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They’d been bickering again.
Well, Jaskier had been bickering. Geralt had been grunting in a manner which somehow managed to convey his complete and utter contempt for Jaskier.
“You are an absolute, appalling, brute of a man, Geralt,” Jaskier said conversationally.
“No one asked you to tag along,” Geralt reminded him.
As far as Jaskier was concerned, Geralt was simply in a mood . He regularly got into those moods when he was tired, when they’d journeyed far and he’d worn himself out fighting all sorts of beasties.
He would, theoretically, be in a better mood after a nice, hot bath, but that was only if he hadn’t decided to be a brooding loner all night. Geralt wavered between a vitriolic friendship with Jaskier, and a cold insistence that Witchers had no friends.
It was a tad frustrating, but Jaskier was a patient man, and more importantly, he’d replenished the bath oils he knew Geralt was fond of, whether he would admit to it or not.
The things one did for frenemies.
“You’d go mad without the conversation,” he added after a while, kicking at a loose stone on a road of loose stones. “Poor Roach is the only one in this company with any sense left, and you’ll deprive her of it the way you keep moaning on.”
“Moaning?”
“Groaning,” Jaskier happily adjusted. “Grunting, fussing. Onomatopoeically showing your displeasure. You don’t hear me complaining and I’m walking the whole way. You know, you’ve never once offered me a turn on the horse?”
“And I won’t.”
“There,” Jaskier grinned. “That right there is the reason you claim Witchers have no friends. You would if you shared more. Sharing is caring.”
No answer to that, predictably, just another displeased grunt that Jaskier rightfully took as him ceding victory to Jaskier’s superior debating skills. But truth be told, if they didn’t come upon an inn soon, he’d find himself similarly monosyllabic.
“Perhaps I’ll write another song,” Jaskier mused aloud. “One about Witchers and their brooding about.”
Geralt shot him a warning look. Jaskier, bored to tears and desperate for a response, pressed onwards.
“Something to do with bitter temperaments. Honestly, Geralt, it wouldn’t do you any harm to strike up a conversation.”
“Nor would it kill me to ride ahead,” Geralt intoned, “but several hours’ journey alone in the woods may kill you.”
Jaskier bristled. He’d cared for himself for years, journeyed far and wide without Geralt’s help.
But he did want to make the trip to an inn together, and not spend months hunting Geralt down again.
It was Jaskier’s turn to brood, sullen and muttering as they made their way into a small hamlet.
The inn was unremarkable, and Geralt was predictably short and brusque with the innkeeper as Jaskier held on to Roach’s reins. When the man finally bullied his way through the door, barely fitting with his shoulders and his arms and his attitude , he gestured for Jaskier to let the horse go so he could stable her.
“You got the rooms, then?” Jaskier asked. Geralt grunted. Helpfully.
“Room,” he clarified after a moment. “I said we’d make do. You’re welcome to sleep in the barn, though, if my brutish brooding will bother you.”
Jaskier sniffed, chin tilted proudly. “You know I’m always up for a challenge, Geralt. Perhaps there’ll be a bath somewhere, too.”
“There is,” Geralt unsaddled Roach and stroked her back. “For me.”
“Your predictability is growing dull,” Jaskier told him, smile bright and wide. “I think I’ll go claim it.”
What Geralt hadn’t secured them with coin, Jaskier bought them with charm. There was a tub, a huge copper thing Jaskier dragged to the center of their rented space without any help whatsoever, thank you very much. He got the water boiling over the fire, tossed his jacket to the end of the bed.
When Geralt finally showed up, Jaskier sighed, head dropping back so he could focus on the thatched ceiling.
“I can smell you before I hear you. Imagine what the beasties you hunt can do?”
Geralt hesitated in the doorway. He seemed surprised to see Jaskier fussing with the tub, rather than in it, soaking up the hot water.
