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He’s taking it as well as possible.
Geralt’s leading Jaskier back to the inn where they’ll spend the night before heading up to Kaer Morhen in the morning. Something’s...off, that’s for sure, but Geralt’s disoriented with relief to have found Jaskier whole and relatively unharmed, and he can’t quite pinpoint what it is.
Bit weird, the thing with the mice. Not the fact that Jaskier took solace in animal companions while imprisoned, that’s rather common and reasonable—no, it’s just that Jaskier’d spent years teasing Geralt for talking to Roach.
Beggars and choosers, perhaps. Can’t hold it against him.
But as they make their way to the inn, the shock to Geralt’s system from simply being around Jaskier again has given way enough for him to be sure. Something’s definitely off.
Jaskier’s chattering on, rambling as usual about recent gossip, but none of this should be as usual. This separation was...different, from the others. Worse.
Geralt’s fault.
And now Jaskier’s tone is tight and forced, anxiety spiking his scent and making it unfamiliar.
Well, he had just been imprisoned.
Geralt tries to convince himself that’s all it is. At the inn, Geralt buys him food and a bath. He devours the stew and bread recklessly. Geralt watches the muscles in his throat work, still somewhat light-headed at being in his presence again. Geralt pays for a warm bath, and Jaskier sinks into it gratefully, groaning. Geralt, for the first time, makes it a point to look away.
He’s putting on Geralt’s clothes after his bath, as he has no clean ones of his own. The shirt’s just barely too big for him, the collar dipping low enough that his collarbones peek through, a hint of coarse chest hair, shining from the bath.
And yet...that unease still knits his muscles. Geralt can’t resist any longer.
“Jaskier, are you...all right?”
Jaskier turns to look at him, a little too hard.
“Oh yeah, totally!” he smiles, mouth taut, and Geralt’s gut twists. “Just fine! Peachy keen!”
Geralt furrows his brow.
“You’re not telling the truth.”
And at that, Jaskier seems to have had enough. His lips go tight, and he cinches his borrowed trousers with a jerk.
“What do you care?”
“I—”
“You need me,” Jaskier spits at him, parroting his words from the cell, his arms outstretched in such a familiar gesture Geralt aches. “You don’t want me. Here with you, that is. You need me, for your contacts, for your plan, for destiny, for the good of the fucking world, because you’ve grown up, apparently! You care about people now! Well, no, that’s not true, you always have and I knew it, I saw it, I told you, but no matter how self-sacrificing you ever got you never let yourself have anything close to—to—”
“What are you saying?” Geralt growls. He feels like he’s been slapped. He rather wishes Jaskier had slapped him instead. Jaskier shakes his head, his lips drawn back in a snarl. He paces the room, hands clasped behind his head.
“You apologized.” Jaskier says it like an accusation. “Back in the cell. Why, exactly?”
Geralt’s frown deepens. “For what I said to you on the mountain.”
Jaskier gives a sad, sorry little laugh. He fusses with the hem of his borrowed shirt, running his fingertips over a frayed edge Geralt hasn’t bothered to mend. Jaskier had always taken it on himself to manage those mendings, back when they were together.
“But not why you said it?”
Geralt blinks. Jaskier shakes his head, disappointed.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he says, quieter now, and Geralt feels panic rise in his chest. “I told myself I wouldn’t, if you came back just like this, and expected things to be just as they were before. Not after the mountain.”
“We need your help!” Geralt growls. “You’re going to let a fight stop you from helping save the w—”
“A fight?” Jaskier’s laugh is half-hysterical now. “Are you out of your mind, witcher? No, no, that wasn’t a fight, a fight requires two people to be fighting with each other! This is a fight! That was—”
“What?” Geralt says, rising to his feet. He’s nearly shouting as he steps into Jaskier’s space. “What was it?”
“If you don’t know, there’s absolutely no point in—”
“What was it, Jaskier?”
“You broke my heart!”
Jaskier’s words ring in the quiet of the room. Something in the air has shifted, Geralt can feel it like static, can see it in the trembling of Jaskier’s mouth, even if he doesn’t know how to name it.
Geralt can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat. Geralt can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat, and almost nothing else. Geralt feels numb. He feels raw, vulnerable. He feels so many things at once he’s not sure he can hold them. He’s never really tried before.
“You...can’t mean—” he starts, jerkily, but Jaskier shakes his head.
