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All I Want

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Jaskier can honestly say that the first time he and Geralt have sex, it’s nothing short of a religious experience. And he’s not exaggerating. Fine, he’s known to embellish his songs and poems; but he’s serious when he thinks that he might have just seen Melitele Herself just as he arches off of the bed for the final time that night.

Catching his breath is a struggle. His muscles still thrum with the aftershocks, and he’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to move even if he tried.

But then again, he does have a Witcher still in and on him.

He slaps a hand on to Geralt’s bare and sweat-damp back. “While this is lovely and all,” he grunts, legs falling from the small of Geralt’s back and splaying out, “I’d like to be able to breathe. I don’t know about Witchers, but us regular folk do actually need air to live.”

And Geralt is slow to move. He doesn’t know if the Witcher is just being a prick or if he is actually as worn out as he seems; but eventually, Geralt does slip out of him and fall to the side of the bed.

Distantly, he’s aware of the people downstairs. The inn that’s housing them for the night is one of the nicer ones within the town, lodgings mainly provided by the seneschal who hired Jaskier to perform at the banquet in the first place. Noise still drifts up between the floorboards, with not many people drinking and laughing downstairs even considering going home yet.

Jaskier’s head rolls to the side. Looking at his bedmate, he laughs. “So,” he breathes, attempting to get on to his side. “How did I fare against the famed stamina of a Witcher?”

And his answer seems to come in the form of Geralt’s closed eyes and deepening breath. The Witcher hums. If he narrows his eyes and focuses, he can see the faint shadow of a smile curling the edge of Geralt’s lip.

Jaskier pillows his head on to one of his arms. His other hand sits between them, fingers idly pulling at a stray thread in the mattress. He wants to reach out, trail his fingertips along each faint white line marring Geralt’s skin.

But now, it’s different.

He’s determined not to let awkwardness settle over them. Sometimes it does; creeping into the room just as the heat of a romp in the sheets starts to fade away. He’s had it with others. Though, usually, it’s because of jilted intendeds or guardians finding him tangled up with people he really shouldn’t be tangled up with.

He’s spent too much time working on Geralt; slowly luring longer sentences out of the man, getting him to smile at his jokes, even if it’s just the slight lift of the corner of a lip.

This cannot, and will not, be the only time something like this happens.

But when he wants to ask, because he probably should ask, that’s a thing that people do, the words stick in his throat.

 


 

Whether or not he did actually meet Melitele in that inn all those days ago, he makes sure to say a quick internal thank you to the goddess when his back meets the unmoving stone of a wall, and Geralt’s lips catch his. Geralt is a good kisser; Jaskier was delighted to find out. Not like how he imagined. One of his cheeks sits comfortably in Geralt’s palm, thumb just brushing the arch of his cheekbone. The Witcher gently angles Jaskier’s head to the side to get deeper, to draw sounds out of Jaskier that, if he had any reservations about modesty, he’d blush. It’s all so gentle that his heart just melts.

Geralt’s other hand travels down his neck, his chest, his side. It should worry him, how easily Geralt is able to lure noises out of him. If the wall and the Witcher weren’t keeping him pinned in place, his legs would give way.

Jaskier’s fingers fumble with the buttons of Geralt’s tunic. Let it be known that years of lute-playing have made him dexterous. When enough fabric parts, giving the bard the first glimpse of Geralt’s chest, his hand slips inside, just feeling the hot skin and delighting when a small shiver wracks through the Witcher’s body.

Geralt breaks their kiss, setting his forehead against Jaskier’s. Their noses brush and air is shared between them. Jaskier drops his eyes, looking instead at the sliver of marred skin peering out from the folds of Geralt’s shirt. If he looks up, if he looks into those golden eyes staring back at him, he’ll be lost.

A rumble comes out of the Witcher. “Is this something that you want?”

And it takes everything in him not to balk. They’ve slept together already. And if he read the Witcher right, he seemed to enjoy himself. They both did. Sometimes when his mind is quiet, Jaskier thinks back on that night, letting a shiver thrum through his entire body.

