#ruining it

So: Geralt. He’d seen Geralt naked countless times, and he didn’t have to imagine the breadth of his chest, the scars that littered his skin, the soft hair that traced an inviting line from his navel to his crotch. He knew exactly how big Geralt was. 

The question was less of the object of his affections, but the specifics - the where and the how.

They’d been traipsing around on the road for so long that he was tired of outdoor excursions. Jaskier had enjoyed plenty of outdoor dalliances in his time, but after three weeks of continually picking twigs and leaves out of his hair or battling constant, painful blisters he was ready for a little luxury. Before, the idea of a fumble beneath the stars would have thrilled him - but now all he could think of was hidden roots and ants nests.

What he wanted was comfort. A wide, soft bed. Four poster - perfect for leaning on and, if the mood struck, tying to. Fine food and wine, plush carpets, silk sheets, soft on his skin. Geralt was a man of the wilderness, and Jaskier loved to see him out of his element, in the city instead of the swamp. Geralt hated banquets and fancy clothes and spending coin, but Jaskier knew he loved the occasional luxury just as much as he did. Geralt didn’t often spoil himself, so Jaskier felt a certain kind of thrill when he got to do it for him.

The setting was easy, then. The most expensive inn in Oxenfurt. Maybe even Toussaint, just for the wine. In fact - Toussaint’s beautiful architecture, sprawling vineyards and obligatory balconies meant he could quite nicely combine the thrill of the outdoors with the need for luxury. 

Him. Geralt. An inn on the edge of Beauclair, complete with a balcony overlooking the lake. Perhaps even leaning against the railing, at sunset - the best way to appreciate the view.

Jaskier could almost smell the wine-soaked air, feel the tingling heat of the sun on his skin. He kicked off his boots, shuffled out of his trousers and lay back on the bed. The mattress was hard and the sheets were itchy, but lost in thought he could almost feel silk beneath him.

He imagined what it would be like just to exist with Geralt for a while - no contracts, no monsters - just them and an endless summer. He’d gaze out across the lake, the mild wind playing in his hair, and Geralt would approach him from behind, wrapping his arms around his middle, pressing his already hardening prick to his arse.

In the real world, lying on a cheap, straw-stuffed bed and desperately needing a good bath, Jaskier could feel his skin flushing, his cock filling. His hand was sneaking down his chest, playing over the buttons of his shirt, fiddling with them till they came undone beneath his fingers. His shirt opened a fraction, and he slipped his hand inside, dancing over his hot skin.

In his head, of course, it was Geralt’s hand - it was Geralt inexpertly opening those buttons, Geralt’s fingers tracing the lines of his chest, fluttering over his nipples, pinching them. He arched his back at the touch of his hand, the hand which he could so easily pretend was Geralt’s.

Unable to tease himself any longer, he shoved his hand under the band of his smallclothes and gripped his cock with a hot little gasp. Gods, he wished it was Geralt’s hand pressed so firmly around him, but he knew it wasn’t to be. This would be enough - it would have to be enough. 

There was one benefit to the tiny, quiet village and its near-abandoned tavern: he could be as loud as he liked. He arched his back as he thumbed over the head of his cock, and for once didn’t need to bite back the name on his lips.

“Ah,” he muttered, “Geralt, yes, like that…”

His senses swirled, his mind racing with the image of Geralt leaning him over a balcony, fucking him senseless. He stroked at himself, building speed, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts as his heart thundered in his ears.

“Geralt,” he huffed, “yes, Geralt, more, please--”

BANG.

“-a fucking noonwraith, a noonwraith! If it comes out in the middle of the fucking day it’s a fucking noonwrai- Jaskier?”

Oh, fuck. Jaskier reigned himself in just in time, releasing himself with a curse and a gasp, opening his eyes and scrambling to cover his body with the bedsheet.

“Geralt!” He cried, the sheet twisting around his legs, “Ah-”

Geralt was staring at him, eyes wide. Shit. Jaskier was well aware - after more than one somewhat embarrassing experience - that Geralt could smell when he was aroused, especially when he was so close to coming. There was no hiding this. He could only hope that Geralt hadn’t heard him say-

“You said my name.”

Fuck. Jaskier wondered what the chances were of apparent noonwraith jumping in through the window and dragging him away to consume him.

“Um…”

“Were you-”

“You see…”

They both stuttered into silence, staring at each other across the small room. Jaskier gripped the blanket, hyper-aware of the way the fabric bunched against his still eager prick.  Even under Geralt’s intense gaze, his arousal wasn’t going away - in fact if anything, it was growing. It was just Jaskier’s shitty luck - even the locks in this bloody village didn’t work properly. 

“Am I interrupting?” Geralt said, finally, raising his eyebrows. “Do you want me to leave?”

Jaskier scowled at him. To say yes would be to admit what he’d been doing. To say no would be torture. He chewed on his lip with a sigh, trying to decide on the best response. 

Geralt peered at him, then slouched his swords from his back and placed them against the wall. He stepped into the room, already unbuckling his armour.

