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A melody sweetly played in tune

Summary:

It’s just fucking. No kisses, no sweet nothings, no weakness. Just the scratching of an itch. Geralt can’t afford to think it could be anything else.

It’s just fucking. No emotions, no softness, definitely no chance of Jaskier being on top - Geralt nearly bit his hand off at the thought. But it hurts, to know how Geralt thinks of those who bend over for other men, and it hurts almost as much to know that he won’t ever get to treat Geralt how the noble witcher deserves to be treated.

It’s just fucking. Except it’s not.

Notes:

This is set fairly early on after they first met.

Title bastardised from "A red, red rose" by Robert Burns.

Chapter Text

A village haunted, death runs wild
A woman cursed, by night beguiled
Violet spells for violent ends
The witcher's silver sword descends

They left town long before the sun began to set, Geralt eager to check the lay of the land, but the flat fields didn't pose as much of a challenge as he'd expected and they soon found themselves at a loose end, perched in a copse of trees a half mile or so from where the wraith would rise.

"Really, Geralt, I don't see why we couldn't have retired to the inn for a while, it's hardly as though we don't know where she'll be once the moon comes up. We could have been enjoying some of that beef again, I know the barmaid gave me an extra portion." He pouted a little, bottom lip heavy. "How long is all this going to take, anyway? She said she'd be working most of the evening if we got back before she left, but gods it's been an age since that lad back in Dorian and I really feel I should be making the most of my newfound fame. Or there's always the brothel, I suppose, though it seems a shame to pay when such a lovely lady was offering to be so generous free of charge..."

Jaskier kept talking over the steady burr of Geralt's whetstone against the silver blade. It was sharp enough, he'd done it the day before, but who knows why witchers have the silly little habits they do when it comes to weaponry and such.

He was half way through extolling the stableboy's virtues and complaining about how very long it had been - weeks, Geralt! Maybe a full month! - when Geralt huffed out a frustrated breath and scowled at him across the clearing. "Come here."

Jaskier gave him a wary side eye. "Last time you said that it didn't go well for me."

"Jaskier."

The bard set down his lute with care and crept to Geralt's side, crouching down next to him as the witcher swept his whetstone over and over the blade. His legs were starting to ache, a complaint on the tip of his tongue, by the time Geralt ceased the hypnotic slide and looked up at him with exasperated eyes, hands laying still and heavy on those massive thighs.

"If I fuck you, will you shut up?"

Eyebrows betraying his surprise, Jaskier grinned. "Absolutely! I'll be the quietest, most well behaved-" He bit his tongue at the scowl on Geralt's face. "I'll shut up."

The witcher rose to his feet, more fluidly than Jaskier managed with his legs half numb from crouching, and tucked his sword nearly back in its sheath. Jaskier heroically managed to not make a comment.

They'd only planned to wait here for an hour or so before tackling the wraith and then heading back to the inn, so there was no bedroll, no warming campfire, just a couple of tree stumps and last autumn's leaf litter. There was a brief silence as Geralt cocked his head, clearly listening to the small sounds of dusk. Jaskier's heart lurched at the sight of his witcher in the gathering gloom, all white hair and golden eyes and silver studded armour, because of course he would never set out for a hunt without his armour and apparently wouldn't take it off for getting his end away.

"Lie down, then," Geralt eventually growled at him, and Jaskier blinked. Alright, straight to business.

He surveyed the floor, finding a patch where he could brush away the remaining leaves and take a cautious seat in the dirt, lounging back on his hands. At least it hadn't rained in a couple of days and his nice silk breeches weren't at risk.

It wasn't how he'd imagined it - he'd expected at least a bed roll the first time he bedded the witcher, not just the dirt floor, although certain fantasies had extolled the virtues of dark alleyways - but if that's how Geralt wants it he's hardly going to complain.

Geralt dropped down beside him, unfastening his own breeches with efficiency, sliding a hand inside and clearly stroking himself.

"Wait," Jaskier said, suddenly flustered, "Let me, let me-" He stretched out a hand, and Geralt intercepted it, dragging him closer and then pulling one leg over his own until Jaskier straddled him.

Kneeling above his witcher, Jaskier could see the flash of pale skin on red as Geralt lazily fisted his own prick. Pink cheeked, he fumbled for his own breeches, and the buttons parted under his fingers until he could ease his cock out, already swollen and firm. Geralt made a sound of approval beneath him and, emboldened, Jaskier stroked his own length, tipping his head back, showing off a little.

