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Forty minutes and only two miles into the storm, the streaming rain turns into an outright downpour and Geralt gives up the pretense that they can make it to the next town. Jaskier looks read to fall to his knees in relief, soaked to the bone and shivering, teeth clattering together too hard for him to even complain or praise the gods when Geralt wraps one hand beneath his elbow and tugs him into a small but blessedly dry cave after the Witcher thoroughly checks that it’s safe from any and all monsters. It’s just barely large enough to fit two grown men and a horse, but they make do.
“This way,” Geralt murmurs in his ear, low and steady, and Jaskier hums softly in agreement, his voice a welcome sound after an hour of nothing but the slam of heavy rainfall on the road and echoing booms of thunder that had Geralt wincing. He guides Jaskier further into the cave, taking his lute case and his pack for him when he sees that Jaskier is in no state to do so himself, and starts to rummage around for their sleep rolls; thank fuck Jaskier had wheedled Yenn into making them waterproof last time they saw her. He’s never been more grateful for the bard’s ability to annoy Yennefer into doing what he asks as when he sets their perfectly dry bed rolls up at the far side of the cave.
“G-G- Geralt,” Jaskier chatters, arms around his waist. He looks like a drowned cat, and affection rattles around in Geralt’s chest at the sight he makes, hair in his eyes, clothes pinned to his body by the weight of the water. He makes a pitiful noise, blue eyes huge in the darkness. “Geralt.”
“I know, Jask,” he says gently. “Just a few more minutes.”
Jaskier makes another sound but some of the tension flows out of him as he leans his back against the cave wall, head tilted back, his eyes shut. Geralt starts a small fire with some tinder he’d thankfully had the foresight to gather before the storm and a quick Igni, makes sure that Roach is secure, and then quickly sheds himself of his armor and wet clothes, hissing at the cold air touching his bare skin when he finally stands nude in the firelight.
He crooks a finger at Jaskier. “Come here,” he says, and Jaskier shivers out a sigh and stumbles over, nearly collapsing against Geralt’s chest. He’s freezing, shivering so hard he’s visibly vibrating, and Geralt frowns slightly as his fingers slip into the ties of his doublet. He should have gotten them out of the rain sooner.
When he starts to tug off Jaskier’s doublet, the bard tenses in his arms. “No,” he whimpers, and Geralt pets his back with one hand. "Too cold."
“Shh,” he whispers. “I know it’s colder, but it’s the only way you’ll get warm.”
Jaskier moans, but agreeably raises his arms so Geralt can tug him this way and that as he strips him. Usually he likes to take his time stripping Jaskier - make him wait, make him desperate, string him along until he’s panting and begging and a breath away from spilling in his smalls - but now he’s methodical, swift, dressing him down until he’s naked. When he’s bare from the waist up, Geralt falls to one knee, tugging off one of Jaskier’s boots one by one and pulling his trousers and smallclothes to follow until he’s bare, kissing every inch of the cold, pale skin as it’s revealed to him.
When he presses his mouth against Jaskier’s stomach, Jaskier moans softly and threads his fingers through Geralt’s wet hair. “Geralt,” he whispers.
Geralt hums approvingly, and Jaskier’s fingers tighten in his hair. “There you go,” he says, rubbing Jaskier’s thighs to stimulate blood flow and warm him up. He’s already shivering less, his back to the fire and the wet clothes set out to dry, his body rising in temperature as Geralt kisses him. “There you go, Jask.”
Jaskier shivers again, this time pleasantly. “So good,” he whispers. “So warm.”
Geralt kisses the tip of his cock. He’s only barely hard, just beginning to stir, but he twitches beneath Geralt’s lips. Geralt opens his mouth and lets the head of his cock rub along his tongue, and Jaskier hisses, clenching tight at Geralt’s hair as his cock firms up, straining towards the heat of Geralt’s mouth. Geralt licks a long strip up his cock, licking and sucking, rolling the soft thing around his mouth like a sweet until he’s completely hard, dripping at the tip, a moan rumbling from deep in his chest at the taste.
“Fuck,” Jaskier moans, tugging at his hair, and Geralt moans again. “Fuck, I need -”
Geralt pulls his mouth away, taking one of Jaskier’s hands from his hair and guiding it to his cock. “Then take,” he says.
