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Geralt waited in bed for Jaskier. It wasn't uncommon for him to stare at himself in the polished brass mirror once he'd undressed, but it didn't usually last as long as this particular session.
Over his Bard's shoulder, Geralt could see his face creased with concentration as he scrutinized his reflection. He knew he should say something, but he couldn't quite think of what.
“Jaskier?”
It broke the spell, at least. Jaskier’s eyes widened and he met Geralt’s gaze through the mirror. “Oh, sorry,” he said, sounding odd. “Have I kept you waiting?”
Geralt hadn't noticed the melodious rhythm of his speaking voice until it was flat. Gone. He didn't answer, but stared at Jaskier, who still had not turned to face him.
Another few moments passed, of Jaskier looking himself over before he climbed onto the foot of the bed and crawled into his place beside Geralt.
“Can you snuff the lanterns, please, love?” Jaskier asked.
Geralt tried not to prickle with unease, and yet, there it was. He obeyed, extinguishing the light with a practiced Sign of Igni, until the only light was the ambient amber glow of the hearth.
They laid side-by-side on their backs, staring up at the ceiling. Geralt rattled through the day's events in his mind, fighting to recall what had changed Jaskier’s mood.
He'd woken before the sun, and woke Jaskier for sex before the day had unfolded. He'd ridden Jaskier like his life had depended on it, and Jaskier had gripped his thighs like a lifeline, blubbering praise.
The two of them had cleaned up, and Geralt had left him to catch up on sleep while he went out to join his fellows for sword training and a run through the Killer.
Jaskier and Ciri had made it to the dining hall before him for the midday meal, and Jaskier had gone over the lesson of the day; a historical overview of Redania and their current political climate.
Geralt had taken Ciri for sword training after that, while Jaskier retired to his study to compose. He traded Ciri off to Vesemir for bestiary lessons from there while he'd gone to discuss their trade route through Dol Blathanna and Vengerberg with Eskel and Yen.
He and Jaskier reconvened in the baths, where Jaskier explained their latest song while Geralt honestly tried to focus, though he was distracted by the wet ends of Jaskier’s longer-than-usual hair clinging to his shoulders and neck. He had no illusions that he'd fooled his Bard, but Jaskier was visibly pleased about being a distraction nevertheless.
At supper, Jaskier had played for a few hours before Ciri was falling asleep in her chair and Geralt brought her up to sleep. He'd played for hours longer to raucous cheer and applause.
What the fuck happened? Geralt wondered. The day had been almost eerily normal before Jaskier had seen his reflection.
“Do you want to... talk?” he tried. He wished it didn't sound so awkward and stilted.
“I'm just in my own head,” Jaskier answered apologetically. “It's nothing.”
“Is it?” Geralt asked. It was easier to speak with the darkness around them. There was almost a sense of anonymity.
Jaskier sniffed sharply. “It’s stupid.”
“Talk to me,” Geralt half-begged.
“It's not even-”
“Jaskier,” Geralt cut off his deflection. When he didn't speak, Geralt waited. When nothing was forthcoming, he asked, “did I do something?”
“No, love, you didn't,” Jaskier said. He rolled over then, so his chest was against Geralt’s shoulder and his arm curled over Geralt’s. His knuckles were gentle where they rested on Geralt’s pulse. “It's just... I'm...” he paused to collect his thoughts. “I'm used to being. Svelte. Lanky.”
Geralt’s mind began whirling at once. He was trim, trimmer than any witcher in the Keep, slimmer than most of the attendants as well. Geralt turned his head to look at him. His face was shadowed by the fire that crackled behind him against the wall, but Geralt's feline eyes made out his features just fine.
“What do you mean?” he asked softly, like he would to keep from spooking a horse.
“Geralt I'm-” Jaskier huffed irritably. “Getting soft.”
Geralt scowled, glancing down between them as though he wasn't buried beneath the bedclothes.
“Don't look,” he whined, but there wasn't much actual reproach in his tone.
“What in the hells are you talking about, Jaskier?” Geralt asked.
“Well, before I came here I was much thinner-”
“Because you were starving, moron,” Geralt reminded him.
Jaskier raised a hand to flick his nose in retaliation. “I was watching my figure!” he retorted.
Geralt rolled his eyes, heaving his own weight to hover over Jaskier, pushing him over onto his back and pinning him to the wool-stuffed mattress. “You're an idiot,” he said.
Jaskier pursed his lips angrily. “As you love to tell me.”
In an effort to soothe his ire, Geralt bent to kiss the corner of his mouth. Jaskier turned his head towards the dark side of the room, and Geralt began to mouth and kiss the side of his neck that had been bared for him. “You're the only one who's noticed,” Geralt added gently.
“Well it's my body,” Jaskier replied. “And my body image.”
