Chapter Text
Turn. Turn. Turn. Turn—
His breath punches out of him as his legs crumble and send him to the ice. The moment his hand darts out and he makes sense of where he is, his coach’s voice echoes in his head. She doesn’t have to tell him anymore. He knows. Learn by falling. He grits his teeth and staggers back up, pushing off of one skate and building momentum again.
He’ll land this jump if it’s the last thing he does. No one wakes up before the sun just to fool around.
Yennefer watches from her perch on the wall. She’s nothing but a blur to him as he coasts along the outer rim of the ice, steps gliding until he can feel the sharp sting of cold air against his flushed skin. God only knows how long they’ve been here. And he suspects that he has few chances left to land this jump. He might have woken up before the dawn to collect his skates and have the rink for himself, but Yennefer hasn’t stopped complaining about the early hour since they got here. A plastic cup of tea is the only thing warming her hands as she keeps her eyes on him. He can feel them, burning in through his skin and muscles, watching. She’s been surprisingly silent. No corrections. No advice. She knows when to leave Jaskier alone and let him do the skill himself. He knows what he’s going wrong.
He builds up enough speed again, gliding from blade to blade until he spots his take off. His lips thin and he draws in a sharp breath, filling his lungs, as he swings his leg up and takes off.
Turn. Turn. TURN.
Another fall to the ice. No matter how many times he’s fallen – and he’s fallen a lot through his career – it’s always a shock as soon as his side or shoulder or hip hits the ice. It’s hard and unmoving, and if he can’t clamber back up to his feet soon enough, wet coldness will prickle at his skin and bones.
His lips stay thin, pressed into a pale line as his jaw visibly bulges. Having the ice to himself is a novelty, only gotten when he can wake up before other skaters and their coaches intent on doing the exact same thing as him, before the kids who want to blow off an hour or two drifting around the outer rim with their friends.
He staggers to his feet, wincing at the slightly dulled plume of pain in the outside of his thigh from where he hit the ice.
There’s a clicked tongue that echoes around the rink. “You don’t need it,” Yennefer calls from her perch, holding her steaming tea to her face. She hasn’t actually sipped any of it. The tip of her nose and her cheeks are flushed with the cold, and bundled in her thick jacket and scarf, his chest tightens. He needs her. As much as he’ll pointedly ignore her in practise and joke around with her, she’s been the best at driving him forward. Too many years had been lost to past coaches that couldn’t keep up with him, or know how to properly rein him back when he started barrelling down a path, hell-bent on breaking his body in half just to prove himself.
Jaskier sets his hands on to his hips, wincing at the pain in his thigh slowly worming further through the muscle, creeping down along his leg and into his knee. Old injuries that love to poke and prod at him, reminding him that he’s getting older and maybe he should stop. He glides over to her. She settles a withering glare on to him. “You don’t need it,” she repeats slowly, making sure he hears every word. “Your programme is already better than the others.”
His brows knit together. “But Valdo Ma—”
A single pointed finger is held up at him, silencing him instantly. “Valdo Marx has the difficulty,” she agrees, but because this is Yennefer, she always follows up with being right about everything, “but his execution is sloppy. The judges always wring him dry on not being able to land his jumps properly. And he flaps his arms around in his choreography like a bloody chicken. You have the better execution score. Stick to what you have and nail it.”
She’s right. She’s always right because she’s Yennefer, and she knows all. Her words, not his; although he’ll begrudgingly admit it.
He doesn’t need a quad axel. It hasn’t been done because no one is dumb enough to break their knees or hip trying to land it, and the points stripped away from landing it badly, or not at all, could kill.
His chest heaves as he struggles to catch back his breath. The air is too thin and cold in the rink, stinging his lungs every time he fills his chest. Yennefer grabs his sweatshirt and holds it out to him. “I’m your coach and I say that you’re done for the day. Knowing you, you’ll probably stay here until you shatter your poor geriatric hip.”
He takes the order. The pain isn’t that bad. And he’s skated on worse injuries before. He doesn't point out that she's older than him, a certified grandma at this rate, because he values his life. In an rink by themselves at this hour, no one is around to witness his murder and convict her.
Still, he knows when to back down from Yennefer. She might not have her skates on, but he knows that she’ll just storm the ice to drag him off of it herself; and she’s not above dragging him by the ankles, kicking and screaming.
