Archive of Our Own

He looks down at the five bottles in his hand.

Swallow, Cat, Thunderbolt, Reliever’s Decoction, Tawny Owl.

If this contract is to be believed, he’ll be needing all of them, tonight.

He waits on the edge of the village, where the houses have become sparser and give way to fields. Farmers’ homes, full of people convinced that the local nightwraith and her hoard of lesser wraiths will surely come to slaughter them in their sleep.

Enter Geralt to take care of the issue.

Apparently they’ve been an issue for some time, and no one can even approach the graveyard for fear of death, if the wide-eyed villager’s account is anything to go by. And if this place is really as infested as they’d said, well…

Yes. Geralt will be needing all of these.

With a sigh, he uncorks and knocks back each one in turn, shuddering as they burn down his throat. The evening mist rises off the grass and curls around his boots while he waits a moment for them to take effect, and then he strides forward, silver sword already drawn.

He’s managed to convince Jaskier to stay behind, this time. Geralt won’t be able to focus on dispersing such a pack of wraiths if he’s also trying to protect the other man. And it probably helped that the local inn is currently having an open-floor night, and Jaskier was eager to take his place on stage and thoroughly put everyone else to shame. He should be playing right now. Safe and sound.

But Geralt, meanwhile, walks silently across the grass, pupils wide and picking out the hunched shapes of tombstones in the distance.

His destination.

The closer he gets, the higher his nerves sing. Ears pricked for the wails and howls he’s sure to hear. His heart pumps harder in his chest, fighting to rid his body of the poisons he’d shoved into it, but they’re necessary. He’s not about to head into this unprepared.

And at last, he stands at the edge of the cemetery. The moon is high, and the mist winds its way through the grave markers. There’s an open grave, lying bare, presumably abandoned because of the arrival of the nightwraith.

Geralt wonders what they’ve done with the waiting body.

But that’s not his concern, now. No, his concern is the cry that pierces the air. The bobbing lantern that flickers in the darkness, bright as day to his eyes.

Take the first one down.

It knows he’s here. There’s nowhere for him to hide. But before it can surge forward, can spin and strike, Geralt casts Yrden. The wraith slows, and manifests solidly, corporeal body suspended in Geralt’s trap.

From there, it’s a matter of seconds to swing his own sword, slicing it down, and the wraith burns up in a green flash, bright and quick like paper.

Geralt turns, sword raised, ready to roll, to dodge, to cast again.

But all is silent. Even the mist seems to have settled.

There are no more screams. No more spectral forms. Even as he stands there, waiting, because surely there must be more...nothing.

This can’t be right.

A single wraith. Perhaps a minute of combat, if that. Out of all the overblown, terrified accounts… This is what he’s left with.

He’d better be getting paid for it.

Growling, Geralt spares a small lament for the loss of potions he really didn’t even need. But since he’s already used five, what’s one more? Especially to clear out his blood. He’s not riding this out naturally.

His hand drops to his belt, searching for the White Honey there.

The White Honey that should be there.

...but isn’t.

Fuck. Fuck.  

No, this… He was sure he’d…

His heart beats harder, thumping in his ears, and Geralt can’t even think, anymore. He’d been raring for a fight. He needs to be fighting. He needs to be burning through the toxins that have turned his veins black and make him shiver and sweat with the exertion of ridding his body of them.

No White Honey. And no battle.

Geralt’s anxiety spikes. What is he meant to do now? It will take hours for him to return to normal, this way. He needs...he needs something. Anything.

Nostrils flaring, he snarls.

He’s not proud of the decision he makes. And years ago, he would never have dared, never have even dreamed… But now…

It shouldn’t be Jaskier’s problem. Geralt really shouldn’t burden the other man with this. And yet, the mere thought of warm hands and a strong body against his own make him stir, his whole being lighting up for a very different kind of physical activity.

Jaskier will help him. Even like this, Jaskier will touch him, press and pull him, carry him through the toxicity that’s eating him up and leave him whole and clean again.

And now that he’s decided, Geralt feels like the gods themselves couldn’t dissuade him.

He sheathes his sword and makes record time back to the inn, long legs carrying him quickly over grassy terrain, past the outskirts and into the village center where Geralt’s boots thud against cobblestone rather than soil.

Everything is too much, too much. Too many people. Too many noises. Too many smells.

Thankfully, his frightful appearance keeps anyone from bumping into him. A witcher under normal circumstances is enough to keep most at a distance, but looking as he does now — pale and black-veined, eyes like dark pools — he knows he’s terrifying. To everyone.

But not to Jaskier, his mind reminds him.

Jaskier. Jaskier.

Geralt can smell him from the door of the inn, a gentle lavender and chamomile that settles a part of his soul. He can hear the bard’s voice, carrying through the lit windows and buoying the whole room along in the chorus of a song Geralt knows he’s heard many a time but cannot possibly be fucked to remember the name of, right now.

He needs him.

His whole body is aflame, and Jaskier is the only thing that can cool it. His mind is hazy, struggling to process higher thought amidst the riot of sensory overload and the fight or flight responses that keep kicking in. Jaskier is all he can focus on.

And so he opens the door to the inn.

Thankfully, the merriment inside does not cease. The patrons don’t stop to stare, so engaged are they in their drink and song and dance. So no one much notices Geralt standing on the edge of the crowd, struck silent and still by the barrage of light and sound and smell that he’s drowning in.

His eyes are drawn, inexorably, to Jaskier on stage. There is nowhere else he could possibly look. The man is radiant, his presence engaging and addictive even under normal circumstances. But under the effects of his potions, it’s all Geralt can do to hold back and not tackle him to the ground in front of everyone.

Jaskier laughs, and Geralt whines pitifully, making a nearby barmaid glance over and then fearfully dart away.

Maybe it’s the movement that does it, but Jaskier finally looks to the door, and Geralt watches as his expression shifts. His eyes widen, and his lips part in surprise and understanding. But bless the man, he doesn’t fumble or cause a scene. Instead, Jaskier merely cuts off his tune at the end of the chorus, bidding a gracious farewell to his audience and ushering the next musician onstage.

And just like that, he’s bustling over to Geralt, slipping through the press of bodies like water.

“Come, darling,” is all he says, before gripping one of Geralt’s gloved hands in his own and dragging him across the room and toward the stairs.

Geralt lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. Jaskier is here. Jaskier has him. Everything will be fine. All he has to do is follow.

And follow he does, up the stairs and into their rented room, purchased in advance, in anticipation of Geralt needing to recover.

Which he still does, but in a different manner than they’d assumed.

The moment the lock clicks shut, Jaskier is on him, fingers tugging apart buckles and shoving off pieces of armor with the precision that comes with ages of practice. He spares a moment to rest his lute against the wall before diving back in.

“You’re not even dirty,” he murmurs. “Did you even break a sweat? Was the contract any good?”

Geralt groans as Jaskier’s fingers start on his shirt, undoing the buttons at his neck, down his chest. He’s so warm. “Only one wraith. Too many potions. Didn’t need ‘em.”

Jaskier scoffs in irritation. “I swear… Where’s your White Honey, love? Did you leave it here? Is it in your pack?”

