#but what is he going to do? turn down a comfy stable for roach? he's doing it for HER. just for HER.

[agoodgoddamnshot]

Opulence [E] - Geralt/Jaskier

[Gif not mine]

Posted originally on my AO3 account - Rated E

Jaskier seems to follow his reputation like a shadow. More often than not, stories of the bard are already in a town or city by the time they actually arrive. For the most part, Geralt has to deal with the fallout of cuckolded men whose courtships or engagements or even marriages have been affected by the bard, in one way or another. It’s easy enough; noblemen, other bards, or even the occasional innkeeper take one look at Geralt – and Jaskier, who always seems to hide just behind the larger man – and tuck tail. On the occasion where ones may pick a fight, it’s not really fair at all. Noblemen, who’ve been taught to fight by great swordmasters, but never have seen so much as a drunken tavern brawl, often end up on the floor with little to no effort.

And while he knows that Jaskier doesn’t go cavorting with the affiances of the upper class anymore – because, for the past few months, it’s been his bed that Jaskier finds himself in – he does have to wonder just how many trysts the man had before settling firmly with Geralt.

“Oh, you don’t want to know,” Jaskier sighs into Geralt’s shoulder. The man has an arm firmly around the bard’s shoulders. His skin is speckled with sweat – a waste, after spending so long in a much-needed bath following days of travelling. But Jaskier just wouldn’t leave him the fuck alone when they were downstairs, drinking in one corner of the inn. Now, though, Geralt’s bard has a sleepy, contented smile lacing his lips.

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “What if I do? I want to know how many towns and cities we probably won’t be allowed into just because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself.”

“You’re one to talk. You have people speak about you as well, Witcher.” Jaskier laughs. A light little thing, mostly into Geralt’s chest. “Between the both of us, we might as well just travel south and hope that the rumours stop at the border.”

One rumour that he is arguably grateful for, however, is how highly people thought of Jaskier’s singing at Cintra. Foreign lords and ladies had been at the banquet. Geralt had watched them; joyfully singing and clapping along with reels and polkas that Jaskier had played. He can only imagine when they travelled back to their own homesteads, rumours of the bard’s singing went with them.

An invite comes. How the message finds them, he isn’t entirely sure. All he does know is that a feast is being hosted in an affluent town almost a two-day ride from their current lodgings. “Oh, don’t be like that,” Jaskier all but pouts as Geralt fetches Roach’s saddle. The mare regards both men for a moment, before going back to her hay. With Geralt’s back to them, Jaskier fishes a small sugar cube out of his pocket and holds it out for the mare. Her ears twitch, and she knickers softly at the treat, but this is still their secret. She still won’t let him on her back without Geralt, but at least Jaskier can be in the same space as the mare without fear of being kicked in the shin. Jaskier wipes the small string of horse spit from his hand and watches Geralt set about tacking her up. “I followed you half-way around the country, into all manners of situations. You can do the same for me, can’t you?”

Geralt huffs. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

Setting Roach’s saddle snugly on her back, Geralt looks over at Jaskier. “Anytime you say for me, you expect me to drop everything and do what you want.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of Jaskier’s lip. He pets Roach’s muzzle before walking over to Geralt. The Witcher grunts softly, making a few last adjustments to the placement of Roach’s gear, before fetching the girth underneath her stomach. He barely has a chance to attach it to the saddle before he feels Jaskier all but drape against his side. The stables of the inn are well-kept. Stalls are divided by wooden planks that run from the ground to the ceiling. In private, and sheltered from the wandering eyes of stablehands, Jaskier presses a light kiss to Geralt’s neck. “Please?” he mumbles against the skin, smirking as he trails his nose along a tendon there. “For me?”

Geralt turns, catching Jaskier’s lips in a kiss that, if he wasn’t completely aware of how discreet they have to be, would become so much more. Jaskier still doesn’t move his hands though; one on the small of Geralt’s back, and the other holding on to a forearm. When he pulls away, Jaskier tries to follow, but a barked order from one of the grooms to a nearby stableboy makes him pull away.

“Siren,” Geralt sighs. He would follow Jaskier anywhere. The bard knows that. He’s abused that fact. But the city they’re heading to has a reputation; draped in gold with springs of silver in the main square, it’s opulence at its finest. And Geralt is pretty sure that, although he’ll appreciate the comfy bed and the nice food they’ll be provided with, he’s going to fucking hate the rest of it.

Gathering Roach’s reins, Jaskier smiles brightly. “It’ll be great,” Jaskier says, as though he’s a mindreader all of a sudden. Then again, Geralt has different kinds of scowls. And Jaskier is just very good at reading them.

The city is everything he expected it to be. High, thick walls encase it, shielding it from a forest on one side and the foot of a mountain on the other. The main road into the city is packed with other travellers. Merchants with horse-drawn carriages walk alongside them, selling everything from cloth to spices and herbs to books. Sentries line the top of the walls, with their gleaming armour so polished that the sun, perched high in the air, makes them shine like beacons.

Two guards vet everyone approaching the gates. Both Geralt and Jaskier pass with little trouble. The letter that had been delivered to them has the royal sigil stamped on to one corner of the page. A guard with a battle-worn face merely waved them through.  

Each person that they pass on the main road through the town seems clad in silks and cottons, with their heads adorned in shawls or headpieces or tropical flowers.

Even the gutters running along either side of the cobblestones look spotless.

Jaskier nudges Geralt’s side. “You look even more constipated than usual,” he remarks, fiddling with the letter. “Mind telling me why?”

