Chapter Text
Geralt wakes him up from his impromptu nap, sprawled as he is on his front at the edge of their bed, by stacking his payment across his lower back and letting the coins fall where they may, across skin and cheap sheets. Jaskier only sort of minds.
In fact, he doesn't mind at all, not when Geralt takes it upon himself to finger him open—an easy feat when Jaskier himself curves his back and tilts his hips and mutters yes yes yes, first under his breath to hide his quickly-mounting desperation, and then louder, a mantra anyone could read in every single angle of his body even were he silent—to sink his hard cock back in with careful single-mindedness while Jaskier's still in the middle of pointing out he's as stretched as he'll ever be, though his words dissolve into a frantic keening once Geralt's cockhead pops back in with a too-loud squelch in the quiet of the room.
Flushing instantly at the sound, both a reminder of earlier activities and an unintended byproduct thereof, the embarrassment nearly has him fleeing the bed in mortification, but Geralt's arms encircle him before he can make a move, his body blanketing him while sinking back in to the root in an agonisingly slow thrust in. He holds his hips tightly to Jaskier's arse for a long minute, and Jaskier sort of loses his mind a little bit, hole pulsing in fitful bursts against his length, the unrelenting stretch of it, his walls barely able to adjust where the continued effort is all delicious toil. Then Geralt starts to thrust, merciless and perfect.
Laid out as he is, on his front, chest to the sheets with his hips in the air, it's a lot to take. At this angle, it's almost too much, too deep, an extra half of an inch to an inch at most more than before, what with Geralt's thick, tree-trunk thighs spreading his to an almost painful capacity, his face buried in Jaskier's neck, nosing at the back of his ear, ticklish and hot and overwhelming. From his forehead to his collarbones and farther down his chest to the tops of his thighs, all prickling heat is he.
The room isn't particularly warm, the hearth empty and cold, but Jaskier is burning up. The sounds of flesh smacking against flesh transform from a subtle suggestion to thunderous and more than a little mortifying, were they not making his cock devastatingly harder, has him leaking into the sheets shamelessly.
Geralt seems unfairly unaffected, his rhythm unchanging, his heart where Jaskier feels it beating at his back leisurely strolling while Jaskier's at a gallop. Dragging surprisingly soft lips from behind Jaskier's ear to whisper-ask, "Too much?" and sniffing hard, distractingly so, as if scenting him, like animals do, Jaskier alone loses the plot a little.
Focusing on speaking proves problematic. The cascade of eager little noises he's been easing out of the back of his throat without conscious thought turn plaintive as a rougher thrust accompanies Geralt's question, testing the waters of something... more.
He manages a feeble, "I can fucking, ah, take it."
"Can you?" Before Jaskier can think up a devastatingly clever reply, Geralt follows it up with, "Let's see," which sends a thrill down Jaskier's sweaty spine.
But more doesn't come instantly. The very opposite, in fact, as Geralt lifts himself until only his cockhead remains buried in Jaskier's tender hole. Before he can protest vigorously, Geralt moves his palms to his arse, and the protest dies on his tongue. Thumbs spread his cheeks open where he's already getting filled. He can feel his cock shifting inside, making his mouth water, drool spilling minutely at the corner of his lips before he clamps them shut, instead weakly moaning at the back of his throat with the knowledge that Geralt is staring at him there.
"Geralt," he tries. Nothing but silence.
Then, finally satisfied in some way Jaskier can't quite fathom, he fucks back in with force enough to rock the bed into the wall, leaving Jaskier clutching at the sheets helplessly. His back is soon covered once more, and soft lips mouth at the shell of his ear, the side of his neck. A question mumbled into the skin there that he barely hears amidst the white noise inside his own head.
"Do you require a hand?" Geralt asks him in a tone which conveys his amused scepticism even through the clamour between his ears.
Flattering as that may be, Jaskier has to sadly confess, "That was, ah, fuck, a neat trick, but not one which my body's likely to repeat at present." He might be young and all, but the details all stay the same. He requires a hand, and he has an inkling his witcher's would do the trick nicely, broad and callused and seasoned as it surely is.
He's right. Oh, Melitele, is it fucking ever. Fingers messily skimming down his chest through the hair there and the dried mess from before, he reaches his cock and grips it like a man who knows his way around a hard prick, which Jaskier has always apprecia— Oh, fuck. Fuck.
