears his throat. “Sorting something out,” he offers mildly, knowing full well that Jaskier can see the effect he has on the Witcher. For all the soaps and lotions and oils Jaskier plies him with, he never leaves any suds or bubbles in the bath. The water becomes cloudy with product, but still clear enough for Jaskier to watch the Witcher’s body slowly unravel under his hands.

Jaskier hums, setting his lips against the shell of Geralt’s ear. “Did I say you could?” he rumbles.

Geralt’s hand drifts away.

A small laugh puffs out of the bard. “Good boy.”

There it is. The plume of heat that blooms in his core. A shiver rattles up through his spine. “Jask,” he breathes, letting his head rest heavily on Jaskier’s shoulder. Lips brush against the ridge of his jaw, speckling his skin with gooseflesh as he just keeps a light touch there and nothing more.

The bard hums. “Always so good for me,” Jaskier says lightly, letting his hands wander and drift.

And then they’re gone.

Geralt just about snaps his jaw shut, quelling the whine that rips up through his throat. Jaskier stands and drags his chair over to the side of the tub. Before he sits down, his fingers ghost over Geralt’s knee; idly tracing a long-healed and fading scar running around the cap. Jaskier clicks his tongue.

Not at Geralt. Never. But at the life he’s trudging through. Too many late-night and post-orgasmic conversations were about the expectations and realities of Witcher life; of afterimage memories that blink in front of Geralt about his childhood.

Jaskier sits beside the bathtub, running his fingers over Geralt’s knee and down along the inseam of his thigh. Something rumbles out of the Witcher’s chest.

“If I wasn’t so keen on keeping you to myself I’d let them see you like this,” he hums in thought. Any ridge of a scar that the bard’s fingers brush over has his skin shuddering and erupting in gooseflesh. Jaskier tilts his head. “The ‘monster’ that they hate so much, letting his walls down for a bard.”

Geralt lifts his chin. A small challenge. “This is for you,” he rumbles, “and only you.”

“I’d better hope so, darling,” Jaskier’s laugh is light and fond. Fingers dip down below the surface of the water. “I am a selfish sort.”

He can be. He likes peppering kisses on to Geralt’s temple and neck, and leaving marks behind on his skin just so the Witcher can walk out into daylight and let everyone know that someone has done this to him. The marks never last long, though. Damned Witcher healing has even with worst of teeth-marks and scrapes clotting and fading by the time the sun rises. It’s just more incentive to Jaskier to keep going, to let his teeth sink deeper and his nails scratch harder.

At the first brush of the bard’s fingers along his cock, Geralt clamps down on a shudder. Even with the water as warm as it is, his skin is pimpled and he trembles. It’s nothing like the heat blooming in his core, slowly spreading through his abdomen and chest and arms and legs.

His mind fogs. Jaskier is not human. He knows that for a fact. No one is that good as a wordsmith, luring men and women with nothing but sweet words and beguiling eyes. Though his medallion doesn’t tremble for the man, Geralt is sure something is not quite right about him. A siren, maybe. He does come from a town perched on the sea’s edge. Or maybe some slight trace of elven blood running through him. Or something else entirely. Geralt has been under the spell of sirens and merrows and vampires, and none of them can lure him under like Jaskier can.

Jaskier’s fingers curl around his cock, not quite tight enough for Geralt’s liking. Jaskier hums as he slowly pumps. A smile twitches the corner of his mouth at the shuddering breath that shakes out of Geralt. “I like being gentle with you, darling,” he coos. Jaskier knows how to lure the right kind of sounds out of him; words and touches that have him trembling and speechless and gasping for air.

Geralt’s jaw clenches. Jaskier is well on his way to luring him down again.

The bard is slow, methodical, with his touches. His hand drifts up and down on Geralt’s cock, not quite enough to urge the coil tighter, but enough to keep him interested. Jaskier’s other hand sits pointedly on the lip of the bath, unmoving and stubborn. Geralt glares at it.

Jaskier laughs. “Everyone wants a turn with the Witcher,” he says, just as easily as he would talk to the tavernkeep downstairs. “I can’t blame them, of course. Rumours spread like wildfire around here. Who wouldn’t want to have the White Wolf in their beds with all that they hear about you?”