Jaskier crossed his arms over his chest. His undershirt was damp with sweat, and he was not feeling particularly fresh himself. He raised an eyebrow and tried to mimic Geralt’s stony look of disapproval. “Well?” He asked imperiously.
Geralt stripped slowly, his eyes on Jaskier. They’d shared a room before, and bath water (with Geralt always managing to claim it while it was still hot, due to always being filthy), but never had Jaskier been quite so demanding about it. Geralt looked wary as he tucked his clothes into a pile to be scrubbed when they were done.
Jaskier took the moment to upend a vial of oil into the water. “Perhaps lavender will make you less irritable,” he muttered, sounding rather irritable himself.
Geralt lowered himself into the water, and even he could not continue to glower with hot water easing his sore muscles. He sighed, sinking as fully into the tub as his body would fit.
Jaskier rolled up his sleeves and took up a cloth.
Geralt made a sound in his throat. "What brought about such selflessness?"
"Oh, this is entirely selfish, believe me. I have to share a space with you all night. And powerful as you are, your reek is still very much human."
"And capable of taking care of it," Geralt pointed out as Jaskier knelt beside him with a frown.
"Shut up," he told him. "You talk too much. Sit forward, I'll get your back."
Geralt did, amusement warming his features. He set his wrists to his raised knees and allowed the man to do what he wanted. It did admit there was a soothing pleasure in being taken care of this way. Rarely did he get this, and never from Jaskier; not that he’d ever asked.
"And you expect me to do this for you afterwards, I suspect?"
"I'm an optimist, Geralt, I'm not delusional," Jaskier told him, squeezing the cloth between his fingers, water running down over a raised pale scar on the Witcher’s shoulder. "Sit back."
He did, opening his body up for full access and perusal if that was what the bard wanted.
Jaskier didn’t take advantage, but he was thorough, despite the fact that the water would cool and he’d be left with the remnants. He was, in fact, more attentive towards Geralt’s body than Geralt himself, scrubbing over every crevice, every scar.
“What are you doing?” Geralt finally asked.
Jaskier gave him an utterly unimpressed look. “I’m tired,” he said, “and I’m sore . And I’m frankly out of patience for subtleties when I could just come at you full force.”
Geralt blinked. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
Jaskier huffed and tossed the cloth into the bath water. He stood, tugging his shirt over his head and reaching for his trousers.
“Jaskier-“
“Oh, like you’ve never looked,” Jaskier snapped. “Like you haven’t been looking this entire time. It’s been six years, Geralt, a man can only take so much.”
In truth, the Witcher had nothing to say to that. He knew well enough that his company was intolerable at best, and had often wondered why Jaskier insisted on keeping it. But he’d very rarely been truly unhappy that the bard was following him about.
And he had looked.
They shared lodgings often enough, and had also walked in on each other in compromising positions before.
As friends.
As male companions plodding along not oft-walked paths together.
But now Jaskier was slapping Geralt’s knee to get him to move it and stepping into the tub with him, sinking into the water until it covered his waist. Legs, strong but lithe, pressed up between the tub’s edge and Geralt’s thighs and Jaskier set his palms flat to Geralt’s chest.
“Is this your idea of forceful?” Geralt asked him. The bard levelled him with a glare.
“I’m a gentleman,” he countered. “I don’t collect notches , like some. I usually enjoy a lengthy courtship. But with you, it’ll be another six decades before you bloody well notice so… yes. In this context, it is.”
“Do you ever stop talking,” the Witcher asked, amusement tilting his mouth into a crooked grin. Jaskier’s fingers folded against his skin, nails digging into it.
“Make me.” He replied. “You threaten to, often enough. And you’ve never once followed through on -”
Geralt cupped the back of Jaskier’s head with one large palm, hauling him in. Jaskier’s lips parted in a surprised gasp and Geralt licked his way inside.
It wasn’t exactly blissful silence, but it turned out to be even better. Jaskier’s startled moan twisted into something of a growl. He pawed at Geralt, demanding as he chased another biting kiss.
