Somewhat Clear

deerna
somewhatclear

Rating: NSFW
Fandom: The Witcher
Relationship: Jaskier/Geralt
Tags: Trans Geralt, Vaginal Fingering, Frotting, PWP, Drunk Sex, Semi-public sex
Wordcount: 1492
Notes: partecipa alla maritombola di landedifandom per il prompt 27: sala del trono

Summary:
Geralt accompanies Jaskier to a banquet with the promise of stopping him before he crosses a line. Success in this endeavor is questionable - but Geralt gets his reward anyway.

Excerpt:

“My saviour,” Jaskier said, swooning dramatically half against the wall and half against Geralt’s chest. “Half of those people know my parents, I would’ve never lived it down. It’s bad enough that I became a bard, in their eyes—I’m pretty sure they know I’m also a promiscuous slut, but there’s no need to rub it in their faces that way.”

Geralt carefully propped the lute on its side against the wall, so that it couldn’t flop down and break, and caught the swooning bard just in time, rolling his eyes at his dramatics. “Don’t you always say that you don’t care about what your parents think of you?”

“Absolutely,” Jaskier said, absently playing with the buttons of Geralt’s doublet. Then he looked up with a mischievous grin. “Which is why I’m giving you your reward for saving me right here.”

{ read on AO3 | read here }

The reason Geralt’s life was such a mess was because he never learned from his mistakes—which was why he’d agreed to accompany Jaskier to a banquet once again.

“Why did I agree to this?” Geralt grumbled to himself, downing another goblet of wine. The stuff was vile, which was probably on purpose; after all, to wash out the taste, there was nothing else to do but eat and drink more. And drinking was the secret to a successful banquet—or so seemed to think Jaskier, who was well past the point of being absolutely shitfaced drunk, as he entertained a table of partygoers on the other side of the throne hall. Somehow, he was still playing and singing in tune, which Geralt found begrudgingly impressive, and the only indication of his altered state was the flush high on his cheekbones, which Geralt found begrudgingly attractive, with the way it made his eyes even bluer. Not that Geralt was ever going to tell him.

He knew that Jaskier was that drunk only because he’d been watching—because Jaskier had asked him to, in fact. “Don’t let me do dumb shit at this party, Geralt,” Jaskier told him, looking dead serious and focused as he tuned his lute before the main performance, several hours earlier. “I’m serious. I’m going to drink like it’s the end of the world probably, because I can’t stand these people, but it’s imperative that I don’t cross the line. Drag me away if you have to, if you see me start to clown around.”

It wasn’t clear what “clowning around” entailed, but for the moment the people at the table seemed to be genuinely amused and entertained by the bard, and, while he couldn’t quite make out all the dirty lyrics the the song he was singing now, Geralt was pretty sure they were still within his standard bardic nonsense, and within the court etiquette infringements that such frivolous events allowed.

Contrary to popular belief (which basically meant Jaskier and Yennefer) Geralt knew how to behave; he just didn’t care enough to, generally. He didn’t like wasting his breath and good manners with people who didn’t even consider him a person.

The dirty ballad came to an end with a chorus of giggles and barks of laughters from the table Jaskier had been entertaining, and the bard folded himself in an exaggerated curtsy. Then he propped his lute against a bench, and stepped on the table with a movement that had no right to be so fluid, with the amount of liquor he had ingested.

“Fuck,” Geralt muttered, and peeled himself off the wall.

Two things immediately became apparent: first, Geralt had definitely had too much to drink himself, and while he wasn’t drunk yet, his reflexes were definitely impaired; second, the line Jaskier wasn’t supposed to cross had been doused in alcohol, set on fire, and the ashes had been blown away by the wind.

By the time Geralt reached the table, Jaskier had shrugged out of his doublet and was teasingly undoing his undershirt button by button, singing dirty ditties and making a fool of himself all the while.

“Jaskier,” he called him, trying not to sound like he was scolding a rowdy child, and trying to ignore the way his pulse quickened at the sight of Jaskier dancing on the table, flushed and sweaty and not a care in the world. He was a professional, goddammit.