It’s not the worst place they could be in. Nice cities mean nice inns, nice food, nice beds. But something Geralt wonders is why a city like this, pinned between a dense forest and a scaling mountain, sitting on a plateau of land with not much agriculture on it, could find its wealth. It doesn’t sit right with him. But he looks to his bard, and finds that he hasn’t given much of a verbal excuse. And Jaskier just keeps looking at him for an explanation. He sighs. “This is a city that is too nice.”

“Too nice,” Jaskier laughs. “You should hear yourself. You always complain about staying in the backrooms of people’s houses, and thin, uncomfortable mattresses. This will be the best we’ll have for a long time.”

Geralt never complains. He barely has enough wherewithal to clench his jaw shut. You’re the one who complains.

Instead, he breathes out a sharp sigh. “You’ll be singing in the king’s court, and what am I to do? Spend the night being your guard, again?”

Jaskier pets Roach’s neck. “Be my consort instead,” he looks up at Geralt with a spark in his eye.

He levels the bard with a look. “I’m not sure how people think about that sort of thing here.”

Jaskier shrugs. “Guess we’ll find out, then.”

“No, we won’t.”

“If you really do find the thought of spending the night with me appalling, then I’m sure there is something else you could be doing.” Jaskier huffs. Petting Roach’s muzzle, Jaskier then slows down slightly, walking along with Geralt. “I’m sure even a city like this has a pest problem,” Jaskier says quietly, smiling politely at a captain of a passing squad of patrolling guards. Geralt regards them. Chainmail, with heavy armour sitting on top of it. The royal crest is painted on to the breastplate. A plate, Geralt notes with a frown, with not a scratch on it.

They find themselves in a townhouse near the royal district. “We can’t just have anyone staying within the castle walls,” a spokesperson for the king smiles; one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I hope you understand.”

Jaskier nods. “Completely.” Someone comes to collect Roach and take her into the neighbouring stables. Geralt shrugs them off, leading the mare into the yard himself. Jaskier stays with the spokesperson, happy enough to talk about what etiquette is expected of him. Geralt can’t help but snort. Jaskier, for all of the rumours that would say otherwise, knows how to behave in front of dignitary.

He’ll just follow the bard’s lead.

If he’s going, that is.

Roach nudges him once he’s removed the last of her tack and strung up a net of hay for her. A knowing look sits in her eyes. “Don’t,” he points a finger, stepping out of the stall. She huffs.

A couple of hours stand between them having to leave for the banquet and now. The space is large enough for two double beds on either side of the room, and a bathtub that has already been brought up. On a nearby table, there’s a collection of salts and perfumes. Even with their caps on, the vials give off heavy aromas.

Jaskier fiddles with them, regarding each one carefully. It wasn’t a long trek from their last lodging; but muscles ache after a while, and he’s been on the road too long to ever refuse the offer of a bath.

Jaskier takes the cork off one of the vials. A pungent smell of lavender seeps into the room, and Geralt, even setting the last of his things down at the other side of the space, wrinkles his nose. “Unless you plan on falling asleep during your performance,” he says, “don’t use that.”

Jaskier closes the vial. A small frown creases his brow. “You can smell that all the way over there?”

“It’s not like I’m an entire country away, Jaskier.” Geralt slides the sheathes of both of his swords underneath one of the beds. They’ll lock the room when they leave, but he won’t be too careful. Geralt looks over his shoulder. For the first time in a long time, Jaskier hasn’t replied to a quip he’s made. Looking at the bard now, there’s a look on his face that he can’t entirely make out. “What?”

“Interesting,” Jaskier mumbles, picking up another vial.

It’s not the worst gathering he’s been to. The king – though, he finds out from a hoard of gossiping guards that he isn’t a king at all, but a man with grand notions of his place in the world – allows him to sit with the rest of them. Any friend of the bard is a friend of mine! Geralt’s eyes threaten to roll to the back of his head. But he settles for looking out on to the main hall, already packed with people who’ve had their fill of food and drink.

Long tables are laden with just about every meat Geralt can think of, with bowls packed with seasonal vegetables and spiced fruits in between each platter. Everyone seems merry; aided by the small army of servants wandering around to each table setting, filling goblets back up with ale and mead and wine just as soon as they’re empty.

When a server comes for his own goblet, Geralt covers the lid with his hand. “I’m fine,” he says gruffly. The server bows her head slightly, before going to the next person. It takes a lot of drink to even affect him, thanks to the mutations. He never quite understood it; a high metabolism, most likely. And he’s pretty sure that he would be able to get that volume of alcohol here, if he looked for it. The king seems keen for the visiting nobles to have a good time. Opinions easily bought with good food and drink.

But Geralt sits back in his chair, content to just watch his bard. A small gathering of others have joined him off to one side. The great hall is almost like a throne room; high vaulted ceilings held up by marble pillars. The space sprawls onwards, almost like fields. It would be impossible for Jaskier to play alone, and be heard by everyone. But he gives it a fair go.

Jaskier looks like he belongs there. A begrudging smile pulls at the corner of Geralt’s lip, threatening to show itself. He does his best to school his expression. Jaskier would never let him live it down if he saw that Geralt was actually enjoying himself.

Well, that’s not entirely true. He hasn’t so much as glanced at the dancing nobles in the middle of the grand hall. He’s fairly certain that a diplomat and her sister, or cousin, or daughter, have been talking to him for the past ten minutes; but he hasn’t taken in a single word.

After each song, Jaskier takes a moment to himself, looking out on to the applauding crowd. Geralt’s chest tightens. Stop, he has to keep telling himself. If he could shake the feeling away, he doesn’t know if he would. There was never any good in his life. Fleeting bed-partners came and went, as did faint flames of romances. This is different. A feeling churns his stomach and just won’t settle; simultaneously setting fire to his bones and making him shiver, as if a winter’s wind caught him off guard.