But the Witcher is looking at him, golden eyes boring into his.

A question still lingers between them.

Jaskier swallows. “Yeah,” he breathes, letting an arm coil around Geralt’s shoulders, “gods, yeah, I do.”

And that’s the end of that, it seems. Within seconds, the wall is long forgotten about and Jaskier finds himself on his back, nestled among soft quilted sheets with a Witcher crawling and hovering over him.

Geralt is a good kisser. He’s a good lay. He’s good at everything, it seems, and it’s annoying. When lips are set against Jaskier’s neck, brushing light kisses along the tendon there, Jaskier’s lungs threaten to give out. “Are you bad at anything?” he breathes, hooking a leg around Geralt’s waist to bring them together. “For the sake of my vanity, please say you’re bad at something.”

Geralt hums a short laugh into Jaskier’s neck. When he reaches the join of the bard’s neck and shoulder, he nips at the skin there. “I never quite got the hang of dancing.”

“Fantastic,” Jaskier clicks his tongue, “he has a sense of humour, too.”

He’s thankful for the scale of the keep; endlessly sprawling hallways that lead to tall towers and countless rooms. Sturdy stone walls that keep in noise. Jaskier can honestly say that he hasn’t been shy a day in his life. But he’d rather not have the other Witchers in rooms nearby hear him. He has a long winter ahead of him, if what Vesemir says is anything to go by. And he might just die if he has to spend it avoiding leering smirks from Lambert or the scrutinising look from Eskel.

When Geralt pushes into him, almost folding him in half as he catches the back of the bard’s legs and moves, Jaskier swallows what tries to wrangle out of his throat. It doesn’t help that Geralt is wearing this look, something he’s seen a few times now. Something he knows the meaning of. Jaskier draws in a shuddering breath. “Don’t you fucking dare, Geralt of Rivia—”

Geralt’s hand juts out, bracing on to the headboard. Sharp thrusts of hips follow and Jaskier tries to hold noise in. “You’re a menace,” the bard grunts, struggling to decide what to do with his hands. One has found a home at Geralt’s nape, fingers curling around strands of hair and tugging. It earns a grunt out of the Witcher, and if they are in fact heard by the others, well then at least he isn’t alone in his mortification.

Anything he has to say to the Witcher is lost with every drawn-out groan. His nails drag down the expanse of Geralt’s back, running over and catching the ridges of long-healed scars. He gentles his touch; even if Geralt is set on ramming the bed’s headboard into the room and through to the next room.

How much time passes, he really can’t say.

He just knows that they’re moved, Jaskier perched on Geralt’s lap with the Witcher spread out underneath him, and he has to catch himself. He maps out the terrain in front of him; skin marred by decades of hunting.

Golden eyes soften. Geralt’s looking at him now. He looks at him a lot, most of the time with a frown etched firmly into his brow and glowering on the other side of a campfire. But this is something else. If he weren’t perfectly happy with his current position, he might just take off out the door.

But Jaskier swallows, lifting his hips and dropping them again.

Geralt’s hands settle on Jaskier’s thighs, thumbs smoothing over the skin there.

It starts to build again. The coiling heat in his core. His breath thins and moans tumble out of his mouth, only getting louder when the Witcher below him snaps his hips up to meet with every move Jaskier makes.

He drops forward, setting a hand just beside Geralt’s head to hold himself just above the Witcher. Geralt’s eyes slip closed, his brows knitting together as his hips start to falter.

A breath is punched out of the bard. “Are you close?” He’s not fairing any better.

Geralt hums. The hands on Jaskier’s thighs squeeze and hold on, still guiding the bard to move just so. The brush against the spot inside of him almost folds Jaskier in half, shocks jutting up and down his spine as he struggles to keep himself above the Witcher.

