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lush love, in lace and silk

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“We don’t have to do anything, you know,” Jaskier says anxiously. 

Geralt studies him across their kitchen table out of the corner of his eye, sipping his coffee out of one of their many Pride mugs.

“You want to do something.”

“Not if you don’t want to!” Jaskier pokes at his pancakes. He’s wearing one of Geralt’s shirts, which is only fair, as Geralt had grabbed his off the floor from where he’d flung it last night. “Figured you’d think it’s stupid?”

It’s February 9th, and since Geralt just got his shit together to ask his longtime best friend and roommate to be his boyfriend in early spring, even though they’ve been together nearly a year, it’s their first Valentine’s Day.

Neither of them really know how to handle it, apparently.

“I don’t,” Geralt says mildly, though he’s as surprised by it as Jaskier. He hums, presses his socked foot past where Roach is snoozing so he can rest it on top of Jaskier’s beneath the table. “I don’t know. All that stupid romantic shit. Doesn’t feel quite so stupid anymore.” 

Jaskier ducks his head and grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“Guess the mistletoe should have tipped me off.”

“Shut up,” Geralt growls, but he’s smiling too. “Anyway. Doesn’t mean I know how to do the romantic shit. Doesn’t mean I’m good at it. But. I thought we could stay in, for Valentine’s? Ciri’s at Yen’s so I thought I’d cook for you, we could do candles, but if you’d rather go out or something...”

The smile-lines on Jaskier’s face deepen, and he prods his socked foot right back.

“I think you’re better at this romantic shit than you think you are.”

Geralt hums again and sips his coffee. 

He’s had Jaskier’s gift neatly wrapped and hidden since New Year’s.


Geralt frowns at the pasta, his heart beating strangely quick. 

“What d’you think, Roach? Romantic enough?”

She mews reassuringly at him, nuzzling her fluffy head against his ankle before padding to her cat bed and curling up to nap.

“Mm. It’s all right for you, you already had dinner. You don’t have anyone to impress.”

Roach mews again, and Geralt swears this time she sounds slightly exasperated with him.  

He knows he has nothing to prove to Jaskier, he knows they’re good, but he still wants to make him happy, every day, fuck. He doesn’t want to fuck up their first Valentine’s Day. Jaskier deserves a good one. The best.

The kitchen does admittedly smell divine, garlic and fresh veggies mingling together, as well as Geralt’s own freshly showered scent. He just hopes it’ll be enough. 

The key turns in the lock and Geralt’s heart leaps. Fucking gods, all these little cliches about love, they’re all true. His heart does skip a beat! He can’t imagine living in a world without Jaskier! He loves waking up to him, even though Jaskier is an undeniably hideous sleeper.

He’s just very, very in love.

“Hey,” Jaskier calls, and Geralt hears the sounds of his coat being hung up, shoes taken off. Geralt wipes his hands on his apron, puts the lid on the pasta, and tries to remember how he usually stands, what the hell to do with his arms. Roach even wakes up enough to mrow a welcome home before curling back into her bed. 

Jaskier pads into the kitchen, several patterned shopping bags in his hands. He’s in straight-leg cuffed black jeans and a floral button-down. He’s sacrificed his usual dangling cuff earrings for an array of simple gold studs and delicate flowers, he says the chains get caught in his earmuffs in the winter. And of course, there over the top buttons of his shirt, lays Geralt’s medallion, gifted to him the day Geralt asked to be his. 

That is to say, he looks very much like he does every day. Comfortable and stylish and drop-dead fucking gorgeous. 

“Fuck.”

Jaskier beams at him and sets down his bags.

“Hey, love,” he says softly. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Geralt answers, and finds that he does, in fact, remember what to do with his arms. He gathers Jaskier in them, and kisses him. Jaskier smiles into it, cupping Geralt’s face in his hands.

“That smells fucking divine,” Jaskier says when he pulls back. He hooks a finger into the strap of Geralt’s apron. “And you look divine.”

“Shut up,” Geralt murmurs, gently carding his fingers through Jaskier’s soft hair. “‘s what I always wear to make dinner.” 

“Well,” Jaskier says, “you always look divine, don’t you?” He kisses Geralt again, deeper this time, pressing their bodies together, and arousal kindles in Geralt’s core. Jaskier buries his face in the crook of Geralt’s throat and sucks a kiss there, inhaling, and Geralt’s hands tighten on his waist. “Mm. Smell divine, too. Almost wish you’d let me bathe you, though, I have to say.”