It’s as if they’re here; coy smiles and curious eyes, hands resting on his shoulder or chest. All asking the same sorts of questions over and over again. If rumours can spread through the Continent as quickly as wildfires, then surely something must have caught on that Geralt belongs to his bard now.

Jaskier hums. His fingers slowly loosen around Geralt’s cock until they drift away completely. He tries to swallow a whine. “Hush, love,” Jaskier soothes. He dips down to grab something from the floor. A glass vial with viscous, clear gel inside. Geralt recognises the smell as soon as the cork is uncapped. Jaskier would let the gel seep into his muscles to try and relax them after a hunt.

But he diligently coats two fingers in the liquid, dipping his fingers below the water again and setting them against the outside of Geralt’s hole.

The Witcher’s head tilts back against the lip of the bath, his eyes staring up at the rafters of the ceiling. He wants to watch Jaskier. He knows his body so well, his fingers have become so sure of what to do. But it’s too much. Just as the first finger breeches him – nothing more than a knuckle – Geralt swallows a whine. He’s close already. A coil tight and trembling and about to snap.

Jaskier’s other hand moves. He gently lays his hand over Geralt’s knee, splaying the Witcher’s leg out just a bit more until it rests flush against the side of the bath. He’s open and Jaskier can do whatever he likes with him—

“So close already, my darling,” Jaskier purrs, curling the tip of his finger. “I can feel you trembling. It’s alright. You can come. I’m not finished with you just yet, though. Think you can come again for me after this?”

Geralt bites his lip. And nods.

Jaskier hums. “Good boy,” he lilts, letting his finger dive deeper until Geralt is quivering around him. “So warm and wet and tight.” Jaskier’s voice holds a marvel to it. “And all for me; isn’t that right, dear?”

Geralt nods again. No one else will see him like this. No one else can do this to him.

“Good,” Jaskier breathes. The fingers resting on the Witcher’s knee just dust over skin, nothing more. But Geralt shudders as he feels himself barrelling towards the edge. The finger inside him curls, dusting that spot inside of him that has a noiseless shout ripped out of him. He’s faintly aware of Jaskier talking him through it. To be wound up for what seemed to be hours, wading slowly towards the edge with the bard’s words dusting the shell of his ear. Good boy, that’s it.

The world comes back to him slowly. When he lifts his head from the lip of the bath, it’s heavy and requires too much strain for him to admit. But his head lolls forward, hooded eyes searching for the bard. Jaskier offers him a small smile.

He stands. “Come, Geralt,” he throws over his shoulder as he pads out into their room. Geralt moves quickly, uncaring of the water that sloshes out of the tub and stains the floor. He grabs a towel and quickly pats himself dry; all the while looking around the corner of the screen trying to see the bard.

His ears twitch at the bed creaking and blankets shuffling around. Geralt’s hands shake as he drops the towel by the tub and goes in search of the other man. His breath almost catches at what he finds; Jaskier lounging at the head of the bed, among a nest of pillows, with his arms splayed out. He draws up a leg. “Come up here, darling,” he holds out a hand.  

Geralt follows. His tongue sits heavily in his mouth as he swallows, thoughtlessly doing anything and everything Jaskier ever asks of him. The crawl up towards Jaskier is slow. Soft, fond blue eyes watch him as he pads up. Geralt’s not entirely certain on where to look. Jaskier is well-built in his own right; lithe and subtle muscle hiding away under those gaudy doublets and breeches.

When his hand slips into Jaskier, he lets the bard gently tug at him until he’s lain flush against him. Jaskier hums. “Now,” a hand dusts over Geralt’s shoulders, “what do you need?”

It’s a loaded question. He needs everything, all of it. Whatever Jaskier can gift him. Geralt’s jaw clenches.

A fond, small smile curls along Jaskier’s lip. “My fingers, I assume?” he purrs, gently dusting the back of them against the ridge of Geralt’s jaw. Within seconds, he lets it slacken and the tension is gone. Jaskier’s gaze washes over every inch of him. “You like them. And I like giving them to you.”