“Come with me,” Jaskier gasps, catching the side of Geralt’s face in his free hand. His thumb wipes over the arch of his cheekbone. Their lips are close, a shared breath sitting between them. “Come in me, I want to see it.”

Where his reservations about being heard go, he can’t say. But he just knows that the sounds of groans and choked off words and skin slapping against skin fills the room and very well could spill out through the slightly opened balcony doors.

Geralt’s grip on his thighs turns bruising as his hips falter and stills. A flush of warmth runs through him.

Jaskier kisses him, swallowing the moans and pressing his own against Geralt’s lips. A hand leaves his thighs. Geralt’s fingers find the back of his head, curling into his hair, holding. It’s still for a moment, Geralt’s hips pressed against him. The Witcher’s hand drops to his prick; but he arches an eyebrow at the bard when he meets soft flesh and a mess of release instead.

Jaskier tries not to let his face colour too much. When Geralt slips out of him, rolling to his side of the bed, Jaskier stares up at the canopy. The Witcher sighs, lifting himself up on one arm, searching for a cloth, or the sleeve of an old shirt that will be washed anyway.

There always seem to be a brief moment, after their breathing returns and before sleep stops stalking the shadows of the room and comes to lay over them. A moment when Jaskier has his nose nestled into the juncture of Geralt’s neck and shoulder, or when his head rests on a rising chest, or when a Witcher is coiled around him, huffing deep, long breaths against the back of his neck.

In those moments, he doesn’t actually have a lot to say. Usually, with others, that’s when the excuses come. Or the promises. It depended on who was in the bed.

But with Geralt, he’s happy to listen to the slow thumping heartbeat beneath his ear, or the soft trailing of fingertips against his back or arm. The hearth crackles and a loud raucous laugh from the inn downstairs squeezes through the cracks in the floorboards.

Geralt sighs a long breath, eyes long-since slipped closed. His breathing is slowing, deepening. He’ll be asleep soon. A rare sight for anyone, but one Jaskier has seen countless times. To see a Witcher’s face without its usual scowl, to see a Witcher’s shoulders lax, it’s a strange thing. But it’s one of Jaskier’s favourite things.

There were rumours. He’d be lying if he said that a few hadn’t brushed his ears in the time he had known Geralt. Whispers and giggles from women in brothels about the famed stamina of a Witcher. The regarding eyes of others who saw just how imposing Geralt seemed to be. He’s built well, with thick armour clinging to him like a second skin.

There was a time where those rumours lived in his mind and stayed there. He wouldn’t dream of running them past Geralt. He didn’t even know how to go about getting the man to stay in the same room as him for more than five minutes, let alone into a bed with him.

But at some point, some thought buried itself into his brain and stuck around.

It’s just sex.

Coin got them board and food and maybe a bath. Some of it went to replenishing Geralt’s packs of herbs and potions. Jaskier spent his on repairing the soles of his boots and restringing his lute.

Neither of them spent money on brothels within towns they stayed in.

And if a Witcher has urges like any other person, and they’re amped up by years of mutations, then where would he be able to relieve them?

Jaskier mulled it over one night, with Geralt turned away from him, the steady rise and fall of his chest telling the bard that he was asleep. Jaskier travelled with the Witcher. And if he was just as amenable to help sate those urges, at no cost to his own, because honestly, Jaskier was more than fine to do it, well then that seemed to be that.

But he had to wonder. Letting his head roll over to look at Geralt, he stares at the locks of white hair splayed out on his pillow. Is there anything else there? When he lures a laugh out of the Witcher, his heart clenches and flutters and his blood is set alight. When Geralt doesn’t threaten to chuck at a boot at him to get him to stop strumming his lute around their campfire, when he notices that the Witcher is sitting nearby, stoking the fire, but head turned to listen to the music, Jaskier’s fingers threaten to falter and sour the notes.

Is there anything like that in Geralt, or is it just sex?

