Archive of Our Own ^omega

'Tell me a story.'

'What?'

That was how it started.

The night was warm, the sky was clear, and the embers of the fire they had used to cook their meal were smoldering by their feet. The bedroll Jaskier lay upon wasn't spectacularly comfortable, and his doublet was folded over as a makeshift second pillow, but he needed little more given the fine evening. It was no inn, but he'd almost describe it as comfortable.

Beside him, just too far out of reach, Geralt lay on his side with a thin blanket drawn up to his chin. Jaskier would have to strain to tap his shoulder if he needed to. It was an early summer night and yet he was the one curling up like it was nearly winter. What an odd fellow.

A story.

All that time on the road together and now he was finally asking Jaskier to render his services as a bard via a bedtime tale. Though he tended to deliver his tales via song, he knew a library's worth of poetry and prose, myths and legends, comedies and dramas.

A story.

Fine, he could do that.

'A long, long time ago, beyond seven mountains, beyond seven forests, there was an archipelago known for two things: always being covered in snow and a lake that would turn anyone who dared venture into it into glass.'

The words had barely left his lips when Geralt's bloodstained shirt, the latest from their venture, was flung through the air and landed on his face.

'Not that kind of story.'

And that was the end of that evening.

*

The next time was some weeks later. Summer continued to roll into the continent, bringing with it winds that promised the desert and open, endless skies. Bedrolls were laid upon thick grass and warm earth, with nothing but the stars high above them. Jaskier had always liked this time of year. Colder weather wasn’t agreeable with him; he craved warmth, heat. He loved the night breeze that would come at night, which smelt of grass seeds and tasted like salt. Occasionally he’d try to stay awake, just to feel the wind as he connected the stars into fantastic imagery in his mind.

'Tell me a story.'

Jaskier kept his eyes up. Somewhere off to the side, Geralt was shifting in his bedroll, his back forever to him. Tucking a hand beneath his head, Jaskier studied the sky above them. He knew the names of constellations. He knew the tales that came with them. Geralt hadn’t wanted the last story. Maybe he’d like one from the temple school where he’d been educated.

'A long, long time ago, beyond seven mountains, beyond seven forests, the sky was dark. The ocean longed for companion- '

'Fuck's sake.'

The thin blanket was pulled up and Jaskier didn't need to look at Geralt to know irritation was radiating off him. Fine. He could take a hint.

‘And then they all died, the end.’

Geralt grunted in the dark. He didn’t deserve that story, anyway.

*

So it went.

'Tell me a story.'

'A long, long time ago, beyond seven mountains, beyond seven forests, the world was nothing but black and white.'

'Oh, shut up.'

And again.

'Tell me a story.'

'A long, long time ago, beyond seven- '

'Stop.'

They'd be invariably camping out under the stars, partway through their trek to another town or on the hunt for some grisly beast. While Jaskier tried to avoid being around for the actual monster slaying part, he did like to linger around for as long as possible. Partly it was to gather more details for his songs, due to Geralt’s lamentable inability to string more than five words together to form a sentence, but he also genuinely enjoyed the adventure.

Under the cover of darkness, dirt kicked on the fire, they’d settle in for sleep. Geralt would face away from him, haul his thin blanket up and demand a story. Shortly after, he would tell Jaskier to stop and nothing else would be said for the rest of the evening.

It was infuriating. Jaskier's trade was telling tales. While it was typically in the form of writing and performing songs, it was all a form of storytelling. That Geralt could so easily tempt him into spinning a yarn and then turn his back, literally and metaphorically, set his teeth on edge. It was as though he was being lured into a wonderful trap, and like a fool he’d fall for it each time.

'Tell me a story.'

The expected question fluttered over to him. A breath was drawn, held, and he squinted up at the night sky.

'You keep saying that and then shutting me down immediately.'

'That's because I don't like the stories you're telling.'

‘You don’t even know what story I’m telling.’

‘I know they’re all shit.’

'Then what type of story do you want?'

A pause.

The moon was out and was large and bright enough that when Jaskier turned to look at Geralt, he could make out his outline in the night. The coals were simmering in the fireplace, the shadows stretching out and covering them both like a sheet.

The silence grew long enough that Jaskier (knowing Geralt was most likely not asleep, but merely ignoring him) was tempted to grab a stone and throw it at him. He might even get away with it.

'You know. A story,' Geralt finally said, in a tone that was likely unintentional in its ability to render Jaskier temporarily insane.

'What? No. No. I do not know what you mean,' he said, hauling himself up so he was sitting upright. 'I've been trying to tell you a story, and you don't even give me the decency to start it anymore before you decide you don't want to hear it.'

'Because you're not telling me the right kind of story.'

Although Geralt was still laying down, he'd rolled onto his back. It was the closest they’d gone to having a friendly pillow-side chat since the start of the whole storytelling debacle. There wasn't enough light provided by the moon or dying fire to see clearly, but Jaskier could sense he was being looked at. He half expected Geralt's eyes to be glowing in the dark, like some kind of eerie monster. Or possibly a cat. Cats were, really, a type of domesticated monster.

'What's the right kind of story, then, hm? I need to start with something.'

'Fine,' Geralt replied, his tone unreadable. 'A sexy story.'

'A- a what?' Jaskier spluttered. That wasn’t what he’d expected. 'A- a se- I- I- do you take some as some... some... purveyor of filth? A... a pedlar of lewd songs?'

'Yes.'

‘And- and you hate my songs. You never cease to tell me.’

‘I enjoy some of the things that come out of your mouth.’

It was likely just one of the embers from the fire fighting for life that caused the glimmer in Geralt's eyes as they moved to look over at him, but Jaskier still found the timing unsettling. It was faintly feral. The blush that raced to Jaskier’s cheeks didn’t help things.

He swallowed hard. Pursed his lips. He just needed to keep his voice even.

'There are lyricists out there that deal with the smut you're after, Geralt, but it's definitely not me.'

Geralt snorted. The noise caused Jaskier to tilt his chin up, hoping to affect a too-proud disposition. He’d never debase himself as to sing of such filth. He had some standards. They were small, to be fair, but they were still standards. He made his coin by more or less honest means. Mild exaggerations, certainly, but nothing so crude as to what Geralt thought.

Apparently that didn’t matter.

Pushing up onto his elbows, Geralt levelled his eyes on Jaskier, the corner of his lips nearly curved into a smirk.

'The last three towns we passed through, you were nowhere to be seen, either because you were tussled up with some woman, or trying to escape said woman's husband. And don't try to tell me the same old story of how you were trying to stop that page from choking that other time.'

'He was choking.'

‘While your trousers were around your ankles.'

Jaskier huffed and flopped back onto the ground. There was a rustle beside him and when he dared to glance over, Geralt's back was to him again.

Gods above, he hated that man at times.

This would be the point where he turned over, shut his eyes and fell asleep. In the morning nothing would be said and they’d continue on. In the evening, they’d have dinner, share some idle chatter and Jaskier would write lyrics on parchment and fall asleep humming tunes. That was how it should go.