If he’d known this was all it would take to shut Jaskier up… well, Geralt still would have been hesitant, but he would have allowed himself a fantasy or two to warm the nights.
“Jaskier-“
“Don’t you dare,” Jaskier hissed. “Do you know how long I’ve waited-“ He ground his hips down against Geralt and cut himself off, wide-eyed. In all his looking, he’d apparently never caught sight of Geralt erect.
“-the water is cooling,” Geralt finished with a smug smirk. “We should get you clean and get out.”
“Clean… clean? Yes, right that… that’s the reason for the bath,” Jaskier agreed vaguely, hands ghosting over Geralt’s arm as his eyes continued their unashamed perusal of what he had to work with. It was a lot. He had a lot to work with.
He laughed, startled, when Geralt gathered the cloth Jaskier had used and drew it over his back. He wasn’t quite as thorough but Jaskier was grateful. They’d need another bath later - or possibly sooner - in the evening regardless and he could demand he take his time then.
Right now? Now he wanted to concentrate on something else entirely.
“You’re staring.”
“So would you be, if you were faced with something like that,” Jaskier told him, looking up at last. He shoved playfully at Geralt’s shoulder when he saw his expression. “Don’t act all smug. I’m a grower, not a shower.”
“I never said anything.”
“Yes, you’re good at that,” Jaskier settled more comfortably in Geralt’s lap, rocking their hips together in languid, long rubs as Geralt finished washing down his back and grasped his thighs instead. And his hands, his goddamn hands were so huge … it made sense, so much made sense now.
“So,” Geralt murmured, curling his fingers beneath Jaskier’s knees. He had no riding callouses as Geralt did, but he was far from soft. “How long have you waited?”
Jaskier swatted at Geralt’s chest, a furious frown marring his features. “Honestly, Geralt, you know what you look like, there’s no reason to mock me.”
“Not mocking,” Geralt promised. He set his lips to Jaskier’s clavicle, leaving a sucking bruise in the hollow. Jaskier whimpered, his fingers clutching tight to Geralt. “It’s an honest question, and you’re usually so forthcoming.”
“Who writes a ballad about a man they don’t intend to bed?” Jaskier said. Struggling for the upper hand, he reached between them to cup Geralt’s cock, and only succeeded in making himself freeze up again.
God, when was it going to stop ? At this rate, it was never going to fit inside him, no matter how many vials of oil Jaskier had stuffed hopefully into his satchel.
As if sensing his fear - or maybe Witchers could smell it - Geralt settled his hands on Jaskier’s waist and pulled him closer, rocking up against Jaskier’s hand and more modest erection. The distraction worked. Jaskier’s eyes fluttered closed and he tilted forward, bracing his free hand against Geralt’s shoulder.
“In my youth I was told I was a spoiled child,” he whispered, “and Geralt, if you don’t get inside me, I will throw a fit the likes of which you’ve never seen.”
“I’ve seen you demanding,” Geralt murmured, grinning when Jaskier pressed his fingers to his lips to shut him up.
“Not like this. Don’t test me,”
“I’m tempted to,” Geralt admitted, but he was far more curious to see where this would lead them. More than he was in the mood to tease him, for the moment. So he yanked Jaskier closer, uncaring when the motion sloshed water over the side of the tub, caring only that their mouths met again and that the younger man damn near purred against him.
Slippery arms wound around Geralt’s neck and his own hands spread wide over Jaskier’s waist before sliding down to grasp his ass and squeeze.
The bard was just as verbose in pleasure as he was in everything else, but the sounds he made were far more welcome than some of the words he spoke. So Geralt would reduce him to those alone. They had the time, if not the patience, to make this joining particularly pleasurable and Geralt would have him gasping.
