Work Text:
“They what,” Geralt says.
“They - your bard - they said it was traditional,” the barmaid says bitterly.
“Traditionally it’s a virgin, and it doesn’t work anyway,” Geralt growls, dropping his bag of assorted potion ingredients and whirling. “Fuck - where?”
The barmaid points west. “There’s a hill outside town.”
“Thank you,” Geralt remembers to say - Jaskier would be proud - and then he’s shoving out the tavern door and sprinting west through the town, hissing curses between his teeth as he runs. The bard has survived inadvisable conversations with succubi, an entire night up a tree with a werewolf trying to get at him, and three years of Geralt’s own grouchiness - he can’t die now. He can’t.
There’s a stake atop the hill, stark against the sky, and a small brightly-colored figure tied to it. And in the sky above, circling curiously, the unmistakable silhouette of a wyvern.
It’ll land soon, Geralt knows. It’ll land, and find prey ready for it, and then -
No.
He finds reserves of speed somewhere, he’s not sure where, and goes up the hill at a charge that would put a racehorse to shame. And he’s still only halfway up when the wyvern makes up its mind that the struggling thing tied to the stake might be dinner, and swoops.
Geralt casts the strongest Aard he has ever managed, as strong as a young hurricane, and follows it with a shot of Igni that would not be out of place in Eskel’s hands. The wyvern screeches in shock and pain, flapping sideways, and Geralt thunders the rest of the way up the hill with a roar of elemental rage, skidding to a halt in front of Jaskier and yanking his silver sword out of its sheath.
“Geralt,” Jaskier gasps.
Geralt doesn’t have time to respond; the wyvern reorients itself and arrows towards him, correctly deducing that it will have to get through Geralt to get to the tasty brightly-colored treat awaiting it. Geralt snarls and braces himself. Like hell will the thing get to his bard. Over his dead body - and nothing’s managed to kill him yet.
He hasn’t had a chance to put ornithosaur oil on his blade, but silver and the strength of rage are enough. This isn’t the first wyvern he’s killed; he knows the movements without even really thinking about them, which is good, because he’s not thinking, consumed with fury and something that tastes uncomfortably like fear - not for himself, but for his bard, his friend, his Jaskier.
Swoop and dodge, strike and duck, Aard and Quen - it’s a dance, if dancing involved one’s partner trying very hard to turn one into dinner. Geralt cripples the wyvern with a blow that shreds one of its wings, twists out of the way of a bite, and takes the thing’s head halfway off with a swing so inelegant Vesemir would despair.
He should harvest the venom glands, probably, but he has never cared less about venom glands in his life. He drops his sword on the muddy grass and whirls to see Jaskier staring at him, blue eyes wide as the sky.
“Geralt,” Jaskier whispers. “You came for me.”
Geralt swallows hard and steps forward, lifting one hand to trace the slight swelling beneath one so-blue eye. “Someone hit you,” he rasps.
“Yes, well, apparently calling the alderman a weak-livered want-wit caused some hard feelings,” Jaskier says, with a shadow of his usual cocky smile.
“Jaskier,” Geralt sighs, and draws a dagger, slicing through the rope around Jaskier’s chest. Jaskier sags forward, not quite able to balance on his still-bound feet, and Geralt catches him gently and lowers him down to sit.
The rope around Jaskier’s legs has been pulled cruelly tight; Geralt cuts it away as carefully as he can, tugging the rough strands away and wincing at the drops of blood and the swelling around one ankle. And then Jaskier’s hands - the rope around his wrists is tied so tight that his fingers are almost white. Geralt cuts it away as fast as he can without cutting Jaskier, and rubs gently at each finger in turn as Jaskier hisses and tries not to flinch.
“Can you walk?” Geralt asks after a few minutes, once Jaskier is able to wiggle his fingers and curl them into loose fists.
“I’m not sure,” Jaskier says. “I think I may have sprained something.”
Geralt nods. “Just a moment,” he says, and goes over to collect his silver sword, cleaning it as quickly as he can and sheathing it again before returning to Jaskier’s side and scooping the bard up in his arms, cradling him close to his chest. Jaskier makes a startled little noise and goes very still for a moment, then relaxes, letting his head rest on Geralt’s shoulder.
“So, now what?” he asks.
“Now we get Roach and get out of here,” Geralt replies.