“All out.” Geralt sways toward Jaskier, hands pawing at him, trying to get at the soft skin he knows is underneath Jaskier’s doublet and chemise. “Jaskier, please.”

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier coos. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re all right. I’ve got you. I’ll help you. Let me take care of you, my dearest.”

Geralt whimpers, and Jaskier purrs. The sound is inhuman, and it goes straight to Geralt’s core. It’s inhuman, but it’s Jaskier. It means that Jaskier can handle him. He’s done it before.

Nodding, Geralt sags against the door and tilts his head back. “Jas—“ His voice breaks. “Have me.”

Jaskier growls low in his throat and crowds close against Geralt. “The things you do to me, love. I’m going to devour you. That’s what you want, isn’t it? I’m going to burn all of that poison out of you, and fill you up with only me. I’m going to remake you, Geralt. My darling witcher.”

Gasping, Geralt’s hands bury themselves in Jaskier’s hair, seeking purchase. “Help me. Have me. Need you. Want you.”

“Yes,” Jaskier hisses, then kicks a hot stripe up the straining column of Geralt’s throat. “I love it when you beg. I love knowing it’s me you want. Love knowing that I can satisfy you.”

Geralt bites his lip and whines.

“Ah, none of that,” Jaskier coos, thumb tugging Geralt’s lip free. “I want to hear you.”

“The villagers…” Geralt tries.

“Are all thoroughly wrapped up in their merrymaking downstairs,” Jaskier assures him. “What’s one more voice added to the rest, yes? Besides,” his breath is hot on Geralt’s mouth, and the witcher wonders if he can actually see flames flickering within Jaskier’s eyes, “I do so love to make you scream for me.”

Geralt’s resulting groan is swallowed up by the other man, and Jaskier’s tongue slips past his teeth, plundering the moist cavern, fucking his mouth in deep, lewd strokes. Geralt shudders and grinds forward, relishing the press of strong muscle that keeps him pinned to the wooden door.

“Strip for me, love,” Jaskier whispers upon backing away. “I’ll gather what we need.”

Shaking, Geralt gets his gloves off, manages to tug his shirt over his head, shucks his boots, and he’s working on his trousers and underthings when Jaskier finishes laying out some linens on the bed and setting a well-used bottle on the bedside table.

Gods, just the sight of it makes his thighs tremble.

Jaskier’s head turns toward him sharply, and Geralt knows the man can smell his desire. A sultry grin stretches across his face, and Jaskier runs long fingers over the bottle’s glass surface before picking it up again. He holds it up to the light, and the thick substance inside shimmers gently.

“How much of this do you think we’ll use tonight, Geralt? Do you think we’ll need to replenish before heading out, again?”

Geralt’s knees quake, and his hands slip where they’re trying to undo his laces.

Jaskier frowns and sets the bottle back down, making his way back over. “I’m sorry, Geralt. I shouldn’t be teasing.” His fingers dance along the veins in Geralt’s arms, then, black and angry. “You really are in a bad way, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he works Geralt’s laces loose himself, then kneels down and takes everything with him, stripping the witcher bare.

Geralt’s already hard and aching. How could he not be? And seeing Jaskier on the floor between his thighs…

“You’re so wet,” Jaskier rumbles, tongue lapping at the head of Geralt’s cock. “Mm, my favorite. Let’s say we take the edge off just a bit, yes?”

And without preamble, Jaskier sucks him down to the root.

Geralt howls and tries to buck forward, but Jaskier keeps him pressed firmly to the door with superhuman strength. He’s surely working for it, but he manages.

Jaskier’s throat is a dichotomy, opening up for him easily and yet closing firmly around him, snug and warm and tight. And to be fair, Jaskier was made for this. But it never stops being any less wondrous no matter how many times they fuck. The way that Jaskier is so utterly perfect in every single way…

Gods.

The man moans in relish, clearly enjoying the cock in his throat. Geralt can smell it on him. How much he wants this. How eager he is. Geralt would never let go like this if he weren’t certain about both Jaskier’s willingness and his capability, but he’s proven time and again that, when Geralt falls…

…Jaskier will be there to catch him.

Geralt roars and comes down Jaskier’s throat, clutching desperately at chestnut locks, but Jaskier is unworried. Even as Geralt presses in close, Jaskier continues to hum in pleasure, swallowing quickly as Geralt spills into him.

And when Geralt finishes and his knees threaten to buckle, Jaskier surges upward and pins him.

“Delicious,” he coos. “My very favorite meal.” He nuzzles at Geralt’s jawline, biting gently at the deathly pale skin there. “I know you hate this, and I hate that you’re suffering, but I do so love being the one who gets to take care of you.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispers. His heart hasn’t slowed. His body is still burning. Once is never enough. He needs more. More.

“And I’ll give it to you.”

Oh. He must be speaking out loud, then.

“You are, dear heart. And it’s adorable.” Jaskier chuffs a laugh, then slinks down a bit. “Up you get.” And then he’s got one hand behind each of Geralt’s thighs, and he lifts.

Geralt’s feet leave the floor, and he clings to his lover instinctively. With little trouble, Jaskier makes his way to the bed and lowers the two of them onto it, covering Geralt with himself and bearing him down into the sheets.

The feeling of being held like this… Geralt whimpers and squirms as much as he’s able, pinned beneath Jaskier’s hidden strength. It’s wonderful. His legs press tight around Jaskier’s hips, and he arches beneath the other man. His hands roam the expanse of Jaskier’s body, searching for a handhold that isn’t there, and he growls.

“Your ring.”

Jaskier hums and pushes himself up onto his hands. “Pardon?”

“Take it off.”

Jaskier blinks, and then he grins. “Oh, it’s to be like that tonight, is it?”

Geralt just nods hazily. “Want all of you.”

Jaskier’s face softens from its lustful stare, and he strokes Geralt’s cheek. “Then all of me you shall have.”

With deliberate movements, Jaskier works his ring free.

It never comes off. Not since he’d gotten it. Or at least, it hadn’t until he’d met Geralt. Until he’d met someone he didn’t need to hide from. Who accepted all of him. Who wasn’t frightened.

The irony of a witcher being that person, when by rights Geralt should be slaying him instead of fucking him, isn’t lost on him.

But enough musing. The point is, Geralt loves him just the way he is. And his inhumanity allows him to care for the witcher’s needs in a way no human could. And in the same way that Jaskier adores Geralt’s yellow cat eyes, his white hair, his wolf teeth, his strength and his reflexes and everything that humans fear, well…

Jaskier sets the ring on the table.

With a groan, Geralt’s hands immediately wrap around Jaskier’s curved horns and tug him in for another deep kiss.

Geralt adores his horns that he can cling to while Jaskier fucks him through the mattress. Adores his long, tufted tail that lashes about when he’s excited or annoyed. Adores the sharp canines that bite into Geralt’s skin and make him howl. Adores even the fire magics that can light candles or a hearth when Geralt is too drained to do so.

And if Jaskier’s dick is just a little bit inhuman? Tapered at the head, to work his partner open gradually and help them to accept his not-insignificant girth? Covered in layered ridges that massage a lover’s insides, teasing at nerves and sensitive skin every time he withdraws?