The sweater is a relief, blooming some warmth back into his skin as he wrangles it on. Yennefer hops down from her perch and disappears into the booth, unhooking her phone from the speakers. It’s only now does he feel the strain of being up this early. His eyes sting no matter how hard he blinks and rubs at them, and the moment he steps off of the ice to get his guards, a yawn stretches his lips and clicks his jaw.
Yennefer looks more put-together than him. He can imagine what he looks like; all dark circles under his eyes and flushed skin beaded in sweat. Even at whatever-ungodly-time-it-is, Yennefer strides out in her grey slim coat, a black turtleneck beneath it and jeans. Heeled boots click against the floor as she joins him outside of the rink. “Listen,” she says simply, because she knows that even through all the shit he regularly gives her, he does value whatever it is she has to say. “I know you want to impress the judges. They already like you. They don’t give those kinds of scores to people they don’t like. You don’t need to over-do it with jumps that could end your career.”
Jaskier sets a hand on to his chest. “I didn’t know you had such high regard for me.”
Yennefer flashes him a smile, reaching up to pat a freezing hand on to his cheek. “Love you, prick. But God you make it difficult.”
Jaskier purses his lips at her, winking as she strides away. He glances at his watch. 07:03. If he knows Yennefer as well as he does, she’s going to burrow back into her bed and wake up at a more respectable hour. And she’s earned it.
He flexes out his back, wincing at the slight twinge in his shoulders and hip. In the eyes of the judges, he’s old. Or older as he insists. He’ll be hanging up his skates in a few years; a few more if he can just learn to slow down, take his time, stop trying to break himself.
The whole arena is deathly silent. His footsteps almost echo as he pads back towards the locker rooms. Other figure skaters will start trickling in within the next few minutes, and he wants to be gone by then. The kids won’t flood the rink with their friends and parents until after school. Having the space to himself is a novelty he doesn’t take lightly.
He can’t stop the yawns that stretch his mouth as he takes his usual spot on the wooden bench, almost numb fingers fumbling with the laces of his skates for a moment before he manages to get them loose enough to yank them off.
His ears twitch at the familiar scuffle of guarded skates against the floor. Jaskier looks up just in time to catch a glimpse of three guys bustling into the locker room, chattering among themselves. His chest tightens.
One of them – with fiery hair barely held back into a tie – spots him. “Oh for fuck sake,” he grunts. The others freeze mid-step, following the man’s eye until they spot Jaskier too. The hockey guys are bigger than him. Not height-wise. He’s as tall as them, but they’re built differently. All broad shoulders and hulking muscle, barging into each other. How their skates manage to hold them up is beyond him.
Jaskier offers him a dazzling smile. “Warmed up the ice for you, Lambert.”
The man frowns, one deeply etched into his brow. “Ruined it, more like,” he grumbles, collecting his skates from his locker and putting them on with a huff. One of the others – cropped blond hair and a small scar nipping his cheekbone – checks his stretched out leg as he passes. Eskel barely escapes the converse shoe chucked at him.
Jaskier bites down on a laugh. He can feel Lambert glaring daggers at him. If he wants pristine and freshly polished ice, then he should join Jaskier in waking up before the crack of dawn. “You ruin the ice for me when you’re on it,” he argues nonetheless, stuffing the last of his things into his bag. The less time he can spend talking to Lambert the better. One of these days the maintenance guys are going to find the red-haired man with a skate’s blade buried in his skull. “Honestly, if my skate catches one more trench left behind by your hoofed feet I’ll—”
“Can we not have this argument? It’s too early.”
Jaskier blinks as Geralt joins them, already padded and skates tied, with his helmet tucked under his arm. The man’s voice is even lower than usual in the mornings. A familiar timber that threatens to shake a tremor through him. Jaskier’s lips thin. He gathers his bag and skates, happy to try and shower at home and not run the risk of spending more time than necessary with the hockey guys. “Geralt,” he says primly as he passes, trying his best not to brush the man’s side as he slips out through the door.
Geralt hums. “Jaskier.”
“Get a room,” Lambert groans. “If you’re going to be making eyes at each other at least do it in private.”
“No point,” Eskel sighs, standing and shifting his weight from one skate to another. “The walls are so thin in our apartment that you’ll hear them anyway.”