The townsfolk shrink away from his glare as he stomps back to the tavern. The barmaid is waiting nervously just outside, with a little pile of packs next to her - and Jaskier’s lute. “The alderman says you can’t stay here -” she says, giving a truly disdainful look to the tavern behind her.
“And didn’t even have the guts to tell us to our faces,” Jaskier observes, with a fine cutting scorn in his voice. “What a coward. I am going to write a really nasty song about him, I hope you realize this.”
The barmaid looks from Jaskier to Geralt and back again and shrugs. “I’d sing it.”
Geralt nods solemnly to her. “Thank you,” he says.
“I didn’t do much, sir.”
“More than anyone else did,” Geralt points out. She winces, just a little, and then a bellow from within the tavern summons her back in. She rolls her eyes, gives them a bobbing little curtsey, and darts away.
Geralt sets Jaskier down on a haybale in the shabby little stable for just long enough to tack Roach up and load their bags onto her, discovering as he does so that the barmaid has included Geralt’s bag of herbs and a small package of what smell like meat pies, gods all bless her, and then scoops his bard back up and leads Roach out of town. He could, perhaps, have put Jaskier on Roach, but - no. He can’t bear to have Jaskier out of arm’s reach right now. Even as far away as on horseback is too far.
He makes camp a good hour’s brisk travel from the awful little village, setting Jaskier down on a log and ordering him brusquely not to move, and once there’s a fire burning and Roach is happily champing away at a patch of grass, he gathers the few human-safe medicines he has in his packs and goes over to kneel beside Jaskier.
“Let me,” he says softly, and gathers Jaskier’s bad foot into his lap. Jaskier stares down at him in clear befuddlement as Geralt tugs his shoe carefully off, prods gently at the swelling and decides that it is, in fact, just a sprain, then smears a salve onto the scrapes the rope left behind and wraps the ankle tightly in a length of bandage.
“I...could have done that?” Jaskier ventures as Geralt puts his foot down and picks up the other. “I still can, I mean, if you just leave me the salve -”
“No,” Geralt says. He can’t quite find the words to explain that he - he needs to do this. He needs to know that Jaskier is safe, is cared for. Needs it to be his hands that mend the hurts those fools gave his bard.
“Alright then,” Jaskier says, sounding very confused, but he lets Geralt salve and bandage his less-injured foot without any further objection. Geralt lowers it to the ground again once he’s satisfied that all the scrapes are covered, and reaches for Jaskier’s hands.
The scrapes on Jaskier’s wrists are worse than the ones on his ankles, mostly, Geralt is guessing, because Jaskier kept fighting the ropes. His bard would have kept trying to escape right until the wyvern got there, Geralt expects, and probably gotten a few good kicks in on the way down the monster’s throat.
His indomitable bard.
Geralt ties the bandage off carefully and, on an impulse he can neither name nor explain, bows his head and presses his lips to the clean linen. Above him, Jaskier sucks in a sharp breath.
“Geralt,” he whispers.
“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and looks up to see Jaskier’s eyes blown wide and dark, his mouth hanging open just a little.
“I,” Jaskier says, and then sniffs hard and pulls his hand away to scrub roughly at his cheeks. “Fuck, Geralt, first you come and save my sorry ass and now you’re being so nice - if you don’t want me to finish falling in love with you, you’d better say something right now.”
Geralt reaches out to catch Jaskier’s still-unbandaged hand gently in his own, and starts spreading salve gently over the scrapes. He doesn’t say a word.
He’s assumed - well, he’s assumed Jaskier would grow weary of his company, his taciturn nature and lack of social graces. Would decide he has enough material for his songs and go back to Oxenfurt, or even back to Lettenhove to take his place as the next lord. Would leave, someday, as everyone else leaves.
But - finish falling in love with you. That doesn’t sound like Jaskier wants to leave, even after nearly being eaten by a wyvern. That sounds like Jaskier might be willing to stay.
Like Geralt might get to keep him.
He ties off the bandage and looks up at Jaskier, who is staring down at him, uncharacteristically silent. Very slowly, Geralt lifts Jaskier’s hand to his lips and presses a kiss, not to the bandages, but to the curve of Jaskier’s knuckles.
“My bard,” he murmurs. He’s never dared call Jaskier that out loud before - never dared call him mine.
Jaskier sucks in a sharp breath and licks his lips. “Your bard,” he agrees, voice rather shakier than it usually is, and then he musters a crooked little smile. “You did save me from a dragon, after all.”
