Somewhat Clear

deerna
somewhatclear

Rating: NSFW
Fandom: The Witcher
Relationship: Geralt/Jaskier
Tags: Trans Jaskier, Substance Abuse, Drunk sex, Altered Mental States, Scent kink, Vaginal sex, First time, Topping from the bottom, Dom/sub undertones, service top geralt, Porn without plot, more or less.
Wordcount: 910
Notes: a prequel to Change my mind but can be read by itself. Written for the prompt "Altered Mental States"

Summary:
Geralt and Jaskier get drunk and fall in bed together.

Excerpt:

The kiss is like a sip of water, sweet and cool on parched lips, and Jaskier’s mouth is soft and pliant against his, tasting like the honey cakes he swiped from the kitchen earlier while the cook wasn’t looking. Geralt can smell his arousal in the sweat building in the hollow of his throat, can hear every flutter of his quickening pulse drowning out the pouring rain pattering on the rooftop.

{ read on AO3 | read here }

The kiss is like a sip of water, sweet and cool on parched lips, and Jaskier’s mouth is soft and pliant against his, tasting like the honey cakes he swiped from the kitchen earlier while the cook wasn’t looking. Geralt can smell his arousal in the sweat building in the hollow of his throat, can hear every flutter of his quickening pulse drowning out the pouring rain pattering on the rooftop.

He squashes his nose in his cheek, sinks his fingers in the yielding flesh of his ass and through his feather-soft hair, instinctively trying to pull him closer. He chases a line down his jaw, down his neck, where it joins at the shoulder, where that tantalizing scent is stronger—

“Fuck,” he slurs, pulling back with a grimace. Jaskier blinks up at him while Geralt tries to smooth out his clothes where he’d wrinkled them with his rough touches, to comb back his mussed hair with clumsy fingers. “Sorry.”

Jaskier laughs. “What for?”

“I didn’t ask,” Geralt mumbles. “I’m drunk.”

“That’s alright, love.” Jaskier is all smiles as he pushes Geralt to sit on the bed and climbs in his lap, all long limbs and wicked smiles and wrinkled clothes and pleased smells. “You made your intention known in other ways.” He smells of alcohol, too.

Geralt whines. “Can I kiss you again?” The liquor makes his head spin. His hands feel liquid and waxy against Jaskier’s skin.

“Of course, you can. In fact, I will cry if you stop,” Jaskier promises. He shrugs out of his doublet like a magic trick and puts his hands on Geralt’s shoulders, making him lie down on his back. His slight weight pressing him in the mattress feels nice and comforting.

Jaskier smiles down at him. “Gods, I love you like this. All fuzzy around the edges,” Jaskier teases him, and then laughs when Geralt rolls them over. “Damn, your eyes look incredible this up close.”

He doesn’t know what to say at that. He leans down to press another kiss into his mouth, a flicker of emotion burning low in his gut. His fingers fumble around the small buttons of Jaskier’s undershirt as he gets it open. He presses his face right in the middle of his chest as soon as he’s freed him from it, hands cupping the softness there and cheek rubbing against the rough hair for a moment, before moving down to undo the laces on his breeches.

He can’t help but bury his face in Jaskier’s crotch, breathing in the rich, wet smell of him—but Jaskier yelps, gives a startled laugh, knees him away. Jaskier pulls him back towards his face (”My eyes are up here, big boy!” he says, and they’re blue, so blue, they look incredible this up close) and they’re kissing again, filthy and sloppy and breathless.

Jaskier’s face feels too small between his palms, as if he’s grown bigger without noticing while they were rutting together a moment ago.

“Starting to feel underdressed, here. Why don’t you take off your clothes, while I pour us something else to drink?”

“’M good,” Geralt mumbles, kneeling up to pull his shirt up and off. He shakes his head and the irrational fear of crushing Jaskier, ends up ripping something on the stitching and immediately loses track of his pants, but that’s okay. He’ll regret it in the morning.

Jaskier falls in his lap again, naked and warm, and Geralt feels his dick twitch. An empty cup rolls on the floor with a loud clunking sound that grates on Geralt’s ears. “Fucking hell, look at you,” he slurs, putting his hands on his chest, on his stomach, on his erection.

He watches as Jaskier gets his fingers under himself, through the wetness between his legs, coating them in slick and his mouth turns dry. “Eyes up,” Jaskier says, pressing a wet hand under his chin to make him look at his face. His eyes are so very blue and Geralt stutters and falls into them, as Jaskier lines himself up and sinks down on him, hot and tight, a broken moan spilling from his throat.

The taste of wine sours on their tongues but Geralt doesn’t stop him. Jaskier’s hips move against him in long, languid waves, dragging him deeper and deeper. It’s torture, but he’s too drunk to mind. Jaskier takes his pleasure, brings himself over the edge with a quiet curse and hands gripping painfully at Geralt’s upper arms. He slides off with a grimace and a confused, half-apologetic frown.

“I can’t believe y're still goin’,” he says, stroking Geralt’s dick with a calloused hand, mouth barely forming the words. “Wanna fuck my mouth?”

Geralt shakes his head, a hand already wrapped around himself to catch the wetness that Jaskier left behind. He comes with Jaskier’s heavy gaze on him, an unreadable expression that follows him under the covers as they curl up together one in front of the other.

He doesn’t know where to put his hands until Jaskier grabs him by the wrists, wraps himself in them. Geralt counts the knobs in his spine and his ribs and falls asleep wondering if Jaskier is doing the same on his back, and if he’s keeping a tally of his scars, too.