 


 

His worries only voice themselves through an unfortunate encounter with Valdo Marx. Geralt hides nearby, keeping to the walls of the grand hall in King Ethain’s keep. He already killed the bruxa that had been terrorising the kingdom, stalking along the Adalatte River at night. Ethain was more than grateful, insisting on holding a banquet in Geralt’s honour. One that he would run from if given the slightest of chances. So Jaskier keeps an eye on him from his post across the hall, holding a conversation with the kingdom’s gentry – some of whom know his father.

It’s only then that he recognises the voice drifting through the small crowd of nobles he has around him.

“Julian,” Valdo says slowly. His expression is unreadable, but Jaskier has known the man for too long, and knows where to find the small micro-expressions. He doesn’t look entirely pleased with the attention he’s been getting. Valdo, keeping a hand on the neck of his lute, pats his other hand on to Jaskier’s shoulder. “By the Mother, it’s been years. I almost didn’t recognise you for a moment. What has the road done to you?”

Nobles start drifting away, catching each other by the elbows and fleeing. Jaskier tries not to follow them. Instead, he loosens a long sigh. “The kingdoms have been kind,” he says simply. Because he will not leave Cidaris with Valdo Marx of all people having the last word over him.

“I imagine,” Valdo says after a time. “The laypeople must treat you well enough, giving them as much tavern shanties as you have.”

And it’s as if he’s been flung back decades, to the halls of Oxenfurt where they spent most of their time hurling insults at each other. Not much has changed; only the fact that they’re older now, and better at concealing their comments for the decorum of court. “Queen Calanthe sends her regards,” Jaskier replies coolly. “She’s very grateful for your request to join her court but, at the moment, she’s not taking in anyone for the winter.”

Valdo bristles slightly. Calanthe laughed when the letter arrived. Jaskier remembers it well. While dealings with the queen were difficult to manage – one needed to read a room well – he will keep the sound of her cackling in his mind for the rest of his life. Imagine Eist, she said, turning to her husband. Dealing with that constant howling for the winter. I’ll take my chances with the wind coming in through the gaps in the wall.

“Fantastic gathering,” Valdo fights on, “even if His Majesty had only a day to pull it together.”

Jaskier hums. “We won’t be staying long.”  

“Ah yes,” Valdo says, arching his head to look around the hall, “where is the Witcher? I wanted to get a look at your muse.”

Jaskier snorts. “Not going to go running for the keep’s towers?” He’s never known the other man to be brave.

Valdo hums. “If it’s civilised enough to last through a thanking banquet then I imagine you have it well trained enough to mingle with regular folk.”

Across the hall, Jaskier’s eyes lock with Geralt’s. The Witcher tilts his head, gaze flicking quickly over to Valdo. The expression that casts over Jaskier’s face seems to be enough of an answer. The Witcher pushes away from his post along the wall, slinking out of the shadows and wandering over.

He can still feel Valdo looking at the side of his face. “I haven’t heard many of your shanties, Julian,” he continues, “but the ones that have crossed my ear, unfortunately, they do leave me with some questions.”

He’s lost sight of the Witcher, which is something he didn’t even know was possible. How does he lose sight of someone like Geralt in a sea of nobles?

“They sound all too similar to those ballads you used to write for the girls in our classes,” Valdo lets out a thin laugh. “Some of them even sound the same, I think.”

Jaskier squares his jaw. “Good of you to have remembered my works after all this time, Valdo.”

“How could I forget them?” Valdo clicks his tongue. “Your incessant squawking has buried itself into my eardrum.”

The banquet stretches out in front of him, a sea of nobles and other noteworthy people in the duchy all huddled in their groups, conversing about something or other. His eyes scan the crowd for Geralt, not finding a trace of stark-white hair or anything.

Jaskier’s expression must sour. There’s suddenly a sharp chuckle next to him. “Oh, that’s sweet,” the troubadour places his hand over his heart. “You think it’s in love with you.”

“There you are,” a familiar rumble sounds from behind him. He barely has time to glance to the side before an arm curls its way around his waist, drawing him to Geralt’s side.