Geralt huffs. “Wyverns aren’t dragons.”
“And I’m not a virgin princess, but the song will be an awful lot better with a few alterations.”
Geralt sighs and shakes his head. “Incorrigible.”
“Absolutely,” Jaskier agrees. “No corriges at all.”
“That’s not -” Geralt starts, and sees the mischief lurking in Jaskier’s eyes. “My bard is a holy terror.”
“Guilty as charged,” Jaskier says merrily, and then, moving very slowly like he’s worried Geralt will startle away at a sudden gesture, raises his hand to rest against Geralt’s cheek. “And what does a witcher do with his bard when he’s saved him from an ornithosaur, then?”
Geralt licks his lips and leans into Jaskier’s hand. “That depends on what his bard will let him do.” He wants - he wants a lot of things, but more than he wants his marks on Jaskier’s throat or his scent mingled so thoroughly with Jaskier’s that no one would be able to tell where one of then ends and the other begins, more than he wants the taste of Jaskier’s pleasure on his tongue or the sound of his voice raised in moans instead of song, more than any of that, he wants to keep Jaskier, and that means not doing anything to make him want to leave.
When he thought that Jaskier’s company was temporary, he almost tried to get his bard to go, hoping it would hurt less if he knew that Jaskier hadn’t had any reason to stay. But now that Jaskier is his, Geralt will go to very nearly any lengths to keep him.
“...Anything,” Jaskier whispers, holding Geralt’s gaze steadily. “His bard will let him have anything he wants.”
“That’s a dangerous offer,” Geralt rasps.
“Which is why I wouldn’t make it to anyone but you,” Jaskier replies softly.
“Fuck,” Geralt breathes, and surges up on his knees, cradling Jaskier’s face in his hands and pressing their lips together in a fervent, desperate kiss.
“That, certainly, yes,” Jaskier laughs into his mouth, and Geralt makes a rough, hungry noise and picks his bard up, rising to his feet just long enough to carry Jaskier over to their bedrolls and put him carefully down. Jaskier sprawls out as luxuriously as if the ground were a well-stuffed featherbed, smiling up at Geralt with such sheer joy in his expression that it takes Geralt’s breath away.
“Last chance,” Geralt whispers, sinking to his knees beside his bard. “If I have you, Julek, I will keep you.”
Jaskier’s breath catches, and for a moment Geralt thinks he’ll change his mind - will realize how foolish it is to give himself to a witcher of all people - and then Jaskier moans, soft and so full of eagerness that it hits Geralt like a blow. “Keep me,” Jaskier whispers. “Oh, Geralt, keep me, please.”
Geralt’s not a good enough person to refuse a plea like that.
He unwraps Jaskier like the priceless gift he is, peeling away brightly-colored silk and worn-soft linen to reveal the surprisingly sturdy lines of his bard. The fancy clothing does a marvelous job of concealing the fact that Jaskier is not a slightly-built man; is, in fact, nearly as broad across the shoulder as Geralt himself. It does a less marvelous job of concealing Jaskier’s abundant chest hair, but that is because Jaskier is a flirt without a single bone of propriety in his body and refuses to do his doublets up unless absolutely necessary.
Geralt has been carefully not looking for the better part of three years, but now - oh, now he can look his fill, the flickering firelight making Jaskier look almost otherworldly as he displays himself shamelessly for Geralt’s eyes. Geralt runs his fingers gently down the center of Jaskier’s chest, enjoying the slight tickle of hair, the softness of Jaskier’s skin. Jaskier shivers slightly, less from the cool evening air than from anticipation as far as Geralt can tell.
Very carefully, Geralt curls his fingers around Jaskier’s arms, leaving a generous few inches between his hands and the bandages around Jaskier’s wrist, and guides them up over Jaskier’s head, so Jaskier is stretched out below him, one long pale line of beautiful bard. “Keep them there, Julek,” he murmurs.
Jaskier laces his fingers together and nods, eyes wide and almost black in the firelight.
Geralt pounces.
Jaskier’s mouth is so soft and so pink and so tempting, and now Geralt does not have to resist the temptation; he can just give in, over and over again, until Jaskier is panting and moaning softly under him, breathless and flushed and so damn beautiful.
“And here I thought it was the dragon that was going to eat me whole,” Jaskier teases between kisses, and Geralt snorts and nudges Jaskier’s chin back so he can bite, not quite hard enough to break skin, on that bared throat. Jaskier makes a delicious little gasping noise and shudders, hard.