But Geralt asked for so little, and Jaskier longed to provide him with something. And, further to that, Geralt had finally admitted he liked some of his songs, even if it had been in a roundabout manner.

'A long, long time ago, beyond seven mountains- '

'This again?'

'It's how stories start. I can't just launch into the- the, you know- ' Despite the night sky, Jaskier still reached up and made a pumping motion with his hand. He assumed Geralt could tell. 'There needs to be an introduction.'

'Says who?'

'Says every bard worth his coin, so shut up and let me start the way I know best. I don’t fuss with your monster stabbing methods.'

Geralt didn't reply. Good enough.

'A long, long time ago, beyond seven mountains, beyond seven forests, there was a town encased in ice and snow. They experienced half the year in perpetual night, where there was nothing above them but the souls of long dead gods. The townsfolk were a close-knit community built up of families and friends, who trusted one another implicitly.'

'When does the fucking start?'

Jaskier shut his eyes tight and winced.

Travelling with Geralt had leant itself a certain familiarity that could only occur after spending such hours with someone as they had. They'd had to bathe out in the open, and more than once they'd kept guard while the other had pissed in a bush. Although Geralt had frequently insisted his injuries would heal on their own, he'd winced and sworn enough under his breath that Jaskier had taken it upon himself to assist him while undressing and bathing. That sort of job came with being his self proclaimed best friend.

And then there had been times when beds were in short supply and they'd both crammed their bodies onto the same mattress. Along with waking up in the dead of night with an elbow in the small of his back and a bruise on his shin where he'd inevitably been kicked (Geralt was a kicker, no matter what he said), there'd been times when he'd heard the unmistakable sound of a gentleman's private activities. He was also absolutely sure Geralt, with his fantastic hearing, had borne silent witness to the same thing. Geralt was quiet. Jaskier not so much. But men did what men did and both knew never to mention it in the morning. Jaskier just locked every moment into his brain and only poked at the memories when he was alone in his own room in another town.

This was different.

Fine. Whatever. He'd entertain him.

'So, skipping the absolutely vital backstory, one winter's night, the townsfolk gathered together for their party. The oil lamps were extinguished and everyone undressed as music began to play.'

'Why?'

'What?'

'Why would they do that?'

'You wanted me to speed this up. Do you want the backstory or do you want the saucy details?'

'No, you’re right, I don’t. Continue.'

Jaskier shook his head. This was why he didn't tell these stories, and this was absolutely why he never missed a step.

'The lamps were turned down and the party began. As music played, the townsfolk raced around and found themselves a partner. As they paired off, they began to- ' He waved a hand and tried to find a suitable word. Nothing came immediately to mind. 'Fuck. However, the lights came up too soon, and as they did, a woman discovered herself to be mid-coitus with her brother. She screeched in surprise and fled out into the night. Her brother, ashamed but wanting to talk it over, chased after her. When she realised what he was doing, she flung herself into the air and began to run through the sky. Her brother followed her and called for her to stop. Her shame lit up the sky and she became the sun, while her brother reflected her light and became the moon, following her and always seeking forgiveness.'

There was silence. Then, 'what the fuck was that?'

'What?'

'That story. What the fuck was that?'

'You asked me to skip ahead, you missed- '

'I didn't miss anything. I asked for a sexy story, not a creation myth.'

'Who's saying it's a myth?' Jaskier asked.

He could feel the intensity of Geralt's glare in the dark. 'I'm not an astronomer, Jaskier, but I'm almost definitely certain the sun isn't a woman who was fucked in some town-wide wife-swap by her moon-brother. And why the fuck wouldn't they have made sure siblings weren't involved?'

'Well, it's just a story.'

'A shitty story. I'm going to sleep.'

There was a thump as Geralt rolled over. Jaskier, more peeved than he cared to admit, rolled away from him and hiked his blanket up to his chin. Really, if he'd heard the whole story, he may have enjoyed it more.

Even so, he squinted up at the sky and located the moon. He was also pretty sure it wasn't a man chasing his sister. Almost.

*

They entered the next town and found an inn. A wall came up between them, literally and figuratively, and Jaskier indulged in the small treat of a mattress beneath him. It may have been thin and pokey, but at least he didn't need to worry about what creepy crawlies were worming into his blanket. He knew precisely what was there instead: bedbugs and potentially fleas.

Geralt went off to best a monster and Jaskier spent his time writing a song that had nothing to do with fucking. It was a bit of a disappointment, really. Maybe he ought to write about Geralt getting a reach around, before pulling a quick one and changing it to him getting stabbed in the stomach. It would serve him right.

In the nights when he was forced to entertain himself in the small, backwash of a town they'd ended up in, Jaskier turned to what he knew best: music, the local alehouse, and whatever pair of open arms would accept him. Sometimes it would be a woman, sometimes (less occasionally) a man, and, in the rare and exceptional circumstances, some variety of both.

Sleeping out under the stars had never been something Jaskier had ever considered as a possibility in his youth. His upbringing had come with a certain level of privilege, the very same type that other children of middling nobility experienced. But he'd grown to enjoy it... mostly. The stars above them, the pink dawn sky waking them up, the comfort in knowing Geralt was there near him. Being confined to an inn seemed antithetical to what they had developed. How dare they be confined to four walls and a thatched roof, when the outdoors with its mountains, valleys, rivers and lakes surrounded them and represented the life they had built together. Geralt had shown him the beauty of sleeping outside and Jaskier had taught him that it was healthy to be cared for by other people.

He didn't worry about Geralt. Much. Sometimes, if he took longer to return and left Jaskier waiting behind, he did become a little tetchy. Irritation and aggravation gnawed at him, but he waved it off and spent his time idling with quill and parchment. He knew Geralt could handle himself.

Jaskier did create a certain, indifferent air, though. It was deliberate. A wave of his hand, a toss of his head to shake his overgrown hair from his face. He didn’t want any of the townsfolk to think he was concerned and equally as anxious to see his return. See, he knew Geralt so well that he absolutely wasn't worried. All these peasants and paupers simply didn't know that gruff witcher like Jaskier did. That's how close they were. Jaskier knew him better than anyone.

But, maybe, just maybe, if he spent a little longer than necessary nursing Geralt after, fussing over him with ointments and lotions, unneeded bandages and superfluous dampened cloths, than it was simply to remind Geralt that he wasn't alone anymore. That was all. It had nothing to do with Jaskier proving to himself that his friend was back in one piece, with perhaps a few more scars to be formed with time.

And they were off, to the next town, the next inn, with miles upon miles between them and the sky.

*

It started again, some turns of the moon later. They had barely settled for the evening. Roach pawed at the ground and the fire still crackled. Evening birds chirped in the trees, which covered Jaskier's view of the sky but provided some cover from the mid-season unexpected chill. Summer was long, but winter was nearing them. The bedrolls had barely been laid out and Jaskier had only just taken off his boots when the request came.

'Tell me a story.'

