Somewhat Clear

Rating: NSFW
Fandom: The Witcher
Relationship: Geralt/Jaskier
Tags: Restraints, Dom/sub undertones, face-fucking, facials, come marking, come eating, scent kink, blowjobs, handjobs, first time, feelings TM, making out. Geralt is a sort-of service top in this, while Jaskier doms from the bottom and is also very nice about it.
Wordcount: 3445
Notes: For Caro! ♥

Summary:

Geralt accidentally finds out that his travelling companion loves being pinned to the bed--and Jaskier's scent tells him something else, too. Sex happens (a lot) and feelings are discussed (a little).

Excerpt:

Slowly, Geralt moves so he’s pinning both of Jaskier’s wrists with just one hand, balancing more of his weight forward and lowering himself over his body. He licks his lips, tentative; he sees Jaskier watch his mouth, the blue of his eyes getting thinner as his pupils dilate and the lust-scent grows thicker.

Geralt touches his hand to his face and closes the distance between them, crashing their lips together.

{ read on AO3 | read here }

“Ooh, shiny! What is it?”

Geralt snatches away the pot of salve before Jaskier can close his hand around it, and stares him down with a stern look before opening the jar out of his reach.

Jaskier rolls his eyes at him, and huffs.

“It’s just salve,” Geralt grunts.

The bard scoots closer, and squints. “It’s not just salve—it’s weird. It glows.”

“It doesn’t,” Geralt’s mouth says automatically, but, when he peers into the jar to survey the greasy lotion, he realizes that Jaskier is right: there’s a faint silvery glimmer shooting through the jelly-like substance.

A specter dust side effect, it must be. It doesn’t usually happen when he mixes it with myrtle petals, which is usually the case, since he likes having something human-safe on hand in case Jaskier ever needs to be patched up; but he happened to have quite a lot of specter dust after the last contract, where he had to dispatch four noonwraiths at once, and it was a perfectly good substitute for white myrtle in this preparate, and—

“What does it do?”

“Helps with scarring,” he murmurs absently, dipping a finger in the reddish concoction and rubbing it between his fingers pensively. The shimmer isn’t as noticeable, once the substance is absorbed into the skin. He has to remember to make a note of it.

“I see,” the bard replies, quiet and somber, like every time Geralt calls attention to the marks on his body.

Geralt shrugs, and slathers a thin layer of unguent on the raised lines on his shoulder. They are old, but they feel tight sometimes. He catches Jaskier looking at him, a thin wrinkle of deep thought between his eyes.

“Does it glow because it's magic or because the monster bits do that?” Jaskier asks again, scooting even closer, because apparently he can’t shut the fuck up or stay still to save his life, bleeding heart or not. “You know, like fireflies or glowworms, or—”

Lightning quick, Geralt catches the bard’s wrist before even realizing that he’s reaching out once again. He manages to be careful—too aware that human bones are frail and brittle, and he doesn’t want to snap any—but his grasp is firm and he doesn’t budge when Jaskier tries to pull away.

“You’re so annoying,” he growls down at the bard’s hand.

Jaskier grins, amused, and wiggles his fingers at him. “Come onnnn I just want to look! No touchy. Promise. Is it that dangerous?”

“No.”

“No—it’s not dangerous, or no—just in general?”

“Just no.” Geralt slowly releases him, then eyes him warily. “Are you done?”

Again, Jaskier lets out a huff and settles back with arms crossed over his chest, leaning away like a scolded child, his youthful features scrunched up in an exaggerated, childish pout.

Geralt sighs, but his mouth twitches at the bard’s antics despite himself. He does find him amusing; always so dramatic, even around Geralt—where people usually shrink back into themselves and walk on eggshells and hold their breath in fear.

Hearing Jaskier’s heartbeat picking up excitedly, as he pretends to act mulish and offended while preparing his comeback, Geralt makes a show of dipping his fingers in the pot again—and that’s when the bard pounces, lunging again in his space with a wide, playful smile.

“I just want to take a look--eeep!” he shrieks and laughs when Geralt catches him easily, throwing the jar of salve aside.

They end up wrestling on the lumpy mattress in a tangle of limbs and huffs. It reminds Geralt of when he used to play rough with Gweld and Eskel, back when he was too light and skinny to break out of Eskel’s grasp, before the extra Trial gave him some edge—except he can throw Jaskier on the bed and pin him down by the wrists without any effort whatsoever.

“This is so unfair, you’re not even winded,” Jaskier pants, like he’s been running for hours. Geralt can’t help but grin down at him. “Do you even feel me trying to get away?”

