Actions

Work Header

Reflections of You

Work Text:

Jaskier stood naked in one of the bathhouse's private rooms, in front of the full-length mirror, drinking himself in... knowing it was wrong.

The body he wore was not his own.

They weren't his pectorals he now scraped his nails across--leaving angry red lines that disappeared in an instant. They weren't his nipples he thumbed at, raising them into hard nubs. It wasn't his bottom lip he bit, holding back a groan, and it wasn't his tongue he clicked behind the sharp, pearly teeth.

The dips and valleys of these abdominal muscles hadn't been hard-won through his own efforts. The meat of these arms hadn't been been built through lute-wielding, but sword-wielding. And the firmness of this buttocks, well...

And it certainly wasn't his cock fattening between these legs, responding to the gorgeous sight in the mirror.

Yet, it was his mind that sent the blood thrumming through these veins. His feelings made this heart thump heavily beneath these ribs. His want, his desire...

His desire, which hadn't been quelled at all by inhabiting the body of the very man he constantly craved.

Jaskier had told himself when he'd gotten out of the tub that he would only look. After all, he didn't know how long he'd have to live in this body, so it only made sense to get to know it a little better. Just like he would get to know the feel and give of a new doublet before wearing it for a performance; wouldn't want to try a particularly enthusiastic fling of the arms only to have a seam rip because he hadn't tested the garment properly.

If he was going to have to walk and talk and move through life as Geralt for a while, he would need to know his body.

So, he could examine to his heart's content. That was all. Just look...

...and maybe prod a little.

Yes.

Sure.

Just a little.

Enough to get a sense of himself. A familiarity with anything that twinged or ached.

Except for...

Well, there was one ache he promised himself he'd ignore. No matter what.

Jaskier scraped his nails from his new pectorals to his new belly, then lower--grazing through the coarse curls of white pubic hair at the top of his groin. But he prevented himself from roaming further southward.

His borrowed cock was so hard, already.

Fuck.

No matter how his pulse throbbed in the impressive prick between his legs, no matter how the whole girth of it jumped at the slightest flex, no matter how much precome--gods, there was a whole thread of it now--dribbled down onto the floor, he would not touch.

His gaze flickered to the sticky line of fluid hanging from his slit. Did Geralt always get this wet this quick, or was this somehow Jaskier's fault?

His sac felt tight already, and everything between his legs was overly warm. Geralt's pale skin had taken on a slight flush from the bath, but Jaskier couldn't blame the heat in his neck and cheeks and groin on the hot water anymore.

Geralt will be back any moment, he told himself. You were to bathe and see that he had no wounds. You weren't to ogle.

The contract had seemed straightforward at first. And the fight with the monster in the forest had gone more or less according to plan. That is, until Geralt had lopped its multi-horned head off and a mage had come screaming out from the nearby cave. The man had shrieked and cried and cursed them. Literally. He'd shot a great bolt of chaos at the pair that had knocked them both flat on their backs and out cold. And when they'd awoken, the mage and the monster's corpse were both gone, and Jaskier and Geralt had swapped bodies.

Jaskier had freaked out--startled more so to find himself suddenly covered in blood and viscera than anything else.

Geralt had taken it in stride. He'd ordered Jaskier to the bathhouse to make sure his body got the private scrub that had been promised as part of his pay, while he went to find a healer to see if they had any idea how to reverse the curse.

Jaskier was used to helping Geralt bathe after a hunt, just not quite like this.

Tearing his gaze away from the line of precome, Jaskier looked up into golden eyes. It was strange to see his own needy, desirous expression on Geralt's features, and it only helped to stoke the fire rising in his belly.

Oh, to have Geralt really look at him like that. To stare back at him with lust in his eyes.

His cock was painfully heavy, throbbing. He dragged his nails away from his pubic hair, out toward his hip, then around. Down. Back.

He spread his fingers across the swell of Geralt's backside and gripped firmly. He'd massaged this muscle plenty of times, knew how solid it was. But it was different to grab hold of it this way, just to test the heft of it, and to feel that grip himself.