Geralt hums in satisfaction and licks the tender skin he’s just bitten. “My bard,” he murmurs. “Sing for me.”
“I feel like the virgin soloist in that very strange play -” Jaskier says, and then breaks off in a squeak when Geralt leans down to lick over his nipple. Geralt chuckles and does it again.
He’s heard Jaskier with enough other partners that he can deduce a fair number of the things the bard likes in bed; often, with a barmaid or fan of his music, Jaskier will demonstrate a remarkably filthy mouth, talking his partner through any number of obscene acts. So Geralt already knows that Jaskier likes biting, that he has absurdly sensitive nipples, that there’s a spot high on his ribs that makes him shudder and moan when Geralt nibbles at it. He knows to let his hair brush at the soft skin of Jaskier’s inner thighs as he nudges the bard’s legs apart, and grins to himself when Jaskier twitches and whimpers and keeps his hands firmly above his head.
“Good, Julek,” Geralt purrs, delighted all over again by the moan that draws from Jaskier’s throat, and licks a stripe up the very pretty prick in front of him. It’s not too thick, not too long - a lovely size, just perfect for being swallowed. So Geralt does.
“Ah holy fuck!” Jaskier warbles. “Fucking - mouth - how did I not know you know how to do this? How are you so - ah, fuck, fuck - so fucking good at it anyway?”
Geralt chuckles without letting Jaskier’s prick slide from his mouth, and is very pleased by the garbled wailing that earns him. He pins Jaskier’s hips down and bobs his head in long, easy motions, swallowing around the head of Jaskier’s prick, and revels in the sweet, desperate sounds his bard makes, the way Jaskier thrashes and tries to thrust up and doesn’t ever lower his hands. He wouldn’t have guessed Jaskier could be so obedient. Clearly it just requires the proper incentive.
This is not an incentive he minds providing, not at all.
“Tell me,” he murmurs, pulling away just far enough that his lips brush against Jaskier’s prick with every word, “how many times can you peak in a night, my Julek?”
“That is a - a very interesting and not at all terrifying question,” Jaskier says between great gulping breaths of air, “and the answer is that I don’t know precisely but I did manage four, once, over the course of a very long and extremely energetic night while I was at Oxenfurt, but that was several years ago and I’m not sure I could repeat the experience without fainting.”
“Hm,” Geralt says, thinking that causing his bard to actually swoon with pleasure would be fairly rewarding, but probably a project for a night they have a real bed.
“That is a very worrisome ‘hm,’ I’ll have you know,” Jaskier says rather shakily.
Geralt hums again, just to make Jaskier twitch, and then swallows Jaskier’s prick down again. Jaskier starts babbling pretty much immediately, incoherent repetitions of Geralt’s name and broken words of encouragement and praise, and Geralt closes his eyes and sinks into the pleasure of the act: the smell of Jaskier’s lust and sweat and eager happiness, the feel of Jaskier’s prick hot and heavy in his mouth, the taste of salt on his tongue, the beautiful broken notes of Jaskier’s voice rising in ecstasy.
Jaskier comes with a moan that’s nearly as musical as a song, and Geralt swallows and swallows and pulls away only when Jaskier has nothing more to give him. Jaskier is panting for breath, chest heaving, and making little whimpering noises deep in his throat; his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are closed, lashes dark against his skin, and he is so beautiful that Geralt wishes he knew how to paint, because a sight like this deserves to be immortalized.
“Beautiful,” he whispers, and Jaskier whimpers a little louder.
“You can’t just say things like that, Geralt,” he says weakly, blinking his eyes open and giving Geralt a rather dazed look. “I’ll start thinking you mean them.”
“I do,” Geralt says, very pleased when Jaskier makes an incoherent little noise and shudders. “My beautiful bard.”
Jaskier shudders again. “Fuck, Geralt. Are we sure you’re not the poet in this relationship?”
Geralt snickers and moves up to kiss Jaskier gently. “Very sure,” he says. “You have the cleverer tongue.” He strokes a thumb over Jaskier’s cheek. “Will you let me have your mouth, Julek?”
“Let you,” Jaskier says, rather indignantly. “I have been wanting to get my mouth on you since I met you, you dreadful man.”