“I love when you do that,” Geralt rumbles. It’s something they’d done even before they’d gotten together, but it took years before Geralt could admit how much he adored it. “Maybe tomorrow. As long as you join me in the bath.”

“Please,” Jaskier whines, and drags him in for another hard kiss. 

They lose track of time like that, Geralt sparing a quick thought that he’s very glad he’d finished cooking before Jaskier got home or he’d certainly have let it burn. Presently, Jaskier pulls away, Geralt chasing the kiss.

“I’ve got to give you your gifts!” he chirps, clapping his hands together and scrambling for the bags.

Only now does Geralt register the significance of multiple bags.

“Gift-s?” he asks weakly, hissing the s as Jaskier gathers the bags and drags him over to the sofa. “...Plural? Fuck, Jask, I only—”

“It’s okay!” Jaskier chirps. He undoes Geralt’s apron and places it to the side, settling close. “Most of them are, ah. For both of us.” 

“What do you—oh.”

From the bags comes one tacky Valentine’s item after the other, from a teddy bear clutching a heart-shaped box of Jaskier’s favorite chocolates to filthy conversation hearts (with phrases like “bend over!” and “eat my arse!”), to what Geralt realises with a sort of horror appears to be edible underwear. 

He is as red as the chocolate box by the end of the array. 

“You’re the worst,” he growls at his beaming boyfriend, and leans across the sofa to kiss him. “I love you so much, you monster.”

“It’s our first Valentine’s Day!” Jaskier grins. “We have to do it right.” 

“Yeah,” Geralt says. “I know.” He reaches into his pocket and presents the little box he’s been holding onto. “Hope this counts.”

Jaskier opens it, and gasps. Geralt watches closely as the cheeky smile slips from his face, replaced with genuine surprise and deep delight. 

“It’s—”

“—perfect,” Jaskier breathes. He stares at the little buttercup pendant, the delicate flower etched into silver. 

“Lambert helped me make it, in his shop—”

Jaskier’s eyes dart up. 

“You made this?!”

“Yeah,” Geralt says, feeling buoyant. “Would’ve been prettier if I’d just let him do it, but. I wanted to.” He shifts forward, knee bumping the edible underwear in its obscene packaging. “It’s you, Jask. The name you chose for yourself.” He traces his knuckle over Jaskier’s cheek. “The life you chose. I guess I just wanted to show you I see you. All of you. And I love who you choose to be.”

Jaskier stares at him, those skybright eyes shining, before he scrambles into Geralt’s lap and kisses him all over his face, his cheeks, his forehead, even his ears before Geralt smiles and catches Jaskier’s lips with his own. 

“You like it, then? I did okay?”

“My love,” Jaskier breathes, pink-cheeked. “You are a wonder.” He kisses Geralt again, hungrily. “You never cease to surprise and impress me.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

“Hey,” Geralt says softly, running his hands over Jaskier’s back. “You deserve the best. The best. I’m just trying to figure out how to give it to you.”

“You’re succeeding,” Jaskier tells him, and kisses him again. “And you deserve the best too.”

Geralt feels himself reflexively flinch at that, and fights it. His self-loathing kept him from Jaskier for far too long, and being with him is far too good to ever sink back into it. 

“You are the best,” he murmurs, instead of retreating into himself, and he means it. Jaskier smiles at him, fussing with his hair. They stare into each other’s eyes for a long moment before Jaskier snaps out of it.

“Ah! Right. I didn’t just get you edible underwear—”

“I don’t have to wear it, do I?” Geralt asks warily. He holds Jaskier’s waist to steady him as his boyfriend digs through the remaining bag. 

“Of course not. I will, if you’d rather eat it off me.”

Geralt’s brain shorts for a moment at that thought, and when he blinks and comes back to himself, Jaskier’s holding out—

“Oh.”