Colour warms Jaskier’s cheeks. He’ll blame it on sweat, on working out, on spending almost two hours jumping – and falling – on ice in the dead of winter. He presses his lips together into a thin line, not confident in saying anything he’ll regret. Just as he breaks out into a slightly quicker walk, confident that he can make it out of the arena in record time, he hears the sharp crowed laugh of Lambert echoing behind him.
“He’s just the worst and you know it. Put your weight more on this leg. Good. Why don’t you just kick him out?”
Geralt snorts. “Because he pays a third of our rent, just like the rest of us. If anything, you should start chipping in.”
Jaskier glowers at him. The arms around his chest tighten. He absolutely does not pout. “If I start paying rent then they’ll know we’re together.” The rink is just as empty as it was in the morning, but now the ice has been chipped at and repolished.
Geralt arches an eyebrow. “They already know we’re together, dear.”
“They know we’re fucking. But God forbid Lambert Blake finds out that you’re dating a figure skater. What did he call me the other day? Twinkle Toes?”
A small smile threatens to curl the corner of Geralt’s lip. Jaskier spots it, and the monumental effort the man gathers to try and smoothen it out. “Geralt.”
The other man’s chuckle is light and breathless. “Look,” he says, pushing away from the rink’s edge and gliding over to Jaskier. He doesn’t drop his arms. They stay pointedly over his chest. Geralt might look at him with fond golden eyes and a smile curled along his lips, but he’s cross. Definitely cross. He turns his head away when Geralt tries to get him to look at him. “Are you keeping this a secret because you don’t want the others to be bothered about it, or is there something you’re not telling me?” Something twitches his brows. “Are you happy being with me?”
Oh, fuck Geralt Rivia to hell. Jaskier sighs. “I am happy. Of course I am.” He can’t look at Geralt. If he catches any sort of glint in those golden eyes then their practice will be doomed. It’s hard enough to not let his hands linger on Geralt’s shoulders or hips or legs when he shuffles him into a different stance and position along the rink’s edge. He takes a measured breath. “I want to keep you to myself for a bit. I’m not good with the whole...relationship...thing and...”
He doesn’t have to say it. Geralt already knows. His eyelids flutter shut at the familiar press of lips to his forehead. Geralt catches his chin between his thumb and finger and lifts it. Even in the shitty fluorescent lights above them, blinding the ice, Geralt’s golden hues still render him speechless. “If you want to keep this to ourselves, then that’s fine by me. Whatever makes you comfortable.”
He’s sweet. The burling mass of muscle that can crush a guy against the shielded walls of the rink, who has had his fair share of scrapping fights in matches over rivals checking Eskel – because one should never mess with a goalie, apparently. He’s a sweetheart. Jaskier’s chest tightens.
“Your leg position is awful,” Jaskier says simply, drawing in a steady breath and setting his hands to Geralt’s chest. Even through the layers beneath his palms, he can feel the man’s heart beating and the warmth of his skin. He looks down, kicking one of his skates to the side into a better position. “Let your knee bend but don’t overdo it. You don’t want that shit popping out. Trust me.”
Geralt smiles and looks at him fondly as he worms his way out of a conversation about before. Before Geralt, before the anxiety of others finding out about them, before all of it. Geralt already knows everything so why linger on it. He’s even promised to run into Jaskier’s ex on the ice should they share it one afternoon. If Valdo Marx is smashed against the rink’s edge one day, well then, Jaskier wants to be there for it; with his phone, live-streaming.
Geralt moves and does what he’s told. He knows that only chasing Jaskier down with more questions and assurances will drive him further inside of his own head. Better to leave it, he’s learned. Their private lessons after Geralt’s classes and Jaskier’s practise aren’t new. Geralt’s coach suggested it. He isn’t unused to sharing the ice with the hockey guys, but teaching them is another matter. He only took on Geralt because of their relationship. That, and he knows that he would have splattered the ice with Lambert’s blood if he had to teach him. He knew how to get on Jaskier’s bad side almost like second-nature.
It seems to be helping. Geralt skates better; his corners and sharp turns are cleaner and more efficient. As long as Vesemir is happy, Jaskier is happy. And Geralt can stay in the local college, with him. He’s deferred his place to skate. His place will be held for him until he decides to return. But his skating is more important.