He shouldn't be doing this.  In a way, he was touching Geralt, and, in a way, Geralt was touching him. But Geralt didn't know, hadn't given his permission.

It was all wrong.

And it was fucking weird

Being in Geralt's body was strange in less obvious ways, as well. Jaskier felt more centered than he usually did. Calmer. His mind was less likely to flit from subject to subject, and there was this over all air of steadiness about him that he'd never felt before in his life.

And then there were the senses.

He knew Geralt's senses were heightened, but he hadn't expected the need to focus in order for them to be stronger than normal. And when he zeroed in on one sense, all the others blurred, dulled.

If he focused on his sense of smell, he could scent the contents of each bottle set atop the thin table on the other side of the tub--even though they were all stoppered. But then his hearing shifted, and his ears felt blocked, as though he was underwater. And the small, private washroom suddenly felt claustrophobic, what with the fuzziness in his ears.

If he focused on his hearing, the room felt bigger than it was, and he could pick up voices throughout the bathhouse--could even make out what most of the people were saying. But then the light from the sconces seemed to dim, and his peripheral vision distorted and dappled.

And he was sure if he attempted to focus on sight, he'd be able to see evidence of stains on the floorboards--but he decided to forgo that experiment, figuring he was better off not knowing they were there.

And if he focused on touch...

He flicked at a nipple and cried out at its sensitivity.

"Jaskier, I--"

Jaskier jumped away from the mirror, stumbling, barely keeping himself upright as he fumbled backward, turning his back to the small room's door, heart beating wildly in his chest.

Fuck.

That was unfair.

Geralt was in Jaskier's body.

How was he still so stealthy even in the wrong body?

Jaskier caught himself on the lip of the wooden tub, propping one hip against it. "You scared me," he said, Geralt's gravel-rough voice falling from his lips.

Geralt cleared his throat as he closed the door behind him.

Oh, gods, how much had he seen?

"Healer said there's a mage two towns over--three days' ride--who might be able to help us."

Jaskier's legs had taken on a wobbly, jelly-like quality. "Good," he said, trying to sound chipper, trying to choke down his embarrassment. "Good, goodgoodgood."

"Did I have any wounds? Sometimes the decoctions make it difficult to tell until--"

"No. Not a scratch," Jaskier said hurriedly, hanging his head. Wet, white hair fell in front of his eyes.

"And the decoctions sometimes... I'm sorry, about that particular side effect."

"Which side effect?" Jaskier asked quickly, still trying to figure out how to face Geralt without having guilt written in every line of his face.

"You're...you're hard," Geralt said, clearly trying to sound frank and clinical but falling short.

Jaskier frowned. He might have only had this body for a couple hours, but he was quite sure he couldn't blame his erection on anything Geralt had taken before the fight. His eyes weren't even black, and there were no darkened veins raised beneath his skin.

But Geralt was giving him an out. An excuse. A way to save face.

Was it a lie meant to save them both from embarrassment, or...?

Jaskier risked a glance over his shoulder.

There Geralt stood in Jaskier's form, doublet gone, the sleeves of his thin undershirt rolled up past his elbows. A distinct pinkness covered his chest and cheeks. He looked slightly ashamed.

"You can take care of it," Geralt assured him. "You need to."

Jaskier nearly laughed. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck. He'd been trying so hard to be good, had promised himself he wouldn't touch himself and violate Geralt's trust like that. And here was the witcher, telling him to give in and have a wank.

Knees gone weak, Jaskier turned and sat himself on the edge of the tub. Geralt now had a clear view of the full jut of his cock--how it stood out exceptionally thick and red. Jaskier tried to tell himself it was fine. After all, it was Geralt's cock. Not like he hadn't seen it hard before.

But Jaskier wasn't just hard, he was straining.

"I can...I will wait. For it to go down," he said earnestly. It was important to him that Geralt know he respected his body. He wanted him so badly, and that was all the more reason to restrain himself, even with permission.

Because Geralt didn't really understand what he was giving Jaskier the go-ahead to do.

