Geralt wakes up to a soft snore and an arm wrapped around his waist.
He yawns, shifting to stretch, and is met with disgruntled mumble. Geralt frowns, staring at the hand that's splayed on his stomach, then tracing the attached arm up to the tousled head of hair that's resting on his chest.
Jaskier.
A mild panic races through Geralt as he desperately tries to figure out how they got here. It's not that he doesn't want to be shirtless in bed with Jaskier – he's definitely had dreams about it before – but he'd really prefer to remember how he'd ended up with his favorite person curled around him like they've done this a thousand times before.
They'd been hunting, and something had gone wrong. Geralt remembers the fear, the desperate need to protect Jaskier, and then—
Your eyes are pretty.
Suddenly everything comes back to him.
Geralt groans quietly, trying to ignore the way heat creeks up the back of his neck at the memory. It's easier to focus on his injuries instead, so he prods gently at the bandage around his chest. The wound is mostly healed already, but a low ache still thrums across his skin. Everywhere else is a mix of bruises and vague soreness, but it's nothing he can't handle.
Jaskier snuffles softly in his sleep and presses his face into the crook of Geralt's neck, sending a spark of heat through Geralt's body. Soft, callused fingers brush across his stomach as Jaskier shifts, and his breathing is soft and even against Geralt's skin.
Don't shove me out of bed tomorrow morning when you wake up and realize you're basically cuddling me.
Geralt closes his eyes and rubs his face, trying his best not to disturb Jaskier. The room is filled with the soft pink light that heralds the sunrise, and a cool breeze trickles through the window, tickling the hairs at the back of Jaskier's neck. He shivers, burrowing closer to Geralt.
Geralt carefully wraps his arm around Jaskier, tugging the blanket up and pulling him closer. Jaskier's face is soft and open in sleep – dirty, though, with a bandage across his cheek.
I had to save us.
It's not that Geralt doesn't believe him. He's seen Jaskier fight before, when necessary, and he's definitely not useless. But fighting off bandits is something entirely different than slaying a flesh-eating monster with paralyzing claws.
Guilt creeps into Geralt's chest and settles there. Jaskier could have died. They both could have, but Geralt's fate is already set – one day he'll lose to a monster stronger than him. He's accepted that. Jaskier's fate, however, is something entirely different. He deserves better than being eaten alive by a monster in an abandoned castle with nobody to mourn him.
"Idiot," Geralt says softly, looking down and running his fingers across the bandage on Jaskier's cheek. "You should have left me there."
There's a tiny voice in Geralt's mind that whispers, you should have protected him. You're weak and you failed him, and—
"Hey." Jaskier's sleepy voice interrupts Geralt's racing thoughts and he looks down to see soft blue eyes blinking up at him. They're accompanied by a yawn and a stretch that shifts Jaskier so he's pressed right against Geralt's side. "You didn't push me out of the bed."
"I promised I wouldn't."
A surprisingly comfortable silence settles between them as they breathe in tandem. Geralt is incredibly aware of everywhere their bodies are touching – Jaskier's leg tossed over his, Jaskier's hand on his stomach, Jaskier's chest pressed to Geralt's side. His head is tucked into the corner of Geralt's neck and Geralt catches the faint scent of lavender as he presses his face into Jaskier's hair.
"Geralt," Jaskier says slowly.
"Mm."
"What are you doing?"
Geralt doesn't answer, just turns so they're facing each other and Jaskier's hand shifts down to his hip. He can hear the heavy way Jaskier swallows, and the way his heart stutters and then starts to thrum when Geralt brings a hand up to tuck his hair behind his ear.
"You smell good."
There's an uncertain pause, and then Jaskier says, "You're still addled, aren't you?" His voice is somewhere between cautious and disappointed, and Geralt can feel his muscles tighten as he gets ready to pull away.
"No," Geralt says, shifting so his thigh is between Jaskier's and he's pinning his leg to the bed. "I'm sound now."
The quiet oh that Jaskier breathes out is more of a squeak than a word, and it pulls a rumbling laugh from Geralt's chest.
"Do you, um…" Jaskier is tense under Geralt's hands so Geralt moves his hand to Jaskier's shoulder, running his thumb along the soft line of Jaskier's neck.
"Do I what?"
"Ah. Do… that's…"
"Use your words, Jaskier."
Jaskier huffs, brow creasing. "You can't use my own line against me," he says, but the words don't carry much weight.
"Why not?"
"Because…" Jaskier shivers when Geralt's fingers brush behind his ear, tracing the delicate skin from there to the back of his neck.
"Yes," Geralt rumbles.
"Yes? Yes what?"
"I remember."
"Oh."
Jaskier doesn't say anything else, just exhales shakily and tips his head to the side to give Geralt's fingers more places to explore. The soft curls at the back of his head brush against Geralt's knuckles as he drifts his fingers down Jaskier's spine and back up again. Eventually he leans back, nudging Jaskier until he looks up.