The bard swiveled around in half a turn, putting his hips into it in a way that was downright obscene, and gasped, delighted. “Geralt! You joined us! Ladies and gentlemen, this is my good friend Geralt of Rivia—”

“I’m afraid it’s time to go, Jaskier. It’s late and we have an early start, tomorrow,” Geralt said dryly, giving a tight-lipped smile to the nobles and social climbers that were still tittering behind their hands at Jaskier’s behaviour. The closest noblewoman’s grin gave him the creeps; she probably wasn’t a bruxa, but Geralt wouldn’t have bet silver on it.

“But Geralt,” Jaskier slurred, crouching on the table so they were at the same height, a slight pout on his flushed face, “The night is young. We’re just warming up!”

Geralt picked up his discarded doublet and lute, and pulled him off the table by the arm. “You told me to stop you when you crossed the line, remember?” he hissed in his ear.

Jaskier blinked up at him, confused, and then he briefly, suddenly, sobered up. “Oh fuck. Fuck, you’re right. Hang on, let me say goodbye. We can go, then.” He grabbed his doublet, put it back on, kissed a couple hands and performed various formal bows around the table. Then he hooked Geralt’s proffered arm with his own and they were off, back to the dark corner that Geralt had occupied all evening, but even further in the back, away from indiscreet eyes.

“My saviour,” Jaskier said, swooning dramatically half against the wall and half against Geralt’s chest. “Half of those people know my parents, I would’ve never lived it down. It’s bad enough that I became a bard, in their eyes—I’m pretty sure they know I’m also a promiscuous slut, but there’s no need to rub it in their faces that way.”

Geralt carefully propped the lute on its side against the wall, so that it couldn’t flop down and break, and caught the swooning bard just in time, rolling his eyes at his dramatics. “Don’t you always say that you don’t care about what your parents think of you?”

“Absolutely,” Jaskier said, absently playing with the buttons of Geralt’s doublet. Then he looked up with a mischievous grin. “Which is why I’m giving you your reward for saving me right here,” he murmured against Geralt’s lips, before pressing him against the wall with his whole body and capturing his mouth in a searing, filthy kiss.

Something in Geralt’s brain tried to fight it—but the liquor buzzed in his veins and Jaskier was warm, and Geralt was only a man, under all the mutations. “Jaskier.”

“Are you wet for me, dear? I saw the way you looked at me, while I was dancing on that table. Your pupils were so wide—you liked what you were looking at, didn’t you?”

Geralt groaned, feeling Jaskier growing hard against his leg and his hands gripping him by the hips, grinding down. He braced himself against the wall, throwing his head back to let Jaskier press open-mouthed kisses against his throat while his clever fingers undid the laces on his breeches. He really hoped nobody was paying attention to them.

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathed out reverently when he finally pushed his hand inside Geralt’s pants and found the soft folds with his fingers, sliding them in the wetness there, palming roughly at his dick. “Do you want my fingers or my mouth, love?”

There was something about Jaskier going on his knees in a hall full of people just to put his mouth on Geralt that made his whole body seize up—but Geralt couldn’t, he couldn’t.

“Fingers,” he gasped. “Quick, Jaskier, for fuck’s sake.”

Jaskier hummed—Geralt hoped he wasn’t too disappointed—and kissed him again. “So impatient, witcher.” The fingers on one hand tangled in Geralt’s hair, gently pulling and scratching at the nape of his neck, while the middle finger on the other hand circled his dick and his folds teasingly.

Geralt closed his eyes, letting himself be kissed and fingered open, occasionally rubbing Jaskier’s erection through his pants, enjoying the firmness and warmth that rested against his leg, and the firm shape of Jaskier’s thigh between his, feeling lazy and dirty in the best of ways. Even his climax felt indolent and luxurious, a slow wave of pleasure brushing against the fuzziness of the liquor that left his limbs limp and liquid.

They embraced and slumped together against the wall for a moment, before straightening each other's clothes, suddenly laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, and maybe finally letting the last of their intoxication settle in.

“I wish I could say that the last time I ruined my pants like this I was fifteen but—”

“—but you weren’t,” Geralt grumbled, good naturedly.

“But I wasn't!” Jaskier laughed, picking up his lute by the strap and almost stumbling.

“I know.” Geralt stabilized him, and almost missed a step himself. “I was there.”

“We need to stop doing these things,” Jaskier murmured, leaning against Geralt’s shoulder as they walked out the hall, down the ample corridor, towards their rooms.

“And learn from our mistakes?” Geralt pressed a kiss against Jaskier’s hair. “Never.”