Jaskier took his time as he slid into his bedroll. Geralt, unusually, was laying on his back, an arm flung over his head. While it was tempting to look into the pose and question it, he instead pushed past and tried to find a suitable story. Something must have appealed to him about the last one, else the question wouldn’t have come his way once more.

Perhaps he ought to narrow it down a little, and find out what he actually wanted.

'Have you heard the story of the gilded swan?' he asked as he folded up his doublet as a pillow.

He could almost hear Geralt thinking. 'No?'

'Oh, see, there's this man, right? A god, really. And he turns himself into a swan and puts his head up a woman's, ah- '

Geralt turned to stare at him. His golden eyes caught the flickering flames of the campfire, and Jaskier felt his words briefly catch in his throat.

'Cunt,' he finished weakly.

Geralt blinked slowly and turned away again. 'I don't need to hear that one.'

'Right. Well.'

Jaskier worked his way down under the blanket. Somewhere in the thicket of trees, Roach had found something to eat and was chewing loudly. It gave him something to focus on beyond the fact Geralt was wanting a salacious bedtime story.

'Have you heard of the one with the peasant man who was in love with an imperial inspector and wound up being beaten to death?'

'Do they fuck?'

'No, but I do have a very graphic description of him being run out of town. People like gratuitous violence.'

'No. Pass.'

Jaskier huffed. Gruesome descriptions brought in the most money at bawdy establishments. He then audibly perked and pushed up onto an elbow.

'Ah, here's one: a god of love shoots flower-arrows around a village, and accidentally strikes his sister- '

'Why do all your stories involve siblings fucking?'

Geralt groped around as he interrupted Jaskier, found a stone and threw it at his shoulder. With an indignant yelp, Jaskier fell back down to the ground and rubbed his wounded arm; he definitely was not sulking. It wasn't his fault that most of the common stories involved that theme. They also tended to involve the most warfare and bloodshed.

'Tell me one of your own stories.'

'Hm?' Jaskier turned his head, bracing for another stone in his direction. When none came, and arched an eyebrow. 'I don't compose those types of tales, you know that. Mine are humorous and perhaps a little crude, but never outright filthy. Besides, it’s surprisingly more difficult to find a good word that rhymes with “cunnilingus” than you’d expect.'

'I don't mean a ballad about a brother and sister,' Geralt shot at him. 'I mean one of your stories.'

‘I have… siblings.’

‘Don’t include them. Please.’

Jaskier stared at him through the dark. Paused. Looked up at the branches above them, the trees swaying and leaves just barely visible in the dim light, and then back at Geralt. He was tempted to reply with some jibe about the best story he had being about with his brother and sister.

No. He'd probably wind up being ignored for several days if he did that.

Clearing his throat, Jaskier folded his hands and set them upon his stomach. If he laid very, very still, maybe a sleep paralysis demon would descend from the sky and show him all of this was a very surreal hallucination.

'What makes you think my personal stories are any good?' he asked, hoping his voice was more even than what his nervous skipping heart made it seem.

'I hear things,' Geralt replied. ‘About you. Such as you, the barmaid and the stable boy in the last town.'

The shock over that made Jaskier splutter. 'Piers is a farrier, excuse me.'

'He works with horses, it's the same thing. Though he did do a good job with Roach.' The compliment sounded strained. Forced.

'See. Roach approved.'

‘Tell me about the barmaid and stable boy.’

At the sound of being spoken about, Roach nickered. The noise was just enough to take the tension out of the air. Tapping his fingers rhythmically back and forth, as though he were performing a series of arpeggios on his lute, Jaskier's mind raced as he tried to quickly come up with a way to discuss his own personal pursuits as though he were composing a sonnet about someone else who just had a remarkably similar sexual history to his own.

He decided to bypass the traditional opening. The fantasy beginning didn't quite sit well given what he was about to launch into. This wasn't a fable, nor a parable, but a rather crude retelling of an afternoon sojourn in a relatively itchy loft with the lass that worked at the alehouse and her flirtatious male friend (farrier, not stable boy). Jaskier had picked hay and grass seeds out of his clothes for the rest of the night, but it had been worth it.

His voice cracked as he spoke. Instead of a traditional framework, he focused on other details, such as how he'd been lured out of the alehouse and to the stables. He talked about how soft her skin was and how coarse his beard had been. Curls that were the colour of fire and a beard as black as night. As the crux of it all became impossible to avoid, Jaskier tried to find what appealed to Geralt the most; the woman or the man. Was it the lead up he wanted to hear, or the lewd details of what happened when the clothes were discarded? And though Jaskier strained for anything, any tiny hint that revealed what Geralt was searching for, he was rewarded with only silence.

Mostly, Jaskier tried to keep himself out of it. He didn’t want to bring himself into it, as difficult as that might be.

More, then. Other details. The taste of cunt, the press of a cock against his hip. A lingering pause at each sentence as he waited for Geralt’s response, positive or negative.

Nothing.

The man was impossible.

As he neared the end- the climax, in so many words- he expected the tiniest sign that Geralt was listening. But the seconds turned to minutes, and they dragged along. His throat was raspy, the feigned confidence in his voice wavering. Jaskier was nearly convinced that he was asleep, until he heard the tiniest humph to his right.

He waited.

Geralt rolled onto his side, away from.

With a sigh, Jaskier did the same, turning onto his left and towards the trees that surrounded them.

If he hadn't been so annoyed by the lack of anything from Geralt, if he hadn't been searching for any kind of indication that his tale had even been listening to, Jaskier may have missed it. But there, hidden under the blanket of night, nearly masked by the whispering breeze, the chirp of nighttime insects and the noise of Roach settling in for sleep, he heard it. The brush of a hand against a blanket, too thin to provide any warmth, the rhythmic slide, the grunt of a bitten back breath.

Jaskier smirked.

He was always able to win an audience over eventually.

*

The moon danced across the sky, turning from one horizon to the next. The mid-season chill had been long left behind. The nights had grown warm once again, the days sweltering, and as uncomfortable as the ground could be, it meant they could save their coins until the promise of winter came. Jaskier managed to hold his tongue, even when the nights passed without any further requests for a story. He did his best to avoid pondering why, lest he fall down a trap of thinking Geralt hadn't enjoyed his tales. He had, after all, confessed to enjoying some of the things Jaskier sang about.

Besides, the night offered so many other things.

Geralt would hunt for their dinner and Jaskier would tend to the kill over the open fire. Sometimes they were near a village or town, and if so, he'd find fresh fruit or vegetables to go with it. As the meat cooked, Geralt brushed Roach down, his callused and scarred hands so careful and gentle with his horse. When he was in a particularly good mood, he'd call Jaskier over (usually with a whistle and a jerk of his head). He'd hand him carrots or cubes of salt and let him feed him.

'Careful to hold your fingers out straight,' he'd say each time. 'Else Roach’ll bite them clean off.'

'Horses don't eat meat,' Jaskier once said.