He isn’t sure how long they spend there, perched by the edge of the rink. When he lifts his leg to show Geralt the proper way to balance, he clicks his tongue when the hockey player’s knee bends. “Don’t bend too much,” he corrects, gliding to Geralt’s side and lowering himself down. Geralt stiffens under his hands as he sets them to Geralt’s leg, smoothening out the line and showing Geralt where to let his knee bend. He peers up at the other man, flashing him a smirk at the familiar look in the man’s eyes. The gold slowly being swallowed by dilating pupils. The clench of his jaw. Jaskier lets his hands linger. “Got it?”
Geralt’s throat bobs as he swallows. “Yeah.”
Jaskier doesn’t drift away. They’ve spent enough time learning new skills. He lets his hands slowly drift up Geralt’s thigh. The other man barely manages to suppress a shiver. “Good,” Jaskier says, flashing him a smile that’s all teeth. “I think we should call that a day, hmm?”
“Absolutely.”
Geralt’s apartment is compromised. If Eskel and Lambert really can hear them through the walls, he wants to be as far away from them as he can physically get. And Jaskier’s apartment across town does the trick.
He lets the floor fly out of his hand, clicking shut behind them as he bundled the other man inside, eager to keep their lips attached and their hands clutching whatever they can. A fistful of Geralt’s jacket, the other man’s hands on his hips and guiding him through the apartment. At least one of them is looking. Not that he would have to part with Geralt for too long. They’ve spent nights here too because of Jaskier’s lack of a roommate. He has one – Shani – but she’s taken on so many shifts in the local hospital she’s never home when Jaskier is.
Geralt hums against Jaskier’s lips. “Are you only teaching me to get your hands on me?” he gasps, wrangling his leather jacket off of him and dropping it. Where it lands, neither of them seems to care. A trail of clothes leads from the door to Jaskier’s room, shoes and belts, jeans and sweaters left behind as Jaskier bares more and more of the other man in front of him.
Jaskier’s lips are full and soft and bitten. He sets his fingers to the hem of Geralt’s shirt, wrangling it over him and chucking it into some corner of the room. “Oh absolutely,” he says breathlessly, humming into another kiss Geralt catches him in. He loves everything about Geralt. The plains of his muscles underneath his hands, the tremor of his heart as it trembles in his chest, the way Geralt can cover him and pin him down, but runs his fingers over his skin so lightly gooseflesh bobbles his skin.
Geralt laughs against his lips, but catches him and lowers him down on to Jaskier’s bed. Barely made, but at least the sheets are new. The more time he spends at the rink, the less time he can spend at home seeing to things like housework. Not that it matters. Geralt has seen his apartment in worse conditions; pizza boxes stacked in the kitchen, dishes stuffed into the sink with no hope of finding their way to the dishwasher. Not that his apartment is any better; shared with two cavemen.
He settles back against the plush give of the comforter, arching his neck as Geralt sets his lips and teeth to it. A gasp wrenches out of his throat at the first teasing nip to the line of his neck. Jaskier slaps Geralt’s shoulder. “Don’t leave marks,” he moans, setting his hands on stripping Geralt of the last of his clothes. “I have practise in the morning and, fuck, I’m not explaining to anyone how I got this.”
There’s a sharp huff of a laugh just under his jaw. “I’ve sent you to practise with worse,” Geralt hums. His hands wander, skimming Jaskier’s side and palming the arches of his hips. They’ve spent enough time together to know where to touch and kiss to lure the right kinds of noises from their throats. Geralt only parts with him for a moment to shuffle out of his underwear and divest Jaskier of his, crawling back over Jaskier against and luring him into a deep kiss.
This is familiar. The legs he lets fall and bracket around Geralt’s hips, the sure grind of the other man’s hardening cock against his, the firm chest and arms keeping him pinned. Jaskier threads his fingers through Geralt’s hair, tugging it at a particularly firm rub of their cocks together. He gasps against the man’s lips. “Bedside table,” he moans, letting his head fall back against the pillows, watching each muscle on Geralt flex and move with a surprising amount of fluidity.