Well. Geralt adores that, too.

Geralt is the only person Jaskier’s ever been with that he didn’t have to worry about accidentally killing. He doesn’t have to rein in either his strength or his stamina.

And Jaskier is the only person who has ever made Geralt feel safe, protected, and cared for. He can submit fully, and freely. He can want. He can need.

And now? He can beg.

“Jaskier, please.” The words are muffled, since Geralt refuses to tear his mouth away from Jaskier’s, but Jaskier knows what he means.

“I’ve got you, love. Gonna fill you up, fit to burst.”

Geralt whimpers and bucks, rubbing their bodies together to feel the warmth of Jaskier’s chest hair against his own. It’s delicious.

“I think you need to get taken deep and hard, Geralt. Would you like that?”

Geralt keens, nodding and trying to tug Jaskier back in by the horns.

The part-incubus laughs. “I can’t very well get my hand in you if you won’t let me go, darling.”

Like he’s been burned, Geralt jerks away, letting his hands fall to the bed and gripping tightly at the pillows.

“It’s okay, Geralt,” Jaskier soothes, petting his chest and down his flanks. “I was only teasing. I love that you need me. You know that.”

Geralt whimpers.

Good enough.

“Now how about you roll over for me, love? I want in you.”

Geralt can’t turn over quickly enough. Jaskier sits back on his heels to watch the man scramble to lie on his belly, and oh, when he parts those strong thighs…

Jaskier’s dick twitches.

Patience, he tells it.

Geralt is a vision, even riddled with potions as he is. Jaskier hates that he’s hurting, but that’s what he’s here for. He’s going to help.

“Such a good boy for me, aren’t you?”

Geralt keens and rocks his hips, fingers tangling in the linens Jaskier has laid down. The incubus hums and lowers his hands, the globes of Geralt’s ass settling firmly in his palms. Like he’s opening the sweetest of oranges, Jaskier digs his thumbs into the muscle and spreads Geralt wide. The furled rim of his entrance twitches under his scrutiny, and Jaskier groans.

“Gods, you’re gorgeous. Just look at you.”

One callused fingertip brushes over his hole, and Geralt’s reaction is immediate. And loud.

He howls, driving his hips backward as if to take Jaskier in immediately, but the bard pulls away.

“Easy, love. I won’t hurt you. Let me get the slick. And then I’ll fill you up, just like you want.”

He abandons the view regretfully, but he knows that better things are coming.

Geralt whimpers when Jaskier leans over him to snatch the bottle, and if the slighter man makes sure to drag himself slowly across the Witcher’s back as he returns to his position, well…

It’s fine, surely.

The popping of the cork induces a mewl, and Jaskier dribbles out a thick coating of the lubricant onto his fingers. He spends a moment getting Geralt’s entrance nice and wet, but it’s a necessity. Jaskier won’t make him wait unduly, but neither will he risk injury, fancy witcher healing or not.

It’s a testament to how very eager Geralt is that he opens up like a blooming rose under Jaskier’s touch. It takes hardly any pressure for Jaskier to sink one finger in to the second knuckle, and Geralt writhes, attempting to spear himself further. Jaskier’s free hand moves quickly to grasp Geralt’s hip and pin him as best he can.

“Gentle, darling. Not gonna hurt you.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt groans, and his muscles clench like he’s trying to pull Jaskier in.

Hell, he probably is.

“That’s it. Relax for me. Let me have you. You’re already doing so well.”

There’s hardly any friction as Jaskier pulls back and thrusts in again, deeper this time.

“Don't tease,” Geralt snarls, and Jaskier tuts at him.

“You’ve experienced teasing at my hands, Geralt. This is not teasing. This is me giving you exactly what you need.”

“Need more.” Geralt’s voice cracks.

With a sigh, Jaskier tugs a bit at Geralt’s rim, testing. But he’s met with little resistance. Just a whimper as he acquiesces and slips a second finger in alongside the first. Jaskier purrs as Geralt opens wider, enough for him to start spreading his fingers and working the muscle loose.

“More,” Geralt begs, but Jaskier tuts and swishes his tail over, brushing the soft tip of it down one trembling thigh to try and soothe the man, seeing as how both of his hands are occupied.

“I know, darling. I know how much you need it. And I’m going to give it to you. I’m going to fuck you so deep, sweetheart. Just let me take care of you. Relax for me, Geralt.”

And bless him, Geralt tries. Jaskier can feel him willing his muscles to loosen despite the shivers that wrack him. A human wouldn’t have this much control over their body, but a witcher? Geralt can contract and dilate his own godsdamn eyes. He can absolutely put that control to other uses as well.

But Jaskier will never, ever hurt him. And so he doesn’t force it. He goes only as quickly as Geralt’s body dictates.

It’s still faster than most.

So he’s unsurprised to find his third and fourth fingers accepted soon enough, and Geralt just keens and wails, begging wordlessly.

Gods, the man feels so good. So wet and hot and tight where he bears down on Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier’s cock is drooling in eagerness, but servicing Geralt like this sates him just as much as sticking his prick inside the other man, and Geralt’s pleasure is his own, so he lets himself bask in the sensations, drinking them in.

There’s another broken whine, and Geralt’s hips cant backwards again.

“Ready for more, Geralt? Do you want my whole hand in you? I’ll give it to you, if that’s what you want.”

“Y-yes,” he moans. “In me, Jaskier. In me.”

“All right, my darling. Just a moment.”

He pulls back to coat his fingers again, now slicking up his whole hand to the wrist, and even Jaskier is excited, tail swishing in anticipation. Geralt’s sweet little hole is already gaping, stretched wide and fluttering, and by the gods does he want to bury his face between the man’s cheeks and devour him, but that’s not what Geralt needs, right now.

Jaskier will give it to him.

When he leans back in, Geralt is releasing soft, whimpering breaths into the pillows, and Jaskier’s heart swells. This beautiful man, who trusts him so much, wanting and desperate…

He’s so, so honored to be the one who gets to take care of Geralt. To service him the way he deserves.

“I’m here, love,” he coos. “I’m here. Open up for me, now. I’ll give you everything.”

“Please,” Geralt whispers.

Jaskier cannot possibly refuse. He sinks two fingers back in easily, then the other two follow quickly enough, and his knuckles press against Geralt’s rim, popping inside with little fanfare save a groan from Geralt.

“Look at you. So good for me. I think you’re ready for my thumb, dearest. Final stretch, now. Breathe, Geralt. Let me have you.”

Jaskier talks him through it as he pulls back a bit, then fits the tip of his thumb alongside his fingers. Geralt’s whines increase when Jaskier presses forward, but he doesn’t tell him to stop. No, he’s trembling and shaking and panting hard, blackened eyes closed. He reeks of lust and desire, and Jaskier knows that he wants this. He needs this. Needs to be…

Jaskier’s thumb joint slips inside, and the glide up to his wrist is seamless.

...taken.

Geralt howls, writhing on Jaskier’s hand, white hair sticking to his neck and shoulders in sweaty strands. And Jaskier’s eyelids flutter as he takes in the utter banquet before him.

He needs to make Geralt come.