Geralt stared at him, his leer even and steady. 'The chance of a horse eating you is low, but it's never zero.'

It didn't seem true, and Jaskier made a mental note to question it next time he found himself entangled with a stable boy. Farrier. Dammit, Geralt had gotten into his head.

The nights during the deepest part of summer were beautiful, flesh-eating horses aside. The sunsets were a striking mix of red and purple, where the clouds stretched out for miles, thin and wispy. As Geralt went about preparing Roach for the day's journey, Jaskier sat with his lute and hummed tunes under his breath, composing sonnets about the art nature had created for them to witness.

Sometimes Geralt would mutter about enjoying a particular tune or series of notes. Jaskier learned to read him as he tended to his evening chores. There would be a tilt of his head, a small hum. His eyes would close and he’d pause, his fingers tapping out the melody. He liked melodic minor melodies the most. How very him.

Sunsets were later in the day. Songbirds would call from high in the trees, the winds would come and bring with it the scent of woody smoke. Jaskier loved to see the stars come out, particularly on clear evenings when the sky would be awash with wondrous hues of the heavens.

Often, even if they were near a village that would welcome them (that is, welcome Geralt with minimal jeering), they'd find a spot to camp out in the outskirts.

Jaskier didn't let his hopes come out, so when Geralt asked for another story it came as a thrill. At last.

And so it started again, his voice low in the dark. It acted as a tether between them, the several feet separating them making it all seem natural, par for the course. This was just what two friends did during the night.

'Have I ever told you about the time with the druid maiden?'

'Hm. No.'

‘She gave me a bouquet of hodgeberries after.’

‘They make a nice jam.’

‘Don’t they just?’

Geralt still gave him little to work with, but his interest was all Jaskier really wanted. So he kept his voice in a hush, deliberately low enough that Geralt would maybe need to focus a little more, perhaps even slide closer in the dark. Jaskier pictured pulling that imaginary tether in, dragging it closer and closer until they were close to touching. He just needed to find the lure.

*

Patience was a virtue. Jaskier had been told that his whole life. His exuberance made it difficult to sit still at times, and his lust for life and all it held meant he often found his self-restraint falling from between his fingers.

A story. A story, a story, a story.

Jaskier found himself spinning tales from his most private moments. Snatches of time that he had never thought to fully commit to memory, periods that he thought he'd never find himself sharing with others. This wasn’t a bawdy retelling amongst school chums, but felt closer to the admission of a secret. He didn't even remember the details all the time, and he began elaborating, fantasising aloud, letting the story get carried away from him. It became less a historical retelling and more what he wished had happened. If Geralt noticed or cared, he didn't show any sign.

Inevitably after, when his throat had run dry and no more words came, quiet would descend. It didn't matter if he feigned sleep or not, though; Geralt would roll over, and Jaskier would pretend to ignore him as a courtesy. His breathing would quicken and grow raspy, even when he hitched the blanket up to his chin. In the faint light the moon and stars provided, Jaskier would permit his head to turn just slightly to watch Geralt’s arm move. His own hand would slip down in a crude mimicry of what was happening. Sometimes Jaskier closed his eyes and pushed his face to the blanket and tried to envision what it would happen if Geralt ever turned to face him.

Neither of them would acknowledge it in the morning. They both knew what was happening. It didn't need to be discussed. Geralt’s silence had begun to rub off onto Jaskier.

As the days started to edge towards cooler, however, and the nights grew longer, minute by minute, Jaskier sensed a change.

Geralt no longer slept so far away. If he stretched his arm out, Jaskier would be able to just touch his arm.

The conversation grew, something new being added to their shared dialogue each week.

'What was your favourite meal when you were a kid?' Jaskier asked one evening. (Root vegetables with herbs.)

Another evening, Jaskier was allowed to offer Roach a sugar cube.

'Did you have a horse before him?' he asked another time. (A few.)

Geralt found pears. Jaskier caught a rabbit on his own.

'What's your favourite flower?' (Geralt grunted in response to that one.)

'What would you do if you weren't a witcher?'

And he finally got a response. 'Hm. Don't know. Don't care. So long as I'd be good at it.'

'You're a very good witcher. You're very good at a lot of things.'

'Hm. Thanks.'

'You ever thought of, ah, telling me a story?'

'Nope.'

'Good. That's- that's fine. That's your right as a, uh, as a- '

'Tell me a story.'

'Sure.'

The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. But now Geralt was within touching distance.

The next town they went to, they forewent staying in the local inn. Jaskier made some reasoning about bedbugs still biting and Geralt grunted about the stable not being up to scratch. Despite the leaves turning gold and the night air developing a faint chill, it was still pleasant to sleep outside. There wouldn't be many more evenings like this, and neither didn't need to mention that they wanted to take advantage of it.

The bedrolls were laid out. Geralt tended to the fire while Jaskier uneasily scratched Roach behind the ear. There was a gentle whinny, but when his hand was snapped at, he jumped back and took it as an excuse to settle in for the evening.

'He needs to learn some manners,' Jaskier muttered under his breath.

'Roach is a mare.'

'What?'

Looking up, Jaskier caught the faint gold of Geralt's eyes over the firelight.

'A mare. Roach is a female. Should be obvious on account of the lack of balls.'

'That- that doesn't mean anything,' he stumbled, turning away. ‘Maybe he- she’d- been in some horrible… ball-crushing accident.’

Geralt had laid his bedroll down beside Jaskier's, only a hand's width between them. He took a moment to study the pair, a matching set that had been worn by use and time. Studying the two rolls gave him a sense of the heaviness of memories and times shared. Sitting down on the end of his, his legs stretched out in front of him, he reached for his lute and set it on his lap. Plucking at the strings, the start of another song he had begun to compose in his head some days back, he hummed the burgeoning melody.

Nothing was said as Geralt served up their dinner. A plate of meat was set down by his knee as Geralt sank down beside him. The music grew slower, quieter, until the last strum echoed out around them. Melodic minor.

'That was nice.'

'What was?' Jaskier asked as he set the lute aside and went to pick up the plate.

'What you were playing.'

'Oh.' The compliment left him stunned. He’d never been so vocal before. 'Thank you.'

'Hm.'

Bedtime was a quiet affair. The fire wouldn't be enough to keep them warm throughout the night. With his blankets bundled up under his chin, Jaskier rolled onto his side to face Geralt. They'd be seeking out an inn come the following day. This was their last night to share a story together under the open sky. Soon, they’d part ways. Jaskier would return to his home town in time and Geralt would go wherever he went when the first promise of frost kissed the grass. He’d never dared to ask Geralt to take him, and he’d certainly never entertained asking him to stay.

'Geralt,' he dared whisper.

He knew it was a mistake the moment he did it. Jaskier had never dared bridge that gap before, no matter how close they'd begun to move their bedrolls. But temptation was a beast and he'd never been good at resisting it.

He reached out. His fingers walked across the grass. He felt the lip of the bedroll.

'Do you want a story?'