Geralt rolls to the side, already splaying his legs out. He doesn’t have a lot of control of his own body; everything moves on its own. Jaskier’s eyes watch him, crinkling when a smile engulfs his face. He knows the power he has over the Witcher. A Witcher can ward off even the most beguiling of powers from seductresses; but Jaskier has him floored.

The bard leans over him, one arm braced by Geralt’s head. He keeps his lips just out of reach. And Geralt wants to scream. He wants to card his fingers through the bard’s hair, tighten his hold, and bring their lips together. Golden eyes flicker down to them.

Jaskier coats his fingers again, letting them trail back down and brush against Geralt’s entrance. The Witcher’s legs spread wider. “Jask,” Geralt breathes, lifting his chin. A silent request.

Jaskier’s smile is fond. He dips his head, his lips ghosting against Geralt’s. He hovers there for a moment. Just out of reach. Geralt knows better than to chase after him; Jaskier will give him what he wants when he wants to. Some sort of pity must wash over the bard. He presses their lips together, soft and plush and just touching. A whine crawls up Geralt’s throat.

Jaskier lets their kiss deepen just as he slips one finger back inside the Witcher. He swallows Geralt’s groan, savouring it on his tongue. His own hardness presses against Geralt’s thigh, almost forgotten about entirely.

He curls his finger, finding that spot inside the other man that has him trembling. Large, calloused hands come up to frame his face. “Jaskier, please,” he moans against the bard’s lips.

Jaskier hums. Having a Witcher pliant and soft under him never fails to leave him in awe. Especially someone like Geralt; chronically allergic to emotions and connections with people, whose life has just left him beaten and scarred and hardened.  So when his Witcher comes to him, after a hunt, tired and exhausted and willing to let himself relax and be as malleable as freshly forged steel, who is he to turn him away?

A second finger joins the first, delving into the Witcher’s body and stretching him open. Plumes of pleasure lap over him. Geralt lets his head rest against the pillows, his eyes blearily focused on the canopy of the bed. Jaskier takes his time. His fingers move slowly, luring sweet sounds and shudders out of him while his lips wander. There’s a spot on his neck, just over a tendon, that Jaskier likes to spend his time with. Lips brush over it, mouthing a soft kiss into the skin.

“You’re gorgeous,” Jaskier breathes, “and all mine. Aren’t you, my darling? My Geralt.”

His cock leaks on to his abdomen, red and ruddy and spilling. He’ll forever curse, or cherish, the day Jaskier found out that a Witcher’s stamina in the bedroom wasn’t bullshit. He conducted his own experiments, of course; tapping out after a few hours because, and quote, you’ll kill me with that cock, and while that might be a fantastic way for my father to find out my cause of death, that isn’t the way I planned on going out.

And words fail him. Of course he’s Jaskier’s. He wouldn’t dream of having anyone else. He feels sick at even entertaining the thought. Even when tavernmaids and young blacksmiths who don’t know any better set their hands on his arm or shoulders, he has to fight not to throw himself away as if he’d been scalded.

Jaskier hums. The first hint of teeth joins as he lightly scrapes them down the column of Geralt’s neck. “Talk to me, darling,” he purrs. “You have a lovely voice. Lovelier when you’re like this.”

Geralt’s hips move of their own accord, delving down on to Jaskier’s fingers and trying to get him to hit that spot again. He swallows, a lump trying to stick inside his throat. “I,” he gasps, just as Jaskier scissors his fingers, stretching him out. Words don’t come to him. They might perch on the tip of his tongue but make no effort to budge.

Jaskier hides his smile into his neck. “My poor Witcher,” he mumbles against skin. “Already so gone and lost, and only two fingers inside of you. What will you be like with my cock, darling?”

He has it so rarely. Jaskier likes being under Geralt, pinned down and mounted. He languishes in it, sending Geralt coy smiles when he has a slight limp the following day, or refuses to sit up on Roach because the saddle is too much.

When they do switch, when Jaskier catches him like this and can unfurl everything about him, Geralt can’t breathe. He draws in a tight breath, losing it through a groan when another finger slips in. “Jask, please,” he moans. “I need it. Please. Just fuck me.”