It’s a new set of garden tools, because Geralt’s are admittedly rusted and falling apart, and Jaskier knows how much he loves tending to their garden. Jaskier certainly helps, but the garden is mainly Geralt’s, and this new set—carved into each one, it’s—

“Roach,” Jaskier says softly, and it’s not just Roach, but each of the six tools has an image of the fluffy, grumpy cat Geralt’s had forever in a pose that’s unmistakably hers, the way she sprawls on her belly or curls with her tail up. They’re beautiful, and they’re clean, and Geralt’s going to grow the nicest garden with these, and he’ll get to think of two of his favorite creatures in the world as he does. “And,” Jaskier adds, reaching for a smaller box, “ta-da!” 

It’s the same set, but child-size, and Geralt’s heart twists in his chest. 

“For gardening with our little cub!” Jaskier says triumphantly.   

“Jask,” Geralt rasps, shaking his head. He doesn’t know what to say, but Jaskier understands. 

“I’m so glad you like them,” Jaskier smiles, squeezing his shoulder.

Geralt swears under his breath, nearly dizzy from love. And then again, louder.

“Fuck.” He shakes his head. “It’s so good? This—you— fuck.” He sets the tools aside and dips Jaskier into a kiss. “Wow. Thank you, love.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Jaskier grins. “I love you, darling.” He wriggles in Geralt’s lap and Geralt’s arousal flares again, along with a feverish desire to make Jaskier feel good. He growls and squeezes Jaskier’s arse, his other hand tangling in Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier hums happily, locking his legs around Geralt’s waist.

“Oh,” Geralt remembers. “Uh. How hungry are you?” 

Jaskier’s eyes, which had gone half-hooded with want, bolt open. He worries his lower lip with his teeth. 

“Oh—the pasta! Ah, I—we should eat first.”

“Only if you want to.”

“You went to all this trouble!” Jaskier insists, but Geralt shrugs.

“May have, uh. Picked a pasta that would taste good cold too.” He did. Well, he likes the pasta primavera warm, but it certainly will do better cold than say, an arrabbiata. The thought may have occurred to him that they would not immediately get to dinner.

Jaskier just stares at him, and for a moment Geralt fears he’s gone a touch overboard, that the move was too perverted—though, honestly, edible underwear —and then a downright lewd expression spreads over Jaskier’s face. 

“You wicked, wicked man,” Jaskier says, openly delighted. He wraps his arms around Geralt’s shoulders. “Better make use of it, then. I’ve still got one more gift for you.”

“Oh?”

“Take me to bed and I’ll show you.” Jaskier licks the tip of his tongue into Geralt’s mouth, and Geralt shivers. “Oh! First, though—would you?” He holds out the buttercup pendant and shuffles the medallion around so Geralt can unclasp it. 

Geralt smiles. He’d included a chain with the pendant just in case, but he’d hoped this is what Jaskier would want. He slides the buttercup pendant onto his own medallion, and fastens it back around Jaskier’s throat, leaning in to press a kiss there too. The two emblems settle on Jaskier’s chest, the wolf nosing at the flower.

“Like they were made for each other,” Jaskier smiles, looking down at them.

“Yeah. Like they were made for each other,” Geralt repeats, looking at Jaskier.

Jaskier catches his eye and blushes, then seizes him into a kiss. 

“Bed, you old romantic. Now.”

Geralt stands, cupping Jaskier’s arse in his hands. He carries him to the bedroom and kisses his throat, tugging at the medallion chain with his teeth.

“Ohh,” Jaskier gasps, gazing at the bed. “You darling, you. I’m not the only one who went for the cheesy Valentine’s Day moves, am I?” 

Geralt grins into his throat and gives his arse a squeeze before lowering him carefully on the mattress, which he’d strewn all about with rose petals.

“Glad you like it,” he murmurs, “s’gonna last for about thirty seconds before I get you under the covers, but—”

“It’s a beautiful gesture, love,” Jaskier reassures him. He glances about, taking in the low light from their bedside lamp, the scented candles Geralt had lit around the room. “Melitele, romantic is right!”

“Not too much, is it?”

Jaskier laughs. His hands are soft and steady on Geralt’s body, in his hair. Every single one of Geralt’s senses tells him Jaskier is happy, and wanting but only in the best way, and safe. He’s learning to trust those senses.

“You make me feel very loved, Geralt,” he says, his voice a little quieter, a little more serious now. He runs his thumb over the scruff on Geralt’s jaw. “Thank you.”

A rush of warm affection twists in Geralt’s gut, and he lets it. It feels good. 