"Your eyes are pretty," Geralt says. The mild discomfort at the words is immediately banished by the way Jaskier's face lights up – hesitant, but delighted. "Thank you for saving me."
Jaskier stares at him for a second. "What's my middle name?" he asks suddenly.
Geralt blinks at him. "Alfred. It's ridiculous."
"Hm. What's my favorite color?"
"Blue." Geralt raises an eyebrow. "It's really me, I promise."
Jaskier narrows his eyes suspiciously. "Forgive me for not entirely believing you," he says. "It's just that the Geralt I've been traveling with for, oh, five years now, has never once said that anything was 'pretty,' never mind my eyes, and he's certainly never thanked me for anything, even though there's a hundred things he should be thanking me—"
"Jaskier," Geralt interrupts. "You talk far too much."
Then he slides his fingers into Jaskier's hair and pulls him in for a kiss.
Jaskier responds without hesitation; like he's been waiting for Geralt to do this since they met. He probably has, Geralt thinks. Jaskier's fingers work their way into Geralt's hair, tugging lightly as he runs his tongue across Geralt's lower lip. Geralt exhales, opening to Jaskier, breathing in him and pulling him closer.
"Up," he murmurs, nudging Jaskier until he's straddling Geralt's thighs and Geralt's got both hands on his hips. Jaskier shivers, and it takes Geralt a second to realize that all he's wearing is a too-large shirt and his smalls. "Is that my shirt?"
"Um." Jaskier looks down at it. "Yes? Sorry, my clothes were a bit, um… and I was worri—"
"I like it." Geralt keeps one hand on Jaskier's hip and brings the other up to cup his cheek, then tugs him back down for a kiss. "You smell like me."
"Smelling people is ridiculous," Jaskier says indignantly against Geralt's lips, but he doesn't pull away. Instead he shifts forward, one hand on the bed beside Geralt's head and the other in his hair. Geralt makes a pleased sound – Jaskier's already hard, his cock dragging against Geralt's through the thin fabric separating them.
"Fuck," Geralt groans as Jaskier rocks forward.
"Ah," Jaskier says shakily, pressing his forehead to Geralt's. "There's the articulate—ahhh—Witcher I know so well."
Geralt grunts, grabbing Jaskier's hips and pressing up against him at the same time. Jaskier moans, low and rough, and suddenly that sound is the only thing Geralt wants to hear. He grinds up again, sliding one hand under Jaskier's shirt—his shirt—and rubbing his thumb over Jaskier's nipple.
"Oh," Jaskier whispers, heartbeat stuttering as he presses his cheek to Geralt's and nips at his earlobe. "Yes."
Geralt hums, pressing his head back into the pillow and shifting his hips up again as he traces a circle around Jaskier's nipple, then pinches it lightly. Jaskier makes a weak, inarticulate sound and buries his face in Geralt's shoulder, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses under his ear.
"You're sure you're sound?" he gasps as Geralt thrusts upward again.
"Very."
"G-good," Jaskier stutters, "because I want you to fuck me."
Geralt growls, letting go of Jaskier's hip just long enough to tear off the shirt and toss it aside. It doesn't take long for them to both shuffle out of their smallclothes, and Jaskier briefly disappears to his pack and returns with a vial of oil that he tosses next to Geralt. Then Jaskier's straddling his hips again, tugging Geralt up by his hair and settling into his lap. Geralt hisses at the slight pain and Jaskier hums appreciatively.
"You like that?" he murmurs, shifting forward until their cocks are trapped between them, hot and heavy. "I've wanted to do this for ages. Thought about what you'd sound like with my fingers in your hair."
Geralt groans, grabbing Jaskier's ass and pulling him closer. It's been so long since he's been with anyone like this. The last time he visited a brothel, all he could picture was Jaskier splayed out under him, Jaskier moaning his name, Jaskier tight around him as he fucked him into the mattress.
"Harder," he growls as Jaskier tugs on his hair again. Jaskier obliges readily, taking a fistful of Geralt's hair and pulling his head back until his throat is bared. Hot lips trace a path across his shoulder and down to the hollow of his throat, and when he feels teeth scrape against his skin, he shudders.
"Jaskier," he pants, rutting harder against his cock. "Jas, fuck."
Jaskier's breath hitches and he nips at Geralt's jaw. "That's the idea," he pants, reaching down and nudging Geralt's hands where he wants them. "Please."
Geralt doesn't argue, fumbling around for the oil and eventually managing to slick up his fingers while Jaskier ruts against him, breathing heavily in his ear. When Geralt finally slips a finger inside him, Jaskier moans loud enough that Geralt's sure everyone in the inn knows what they're up to.
He's surprised to find that he really doesn't care.
"Geralt," Jaskier whispers, leaning forward and shifting so Geralt can press deeper. "That—yes, fuck, there." His breathy moans spur Geralt on and he tips his head down, catching Jaskier's nipple between his teeth as he fingers him harder. "Shit," Jaskier pants. His fingers are still tangled in Geralt's hair, but he's too busy rocking back on Geralt's fingers – two now, spreading him open – to pull very hard.