Valdo lifts his chin, gaze scrutinising as he looks the Witcher up and down for a moment. He holds out his hand. “Valdo Marx, troubadour of Cidaris.”

At the name, Geralt glances at Jaskier, arching a brow. Your djinn wish?

Jaskier lifts a shoulder. Maybe.

Valdo’s hand slowly withers back to his side. Geralt’s arm around the bard only tightens. A thrum of warmth spreads from where they’re joined. Jaskier holds back the urge to set his head against Geralt’s shoulder.

In all the time he’s spent crafting a better image for the Witcher, he is grateful that Geralt has held on to his glower and grunts. Anything that the troubadour was about to say to Geralt dies on his tongue as soon as it becomes apparent that Geralt isn’t about to entertain any of it. They take their leave of Valdo when Jaskier’s fingers poke slightly into the small of Geralt’s back. A silent gesture. Let’s leave.

A full-body shiver wracks through him as soon as they’ve stepped out of the banquet hall. “Gods above, I think I need a bath after talking to that prick,” Jaskier groans, folding his arms around himself.

Geralt laughs softly. The halls of the keep are quiet. Ethain offered them board in one of the nicer rooms up in a tower; an offer that they declined. If Valdo Marx is still here as a troubadour, then he’s living in the keep, Jaskier said, doing up the last of his doublet’s buttons as they readied to leave for the banquet. And I am not sharing a keep with Valdo Marx, do you hear me Geralt?

Their inn is nearby, in one of the nicer districts of the town. Cidaris is a small little thing, looking out on to the horizon and nestled between Temeria and Bremervoord. Small as it is, it has enough traffic flowing through it to have a collection of taverns and boarding houses dotted throughout the city. When they leave the keep, stepping out on to the Cidarian streets, Jaskier’s hand almost snaps away when fingers brush his.

Glancing down to the small sliver of space between them, he spots their hands glimpsing against each other. Cidaris is small and local but it isn’t entirely backwards like some other holdfasts to the north. If he wanted to, Jaskier could link their hands together, and no one would bat an eye.

He hooks his pinkie finger around Geralt’s holding on. A sound rumbles out of the Witcher’s chest. If either of them is in any particular rush to get back to the inn, they don’t show it. Instead, Jaskier tries not to let his heart run away with itself when he finds themselves all but strolling through the streets. He’s pretty sure that Geralt is the one leading their path, taking them the long way around by drifting off the main street, down small alleys. It’s the dead of night, all of the storefronts are boarded up until morning.

Their inn comes into view just as they get back on to the main cobblestone street. Jaskier’s throat bobs. “What did you think of the banquet?” he asks. It suddenly occurs to him that it’s the first words spoken since leaving the keep’s halls.

Geralt laughs quietly. “A great deal quieter than the last one you took me to.”

Cintra. Jaskier bites the inside of his cheek. A Child Surprise is hovering above them. Counting the weeks since leaving Calanthe’s court, he thinks of Pavetta’s stomach possibly starting to show. A child that will be born and Geralt will take into his care.

A child that Geralt hasn’t even mentioned since leaving Cintra.

And if Jaskier wants to keep the mood between them light, he lets all notion of asking Geralt about it die on his tongue.

The tavern is quiet when they step inside. The keeper, Maggie, bumbles around collecting the last of emptied tankards and plates. The fire pit in the middle of the tavern spit and crackles as it starts to die away.

Geralt leads them to their room. It hasn’t cost them, with King Ethain wanting to host them within the city as gratitude to the Witcher. They both seemed happy enough with it. If they don’t have to pay for food and board, then they still have a coin purse full of gold and silver.

Jaskier perches at the foot of the bed, toeing off his boots as soon as he gets the laces loose enough. “So,” he grunts, setting the boots aside, “where do you want to go next?”

Geralt hums. With his back to the bard, Jaskier can’t see Geralt’s fingers starting on the buttons of his doublet. The nice, noble-hosting clothes will be left behind. A shame, if Jaskier’s being honest. He quite likes the way they sit on the Witcher. “There’s rumour of a griffin nest outside of Vizima.”