“Yes, love, yes,” he encourages. “Let me hear you. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

“So good. Jas… Jaskier.” Geralt tries to get his knees under him, tries to thrust back against Jaskier’s hand, but the incubus grips him tightly. “Need you.”

“I know. I’ve got you. I’ll give you everything. Trust me, Geralt.”

Miraculously, the witcher sinks into the mattress, going nearly boneless, though he still trembles with desire. And with toxicity, Jaskier’s mind reminds him. Get to work, you idiot.

So he does.

Gently, he wraps his fingers over his thumb inside the other man, which wrings a cry from him, and then starts up a slow, deep rocking.

With every thrust forward, Geralt makes a noise like he’s been punched. And idly, Jaskier muses that he kind of has been. The incubus grins.

He lives for this. Servicing Geralt. Taking care of him. Making him feel good. Not just in this way, sexually, but in every way he can. He’ll busk for coin and food and a place to stay, providing niceties that the world would otherwise deny his witcher. He stitches him up and tends to his wounds. He tells grand tales of his exploits to all who will listen, bending their hearts and minds so that they’ll see Geralt for who he is: not a monster in the slightest, but the noblest and best of men, deserving of every good thing possible.

Incubi aren’t known for sticking around. They aren’t really made for choosing a partner and settling down. But well, he’s not settling down, is he? He’s adventuring. He still gets to indulge in the flightiness that his kind crave.

But also. Oh, also. He has Geralt. And Jaskier sticks to him like glue. He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s not a full incubus, or because it’s just part of who he is as a person, but Jaskier loves him. Adores him. To the moon and back. And he never, ever wants or needs anyone else. Not when he can have Geralt, the very best of them all, in his bed.

Maybe it’s a bit strange to be waxing poetic while wrist-deep in his lover’s ass, but Jaskier has been called much worse things than strange. And besides, the way Geralt clenches around him and literally screams his name when he comes, that is absolutely worth waxing poetic about.

Geralt’s back arches, and he writhes in the sheets, and Jaskier continues to thrust inside him, deep and easy, working him through the long, intense orgasms that come with being a witcher.

There had been a time when Geralt was reluctant to come inside him. A lifetime of hesitant bed partners who shied away from any mutant-like behaviors and displays had taught him that coming so long — and in such quantities — would earn him an extra cleaning fee, if not shock, ire and disgust.

But Jaskier had begged him for it. Begged to be filled with everything Geralt could give him. Because not only was he created for it, he wanted it. So desperately.

And so Geralt had acquiesced. Had pumped him so full that Jaskier swore he could feel his belly swell, and gods the sensation of it… Jaskier had come untouched. Eyes rolled back and jaw dropped as he panted, gorging himself on sex and come and Geralt. Cries of ecstasy echoing around them.

After that, Geralt never questioned him again. He filled him up whenever Jaskier wanted it. Or whenever he himself wanted it.

But when they switch, when Jaskier is the one doing the penetrating, Geralt still comes like a horse, spilling all over the linens and filling the room with that bitter-salty scent that makes Jaskier growl deep in his chest.

He’ll have to change the sheets before the next round, but that’s fine.

As Jaskier makes to pull out and do so, intending to give Geralt a short break before fucking him again, the man scrambles to his knees and shoves back against him, shaking his head and mumbling little sounds of protest.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, not sure if he’ll get a proper answer but trying just the same.

“Stay,” Geralt whimpers. “Want more.”

“I’ll give you more, darling. Just breathe.”

“Fuck me,” he demands.

Jaskier chuckles. “That’s exactly what I’m doing, love. Can’t you feel me?” He flexes his wrist, rubbing up against Geralt’s inner walls, pressing down against his prostate.

Geralt cries out, one fist slamming against the bed. “Your dick, Jaskier. Give it to me.”

Cooing, Jaskier begins to ease out again. “I can do—“

“No!”

Jaskier freezes, because he’s really, really not sure what Geralt wants from him. “Geralt, I’m trying to get my hand out of you so that I can fuck you with my cock. Isn’t that what you want?”

And Geralt is...shaking his head?

Jaskier sniffs at him, but no, Geralt is still wanting. Still incredibly aroused.

“Tell me what you need, Geralt. Because I’m trying to give it to you, but clearly I’m getting it wrong.”

Geralt shudders, clenching down on Jaskier’s fingers, and he whispers out a soft, “Both.”

“...sorry?”

“I want both.” Geralt’s hiding his face in the pillows now, like he’s embarrassed, and it all clicks into place.

The flame in Jaskier’s belly that had cooled during the confusion reignites, and a wide grin stretches across his lips, fangs glinting in the light of the fire. “Oh, darling. You beautiful, wondrous creature.” He leans in to pepper kisses along Geralt’s spine and hips. “Don’t hide from me. Never hide from me. I’ll give you anything and everything you want, my dear witcher. But just to clarify, you’re asking for both my hand and my cock in your ass, yes? Is that what you want?”

Geralt chokes and nods.

“Words, Geralt. I need to be sure.”

The reply is loud, a belted out, “Please!” that Jaskier would be surprised if the patrons downstairs didn’t hear. But what does he care? He has the most glorious, amazing partner in his bed, and he really, really can’t be bothered with anything else.

“All right,” he purrs, licking and biting at Geralt’s skin. “All right. Then that’s what you shall have.”

Geralt shivers, and the tension leaks out of him, now that he’s been reassured that Jaskier isn’t leaving. Jaskier isn’t leaving, and he’s going to get even more.

“We’re going to go slow. You’ve not taken this much before, and I’d never forgive myself if I hurt you.”

“‘m fine,” Geralt grumbles, shuddering as Jaskier traces one finger from his free hand along the taut rim of his ass, seeking entrance.

“Yes, yes. You’re a big, strong witcher who can take care of himself. I know, love. But do consider that I enjoy taking care of you.” As he speaks, Jaskier eases his index finger inside along his palm, and the pair of them groan, animalistic and wanting.

Geralt gasps out a breathy, “Fuck.”

“Mm, that’s the idea, yes,” Jaskier giggles. “You’re so tight, love. So soft, in here. Who would ever guess that such a delicate place could be found on a witcher?”

“Less poetry. More fucking,” Geralt growls.

Jaskier huffs. “Really, you should have more respect for my poetry. It puts food in our bellies and a roof over our heads. Gives us a place where I can utterly ravish you all night in safety and comfort. So surely it’s not all bad, yes?”

As he speaks, he works a second finger in, and Geralt’s knees start to tremble where they’re holding his hips up. And, ever attentive, of course Jaskier notices.

“Oh, darling. Shall we change positions? Give you a bit of a rest?”

“I can handle it,” is the grumbled reply, but Jaskier is already shaking his head and pulling away.

“No, sweetheart. It’s my job to see to it that you’re comfortable, yes? And taken care of. I won’t have you straining yourself.” He pauses, then tugs a bit at Geralt’s rim, making the man gasp. “Except for perhaps here. Now, then.”

Jaskier pulls his hand free with a wet, slurping sound, and fuck, the way Geralt’s hole positively gapes is…

His cock twitches, and his mouth waters.

Patience. Geralt comes first.