Geralt laughs softly, and stands for just long enough to strip off his own clothing, very pleased by the way Jaskier’s eyes follow every movement, pupils blown wide with obvious desire. He takes just a moment to grab a vial out of his packs, dropping it beside their bedrolls on a convenient bit of moss. When he lies down again, Jaskier lets out a soft whine.
“Please let me touch,” he begs.
“Hm,” Geralt says. “No.”
“Geralt,” Jaskier starts, very indignantly, and Geralt laughs and gathers Jaskier close, rearranging him easily until Jaskier is on his hands and knees above him, his knees on either side of Geralt’s shoulders and his hands planted firmly on the bedroll beside Geralt’s hips.
Geralt wraps a hand around his own prick and tilts it up, away from his stomach, offering it to Jaskier. “Give me your mouth while I open you up, Julek,” he murmurs.
“Oh fuck,” Jaskier whispers, and then he licks, soft and teasing, over the head of Geralt’s prick.
“Jaskier,” Geralt rasps, and Jaskier looks down to meet his eyes and grins, bright and unrepentant. Geralt huffs a laugh despite himself.
“I need both hands to open you up for me,” he points out, and is vastly amused - and extremely flattered - when Jaskier immediately takes the head of his prick into his mouth, sucking eagerly. Geralt taps a finger against Jaskier’s nose to make the bard laugh and then reaches for the bottle of oil he left beside the bedrolls. It’s Jaskier’s, naturally - most of Geralt’s oils are meant for swords of the non-metaphorical type - an expensive olive oil from Nilfgaard which smells of nothing but the orchards where it was grown. Geralt rather likes the scent, actually.
He’ll like it better on Jaskier, he suspects. And sure enough, when he wets his fingers and presses one against the tender wrinkled skin of Jaskier’s hole, the earthy scent of the oil mixes very well indeed with the smell of Jaskier’s lust and the salt of his sweat. The sound Jaskier makes around his mouthful of Geralt’s prick is glorious, a sort of hybrid moan and plea that sends shivers down Geralt’s spine.
Jaskier’s tongue is clever at more than wordplay. Every movement of it makes Geralt want to thrust up into Jaskier’s mouth, to abandon his plans in favor of just rutting into that wet heat until he peaks -
But no. He has a plan.
His plan involves sliding a finger slowly and gently into Jaskier’s hole, grinning to himself when Jaskier whimpers around his prick. “You have done this before,” he checks. He hasn’t heard it - Jaskier usually chooses female lovers, and on the few occasions Geralt has seen him go off with a man, he’s gotten the distinct impression that their coupling consisted of mouths and hands and thighs and nothing more - but Jaskier opens for his finger so easily that Geralt is nearly sure this is not the first time he has allowed someone this particular privilege.
Jaskier lifts his head from Geralt’s prick long enough to reply, “Yes, several times, though I must admit never with someone of your generous endowments - although Priscilla did have a carved toy which was nearly so magnificent. But only nearly!”
Geralt chuckles. “Don’t worry about my pride,” he assures Jaskier, twisting his finger to press against the spot that makes Jaskier yelp in shocked pleasure. “I can fuck you much better than a wooden toy.”
“I have,” Jaskier says, and breaks off with a little cry as Geralt curls his finger again, “oh gods, Geralt, I have absolutely no doubt of that fact, fuck.”
Geralt hums in smug satisfaction and twitches his hips a little. “Put your mouth back where it belongs, bard,” he purrs, and Jaskier whimpers a little before ducking down to take Geralt’s prick back into his mouth and evidently trying to distract himself by sucking eagerly, tongue dancing in extremely pleasant patterns over the head. Geralt groans softly and reminds himself that he has a plan.
Said plan involves slipping another finger into Jaskier’s hole, slowly and carefully, and starting to stretch him open enough that when Geralt fucks him properly, there will be no pain at all, nothing but overwhelming pleasure for his precious, priceless bard.
He very nearly loses track of his plan several more times, as Jaskier has evidently decided to see if he can, in fact, fit all of Geralt’s prick down his throat - Geralt would be worried about Jaskier’s voice, but presumably the bard knows his own limits -
Wait, what is he thinking? This is Jaskier. Geralt lets go of Jaskier’s hip with his clean hand and reaches down to tug gently at Jaskier’s hair. “Not the whole thing, Julek,” he orders softly. “I won’t hurt you.”