Not the furthest trek, Jaskier thinks. When he’s down to his breeches and a loose undershirt, he shuffles back to the head of the bed, setting his back against the headboard. His eyes don’t move away from the Witcher. A bared back stands in front of him, muscles shifting and rippling as Geralt strides across the room, rummaging through his packs to examine his stock of potions and herbs.

“Why did Marx say that you were in love with me?”

And whatever warmth that had been steeped in his bones and muscles, whatever warmth had been drifting up from the fire pit downstairs, it all vanishes.

Jaskier’s mouth opens. For the first time in a long time, possibly in his life, he can’t speak.

Words evade him staying just out of reach while he tries to get something together that isn’t a series of noises.

A Witcher’s hearing is better than most. Even through the swell of conversation from nobles and gentry, Geralt would have been able to zone in on whatever it was that Jaskier and Valdo spoke about.

The urge to go back to the keep, one of Geralt’s swords in hand, and weed out the troubadour suddenly sparks.

Geralt turns, his arms folding across his chest. Somehow, it makes him look even bigger than usual. Jaskier tries not to look. He draws his knees up towards his chest, letting his fingers fidget with each other. He picks at his nails – a nervous habit that his mother or nursemaid or tutors never quite got out of him.

He focuses on that, rather than the pair of golden eyes he can feel burning through his scalp.

The quiet that often sits between them never needs to be filled. Even though he usually does, Jaskier can’t help but bristle at each second that trudges by, with nothing said.

Geralt, surprisingly, is the one to speak. “Are you?”

Jaskier swallows. It’s a sound that seems to thunder through the room. “Whatever Valdo Marx said,” he starts, measuring his words carefully, “it was only a dig. He’s jealous, I know he is. Of what I’ve made myself into. He wishes he had the career I have.”

Geralt is still. Jaskier can almost see the words swirling around the Witcher’s mind, seeping in. His expression is completely unreadable. Even spending his time differentiating between each of Geralt’s scowls and glowers, he can’t seem to read the Witcher’s face now. “Are you?” he repeats.

A lump tries to crawl up and stick in his throat. “I...” he frowns. Words come to him so easily. Now, they’re staying just out of reach.

He misses Geralt taking strides across the room, wandering over to Jaskier’s claimed side of the bed. The Witcher doesn’t sit, but does let his gaze flicker to the free space at Jaskier’s feet. “Tell me,” he says firmly. “Tell me if you have any feelings for me.”

Do you for me?

Jaskier’s throat bobs. “Surely with those Witcher eyes of yours,” he says, his voice nothing more than a rasping whisper, “you’d be able to see for yourself. I shouldn’t have to tell you.”

For a terrible moment, the silence comes back. It’s thick and smothering and coats the roof of Jaskier’s mouth. As soon as the words came out, his jaw clamped shut.

Geralt moves, but he’s slow. Perching on the edge of the bed, he sets his hands on his knees. He looks to a nearby cabinet, a mirror, the corner of the room. Anywhere where Jaskier isn’t.

After a minute, golden eyes drift over to him. “I knew that...” “I knew that you felt something, but I imagined it’s what few people on the Continent feel. They love the idea of me. Your songs made me out to be a better person than I am.”

Jaskier opens his mouth, but he stops. He could reply; assure Geralt that he is actually a good person. But the Witcher presses on. And he isn’t usually very good at constructing long sentences, so Jaskier lets him talk. Geralt’s face pinches. “I imagined that it was some boyhood crush. You were young, back then. I thought that you’d grow out of it within a few months, or years.”

Geralt looks at him. “Do you love me?” he asks again.

Jaskier regards him for a minute. “Yes,” he breathes. “I love you. Not the Geralt in the songs, but you.” He’s seen Geralt throughout the years, lived with him and beside him. He spent nights in his bed and days strolling by his side.