Fuck isn’t even the right word. It’s worship. And colour warms Geralt’s face when he thinks of it like that because he’s the way he is, and Jaskier deserves pompous parties and propositions from noble’s daughters. Not a Witcher.

But he’s here. And Geralt struggles to wrap his head around it.

Jaskier’s fingers leave him. Geralt swallows down on a whine. He’s empty and cold when Jaskier moves away, even just a few inches. He grabs the glass vial, spilling more oil on to his hand and slicking his cock. “It’s alright, gorgeous,” he breathes. Geralt watches as the bard falls on to his back, slowly thrusting into the sure grip of his hand. Jaskier’s head lolls to the side. Bleary blue eyes look back at him. “I’ll make you feel good, I promise. I always take care of you, don’t I?”

Geralt moans. He pushes himself off of the bed to straddle Jaskier’s thighs.

The bard’s laugh is light. “Calm down, darling,” he coos. He sets a dry hand on Geralt’s hip, slowly, but surely, guiding him to where he needs to be. His keeps a hand on the base of his cock, angling it to just rest flush against Geralt’s hole.

Geralt shakes. His hands don’t know where to go, they fidget and palm at every stretch of skin he can find on the bard. Gooseflesh erupts underneath his hands. Jaskier’s eyes hood. “Come on, darling,” he purrs, squeezing Geralt’s hip. A silent order.

Geralt’s thighs tremble as he lowers down on to Jaskier’s cock. The stretch has his mouth falling open, with a wordless groan slipping out of his throat. He can’t look at Jaskier. It’s too much. His fingers dig into the arches of his hips. Some small part of Geralt’s mind wishes that the marks would last; knowing full well they’ll be gone by the time they wake up tomorrow morning. But for now, he lets pleasure wash over him. He hasn’t fallen into bed with many men, and if he did, he was the one doing the taking. Having Jaskier in him, hard and throbbing, with words of worship spilling out of his mouth, it’s too much.

Geralt’s breath catches. “Jaskier,” he moans.

The bard tilts his head. Sprawled among an obscene amount of pillows piled up against the headboard, he languishes in every thrum of warmth that washes over him. His eyes hood and his words begin to slur. “Does it feel good? Having me inside of you?”

Geralt nods, his mouth open but nothing, not even a noise, coming out.

Jaskier’s hands tighten on his hips. “You feel good too, darling. Wet and hot and tight. I’m starting to wonder why I don’t take you more often.” Jaskier’s words are vicious things, knowing where to burrow into Geralt and settle and edge him on. But even Geralt can have his own effect on the bard; and it’s starting to show. The devious little thing that he is, Jaskier puts on his usual coy smile and fond eyes, letting his fingers dig into Geralt’s skin.

His hips move of their own accord, lifting up and down on to Jaskier’s length. He could have been stretched more, but he likes the slight sharp sting that shoots up the small of his back. He languishes in it. A long, drawn-out groan shudders out of him when he’s flushed against Jaskier.

“Sweet thing,” Jaskier coos, “already so wound up and wanting. Maybe we should do this more often.” Yes. “If I had my way, darling, I’d see that you would never leave our bed again. We’ll go somewhere of our own, down by the coast.”

It’s a nice thought. In another life where the Continent wasn’t infested with creatures and his blood and body weren’t forever tainted. But something will always call him back to the wilds, some voice whispering along the shell of his ear.

Jaskier’s words have always been kind to listen to – once he got over the incessant singing and rambling. At some point, when he returned to Kaer Morhen one year, he found the ensuing silence deafening. They’ve wintered together every year since.

Geralt’s cock twitches and a bead of cum pearls on the tip. He’s close. Just rocking his hips against Jaskier’s, letting himself shudder around the man’s length is enough to get him teetering on the edge.

Jaskier’s hands smooth over his hips, his touch gentle and assuring. “Would you like to come, darling?” he breathes, letting his hips still for a moment. Geralt might have a Witcher’s stamina, but Jaskier certainly does not. And although he would easily follow him for two or three rounds, he doesn’t want to waste even one.