“Or you can carry on,” he said, looking away as he dropped his pauldrons to the floor next to the swords. “Like I’m not even here.” Next came the chest plate, Jaskier watching in stunned silence. “I’m sure I heard you say my name through the door, though.”

Gods, curse Geralt’s superhuman senses. Curse his ability to smell when Jaskier was at the peak of lust, and especially curse his heightened, perfect hearing. Jaskier shuffled uncomfortably on the bed, aware that Geralt was watching him back.

Fuck it. His cock was hard and his head was swimming and if Geralt wanted to play this game then by Melitele’s tits Jaskier was going to win.

“That’s because I did,” he said, lifting his chin. “Several times, in fact.”

Geralt began to unthread the laces of his gauntlets, still peering at him.

“I suspected as much,” he said, tugging at the cords. “Do you often say my name when you’re wanking?”

Oh gods. “Yes,” Jaskier retorted, confidently. “All the time.”

The gauntlets dropped to the floor. Geralt stepped closer - and then, maddeningly, he sat on the very edge of the bed, beginning to untie his boots. Jaskier felt the mattress shift as he sat, and was suddenly struck with his familiar smell - all sweat, today, after his pointless chase through the neighbouring woodlands looking for a monster that wouldn’t even be out for another twelve hours.

“And what do you think about?”

Geralt wasn’t looking at him, apparently engrossed with the task of removing his boots. Jaskier’s hand slipped below the sheets, finding himself still half-hard.

“Toussaint,” he hummed, “I’m bored of forests and farmland. I want to go somewhere warm and hot where we can-” he stuttered, his breath catching as he tugged at himself, “-relax.”

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed, and one boot fell to the floor. “We do need a break. What else?”

“Someplace nice,” said Jaskier, aware of what he was building towards, “Somewhere picturesque. No more swamps and puddles and dingy taverns.” All he could hear was the gentle shff of Geralt pulling at his laces, so he continued, his movements growing faster, “Somewhere with a balcony for you to fuck me on.”

The noise stopped. Jaskier grinned to himself, pressed against the wall, squeezing himself tighter. 

The second boot fell to the floor.

“Does that - ah - sound like something that might interest you?” Jaskier shuddered, his back arching. One of his feet slipped across the bed, pressing into Geralt’s back.

Geralt turned, slowly. His eyes were nearly completely black.

“Is that what you want?” He said, letting his eyes drift down Jaskier’s body, the sheet that was dangerously close to sliding away. “For me to fuck you on a balcony in Toussaint?”

Fuck. Perhaps Jaskier couldn’t win this one. “Yes,” he gasped, “But…” he was close, so fucking close, “I’d like you to fuck me anywhere, really.”

The noise Geralt made betrayed his true inhuman nature. It rumbled from his chest, a deep hum somewhere between a purr and a growl. Jaskier was sure he could feel the bed vibrate beneath him at the low, animal sound. He’d never heard him make that noise before - he was desperate to hear it again. But his heart was thundering, his breathing heavy, and it was all he could do to stutter Geralt’s name again.

“Are you close, Jaskier?”

His head slid against the wall, his legs stretching towards Geralt, the sheet completely falling away, putting his pleasure on show. He couldn’t bring himself to care - he knew Geralt was looking. Might as well give him something to look at.

“Yes--” he managed, and then that was it - his climax overtook him, building in his core and rising, coursing through his body and sending shockwaves all the way to his toes as he came over his stomach in spurts.

Geralt hummed. Jaskier slumped sideways onto the bed, tingling. The mattress sagged beneath him, and when he finally opened his eyes Geralt was right next to him, his eyes dark.

“You do that all the time, you said?”

Jaskier sighed. “Mhmm,” he mustered, with another little shudder. 

“And is it always the balcony in Toussaint?”

He laughed, caught off guard. “Of course not,” he said, “I’ve got a rather extensive repertoire. I am a storyteller, you know.”

Geralt glanced back down Jaskier’s body with an appreciative little noise. “What else?”

Jaskier sat up with considerable effort, glancing around the room for something to clean himself with. Geralt reached into the bag at the side of the bed and passed him a bundle of linen usually reserved for cleaning wounds. Jaskier took it gratefully, mopping at his stomach and chest.

“I can’t just tell you, can I?” He said, “You’ll have to wait and find out.”

He stretched languidly, aware of how exceedingly naked he was - aware of Geralt’s gaze on him. He allowed himself to look, too, his eyes drifting southwards. Geralt’s tight trousers really did leave nothing to the imagination - especially when he was so clearly turned on. He grinned.

“But…”

“But?”

“The beast’s a noonwraith, if I judged your ranting correctly?”

“So?”

“So we’ve got several hours to kill…”

Geralt made that rumbling sound again, and this time Jaskier could feel it vibrating from him, low and tinged with lust.

“Give me half an hour,” said Jaskier with a sly smile, “And I’ll tell you the one with the cave, hmm?”