“Yeah,” Geralt drawls. “But it’s not that noticeable.”

As expected, Jaskier harrumps, offended, and tries to wriggle away harder in retaliation. Geralt smirks and clamps down on him a little more heavily. A breathy squeak leaves the bard’s throat, and a familiar, unexpected lick of scent hits Geralt’s nose, musky and heady.

He blinks. Geralt is well acquainted with the warm smell of Jaskier’s arousal, not only because the bard is the furthest thing from discreet when it comes to his sexual adventures, but also because for some reason the scent of lust always clings to him, like the lavender from his soap and the polish he uses to take care of his lute—but he’d never smelled it so close, so fresh.

Geralt tilts his head, and studies Jaskier’s sweat-slick hair, his rumpled clothes, his flushed face. Jaskier clears his throat, looking a little nervous and a lot embarrassed. “Geralt! You know, you can let me go now. I promise—no, I swear I’ll behave. Actually, I’ll leave the room even, so you can finish your business. Yes, that seems sensible, doesn’t it?” His voice is steady, unnaturally so, but he doesn’t smell scared, just flustered—and aroused. “Anytime, now—”

Slowly, Geralt moves so he’s pinning both of Jaskier’s wrists with just one hand, balancing more of his weight forward and lowering himself over his body. He licks his lips, tentative; he sees Jaskier watch his mouth, the blue of his eyes getting thinner as his pupils dilate and the lust-scent grows thicker.

Geralt touches his hand to his face and closes the distance between them, crashing their lips together. Jaskier’s mouth goes slack and soft with a sound between a wanton moan and a startled squeak. He opens up easily and invitingly, his smell turning bright and buttery through the earthy arousal when Geralt runs his fingers through his hair, feeling the soft, silky texture against his skin.

He whines as soon as Geralt threatens to loosen the grip on his wrists.

“Does it arouse you?” he asks, adjusting the position and pinning him down again, harder. His voice is raspy, affected, the scent getting to him. “The idea of not being able to free yourself?”

“Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier moans, soft and encouraging, fingers curling.

“You like being spread under me. Helpless. It makes—does it make your breath catch?” The silk of Jaskier’s doublet is rough against Geralt’s bare skin. “Does it make your—does it make you hard?”

“Yes,” Jaskier gasps, his eyelids fluttering. His back arches off the mattress, the movement pressing them together from sternum to thigh. Geralt hums at the feeling of the firm line of Jaskier’s cock against his leg. His skin feels too tight, his own heartbeat too quick and his blood too loud as it rushes in his ears.

“Keep going, keep talking,” the bard begs, biting his lip and looking at Geralt, heated and dark.

“You fidget a lot,” Geralt tells him. “As if you itched for me to come and sit on you.”

“Mmh, what else?” Jaskier tests his hold again and gives him a grin. “Oh, I know. I run my mouth all the time too, don’t I? Always asking questions, always delivering exposition, always testing rhymes out loud, always giving a commentary on the landscape, and even now! Granted, you surprised me there for a moment, but I assure you I’m chatty as fuck in bed too. Wouldn’t you like to shut me up, Geralt? Gag me—choke me?”

He sounds eager, craning his head just so to expose the long white column of his neck—but Geralt’s eyes fall on his throat, on the pale phantom of a bruise that still blooms there in Geralt’s vision whenever the guilt screams in his mind. His hands fall away and he has to lean back, the memory of Jaskier’s bloodied lips sliding in his gut like a cold blade.

“What?” Jaskier blinks, sits up as Geralt sits back on his haunches, a confused frown marring his forehead. “What happened? Did I say something?”

“Blessed silence,” Geralt rasps out, glancing away. “Don’t want to hurt you.”

Realization dawns on the bard’s face. “Oh! No, Geralt, this—this is okay. We’re having just a bit of fun, right? I want you to shut me up this one time— you know, putting my mouth to better uses?” His grin is saucy and ridiculous as he tries to land the joke, but it turns into something softer when Geralt can’t bring himself to respond to it. “Okay, let’s try like this.”

His mouth is light against Geralt’s collarbone, against his chest, against his stomach; he’s unafraid and bold and determined, and Geralt breathes him in, gasping at his gentle ministrations.

“Tell me I didn’t already ruin everything with my big mouth.” Jaskier’s hand is warm against his lower belly. “Can I keep going?”

Geralt nods, stiffly, so Jaskier pulls his braies away from his skin, takes his dick out and presses a kiss on its head.

A sound escapes Geralt’s throat, hands tightening at his sides. He’s gone a little soft, but the bard doesn’t seem to care—he takes him in his mouth as if it was the most natural thing in the world, surrounding him in velvety, wet warmth. He blindly looks for Geralt’s clenched fists, loosening them up with clever, calloused fingers before pulling them against his own jaw.