The words burrow into Geralt’s chest, tightening and twisting his heart. “Yes,” he breathes. His hips move on their own. The tip of Jaskier’s cock brushes and dusts against a spot inside of him that has stars scattered across the backs of his eyelids. But Jaskier is big, and he’s tight, and there isn’t a lot of him that Jaskier’s cock isn’t touching.

He bows over, setting a hand into the bedding. His fingers curl and tighten, knuckles turning white as he clutches at the sheets. Jaskier’s thrusts up and into him, tightening the coil again. It’s too much. “Jaskier,” he gasps, letting his hips meet every one of Jaskier’s thrusts. “Jask, please, I’m close-”

Jaskier hushes him, setting a hand on to the centre of his chest, just over his hammering heart. “It’s alright, my love,” he purrs. “You’ve been so good for me. My good boy. If you want to come, come. But I won’t be finished with you just yet, darling.”

Jaskier is nowhere near finished with him.

Geralt’s abdomen sinks in as he comes. He tightens around Jaskier, clamping down on him like a vice. A choked-off moan slips out of the bard’s lips. Between them, come splatters across their abdomens.

And he still doesn’t wither. Geralt grunts as he looks down at himself. His cock ruddy and red and still leaking, and Jaskier’s fingers slipping through the mess made on them and thumbing some of it into his mouth.

He trembles around the other man.

“We can take a break,” Jaskier rasps. “Or we can keep going. What do you want to do?”

He should stop. The dim candlelight is too bright and the faint oils and lotions from the bath start to sting the roof his mouth and smother him. But his hips begin to move again, drawing up and down Jaskier’s cock and he revels in the feeling of it.

“Fuck me,” Geralt all but whines, “fill me up, please. I need you so badly.” How he can string a sentence together now is beyond him. Even thoughts are difficult. All his world revolves around now is the man in his bed, looking up at him with a glint in his eye and a coy smile.

“My good boy,” Jaskier purrs. The bedsheets rustle, and Geralt is distantly aware of Jaskier setting his feet on to the mattress and lifting his hips up. His thrusts start slow, merely grinding up into the body above him. The air is thick with the scent of them, something that Geralt would have bottled and brought with him on the lonelier nights of winters when they do have to part. He’d burn Oxenfurt to the ground for taking his bard away from him.

Jaskier’s hands find his hips again, settling into them as if they were both formed together. “My darling Witcher,” he breathes, “all mine. You’ve been so good for me, Geralt. I love how you feel. I’d stay in your forever if I could.”

And I’d let you.

Jaskier’s hips gain a bite. They snap up, fucking half-sounds of out Geralt as he searches for that spot again. When he hits it, Geralt’s mouth falls open. Everything nips at him; the sights and smells, even the faint hum of the tavern downstairs. They might as well be down there with them.

Jaskier’s hands tighten on his hips. “I love having you like this, my darling. Above me, well-able to hold me down, but you let me have all of the power. Isn’t that right?”

Geralt nods. The words are slow to reach him through the haze beginning to engulf him.

“You’re still so tight around me, love. Maybe we should go back to that shop in the backstreets, hmm? It would save me quite a lot of time stretching you out for me if you were to be plugged.”

Some terrible and depraved part of him screeches yes. The thought of it, of being ready for his bard at a moment’s notice, able to let him slip inside of him and take what he needs, it’s enough to set his blood ablaze. But he loves Jaskier’s fingers. They’re long and sure, and know exactly what to do to ease Geralt open.

“I’d keep you wet and wanting,” Jaskier’s words start to falter. He’s stubbornly tough when it comes to sex, able to hold his nerve while his lovers fall apart. But Geralt tightens around him. Because if Jaskier is able to have Geralt lose himself, then the Witcher can do the same back to him. His thrusts start to falter. “I’d fill you up with my cum, would you like that? And plug you up for later. I’d be – fuck – I’d be able to slip into your wet cunt whenever I like, whenever you would need it. Need me.”