“I feel...very much the same,” he says, and it comes out somewhat stiff, but Jaskier beams and Geralt knows he understands. Jaskier wiggles beneath him, tilting their hips together.

“Ready for your final gift?” Jaskier asks, licking his lips in anticipation. 

“Yeah.” 

“Budge up, then, go on.” Jaskier pushes Geralt partway off him, so he’s propped up on his hands with Jaskier lying beneath him. “I...I hope you like it,” he says, gazing almost shyly into Geralt’s eyes as he starts to undo his buttons. 

“‘Course I’m gonna like it, idiot.” Geralt huffs a little laugh. “It’s you.” This is what he figured the last “gift” was after all, a night in bed together Jaskier just decided to call a present—but then—oh, then. 

He realises. 

Jaskier’s not naked beneath his shirt. 

His fingers tremble ever so slightly as he pushes his buttons through the fabric, revealing the soft curls of his chest adorned in cerulean lace and linen. At last, he undoes the final catch and the panels of his shirt fall open to reveal a silky lingerie top cupping the muscles of his chest, framing them beautifully. Geralt can just see his nipples through the deep blue lace, his chest hair spilling over.

Geralt’s jaw drops.

“If it’s too m—I mean, we haven’t talked about—I just, er. Like how it feels, and—”

“Jask.” Geralt kisses him, breathing hard through his nose. “This is... wow.” He reaches for the lingerie, his hand hovering just over Jaskier’s chest. “Can I?” 

Jaskier nods fervently, and Geralt traces the intricate lace with his fingertips. He pushes Jaskier’s shirt back, skimming his touch up the straps in fascination, over where Jaskier’s muscles are trapped so prettily beneath. He’s seen Jaskier in dresses and skirts a hundred times, he loves it, he loves everything Jaskier wears—but this, he hasn’t seen, not ever in their years of living together. 

“You’ve worn this before?” he asks, his voice rough. 

“Yes—well.” Jaskier swallows. Geralt watches the muscles of his throat work. “Just by myself. I like how I look in it sometimes, how it feels, but not—not with anyone else. Ever.”

“Jask,” Geralt breathes. He stops moving, suddenly overwhelmed. The intimacy, the vulnerability, the trust —Jaskier’s right, this is a gift. And he vows fiercely to himself to earn it. “Thank you. I am...honored.” He rubs his thumb over a lacy strap, as it lays there over Jaskier’s collarbone. “Is it all right if I tell you that you look fucking gorgeous in this? You do all the time, but fuck, this looks good on you—”

“It’s better than all right, you’d fucking better,” Jaskier grins in mock affront, but Geralt can sense the relief, mingling with the warm rush of love and arousal flooding from him. “I’m glad you like it, love,” he says softly, and Geralt kisses him hard, nodding. 

“I love it,” Geralt murmurs into his mouth, “I love you, everything you are, every shade and every shape of you, Jaskier, you’re beautiful, you’re perfect. I am never going to be done finding new things to love about you, am I?”

“Good,” Jaskier says, breathless, “good. I love you, too.” And then he pulls back far enough to bite his lip, and Geralt recognises the gleam in his eye. “Ready to see the bottom half?”

Geralt groans, fully hard now, burying his face in the crook of Jaskier’s shoulder. He flicks his tongue over the shell of Jaskier’s ear, enjoying the shudder it draws out of his boyfriend. 

“You know,” he murmurs, grinding down enough that Jaskier can feel his erection through his jeans, “if it’s my present—”

Jaskier chuckles, low and wanting, pushing their hips together.

“Go on, love. Now that I know you like it...why don’t you go ahead and unwrap me?”

He expects to be devoured, Geralt can tell, but it feels wrong to rush. He wants to savour the moment. Geralt kisses him, deep and sure. He lifts Jaskier carefully, shrugging him out of his shirt and moaning at the sight of him in just his jeans and the lace. He bites gentle bruises into the lines of Jaskier’s throat, just as he likes, and Jaskier arches off the bed, gasping. His teeth skim over Jaskier’s hard nipples, and Geralt pays careful attention to the differences in Jaskier’s breathing, his movements, with the layer of lace between their points of touch, tuned to what the new texture adds.

He moves down Jaskier’s body, exploring, his hands and mouth caressing Jaskier through the silk and filigree, and Jaskier rises to meet him, his breath coming quicker.

