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janie_tangerineIn the years they’ve known each other, Jaskier has heard a staggering amount of whispering, when it came to Geralt, and all of it was so wrong he never knew where to start from when it came to come up with a retort. Which is why he’s had a very long, detailed mental list of every single thing he’s heard on the subject — he has plans of addressing each single point of that list in a suited ballad, and as it is he’s at about fifteen on a list that verges on fifty, but he’s absolutely not worried about fulfilling that one quest. He has imagination for more than fifty songs and people are universally idiotic, which means that they never stop providing him more material for the list in question.
Still, there is one item that he’s pretty sure he can’t address if he doesn’t want Geralt to murder him on the spot, and admittedly he’d rather keep that for himself, so it’s no great sacrifice.
And yet, whenever he hears people whispering that certainly such a man must be a brute without feelings, or plain dangerous to be around, or, most of all, that they can believe he could only found whores to bed him because who would subject himself to such a surely violent monster, part of him wants to turn to them and glare and ask and what do you know of that now, but Geralt deserves better than that or Jaskier’s opinion on that one matter to end up in a ballad.
Which is why he’s never going to write one if not maybe in his head and for his own ears only.
Too bad for them, though, because if only they knew —
If only they knew that Geralt is everything they think he’s not especially when it comes to how they think he likes things in bed.
Admittedly, Jaskier could have guessed his preferences long before they ended up sharing one, because after all it kind of might have been obvious from how he never quite put up much of a resistance when Jaskier started having baths ready before he could ask or when Jaskier insisted to wash his hair or rub his shoulders or massaged chamomile into his back, or from how he would flinch just ever so slightly when people whispered all of their nonsense. He had always known that he wasn’t the kind of man to be violent in bed, if only because no single whore Geralt ever bedded when they were in the same town complained about it, but — he could have gotten there without that input.
Still, there was a limit to his masochism, so he didn’t exactly spend his time fantasizing about having sex with Geralt when he thought there wasn’t a chance in hell of it happening, and then it did after a hunt that had left Geralt looking worse for wear and more tired than usual and in dire need of a wash or ten, which they only got to at the next village because in the one where Geralt was hired of course people wouldn’t hear of having them stay for the night, and before he knew they were kissing and he was getting naked because Geralt already was and —
Well.
He had found out how exactly Geralt was not like at that point, and he had only been beyond delighted to indulge it, and then it happened again, and again, and —
No, he thinks as he drops his shirt to the ground, other people have no idea.
Not at all.
It’s not a very good town nor the best inn they’ve stayed at, so he hopes that the bed doesn’t end up breaking like the one from some ten towns ago, good thing they didn’t get kicked out on account of having paid that town a damn great service, but it looks sturdy enough. Geralt is already lying down, fresh clean hair spread all over the pillow — he had been on his stomach before while Jaskier massaged his shoulders which had been so tense it almost hurt to touch them, eyes closed, but he’s very much awake. Jaskier knows that. He smiles to himself a moment, then climbs on the bed, not taking off his trousers yet. There’s no hurry, after all.
“Hey,” he says, his knees going around Geralt’s hips, his hands going around Geralt’s cheeks, fingertips brushing over the man’s jaw; he smiles when the corners of Geralt’s mouth twitch upwards at that. “Hey, are you already too tired or are you letting me see your eyes sometime soon?”
Geralt makes a noise in the back of his throat before blinking them open — they’re all gold now, no trace of the potions’ black from before, pupils just slightly blown, and he’s looking up at him almost expectantly, and Jaskier leans down to kiss him, brief but with intent, not moving his hands.
“Lovely,” he says as he moves away, feeling Geralt press up against his touch, and he’ll never get over how his skin is maybe a bit flushing under his fingertips, just for that, and he can’t wait to see what happens in a short while. “Now just keep them open, I like looking at them.”
Geralt makes another affirmative sound, eyes staring up into his, and it never fails to get to Jaskier that they’ve been doing this for months and Geralt still looks at him like he can’t believe it’s happening. One day, he tells himself, one day he will write some ballad for no one else’s ears where he makes sure to list exactly what he thinks of that specific fact. Not now, though. For now —
He moves a hand right over Geralt’s heart, feeling it beat once and then go silent for a while, of course it’s slower, but when he leans down for another, longer kiss during which he takes care to take his time for, his tongue teasing at Geralt’s lips before slipping it inside, and he’s delighted to feel that beat quicken just a bit more. “What do you say,” he says as he breaks the kiss, “do you think I can get it to go faster than this?”