He reaches over and grabs a half-emptied bottle of lube and a condom, setting them outside of Jaskier’s hip as he pulls back. Fingers lightly trail down Jaskier’s chest and stomach, golden eyes following in their wake. It’s a struggle to not wither. Geralt likes to look at him; watch him fall apart under his fingers or lips or cock. His arms are strewn at either side of his head, on display and pliant. He arches an eyebrow. “Come on then, Rivia,” he murmurs, letting his thigh hook higher on Geralt’s hip. “You have me all to yourself now.”
There’s a glint in Geralt’s eye. Something that has a smirk crawling along Jaskier’s lips and a sharp laugh lured out of him as Geralt wets his fingers with lube, warming it for a moment before shifting and rearranging his legs and hips. Golden eyes don’t leave his as the tip of one finger brushes his hole, teasing and light and not at all what he needs. A whine slips out of his throat. “Geralt.”
“This is what you do in the rink when we’re together,” the other man replies, a coy smirk playing on his lips. “This is payback. You’re a tease. Do you really have to touch my thighs and hips just to show me a simple movement?”
Absolutely. It must show on his face clear enough, even through the glow of the streetlights outside streaking in through the windows, and the warm glow from his bedside lamp. Geralt snorts. “You’re terrible.”
“Me?” Jaskier balks. He gestures vaguely to Geralt’s chest. “What about you? Here I am, waiting to be ravished, and my boyfriend is insulting me.”
Boyfriend. The word slips out so easily that it doesn’t even click with him that he’s said it until something in Geralt’s eyes change. Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat and, for a moment, he might just feel his heart hammering in his chest, wanting to break out through his ribs. Geralt fingers still from where they’ve been teasing him, and Jaskier fights back a whine of protest. The corners of Geralt’s lips lift; a shy smile, one he flashes at Jaskier in public when he’s sure no one is looking. Their smile, one to be shared with each other. And it’s unusual seeing it now.
Jaskier’s chest fills as he draws in a steady breath. “Don’t freeze up on me,” he tries to laugh, wincing slightly when it comes out more of a huffed rasp.
Geralt watches him for a moment. “You said it.” It’s not a question. And not quite a statement either. Jaskier watches the man prowl over him, tendrils and strands of light hair almost curtaining them as Geralt catches his lips in a long and slow kiss. Heat blooms through Jaskier, curling his toes. He reaches up, setting his hands to Geralt’s shoulder. His fingers dig into the swell of muscle there, scrabbling to keep the other man close and against him and warm away the chill.
When they part, Geralt’s eyes linger on his lips. “I love you,” he murmurs, a gentle rumble that comes from the centre of his chest.
Jaskier’s tongue sits heavy in his mouth. “I. I,” he rasps. The words stick in his throat, refusing to budge no matter how much he wills them to. God, he means it. He loves Geralt. He loves him so much it’s terrifying. The man has his barely stitched and taped together heart in his hands, and Jaskier hopes that it won’t be smashed to the ground again.
Geralt shakes his head, nudging their noses together as a breath lingers between them. “You don’t have to say it, I know it’s difficult.” His voice is a gentle rumble washing over him. “I just needed to. Take your time. Be sure of yourself and your feelings. I’ll wait.”
Jaskier’s eyes sting, threatening to brim with tears. He blinks, taking a shaking breath. “This took a wholesome turn, didn’t it?” he breathes, never one to let soft emotions sit between them for too long.
Geralt’s lips stretch into a grin. He sets his forehead against Jaskier’s. “Would you rather it gets kinky? Where did you leave the handcuffs and the rope?”
At that, Jaskier’s mouth dries. He laughs, because Geralt has the same shitty humour as him, and curls his arms over the man’s shoulders. “They’re in the dresser,” he mumbles, lifting his hips. “But if you leave this bed I’ll simply die, so I’d rather you stay here.”
Geralt hums. “Sounds like a plan.” Jaskier’s eyes flutter closed at a brush of Geralt’s fingertip against him, curling around and teasing, before its slick enough to pierce. A moan catches in his throat. Their breath mixes between them as Geralt buries a finger in him, already curling, seeking out that spot inside of him that will have his fingers curling and scratching at his shoulders.
It’s warm. It’s so warm and the air is already thick with the scent of them. It’s intoxicating. Geralt leans down, setting his lips to Jaskier’s neck. Moans tremble out of him with every zing of pleasure sizzling through his skin and muscles. Wet kisses lavished to his neck, the barest hints of teeth joining them, alongside another probing finger, waiting to join the first. Jaskier’s cock leaks between them, rubbing against the firm plain of Geralt’s abdomen.