Geralt holds him down by the hips and undoes Jaskier’s jeans with his teeth. 

He nearly passes out at the sight.

“Good fucking goddamn gods, Jaskier,” he hisses, wrenching the jeans off all the way.

He’s splayed out in nothing but lingerie, his new pendant, and Geralt’s medallion. 

The knickers and garter belt match, that same cerulean that brings out Jaskier’s eyes. They’re just as intricate, a floral lace pattern playing across Jaskier’s body. The straps on the garter belt travel down his muscular thighs to sheer stockings. The knickers are hardly big enough to cover him, and Geralt is treated to the sight of Jaskier’s spectacular cock, fully hard, straining against the lace.

Seeing Jaskier’s thick, hirsute body adorned in this delicate lingerie… fuck. It makes for a blend of feminine and masculine and something else entirely. It’s just Jaskier, and he’s so at home in himself, and Geralt is intimately, overwhelmingly grateful that he’s trusted enough to share in it. 

“You like your present, then?” Jaskier asks, his voice husky.

“I’ll admit,” Geralt says, his own voice ragged, “I’ve fantasised about this. More than once.”

Jaskier moans, a pulse of precome spilling from his cockhead and darkening the lace.

“You have?”

“Yeah,” he says, and licks at the damp lace. Jaskier yelps, reaching for his hand. Geralt takes it. “Suits you. But not even in my wildest fantasies could I have imagined it would be this intoxicating.” He looks up, eyes shining. “You’re a fucking god, you know that?”

“Shut up,” Jaskier grins, nudging him with his knee. Geralt palms him through the lace and they both moan at the new tactile experience. 

“Tell me what you want,” Geralt murmurs. “Anything, love. How d’you want me?” 

Jaskier groans, arching into the touch. He’s blushing, as Geralt pets him through the knickers, the garter belt shifting as his belly flexes with his shuddering breaths.

“Would—would you fuck me?” he asks, his voice rough. “While I’m...wearing this.”

Geralt rumbles low in his throat.

“Fuck. Yeah.” He surges to kiss Jaskier on the lips, filthy and open-mouthed, and Jaskier scrambles to wrap his limbs around him. 

For all his innuendos and bawdy flirting, it had taken a while, once they’d begun, to get Jaskier to tell him what he wanted. He’d been so used to just giving, his own pleasure secondary to that of his partners, and at first Geralt let himself bask in it, dazed that it was happening at all—and it was very good. But he wanted to make Jaskier feel that good, to tend to him the way Jaskier does. Jaskier still struggles sometimes, still blushes when he asks for Geralt’s hands, his mouth, his cock, but he does ask, and now he’s decked himself out as a gift and Geralt’s going to give him exactly what he wants right back. 

“Can I get my mouth on you, first?” Geralt leaves it ambiguous as to where, exactly, to let his boyfriend choose. Jaskier nods shakily, and gives Geralt one more blazing look before he turns over and hitches his arse in the air. 

Geralt lets out another string of swears. The little lace knickers frame Jaskier’s ample arse like a heart. His erection, instead of hanging between his thighs, lays cradled and heavy against his body. Geralt’s cock twitches so hard at the sight he shoves off his own jeans and palms himself just to relieve some of the pressure. He pulls his shirt over his head and presses their bare skin together, grinding his clothed cock in the lace-covered cleft of Jaskier’s arse. 

“Christ, you feel good,” Jaskier gasps, tilting his head so Geralt can suck at his throat. Geralt rocks against him, so he can feel just how badly he’s wanted. “Oh, oh, oh—”

“I love you so fucking much, Jask,” Geralt murmurs in his ear. “You drive me wild, you know that?”

“In a good way, right?” Jaskier manages. Geralt dots a kiss to the corner of his panting mouth. 

“In the best way.” And then he’s making his way down Jaskier’s back, kissing and petting as he goes. He snaps the straps with his teeth, reaches around Jaskier’s chest to rub him through the fabric. He moves reverent and worshipful over every inch he can reach, murmuring approval. “I love these,” he whispers, kissing Jaskier’s every scar, “and these,” he says to every stretchmark.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, somewhat strangled. This isn’t new, it’s something they do fairly often, but they both love it every time. It’s important, Geralt feels, to remind him. 