It’s frightening.

Jaskier looks at him first. After each song, he’ll seek out Geralt’s eyes from across the room, before smiling at him. Geralt can’t get over the fact that Jaskier’s eyes are so pale. Grey, with specks of blue in them. The golden lighting of the hall doesn’t do them any justice. Geralt lifts his chin in acknowledgement. Jaskier winks – a fucking wink – and moves on to the next song.

By the time the music finishes, gods’ know how many hours have passed. Geralt watches with some faint feeling of pride when those who had been dancing offer the first claps of applause, shouting for another couple of songs.

Nobles sitting alongside Geralt join in.

The most vocal of them sits in the centre. “Marvellous!” the king applauds, looking to each person beside him. “Wasn’t he just marvellous?”

There’s fevered agreement. Geralt watches it out of the corner of his eye, but ultimately settles for taking a long sip of wine. Jaskier holds his lute close to his chest, bowing his head in thanks. When he looks over to Geralt again, Geralt inclines his head. Well done. Because fuck if Jaskier is going to get a verbal praise out of him.

It’s enough for the bard. He places his hand on his heart and smiles. The minstrels that had accompanied him disperse back into the crowd, pulled into groups of chattering dignitaries. Geralt watches as Jaskier tries to navigate the room, serving between people, heading straight for the head table.

Because of where Geralt is, he’s the first person the bard seeks out. Up close, Geralt spies that the bard’s skin is speckled with sweat. And he seems slightly out of breath. Then again, Jaskier is never happy to just sing; insisting on dancing around the room whenever he can, getting a crowd going. The man is still so skinny, and Geralt has to wonder if that’s why.

Jaskier puts a hand on the back of Geralt’s chair. He tries not to shudder at the feeling of knuckles pressing into his back. The last time they had so much as brushed against each other had been before the doors to the hall opened, and they were both swept away to different sides of the room. Now, Geralt’s grip on his goblet tightens.

“Well, you big brute, did you enjoy yourself?” Jaskier leans down to Geralt. His eyes go to the man’s goblet, and must-see how white his knuckles have turned, because the grin that spreads across his face is just chaotic.

Geralt huffs. Jaskier plays his games. Geralt plays his own. “I didn’t want to throw myself off of the parapets, if that’s what you’re asking.”

The noblelady beside him balks slightly. Geralt grins. Something mirrored by the bard. “The highest of praise,” Jaskier marvels, patting Geralt’s shoulder. The touch scalds his skin, even through the layers of nice, formal clothes he had been almost-bribed to wear.

The king beckons him over. As Jaskier brushes Geralt’s back, moving towards the king, he lets his fingers trail over Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt tries his best to swallow a low growl.

A slight flourish of air signals that Jaskier has moved away. A scent follows, trailing along and skimming the bottom of Geralt’s nose. He allows himself to breathe it, for a moment. The air inside the grand hall had steadily become heavy with the scent of drink and food and sweat. Even when the tall lancet doors were open, leading out on to a large balcony looking over the city, the sea breeze wafting in couldn’t entirely chase the harsh scent away.

But what’s here now is different. All consuming.

Geralt looks over to Jaskier, sliding into a place made for him by the king’s side. 

Honey. Nutmeg. A slight trace of orange blossom. It’s a scent that coils around his chest and spreads along his veins, easing his muscles. For the first time during the entire night, the world around him all fades away.

Jaskier makes idle conversation with the king. What it’s about, Geralt isn’t entirely sure. Blood rushes through his ears, sounding like the crashing ocean outside, battering the nearby cliffs as the moon churns the sea.

He catches Geralt’s gaze out of the corner of his eye. Without turning fully away from the king, a loose, content smile curls along the bard’s lips. Geralt all but balks. He knows that smile – one that’s always painted over his bard’s face after nights spent together. One that he sees either before falling into bed, shortly after, or even in the morning hours.

One that is being sent his way, in front of the lords and ladies of gods know where, in front of an elite family. In front of other people who had been drafted to come to this event, all surely looking towards their table, seeing what the king thinks of the bard who performed all night.

Geralt schools his expression; a hard thing to do, when the grip on his goblet becomes so much, he worries vaguely about distending it.

That little siren—

Geralt, in his long life, has weathered some tough situations. But the walk back from the castle’s keep to their lodgings is definitely up there.

It doesn’t help at all that Jaskier, under a guise of being merry – the King just kept offering me drink, Geralt. I can’t turn him down! – all but drapes against his side. Their fingers brushed on the walk over, knuckles skimming each other, until Geralt tried outstretching his fingers to try and catch Jaskier’s. When the bard took it upon himself to press against Geralt’s side, one arm was flung loosely around his shoulders, while a hand placed itself on Geralt’s chest. Geralt tried biting back a growl when that particularly hand slipped underneath Geralt’s shirt, fingers skimming across his chest.

The temptation is there – stalking around in his brain. All he would have to do is drag Jaskier into a nearby street; a small alleyway where the guards aren’t patrolling, and one that they won’t even glance down. But gods, Jaskier would complain. We are not doing this like back-alley whores, Geralt. He can already hear the man’s voice in his head.

But he does hear something. He’s been playing with the man since stepping into that fool’s palace, casting glances and smirks across the grand hall, turning away coyly when Geralt wants to curse him out.