Wiping off his hands on the first linen he’d laid down, Jaskier rises to scrounge for a second set. He can feel the heat of Geralt’s gaze on him, and he swishes his tail a bit, preening.

“Jaskier…”

“I’m here, Geralt. I’m here.”

He strides back over, eager to have more. More of Geralt. More of his pleasure.

It takes a bit of wrangling and no small amount of manhandling on Jaskier’s part, what with how shaky Geralt is, now, but he gets a fresh linen onto the bed, then wads up the soiled one and shoves it underneath Geralt’s hips to help support them, putting him into a more accessible position.

“Comfortable?” Jaskier grins at his lover, sprawled on the bed, white hair tangled and draped over the pillows, blackened eyes staring back at him desperately.

“Need you,” is the only reply he gets.

“That’s what I love to hear,” Jaskier coos. Then he’s reaching for the slick again. They’re going to need a lot more of it.

Geralt is still hard, leaking against his own belly, precome mixing with the spend from his prior orgasm. Jaskier wants to devour him.

He coats both hands now, along with his own prick, a soft growl rumbling through him. And licking his lips, he presses his fingers to Geralt’s entrance again and slides one hand completely inside to the wrist.

Geralt howls, trying to buck against him, but Jaskier rocks with him, not letting the man impale himself further.

“Do you want to come again before I take you?”

Geralt’s head flops to the side, and his hands grab for Jaskier, legs also trying to reel him in.

“So impatient. Really, Geralt. I’m doing my best not to split you in half, here.”

But he pulls his hand back a bit, leaving the fingers inside, and then pushes three from his other hand alongside them. And as Geralt pants and mewls and whines beneath him, Jaskier works him open, getting him ready to take his cock, too.

By the gods, this is just… It’s obscene. Having two hands spreading Geralt’s ass wide, and yet the man is still begging for more. More of him.

When he sees tears starting to build in Geralt’s eyes, Jaskier takes pity. He’s loose enough, and he’s ready, so very ready.

“You’re sure, Geralt? This is what you want?”

Geralt sobs and nods, words failing him, and Jaskier tugs one hand gently free. He shuffles forward, enough to press the tapered head of his cock against Geralt’s rim, and oh, fuck. This is going to be like jacking himself off, but inside Geralt.

Jaskier swallows hard and clamps down on his own body’s need to orgasm. His partner comes first. Both the human and incubus sides of him are in agreement about this.

“Breathe for me,” he murmurs. “Nice and steady. Let me in.”

Slowly, so slowly, Jaskier enters him.

The sensation of his own fingers against his shaft isn’t particularly new, but Geralt is clamping down on the whole of him; on everything. And Jaskier whines.

Geralt is making soft, broken little noises, but he never asks Jaskier to stop. Instead, his hands grope blindly for Jaskier, and because he’s unsure what part of himself he can offer as a handhold without overbalancing, Jaskier flicks his tail along Geralt’s belly, the tip of it brushing his cock.

Geralt latches on immediately. Not crushing, but firm. Desperate.

His thighs tremble where they’re spread open, parted around Jaskier’s hips, and the muscles in his belly jump and shudder.

“That's it, darling. You’re being so good, for me. So good. Taking me so well. You feel amazing, Geralt. Every fucking time is better than the last.”

Part of him wants to close his eyes and simply bask in the sensations, but the rest of him… How could he possibly take his eyes off Geralt? Off the way he’s panting, taking in deep breaths. Off the ring of muscle that’s stretched so fucking tight around Jaskier. Off the way his skin glistens with sweat and come.

Jaskier inhales, scenting the air, and he smells so damn good.

With a growl, Jaskier’s hips twitch forward, and that’s all it takes to send Geralt begging.

“Please! Jaskier, please!” He writhes, one hand in the sheets and the other tugging on Jaskier’s tail, and fuck if that doesn’t make Jaskier even more turned on. Seeing Geralt not only accept but embrace this part of himself that he keeps hidden away…

“Mine,” he snarls.

And then he draws back just a little, and thrusts home again.

Geralt sobs.

“That’s it. Take it all, love. Take all of me. Being so good. Fuck, Geralt. Look at you. The best goddamn thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life.”

Geralt is trying to leverage himself backward, to meet Jaskier’s thrusts, but he’s so overwhelmed that the most he manages is to writhe on top of him. So Jaskier takes the initiative, planting his knees firmly on the bed and grasping at Geralt’s hip with his free hand.

He doesn’t try to thrust both his hand and his cock. Instead, the hand inside Geralt serves as another anchor as his hips glide back and forth, movements made easy by copious amounts of slick and a generous preparation time.

Geralt’s voice has gone breathy, so much different than the gravelly rumble Jaskier is used to. And he loves it. The little cries settle in Jaskier’s belly, filling him the same way a hearty meal does, and fuck, he needs Geralt to come again.

The witcher’s cock is leaking, ruddy and hard, foreskin pulled completely back, and Jaskier wonders…

Oh. Oh, he might like that.

His hips slow a bit, and Geralt whimpers, but Jaskier shushes him, lifting his free hand to collect some of the lubricant that’s dribbled down his arm. Slick fingertips move now to Geralt’s cock, dancing over the head and pressing at the slit, and like he already knows what’s coming, Geralt keens.

“Want more, love? Want me to fill you more?” he asks, eager to make his witcher happy. Whatever Geralt wants, he’ll give to him. And maybe Geralt would like this, too.

Geralt sobs and nods, whole body shuddering, and his prick twitches. Like it’s coaxing Jaskier forward.

He licks his lips.

“Say stop, and I will. This is all for you, love. Everything for you.”

Geralt stares up at him blearily, like he’s having trouble even stringing his thoughts together, and Jaskier hopes that’s the case. He wants Geralt to be utterly out of his mind with pleasure.

Gently, so gently, Jaskier presses his fingertip down. And in.

Geralt gasps sharply, his whole body freezing at the sensation. But he doesn’t ask Jaskier to stop, and he still smells of lust.

So Jaskier sinks a bit further, in to his first knuckle.

Then pauses.

“Yes?” he asks.

Geralt gives the most guttural groan Jaskier has ever heard.

“Oh, you like that,” Jaskier coos. “You like it when I fuck your cock, too, don’t you? Mm, you love being full of me. Oh, dearest, I’m going to fuck you so good. You just hold on to me.”

Geralt nods and tugs at Jaskier’s tail, and the incubus purrs. Then he slips his finger back out the tiniest amount before pushing back in.

Geralt gives a soft, desperate, “Ah!” of surprise.

“It’s good, isn’t it? You’re so full. Gods, I can feel you, love. I can feel how overwhelmed you are. You are delicious. I can’t wait to make you come like this. Do you think you can spend yourself hard enough to push me out? I bet you can. But not until I fuck you good and proper.”

Jaskier shifts his hips backward, then thrusts into Geralt’s ass again as he withdraws the fingertip penetrating Geralt’s cock.

The man sounds like he’s been punched in the gut, and his belly clenches with the effort of trying to keep still.

Jaskier licks his lips again and settles into an easy rocking motion, fucking both of Geralt’s holes in turn, and he hardly has to move at all to get the most glorious responses. Geralt tosses his head, presses his heels to the mattress, clutches at the sheets. He moans and shudders and makes lovely noises that are maybe intended to be words but are incomprehensible upon emerging from his throat.