“Can’t I?” Jaskier cries, his eyes very bright. “Or do you just not want me to?”
“You don’t know what I want!” Geralt rasps. He’s hot with anger. It has to be anger, the way it floods his body, his cheeks, makes his hands restless. “What I’ve fought not to want.”
“Glad to hear your feelings for me have been such a plague.” Jaskier spits the words like they’re poison.
“Yes, they have!”
Jaskier spreads his arms again.
“Fucking why?!”
“Because I don’t deserve you!” Geralt roars. “I never have, and I’ve always known, and I thought I was doing the best thing for you on that mountain. After I’d thought Téa and Véa fucking died following Borch, after you’d almost died from the djinn, after you’d almost died just climbing the fucking mountain, I thought I was finally doing the right thing. Even if I went about it the wrong way.”
A complicated look crosses Jaskier’s face. Geralt doesn’t know how to read it, which makes him even angrier.
“No,” Jaskier says, quieter, “you don’t deserve me. But you could if you let yourself actually care about other people. I’ve always known that you could.”
Geralt growls, his fingers itching.
“I know!” he says, because these months with Ciri have proven exactly that. He hasn’t stopped thinking about how they’ve proven exactly that.
Jaskier frowns.
“You know?”
“Yes, I do!” Geralt says, irritated.
You broke my heart, he’d said. You broke my heart. Geralt’s still taking it in, confused and furious and shaking, shaking.
“Then what the fuck are you waiting for?” Jaskier says, raising his voice.
Geralt blinks.
“I—what?”
“Go on then!” Jaskier says it like a dare, his eyes very bright now, going damp in the corners. He looks like a man who has nothing left to give. Nothing left to lose. And Geralt finally, finally understands. “Go on, witcher, if you really fucking mean it, come on, fucking do it, I—”
Geralt steps forward, and kisses him.
Geralt steps forward and kisses him with all the fury pent-up in his body, all the rage at time wasted and lost, all the decades of hopeless, desperate wanting, all the terror of letting someone in when everyone else in his life has betrayed him or left him or died—except for Ciri, except for Ciri, he has to keep reminding himself. He can believe in love now. He has Ciri. And, if he doesn’t fuck it up again, he has this.
It’s a crash of a kiss. Teeth and tears and Jaskier’s hands scrabbling over Geralt’s back as if trying to gather as much of Geralt as he can while he’s allowed. Geralt tangles his hands in Jaskier’s hair where it’s gone long, breathes in the scent he’s missed since the mountain. Since Jaskier made an offer Geralt had been too cowardly to admit he wanted more than anything Destiny ever had in store for him.
Too soon, infinitely too soon, Jaskier pushes him back, breathless.
“Promise me this isn’t the only time.” His lips are pink from being kissed, wet from Geralt’s own mouth. A tear streaks down his cheek, but his voice is steady. “Promise me this will happen again, or I can’t do it.”
Geralt brushes the tear away with the pad of his thumb, and then a second, when it spills too.
“I promise,” he says, and he registers dimly that he’s never meant anything so much in his life. “I missed you.” He takes a deep breath. “I need you.”
Jaskier inhales so sharp it sounds painful.
“Say it again.”
And now that Geralt knows what it is to kiss him, the truth doesn’t seem so overwhelming. Not when he could have this.
“I need you,” he says again, and fuck, it’s a relief to say aloud. “Not for the plan. Not for the world. Just me. I need you, you know I do. I’m so sorry, Jask. It took me too long.”
Jaskier cups his cheek. His eyes are shining, but he’s not crying anymore.
“Say it again,” he whispers. His breath is warm on Geralt’s mouth, and Geralt finds he can’t deny him anything. Not anymore.
“I need you,” he says, his hands at the laces of Jaskier’s borrowed shirt, questioning. Jaskier moans in answer, hurrying to the ties of Geralt’s trousers. “I need you,” he says, helping Jaskier step out of his clothes. “I want you,” he admits at last, pressing their bare bodies together, pinning Jaskier to the cool wood of the wall. And when Jaskier kisses him with feverish, desperate hunger, Geralt pulls back to look at him in the candlelight, and finds he can finally say the words. “I love you.”
Jaskier makes a choked sound, tilting into a kiss as if he could devour the words and keep them forever, so Geralt says it again, feeling not unpleasantly light-headed. He murmurs them into Jaskier’s mouth like a song, like a spell, like a promise.