Jaskier shudders, and guides his cock into Geralt’s mouth. Geralt makes a pleased sound, opening up wide to let him in, groaning blissfully as he’s filled up. Jaskier gasps, panting, grinding forward in tiny increments until he’s sheathed all the way and nudging at the back of Geralt’s throat. Geralt puts his hands on Jaskier’s hips, breathing as best as he can around the fat cock in his mouth, and swallows.
Jaskier makes a punched out sound, rocking forward more sharply, and Geralt’s eyes almost roll back. “Can I -” he hisses, “Geralt, can I -”
Geralt reluctantly takes his mouth off of Jaskier, pulling back and breathing harshly as he looks up. “When I said take it,” he says, “I meant take it.”
Jaskier groans deeply before grabbing Geralt by his hair and yanking him back on his cock, and Geralt, happily, goes. He relaxes his jaw, spreads his tongue flat and hollowing his cheeks, and lets Jaskier fuck his face. He keeps his hands on the bard’s hips, not stopping but merely using him as an anchor, and lets his eyes slide shut in bliss as everything but the feel and taste of Jaskier’s cock drifts pleasantly away.
Jaskier takes him at his word, fucking him good, and it isn’t long before Jaskier is tensing beneath his hands. “Geralt,” he says, low and guttural, a warning. Geralt doesn’t take his mouth off of him this time, just squeezes his hips gently, and Jaskier comes with a bitten-off cry as he spills down the back of Geralt’s throat. Geralt nuzzles at him, pulling off to lick his cock clean as it softens until Jaskier hisses and pushes him away, too sensitive. “Fuck,” he wheezes, and half-collapses down to his knees in front of Geralt, keeping one hand twined in the Witcher’s hair so he can drag him forward into a kiss. “Mm, thank you darling,” he sighs. “I feel so much warmer.”
Geralt glows at the words. “Good,” he says.
Jaskier’s blue eyes twinkle. He’s not shivering anymore. “Do we have any oil?” he says, palming Geralt’s hips, swaying forward until his stomach rubs against Geralt’s cock where it’s aching and leaking. “I want you inside me.”
Geralt groans.
He gets Jaskier on his back, sprawled out lazily and happily across the bed rolls, and Jaskier draws his knees up to his chest and lets Geralt finger him slowly, one finger and then two, and by the third he’s hard again, panting and groaning as Geralt kisses him with three fingers buried knuckle-deep, brushing against his prostate with every thrust. “C’mon,” he whines, bucking up into Geralt’s fingers, “come on, fuck, oh you bastard - ”
Geralt smirks, drawing his fingers out slowly and rubbing his thumb around Jaskier’s stretched hole. “Think you can take me now?” he says, low and teasing, and Jaskier shoots him a half-hearted glare.
“Get in me,” he orders, and Geralt. Well. Geralt obeys. He slides on top of Jaskier, knocking his knees further apart, and Jaskier makes a delighted noise and wraps his long legs around Geralt’s waist as Geralt lines himself up. “Yes, there - fuck.”
It’s a slow fuck, the kind they rarely get the opportunity to indulge in, and Geralt finds himself matching his pace to the claps of thunder outside, an easy slide in again and again until Jaskier is boneless beneath him and they’re both sweating, as far from cold as they’ve ever been, wrapped up in each other as they kiss in between thrusts.
“Please, Geralt, fuck,” Jaskier says, and Geralt gets a hand between them to wrap around Jaskier’s cock. The bard makes a high, shrill noise and comes, and Geralt only manages a dozen more thrusts before he follows after, sliding himself into the hilt and spilling deep as he shudders and moans out Jaskier’s name.
They curl up side by side, after, and Geralt drags the bed rolls over their bodies, pressing in against Jaskier to share their body heat. Jaskier’s head lolls against his chest, and Geralt kisses his sweaty forehead.
“Look at you,” Jaskier murmurs, kissing his chest right above his Witcher medallion. “Take such good care of me, mm.”
Geralt feels golden, glowing, warm from the inside out, and tugs Jaskier closer. “Have to,” he says. “You take care of me.”
Jaskier chuckles, squeezing his bicep. “We’ll take care of each other, then,” he says, and it’s the sweetest vow Geralt’s ever heard.