Jaskier adores every moment of it.

He feasts upon the vision before him, upon the feeling of Geralt hot and wet and tight around him, accepting him inside in so many ways. And Jaskier lets him bask in the pleasure, his movements unhurried. He’s in no rush to get himself off, not while he can feed on Geralt like this. Not while he can give Geralt everything that he didn’t even know he wanted.

“More…” Geralt gasps brokenly.

“Greedy thing,” Jaskier murmurs approvingly, but he snaps his hips a bit harder, though he’s still delicate with Geralt’s cock.

Geralt cries out every time Jaskier’s thighs meet his ass, and Jaskier can see him starting to tighten.

“That’s it, Geralt. Come for me. All over yourself. I want to see you.”

“Jas— Jaskier.” Geralt’s back bows, and he howls.

Grinning wildly, Jaskier tugs his finger free from Geralt’s prick, then pins the pulsing member to the man’s abdomen with the same hand. Using that as leverage, he drives his own cock in harder, fucking Geralt through his orgasm. Geralt’s shaft slides in and out through the channel Jaskier has made, and he paints himself in spend, covering his belly and his chest until it drips down his flanks onto the sheets.

“Yes, love, yes.” Jaskier bares his teeth and tugs his fist free of Geralt’s ass, but the witcher’s plaintive whine is cut off when Jaskier uses both hands to hoist Geralt’s legs up and bend him in half, bearing him down and planting his palms on the bed.

“You’re mine, Geralt. You fucking gorgeous creature,” he snarls, and then he’s thrusting hard, the ridges of his cock tugging only a bit at Geralt’s rim, with how loose he is. But Geralt mewls and scrambles for a handhold, clutching at Jaskier’s shoulders, grabbing him by the back of the neck and hauling him in for a kiss as Jaskier fucks into him. He whimpers and whines, writhing as he’s taken, and Jaskier devours him hungrily. Every noise he makes gets swallowed down, and Jaskier is relentless, wanting more of Geralt’s pleasure, which feeds into more of his own.

He’s not letting Geralt recover. He doesn’t have to, and Geralt wouldn’t want him to. No, he’s going to shove him over the edge again. He needs it. They both do. He needs.

Pushing up, he shifts Geralt’s hips, tilting them so that his cock strikes Geralt’s prostate with every thrust, his aim unerring, the way he was born to do it.

Geralt is wailing in a way that he’d never admit to, but Jaskier gets to experience it, and frankly, that’s all he cares about. The gold is already returning to Geralt’s eyes, and Jaskier preens at a job well done. Making his witcher healthier while also fucking him silly causes every part of him to sing.

“I love you,” he gasps out. “My magnificent white wolf.”

Geralt sobs, no longer even bucking underneath him but simply letting Jaskier take what he will. He stares up at him, hands still running over every part of Jaskier they can as if in reverence, before latching onto Jaskier’s horns.

Jaskier yelps, and his eyelashes flutter.

So Geralt tugs.

And when Jaskier looks at him again, he sees mischief and knowing and desire, and gods—

“You’re an utter menace,” he growls.

“Have me, Jaskier. Fill me.” His voice is soft and raspy, but it comes through crystal clear to Jaskier’s ears.

Exactly what he wants to hear.

Groaning, Jaskier lowers his head, letting Geralt reel him in by the horns, and takes him hard, hips driving forward in a way he’d never dare with a human. But this is Geralt. His beautiful, powerful witcher. And Geralt can handle all of him.

More importantly, Geralt wants to handle all of him.

With one hand supporting his weight on the bed and the other gripping Geralt’s hip for leverage, Jaskier chases after his own end, losing himself in the clench of Geralt’s body and in the way his partner’s pleasure vibrates through him. It’s an ever-rising tide that buoys him quickly upward, and Geralt wants him to come, has asked him to come, and Jaskier wants to please him so very much.

One last push, and Jaskier is there, hips pressed firmly against Geralt’s as he groans and spills, his own body trembling through the rush.

Geralt moans and tightens around him, like he’s trying to milk him for all he’s worth, and Jaskier’s cock unleashes a second stream as he does his best to meet Geralt’s demands.

He chokes out a breathy, “Fuck,” before locking both elbows and anchoring himself firmly on the mattress so he doesn’t collapse on top of Geralt.

Geralt, who is still whimpering and squeezing him and Jaskier thinks his eyes might be crossing. He closes them just in case.

And even though he’s panting, even though the human part of him could be satisfied with flopping over and being done with it, Geralt murmurs a quiet, “More,” and the incubus part of him flares to life again.

Jaskier lifts his head, and Geralt lets him, his hold on his horns lax, and though the blackness in his veins is receding, though the color is beginning to return to his skin, Jaskier can see the heat in his eyes.

“You sure?” he gasps. “Not too sore?”

“Want it,” Geralt growls. “I can feel you. Feels good. I want more.”

Jaskier groans, and his tail lashes behind him, loosed from Geralt’s hold. The witcher is much more focused on his horns, now.

“Anything you want, Geralt. Anything.”

“More,” Geralt demands. Clear as day.

Well, then.

Digging his fingers into the sheets as best he can, Jaskier has both of Geralt’s calves over his shoulders and pushes deep, grinding their hips together. The sound alone is obscene, the slick and Jaskier’s come leaking wetly out of Geralt’s ass as he moves.

“Fucking hell, Geralt. I’d fuck you all damn night, if you wanted.”

“I know,” Geralt rumbles. “So fill me.”

Jaskier whines, hips starting up again, and Geralt gasps every time Jaskier fucks into him. He’s more lucid than he had been when he was potion-riddled, but he’s still blissed out and making the sweetest noises. The main difference is that Jaskier will occasionally hear his own name amongst the litany of wordless cries.

Geralt wants to be full. Jaskier can do that. Guaranteed.

But first.

He reaches between them, getting a hand between their bellies and wrapping Geralt’s cock in his long fingers. Geralt whimpers and tries to buck, but he doesn’t have the leverage to do so, so he ends up writhing on Jaskier’s dick, which is more than fine with the bard.

“Gonna pump you so fucking full, gorgeous,” Jaskier rambles. “You’ll be dripping with it. All down your thighs. You want it, yeah?”

Geralt nods, and then he’s reaching down, too. Jaskier expects to feel the other man’s hand join his own in stroking Geralt’s shaft, but that isn’t at all what happens. There’s a bit of slippery fumbling, which Jaskier doesn’t pay much attention to, and then Geralt gives a deep groan.

Curious, Jaskier angles himself so that he can get a proper look, and he finds that Geralt is knuckle-deep in his own cock, the slit stretched wide around his finger.

“Oh, fuck,” Jaskier bites out, eyes wide. This is even hotter than when he’d done it for the other man. “You like it? How does it feel, Geralt? Tell me.”

Geralt rumbles, pushing in and out faster than Jaskier had dared, but the bard figures Geralt knows his limits.

“F-full,” Geralt manages. “Hurts a little. But good. Fuck. Want more.”

Jaskier growls. “I’ll get you more. Find you a proper rod. Steel one. Get you all slick and slide it into you nice and deep.”