“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he says, the words going ragged as Jaskier touches him. Jaskier’s touching him at last, and the bard seems in awe at it, making little gasps against Geralt’s mouth as his hands travel the expanse of Geralt’s scarred weapon of a body. No one’s ever handled him like this. Jaskier caresses his cheek, palms his muscles, moves to where he’s never been allowed before. Jaskier touches him like he’s made of spun sugar, stained glass, starlight. Geralt can hardly bear it.
And then Jaskier’s reaching for him with that cheeky, hopeful, impossibly sweet grin, making to crouch, and Geralt thinks he might shatter.
“Next time,” he grunts, hauling Jaskier to his feet. Jaskier blinks at him, confused, and Geralt nearly chuckles. It’s very clear Jaskier’s not accustomed to being turned down on that offer. His expression shifts to gratified surprise when Geralt sinks to his knees instead. “Can I?” he rasps, and Jaskier’s jaw drops.
“Are you— fuck, Geralt, if you knew how much I’d thought about this.”
“No pressure then,” Geralt hums, running his tongue over the cut of Jaskier’s hip. Jaskier’s shaking his head, his palms flat against the wall behind him.
“Don’t be daft, no pressure at all, I want—oh!—I want whatever you’ll give me…”
Geralt wants to give him everything, is the thing. And...fuck.
He’s got the prettiest cock Geralt’s ever seen.
It’s long and thick, curving up ever so slightly from its thicket of coarse, chestnut-colored curls. A pearl of precome glistens at the tip.
It’s been years since Geralt had enjoyed Yen’s strap, decades longer since he’d let another man have him like that, but the sight of Jaskier’s perfect length makes Geralt’s knees turn to water. Another time, when he can let himself be a bit more selfish.
Jaskier makes a faintly questioning noise, and Geralt realizes he’s been sitting on his heels and just staring.
“Fuck,” he mutters, and leans in to lick the pearl into his mouth. More gathers at once, as Jaskier makes a punched-out sound and braces himself against the wall. Geralt licks his way along Jaskier’s shaft, getting it good and slick, and then swallows Jaskier to the hilt.
It’s been a while. He takes a moment to re-familiarize himself with the weight and girth of a cock in his mouth, settling properly on his knees and grasping Jaskier at the root. And then his instincts take over. He tunes his senses to Jaskier as best as he can, listening, tasting, scenting, as he opens his throat, tightens his lips, presses his tongue to the sensitive head. Jaskier tastes fucking good, better than Geralt had ever dreamed. Geralt already knew he was stupid for Jaskier’s scent and now it fills his mouth, all salt and musk and faintly floral sweetness. He buries his nose in the hair at Jaskier’s base and Jaskier jolts, spilling another pulse of precome down Geralt’s throat.
It’s the best Geralt’s felt in years. He wants, fiercely, to give Jaskier as much pleasure as he can. He wants nothing more than his whole body reimagined for this purpose.
He looks up to find Jaskier watching him, open-mouthed, his eyes hooded in bliss. Geralt’s never seen him like this before. He’s almost unbearably beautiful.
Geralt cups the swell of Jaskier’s ass in his palms, tugging him deeper into his mouth and eyeing Jaskier with intention.
“Fuck, do you mean—”
Geralt grunts around the cock in his mouth.
“Fuck,” Jaskier hisses. His hands come to Geralt’s hair, smoothing it away from his face, scratching his scalp. “You feel so perfect, you know that? You look so lovely, there on your knees for me, your tongue, Geralt, I could write a thousand odes to that tongue.”
Geralt makes a disgruntled noise he hopes conveys you better fucking not, but Jaskier just laughs, and there’s so much genuine delight in it Geralt doesn’t mind so much anymore. And then Jaskier takes Geralt’s head in his hands and begins to fuck his mouth, and Geralt would, perhaps, let him write an ode to whatever he wants, because fuck, it feels so good to let Jaskier take.
Geralt gets lost in it, the blurry, aching, perfect pleasure of Jaskier’s cock slipping between his lips and down his throat again and again, the gentle firmness of Jaskier’s grip, the intoxicating little sounds he makes, sweet and raw and surprisingly musical. And through it all, Jaskier doesn’t stop praising him in a way that makes Geralt’s mind go deliciously fuzzy.