The inn is quiet. Stepping inside, Geralt is slightly surprised to find only a couple of men are posted by the bar keep’s counter. Another handful are by the hearth, mugs of mead in hand, chatting quietly among themselves. It’s a change from the inns and taverns that line country roads, which never seem to sleep. They walk straight through the tavern, with Jaskier nodding what seems to be a goodnight to the woman gathering plates around the room. But no one else even lifts their head. The hearth still crackles. Men slouched in chairs in front of it still discuss what road they’re going to take in the morning to their next destination. The lady who owns the tavern finishes putting away the polished tankards.

When they reach their room – upstairs, with a lancet window looking out on to the town – Geralt barely lets the door close behind them before he has Jaskier pushed up against it. The bard laughs, almost giggles; something smothered when Geralt catches his face in between his hands, bringing them together in a heated kiss.

Nimble fingers work at the laces of Geralt’s shirt. The top of it had been undone for a few hours now. The grand hall had been warm, and Geralt was done with Jaskier’s coy games. He could play them too. Jaskier breaks from the kiss, resting his forehead against Geralt’s. “You should have just taken the fucking shirt off,” he groans. “You were already halfway there with how much of your chest was out during that feast. Honestly Geralt, you need to work on your modesty.”

Geralt tries to catch Jaskier’s lips again, but the bard pulls back, focused on getting at least one article of clothing off of the other man. Geralt could help. Of course he could. His hands aren’t doing anything; keeping hold of Jaskier’s neck and head. But there’s something thrilling about how he can feel Jaskier’s heartbeat through the hand on his neck.

“Everyone was too busy looking at you,” he replies instead, freeing one hand to momentarily skim down Jaskier’s side.

The bard scoffs. “Are you going to be pissy about it?” With the last of the shirt laces undone, Jaskier makes quick work of wrestling it up and off of the man. Jaskier finally kisses him again, looping his arms loosely around the span of Geralt’s shoulders. “Whenever I looked for you, you had the same sulk on your face as always. What’s wrong? Did you not like all the attention being on me for once?”

He’s playing again, Geralt thinks. He’s egging you on. “If you really want to know,” he says lowly, undoing the buttons of Jaskier’s doublet. Peeling it back and off, Geralt sets his lips and teeth against the length of the bard’s neck. He hides a smirk into the skin when Jaskier’s head tilts to one side: when his breathing starts to falter and hitch. “I’ve never been prouder.”

Suddenly, the bard’s hands are on his shoulders, and Geralt is wrenched back from Jaskier. “What?” the bard balks.

I can play your game too, you siren. Geralt sets his chin. “You were in your element. I spent the night watching people singing along with you, dance to your songs. I had to endure endless praises said by a king and his court.”

Geralt returns to Jaskier’s neck – at a slight loss, since he wants to watch the bard’s eyes go even wider at the praise. But the bard’s skin is still steeped in sweet notes of honey and nutmeg, and Geralt can’t find it in himself to part with it just yet.

Jaskier’s mouth opens and closes. For the first time in a long time, nothing actually comes out in the way of words. Instead, his breath catches when Geralt’s hands find their way underneath his shirt, tracing fingers along his bare sides. A shiver ricochets throughout Jaskier’s body. The arms around Geralt’s neck tighten, keeping him pressed firmly against the bard’s front. Truth be known, Geralt doesn’t know how long they stay there; pressed against the door, bodies moving against each other while hands wander, pulling at clothing and pawing skin. It could be a couple of seconds. It could be hours. The distant hum of people downstairs and walking in the hallway outside fade away entirely, until the only sounds that Geralt can hear are the crackling of the hearth and soft groans wrenching from Jaskier’s throat.

Wealthy towns mean wealthy inns; an ever-burning hearth with chopped wood nearby, plush beds stuffed with goose feathers, and quilted blankets and furs folded by the end. Geralt guides them across the room, until Jaskier’s knees hit the foot of the bed, and they pull each other down.  The bard huffs against Geralt’s lips, pulling away for a second to press his forehead against the other man’s. He looks down as Geralt pulls at the laces of his shirt. Within seconds, because his Witcher moves fast, it’s flung across the room. Out of sight, out of mind. “Tell me this,” he says. Geralt hides a smirk into the centre of Jaskier’s chest at how breathless his bard sounds already. “Do all Witchers have a thing for smells, or is it just the one I’ve got?”

Teeth nip at Jaskier’s side.

The bard presses on. “Don’t get me wrong, I like nice smells as much as the next person,” he says, carding his fingers through Geralt’s hair. Recently washed, and pulled back into its normal, simple tie, he delights as it comes undone. “But you seem to really like it.”

It’s still there; honey, nutmeg, and orange blossom. Although it’s faded, in the hours since bathing, replaced with tones of wine and sweat, Geralt can still find traces of it in the pores of the bard’s skin. Geralt’s lips trail downwards. His fingers make quick work of getting Jaskier out of his breeches. Another scent seeps into the air; one he’s quite fond of. He’s grown used to the sharp smell of sex; bedrooms of taverns tended to reek of it, no matter how many times sheets were washed and mattresses are turned. But there’s something different about scenting it on Jaskier. The bard has a very particular smell, one that Geralt has come to know over their time together. With Jaskier bared in front of him, Geralt loops his arms underneath the bard’s legs, and tugs him closer. Setting his mouth into the groove of Jaskier’s hip, Geralt breathes. “I like this better.”

Jaskier gives a half-laugh. It dies completely at the familiar feel of lips against skin. “I can’t go around smelling of sex all day, Geralt. What will people think?”

Geralt hums. “Nothing they don’t already assume with the rumours they used to spread about you.”

“Geralt.”

“If anything, I think it’ll only prove them right.”