His grip is tight, and rough, and so unlike Jaskier's own when he's touching himself that he can't help but come and come and come, balls hurting so good he thinks he must let out an actual sob, though his ears are patently unhearing at the moment.
Once he comes down enough his senses are no longer barely functional, he decides two times in half a day might work well when engaging with the average human, but he's met his match in a witcher. He wonders if all of them fuck as thoroughly, but that's a line of thinking he should dispel before it gets him into trouble. Even his cock needs some respite, despite certain rumours to the contrary.
"You're trembling," Geralt comments, sounding amused yet self-satisfied.
Jaskier tries to laugh, literally laugh that off, but it comes out as a weak puff of air against the bedding. With Geralt still inside of him, even softening, it's hard—heh—to think properly, never mind being his usual charming conversationalist self.
"You appear to be terribly awake for someone who has so very recently ravished, uh, me." He means to go on, but hasn't banked on the conversation turning from inquiring into Geralt's sleep activities to nonchalantly commenting on the rather good fucking Jaskier has just received, twice, in a matter of one sentence.
Ignoring the latter, Geralt grunts out, "I dozed," sounding like a person who has done the very opposite.
Peering at him over his shoulder, Jaskier says, "Don't take this the wrong way, but you seem like someone perpetually in need of a nap."
Deadpan, as usual, "Flattering."
"Hmm," he replies. He can't quite repress a closed-mouthed smirk, chin tilting up.
Geralt rolls his eyes good-naturedly. Finally soft enough to pull out with minimal discomfort on Jaskier's side, he does, and then moves away to leave the bed completely.
And then begins diligently dressing himself in trousers and a loose undershirt and his boots, seemingly forgetting about Jaskier altogether. Which is not at all the turn of events Jaskier expected. Surely the notion of afterglow is present among witchers, for fuck's sake.
Not having banked on having to catch up, Jaskier scrambles to sit up, which is a bad move where his private parts are concerned, and wildly eyes the floor for his clothes, never mind he's genuinely in need of a wash before attempting to insert himself back in them.
Stalling while his body catches up with the situation, he says, "Well, where are we off to?"
"We?" Geralt says rather blankly, or more so than seems his usual. His back is turned and he's now standing on the other side of the room.
"You're upright, and I seem to not be attached to your cock any longer, so I am naturally assuming you're on your way out. Pity since the room's paid until the morrow."
"Do you never, hmm." His back is very expressive, truly. Jaskier can almost see the annoyance there.
"What? Never what? I might not be professionally versed in the finer arts, but I can assure you I am a quick learner. Very flexible." He says that even though there's a definite twinge in his nether regions, courtesy of a certain witcher not taking much pity on him earlier.
"Hmm."
"I am!"
Turning, he says, "I'm ordering a bath."
Yes, Jaskier did notice there was a definite lack of sunshine coming through the windows, which would indicate they napped for far longer than he had intended. However, a bath does sound lovely, and he is just about to suggest such, quietly thankful it also means they aren't departing anytime soon, when it occurs to him Geralt is rather eyeballing him while getting himself decent enough to go downstairs.
"So you're not leaving the inn at present?" Geralt gives him a look. "I'm only checking!"
"Why?"
"Hmm?"
"What business is it of yours?" He doesn't ask it meanly, Jaskier doesn't think, perhaps merely cautiously.
So Jaskier licks his lips and goes for the Jaskier Special: cheerfully charming candidness. Works nine times out of ten. Well, perhaps closer to six. On a good day. Breaking even is really where it's at.
"You see," he starts, "adventuring seems like just the ticket for me. Real adventuring. And you seem like just the person. And I could help you. Immensely." If he sounds more than a little eager, that's because he is, but he's on a roll now. "You have a real whiff of destiny going for you there." He waves one hand around in the air in front of his face for emphasis. "And mayhaps a bit of a certain vegetable of the onion variety. But the destiny and adventure are simply... overwhelming. Oh! Oh! Need I go on?"
Geralt blinks. Jaskier's smile pointedly does not waver, however much his facial muscles might begin to twinge uncomfortably.
Finally he gets only, "It is onion. And I'm ordering a bath."
He goes to leave. Jaskier perks up instantly. "Oh, while you're talking to the innkeeper, do you mind fetching my—"
But the door bangs behind Geralt, no sign of his having even been listening.
"—lute," Jaskier finishes lamely.
Rude.