“Oh, that’s it, darling,” he gasps. “Oh, you’re doing so well for me, I didn’t know you could be so good for me. You gorgeous man, you’re the best thing I’ve ever felt. That’s it, that’s it, oh Melitele, you’re going to make me come…”
He moves his hips in sultry little rolls that make Geralt rather desperate to have him in his ass. Next time, definitely. Jaskier falls quiet when he comes, so it’s Geralt whose moans fill the room as his mouth floods with Jaskier’s spend. He swallows it with a feeling of marrow-deep satisfaction, pulling off of Jaskier’s softening cock a bit ruefully.
“Geralt,” Jaskier says. His voice is hoarse as he joins Geralt on the floor. Geralt opens his arms for him and Jaskier sinks into them, trembling. He takes several steadying breaths, and then presses his mouth to Geralt’s throat, reaching for Geralt’s throbbing, neglected cock. “What do you want?” he whispers. He skims his fingertips over the length, and Geralt shivers, overwhelmed at the prospect of Jaskier’s attentions.
“Want you,” he says gruffly, his teeth grazing Jaskier’s lip.
“You have me,” Jaskier murmurs, wrapping his hand around Geralt. “You know that.”
Geralt leans into his grasp, jaw falling open at the expert flick of Jaskier’s wrist. He lets himself bask in it for a moment, that warm touch and Jaskier’s earnest, piercing gaze.
“Could I…” he starts. He clears his throat. “Would you like it—if I fucked you?”
The noise Jaskier makes is obscene. His eyes go wide, and Geralt’s senses are flooded with a fresh rush of Jaskier’s arousal.
“Please.”
They make it onto the bed this time, after a brief detour for Geralt to fumble a little bottle of oil from the depths of his saddlebags.
“This okay?” he asks, offering it to Jaskier. It’s simple, inexpensive seed oil that Geralt carries for his own enjoyment. It feels woefully insufficient to use on the bard, bedecked as he usually is in fragrance and finery.
Jaskier chuckles, arranging himself on his front on the bed.
“Yes, we can pick up something indulgent for next time, but trust me, Geralt, this will work just fine for now if it means you’re going to fuck me.” He shoves the vial back at Geralt. “Honestly, you could’ve fucked me with nothing but spit any time you liked out there on the Path, I’ve wanted you so badly, Geralt, I can’t stand it, please—”
Geralt’s heart twinges.
“Wouldn’t’ve done that,” he says gruffly. He’s dazed at the expanse of Jaskier before him, the taste of his come in thick Geralt’s mouth, the way the muscles shift in his strong back as he spreads himself. “Fuck, Jask.” He presses kisses into the hollows of Jaskier’s throat, lavishes them down his body until he reaches the swell of Jaskier’s ass. “Can I?”
Jaskier moans, hitching his hips up. He’s hard again, his cock leaking against the bedspread. He cries out when Geralt licks into him, dragging his tongue against the small, clenching furl. Geralt kisses his hole open-mouthed, intoxicated by the headiness of Jaskier’s scent here at the core of him. He firms his tongue and nudges it inside, Jaskier twitches beneath him, and he never wants to stop. He squeezes Jaskier’s soft, full cheeks, parting him, lapping and kissing his tight little hole until it softens for him. He licks Jaskier open, stroking him from within with his tongue, reveling in the perfect clutch of his smooth channel.
“Fuck me,” Jaskier sobs at last, “fuck me, fuck me!”
Geralt gives him one last long lick that makes Jaskier howl.
“Let me get my fingers in you.”
Jaskier groans, seizing the vial.
“While that sounds like it would feel like a bloody miracle, I think I’ll actually die if you don’t put that gorgeous cock in me right this instant.” He upends a good amount of oil on the bed getting his own fingers shiny with it, and works two of them into his hole impatiently.
Geralt could nearly come from the sight alone. It’s an obscene blessing of a tableau. Geralt can’t believe he gets to see Jaskier, his Jaskier, spread out with his hole slick and clenching around those lovely musician’s fingers. Geralt watches, fascinated, as Jaskier fucks himself open, his eyes fluttering as he slips in a third.
“I’m ready,” Jaskier gasps before long, “I’m ready.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes,” he hisses, pulling his fingers free. “It’s hardly my first time, you know.”
Possessiveness surges through Geralt like a potion. He feels an unfamiliar gratitude for his witcher senses, at how he can focus every bit of his powers on being exactly what Jaskier needs. He bares his teeth, seizing Jaskier by the waist and yanking him to the edge of the bed so he can stand and haul Jaskier’s legs around his waist.