“You’re welcome to try,” Geralt rasps against his lips, leaning back further, and oh but Jaskier can’t wait. He kisses a spot behind Geralt’s ear, where he stitched a wound two weeks ago, and Geralt moans softly as he does, once, twice, before trailing a line of kisses along his cheek and his jaw, reaching his mouth again.
“Good,” Jaskier says, “I like myself a challenge.”
Geralt snorts just a bit, his shoulders losing more tension, and if Jaskier gets him to smile wide enough to show teeth —
All in due time. He moves a hand behind Geralt’s head, running fingers through his hair before he moves his mouth down Geralt’s throat, biting softly at the skin on Geralt’s collarbone, not enough to hurt, it would take a lot more than that and he’s not even interested in trying, regardless. The man gets enough pain dished at him on a regular basis, he doesn’t need more even now.
He can feel Geralt’s throat move up and down, faster, even if his heartbeat hasn’t sped up — he licks a stripe right there, and Geralt’s breath hitches again, and if he thinks that back when they did it the first time Geralt had assumed they’d be done in five minutes…
Yeah, well. He thinks he’s managed to make sure Geralt knows there is no way Jaskier would ever be fine with that.
I used to pay for it for a reason, he had shrugged, back then.
Jaskier presses a trail of kisses along his chest, stopping at every scar he finds along the way, running his tongue over each single one of them, and every time he does Geralt makes those small, delicious noises in the back of his throat that he hopes to turn into screams of pleasure one day, but all in due time. Blessed gods, Geralt’s chest is so firm, and the way Geralt about arches up into his touch would be enough to undo him if he let that get it to his head, but he won’t — he has a job to do here. A job he’s mighty delighted to have. He smiles a little as he licks a stripe along a faded scar on Geralt’s stomach, feeling that Geralt’s getting harder, but for now he’ll leave it alone. He kisses an old, faded scar right over Geralt’s hip — it’s white now, but it’s long and it had to be deep back in the day, and he feels Geralt shudder the moment he does. He could ask where he got it. Usually, Geralt wouldn’t answer, but when he’s like this sometimes he does, but — no. It would be a bit like taking advantage, and he doesn’t care for that, either.
“People,” he says against the other man’s skin before standing a bit and leaning forward, his hands cupping Geralt’s face again, “really should know better than not appreciating that kind of effort.” He kisses the corner of Geralt’s mouth, feeling him tremble, and then moves down to Geralt’s right shoulder, where he has a fresh red bite left by a relatively recent monster hunt that hasn’t healed yet, and at that Geralt moans harder. Jaskier kisses it again, and again, just to get him to moan like that again. “Guess I’ll have to make up for them.”
“Guess it’d take you a while,” Geralt rasps, his voice so hoarse it’s barely audible, but he sounds relaxed, way more than he usually does, which is exactly what Jaskier was hoping for.
“Might be,” Jaskier agrees, kissing the inside of Geralt’s wrist, feeling it shake for a moment as he does. “But I think we both know I’m nothing but thorough and I have an entirely good reason to apply myself to this endeavor.” He kisses the other wrist. “I’ll take all the time I need. And —” he smiles, his fingers brushing strands from Geralt’s forehead again, “you’ll let me, won’t you?”
Geralt makes another noise of assent as he nods, his throat working up and down a bit faster.
“Good,” he says, “guess I’ll start now.”
“Not like — there’s someone else — wanting to,” Geralt blurts, barely audible, his eyes closing again — sometimes he does get like that, and maybe he wasn’t as unaffected as he has pretended from that contract a week ago, the one that he didn’t get paid for, and Jaskier hasn’t gotten the story out of him yet fully, but he hadn’t come to the village with Geralt because he hurt an ankle and had preferred to camp for a few days on the road, and he’s mostly positive that it’s the kind of place his songs haven’t reached yet. He usually never says this kind of things if he hasn’t had a fresh reminder, these days.
Jaskier really does hate people, sometimes. Never mind that he is people, in theory. It’s just —
“Too bad for them,” he answers. “And better for me. Do you think I don’t like having you all to myself?”
Geralt moans again, eyes still closed as Jaskier’s left hand moves down to his hip and the right grasps his cheek again before he leans forward to kiss his eyelids. “Come on, let me see them,” he says, moving his thumb over Geralt’s cheek, up and down. “No need for that.”
Geralt blinks once, twice, and then he does open them. His pupils are a bit wider than before but he can still see that lovely gold color staring up at him.
“Thank you,” he says. “Now leave them. I want to see them, all right?”