After a minute of near-silence, broken only by the filthy sounds of flesh on flesh, Jaskier looked down only to see Geralt's hand wrapped around a length that was far larger than it had any right to be. He paused in his own attentions, and Geralt all but laughed at whatever expression must be settled on his face. He's no slouch himself in that department, but the sheer size of the witcher's prick was just magnificent, a girth he'd not seen except in the filthiest of dreams and a fat head that spilled a little each time the scarred fingers slid around it.

"Can I-" He swallowed. "Can I touch you?"

"Or I can touch us both."

Jaskier bit back a whine and nodded.

Geralt shifted sideways, reaching to fumble in his bags and pull out a slim corked vial. Jaskier eyed it with trepidation. "That's not the, ah, the one you were brewing earlier? The one with the... viscera? And the eye watering smoke?

Geralt smiled. It wasn't very reassuring. "No."

"Oh, good. Because that smelled-"

"That would melt your dick off before you could even soften."

Oh." Jaskier swallowed hard. "Just to check, that is one hundred percent definitely not what you have there, right?"

The witcher quirked a lip, and shook his head. "Carrier oil. Grape seed."

"In that case, be my guest."

A dribble of the oil into Geralt's palm before he smeared it over his own cock, coating it with a sweep of his hand. He lifted an eyebrow at Jaskier, who hurriedly let go, letting his cock bob in thin air before Geralt gripped it, sliding firmly from root to tip to leave it glistening. Unable to stop the groan cracking from his throat at the feel of the roughly calloused hand against his skin, Jaskier closed his eyes in mortification, before opening them again at the feel of a hot, firm length against his own.

There, between his legs, Geralt's wide hand wrapped around both of them, a tight grip to squeeze both cocks together.

"Fuck," he said disbelievingly, and Geralt snorted even as he slid the hand down around them both. "Oh, fuck."

It was hot and slick and perfect and all thoughts of the dirt under his knees or the night's hunt vanished, and he bucked his hips into the firm grasp.

Geralt let him rut, keeping a steady pace despite Jaskier's enthusiasm, tugging on them both in silence as Jaskier whined and gasped and panted.

"I'm close, oh, oh, fuck, Geralt that's so good, yes-" He couldn't stop the flood of words, but Geralt's free hand was at his waist, crumpling up his chemise and doublet, moving them out the way, and that little conscientious gesture tipped him over the edge, spilling across his own belly with a groan.

Geralt held him there as he slumped and panted and grinned breathlessly, before letting go of the bard's steadily softening prick and returning to his own, still hard and leaking, biting his lip in silence as Jaskier watched.

He came with a bitten off grunt, quiet in the back of his throat as he spilled into his hand, then wiped it away on a nearby patch of grass as Jaskier wrinkled his nose and slumped off to the other side.

Jaskier's chest was still heaving when Geralt got to his feet, his usual sinewy grace entirely unaffected by their activity. He watched, still a little dazed, as the witcher pulled on his gloves and picked up his silver sword.

Geralt shot him a frown across the clearing, visible now in the low moonrise. "Up, bard. Or are you staying here?"

He scrambled to his feet, fumbling at the ties to his breeches. "No cuddling and sweet nothings then?" he offered, mostly joking as his clumsy fingers tripped over themselves.

"There's a job to be done."

"Well. Yes, of course there is. Lead the way, dear witcher."

The nightwraith was strong, howling her fury across the field as Jaskier winced and half hid behind his hands, but Geralt's previous exertion didn't seem to have impacted him in the slightest. There was a brief tussle as Geralt got the measure of her, but then he flung something to the ground that glowed with a flood of purple light as bright as the low hanging moon, and she was trapped, swiftly dispatched with a precise swing of his sword.

Jaskier mused, as the witcher fought, that the spell's amethyst made the gold of Geralt's eyes glow particularly brightly, and the silver sword shone with an almost otherworldly light as it leapt in his hand.

Her dress was torn and grey, dull in comparison to the sword, but then there had been the moonlight too; surely there's something he can do with colours that won't sound too trite. That stunning purple luminescence was too striking to pass up.

Afterwards Geralt wiped his sword on the ground, getting off the worst of the dark ichor, and Jaskier pushed away from the tree where he lounged, tucking his notebook back into his pocket as he handed Geralt the sack. The wraith's head, held by her long dark hair, went straight into the bag, and it was a relief not to have her cold eyes, filmy with death even before Geralt struck her down, staring up at him.

Back in the clearing Roach was eager to head towards town, kicking up her heels as Geralt mounted. Jaskier trotted alongside, holding his lute strap firmly to stop it bouncing.

Perhaps the barmaid would still be around. Seemed a bit wrong, pursuing a second bedmate in one night, but then his coupling with Geralt had hardly been much more than scratching an itch. No harm in asking, anyway.