Geralt released an unintelligible grumble. “And so what do you want to do?” Geralt asked. “I don't believe the girls in the kitchen would let us starve you again.”
“I don't know,” Jaskier muttered.
“Can I see?” Geralt asked.
Jaskier pouted. “Not if you're going to insult my intelligence again.”
Geralt sighed. “I'm sorry.”
“Fine,” Jaskier allowed.
Geralt flicked his fingers to light the lamp once more. After a few moments, it flared to full brightness, illuminating Jaskier’s hair and shoulders, but leaving his face mostly in shadow. He was scowling unhappily at the wall still, his hair falling over his eyes.
“You know, nothing will change what we are to one another,” Geralt told him lightly, kissing the hinge of his jaw.
Jaskier let out a breath, some of the tension leaving his body. “I know,” he said at last. “Let's just get it over with.”
With a last affectionate kiss on the cheek, Geralt sat up, straddling Jaskier’s thighs and holding him in place, the furs and wool blanket pooling at his back. He couldn't quite recall what Jaskier had looked like upon his arrival. Not quite skin and bones, not the freakishly lean body of a witcher, but he was well-muscled from traveling and surviving in the wilderness by himself for so long. Geralt could count every rib and each knob of spine when he'd first seen him bare in the baths.
He thumbed a rib, padded by a layer of fat and muscle, and let the backs of his fingers drift over Jaskier’s abdomen. Once, the muscles had been well-defined, but now, they had been buried under a few years of being well-kept in Kaer Morhen.
“I don't see anything wrong,” Geralt said at last.
Jaskier snorted.
Geralt frowned at him, pinching his nipple in retort.
“Ow!” Jaskier squeaked, batting his hand away and putting both of his palms over each nipple to protect them from further abuse. “Well just look at you,” he complained.
“That's different,” Geralt said, exasperated.
“Well a man can have hopes and aspirations and be just a touch crestfallen when they're unrealistic,” Jaskier bit back.
Geralt shook his head at him. “How could I have fallen in love with a creature as illogical as you?”
It succeeded in making Jaskier blush, as he'd intended. “Oh, shut up, Geralt,” he tried to roll over, but Geralt didn't let him budge. “Let's go to sleep.”
“I'm not tired,” Geralt answered, pressing his hands down on Jaskier’s belly, feeling the heft of him, digging his fingertips into his flanks.
“Geralt,” Jaskier half-whined.
Geralt bent and kissed his chin, then down his neck. Across his shoulders, between the fingers that covered his chest - nipping each knuckle - before returning to kissing above his navel, nosing and nuzzling at his stomach.
“Geralt,” he repeated, softer, breathlessly.
“Do you want me to stop?” Geralt asked.
He looked up when he didn't get a response. Jaskier’s arms had changed positions; one was flung over his face, so he could hide his eyes in the bend of his elbow, while the other formed a bar across his chest as he still covered his nipples in case of a rogue attack.
Geralt licked his lips, trying to abate his salivating. “Jaskier?”
“Keep going,” Jaskier whispered huskily. “Please.”
Geralt’s moan rumbled like a growl in the back of his throat as he ducked back down. He breathed in the clean musk of Jaskier’s body, nosing at the coarse hair in the shallow dip of his thigh.
“Ugh,” Jaskier groused above him. “I hate how erotic it is when you scent me like that.”
Geralt licked the salt from his lips. He hadn't needed Jaskier to tell him so. He could smell the arousal burning in his veins, tempting his prick upright. “I hadn't noticed,” he lied, letting Jaskier feel the heat of his breath on his tip. He watched the play of muscle on his sides, the flex of his abdomen as he forced himself to stay still.
“Don't quit your day job, Geralt,” Jaskier teased. “You'd make a terrible actor.”
Geralt purred a laugh, turning his head away to give his hip a sharp nip, watching his body convulse in a startled twitch. He soothed the hurt with a lave of his tongue.
He waited, peppering his Bard with bites and licks, his hands keeping his thighs pinned when he began to squirm impatiently. Geralt could smell the brine pooling in his tip, and felt a frisson jolt up his spine in response.
And yet, he waited.
Jaskier let out little gasping sounds, and Geralt could see the teeth marks start to redden, some of them already turning to greenish bruises.
Finally he barked, “Geralt, I am losing it here.”
Geralt leaned upwards, shifting his weight heavier on Jaskier’s thighs. His fingers gripped the flesh, and he privately acknowledged that there was indeed more than had been there when Jaskier had first graced his bed. It was a musing he didn't think Jaskier would like to be privy to.