“They’re marks of you growing, and becoming who you are,” Geralt murmurs, massaging. “And I love who you are. And I’ll love who you become.” He settles between Jaskier’s thighs, taking the time to squeeze his calves in their stockings.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says weakly, “I love you, I love you, I —fuck!” Geralt could tease him for losing his words, that would never do as a singer, but he tugs down Jaskier’s knickers instead, pulling them to his knees where they sit trapped above the garter clasps, and they both moan. It’s obscenely pretty, the little points of the lush garter belt taut on either side of his bare arse. Geralt spreads him.

“Gonna lick you now,” Geralt says gruffly, and Jaskier whines an assent that dissolves into a long, drawn-out cry as Geralt presses the flat of his tongue to his hole. 

He loves this. And he knows Jaskier does, and that makes him love it more. He eats him out slow and messy, getting him wet with spit, moaning wantonly into him. He rubs his tongue over the length of Jaskier’s crease until Jaskier’s shaking. He tastes like the soap they share. Like home. Geralt firms his tongue and swirls the tip over his clenching hole, slow at first, punctuating it with kisses all over his arse, then quicker, harder, until Jaskier’s gasping and pressing back at him, the stretched lace straining against his thighs. Geralt presses his tongue inside and Jaskier sobs as Geralt licks into him, fucking him open, lips pressed to his rim. He’s tight and delicious and familiar and perfect, and Geralt loses track of time, worshiping him like this. 

“Ohh...I—I don’t think I can last—”

Geralt hums something questioning, though it comes out obscene with his tongue still inside. 

“Touch me,” Jaskier breathes, “please?”

Geralt growls, presses his tongue deeper, and reaches beneath Jaskier to stroke his hard, dripping cock. Jaskier keens, rocking back and forth, fucking himself into Geralt’s fist and back onto his tongue, and then he’s coming, clenching impossibly tight, spilling hot over Geralt’s hand and the bed. 

Jaskier collapses, twitching, and Geralt lays beside him, gathering him into his arms. 

“Don’t need this to be covered in candy,” he says, squeezing, “for me to want to eat you for days.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier groans, scandalized, but he’s beaming, even as he’s catching his breath. Geralt presses a kiss to his sweaty temple.

“Uh.” Geralt peers down their bodies. “I think I may have wrecked your lingerie.”

Jaskier waves his hand dismissively.

“D’you know how often I have to get my own come out of this lace? It’ll be fine.” 

Geralt hums, low. Jaskier’s spent, they’re cuddling, but hell, the thought of Jaskier coming all over himself in his lingerie does nothing to abate Geralt’s throbbing erection. 

Jaskier stretches, his cock soft against his come-streaked stomach, the lines of lingerie shifting over his muscles. Geralt bites his lip. Hard.

“That was incredible,” Jaskier tells him. He curls close, flinging a leg over one of Geralt’s, the garter belt hitching as he does. “I know I said I’m your gift, but goodness, you’re quite gifted all on your own, darling.” He grins, and presses two of his fingers against Geralt’s lips. Geralt opens his mouth dutifully, and can’t hold back a moan as Jaskier pets his tongue. He sucks, on instinct. “Mm. And I’m the one who reaps the rewards.” Jaskier withdraws his fingers and kisses him. Deeply, meaningfully, and then he moves to straddle Geralt’s thigh, and fuck, not entirely spent, after all. “I still want you to fuck me,” Jaskier whispers in his ear. He nuzzles his soft cheek against Geralt’s stubble. “You got me all open for you. I want to feel you, please—”

 “Fuck,” Geralt growls. He tugs one of the straps of the garter belt. “Yes. Wanna make you come again.” 

Jaskier nods. He leans forward, so the lace of his belt rubs over Geralt’s clothed cock, and Geralt’s been so hard for so long, and it’s so good.

“Want to come again for you,” Jaskier murmurs, blushing ever so slightly.

“I love when you come with me inside you,” Geralt admits, his hands everywhere on Jaskier’s body. “My fingers, my tongue, my cock—you go so tight, it’s incredible, I can feel it—”

At that, even though he’s still mostly soft, Jaskier appears to be done waiting. He makes an obscene sound, and scrambles in the bedside table for the lube. Geralt wrenches the comforter back, and presses his boyfriend against the pillows.  