He was used to flighty, fighty things in his bed, partners curious to test his strength as they enjoyed each other, and Jaskier was much the same in that regard, though he approached it differently. He knew he was nothing to Geralt’s power, but he was a clever thing, and quick. And while Geralt could bodily move him, he could work his body against him in such a way as to pull the first gasp from the Witcher instead. The kiss broke, a string of spit joined them until a heaved breath snapped it.
“Oh so you do feel things,” Jaskier grinned, tensing his thighs around him again.
“Careful,” Geralt told him, eyes bright, teeth white against the backdrop of his open mouth. “I could make it so you don’t.”
Jaskier snorted, the sound turning into a rather girlish yelp as the Witcher stood, lifting Jaskier with him, water slicking down their skin and back into the tub. He clung, all limbs wrapped around the man holding him, and shook his head.
“Didn’t know you were so inclined. I suppose I could let you.”
“Let me?”
Jaskier bared his teeth, for a moment vicious. “Do not think,” he murmured as Geralt stepped out of the tub, not bothering to dry either of them, “that you are in control just because I allow you your advantages.”
“ Allow me?” Geralt dropped him to the bed, settling between his spread thighs. There was muscle to him, lean and slight. Enough to run, to flee. Perhaps to take on a lesser man. Not enough to serve a match to Geralt’s sheer bulk.
“ Allow ,” Jaskier confirmed, his eyes narrowed.
Geralt made no attempt to argue. He kissed Jaskier's throat, the curve of his shoulder. “Do you have more of those oils?” He asked.
Jaskier squirmed beneath him, rolling to his stomach to reach his bag. He’d flung it over the bedpost, but it was difficult to reach, with Geralt now kissing down his spine.
“I hadn’t expected you to be… quite so affectionate,” Jaskier admitted as soft lips brushed the curve of his ass.
“There’s little point in allowing myself such a vice if I don’t take full advantage.”
Jaskier laughed, a single bright note, and shook his head in disbelief. This was hardly a vice as far as Geralt was concerned, surely. He'd bedded several women at once, had lovers in his bed at all hours when they stayed in a town longer than a day. Jaskier was far from virginal but he preferred one partner at a time to pleasure.
His fingers brushed the satchel as Geralt deliberately spread his knees and lay himself between them.
"You're not helping," Jaskier pointed out with a huff. "If you'd like to get it over with -"
"Certainly not." A nip to the soft skin where Jaskier's ass met his thigh and the younger man yelped, glaring over his shoulder. The pause was enough to tug his bag closer, though, and from it he pulled another vial of sweet smelling oil.
He'd been keeping it to work through Geralt's hair, if he could get the man relaxed enough to cooperate. He figured this was a much better use for it.
He was about to turn back and hand it over when wide hands squeezed his ass and spread it, pulling a surprised gasp from the bard. He swallowed.
"You haven't -"
No, he hadn't.
And the lack of oil made the sensation of Geralt's tongue teasing the tight pucker of his hole that much more illicit.
Jaskier’s fingers fumbled with the oil. It landed somewhere amongst the bedding, to be found later.
He was, for once in his life, entirely speechless, and he could feel smugness radiating from Geralt in waves. Geralt was good at this, licking over and into Jaskier and turning his limbs into tingling nothingness.
Jaskier managed a huff of a whine as Geralt spread him wider and worked a finger in alongside his probing tongue. He felt for the oil again, shoving it roughly behind himself and smacking Geralt in the face with it.
The displeased grunt was followed by a sharp and deliberate smack to Jaskier's ass, the pain sharper and radiating on the wet skin. Jaskier cursed and buried his face in the sheets, arching himself up and back, demanding despite his silence.
"If I only knew that this is what it took to shut you up," Geralt murmured, sitting back enough to look at the pretty thing sprawled in his bed.
"What?" Jaskier hissed. "Then you'd what , do this more often?"
"Yes," Geralt grinned, bringing the bottle up to his face to work the cork free with his teeth, one hand still occupied with fingering Jaskier open. When the bard bucked up again, Geralt brought his hand down on the other cheek, just as hard, leaving a very pretty pink mark behind.