His hand fell atop Geralt's shoulder. Almost immediately, he could feel tension ripple down Geralt's body. He stiffened, shifted a little, and then rolled his shoulder, shoving Jaskier's hand away.

There was no answer. He didn’t need to be told twice.

*

The tavern was loud. Jaskier liked loud. It meant people were drinking and joyous, and he was bound to fill his purse before long. There were always a number of people who liked to jeer and turn the attention upon themselves, but the crowd was on his side that evening. Jaskier grinned as the hecklers were booed and strummed at his lute until the audience was rapt by him again.

With his pockets and purse full of coins from various kingdoms and more ale than he could safely drink being offered in his direction, Jaskier found himself almost without Geralt on his mind. If he wasn't scowling in a booth on the opposite end of the tavern, nursing a meal that neither of them had prepared and an ale he had paid for himself, Jaskier could very well pretend they'd already gone their separate ways.

There wasn't even any reason for Geralt to be there, really. Their rooms (separate- Jaskier had noticed Geralt had requested that quite pointedly, which was dreadfully unfair because Jaskier could have said it, too) were upstairs. Meals could be taken up there. Therefore, there was no reason for Geralt and his stupid golden eyes to be following him throughout the tavern as he swanned about and lapped up the attention.

He wasn't trying to be too obvious about it, as he responded to the inevitable flirting that resulted. Food may be the way to a man's heart, but music reached everyone. He'd barely sat down to count his earnings (and maybe it was only several feet away from Geralt, but the tavern was full and he simply went for the closest empty seat) when he was accosted by a smiling, bubbly woman.

Jaskier, being the gentleman he was, couldn't go and ignore her. That would be rude. It would also be denying himself some very pleasant attention, and given Geralt had given him so little of that in recent days, he certainly wasn't going to go and turn it down when it was thrust so amply in his direction.

It didn't mean anything. He was just being polite. Really.

It was Geralt who was the rude one (as always). Sure, Jaskier may have sat upright when he heard the distinct scruff of heavy boots on the ground and the slight clink of the sheathed swords being picked up. But Geralt, the great oaf he was, was being absolutely rude when he unnecessarily clocked him in the shoulder as he stomped past, which rendered his most recent ale spilled all over the table.

'I- oh, wow, would you look at that- I... here, take- I'm terrible with liquids, excuse me- '

The apology could have been better. Then again, Jaskier had never done too well with those. At least he'd tried.

Geralt was already heading up the stairs to the upper floor of the tavern when Jaskier pushed his way through the crowd. Holding his lute close, he pardoned himself as best he could. It felt like a cruel joke, that the first time he found himself performing to a cohort who actually appreciated his music, Geralt had to be in a mood.

The door to Geralt's room had swung shut as Jaskier reached the landing. Hurrying over, he rapped his fist on the heavy wood.

He didn't expect his knock to be answered. It would be just like Geralt to ignore him. He was only wasting his time doing this, and the lass downstairs would hopefully still be waiting for him by the time he'd made his feeble attempt at winning Geralt's favour again. It was utterly humiliating, really, that he'd be left at the door, making a right fool himself as Geralt sulked over some-

'What do you want?'

Hand raised, mid-knock, Jaskier took far longer than he would have liked to have realised the door had been opened. Shit. He hadn't thought this far.

'You,' he started, because that was as good a place to start as any. Then, 'are... a... jealous twit.'

Geralt stared. He went to shut the door, but Jaskier managed to slide his foot into the doorway in time. Despite the pain shooting up from his foot as the door swung into it, he managed to avoid flinching and pushed it open. To his surprise, Geralt let it happen.

'I'm right, aren't I? You're jealous.'

'No.'

'Yes, you are. You're practically radiating jealousy.'

'The only thing I'm radiating is a need to be alone.'

'Yeah, well... look where that's gotten you,' Jaskier shot back. 'In a room. Alone. With me.'

Geralt shook his head and began to turn away. Entering the room further, Jaskier shut the door behind him and did his best to seem more truculent than he really was. As argumentative and petty as he could be, Jaskier genuinely tried to avoid fighting with his friends.

'The room will soon be void of you when I throw you out that window.'

'I'd like to see you try.' Jaskier paused, reconsidered his statement quickly, and took a pointed step away from said window. 'But not right now, because- because we are talking about your little jealousy issue.'

With a roll of his eyes, Geralt turned and sat down on the edge of his bed. He silently began peeling off his boots, only fussing with the laces when they became stuck on his heel. That was an improvement. Normally Jaskier had to remind him to undo them, lest he damage the leather and cording permanently.

'I'm not jealous.'

'Yes, you are. You're fine with me telling you...' He groped around for the right word helplessly. 'Stories, but the moment I try and find inspiration for one, you storm off in a huff.'

'I didn't storm off.'

'Yes, you did.'

'And it certainly wasn't in a huff.'

'Look at you, you're positively pouting.'

He wasn't. Geralt probably wasn't even able to pout. But he was certainly glowering, his eyes narrowed and fixed on Jaskier. Taking a sharp inhale through his nose, refusing to cower, Jaskier dared to meet his glare. He wasn't frightened.

Much.

Geralt stood. The simple action had Jaskier stepping backwards. The door was only several feet away, but it felt impossibly far.

As Geralt's head cocked to one side, Jaskier retreated further. Reaching his hand out behind him, hoping to find the door handle by some miracle, he instead only found the wall. Cool, smooth, flat and without a door frame to cling to.

'You,' he said, hating himself the moment his mouth decided to start speaking without his brain's permission, 'are a self-righteous, demanding, jealous git.'

'Am I?'

'You wouldn't know good music if it came up and bit you on the ass.'

'Is that so?'

Geralt was too close. He was leering, with an unreadable expression on his face that had Jaskier pressing up against the wall as though he could step clean through it.

'And you need a little bedtime story to go to sleep.'

There was the faintest quiver of Geralt's eyebrows at that. There was a small lift, a cant to his head in the opposite direction as before, and tiniest quiver of what might be a smile. As he shifted ever further, an arm was raised. Jaskier watched it, knowing it was unlikely to be dangerous, but still cautious all the same. Geralt's hand came to rest on the wall beside his head.

'Tell me one, then,' he said, voice even and low.

'What? No.'

'It's late. I want to go to sleep.'

Geralt was grinning. What a bastard. What a complete and utter bastard. One of the few times the man ever smiled (with teeth to boot), and it was at his expense.

'Make me.'

It was then that a number of facts popped into Jaskier’s head, unbidden and all at once.

Firstly, he really shouldn’t coax a witcher into a battle of wits. He was bound to lose. It was a pesky mortal trait.

Secondly, Geralt looked positively feral. Between his glimmering, golden eyes and white, sharp teeth, he reminded Jaskier quite distinctly of a particularly vicious cat his cousins had growing up.

And, lastly, this was likely a terrible time to be turned on.