Geralt wills himself not to shiver as he cradles Jaskier’s face against his crotch, fingertips sinking in the hair at the nape of his neck, feathery-soft and light—but then Jaskier hums around him and Geralt twitches, hands tightening and hips hitching forward. Jaskier gags, but whines when Geralt hurries to pull him off.

“Do that again,” he says, rough but eager.

Geralt grimaces. “Your throat—”

“Yeah! That’s the point! Please, Geralt…?”

So Geralt pushes him back in, careful and slow, nerve endings tingling with pleasure. After a few thrusts, his ears are so full of Jaskier’s pleased moans he forgets to worry about the bard; he pulls on Jaskier’s hair as he fucks his mouth with abandon, addicted to the noises he makes—like he’s choking on laughter instead of dick—to the crinkle between his eyes smoothing out every time Geralt can’t help but grunt out his pleasure, to the grin that grows wider and wider every time he lets him slip out of his mouth, sloppy and smelling like butter and earth—

Geralt is close. He looks down at Jaskier, at the shadow his eyelashes cast on his cheeks, at his flushed skin, his slack jaw covered in fluids, the hand shoved down his unfastened trousers as he lazily pleasures himself while Geralt takes him—and yearns.

The bard makes a startled noise when Geralt once again pushes him off his dick to flatten him on the bed, fingers clumsy on the nape of his neck and at his chin to keep him in place as he spills over his lips, on his cheekbone, over the bridge of his nose. He leans down to swallow Jaskier’s complaints, tasting himself in his mouth, rasping his tongue down his chin and into the hollow of his throat, mind blank and still struggling to recover from the wave of pleasure that washed over him.

“Mine.” Their mingled scents leave him helpless and overwhelmed and hating the whine in the back of his throat. “Mine?”

“Fuck, Geralt, always,” Jaskier gasps.

Geralt kisses him again, open-mouthed and clumsy, relishing in the soft, pleased groans that escape from his lips. “Let me,” he rasps, and straddles his waist, pulls at the fastenings until he can slip his trousers past his hips. He bats his hand away and takes over, enjoying the warm weight of him against his palm for a moment before stroking him a few times.

Jaskier twitches wildly beneath Geralt as he lays his arm across his hips, humming in thought. “Can you move like this?”

Jaskier tries to buck in his grasp. “No,” he confirms, sounding strangled.

“Good.” Geralt swallows him down, nose nestling in the curls at the base of Jaskier’s cock, and the scent of pleasure and want is so strong it makes his eyes water. He’s hard again—but he can’t focus on that, not when Jaskier is coming with a shout not a second later, his fingers scrabbling at the small of his back. He strokes him through it, catches the spend on his tongue and tucks him back in his trousers, before lying down next to him.

It’s weirdly quiet for a while, as Jaskier pants through the aftershocks and Geralt lies on his side and silently tries to ignore the simmering heat that still lives under his skin—but the room smells like sex and like pleasure and there’s no shame and no fear and no guilt, and he finds he doesn’t really want to. He wants to bask in that feeling instead, before reality comes crashing down on them.

“Hey, don’t tell me you’re the kind that falls asleep right after sex,” Jaskier teases him, rolling over until they’re pressed front to back, his stubble-covered chin rubbing at his shoulder and his arms circling his waist.

“I’m awake.”

“Oh, good!” Jaskier says, and his voice breaks right in the middle, a fresh reminder of the abuse on his throat. “Ha, hear this, you made a number on me!”

Geralt grimaces. “I’m so—”

“Don’t you fucking dare, that was absolutely amazing and I would do it again in a heartbeat,” Jaskier interrupts him, fingers drawing patterns on his stomach. “On the other hand, sorry for clinging, I’m a cuddler. Hope you don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind.”

“That’s even better!” His voice cracks again and he chuckles. There’s a rustle of sheets and clothing. “Oh, I found your jar of salve. It was digging in my back the whole time—I bet I will have an interesting bruise in the morning.”

Geralt blinked. “Don’t open it,” he muttered, rolling over. “Give it here.”

He found himself face to face with a grinning, empty-handed Jaskier. “Made you look! Are you always this grumpy after an orgasm? Not that I find that weird but, seriously, are you alright?”

“I’m guessing you’re also a talker,” Geralt tells him, deadpan, adjusting his crotch so it doesn’t rub uncomfortably against the lacing of the braies.

Jaskier catches the movement and his eyes widen. “Are you still hard? Or is it hard again?”