It wouldn't be just a wank. It wouldn't just be 'taking care of it' as he'd put it.

If he touched Geralt's cock, he would always know what it was like--not just to feel it heavy in his hand, but what it was like for Geralt. He would jerk himself off via Geralt's cock with Geralt's hands, but with his own technique, and he knew that was not an experience likely to be forgotten.

He would know intimately not just what it took to make Geralt come, but what Geralt physically felt when he came.

It would be too much. The knowledge would be too much. If Jaskier let himself give in, then ever after, whenever they went to a brothel, or Geralt found someone to spend the evening with, Jaskier would relive this experience.

He would always know Geralt's pleasure without ever being Geralt's pleasure.

That thought alone hurt.

And he didn't want to torture himself that way.

So, he would wait for it to go away on its own.

But Geralt shook his head. "Can't wait. When I get an erection like that, means I'm not burning through the decoction efficiently. Your toxicity levels are too high. Could cause lasting damage. It concentrates in certain organs, so if you can find release, it'll help prevent my liver from--"

"White honey," Jaskier said quickly. He was still positive this had nothing to do with anything in Geralt's little alchemical bag of tricks, but maybe if he could send Geralt away to his supplies for a few minutes, it would give Jaskier time to talk his borrowed dick down.

"Fresh out," Geralt said.

"Geralt--"

"Jaskier."

"I-- I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just can't, alright? There's got to be another--"

"It's my body," Geralt said gruffly. "And I expect it to be in perfect working order when I get it back."

Jaskier bit his lip and looked at the ceiling, then at the floor, his gaze darting about, searching for a solution, eyes never falling on his lap or on the witcher near the door.

"I've never known you to shy away from another man's cock," Geralt said, an edge of suspicion in his tone. "Why is this different?"

"Because it's yours," Jaskier snapped. "How is that not obviously different?"

"Hmm."

It was a thoughtful hmm.

Geralt threw the lock on the door. "Come here," he said, beckoning Jaskier forward with one hand.

With a reluctant sigh, Jaskier pushed himself away from the tub. He approached Geralt without hesitation, as he did every time Geralt ordered him near--despite that first gut-punch so long ago, which would have made anyone else, at the very least, think twice.

Only a few feet separated them--the room being as cozy as it was--and still Jaskier felt as though each stride covered a wide distance that took a vast amount of energy to transverse.

When he finally stood in front of Geralt, he still hung his head, staring at both Geralt's feet and his own--marveling at how both sets were the wrong-way round.

"If you won't do it," Geralt said quietly. "Then I'll have to."

Jaskier's gaze snapped up in an instant, and a sense of vertigo overtook him as he stared into his own face--its expression hard, grim. "You'll--you'll what?" Jaskier asked dumbly.

"Turn around," Geralt ordered. "And I'll do it."

"You can't be serious. There are certain things you simply cannot ask of a man when he's got the wrong cock. Even if it is acting up, like it's got a mind of its gods-damned own or some--"

"My body, my rules," Geralt said flatly.

"Well it's my hand you're suggesting you jerk your body off with, isn't it?"

"Jaskier, one little hand job won't kill you. But the toxins, those might. So which will it be?"

The bard knew what he must look like: meek, despite his size. Weak, despite his muscles. Terrified, despite...despite everything.

There was nowhere to hide--from Geralt, or from his feelings.

After a moment of silence, Geralt's expression softened. It didn't quite become the gentle openness or cocky offhandedness Jaskier was familiar with seeing in the mirror, but it was milder. "I understand," he said, "how uncomfortable this must be for you. To have me, of all people, touch you that way."

"You have no idea," Jaskier said deprecatingly.

Geralt's expression truly shifted then. And Jaskier knew what hurt looked like on his own face. But injury was quickly masked with fury, in true witcher fashion. "If you can't stand the thought of me doing it, then you have to. I know, it's strange. It's off putting. It's...abhorrent. Either me touching you, or you being forced to touch me, because we're in this--"

The bottom dropped out of Jaskier's stomach. "Oh, Geralt, that's not what I--"

"You wouldn't be the first to find the thought of me repulsive. But I need you to--"

"Shut up," Jaskier said sternly--finding his footing, his assuredness, as he always did whenever Geralt took to insulting himself. "You are not repulsive."