Geralt leant in closer. Swaying backwards, his scalp hitting the wall behind him, Jaskier could only freeze as he realised how close they were. He didn’t mean to arch his back, he didn’t mean to shift the weight between his feet and he certainly didn’t mean to tilt his chin up towards Geralt.

‘A long, long time ago, beyond seven mountains, beyond seven forests, there was a very jealous witcher, who didn’t know what was good for him.’

‘I think I’ve heard this one before.’

Jaskier didn’t plan to do it. It wasn’t in his nature to do it. But Geralt was standing over him, their eyes locked, and Jaskier had an undeniable urge to assert himself. Without plan or provocation, he spat. It landed clean on Geralt’s cheek, just under his left eye, where it lingered for a beat before saliva began to run slick down his skin and the scruff of his beard. Something hot washed through Jaskier as he stared at it. It wasn’t guilt, it wasn’t dread. It was power.

Geralt knew it, too.

‘You spat on me.’

‘Yes. I did. And I’d do it again.’

‘I knew I liked a few things that came out of your mouth.’

‘I’ll do it again. I will, you ass.’

Geralt made a move to wipe it off his face, but there still remained a glistening streak. ‘No, I don’t think you’d dare to.’

That was just asking for it. Jaskier furrowed his brow and spat again. This time it landed lower, just to the corner of Geralt’s mouth. Both men seemed vaguely stunned by the sheer audacity, though Geralt also appeared frankly impressed. His eyes darted up, assessing Jaskier as his head cocked to the side once more.

To say Geralt kissed him would be a mistake. It was both of them together, at once. Their mouths crushed together, and Jaskier had his hand wrapped in Geralt’s hair nearly immediately. His fingers curled and nails scratched as he felt Geralt’s strong, broad chest press against his own and push him back against the wall.

The air rushed from Jaskier’s lungs as his mind finally began to catch up to what was happening. Here, a wall, there, Geralt, with the wet of his saliva on his skin and the heat of his breath on his mouth. He also became acutely aware of the press of a thigh between his legs. Heaving up slightly, Jaskier bucked his hips, only to find Geralt’s leg still nestled there. As he nudged closer, seeking something to rut against, he felt the equal firmness and warmth of Geralt’s own arousal against the sharp edge of his hip bone.

‘Sh- shit- ’

As he hissed and swore, Geralt’s mouth left his. Before any complaint could be made, there was a kiss to Jaskier’s jaw, just under his ear. Another, slightly lower. The burn of stubble was a contrast to the sweetness of the kiss, which in turn felt far too soft for the heat of his tongue. Jaskier groaned, his hips rolling as his hand squeezed at the hair he had been tugging. His arm wrapped around Geralt’s shoulders and tugged at his tunic, feeling the linen pull and twist between his fingers. Drawing his leg up, he pressed his knee to Geralt's hip, urging him closer, needing to feel him. Every breath was gulped down as he clutched at him, Jaskier's mind a whirl with all that was happening.

'Geralt,' he rasped out. 'You bloody insolent, jealous, cocktease of a witcher- '

'Keep insulting me and I'll stop.'

'No, you fucking won't.'

His mouth pressed against the front of Jaskier's throat. His teeth grazed and nipped, all the while as a deep growl came from the back of his throat. With a snarl, he grabbed at Jaskier's hips and heaved him up, balancing him precariously on his thigh that still pressed deliciously against his cock. It wasn't enough, but it was constant enough to take some of the edge off.

Geralt's tongue lapped at the front of his throat. Unable to help himself, Jaskier closed his eyes and sighed as he let himself drink it in. Although his heart still pounded and he could feel his pulse in his temples, he didn't want to bow to Geralt's sheer strength. Not yet. Not when the tip of his nose kept nudging Jaskier's chin up, until he was sucking and nipping on the delicate, ticklish skin at the base of his throat.

It occurred to Jaskier then, as he clawed at his hair and tunic, that Geralt was kissing where his throat had been gashed by the djinn. Though there was no visible scar (though sometimes Jaskier imagined there was), he could still feel it on occasion. He'd never quite been fond of high-necked garments after that incident.

'Geralt- '

A broad hand released his hip and began to pluck at the front closures of his doublet. Jaskier, dazed, forced his eyes open. With a grunt, he let go of Geralt's hair and grabbed at his tunic with both hands. Almost immediately and obediently, Geralt let go and raised his arms. The tunic was peeled off, over his head and tossed aside. The action in itself wasn't unusual- they'd done this a fair share of times. It had never been quite so intimate or nearly as heated, but Jaskier had helped Geralt strip after taking down a monster. Nor had it ever been followed up with their mouths pressing together, the knock of teeth or the feeling of a tongue against his own. Arching his hips up, Jaskier slid his hands down Geralt's shoulder blades and arms, squeezing wherever he could. The silver medallion nestled in his chest hair, and Jaskier’s thumb skirted it as he dragged his fingers up again. He’d touch it, if ever given permission.

He was stopped by the feeling of his doublet being undone. The tiny clasps were being tugged at by Geralt's callused yet dexterous fingers. For a moment, he could only watch in a dazed stupor, before the lapels were pushed back and Geralt's mouth went to the front of his throat once more. He took the opportunity to shrug off the coat, before he tugged the tunic out from his breeches and tried to haul it up.

It was Geralt that stopped him again.

Geralt, who wedged his knee higher. Geralt, whose mouth pressed close to his ear. Geralt, whose hand unknotted the drawstring of his breeches and slipped his hand inside.

Jaskier couldn't hold back the gasp that came from him as Geralt took hold of his cock. As his head tipped back, exposing more of his throat to Geralt's hungry mouth, he couldn't help but whine loudly.

'You… annoying- asshole- '

Every word was an effort to get out, but Jaskier managed. There was a scrape of teeth against his throat, sharp enough to render him temporarily speechless, and his hips bucked.

'I've got your cock in my hand and you're still insulting me?'

Jaskier just tilted his chin a little higher. The skin still felt cool and slick from where Geralt’s mouth had been, and it prickled in anticipation as his cock was squeezed from root to tip. With a shudder, he slumped back against the wall and finally released his grip on Geralt’s arm. He reached blindly up and found a long lock of hair again.

‘You… your ego… needs to be taken down a notch.’

‘Does it, now?’

Geralt had moved to his chest. The lacing at the top of Jaskier’s tunic was loosened further, exposing more of his chest, until Geralt was dropping past it. It took Jaskier several seconds longer than he typically needed to realise what was happening. He almost felt foolish for not catching on immediately.

It occurred to Jaskier, in the fuzzy in-between parts of his brain that still had some form of coherent thought attached, that he’d never seen a witcher on his knees quite like this. He’d definitely never seen Geralt like this. He pulled his tunic off, over his head, as quick as he dared, not wanting to miss a moment as Geralt kissed his stomach and navel. Although he could see every moment as it happened, and though he knew it had been building up, he couldn’t help but let out a small, needy mewl as the tip of his cock was licked.

‘Good- good… Geralt. Good… witcher.’