"Fuck,"
A spoilt and disobedient child , Geralt thought to himself, amused when the pain did little to dissuade Jaskier from rutting down into the bed and back against Geralt's hand.
"I can't believe you're making me do all the work," Jaskier gasped, slipping a hand down between his legs. "Again ."
“If you’re that desperate for a ride, one can always be arranged.”
Jaskier shot Geralt a dirty look. In retaliation, Geralt crooked his fingers and rubbed hard. Jaskier whined, dropping his forehead to the pillow.
“Perhaps… next time,” he ground out. “Geralt, I swear-“
Geralt draped himself over Jaskier’s back. He suddenly seemed twice the size he was when they stood side by side. He encased Jaskier, surrounded him and flooded his senses.
Jaskier remembered with a slight haze of panic that it was never going to fit, but that panic was overwhelmed by heady desire. He wanted Geralt to force his way inside him, to fill him to the breaking point.
Geralt was far more patient than Jaskier himself. He rubbed the head of his cock against Jaskier’s twitching entrance, smearing oil but not yet pushing forward.
"Come on, come on,"
"The more desperate you sound, the more tempted I am to keep you waiting," Geralt pointed out, amused, and when Jaskier opened his mouth to retaliate, Geralt held him still and worked the head of his cock into him.
Whatever words the bard was going to throw at him turned into a hiccuping little wail of a sound that Geralt relished. But they couldn't have the entire household down on them like this, interrupting something so long overdue.
So as Geralt rocked his hips slowly, deliberately, against Jaskier and into him, he folded a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet.
"Should have known you'd be just as verbal in bed as you are out of it," he whispered, breath tickling Jaskier's ear as he continued to tease his cock into him. He could feel the clenching heat of Jaskier around him and it was intoxicating. "Who knew such a little thing could make so much noise? You’ll get us thrown out into the night with sounds like that. Keep quiet."
Jaskier wanted to lash out, kick at him, bite at him, make his displeasure known. He was hampered by Geralt’s steady grip, and by the way Geralt speared him so slowly, every inch a new challenge.
Jaskier was panting against the hand that silenced him by the time Geralt finally stilled inside him. It was overwhelming, the most full he’d ever been, and Jaskier had taken a lover or two in his time.
Geralt braced himself with his forearm next to Jaskier’s head, leaning down to pin him to the bed and nuzzle into his hair.
“Easy,” he whispered. “Steady, Jaskier. Breathe.”
Jaskier moaned, eyes slipping shut. It was impossible to adjust, and he relished it. He was both terrified and excited by the inevitable; soon Geralt would move, and it would overwhelm Jaskier entirely.
Not that his huge, warm body draped heavy over him wasn't overwhelming. Or the way he breathed Jaskier's name just so against his ear. Of the way he held him silenced like some dirty little secret.
God.
He'd be aching tomorrow, walking bowlegged as though he'd actually been given a chance to ride Roach for a time.
He moaned again, helpless and low, and turned his face just a little, just enough to have Geralt press their cheeks together. His hands were gripping the sheets hard enough to whiten his knuckles and he was trembling, just a bit. Enough to notice. Enough to feel.
He tried to speak, the word muffled by the hand that silenced him, but the meaning was clear enough.
Move.
Move.
The first shift was almost imperceptible, until Geralt slid back in . After that, every motion electrified Jaskier's senses, pitched his nerves into endless stimulation that had him breathless and dizzy. He clawed at the sheets with one hand, caught the other around Geralt's wrist; not to move it but to hold on as he started a languid, lazy pace that already had Jaskier on the edge of inevitable pleasure.
Every slow drag out pulled a needy whine from Jaskier, every thrust in drew a moan. If Geralt hadn’t been holding on to him, they’d have been thrown out already, and the night had barely begun.
“Fuck.” Geralt’s voice was loud in the empty room. Jaskier wriggled, rocking back against him as much as his tight grip would allow. “ Fuck ,” Geralt hissed again.