He said it with enough force that Geralt stopped talking.

Jaskier took a step back, held out his arms, so that Geralt got a clear view of everything. Jaskier's abashedness had completely evaporated, chased away by his instinctual need to defend Geralt--even to himself. "Look at me," he demanded. "At me, at you. Show me what, exactly, you think is repulsive about this body."

"I'm a mutant," Geralt grumbled, as if that explained everything.

"So? You think I, of all people, would find that fact repugnant? That doesn't fit with the whole following you all over the entire gods-forsaken expanse of the Continent thing, now does it? No? Thought not. Alright, then what is it? You know I sleep with men, so it's not that."

"My scars," Geralt offered.

"You mean these?" Jaskier asked incredulously, lightly running his fingertips first over one near Geralt's collarbone, then across his abs, and the side of his hip. "This proof that you're still alive? That you spend your life defending other people? You think I have a hard time looking at any of them? Especially when I've sewn up so many?"

"My eyes, then," Geralt snapped, clearly irritated with this game, since he thought a run-away decoction was roaring through his system.

Jaskier turned back toward the mirror, traced the tip of one finger over his temple. "These eyes? These eyes, that can see so magnificently in the dark? These eyes that look at children with such warmth? These eyes that brighten when you spot the first arenaria buds in spring?"

"Then what, Jaskier? We don't have time for this. Tell me why this is so difficult for you, so we can get on with it!"

"It's difficult because I want it," Jaskier blurted, half turning, falling just short of meeting Geralt's stare.

He'd never meant to tell him. Never in a million seasons. But the only thing worse than Geralt finding out how much Jaskier wanted him, was letting Geralt think Jaskier was repulsed by him. The bard couldn't let that stand, even at his own expense.

"I want it," he repeated softly.

The witcher didn't say anything, and Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut, clenched his jaw. He knew his admission would cost him--cost them--but he didn't want to face the aftermath right away.

Jaskier sensed Geralt moving, coming closer.

The bard held still, held his breath.

Waited for whatever the backlash would be.

"There are things," Geralt said slowly, "that feel different in this body. Your body."

Jaskier frowned, confused. He hadn't expected Geralt to simply not acknowledge his confession. "Like what?" he asked shakily, eyes still closed, jaw still tight.

"I can't smell you, now, like I usually can. Can't smell what you're feeling."

Curious, Jaskier changed his focus--like he had when testing his witcher senses earlier--and while Geralt's voice became more distant, his scent became clearer. Jaskier caught a whiff of something rolling off him--the sweet aroma of it thrumming up from his skin, pulsing into the air with every beat of his heart.

The fragrance was honeyed, bright. Like summertime. Like a crisp fruit. Sweet melon. 

Jaskier could scent it on the air, but he didn't know what it meant.

"And this heart," Geralt continued, "Your heart--it beats so fast. I can't make it stop fluttering. And when I look at you..."

There was a hitch in Geralt's voice that made Jaskier open his eyes, made him look at his friend.

The expression on his own features was startlingly needy.

"There are things I'm used to ignoring--easily suppressing--that I simply can't in this body," Geralt continued. "I can't. I can't push it back. It keeps bubbling up to the surface no matter how hard I try to shove it down. Do you--do you feel like this constantly?" Geralt placed a hand over his chest. "This sharp ache in your heart you can't ignore? Or is it just me? Normally, when I feel like this around you, I mediate to try to get it to go away, but now--" He sucked in a shaky breath. "I can't make it stop."

"What kind of ache?" Jaskier whispered, swallowing thickly. Because I do, he thought, I ache constantly. I ache for you, all the time.

Geralt came closer, up behind Jaskier. Before the bard could turn around, he felt his own soft fringe press between his shoulder blades as Geralt rested his forehead against him. "I ache with...want," Geralt admitted.

Jaskier's air left him in a great huff.