He uncertainly patted Geralt on top of the head as he watched his cock disappear into his mouth. The possibility of this happening, while frequently entertained in his most private hours, had never been a probability in Jaskier’s opinion. Geralt was a witcher. Witchers, as far as Jakier knew, were talented and trained in a great many things, but sucking cock didn’t seem to be part of it. But here he was, pressed up against a wall with Geralt’s hand low on his belly and another squeezing his thigh hard enough to bruise, having his cock sucked with enough skill to suggest it wasn’t the first time it had occurred.

And fuck, that was a thought he’d never knew he needed.

Geralt’s tongue ran along the underside of his cock, pressing faintly against the tip. As Jaskier's knees quivered and threatened to buckle out from underneath him, he smacked his hand back against the wall. He couldn't think, he couldn't breathe. His entire world had narrowed down to the heat of Geralt's mouth around his cock. The slight catch of his lower lip as he pulled his head back, the sharp inhale through his nose as he took more into his mouth. Jaskier needed to say or do something, but nothing in his life had adequately prepared him to be on the receiving end of this.

At least Geralt seemed to know what to do.

He grabbed Jaskier's hand away from the wall, forcefully, and smacked it back on his head. Jaskier stared, rendered mute for the second time in his life by Geralt, and watched as a pair of golden eyes opened up and bore into him.

'Oh. Oh. You- you want- ' he fumbled. Then, taking a fistful of hair, Jaskier tugged at it.

Geralt grunted. His nails pressed into the back of Jaskier's hand, and he tugged again, sharper, more forcefully. The grunt in turn sounded more like a moan, a slow, drawn out noise around Jaskier's cock that had Jaskier responding in kind. Locks of pale hair twisted around his fingers as he guided Geralt’s head. Although he longed to touch him, to feel the heat of his arousal, there was something intoxicating about being in control right then. Using Geralt’s mouth, pushing his hips forward to feel the back of his mouth, the constriction at the top of his throat, the absolute ease with which Geralt accepted it.

‘Gods above, you’re good at that,’ Jaskier murmured, unable to stay quiet at any moment. ‘You’ve had some practice, haven’t you? Not that I should expect anything less. You’ve always been, ah, top- top of- ‘

‘Spit on me.’

The cold air tickled his cock, which Geralt had resting against his stubbled cheek. The sensation had him hissing, and he waited a few seconds as Geralt rubbed his cheek back and forth. The golden eyes flickered open and turned back up to him, waiting patiently.

The words that had been uttered ticked away in his head and slowly began to make sense.

It shouldn't have been so easy to comply. The first few times Jaskier had spat should have been a fault in his brain, a momentary lapse in sanity. Yet without missing a beat, he drew his lips together and let a glob of saliva fly from his mouth, where it landed on Geralt's hastily closed eye. It lingered there, the edges frothing. With his free hand, Jaskier streaked his thumb through it and smeared it down his cheek, while at the same time he guided his cock back into Geralt's mouth.

'That's it. Good boy,' he cooed, completely aware that Geralt could best him a thousand times over and boy was probably not the right word. His brain had dribbled out some time ago, however, and he didn't have much clear thought left. 'You like that, don't you? You like being kind to your bard for once? You like being nice? Obedient?'

Geralt gave another groan as he hungrily swallowed Jaskier's cock. His fingers squeezed at Jaskier's belly and hip, urging him harder, faster, more, more, more. It would be easy to come like this, to force Geralt to taste him on his tongue. Or, perhaps, spilling onto his face, alongside the saliva that still dribbled down his cheek.

Later. Another time. Because Jaskier would ensure there was another time. It was his right, as Geralt's favourite (only) bard.

'Up,' he snarled, with a sharp tug on Geralt's hair.

There was the slightest flash of vicious annoyance in Geralt's eyes, just as Jaskier tugged on his hair again and forced his mouth away. It really was a disappointment he hadn't been privy to this until now. No matter. For now, he could focus on hauling Geralt up, kissing him messily and tasting a new saltiness on his tongue, before shoving him back.

'Bed.' His voice sounded more steady than he expected. Rougher.

There was a small grunt from Geralt. It seemed he might argue at first, before he took the order. He eased a few steps back before reaching the foot of the bed. His hands folded around the edge of the mattress he slid onto it. Jaskier managed to suck in a breath, shove his breeches further down until they pooled around his boots. Although he managed to kick the left off, the right was stuck. He hopped inelegantly, briefly irritated by his lack of forethought, but discarded all concern when he took Geralt by the shoulders and landed atop his lap.

He was captured into another kiss. A rough hand squeezed his bare ass, another landed between his shoulder blades. The room teetered and he found himself falling towards the mattress and landing atop Geralt. He felt a hand fumble with his breeches, a foot kick them down until his other boot finally slid off and dropped to the floor. Squirming higher, Jaskier had enough of his wits about him to help Geralt with his own trousers. Though they weren’t nearly as fussy as Jaskier’s breeches, it was still difficult to pull them off as he sat atop him. They were shucked down, and Geralt’s cock pressed against the curve of his ass.

‘Fuck- ‘

Jaskier pressed his face to the crook of Geralt’s neck. Rough hands grabbed at his ass and Geralt’s cock slid between his cheeks. The silver medallion bit into his skin.

They could fuck like this. Jaskier had done it before. Enough spit and determination and anything could be possible. Sure, he’d likely be uncomfortable the next day, but maybe, maybe, they could do it. Geralt’s cock dragged deliciously against him, catching slightly on his balls as his fingers squeezed and inevitably bruised the soft, pale skin. Geralt kept squeezing and his hips kept rolling and the hot slick drag of his erection between Jasker’s cheeks had him moaning with a new desperation. He couldn’t help but palm at Geralt’s back, his mouth open and sucking at whatever skin was under his lips.

That would be giving in, though. Not only to his own lascivious need, but to the clear desire Geralt had to do just that. Jaskier didn’t want to relinquish the control that had been given to him. Not yet, at least. And, he supposed and hoped, Geralt didn’t want that either.

Canting his hips back, Jaskier reached between them and felt for Geralt’s cock. He’d seen it enough for it to taunt him in his mind, but had never had the opportunity to touch it. His hand shook as he guided it away from his ass, and instead between them, pressed flush against his own erection.

‘Look at me,’ he managed to get out. ‘Open your eyes and look at me.’

A flush had crept over Geralt’s cheeks. It was a good look on him. A rosy hue, a touch of sweat on his upper brow, his eyes dark with blown pupils. Maybe this was what he looked like in the midst of a fight, knowing he’d best whatever monster he’d been sent to fight. Jaskier longed to see that one day.

‘Give me your hands.’

Geralt, his hips bucking up and dragging his cock over Jaskier’s belly, gave a small hum and released his grip. Lifting his hands, he offered them to Jaskier, though he didn’t look pleased about it.

‘Good boy.’