Jaskier makes a garbled sound that Geralt suspects is the word Fuck as pronounced around a rather large prick, and his own cock, hanging neglected between them, twitches hard. Hm. Interesting.
“This winter,” Geralt says slowly, moving his fingers in a languid rhythm and letting Jaskier rock his hips at the same easy pace, “if you come with me to Kaer Morhen, you won’t need to sing for your supper. I can put you on your knees and fill your pretty throat, leave you hoarse for days if you want me to. But not now.”
Jaskier makes another garbled, desperate little noise and clenches down around Geralt’s fingers, and then actually pulls his mouth away from Geralt’s prick to rest his forehead in the hollow of Geralt’s hip and pant for breath for a moment. “You can’t just promise things like that,” he says rather plaintively. “Fuck, I’m not going to be able to think about anything else for months!”
“Poor Julek,” Geralt says, not very sympathetically. “Having to wait.”
“I don’t know what about me ever gave you the impression I was good at delaying gratification,” Jaskier grouses, which is far too articulate really, so Geralt slides his fingers out and returns with three. Jaskier makes a very pleasing little squeaking sound and shudders, hard. “Fuck, you have - you have very large fingers -”
Geralt hums and twists his fingers, feeling very smug indeed when Jaskier shivers again and presses back against them. Jaskier makes a little whimpering noise deep in the back of his throat and rather clumsily takes Geralt’s prick back into his mouth. The soft desperate noises he can’t seem to help making feel amazing against the head of Geralt’s prick.
It is a short and gloriously torturous eternity before Jaskier is loose enough for Geralt to add his fourth finger; the bard’s muffled sounds of pleasure are loud indeed in the late-afternoon stillness, and Geralt wonders what they’d sound like echoing off of the stone walls of his cozy little room in Kaer Morhen. Perhaps, depending on how well today goes, he will be given the opportunity to find out.
Which - Jaskier is loose enough that he ought to be able to take Geralt without any trouble, and Geralt is just about out of patience. There is a distinct limit to how long he can be expected to lie here surrounded by the scents and sounds of his bard falling apart with pleasure, with his bard’s too-clever mouth wrapped around his prick, without actually fucking the beautiful, clever, astoundingly brave young man who is, for some incomprehensible reason, willing to be Geralt’s. To be kept.
“Alright, Julek,” he murmurs, and draws his fingers out, and lifts Jaskier, helping him turn about until he’s kneeling over Geralt’s hips. Jaskier’s lips are very red and his eyes are very dark and he looks debauched and disheveled and delicious, like everything Geralt wants wrapped up in one beautiful package. “Hands on my shoulders, and keep them there.” He doesn’t want Jaskier to do anything to hurt his already-sore wrists, after all.
Jaskier whimpers a little and puts his hands on Geralt’s shoulders as ordered, looking down at Geralt pleadingly.
“Ready?” Geralt asks softly.
“Very, very ready, so very ready, I am genuinely this close to begging,” Jaskier says, nodding energetically.
Geralt eyes Jaskier for a moment, and smirks. “Oh really?”
“Oh you wretch,” Jaskier laughs. “Yes, really - Geralt, please, please fuck me, I am going to go mad with wanting you, you cannot be cruel enough to let me get this close to what I have wanted for years now and not give it to me - please, Geralt, I can take it, anything you want to give me, I can, I want it, I want everything you can give -”
“Fuck,” Geralt says, feeling almost winded by his bard’s words, and fumbles for a moment before he can guide Jaskier down onto his prick, hands curled around Jaskier’s hips to keep him from going too fast or putting too much weight on his arms.
“Oh, fuuuuck,” Jaskier breathes, head falling forward as he sinks down. “Oh, that’s - oh, Geralt.”
Geralt growls - he has no words just now, nothing but pure animal pleasure at the feeling of Jaskier so tight and hot and slick around him - and manages to keep himself from moving until Jaskier is seated in his lap, every inch of Geralt’s prick buried deep inside him. Jaskier’s hands tighten on Geralt’s shoulders as he shudders, clenching down and whimpering, and Geralt clings to his composure and Jaskier’s hips, waiting with agonizing patience until Jaskier finally takes a deep, slow breath and looks down to meet Geralt’s eyes and says, rather shakily, “Please, Geralt, fuck me.”