“You’re not funny.”

It should bother him: how familiar they are with each other. How well both of them can map out each other’s bodies, find where they’re most vulnerable to lips or teeth or touch. It should bother him how well Jaskier knows his mind, and how their usual banter continues into an act like this. Sex had never been like this with anyone else. Not even the more serious of his lovers in the past, the ones where he felt sparks in his veins. But Jaskier is like an inferno, setting his body on fire, and never fully being put out. It should bother him. And yet it really doesn’t.

Gentle hands running over his shoulders bring him back. “Everything alright down there?”

Geralt looks up. Pillows piled up against the headboard help the bard sit up slightly. Geralt can’t help but imagine him as some sort of regent, reclining and observing. Geralt lets his hands wander down the outside of Jaskier’s legs. He presses one last kiss to the join of the bard’s hip and leg. It’s not where Jaskier needs him. He knows that. Some part of him delights in watching the other man squirm: how he’ll try and shift his hips slightly, urging Geralt to put his mouth somewhere fucking useful—

“You’re being cruel.” Jaskier frowns down at him with all the power of a child not getting what they want.

Geralt hums. “Am I?” He moves past the man’s length, all but missing it completely, to worry skin of the other side of Jaskier’s hip.

The bard groans, letting his head fall back against the pillows. “And obtuse.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jaskier squirms. He’s strong; something not many people know about him. The bard isn’t completely helpless. But at the same time, Geralt has little to no trouble in catching writhing legs and hips, and holding them down to continue doing whatever it was he was doing not a couple of seconds before.

But Jaskier’s top half is free. Geralt looks up for a second, watching the bard reach for the bottle of oil they have on the bedside table. He frowns slightly. He doesn’t remember fishing it out of Roach’s bags, which means that Jaskier took it inside. And Jaskier left it on the bedside table, for all the world to see.

And Jaskier definitely knew that they would come back to the tavern and fall into bed together.

He flings the bottle down towards Geralt, almost knocking the Witcher’s head with it. “If you’re going to spend the rest of your days down there, could you at least do something useful?” Jaskier huffs, sitting back on his elbows.

“This is useful,” Geralt replies easily. For all their games – for all the times he prods and pokes fun at his bard, because it’s genuinely amusing – he does take pity. Searching blindly for the bottle, Geralt adds a couple of more bruises to Jaskier’s hip. “There’s no point in rushing things. We have all night. And tomorrow morning.”

Uncapping the glass bottle, the smell of oil suddenly enters the room. It’s not entirely unpleasant, but it’s not his favourite thing in the world. It’s heavy, almost smothering, as it coats the roof of Geralt’s mouth. He coats his fingers, making sure that there’s enough left behind because, for all people say about Witcher’s and their stamina, the same could be said about Jaskier. And he will want something akin to a second round in the morning hours.

Jaskier’s head falls back against the pillows as Geralt’s finger traces his hole. Geralt lifts his lips from Jaskier’s hip, watching intently as he slips one finger in; humming when there’s no resistance at all.

A groan echoes through Jaskier’s entire body. “There you go,” he sighs, “another.”

Geralt gladly obliges, after a time. He likes taunting his bard. There’s a humour shared between the two of them that he doesn’t have with anyone else. But eventually, it always leaves when they get a bit too close. When something else takes its place. They’ll still share breath when joined, and Jaskier will always loose a content little giggle into Geralt’s neck once they’ve finished. But right now, it’s not the time.

A second finger joins the first. And Jaskier’s body starts to squirm again. Geralt runs a hand over the man’s flank. Beneath his hand, gooseflesh bubbles to the surface. Geralt takes his time, coaxing muscle loose and making sure that nothing ever hurts Jaskier in any way. He returns to the bard’s neck, tracing his lips along the tendon that stands out whenever Jaskier tries to swallow back moans. The second that he runs his nose along it, though, Jaskier gasps. “I appreciate – fuck – I appreciate your attentiveness Geralt but – for fuck sake – get on with it, please.”

A third finger slips in. Geralt hums against Jaskier’s stomach, watching how his body seemingly recognises his partner’s touch, parting for him easily. Geralt turns his hand slightly, curling his fingers, searching and feeling out for something. He knows he has found it when a hand slaps against his shoulder. Geralt smirks: the bard’s fingers coil over the meat of his shoulder, nails pressing into skin. “For fuck sake,” Jaskier groans at the ceiling, “are you going to torture me all night?”

A gentle kiss is pressed to Jaskier’s stomach. “Maybe,” Geralt hums, tracing the pads of his fingers gently over the spot, relishing in how his bard both wants to squirm away from the overstimulation, and grind his hips back on to his hand. “You do look good lain out like this.”

“I’d look even better with you fucking me,” Jaskier bites, looking down at an entirely all-too-smug Witcher. His eyes narrow. “So get to it.”

“Bossy little bastard, aren’t you,” Geralt says, leaning up to catch Jaskier’s lips in his own. He has them for a brief moment, before the bard pulls away with a huff, pressing his head back into the pillow when Geralt’s fingers brush against his prostate again.

“I spent an age bathing and getting nice for you. Not to mention how much time I spent riling you up in the king’s halls,” Jaskier all but huffs. Geralt smiles, sitting back on his haunches. With the Witcher not covering him anymore, a slight chill trails over Jaskier’s bare skin. Even with the hearth blazing, he feels cold. “The least you can do is actually follow through with those bedroom eyes you were sending me all night.”