There was a slow rise and fall of Geralt’s chest, the medallion casting a shadow through the thatch of salt-and-pepper hair. The flush deepened. Jaskier took hold of his wrists, his thumb pressing into the bony protrusions, and leant forward. Inch by inch, he forced Geralt’s hands above his bed and onto the mattress. Jaskier knew that he could be overpowered easily, but the willingness, the submission, the clear desire Geralt had was thrilling.

Jaskier kissed him. Mouth open, tongue lapping, as his cock rutted against Geralt’s. Gripping his wrists tighter, Jaskier hummed and leant back a little as he lifted his head. Geralt was still looking at him with heavy-lidded, dark eyes.

‘You’re a jealous, moody asshole,’ Jaskier whispered, squeezing Geralt’s wrists. 'You can't stand the idea of me being with anyone else. You wanted me to tell you lewd stories, just so you could envision yourself in them with me, didn't you?'

Geralt grunted. Though no verbal confirmation came, the reddening of his cheeks was enough. Jaskier still wanted to hear it, though.

'Tell me,' he hissed, hands tightening. 'Be a good boy and tell me you were doing that.'

Geralt again only grunted, though he did buck his hips and rut up.

It wasn't enough. Jaskier drew Geralt's wrists together so he could grab them with one hand. The pliancy with which Geralt let it happen had Jaskier moaning softly, and he drank it in. The tilt of Geralt's chin, the flexion in his jaw, the brush of teeth over his lower lip. With his free hand, he took hold of Geralt's chin and forced him still. At least he was still making eye contact.

'You want me all for yourself.'

'Don't get too cocky,' Geralt finally replied. His voice sounded deeper than normal.

'You're a dirty old man who can't keep his hands to himself. You've been dreadfully naughty and need to show how good you can be.'

There was a small flicker in Geralt's eyes and a faint twitch between his brows. A flash of pink emerged between his lips as he licked them. Jaskier could feel the heat beginning to rise from his cheek and the way in which he swallowed hard.

As Jaskier spat again, drool running down his own chin, Geralt craned his neck. His neck strained, his shoulders stretched, as he lifted his head and ran his tongue over Jaskier's chin. Finding his mouth, he kissed him hard, hungrily. The determined wall that Jaskier had been struggling to keep up crumbled, as his hand slid from wrists to palms and he entwined their fingers together. He released Geralt's chin and worked his hand between them. The angle didn't quite lend itself to jerking them both off in the same grip, but he could try. His fingers stretched around both their cocks, a thin line of precome already dripping from the tip of his own. Months and years of building desire was hard to deny.

'Good boy,' he heaved into Geralt's mouth, trying to find air. 'Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good you are. Look at me while you're doing it.'

He'd pay for this tomorrow. He knew he would somehow. Jaskier had been pushing the line over and over again, but he'd been enjoying it the whole time.

Geralt wouldn’t be able to deny that he had, too.

‘Tell me,’ he hissed once more.

Then, when Jaskier thought it best he give up on that line, an admission.

‘Want it. Want… you.’

Their joined hands squeezed together. Jaskier rutted against Geralt’s cock, his fist not providing nearly enough friction. The yellow, feral gaze that stared up at him, a desperate, hitching noise coming from the back of his throat. Jaskier knew that Geralt tended to be quiet when he came; their quarters were too close, too cloistered to miss it. It was a pity. Jaskier longed to hear him moan, roar, cry out. He wanted to hear his voice crack, to know he had been the cause of Geralt losing that iron-clad control he had over himself.

For now, he’d relish being the reason Geralt writhed and gulped down air, the reason he swore under his breath and groaned softly as he came. The slick stickiness covered Jaskier’s hand, and as he bowed his head to kiss Geralt another time, he let himself cry out and topple over into his own orgasm. He could be loud enough for the two of them. His face pressed to Geralt’s wet cheek, his nails scratching over their joined hands as he shuddered and felt the world grow hazy.

Gulping down air, Jaskier wiggled his arm out from between them. He fumbled about, groping mindlessly, until he felt Geralt move one of his arms. He reached down, took Jaskier’s come-slick hand in his own, and gently eased him onto his side. The mattress sank somewhat as Jaskier was settled down onto it. There was no time to be disappointed or confused, as Geralt crowded into him and rested his head upon Jaskier’s chest.

Oh. So they were doing that, then. Nice. That was… that was very nice.

An arm slipped around Geralt's shoulders, the other rested on his waist to draw him close. Jaskier's pulse still raced, and though his breathing had started to even out, the world still felt canted. Adrenaline continued to shoot through his veins. His hand loosely stroked over Geralt's shoulder as he stared off into the middle distance, his mind trying to catch up with all that had happened.

For one, he had never known he was capable of producing that much spit. Wind instruments had never been his forte.

'Wow,' he murmured. 'That was… wow.'

'Mm-hmm.'

Jaskier wondered if Geralt had ever done anything quite like that before. He wasn't sure if he hoped he had or hadn't.

'I'd be a sin eater.'

'What?'

Turning his head, Jaskier looked down at where Geralt had nestled into his arm. A stubbled cheek rubbed over his chest, no doubt an effort to remove some of the saliva from his face, and Geralt glanced up at him. The feral look in his eyes had faded ever so slightly, the yellow brighter, gentler.

'If I weren't a Witcher. I'd be a sin eater. You asked me once.'

Jaskier screwed up his nose in confusion. 'What is that?'

'On your deathbed, a sin eater pays you a visit. They listen to your sins, make a suitable meal, consume it, and you die with a clean conscience.'

'That's… grim.' Jaskier paused as he took it in. Then, 'is everyone in Rivia quite alright? Morally? Emotionally?'

'I think I'd be quite good at it,' Geralt said, ignoring Jaskier's questions completely.

'I'm sure you would be. You're quite good at swallowing… questionable things.'

Geralt snorted. It might have been a laugh. Jaskier would take it as a laugh.

Silently, Jaskier let his fingers dance up Geralt's arm and to his shoulder. His nails scratched along the scars that littered his skin, and the backs of his fingers lightly ghosted up to his hair. He had a question, and he didn't know if Geralt would answer it.

Although the chain was still around Geralt’s neck where it belonged, the medallion had come to rest on Jaskier’s chest. It wasn’t quite permission, but he seemed to be allowed to touch it in this circumstance. He tried to ignore how much that warmed him.

Eventually they'd need to bathe. The rooms were cheap enough to only supply a bucket and nothing more. One of them would need to fetch water. That would likely be Jaskier's job. That was fine.

He'd ask. Eyes closed, voice soft.

'Tell me a story.'

His fingers traced the shell of Geralt's ear. He felt the scratch of stubble and the tightening of his jaw against his chest.

'You're joking.'

'No.'

'Fuck.' Geralt huffed. He shifted a little, but wound up pushing closer into Jaskier's side. 'Fine. A long, long time ago, beyond seven mountains, beyond seven forests, there was an archipelago known for two things: always being covered in snow and a lake that would turn anyone who dared venture into it into glass.'

A slow, toothy grin spread over Jaskier's face as he kept his eyes shut and nestled back into the thin pillow under his head. He'd heard this one before.