No, it’s not Jaskier’s first time getting fucked. But Geralt’s going to make sure it’s going to be his best.
Geralt lines himself up. For all their effort, Jaskier’s hole still looks impossibly tight when confronted by Geralt’s sheer size. But Jaskier digs his heels into Geralt’s back, biting his lip, and Geralt knows neither of them can wait any longer.
He sinks in carefully, inch by inch, letting Jaskier get used to it, even though the moment he breaches that first tight ring of muscle, his body screams at him to bury himself at once. Jaskier moans, high and shameless, as Geralt bottoms out, and it’s the prettiest song Geralt’s ever heard.
“Yes,” Jaskier whines. He arches, stretching his arms above his head. “Yes.”
Jaskier feels transcendent on his cock . The tight, slick give of him, wrapping around Geralt so snugly, greedy as he draws him in. And then Geralt pulls back, watching Jaskier’s rim shift with him, and drives back in, and Jaskier’s knuckles go white on the sheets.
“More,” he rasps, and Geralt sets a steady pace, nearly distracted from his own pleasure at the sight of Jaskier getting fucked.
The man is a spectacle. It’s the most decadent, beautiful thing he’s ever seen, the clench of his muscles, the spill of his hair on the pillow, the way he scrunches his nose when Geralt thrusts in just so, that lovely cock bobbing against his soft stomach.
“You feel so good,” Jaskier sobs, “you’re so gorgeous like this, you’re like a god—”
“Shut up,” Geralt says instinctively. He flinches, but Jaskier just gives a crooked grin, arching a brow. “Sorry,” he amends. “I just—look at you. You’re so fucking handsome, you always are. Even with your hair gone fucking long, your ridiculous hat... you’re radiant, Jask. You’re the god, if anything.”
Jaskier blinks at him.
“You really want me,” he whispers, and Geralt nearly stops thrusting. He snorts a laugh.
“Figured it out, have you?” he says, but it comes out tender.
“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier pulls him into a kiss, and they both groan at the shift in angle. Geralt snaps his hips, and Jaskier goes taut.
Geralt had expected to have to fight to last, determined as he is to make Jaskier come on his cock, but it only takes a few more thrusts before Jaskier’s begging to be touched. Geralt takes him in hand, and Jaskier isn’t quiet this time. He cries out so loud Geralt’s half-sure the innkeeper’s going to barge in, and entirely sure he doesn’t care. Jaskier shakes as he comes, his entire body seizing, clenching around Geralt’s cock, his face twisting into the most exquisite wreck. He’s so beautiful, and he’s spilling all over Geralt’s fist, and Geralt gives in to his own pleasure, groaning low as he speeds up his thrusts and lets his orgasm crash through him. Jaskier gives a fresh moan as Geralt comes deep inside his ass, pulsing so much he’s fucking it out of him until Jaskier’s hole drips a mess of white.
He’s still shaking when Geralt pulls free, gladly curling into Geralt’s open arms. Geralt’s still twitching a bit himself, the aftershocks still rippling through him pleasantly. He dots kisses wherever he can reach until Jaskier smiles, tilts his head up to catch Geralt’s mouth in his own.
This, perhaps, is the most beautiful Geralt’s ever seen him. Rosy with afterglow, his eyes half-lidded, hair a ridiculously cute mess. He melts into Geralt’s body, and every one of Geralt’s senses assures him Jaskier’s more relaxed and satisfied than he’s ever been. They’re sticky and damp, and Geralt never wants to move again.
“I love you too, you know,” Jaskier says softly.
“You don’t need me. Not like I need you.”
Jaskier smiles.
“Maybe not. But you are my choice, Geralt. You have always been my choice.”
Geralt swallows, letting the enormity of that wash over him. Jaskier’s so warm in his arms, gazing up at him in earnest adoration. They’re going to set off for Kaer Morhen tomorrow. Jaskier’s going to meet his family.
Geralt isn’t quite sure how to be this happy. He’s never had to do it before. He’s looking forward to figuring it out.
“So what now?” Jaskier asks. “We’ve got to save...well. Everything, haven’t we?”
“Yeah. It’s going to be a fucking headache.”
Jaskier laughs, groaning into Geralt’s shoulder.
“But,” Geralt continues. “We get to do this now. So. That helps?”
“My dear witcher,” Jaskier grins, snuggling closer. “I think it makes all the difference in the world.”