Then Geralt surges up, rolling them both over until he’s kneeling between Jaskier’s legs, and leans down to kiss Jaskier ravenously, biting at his lips and drinking down the startled, gleeful sounds that spill from his bard’s mouth, and pulls his hips back just enough to give him the leverage to thrust in deep, glorying in the way Jaskier moans and his prick twitches hard between their stomachs.
“Julek,” Geralt pants against Jaskier’s lips, setting a driving, desperate rhythm that leaves Jaskier moaning and clutching at his shoulders, fingers digging in but not moving, gods, such obedience from Jaskier of all people, Jaskier who never obeys any orders unless he pleases, is intoxicating, more potent than Lambert’s best terrible White Gull. “Julek, my Julek, my bard.”
“Geralt,” Jaskier gasps. “Holy - fucking - Geralt, yes, fuck yes -” and then he loses all coherency as Geralt finds the proper angle, and is reduced to gloriously incoherent moaning. Somewhere behind the near-overwhelming possessive lust that has filled him, Geralt is distantly amused that even Jaskier’s moans are tuneful. His marvelous bard.
He uncurls one hand from Jaskier’s hip and wraps it around Jaskier’s prick, trying not to grip too hard, and it takes three rough strokes in time with his thrusts before Jaskier is wailing in pleasure, back bowing and head falling back against the bedroll as he spills between them. He is gloriously, stunningly, terrifyingly beautiful, and Geralt bends down to bite at Jaskier’s pale throat and ruts in, all finesse lost to desire, groaning against the soft skin at the way Jaskier tightens around him with each shuddering aftershock of ecstasy, and follows his bard over the peak with a snarl that would make his School’s namesake proud.
There’s a long moment of panting silence, and then Jaskier says, “Holy fuck. How have you been denying me that for three years, you glorious man?”
Geralt rests his head against Jaskier’s shoulder and shakes with silent laughter. “Incorrigible,” he murmurs.
“Yes, we’ve covered this,” Jaskier says, kissing Geralt’s head softly. “Absolutely no corriges whatsoever here, my love.”
That hits Geralt harder than a charging fiend, and he loses his breath for a moment, unable to do anything but crouch there shuddering as the words echo through him.
“My Julek,” he croaks at last, and lifts his head to kiss Jaskier again.
“Yes,” Jaskier whispers against his lips. “Yours, my wolf, as you are mine.” And then, as they slowly start to untangle themselves from each other, “Ooh, I am going to have to incorporate some new stretches into my usual routine. You wouldn’t think those slim hips of yours would feel quite so broad between my thighs!”
Geralt shakes his head, helpless to keep from laughing, and lifts Jaskier’s hands at last from his shoulders, kissing each fingertip before releasing them, then goes to find some rags and a waterskin to clean them both up a bit before Jaskier starts complaining about come in his chest hair.
His Jaskier. His bright, brave, beautiful, absolutely ridiculous bard.
*
Geralt wakes up curled around his bard, nose tucked into soft brown hair, and for a single glorious moment the entire world is just as it ought to be.
And then, naturally, Jaskier says, “We should go back and get your pay for that wyvern, you know.”
“What,” Geralt says, pushing himself up on an elbow to frown down at his bard.
Jaskier rolls over on his back to grin up at him. “Well, first of all, you should be paid for your work. I have a whole song about that, you know!” Geralt sighs and kisses the tip of Jaskier’s nose. Jaskier giggles. “And secondly, we really shouldn’t let it get around that putting me in danger is a good way to get free monster-killing out of you.”
That…is an unfortunately good point, actually. Geralt very much doesn’t want to feel that sort of panic ever again if he doesn’t have to.
“Alright,” he sighs, and pushes himself to his feet. Getting money out of aldermen is always a struggle, and this is probably going to be even more so.
Although…usually Geralt is trying not to lean into his unfortunate reputation. With this alderman, who dared to try to use his bard as wyvern-bait…
Let’s see how the townsfolk like the Butcher of Blaviken in all his glory.
Which is how he ends up stomping back into town, glowering as furiously as he can, with Jaskier up on Roach behind him and the wyvern’s head dangling from one hand. The alderman is chatting to a few of his fellows in front of the tavern; they’re focused enough on their discussion that he doesn’t actually notice Geralt until it’s far too late; Geralt drops Roach’s reins and takes the last few steps in a rush, grabbing a fistful of the alderman’s tunic and ramming him up against the wall of the tavern.
“I’ll have my pay for the wyvern now,” he snarls.