“Hey, gorgeous,” Jaskier smiles, brushing his fingers through Geralt’s hair. It’s come undone, and it’s getting sweaty, but they both love when Jaskier plays with it. “Think that’s it for the knickers, I’m afraid.” 

“Mm.” Geralt goes to unfasten the garters so he can pull the sticky lace off, which is far sexier than it has any right to be. The clasps unhook with a little pop, the garters dangling lewdly along his thighs. Jaskier arches to help him, his cock hardening against his stomach again at Geralt’s touch. 

“Gonna take the top off too, ‘s too sweaty,” Jaskier tells him, wriggling out of it. “But...leave the belt,” he says, gazing into Geralt’s eyes. He bites his lip. “Want you to hold it. When you fuck me.”

Geralt swears softly and nods, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s knee. The stockings slip down unevenly without the latches of the garter belt, his chest pink from orgasm, his hair a wreck, and altogether he looks thoroughly debauched.

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever known,” Geralt says, and kisses him. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier squirms, pressing the bottle to his hands. “Please.”

Geralt gets his fingers slick and then he’s got two inside and Jaskier’s gasping, hands tangling in Geralt’s hair. Geralt knows him, working him open steadily, crooking his fingers, seeking—

“Ahh!” Jaskier arches, his cock hardening fully as Geralt massages his prostate. “Fucking shit how d’you always find it so fast, I—I—”

“Should I slow down?”

“No!” Jaskier’s hands fall to the bed, fists pulling at the sheets, his jaw dropping. “It’s so good, fuck, fuck, it’s so—another, another, come on, gorgeous, get me ready for you, I can’t wait anymore—”

His head twists to the side, mouth open in a silent scream as Geralt does, adding a third and rubbing, his other hand soothing on Jaskier’s thigh. Jaskier’s cock is leaking in earnest now, fresh precome staining the garter belt. It’s just a damp lace thing around his waist now, but somehow that’s just as sexy as before. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier hisses, “come here.” 

Geralt lets himself be tugged up the bed, and then Jaskier’s wrenching his briefs off, pressing him to the mattress, getting his hand slick, and then his palm is warm and soft and magnificent on Geralt’s neglected cock, and Geralt hears the terribly wanton noise before he realises it as his own.

“Baby,” he murmurs, the rare endearment slipping out as it only does when Geralt’s very much a wreck. Jaskier huffs, kissing the word from his lips, and then he’s straddling him, lining himself up, and Geralt groans low and long as Jaskier lowers himself onto him.

“A-ah!” Jaskier pants. He grits his teeth, throws his head back, laughing roughly as he bottoms out. Geralt holds his hips, threading his fingers between soft skin and lace. 

Jaskier’s silky tight and he moves his body in practiced, purposeful strokes, but Geralt can hardly focus on his own arousal, too enamored watching Jaskier as he takes his pleasure. His nostrils flare, his eyes flutter shut, the muscles work in his thighs and his throat. His cute tongue slips out between his lips as his brows furrow in concentration, a subconscious move that’s one of Geralt’s private favorites.

“Hey, handsome,” Geralt murmurs, nosing at his throat. “How’s it feel?”

“Fucking perfect.” Jaskier grinds his hips, riding him slow and deliberate, his thighs hot in Geralt’s lap. “Exquisite, marvelous, Geralt, Geralt, I don’t—I don’t have the words, but I love you, fuck, I love you, you feel so fucking good.” He lets his head fall forward, and Geralt brushes his hair back, cupping his cheek. “And this fucking cock, oh!” 

“Hmm,” Geralt smiles. “I’m glad you like it.” He rises up to meet Jaskier and they both gasp at the added pressure. Jaskier nods wordlessly and then they’re moving together, a seamless wreck of motion, a steady, cascading pace, almost a song, caught between their bodies.

Jaskier moans, his back slippery with sweat. When he leans in for a kiss, Geralt can tell he’s trembling. 

“Do you want me to—”

“Yes.”

Jaskier shifts to clamber shakily on his hands and knees, and the sudden absence of his body feels like ice. Geralt lines himself up at once and sinks back inside with a groan.

“Tell me how you want it.”

“Hard,” Jaskier whispers, pressing back against him. “I’m—I’m so close again—want you to fill me, want to feel you, please, please —ahh!”

Geralt knows how hard he can take it.