Geralt's about to add a third finger when Jaskier pulls back, shuddering and moaning. "C'mere," he says, eyes bright as he shifts off of Geralt's lap and tugs him toward the edge of the bed. Geralt follows because at this point, he'd follow Jaskier anywhere. Then Jaskier slips down onto his knees and Geralt nearly stops breathing.
Jaskier has clearly done this before. He tongues at the underside of Geralt's cock, then holds Geralt's hips firmly and takes him down in one swift movement. Geralt gasps, threading his fingers into Jaskier's hair as he spreads his legs wider, trying his best not to buck up into the wet heat.
"Fuck, Jas," he breathes as Jaskier pulls nearly all the way off, then sucks hard at the head and takes him down again, until Geralt can feel his cock hitting the back of Jaskier's throat. Nobody has ever sucked his cock like this before – never been this eager, this attentive, this absolutely dedicated to making him feel good.
Geralt groans as he runs his fingers through Jaskier's hair, combing it out of his eyes as he watches his cock slide in and out of Jaskier's mouth. He's pictured it before – Jaskier, on his knees like this – but the real thing is so much better than any fantasy he's had before.
Then Jaskier looks up at him, blue eyes wide, and Geralt is gone. He tries to warn Jaskier, to nudge him away, but Jaskier just takes him deeper and swallows him down while Geralt bites down on his lip and shudders as he comes.
When Jaskier pushes himself to his feet with a pleased smile on his lips, Geralt shivers, pulling him close and kissing him.
"Still got it, then?" Jaskier teases, running his hands up Geralt's sides. "Been a while, glad to see I can still render a man speechless with my mouth." Geralt raises an eyebrow at him. He's seen Jaskier disappear with many a roguish looking young man at parties or in an inn – he's not exactly discrete about his inclinations. Although, come to think of it, it hasn't happened recently.
"A while?" he asks.
Jaskier shrugs, cheeks turning even redder than they already were. "Didn't seem…" He huffs. "I didn't want anyone else. But you."
Geralt's heart does something funny at those words and he grabs Jaskier by the waist, turning and tossing him back onto the bed. Jaskier hums contentedly, splaying out and spreading his legs so Geralt can settle between them.
"I've wanted you for a long time," Jaskier says softly as Geralt leans over him, nipping at his bottom lip and sliding their tongues together.
It doesn't take long for Geralt to get hard again. Jaskier's hands are as deft as his tongue, and Geralt has never been touched by anyone like this before. Jaskier's constantly moving, pressing kisses everywhere he can reach while he traces Geralt's scars with his fingertips. And of course Jaskier would talk during sex – it would take an honest to god's miracle to shut him up – but instead of grating on Geralt, it spurs him on. This sort of babbling he doesn't mind.
"I need you in me," Jaskier pleads as Geralt slicks up his cock and leans forward, taking a deep breath before slowly thrusting into him. "Fuck, that's—yes, gods, you're so go—ahh, yes, there—so good." Geralt's arms shake on either side of Jaskier's head as he holds still, letting Jaskier adjust.
"Okay?" he asks roughly, leaning down and brushing his lips against Jaskier's.
"More than okay," Jaskier breathes, grabbing Geralt's hips and pulling him closer. "You're incredible. Please, I need—move, please."
So Geralt obliges, starting off slow but unable to hold himself back the more Jaskier talks. He's never quiet – a long litany of fuck, Geralt, and right there, and harder, please, more, you feel so good. When he's not talking, he's moaning, head thrown back and hair in damp curls around his face.
"Jas," Geralt warns, feeling himself tipping forward toward the edge again.
"I know," Jaskier groans, gasping as Geralt wraps a hand around his cock and starts to stroke him. "Me too, I'm cl—hnnnggnn—I'm close, I want to feel you, need to… need you, need…"
His words are cut off as he arches his back and gasps, spilling over the back of Geralt's hand and whispering his name like it's the only word he knows.
Geralt follows quickly, enraptured by the way his name sounds on Jaskier's lips, wrecked and broken. "Jas," he groans, thrusting one last time as everything tightens, and he comes undone.
Almost immediately, a wave of exhaustion rushes through Geralt and he collapses, shifting to the side so he doesn't smother Jaskier. The wound in his chest aches a little and he groans, pressing his fingers to the bandage.
"Fuck, we sh—"
"Worth it," Geralt interrupts. "'m fine." He leans over the edge of the bed and grabs his discarded shirt, using it to clean up their mess and then tossing it back on the floor. Then he pulls Jaskier close and exhales hard as he kisses Jaskier's forehead.
"Well," Jaskier says after a moment, still out of breath. "That… you…"
"Mm."
"Exactly."
Geralt laughs, tipping his head back against the pillow and taking in the soft, sweet expression on Jaskier's face. Then he frowns, reaching out and running his fingertips across the bridge of Jaskier's nose.
"Jaskier," Geralt says slowly, staring curiously at the smattering of soft, glowing freckles across his face that most certainly were not there before. "You're glowing."