Geralt nods again, and then he groans as Jaskier reaches down and palms his cock without warning — he’s hard by now, of course he is, and he groans as Jaskier strokes him once, twice, slowly, and then slips his other hand downwards as he makes his way down the bed. “Just don’t move now,” he says. “And spread your legs for me a bit, thank you,” he says, and Geralt does at once without hesitation, and holy gods it’s so hot Jaskier could burst from it but that’s not the point for now. He grabs the chamomile oil again, pours some on his fingers, then moves a bit further back and puts the tip of his fingers just over the crack of Geralt’s ass, and when Geralt moans encouragingly he slips a tip in, then two, then two fingers, just prodding, not going straight in, but when he feels that the way is slick enough, he smiles to himself for a moment before he leans his head down and takes Geralt’s cock in his mouth just as he slips those fingers inside fully, and then Geralt moans louder — of course, he didn’t expect it, but it’s the first time Jaskier tries this particular trick and he thinks he will again — even if he obviously tries to not fuck his mouth the moment Jaskier’s tongue runs over the head of his cock the second time. He could, admittedly, but Jaskier can’t tell him right now, so he just focuses on sucking him off in time with his finger’s motions — it takes him a bit to match them and his tongue’s, but the moment he does find a rhythm, not too slow but not that fast either, Geralt is harder in his mouth and he’s clenching around his fingers all hot and tight and firm, and it’s not long before Geralt starts leaking inside his mouth but that’s all right, that’s exactly how he wants it, he wants Geralt to stop being so tight strung and he loves feeling it happen under his hands and his mouth. His other hand grabs at Geralt’s thigh, feeling the muscle underneath his fingertips, and Geralt is still letting those small, needy moans out of his lips, and then he whines —
Jaskier slows down his hand’s motions and lets Geralt’s cock slip away from his mouth so he can talk.
“Geralt,” he croaks, “if you need something, ask.”
“I —” He starts, whines again as Jaskier pushes his fingers back and then forward inside him another time. “Fuck, I’m —”
“Close?” Jaskier asks, licking around the shaft once, slow, taking his time. “I can feel it, dear. Do you want to come? You can.”
He shakes his head minutely, and then his eyes are on Jaskier’s and Jaskier can see his left hand slightly trembling as he grasps at the sheets, and of course he’s trying but not actually asking out loud because he’s so unused to it that even if it’s been a while since they started doing this Geralt still hasn’t quite realized he can, not that he ever asks for much, but if he’s right —
Jaskier crawls up on the bed, not moving his hand from Geralt’s ass yet but moving closer so they can look at each other in the eyes. “What,” he asks, suspecting already because Geralt is a bit predictable, when it comes to this, “you want me closer?”
“Yes,” Geralt whines again, one of his legs hooking behind Jaskier’s back loosely, and — Jaskier needs to keep his shit together.
“Of course,” Jaskier blurts, “you know you can ask.” He leans down, kisses Geralt again, shivering when Geralt’s tongue licks precome from his chin as they move apart, and Jaskier needs his trousers off now, but — it would be cruel to just leave Geralt like that, now that his heart is beating faster, Jaskier can feel it. “Hey,” he croons again, his mouth brushing against the witcher’s, “you’re close, aren’t you? Come on, go ahead. Whenever you like. Don’t worry, I’ll fuck you properly later.”
He says that right against the shell of Geralt’s ear and he’s delighted when a moment later the witcher goes still and starts coming in a rush against Jaskier’s stomach, and shit, it only took some fraction, didn’t it, and Jaskier immediately lets his hand slip from Geralt’s ass and moves it around his cock, stroking him through it, feeling him spill against his palm while Jaskier’s other hand cups Geralt’s face again, and the moment he does Geralt turns and kisses his palm and Jaskier about moans at that, too, but it’s lost in the sounds Geralt is finally letting out of his mouth, he’s loud when he forgets himself, and Jaskier doesn’t still his fingers until he’s completely spent and breathing in and out, in and out —
Jaskier moves his hand from Geralt’s cock and brings it to Geralt’s mouth, and he doesn’t even need to ask before Geralt parts his lips and licks it clean, golden eyes staring up into his, and Jaskier moans a bit at that, too.
“Look at you,” he says, “I didn’t even have to ask you. So good,” he goes on, feeling how hot Geralt’s blood is running under his palm. “And I want to fuck you so badly, I’m dying here.”
“Please,” Geralt blurts, “I need —”
“Just a moment,” Jaskier nods, leaning back just enough to take off his trousers and underwear and throwing them on the ground — shit, he’ll need a fresh pair and these will have to be washed first thing in the morning and he hasn’t even touched himself, but that’s no matter. He spills more of the oil on his palm, coating his cock in it, then leans forward.