Geralt cleans his hand on the far corner of the bed. Hooded eyes watch him make quick and deft work with the laces of his breeches. His boots are lost to the room, toed off at some point on their journey from the door to the bed. Gods only know where they are. “If you had the patience to spend all that time playing coy,” Geralt smirks, slipping his breeches off and flinging them on to the floor, “then you can wait a few more minutes until we’re ready.”

Geralt returns, and Jaskier feels warm again. Kisses litter his torso: lips either barely brushing skin at all, or wet presses along the ridges of his collarbone and ribs. It’s lovely. It really is. But Geralt feels another objection from the bard coming when his shoulder is lightly smacked.

“I’ll find someone else,” Jaskier groans.

“Right.”

“I will,” he bites, “someone downstairs will take better care of my needs.”

“I’m sure they will.”

It’s always in jest. Well, it’s always in jest when it’s between them. Geralt knows that it’s his bed that Jaskier lies in, that he’ll always come back to. Jaskier knows the same. He can joke with his bard about his past affairs – since there probably isn’t a town in the continent that hasn’t been saved from Jaskier’s past romances. It’s never a joke when it’s someone else; when someone in an inn or tavern, or drunkard stumbling out of a brothel at night, seeing them walk by. It’s never a joke when those people say it.

Geralt finds his place again, Jaskier’s legs parted and framed around him. He hovers over the bard, leaning on his arms, placed on either side of Jaskier’s head. They can be close, that way. Geralt kisses him again, humming as he feels Jaskier pull his hair free of its tie, and runs his fingers through the strands. When they part, it’s only a fragment. Their lips brush and their noses are set against the other’s. Any scorn that the bard had been feeling not a couple of moments ago has seeped away. Jaskier’s fingers trail from Geralt’s hair, to his temples, down along the ridges of his cheekbones and coming to a rest along his jaw, mapping out lines. “I’m yours,”

“And you’re mine,” Geralt agrees, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

Their joining now is just as intense as it had been during their first. Many moons ago, aided by blood humming slightly with ale and a warm bed, when the first brush of naked skin set them both alight. Geralt buries his face into Jaskier’s neck, the urge to bite the skin there rising, but he thinks better against it. If his bard has been this tightly strung all night, best not to let go of the string.

Jaskier’s legs wrap around his waist, with his feet poised at the small of his back. The movement jostles Geralt slightly, wrenching a small groan from both of them. Either one of them could finish early. The night’s tension all rushes upon them now. Geralt nips at the join of Jaskier’s shoulder and neck. “Alright?”

“Very much so,” Jaskier sighs, head tilted back and eyes staring straight up at the ceiling. They roll back at the first slide of Geralt in him: a slow draw back and push forward, the tentative first movement, and a quiet question of is this okay?

Finding no reason to stop, Geralt moves faster and deeper into the body below him. Jaskier all but moulds himself to Geralt’s frame, arms draped over and crossed around his shoulders and back, keeping their chests flushed together. Even with several nights of lying together behind them – so many that Geralt has stopped keeping track – it still surprises him how quickly a coil of heat starts to wind around his core.

Jaskier turns his head, moaning into the pillow. “There,” he gasps at a well-placed thrust, “there, there, keep going.”

There are things people say about Geralt that don’t hold an ounce of truth. Usually, it’s the whole Witcher thing. People will make up all kinds of rumours and beliefs, and stand by them, to justify distrust and hate. Other things are frivolous – like how he is as a lover. Jaskier thought some of them, at one point. One of the prevailing beliefs being that Geralt was going to be rough and coarse, and the entire thing would leave him unable to walk the next day. And while some times the latter is true, Geralt has never once bore teeth and nail to Jaskier – unless he explicitly asked for it, of course. Geralt is attentive; he reaches blindly for one of Jaskier’s thighs, hoisting it higher up Geralt’s torso just so he can get deeper. It wrenches something caught between a moan and yell from the bard.

It’s always for Jaskier.

Geralt wants to watch. He wants to see the bard’s face and body, but he presses his nose against Jaskier’s skin instead, drawing in a lungful of sweet and salty scents. It sends a thrum of pleasure down his spine.

“Geralt,” Jaskier gasps. His nails dig into the flesh of Geralt’s back. “Geralt, please. I’m close.”

“You can come for me without my help,” Geralt pulls away from Jaskier’s neck, but keeping his face close to the other man’s. “Can’t you, my little lark?”

Jaskier’s eyelids flicker closed. “Geralt-” The bard body tightens around him, and for a brief moment, all Geralt sees is white. Their foreheads knock gently together as Jaskier comes, holding on to Geralt for dear life as wetness shoots between them.

A choked groan wrenches out of Geralt’s throat. It’s all too much, the tight heat and the scents encircling him, and the fact that it’s Jaskier. With one last hard thrust, he stills, emptying himself into Jaskier. The bard moans, shifting his hips slightly. The legs around Geralt’s waist tighten, keeping the man pressed close.

Some sort of whine leaves Jaskier’s throat when Geralt manages to pull away from the bard. With whatever energy is left in him, Geralt uses it to avoid falling down directly on to the body beneath him. Instead, he moves on to one side of the bed, but keeping Jaskier within an arm’s reach.

Jaskier peers down at himself. They should bathe. But bathing would mean going in search of the tavernkeep and asking for hot water. It would involve them moving and putting clothes on. The idea is quickly thrown out the window. It’ll be a problem for the morning.

Both of them lie there for a time, content to catch their breaths. Sweat cools, and soon, Jaskier starts to shiver slightly. Even with the hearth, it’s not enough. Their legs are still joined, entangled, keeping them tethered to each other. The very thought of having to move away, even just for a second, makes Jaskier’s heart clench.