Geralt shrugs, awkward. “Once I get going it’s— one time isn’t enough. It usually takes me a few more to—” he gestures. “You know.”

“Really,” Jaskier says. “How many times are we talking about?”

“It depends. A few.” He doesn’t like talking about it, but he knows that Jaskier will insist until he answers, so he might as well get it over with as quickly as possible, so he can lie down and try to sleep it off, like he usually does. “It doesn’t matter, it goes away after a while—”

“How long?”

“An hour or so. I’m sorry if it’s bothering you—”

“Bothering me?” Jaskier squeaks, interrupting him. “Geralt, I don’t know how to put this politely but—I’m offering myself for, ah, the taking, as you were. I realize this thing between us is new and everything—”

“Jaskier.”

“—but as I’m sure you realized by now, I’m a bit of a uhhh. Does the word ‘slut’ offend you? Because I’m starting to think that as much as you like saying the word ‘fuck’ you’re actually not that fond of using profanities in bed, and—”

“Jaskier, please stop talking.”

“Fine, fine.” He starts stroking a fingertip up and down Geralt’s thigh. It tickles a little, but it’s nice, too. Intimate. “So, are you down with it?”

“I don’t usually go more than once when I’m with—people.”

Geralt licks his lips. He tries to come up with the right words, but it’s hard to think, with Jaskier’s hand simultaneously too close and too far from his crotch.

Jaskier hums. “Let me guess. Do people get too tired? Or bored, maybe? Oh, is this why you usually pay for it? I would’ve offered sooner if I’d known—would’ve saved you a lot of money.” He frowns. “Scratch that, I would’ve offered sooner if I’d known you were into men—but that’s in the past. So, how do you want me?”

Geralt thinks of Jaskier, of his lovely buttery smell surrounding him all night, and warmth curls low inside his belly. “Do you really want to do this?”

“Sure! As long as you don’t mind me just laying there and taking it for a while from time to time while I catch my breath—but don’t worry, I can pace myself. If I get too sore for fucking after a few rounds we can get creative.”

Geralt nods. He doesn’t trust his mouth. He doesn’t trust his body most of the time, alien and genetically improbable as it is. But—gods help him—he trusts Jaskier’s judgement, against every and any odds and common sense.

They make a night of it. Jaskier fetches a jar of fancy slick from his pack, specifically formulated to make things wetter and to stay wet longer, and Geralt spends a long time opening him up, with his mouth and his fingers and his dick. He fucks him on his back and on his knees and on his side, holding his hips in a bruising grip as he thrusts in him without a thought, Jaskier’s pleased and exhilarated smell working like an aphrodisiac on Geralt’s senses; he fucks his ass, his fist, his thighs; he comes onto his chest, on his face, into his hair. Jaskier smiles and laughs and gasps through all of it, letting him move his limbs around like a doll, wrapping his arms around his neck to press sloppy kisses against his face and rubbing his nose against his throat between a round and the other. Geralt holds him as he cries, oversensitive and a little hysterical, as he ruts against the inside of his leg. They eventually fall asleep, tangled in each other, covered in sweat and fluids.

Geralt almost packs and leaves without saying goodbye when it’s finally over, afraid and ashamed; but he takes too long thinking it over, staring at Jaskier’s sleeping face, and the bard wakes up, cracking a puffy eye at him.

“You know, it’s creepy watching people sleep,” he croaks. Unafraid. Unashamed.

Geralt unclenches. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore, and lucky that you’re my friend because if this were a brothel I definitely couldn’t afford to pay for all the shit we did last night.” He groans. “Fuck, I’m going to be a little useless for a while. Think Lady Roach might be kind enough to give me a ride? And before you make jokes about riding—”

Geralt snorts. “If we bathe first and bribe her with lots of apples, maybe.”

“Hurray,” Jaskier deadpans. “How are you feeling?”

“Sated.” Scared. Relieved. “You said last night you’d offered earlier if you had known. How early?”

Jaskier hummed. “Well, how long have we known each other?”

Geralt blinks, confused. “How?”

“Well, at first it was just—I was eighteen and horny, and you—you have to know what you look like, I refuse to waste my breath. But then I started knowing you and—” he mumbles, unintelligible. “Why do you ask?”

“When we were together last night you smelled—happy.” Buttery and bright, like fresh bread. There’s a hint of it on his skin, still. He doesn’t like the idea of washing it off. “You didn’t mean for this to be just sex,” Geralt continues, certain.

Jaskier hums, then leans over and kisses him, soft and hesitant. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah.” Geralt licks his lips and breathes out. “Yeah, I think it is.”