He shifted behind Jaskier. His free hand found Jaskier’s hip, holding him still with a bruising strength.
And then he was moving, his pace quickening. He rocked into Jaskier’s body with a strength that shook the bed frame and made Jaskier tremble beneath him. Jaskier’s toes curled and he went limp in Geralt’s grasp, unable to do much more than let himself be fucked.
Next time, Jaskier swore to himself, he would give as good as he got. Next time he would take that ride.
But right now, he was careening towards orgasm, no way to respond, nothing to do but gasp and whimper and take it.
And that… that was hardly a problem.
It felt good. It felt fucking amazing. It hurt like hell and Jaskier already couldn't wait until next time.
He felt Geralt's rhythm start to falter, felt the hush of his breath turn hotter against him, and squirmed up, just enough to tense his muscles, just enough to feel the head of Geralt's cock torment his prostate.
He came with a cry, muffled against Geralt's grip but loud enough to pull another curse from the Witcher. Then he freed the bard's mouth, with a harsh whispered warning to keep quiet, and sat back yanking the younger man against him.
And this was a thorough fucking, one Jaskier would feel in his gut the next day and think about til they stopped for the evening again. He felt used, taken, claimed, and he loved it. Stupid man wouldn't be able to resist him anymore, he wouldn't want to, and their wanderings would suddenly become much more adventurous.
Without getting monsters involved, or risking their lives.
Well.
To a point.
"Geralt," it was a gasp, broken,breathless, and Jaskier reached back to dig his nails into Geralt's wrist where he held his hips. "Fuck me, fill me up, please,"
Geralt exhaled, harsh and sharp, and then he hauled Jaskier back against his hips with a rough, bruising grip, his cock pulsing within, so deep that Jaskier imagined he’d feel him for days, rationality be damned.
He pulled out slowly, leaving Jaskier empty and dripping. Jaskier dropped to the bed with a pained grunt, letting himself go blissfully limp.
After a moment, Geralt hesitantly pet down his side, calloused fingers attempting gentle caresses. “Have I hurt you?”
“Yes,” Jaskier grunted. “Give me a day to recover and you can do it again.”
Geralt huffed what might have been a laugh. When Jaskier peeked, he was smiling, just slightly.
“You need a bath.”
“Not moving,” Jaskier informed him. He reached for Geralt, whining when he slipped from the bed and headed for the tub instead. “Geralt!”
“You’re filthy,” Geralt said, returning with a cloth. It still smelled of lavender.
And it was almost unpleasantly cool now, but God did it feel good. Jaskier made his pleasure known with low, warm noises that he fed to the blanket between his teeth as Geralt cleaned him. And then the cloth was gone, and so was Geralt, god damn him, and Jaskier was about to throw caution to the bloody winds and raise his voice properly, when he felt the bed shift.
Geralt moved the blankets enough for Jaskier to crawl under them on his own volition and stiffened when the bard immediately made himself comfortable sprawled over his chest. For several long minutes he held his arms aloft as though unsure what they were even for, before letting them settle over the blankets and not around Jaskier.
“You can touch me, you know,” Jaskier mumbled. “I won’t think any less of you, nor consider your masculinity any less manly .”
Geralt made a sound in his throat and dropped an arm over his head, his other spreading wide over where Jaskier’s hip lifted the blankets. The other sighed, long enough that he seemed to almost deflate beneath the hold.
“Look at that,” Jaskier said, words pressed against Geralt’s skin and almost impossible to hear. “A bit of training and you’ll be a passable lover.”
Geralt made an aborted sound but didn’t reply. It would hardly matter, Jaskier was a master at getting the last word. Even if the Witcher had bothered to challenge him it would have been met with a gentle snore not a moment later.
It could wait.
He might even bring it up a day or so later when he had the man beneath him again, and see what kind of lover Jaskier would find him then.