“Legs around my back,” he orders, the corners of his mouth lifting upwards. “Perfect,” he says when Geralt immediately hooks his legs around his back again, and then he lines himself with Geralt’s entrance and pushes.
He slides in without much of a problem — he had made sure his fingers were slick before, and as hard as he is now, he knows Geralt can take it if he uses enough oil to ease his way in. Of course, Geralt has objected more than once that he could take it even if he just used spit, and Jaskier told him that there was no way he’d unnecessarily use fucking spit and that it didn’t have to be painful. It’s not, he knows that, because he can read Geralt and he knows when he’s in pain, and that’s not now.
“Fuck,” he blurts as he eases his way in, “you feel so good, you have no idea. You’re so damn tight —”
“Harder,” Geralt says.
“Yeah, not before you’re with me again,” Jaskier winks, and leans down to kiss Geralt again as he fucks into him as slow and gentle as he can, because he wants to see if he can get him hard again, and he should because he’s found out that witchers do, in fact, have no damned refractory period or at least it’s a lot shorter than a regular man’s, and Geralt is moaning into his mouth and his legs are clutching at him closer and closer, and then Geralt is moaning outside of it while Jaskier drops kisses all over his cheekbones, his arms reaching behind Geralt’s shoulders and bringing him closer.
“Come on,” he smiles as he feels Geralt’s dick hardening against his stomach, “come on, there you are, I’m sure you can come for me again, can’t you?”
Geralt nods spasmodically, his eyes closing, but then he opens them again without Jaskier having to ask and so he kisses him again, and again, still fucking him slowly, and he doesn’t pick up the pace until Geralt’s cock is hard and leaking all over his stomach again, and then he does, going faster and faster, and at that Geralt about wails as he finds the right place all over, and fuck he doesn’t know how long he is going to last, and Geralt’s about to come, too, he can feel it, and shit he hasn’t even touched him once and he’s this close —
“There you go,” he manages to sound coherent, barely — “There you go, let it go, fuck, next time I’ll find a mirror and make you watch yourself when you come, you have no idea how you look like —”
“How?” Geralt blurts, his breathing getting faster and faster —
“Shit, your face, you don’t even — your eyes are so bright, and your lips are so red right now, like ripe cherries, and your cheeks are so dark, and I told you I’d get your heart to beat faster and look at it, can’t you feel it?”
It is going faster now, as Jaskier had said it would in the beginning, and Geralt makes a noise at that, and Jaskier can interpret what he wants by now and so he leans back down again, crashing their mouths together as Geralt’s shaking hands grasp at his back and he finally comes a second time, and Jaskier drinks his moans like water, and then he gives a last push and comes inside him all over again, Geralt’s ass tightening around his cock all over again, and then it’s Jaskier moaning inside Geralt’s mouth as everything goes white for a moment, pleasure shooting through his back and his nerves and his blood, until he opens his eyes again and they’re staring into Geralt’s golden ones, and oh but he has kept them open all this time, hasn’t he —
He breathes in, leans down, kisses Geralt’s eyebrows again, feeling him shudder. “Thank you,” he says, “you’ve been so good, keeping them open for me, gods they’re so beautiful, just as you are —” Geralt doesn’t close them but breaks eye contact, of course he would, and so he reaches back up, tilting Geralt’s face towards him again. “None of that. You are. Or you are to me, but that’s the only opinion that matters now, doesn’t it?”
Geralt snorts, not breaking eye contact again, his legs falling back down on the bed, and Jaskier pulls out of him, and maybe he should find something to clean up the both of them, but Geralt is warm against him and his hand is grasping at Jaskier’s hip, and so he shakes his head and curls around him instead, a leg hooking up over Geralt’s thigh, a hand going to his hair, smoothing it out. Geralt’s eyes close at that as he arches up contentedly into the touch. He looks sated and tired, not that it hasn’t been a long day, and then he opens them again.
“It’s quite all right,” Jaskier says, “after today’s hunt, of course you’re tired. And the night is young. We can go for another round later and then I can ask for another bath, how about that?”
“Could you?”
“Sure,” Jaskier grins, “nothing too complicated. Come on, you earned it. I’m on watch here, so close your eyes and get some rest, all right?”
Geralt seems about to object, but then he nods and closes his eyes, his head moving closer in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, arching into his fingers when Jaskier starts running them through that white, soft hair of his all over again.
Jaskier smiles to himself all over again, laying back.
Maybe this is nothing he can write ballads about, even if he’s sure that it would be worth it and it would make a damn great song.
But he still thinks that he could write one just for the two of them.
He thinks he would like that very, very much.