But they do move after a time, albeit, just shuffling around slightly to lie facing each other.

“For all the grumbling you did on our journey here,” Jaskier says, reaching out to brush some strands of white hair back from Geralt’s face, “we had a lovely time in this city, don’t you think?”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s eyelids droop close. Jaskier moves to fetch the linen sheets, kicked down towards the foot of the bed. When he drapes them over their bodies, Geralt shuffles slightly, throwing an arm loosely around Jaskier’s waist, tugging him closer.

Jaskier pillows his head on one arm, pale blue eyes scanning over the Witcher’s face. He’s mapped every inch of it in their time together; the ridges of cheekbones, the small scars on his temple, how his eyes, although they stay that amber colour, can change to different shades depending on what mood he’s in. Jaskier smiles. “Thank you,” he says softly. “For coming here with me.”

Geralt hums. His eyes remain closed, but from his breathing alone, Jaskier knows he’s not asleep. Though, he could very well be teetering on the edge. “I was hardly going to let you go alone,” he rasps. “Gods know what kind of trouble you would have gotten yourself into.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t to watch me perform?” Jaskier smiles, something hidden into his arm. But his eyes crease with how widely the smile spreads. “Since you had such nice words for me when we got back.”

“Did I?”

“You complimented me, Geralt.”

“That doesn’t sound like something I’d do. You have me confused with someone else.”

Jaskier pokes his side. “No, I vividly remember you saying that you were proud of me. Seeing me in my element, as you put it.”

“Go to fucking sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt mumbles. The words are mostly lost into the cotton cover of the pillow, but he feels Jaskier shift slightly, finally settling after a couple of minutes.

The town outside sleeps, except for the patrols of mounted guards that pass every half an hour or so. Horses’ hooves echo along the cobbles outside. If he strains, he can hear the guards chattering amongst themselves. There are other sounds too; the crackle of burning wood in the hearth, the groaning of boards in the tavern’s walls as the night begins to cool. All sounds that Geralt tries not to listen to. He turns his head, burying his nose into Jaskier’s mop of hair.

It’s still there. Traces of it, clinging on to his skin for dear life, but Geralt fills his lungs with honey and nutmeg and orange blossom. The mattress seems to part for him as he sinks into it, holding the bard’s body close, and letting sleep wash over him.

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[universal-vibe]

My Healer

Getting to Know You

Warnings: a think a swear, lack a proof read

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: - :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: - :･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: - :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: - :･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: - :･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: - :･ﾟ✧

To say that the first few days of resting and healing were slow to Geralt would be an understatement. He had to sit through Jaskier’s fiddling around with stings on his lute while coming up with his next ballad. He had to make (Y/N) feed him for two nights in a row in almost awkward silence was more than degrading.

It was the start to the fourth day and Geralt had about enough. He flung the covers off his body to see the cloth bandage wrapped around his torso. He began to slowly sit up. His body felt sore but enough strength to get himself around. Geralt stood up and started to slowly stalk over to wear the side stables were in the house. He had heard some shuffling and a distant voice so he made his way over.

You were tending to your horse, Spyrum (pronounced Spy-Rum), as well as the horse you know as Roach that followed his owner here. Roach winnied and stomped her hoof down, seemingly looking past you. You turned to see the witcher standing at the door frame. You just gave a smile, “I’m glad to see you up and moving. Seems my work was not in vain.”

Geralt tilted his head, a low ‘hmm’ leaving his throat. “You knew I was going to be fine by now, didn’t you.” He said it as more of a statement than a question.

“I extended the time. Wanted to make sure you stayed in bed healing as long as you could handle. Your type is always so restless,” a smirk graces your lip before turning back to Spyrum, petting his muzzle.

Geralt looked slightly shocked. Have you seen other witchers before? Witchers from his home? “And what is my type?” looking at the back of your head expectantly.

“Hunters. Warriors. Fighters. They are all the same,” turning back to look at him, the smile having not left your face, “always itching to get moving and back into the fray.” You pat your horse goodbye as you walk towards Geralt and the door. “Now how about I draw you a bath. I cleaned all I could but you were lying down, unconscious, and you aren’t a light man.” A giggle leaves your mouth as you look up at him. It takes Geralt a moment to register your words. He’s not used to such hospitality from strangers but then nods. You flash him another smile as he moves aside to let you in. Geralt watches you walk into the room with the bath while his mind wanders. He doesn’t sense any bad intent. He couldn’t even smell fear on you. All he could smell was a calming scent of apples and lavender. You certainly have Geralt’s attention and curiosity now.

Days started to pass as Geralt recovered. Jaskier telling stories of adventures he had with Geralt while the witcher tried to correct the bard he was shut down by the other man. You were enjoying it, laughing at some stories like the story of how the two met, how the time Geralt was covered in Silkiemaw guts and the story about he was attacked by a djinn. You, telling your own stories. Geralt also helping you with feeding and brushing your horses.

That late afternoon you are starting to cook again for the boys. Geralt had walked in, now in his usual casual clothes. He wound now only becoming a pink scar on his side. He walks over to the table in the middle of the room and sits down. Jaskier is sitting a seat away from his witcher friend. There is a long pause before you look over your shoulder at white-haired man. His golden feline eyes focused on your own (e/c). You can almost hear his thoughts from across the room so you give him a simple before turning back around towards the meat you were cooking.

“Is there something you want to ask me? I can practically hear your thoughts from here.” Your teasing tone reaches Geralt and he actually gives a small smile. He has noticed these couple days that you are quite perceptive and sometimes blunt.

“What do you do? As much it might seem like this is your house the strong scent of others suggest otherwise.”