The Bard's foreskin had retracted, exposing the flushed, pink head. Geralt gazed down at it for a few moments, and Jaskier let out another mournful sound of desperation before he took mercy on him. Some mercy. He flicked his tongue against the slit, humming with satisfaction when the brackish Jaskier taste of it bloomed through his mouth, filled his nose.
“Ah,” Jaskier cried, like he'd been hit by an arrow.
Geralt took the end into his mouth, rolling his tongue against it once, twice, thrice, before he positioned it against his soft palate and swallowed around it.
“Ah!” Jaskier cried again, like he'd been stabbed in the side.
Geralt nearly felt lightheaded with rapture. His own arousal burned hot between his legs, wet and ready, but there would be time. They always made time.
Geralt let a groan rattle in his throat as he slowly sheathed it, until his lips pressed against his hair.
“Mph.”
Geralt looked up the plane of his body, as Jaskier had lifted his head to look down at him, a fist over his mouth to stifle further cries and wails.
“Oh gods,” Jaskier husked, letting his head fall back.
Geralt hummed in response, feeling a prickle of amusement deep in the recesses of his mind when he saw the hairs on Jaskier’s belly begin to lift at the sensation.
He kept Jaskier pinned as he sucked him. Languidly, enjoying the bitten off sounds of pleasure that Jaskier tried to censor for the sake of every sensitive ear in the Keep. He sucked on the head every time he withdrew far enough, tonguing his slit before sinking back down.
“Geralt, I'm about to be- augh -finished.”
Geralt was loath to pull off entirely, but did, releasing one thigh to pump him, keeping up the rhythm. “And?”
“I want-I want you as well,” Jaskier panted.
“Me what?”
“Geralt.”
“Speak, Bard,” he prompted further. “Tell me.”
“I want you to ride me the rest of the way, dolt!”
Geralt moaned deep and guttural, twisting his wrist to keep pace as he shuffled forward on his knees.
“Wait, are you-”
Geralt didn't give him enough time to fret, guiding him swiftly inside and sinking down. He sucked air through his teeth, throwing his head back as he tightened around his girth.
“My gods, Geralt!” Jaskier croaked, his hands clasped to the outside of Geralt’s thighs. “You're trying to kill me!”
Geralt blinked a few times, waiting for his eyes to roll forward again before he tipped his chin to gaze at Jaskier. His Bard's eyes shone bright and very blue, his sweaty hair clinging to his face in the way that Geralt always loved.
With the two of them as closely intertwined as they were capable, Geralt shifted, planting his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders. He tremored at the touch, his eyelids fluttering and eyes going blurry for a moment before they cleared, and he gazed up at Geralt with reverence.
“In any form you come in,” Geralt murmured, rocking once. Jaskier tried to lift his hips but Geralt kept him pinned. “If you were shrunken down to the size of a pin.” Again. “If you grew to the size of a rock troll.” Again. “I would still love you.”
Jaskier shook apart then, half-coherent apologies bubbling past his lips as Geralt rode him through it. Unwilling to part yet, Geralt sat with his softening cock still buried inside as he reached down to stroke himself, bearing his weight down on Jaskier’s right shoulder.
Jaskier watched with a dumb, bleary look on his face muttering, “yes, yes, gods, come on me,” and easing Geralt over the edge. He groaned through his teeth, and Jaskier sighed shakily as he clenched and convulsed around his overestimulated member.
Time stood still for a long while where he was bowed, sharing the curtain of his long white hair with Jaskier, who reached up with his left hand to brush Geralt’s cheek.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“Hmm,” Geralt responded.
When his back began to ache, and the seed split between them began to congeal, he pulled off. Jaskier let out a disgruntled noise as his semen spilt back onto him. Geralt reached for his beside table, where a rag waited for him in the drawer. He cleaned himself off first, then Jaskier, before he flopped down on his side.
Jaskier rolled onto his side as well, putting them face-to-face. “That was sweet, what you said.”
“Mm,” Geralt answered, closing his eyes.
“That any-form thing.”
“Mm-hm.”
“... Geralt?”
“Mm?”
“Would you love me if I were, say, a worm?”
Geralt opened his eyes, furrowing his brow. When he saw the amused glint in Jaskier’s eye, he raised a hand to kill the lantern and rolled over to give the Bard his back. “Goodnight, Jaskier.”
Jaskier sidled up behind him. “I think you would.”
“Mm.”
Jaskier put an arm around Geralt’s side. “I think you would build me a nice little garden here in your chambers. And you would bring me all the tastiest garbage from the kitchens to eat, and you would bring the finest musicians to play for me to make sure I didn't get bored.”
Geralt sighed. “I’d put you out in the compost with the horseshit,” he muttered.
Jaskier laughed musically in his ear. “I don't believe you,” he said, swiftly reaching up to tweak Geralt’s nipple.
He growled, but didn't move. Fair’s fair, after all.