It’s not fair how much Jaskier’s words can drown him. Geralt tilts his head back, eyes squeeze shut as he focuses on his hips and how they move. They’ve gotten sloppy, just seeking out another release. Jaskier’s hands guide him. “You feel so good, darling,” Jaskier grunts, snapping his hips up thrust for thrust. The sound of slapping skin echoes through the room, mingling with moaned attempts at each other’s names and gasps.

“Is my good boy going to come for me?” Jaskier asks. His voice starts to waver. With every harsh thrust he gives, his words start to tremble. He edges both of them on, eyeing the edge of release and hurtling towards it. “Come for me, darling. I can feel how desperate you are.”

Geralt bows over, his brows knitted together. The later orgasms take the longest to lure out. Jaskier knows just how to get them out, with urging words and sure snaps of his hips. “Come on baby, I can feel you trembling around me. We’ll come together.” Jaskier sounds as fucked-out as he feels. He bats around for one of Jaskier’s hands, catching it, entwining their fingers and pinning it beside the bard’s head. Jaskier watches him intently. Both of them shine with sweat, and it stings the inside of his nose. But through it all, he picks out the familiar smell of Jaskier—

When the coil snaps, Geralt lets himself fall flush against Jaskier’s chest. It shudders out of him, rattling up through his spine and whitening his vision. He buries his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck. He’s distantly aware of Jaskier frantically thrusting and stilling. A bloom of heat spreads through him.

The hold he has on Jaskier’s hand is tight. He could have easily broken bones. He loosens his grip, only to huff a tired laugh when Jaskier squeezes back. The bard other hand palms up his back, wringing out the last shivers. “Good boy,” Jaskier whispers, mindful of the tension tightening the air. “You were so good for me, my darling.”

His thighs cramp and ache, and without the heat sizzling his blood, a chill nips at his skin. Jaskier pats his shoulders, not quite content to leave him just yet, but waiting for Geralt to make the first move. He’d happily lay pinned and prone under the Witcher for hours, even days. But eventually, he’s too soft to stay inside and he slips out – earning a small noise from both of them.

When Geralt goes move, it’s more of a graceless flop to the side. Jaskier’s fingers comb through his hair, pulling strands stuck to his forehead with sweat back and freeing his eyes. Jaskier smiles down at him, fond and loving and just a bit too much for Geralt to look at. He lowers his gaze.

“You deserve every good thing in the world,” Jaskier hums, hooking a finger under Geralt’s chin and lifting it, making him look at the other man. “I only hope I can give them to you.”

A rumbling sort of noise leaves Geralt’s chest. He knows Jaskier would reach up to the sky and pluck every star out of the sky for him if he had asked. It’s why nights like these work as well as they do. Geralt can fuck him, having him sprawled out on his back or braced on his knees and plough him through any mattress or floor or wall they can find, but Jaskier takes his time and leaves him boneless.

Jaskier leans down, pressing a kiss to Geralt’s forehead. The salty sting of sweat and release sits in the air, but it’s not strong enough to undo all of the bard’s hard work leaving him soft and pliant with desert rose oils and vanilla lotions. Jaskier combs through his hair again. “Stay here, get under the sheets if you can, I’ll be with you in a moment.”

He doesn’t have the energy to know just where Jaskier goes. His ears twitch at the sound of a plug being undone, followed by a swirl of water. Towels and clothes are ruffled and set against the screen dividing the bedroom and bathroom.

Geralt tries to cling on to consciousness, but his fingers slip. He’s slowly lured down. The last thing he feels is the bed dipping, and warm blankets slowly settling over him. “Sleep my darling,” Jaskier whispers, lying opposite him and watching him slip under.

Nights like these are few and far between, but when they do happen, he starts to make a convincing argument as to why there should definitely be more. He’s pliant and soft and hasn’t been this relaxed in years. Every old injury and niggling pain through his body has left him as he sinks further into the mattress. Jaskier brushes the backs of his fingers across his cheek, slowly lulling him to sleep. He’s safe with Jaskier. No walls or barbed fences have to come up. The bard has been able to crack them and break through for years. Now the question is whether they’ll stay down, knowing that Jaskier is a permanent fixture in his life.