No, he-- He couldn't mean--

The witcher shifted, his head tilted.

Now there were soft lips trailing across Jaskier's shoulder.

The bard shivered.

"I want you so much," Geralt whispered. "Tell me you meant what you said," he pleaded. "Tell me you want this."

"I meant it," Jaskier gasped out. "I want it. I want you."

Long, musician's fingers landed lightly--tentatively--on the strong jut of a witcher's hip.

Jaskier's breath caught.

Those fingers shifted, inching forward, trailing over Jaskier's borrowed pelvis, through that snatch of white pubic hair, and further still.

Jaskier could hardly believe this was happening. That this wasn't a dream, a fantasy.

Fuck.

Maybe it was mixed up and backwards, but Geralt was touching him. He was touching him because--

"Wait," Jaskier said suddenly, catching Geralt's wrist. "Before we do anything, you have to know, I don't think the decoction is... It's not why..."

"Better not risk it," Geralt mumbled.

He sounded sly.

Jaskier let out a little, disbelieving huff of a laugh.

Geralt pressed on, and pressed himself up against Jaskier's back. Jaskier could feel him trembling in a way that was unnatural for a witcher. His emotions had to be manifesting as vibrations--uncontrollable as they were, stronger than he was used to. The humors flowing through him now were sometimes too vibrant even for Jaskier himself to control.

And Jaskier felt more patient than he normally would have. Stoic, even, despite the flare of his desire.

He placed his hand over Geralt's, just barely threading their fingers together as Geralt continued to slide his hand toward Jaskier's erection. Until, finally, Geralt gripped the base.

They both groaned.

"So hard," Geralt teased.

 "Yeah, well, have you seen the view from here?" Jaskier quipped. "You'd get hard too if you glanced down and saw the cock you'd been longing to ride."

Geralt let out a soft hmm of appreciation and pressed his lips into the crook of Jaskier's neck. "Looking forward to it when I get undressed this evening."

Jaskier whimpered and let his head roll to the side, to give Geralt better access to his throat. The witcher lay soft kisses up his neck, then whispered in his ear. "Spit. Need something to ease the slide."

Jaskier looked down as Geralt shifted. The witcher cradled the underside of his cock in his palm, waiting.

Obligingly, Jaskier let himself drool down onto the shaft. The spittle felt cool against his flushed skin.

"Good boy," Geralt rumbled, and Jaskier's knees nearly gave out.

Geralt ducked his head back down, pressed his forehead between Jaskier's shoulders again. "Now, look in the mirror," he ordered. "Look at me."

Jaskier did as he was told. He stared at himself in Geralt's skin, caught his own gaze, shuddered as he parted his lips and let his tongue dart out to wet them. He let his eyes wander lower, trailing down his abs, to his ruddy cock.

Fuck, he was magnificent.

"I'll picture you," Geralt rumbled, "I'll pretend I'm touching you."

"You are touching me," Jaskier gasped.

"You know what I mean," Geralt said with a small chuckle.

Swiftly, he closed his fist, and pulled one long stroke up Jaskier's hard shaft.

Jaskier couldn't keep from crying out. He tucked a fist against his lips--parted them to bite a knuckle. Geralt's grip was warm, and firm, and the drag of his hand was deft, as though he'd done this thousands of times before.

That was, of course, because he had. He knew how to bring his own body to completion. He didn't have to test to see what Jaskier liked, because it wasn't Jaskier's nerves he needed to set on fire. The witcher had surely touched himself countless times, and now Jaskier was reaping the benefits.

The bard only wished he had more presence of mind--that way he could take notes.

But the sensations were so good so fast. All of his higher functions were lost in a sea of pleasure after mere moments.

Geralt's other hand came around as he stroked, first to clutch tightly at a hip--which made Jaskier's toes tingle--before flying upward to rest across his throat. Geralt gave the slightest squeeze over his windpipe, and Jaskier's sac tightened and his cock flexed.

He never would've imagined Geralt's neck was so sensitive. 

Definitely tucking that one away for later, his hazy mind managed. 