Geralt mewls, and Jaskier hopes he’s imagining it, because Jaskier himself certainly is.

“One with ridges so you can feel every. little. bump.” Jaskier’s words are punctuated by his thrusts, which are in turn punctuated by Geralt’s yelps.

“Fuck me, Jaskier. Fuck me.”

Jaskier loves it so very much when Geralt begs. And even better is giving him what he wants.

And so he does.

He fucks him hard and fast until Geralt screams his name, tipping over the edge yet again. And he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow. Because Geralt wants Jaskier to fill him up, and Jaskier’s body is already drawing on its reserves to make that happen. Now that Geralt’s energies have been poured into Jaskier, Jaskier is ready and willing to physically pour into him in return.

He doesn’t have to, of course. He could just have a human-like orgasm and finish quickly.

But he’s a sex monster. And in this, his powers reign. So if Geralt wants his come, if he wants to feel him deep inside, then Jaskier can absolutely do that for him.

Geralt is murmuring soft pleas, now. Trembling sweetly and one hand pressing against his belly so he can feel Jaskier’s thrusts. His other hand is running over Jaskier’s horn, tangling in his hair, and his eyes are so round, so lovely…

Jaskier’s breath catches, he coils, and then releases.

A whine from the witcher. A growl from the bard. And Jaskier’s body shivers and shakes as it pumps as much as it can into Geralt. Because that’s what Geralt wants, and Jaskier wants so very badly to please.

With Geralt’s hips tilted as they are, he’s like a reservoir, and those cat eyes go wide as Jaskier pants, working to give him everything he has.

“Jas…” he whispers. “I…”

Jaskier shushes him. “Just feel, love. Feel me.”

Geralt whimpers, and his eyes close, and both of them still, Jaskier bearing Geralt’s weight as the man savors this. Moments pass, but Jaskier holds firm. Not until Geralt relaxes utterly with a tired sigh does Jaskier let himself slump a bit.

“Good?” he asks.

He gets a grunt and a nod in reply, and he huffs and shakes his head. A job well done, then.

“Ready for me to pull out?”

In the end, Geralt grumbles, “Sure.”

And that’s that. Jaskier backs away a bit and gently eases the man’s legs down, sliding his softening cock free of Geralt’s ass. Geralt gasps at the shift inside him, and Jaskier’s come leaks from his gaping entrance. It’s swollen and red and well-used, covered in slick and rivulets of white, and Jaskier preens.

“Gods, look at you,” he coos. “So fucked-out. You’re gorgeous.”

Geralt snorts. “You always say that.”

“That’s because it’s always true.” Jaskier sighs, tearing his gaze away from Geralt’s hole and running his eyes over his cock, then up to his face. “Are you all right?”

“Seriously?”

“Always, Geralt. How do you feel? Did I take too much?”

“I feel like I could sleep for a year, but no, you didn’t.”

Jaskier hums, petting lightly at Geralt’s thighs, eyeing the sheer amount of spend everywhere with satisfaction. He’d done that. He’d made Geralt feel good. He’d pleased him.

“How’re the potions?”

Geralt hums. “Better. Not burning up, anymore.”

“Wonderful. Then I’m going to wipe myself down, put my ring back on, throw on some clothes, and see if I can pay the innkeep enough to draw a bath for us and give us a fresh set of linens, considering how ours are…well.”

Geralt snorts. “Just don’t expect me to do any work. Pretty sure my ass is broken.”

“You did ask for it, darling. I’m not about to feel bad about giving you what you wanted.” Jaskier grins at Geralt’s sass all the same. “You just rest there like a good boy, and I’ll get us a bath going in the next room. This place is a damn sight nicer than most places we stay in. Shouldn’t be too much trouble.”

As Jaskier bustles about, Geralt simply drifts. His toxicity levels are so much lower, and he no longer feels like he’s going mad. He’s exhausted, to be sure, but that’s expected, between the potions, the fucking, and feeding Jaskier via said fucking. And he’s sore, but pleasantly so. Nothing like the pain that often lingers after a fight, even the ones that don’t result in injury. He’s wet and sticky, but that’ll be taken care of soon enough. Jaskier always takes care of him.

Gods, Jaskier…

Geralt clenches a bit, trying to feel how stretched and loose he is. He’d taken so much, and it had been so damn good.

Fuck, he wants to do it again.

He’s half-asleep, imagining all his favorite sex positions when Jaskier returns, the smell of sweat and come and Jaskier following him in.

“Bath is ready, love. We can head through the connecting door. Would you like me to carry you?”

He doesn’t ask to be condescending, or to show off his strength. He asks because he is considerate, and because he always, always puts Geralt’s comfort and needs and wants first.

And, well...Geralt kind of likes being taken care of. It’s a welcome change from the great majority of his life. Pretty much all of it that hadn’t involved Jaskier, actually.

So he says, “Yes.”

And without batting an eye, Jaskier simply strides over and lifts him, one hand under his knees and the other under his back. Geralt, for his part, slings his arms around Jaskier’s neck, content to be carried. Were they visible to the public, they’d put on a show of Jaskier seeming not-inhumanly strong, but seeing as it’s just the two of them, neither can be fucked about pretenses.

The room is warm when they enter, and Geralt rumbles appreciatively.

Jaskier chuckles and steps up to the tub, lowering Geralt enough that he can stand on wobbly legs.

“One moment, darling. Let me strip, and I’ll join you.”

Geralt hums, waiting. He’s half-tempted to stumble into the water on his own, but then he’d miss out on Jaskier at his back, Jaskier supporting his waist, Jaskier under his arms and easing him down.

“That’s it, Geralt. Now lean forward a bit. Let me in behind you.”

Curling up against his bard like this is...nice. Beyond nice. Jaskier soaps them up well, and all Geralt has to do is sit there as Jaskier works the sweat and tangles out of his hair, scrubs the come off his chest and belly. He moves where Jaskier pulls him, and it’s an easy thing, being cared for like this.

And once Jaskier has upended buckets of water upon them both, sluicing away suds and grime, he leans in and licks a hot stripe up Geralt’s throat.

Geralt gasps and arches in surprise.

Jaskier’s hands are dancing along the smooth skin of his thighs, and suddenly Geralt’s heart is picking up again.

“Tell me, Geralt. How are you feeling?”

“Good,” he mumbles.

“Would you like to feel even better?”

“Fuck, yes.”

Jaskier’s teeth close gently upon his earlobe, and Geralt makes a strangled noise, trying to shift his legs further apart and give Jaskier better access.

“Such a sweet thing. So good for me. Only one more, love. I’ll be gentle.”

Calloused fingertips trace his stretched rim, and Geralt mewls.

“Too sore?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt shakes his head. “Get in me.”

“Mm, just a little. Just wanna make you feel good. Let me take care of you.”

It takes a bit of finessing, but Geralt shifts himself lower, head pillowed on Jaskier’s chest while the man slips two fingertips inside him, his other hand closing around Geralt’s hardening shaft.

Gods, he’d thought he was done. But this is Jaskier, who can take him to the very edge, and then further.