“Y- but - no contract -” the alderman sputters.
Geralt grins, baring all of his teeth. “I figured putting my bard on a post counted as a notice.”
The alderman squawks, “You - let go of me, you beast, you wouldn’t dare -”
“Wouldn’t I?” Geralt asks. “That bard back there, he calls me the White Wolf. Do you know what I was called before he found me?”
“Fuck,” one of the other men blurts, “you’re - fucking hell, Jens you idiot, you fucked with the fucking Butcher of Blaviken!”
The alderman whimpers, face going an unhealthy shade of grey.
Geralt steps back and drops him; the alderman’s legs give out, and he collapses to the ground. Geralt glowers down at him. “My pay,” he snaps, and drops the wyvern head nearly in the man’s lap. “Two hundred crowns for a wyvern. Doubled for using my bard as bait. Now.”
“I don’t have four hundred crowns!” the alderman wails.
“You don’t?” the barmaid asks from the door to the tavern. “That’s funny. The way you spend money in here, I’d think you were made of it.”
There are more townsfolk gathering around, now, all of them looking unhappy, but to Geralt’s surprise, most of that unhappiness is directed at the alderman. “Brought the Butcher down on us,” he hears one mutter, and another, “The fuck’s he doing with all that tax money anyhow?” and a third, “Knew taking the bard was a stupid idea -”
“I tell you what,” Jaskier’s voice rings out over the crowd. “Being as I’m the - ah - injured party here, I’ll make you all a deal. You pay my White Wolf the price for a wyvern, in full, and choose someone else to be alderman, and we’ll forego the extra two hundred crowns for using me as bait.”
“Would you accept that, master witcher?” the barmaid asks.
Geralt crosses his arms and glowers. “You swear this piece of dogshit never holds office again, and aye. I’ll accept that.”
The barmaid gives the alderman a scathing look. “I think he’s going to be lucky to keep his head, much less his chain of office, master witcher.”
“Good,” Geralt says shortly. Jaskier laughs.
“If you’ll take my advice, good people, you’ll put some serious thought into making this young lady your new alderwoman,” he says cheerfully. “She’s both brave and sensible, and evidently keeps better track of the coin that passes through her hands than your current alderman does.”
Someone snorts. “Well, if you know more about money than he does, where the fuck should we find two hundred crowns, then?” he demands of the barmaid.
“Probably under his hearthstone,” the barmaid says, jerking a thumb at the incoherently horrified alderman. “That’s where he claims his fortune is whenever he’s in his cups.”
Several townsfolk exchange glances, and then four or five of them go off towards the largest house in the village. Geralt continues to glower, but doesn’t actually make any threatening motions as the alderman clambers to his feet and dusts himself off and tries to look dignified, with a notable lack of success. There’s a distant crash from the direction of the house, and then a yell of mingled triumph and indignation. A few minutes later, the townsfolk come back, two of them carrying large heavy sacks, and the biggest of them - the blacksmith, Geralt is guessing, by his burn-scarred apron and his impressive physique - stomps up to the alderman and takes his chain of office in one huge hand, yanking it off over the alderman’s head without much care for the man’s ears. The alderman squalls like a wet cat.
“Greedy fucker,” the blacksmith says. “If my sister wants a divorce you’d better not make any fuss, or I’ll break both your legs.” And then he turns and holds the chain of office out to the barmaid. “Bard’s got a point. Better you than him.”
The barmaid takes the chain of office gingerly, looking rather stunned. “You’re sure?”
“Can’t possibly do a worse job, I’m guessing,” the blacksmith says gruffly.
Slowly, the barmaid nods, and puts the chain of office on. “Then for my first official act - someone give the witcher his two hundred crowns.”
The blacksmith chuckles appreciatively, and one of the other men starts counting coins out of the sack he’s holding, and the barmaid starts giving other orders - sensible ones, so far as Geralt can tell - and Geralt turns to look up at Jaskier, who is smiling down at him with such obvious fondness and pride that it’s almost hard to look at.
“Well done, my Wolf,” he murmurs, and Geralt steps closer and wraps a hand around Jaskier’s ankle, above the bandages.
“My bard,” he says contentedly, and stands there waiting for the alderwoman to give him his coin, leaning against Roach’s side and humming softly in pleasure when Jaskier puts a hand on his shoulder, a soft reminder that he gets to keep Jaskier - and Jaskier gets to keep him in turn.