You smile to yourself. You should have known that a witcher could pick up such scents. You simply replied back, “I’m a traveling healer. I go from town to town, helping those in need and giving the poorer people some proper attention.” You begin to set down the plates of meat in front of the men. Jaskier gave a hearty ‘thank you’ before digging, watching the exchange in front of him while Geralt just gave a nod of gratitude. You sat across the two men, continuing your story. “This house, however, is actually owned by a weather family. They have a few homes scattered across the continent that they allow me to stay in.”

“What did you do? Save their child?” Jaskier asks with a full mouth.

You let out a chuckle, “actually it was the mother. Saved her from dying while she gave birth.” A fond smile crosses your face as you look at the home around you, chewing your food. “Luckily I was in town. They were very generous people. I have them to thank for some nights not spending my coin on Taverns. Healing doesn’t come with good pay all the time.” You shake your head from the thoughts before looking between both men, “I was actually planning on leaving as soon as our witcher heals and is well enough to fight.” 

Jaskier smiles, standing up, “well I think I have had enough of singing and wooing hearts so I will retire for the night.” He turns and does a small bow towards you, “Goodnight, (Y/N).” 

“Pleasant dreams, Jaskier.”

Then passing Geralt with a pat on the broader man’s shoulders. “Night, Geralt.”

Geralt gives a gruff ‘hmm’ as you both watch the bard retire to his bedchamber. He then hears you heave a sigh before grabbing all the finished plates and start to scrub them clean. Geralt keeps his eyes on you, examining your movements. Geralt having a thought invades his mind like it always had for the past week and a half. “You know who I am, don’t you.” You turn to see the man staring at you with what seemed to be a scowl etched into his face. You just give him a nod in response. “Then why haven’t you said anything about the ‘White Wolf’ ‘The Butcher of Blaviken’ in your home?”

Fully turning your body towards him as you lean against to counter behind you. “For two reasons actually.” “One. With my experience and a few black eyes along the way-” chuckling the last part out in amusement as Geralt smirked. “-I know that waking up to a stranger who knows your name isn’t the comfiest feeling to wake up to.” You looked at the witcher in front of you then you began your second point. “And two. Fame isn’t always welcomed or wanted and from what I see is that you didn’t choose whether to be famous or not.” Your tone turned more serious as the two of you stared at each other. 

You could only imagine all the things that have been said to and being talked about to this man sitting in your home. “My job as a healer is to help and ease my patients, if that means giving them space and letting them relax then so shall it be.” You pushed yourself off the counter as you stretched, “Welp. I’m going to sleep for the night.” You walked to his side, “you should rest too. I think you have one more day till you’re fully recovered.” You pat Geralt’s shoulder before heading to your room not before turning back to look at him. “Goodnight, Geralt.” Your voice was now soft as you gave him a genuine smile.

Geralt nodded, “Goodnight, (y/n).” Geralt soon went to his own room as he watched you leave for the night. The thought of leaving without you made something in him sink, you were patient with him. Though at times you were poking a prodding but it was only for his well being. He was going to sleep on these feelings and hope tomorrow they will either leave or have figured themselves.

The morning came and Geralt was already up, dressed and packed, waiting for Jaskier to get ready. He could smell you before you walked into the room. Your comfy attire changed to more travel like clothes. Brown leather boots, a cream colored long sleeve with a leather vest over top. A belt to hold all your remedies and supplies. You saw Geralt and your eyes lit up as you smiled towards the white-haired. “Well good morning, Geralt. I see you slept well?” The man just hums in response but it was enough for you as you started to pack up the things you needed to get on your way.

The morning was comfortably silent as you  both basked in the last of each other’s presence. Jaskier then came out of his room with vigor as he shouted a good morning to what seemed to be the world. Geralt groaned and you laughed at the witcher as you finished packing everything. “And good morning to you too, Jaskier.” A tease in your tone which the bard smiled at but his smile became melancholy as the three of you made it outside with the horses.

“I don’t know how to thank you enough for your wonderful service. Here is payment for your service.” Jaskier went to hand you some coins but you pushed it back towards him as you shook your head.

“I need no payment. Both of your companies have been brilliant and can ask for nothing greater.” Geralt raised an eyebrow at you as Jaskier dropped his jaw but before he could speak you continued, “Save that coin for the next time you need to heal him. I have no doubt he gets himself in a heap of trouble already.” picking yourself up over Spyrum you gave both men a smile, “now take care. I hope to see you again, this time unharmed.” A laugh is what you left as you slowly started to trot away.

Geralt starred as you started to leave before he dropped his head. “Fuck,” he muttered before her jumped on Roach and trotted to ride beside you. Jaskier shouting to his friend in the background. You looked at Geralt, at the golden feline eyes that stared at you back. “We don’t you stay with us?” You stopped your horse in shock as Geralt stopped as well. He looked at you expectantly. “You said it yourself, I get in plenty of trouble as it is. Why not come with?”

At this point Jaskier has made it to you both. Hearing the last bit of the conversation. “Geralt is certainly right. I am actually quite tired of stitching his wounds at this point plus we loved your company more than enough.”

Your surprised face grew into a smile, hearing the words of the two men you have grown close with. “I would love to.” 

Jaskier cheered while Geralt gave a satisfied grunt. “Now Geralt, being the wonderfully agitated type, doesn’t let me ride Roach so may I perhaps join you?” Jaskier questions with a small plea and happily obliged as the bard soon climbed behind you as the three of you rode off to the next town.

The adventure had only begun.

#geralt of rivia x reader geralt x reader x reader the witcher fanfic fanfic