Geralt slips back into silence again. His throat bobs. Before he can stop himself, Jaskier reaches out. At the first touch of his fingertips against skin, Geralt tries to stop a shiver. “I didn’t know how to say it,” he mumbles, shuffling closer and pressing himself to Geralt’s side. “Funny, isn’t it? A bard who doesn’t know how to speak. There’s a song in there somewhere-”

A curled finger hooks his chin, lifting it up so Geralt can catch his lips in a soft kiss. It’s nothing more than a press of lips, a brush of a nose against Jaskier’s.

His hand falters mid-air for a moment before he sets it to Geralt’s cheek, thumb running along the ridge of his cheekbone. They’ve kissed before. Geralt is a very good kisser. But it’s always been tongue and teeth, breath lost between them, usually against a wall or among sheets. This is different. This is...nice.

Jaskier kisses back. He almost forgets how to. His brain seems to switch off for a second. The first time in his life where everything is quiet and still and his mind isn’t full of quickly turning thoughts and ideas.

A rumble leaves Geralt’s throat. When they break away, Geralt keeps them close together. He sets his forehead against Jaskier’s. Their noses brush, sharing a breath.

Jaskier’s lips tingle. He chases Geralt, wanting to kiss him again, but the Witcher pulls away. He smiles, one that crinkles his eyes and bares his teeth. “Slow down for a second,” he mumbles. The finger underneath his chin moves, gently drifting over his lips. Geralt hums. “I didn’t want to let myself hope.”

Jaskier’s heart swells.

“Too many things have drifted in and out of my life,” Geralt says. “I wished that you wouldn’t be one of them.”

“Never,” Jaskier breathes. His hand trails down Geralt’s neck. A quickening pulse hammers against his palm. The bard tries not to smile, but it’s useless. The corners of his lips twitch and lift. His fingers drift down to Geralt’s collarbone, to his chest.

Geralt kisses him, humming into it. It doesn’t take much for Jaskier to give way, but when he feels Geralt shift slightly, luring him back to the mattress, he goes. His settles among goose feather pillows and crisp cotton sheets. A firm, warm weight holds over him. Tendrils of Geralt’s hair falling out of its tie tickle his face.

It’s familiar and foreign at the same time. Sex was always quick and rushed and unforgiving. And it was good. When they did kiss, it was lost in the moment. Another sensation that they found thrumming through them. Now, it’s something else entirely. Nimble fingers untangle and pull at laces. Hands map out plains of bared skin. Jaskier’s legs part and Geralt settles over him. The points where they touch, searing heat spreads through him. It’s feverish. A sweat threatens to break already.

Geralt’s fingers are devastating things. Slick with oil, they’re nimble as they gentle Jaskier open. Anything resembling a coherent thought flies out the window as Jaskier sets his head back on the pillow, neck straining at every thrum of pleasure that runs up through him.

Geralt sets his lips and teeth to his neck. Time spent being in each other’s beds already meant that they know where to go, how to lure just the right sounds out of the other. Geralt sucks a bruise into the column of Jaskier’s throat, just as his fingers brush against the spot inside of him.

Jaskier just about clamps his jaw shut half-way through a curse. “Please,” he groans. His nails bite into Geralt’s back. “Do that again. Or get your cock in me. Do something.”

There’s a laugh buried into his neck. If he had any grasp on consciousness, Jaskier might be affronted. His Witcher is a sadist, with no regard for anything but himself.

Just as he’s gathering his words back together, readying to launch an attack on the other man, Geralt replaces his fingers with his cock and pushes in. Anything that Jaskier had gathered is gone.

His arms coil around Geralt’s back, bringing their chests flush together. A groan wrenches out of both of them, joined by a soft curse on Geralt’s end. Jaskier sets a foot on to the mattress, lifting his hips just so, getting the Witcher deeper. Bottomed out and regaining his breath, Geralt sets his forehead against Jaskier’s. He can only imagine what he looks like – a flush scattered over his face, sweat beading on his forehead, mouth agape. Geralt cards his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, pushing it back. He kisses the bard’s forehead. “My little lark,” he mumbles against skin, letting his hips rock forward.