Two fingers delve into him, curling and stretching, and lithe whines slip from his lips. Geralt scrapes his teeth over his collarbone, threatening to nip and mark. Maybe if he wears one of his more modest neckline shirts he’ll be able to let Geralt mark him. God, going to the rink tomorrow still sore and worn—
Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat as Geralt curls his fingers, brushing the spot inside of him that has sparks blinking behind his eyelids. “Geralt,” he whines, clutching at the man’s shoulders. “Get in me, please.”
The other man gathers him close, humming against his jaw. “Let me feel you,” he murmurs, stretching his fingers and delving them in deeper. Jaskier clenches around him, walls fluttering and his fingernails digging into Geralt’s shoulders. He might not be allowed to leave marks on Jaskier, but Jaskier revels in the fact that Geralt is covered from head to toe for his practice. He can – and he has – littered his skin in bites and scratches. A third finger prods at his entrance. “You’re still tight.”
“I don’t care.” He swats at the man’s shoulders. “I swear to God, Geralt Rivia—”
“-Whiny bottom,” Geralt chuckles against his jaw, lavishing it kisses as he pushes another finger in, listening to the moan tremble up through Jaskier’s throat. Geralt isn’t small. He can fell the other man’s cock pressing insistently against his thigh. It’s better to be stretched – but God alive he wants Geralt in him—
His nails dig into Geralt’s shoulders, welts and grooves left behind as he spreads his legs out, rocking down on the fingers delving in and out of him. He doesn’t know how much time slips by. A few minutes. A goddamn hour. Who knows? When Geralt’s fingers pull out of him, he whines, eyes opening and searching. He wasn’t even aware he had closed them.
Geralt soothes a hand to his hip. “I got you, hang on,” he murmurs, fishing the condom from wherever it had been lost to the sea of ruffled sheets. Jaskier’s mouth dries as he watches the other man catch the wrapped with his teeth, ripping it open and sliding the condom around his hard cock. Jaskier moans at the sight of it, already feeling it in him and the delicious stretch and full feeling that comes with it.
Geralt lifts over him, a gentle hand settle at his hip as he sets the head of his cock to Jaskier’s hole. Golden eyes flicker up to him, a question behind them. Jaskier nods, hooking his free leg over the man’s hip and setting his ankle to the small of his back.
When Geralt pushes in, a moan lodges in Jaskier’s throat. Through the rush of blood through his ears, he listens to Geralt: to the tight and wrecked groan that’s hooked out of him. He feels every inch of Geralt pressing further and further into him until he bottoms out, a punched-out huff of breath leaving them both as Geralt bows over him, setting his arms on either side of his head and dipping down to lure Jaskier into a long and languid kiss.
He stays for a moment, feeling Jaskier tighten and clench around him. The ankle hooked to the back of his hip doesn’t press or fall away. They lounge in each other for a moment, content to kiss and feel and keep to themselves.
The first roll of Geralt’s hips against him has him gasping into their kiss. Jaskier’s eyes flicker shut as his lips stretch around a silent moan. Geralt buries his nose into the hollow of Jaskier’s neck, filling his lungs with the man’s scent tinged with his own.
Jaskier’s fingernails dig into his shoulders. “Move,” he gasps, a tremor of pleasure shaking through him as Geralt’s cock brushes his prostate. He’s big and there’s nothing inside of him that Geralt doesn’t touch. Jaskier moans, letting his head loll back on to the pillows and lounging in the pleasure that washes over him like waves. “There. There, Geralt, please. Harder. Fuck me.”
Geralt’s hips rock back, his cock almost leaving Jaskier entirely before his hips snap forward. Jaskier’s groan joins the filthy sound of their skin slapping together. Jaskier’s hold on Geralt’s shoulders tighten. “Yes, please Geralt, fuck me, baby.”
Geralt grunts against his skin, rolling and snapping his hips into sure thrusts that leave Jaskier gripping on to him for his life. He’s thankful that he doesn’t have golden eyes to look at. Sometimes looking at Geralt is too much. It’s been a swift end to a few nights over the past couple of months of them sharing a bed. He looks at Geralt and he sees so much it renders him speechless. He reaches up, carding his fingers through the hair stuck to Geralt’s nape with sweat, and knots it. A tight groan punches out of the other man.