Geralt continued to tug at him, with long, languid pulls, and precome dribbled from his slit. Geralt gathered what he could, slicking Jaskier further.

Jaskier's erection throbbed, sending pulses of pleasure through this groin and down his thighs and up his belly. Geralt's body heat soaked into his back, but he wanted more, wanted him closer. Jaskier lashed out, flailing back behind himself, taking hold of the linen undershirt. "Geralt," he gasped. "I-- I want--"

"What is it?"

"I want to feel you," he said, tugging at the shirt, "More of you."

Geralt released his cock for only a moment--long enough to whip the undershirt over his head and settle against Jaskier's back once more. He pressed flush against him, so that Jaskier could feel his own hard, clothed cock rubbing against his backside.

And then Geralt was taking him in-hand again, stroking him more fervently--his grip firmer, arm working faster.

"I'm not going to last much longer," Jaskier gasped apologetically.

"Good," Geralt said decisively, resting his chin over Jaskier's shoulder, catching the bard's gaze in the mirror. "I want to make you feel good. And you are. You're going to feel so good," he said with a wicked smirk. "Unfairly good."

"Unfair--?" Jaskier gasped between breaths.

"When I tell you to," Geralt said softly. "Focus on my touch. Think of nothing but my hand on you. Until everything else blurs."

Jaskier cracked a wide-if-shaky smile, "You use your witcher senses when you come?"

Geralt smirked back. "Wouldn't you?"

Jaskier rocked into Geralt's hand--he couldn't help it. The instinct to thrust wildly boiled up in his groin, but he bit his lip and held firm. Geralt knew how to pull him off. He would leave his pleasure to the witcher's capable hands.

"Are you ready?" Geralt asked against his cheek, rhythm never faltering.

"Yes," Jaskier panted.

"Good. Then, on my mark, focus.  One... Two... Three."

Jaskier narrowed his awareness, until there was nothing but the firm grip on his cock, the slickness of Geralt's palm, and the witcher's warm breath on his cheek.

Instantly, every nerve in his body lit up. The pleasure that had been a warm pool in his lower body became of blazing fire through his limbs. His very fingertips were alight with it. He gasped, and shuddered, and his knees finally threatened to drop him for real.

Geralt's free arm came around to prop him up, to hold him close.

And then the witcher's borrowed teeth scraped along his shoulder, bit at the base of his neck.

That was it. Jaskier was lost. His sense of self disappeared in an all-consuming white light of ecstasy.  His toes curled and his sac pulled taut, and hot come erupted from his cock, shooting far, hitting the mirror--painting his reflection.

The pleasure went on and on.

Waves of it washed through him, threatening to drown him.

Jaskier felt like he couldn't catch his breath, and his ears rang with the force of it.

Behind him, Geralt let out a long, rumbling groan. It sounded pained, needy.

Jaskier fought to stay upright. He knew Geralt wouldn't be able to keep him on his feet if he sagged, fell.

When the world finally stopped being made of starlight and pleasure--though he still struggled for breath--he panted out, "Holy fucking-- Bugger off, that was--"

"Good?" Geralt chuckled.

"Bloody brilliant. Absolutely unfair, as you said. How's a mere mortal like me supposed to go through the rest of life having perfectly regular orgasms now that I've had one of those?"

In the mirror, Geralt's reflection wore a devious expression.  "Perhaps you'd like a few more before we switch back?"

"Yes," Jaskier said hurriedly. "Yes, please." He turned in the circle of Geralt's arm, and without hesitation, kissed his own lips.

Geralt kissed back hungrily, eyes fluttering closed, tongue darting out skillfully to tease Jaskier's.

Already, the fire was building again. Despite the reality-bending orgasm, Jaskier's erection hadn't flagged even a little.

"How many go-arounds can this thing handle?" he laughed, glancing down between them.

"More than you're prepared for," Geralt growled, voice heated and hungry.

He captured Jaskier's mouth again, and Jaskier quickly began working on the ties of his breeches.

Time to show the witcher just what the full breadth of uncontrollable human emotion could add to the physical bliss of an epic blowjob.