This time is gentle and slow, almost like Jaskier is simply playing with him. He’s unhurried, listening to Geralt’s breathing, feeling the way his body clenches and twitches. His fingers thrust easily in and out of Geralt’s loose passage, and he strokes Geralt’s cock in a steady rhythm intended to get him off, no teasing or edging at all.

Geralt pants, eyes closed, letting himself feel.

Jaskier is good to him. So very good to him. What had he ever done to deserve this?

His musings are cut short when his brain stutters, a languid orgasm surging through him like a wave, and Jaskier just nuzzles the top of his head and carries him through the aftershocks, hands gradually slowing as Geralt relaxes into a boneless heap against him.

He’s whispering quiet endearments into the warm air, words of love that weave through the wet strands of Geralt’s hair to settle deep in his heart.

“You’re utterly perfect,” Jaskier murmurs. “Wonderful in every way. I adore you, Geralt.”

Geralt hums, hoping that Jaskier understands.

“Let’s get you out and dried off, love. You’ve got a lot of recovering to do.”

Another hum.

Geralt does what he can to help Jaskier get him upright, but he’s trembling like a newborn lamb, and he feels like he might collapse at any minute.

“You’re doing so well. Such a good boy for me, Geralt. Just a bit longer and I’ll get you tucked in. Get you a nice plate of food to snack on. And you can sleep all you want. I’ll make sure our room is paid for. As long as you need.”

Geralt sighs, and the moment Jaskier lifts him into his arms again, both of them stark naked and completely uncaring, his eyes close, and he curls into his lover. His bard. His Jaskier.

He’s settled into bed, and Jaskier doesn’t bother trying to dress him at all. Just swaddles him in clean sheets like a newborn, and Geralt moans in delight.

“That’s it, love. Rest, now. I’ll head downstairs and fetch us something nice, then be back as soon as I can.”

Geralt can hear the rustle of fabric as Jaskier gets dressed, can head the door close and lock — because of course Jaskier wouldn’t leave him unprotected. He doesn’t know how much time passes before the man returns, but he’s only half-awake, curled comfortably amongst the linens and pillows.

The mattress dips as Jaskier sits down, and there’s a soft clatter from the direction of the bedside table.

“The hot food is gone, for the night, but I’ve brought us a tray of cheeses and meats and breads, if you’d like to tuck in a bit before sleep.”

And because he can, because it’s Jaskier and Jaskier always knows what he needs, Geralt shifts over with a grunt, wriggling so that his head is pillowed on the bard’s lap. He doesn’t have to be strong and self-sufficient. He can relax. He can trust. Without worry.

And sure enough, Jaskier sighs above him, and it’s so full of adoration that Geralt absolutely has to open his eyes. He has to see for himself the feelings that are being reflected back at him through Jaskier’s gaze.

He’s not disappointed.

Jaskier’s fingers are gentle as they brush back damp strands of hair, as they stroke along Geralt’s jawline. He traces Geralt’s lower lip, and when Geralt licks his fingertip teasingly, he huffs a laugh.

“Let’s get you fed, sweetheart. We’ll have you set to rights soon enough.”

And then Jaskier reaches toward the table, plucking bits of dried meat, breaking bread into bite-sized pieces, crumbling different cheeses, all so that he can hand-feed them to Geralt. Not once does Geralt have to so much as lift a finger. When he parts his lips, a new morsel is there, and while he chews and swallows, Jaskier pets his hair, watching over him.

At last, Geralt is full enough that he’s not concerned about waking with a gnawing hunger, and he’s tired enough that even eating is exhausting. So he gives Jaskier a small nod, and the bard replaces the sliced sausage he’d been about to offer.

“Water?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt grunts. He absolutely needs that.

So Jaskier fills a cup from the pitcher, then lifts Geralt’s head for him, pressing the pewter to his lips and tilting slowly. All Geralt has to do is swallow. He drains two refills before turning his head away, and Jaskier sets the cup aside again.

“Time for sleep, I think,” he coos, and Geralt sighs his agreement.

Jaskier rearranges him back onto the pillows and fetches a downy comforter to cover them both. Geralt doesn’t need the extra warmth. His mutations will keep him alive in much colder temperatures than a normal human could withstand. But it’s a luxury, and Jaskier knows Geralt enjoys the weight and softness of it.

When the bard slips into bed beside him, he’s naked as well, and he presses close, skin on skin. It makes Geralt rumble in happiness.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Jaskier says softly, throwing an arm and a leg over his witcher to tangle them together as best he can. “Comfortable?” he asks.

Geralt just sighs and nudges his head beneath Jaskier’s, enjoying the feeling of being held, of being warm and safe, of being cared for.

Here, in Jaskier’s arms, his problems melt away. He’s not a freakish monster hunter. Not a mutated specimen scorned by most of society. Not a lone wanderer destined to spend his days merely surviving until his inevitable, gruesome demise.

Here, he can let himself believe that someone cares. That he is treasured and loved just the way he is. And that Jaskier will be with him until the very end.

And just maybe, that end will be a long way away, yet. If Jaskier has anything to say about it, that is.

And Jaskier has a great many things to say.

Speaking of…

“You know that I love you, don’t you?” Jaskier murmurs, rubbing their noses together, breath warm against Geralt’s face.

Geralt opens his eyes. And he smiles a bit, tired though it is. “Love you, too,” he mumbles.

“My darling. Precious, precious creature. Beloved.” Jaskier peppers gentle kisses over his face, and Geralt’s smile grows.

“Yours,” he agrees.

“Yes. And I yours.” Jaskier gives him one last kiss, a brief brush of their lips, before he seems satisfied and settles down, his own body relaxing into the sheets.

Dawn is still hours away. And even when day breaks, they will continue to sleep. Jaskier will wake first, then head downstairs to pay for an additional night so that Geralt can recover further. He will bring up warm porridge to their room, along with an assortment of fruits and honey to add to it, just the way Geralt likes.

He will spend the day doting on his love, holding him close, stroking his hair, singing to him. In the evening, he will dress in some of his finery and return to the stage, performing for an enthusiastic audience, and Geralt will hear him even through the locked door of their room. He’ll listen to Jaskier sing and play, to the crowd cheer and stomp and applaud, and he will be proud, so very proud that he can call this man his.

Jaskier will earn more than enough to tide them over, more than enough to carry them through while Geralt recovers, more than enough to ensure they’re well-provisioned when they set out again.

But they won’t leave that night.

No, that night, he will return to the room flushed and glowing from a job well done. And Geralt will ask for him, because Geralt always wants him. In any and every way.

That night, Jaskier will ride him, the witcher’s cock thick and deep inside his ass, and they’ll go slow, simply because they can.

They’ll bathe again, all wandering hands and gentle kisses and soft laughter like a couple newly in love. And they’ll hold each other close in bed once more, hearts full.

And when they do set out again, the witcher and his bard, it will be with renewed vigor and bolstered spirits, with all the confidence and steadfast surety of two souls who know how harsh the world can be but are more than ready to meet it.

There will be other incidents. Other battles to fight. Other hurdles to overcome. Injuries and roughness and fear.

But at the end of it all, there will always be Geralt and Jaskier. Together. And that is more than enough to be getting on with.