“Feel good, baby,” Jaskier whines, feeling wet gasped breaths against his neck. He clamps down around Geralt’s cock, the heel dug into the small of his back guiding. “You’re huge, fuck. Filling me up so good.”
Geralt grunts, pulling away from Jaskier’s neck to hover above him. His eyes are closed, scrunched up tight as his brow is tight. One of his hands, knotted in the sheets beside Jaskier, reaches down, fingers curling around his cock. Jaskier’s eyes roll, eyelids fluttering shut. It’s good. It’s so good that he’s starting to float away.
A ragged moan tumbles out of Geralt’s lips. “Close,” he gasps, blinking his eyes open to try and catch Jaskier’s. “’m close, baby, you feel so good around me. So wet and tight.”
His words wash over him and Jaskier keens. The sure grip around his cock, Geralt’s hand pumping up and down and matching his thrusts; it’s edging him closer and closer. “Come for me, Geralt. Fill me up, baby. Fuck. That’s it. Good, I can feel you baby. You’re so close aren’t you? Come for me.”
Geralt’s brows knit and tighten. He bows over Jaskier, gathering him close as he sets his forehead on to Jaskier’s chest. His hips roll and snap, thrusts slowly becoming erratic until they still and a sharp groan punches out of Geralt. The hand around Jaskier’s cock tightens, and it’s just enough to lure him over the edge. Jaskier’s walls flutter around him, milking his cock as he floods the condom. Geralt tenses under his hands before he eventually slackens. Jaskier gathers him close, head buzzing and skin prickling with each sensation. The wetness splattered between them is forgotten about.
Geralt breathes against his chest, matching each deep lungful of air Jaskier draws in to steady his heart. It’s hammering against his ribcage, threatening to burst through at any moment. Jaskier’s legs fall from Geralt’s hips. His hands skim over the man’s upper arms and shoulders, making note of every tremor that shakes through him.
He doesn’t know how much time passes before Geralt finally lifts his head, taking a measured breath before rocking back. Both of them wince as he slips free of Jaskier.
He’s floating. Jaskier looks up at the mottled ceiling. His apartment downtown is far from the local college, but close enough to the ice rink to keep him on track with his training. A mismatch of furniture and trinkets fill the apartment, gathered by both him and Shani over the years of living here. Even his bedsheets don’t match, but they’re a vaguely similar shade of grey and who even cares. Jaskier’s head rolls as the bed dips. He watches with bleary eyes as Geralt slips away, disposing of the condom and lifting up one of Jaskier’s old shirts lying on the floor. He nods to it, a question unspoken.
Jaskier blinks slowly. Sure. Geralt pads back over to the bed, handing the shirt to the man and watches with hooded eyes as Jaskier cleans his stomach. The shirt falls to the floor and Jaskier forgets about it the second it leaves his hand. Geralt returns to the bed, as he often does. He lingers, spends the afterhours pressed to Jaskier’s side, or entangled in him, and they stay with each other for a while.
Jaskier’s chest tightens. Geralt settles down beside him and sighs as soon as sinks into the mattress and bedding and lays claim to Jaskier’s side by throwing a familiar strong arm over his waist. The question bubbles up Jaskier’s throat before he can stop it.
“Stay?”
Geralt is still. And silent. An argument is perched on his tongue. Jaskier knows there is; he put it there. The others will wonder where he is. They’ll blow up his phone with calls and texts. And he really doesn’t want to have to explain that he’s just spending the night away because he knows what Lambert is like.
But Geralt’s words from earlier stalk through the darker corners of his mind, nipping at him to remember and linger on them for longer than necessary. Golden eyes watch him for a moment, scanning his face for any sort of hint that it could be a joke; that Jaskier doesn’t mean it and that he can actually stay.
Jaskier’s chest tightens as Geralt leans into his touch, sighing contently as his fingers trace over the man’s cheekbone. It’s enough to start lulling him to sleep. Before he can wander too far down, Geralt hums. “Alright,” he rasps, gathering Jaskier close to fit himself against the other man. They’re an entangled mess of limbs with every part of them touching.
The knot in his chest loosens. He can breathe. His lungs fill and push against his ribcage.
And he can drift away; a familiar weight against his side that helps him sink deeper and deeper into sleep.