And Jaskier wants to take a moment, mull over what Geralt called him, steep in the warm feeling that coils around his heart at the notion that he’s Geralt’s anything. But with every rock and thrust, breath escapes him in favour of sound. Distantly, he’s aware of his surroundings. Debouched noises aren’t rare for taverns. The keeper has probably heard much worse over her years.

He lifts his head, kissing Geralt fully.

When the coil starts to tighten, when the leg he has over the small of Geralt’s back tenses, encouraging more and deeper thrusts, when his breath starts to thin and his moans turn to whines, he fucking hates it. He wants this to last. He never wants to go back to the outside world again.

Geralt grunts. “Close?”

Jaskier’s mouth stays open, nothing of any help coming out of it. He nods instead.

He’s at a loss of what to do, where to look. Geralt’s brows knit together, a look of concentration suddenly spreading over his face. His hips falter and stutter, but he can tell that the Witcher is waiting. Jaskier leaks between them. When he sets his fingers around his prick, a spark of pleasure coils his core tighter.

One of Geralt’s hands whips out to the mattress, fingers holding the sheets in a white-knuckled grip. Jaskier tightens the leg he has around Geralt’s waist. “Come with me, love,” he says, somewhat proud of himself for keeping his voice smooth and steady. Geralt’s face only tightens. “You’re mine now. I want it, I want you.”

They come together, a wave of pleasure cresting and crashing over the two of them, dragging them under. Geralt’s hips stay flushed against Jaskier’s until he softens and slips out.

The weight above him is nice. Jaskier trails his fingers over Geralt’s back, over every raised ridge of a scar. Ones that he can’t wait to map out on a slow night, pressing chaste kisses to every single one of them.

Geralt buries a grunt into Jaskier’s neck. The bard angles his neck, tilting his head to the side. Humming, Geralt kisses along the column, dragging his lips up and underneath Jaskier’s jaw.

Jaskier sighs. “I love you,” he mumbles, tasting the words on his tongue. He’s loved quite a lot of people, a lot of them in different ways to the ones before. But this might just be the first time where the words tumbling out from his lips cause him to shiver. His heart beats so incessantly against his ribcage, it might just burst out.

Geralt lays them on to their sides, still flush against each other and limbs entangled. Careful fingers brush Jaskier’s hair back from his face. “And I love you,” the Witcher says softly.

Jaskier’s tongue sits heavily in his mouth. “Well, that’s good to hear,” he smiles, reaching up to catch Geralt’s hand and press a light kiss to the back of it. The Witcher watches the gesture, brows slightly knitted together. Jaskier can’t imagine that many past lovers have ever been tender with him. Just as he’s about to drop Geralt’s hand altogether, Geralt tightens his grip, setting both of their hands in the small sliver of space between them.

“You’ll come to Kaer Morhen for the winter, won’t you?” Geralt rumbles.

It’s less of a question and more of a statement. But Jaskier smiles and nods. “If that’s alright with you and your family.”

“Of course it’s alright with me,” Geralt sighs, eyelids starting to grow heavily and droop. “You’ve been there before.”

“I can imagine now it’s different,” Jaskier says, squeezing Geralt’s hand.

The Witcher hums. When his eyes close, his breathing deepens and levels. With sleep starting to settle over them, Jaskier shuffles closer, throwing his free arm around the Witcher, holding him close. He sets his chin on the crown of Geralt’s head. The faint scent of soap from an earlier bath and the lingering perfumes of passing nobles still linger on his hair and skin. Jaskier buries his nose into Geralt’s hair. His normal scent comes through, warming Jaskier’s bones.

When sleep claims him, he tries to hold on that bit tighter to his bedmate. A smile curls along his lips when he feels Geralt move, shifting closer and drawing him near.