He threads his fingers through the garter belt, holds Jaskier firmly by the hips, and sets a pace that borders on brutal, rough and deep and exactly where Jaskier needs him to.

Jaskier screams. Geralt takes one hand away just long enough to toss him a pillow, and it muffles the sound but just barely, especially as Jaskier keeps up a steady babble of:

“Oh! Yes yes yes yes, fuck, baby, right there, fuck, please, harder, yes yes yes—”

He cants his hips up as far as they go, and then Geralt yanks them even higher with his hands on the garter belt, and Jaskier screams again at the deeper angle, writhing as best as he can while being held tight. Geralt fucks him in swift, hard thrusts, and soon he senses he should reach for Jaskier’s cock, but then—

“Just like that.” Jaskier’s voice is cracked through, but his words are unmistakable. “Fuck. Please don’t stop. I’m—I need you just like that.”

So Geralt does as he’s told, his knuckles white on the lace, Jaskier clenching tight around him, and the bedroom goes silent but for the obscene slap of skin on skin, and then Jaskier clenches so tight he sends Geralt careening toward his own orgasm, and wails. 

Jaskier comes completely untouched, sobbing Geralt’s name. 

Geralt can’t help but follow, his own pleasure surging through him like a force, sweet and sheer and powerful, and Jaskier gives a fresh moan at Geralt’s come filling him. Geralt collapses on him, breathing in his scent through the aftershocks.

When at last Geralt can breathe again, he pulls out carefully. Jaskier’s gone almost limp, squirming ever so slightly. 

“Hey,” Geralt murmurs. “Hey, hey, love. Come here.” He gathers Jaskier into his arms again, covering every inch of him he can reach with chaste kisses, his cheeks, his shoulders, his temple. He reaches for one of the bottles of water they keep in the bedside table, and Jaskier sips from it gratefully, his eyes drifting open. 

“Hi,” he says, grinning sleepily. He bumps his nose into Geralt’s jaw. “Hey, you.” They lay there, catching their breath, comfortable in each other’s company, until presently Jaskier heaves a yawn.

“Well,” he says, “I’d call that a very successful first Valentine’s Day.”

“Hmm,” Geralt agrees. He runs his fingers lazily over Jaskier’s arm, and swallows. “I was wondering. Was that—well.” He clears his throat. “I suppose it might not have been, but at least with me—it’s certainly possible I missed it, but—”

“Are you asking if that’s the first time I came without my cock touched?” Jaskier smirks at how flustered he is, and kisses him. “Well, I’ve done it a couple times by myself with just fingers. Not since I was a teenager, but yeah. That’s how I knew I could.” He laughs and kisses Geralt again, who’s fighting back a smile and losing. “First time with a partner. Who’s the fucking god now, hmm? You know, that’s not bad. God of fucking, you are.” He laughs again, and Geralt can’t help but join him. It’s that silly, relaxed, deeply satisfied sort of laugh, their limbs tangling together, their bed a sweaty, sticky mess. 

“Shut up,” Geralt says, but he’s beaming. He slides back on top of Jaskier and takes in his boyfriend’s shining eyes, his perfectly crinkled, crooked smile. “I’m gonna figure out how to do it to you again, now that we know we can. Not now,” he concedes, chuckling at Jaskier’s raised eyebrow, “but, again. If you like.”

“Yes please,” Jaskier breathes, wrapping his arms around him. Time goes fuzzy again, those languid, sleepy, love-slow kisses that feel so good Geralt can still hardly believe they’re happening to him. Until Jaskier’s stomach growls. 

Geralt chuckles again.

“Hey,” he says. “You want some cold pasta?” 


They end up watching half a rom-com on the couch in old t-shirts, devouring every last mouthful of the primavera, Roach curled at their feet. It is very good. They wake up enough to take a bath, washing each other indulgently and tender. 

As they sleepily change their sheets for a less ruined set, Jaskier elbows him.

“Wait til you see what I have planned to wear for our anniversary next month.”

Even half-awake, Geralt pounces him into the bed at that.


The next Valentine’s Day, Geralt has another little box for Jaskier, with something else Lambert helped him make. This time, Geralt gets down on one knee to give it to him, there in their garden patch he’s been tending with the gift of Jaskier’s tools.

And Jaskier nearly kicks him, yelling, as he pulls his own engagement ring out of his pocket.

They take turns proposing.

They say yes.