whatupbuttercup | PSL Horsetrading with Monsterbytrade

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PSL Horsetrading with Monsterbytrade

To the surprise of positively no one, Jaskier was a bit discerning when it came to purchasing anything of significant value. He picked his cremes and soaps out with care, sampled and carefully balanced the perfumes he carried, gauged and tested the accouterments he kept for the care of his lute--and his clothes, the ridiculous care he took in picking fabric and trim would have driven anyone but the tailor themselves to distraction. None of this had ever been inflicted on Geralt of Rivia directly--Jaskier tended to take the day to shop, whenever they were near a major city and Geralt was suitably occupied with hunting.

This time, however, Geralt had to come with him.

Jaskier had coin enough for most trinkets and niceties--but a horse? A horse was a pricey thing and he would have to encroach into the Witcher's purse if he planned on picking out any creature that could tolerate their particularly dangerous brand of wandering.

Fortunately, for all the sound and fury of Oxenfurt, there were a wealth of horse ranches in the surrounding farmland. They had no shortage of beasts to pick from and, with the market days of the big city, it was an easy task to see the lot of them lined up and ready for sale.

Jaskier picked through the herds (literal and figurative) and examined each horse that caught his eye. He hummed, spoke to them, twined his fingers through their manes, and made clucking noises with his tongue whenever one was deemed inappropriate or unworthy. There were more than a few that he fussed over for long stretches of time, but each failed some unspoken test and was given a sad pat on their long snouts as the bard bade them farewell.

They'd started at dawn, just as the first traders had arrived, and late afternoon was creeping into evening as they wandered. A dozen dealers had their stock sorted through and found wanting and, all the while, Jaskier darted to and fro--eagerly searching for something he couldn't explain.

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Geralt left him with the horses and Jaskier, still amazed by the purchase, decided to recount the tale to Roach as he moved into the golden horse's stall and brushed him down. The gold horse was, underneath Jaskier's hands, a fairly tame creature. It was unbothered by his presence, so long as he continued to chatter and coo in soft tones, and was terribly curious about Roach in the next stall over. Roach tolerated his peering but largely ignored him, which was fair, he was a stranger--

It took the bard quite some time to accomplish his task which was, on the whole, not entirely surprising. Currying down the horse was a task that Jaskier delighted in--its hair shone and sparkled so prettily as he brushed it down. Jaskier went beyond, afterward, rubbing down the gold horse's face and legs with a soft towel (and that made it shine brighter, despite how impossible that seemed) until it was a gleaming thing. He caught the stable-hands staring as he combed out its fine and pretty mane, but they scattered when he looked back.

When he went inside for lunch he was hungry, his doublet was dirtied from shuffling around a stable for an hour or so, and he was positively beaming. He found Geralt seated and eating and dropped into the space across from him.

"Cantata," Jaskier told him (he had already declared it to Roach). It was a feminine sounding name but, honestly, why bind horses to silly things like masculine or feminine word forms? The more important bit was the fit and, in Jaskier's not remotely humble opinion, nothing fit better than that. It was a testament to how ethereal the creature was, and how it delighted in music.

"I cannot express how positively alight I am at the idea of riding that lovely horse, and it is such a sweet thing, all doe eyes and patience--thank you, Geralt, thank you so very much!"

It had been very mercifully silent (without Jaskier's chatter but even quiet enough in the pub at lunchtime) that Geralt is happily complacent when the bard finally turns up. His stomach is full, the beer is still good, and there is no longer the worry about a horse. (To a point.) When Jaskier enters the room, Geralt knows before he's even looked up from the steak and kidney pie-- he can feel the energy the man throws before him as well as any horse. He washes down the food and leans back to listen.

"We'll be able to move faster," he says, sidestepping the thanks. The prolonged, awkward hug that Jaskier had given him earlier had been more than enough. That he doubted the horse would be all doe eyes and patience he didn't bother to mention. Time would tell and he'd be happy to be wrong on that account. "No doubt we'll be able to bring in a better income for it."

Geralt has always been the sort who doesn't take thanks well, no matter how effusively Jaskier gave them. A man of action, or somesuch, and while Jaskier could appreciate that, this outcome was beyond the pale, truly. Jaskier couldn't profess his thanks, for the purchase of this singular horse, for the cost of it, for Geralt's willingness to have him along and keep him near. If he started waxing poetic, the Witcher would roll his eyes and stop listening.

That was fine, Jaskier had experienced a few tough audiences in his time. He just had to change the tune he sang.

"I'm sure," Jaskier agreed and leaned forward on the table, his smile still wide and his cheeks still flushed with delight (and probably a light sunburn, if he was being honest). "But you know, Geralt, as keen as I am to ride that horse, I'd rather like to ride someone else at the moment."

Jaskier was truly a charming man, he was a master of seduction, he'd talked his way into and out of more disasters than he could count without Geralt's help. He'd fucked Countesses, Knights, Princesses, and a Marquis or two. He had absolutely no idea why every attempt at flirting went completely awry whenever Geralt was near him. It was a tragedy, frankly, and Jaskier grimaced as that miserable failure of a line fell between them.

He could have apologized for it and tried again but, frankly, nothing would spare him the mockery he had just earned, so Jaskier doubled down and held Geralt's gaze as his blush (this time from acute embarrassment, definitely) deepened.

Luckily he hadn't been trying to drink when Jaskier leaned in and suggested that he use Geralt as a mount, because he might have choked-- which would have been unflattering and probably misleading considering the way his cock gave an interested lurch despite the ill-worded entendre. There was something in the way Jaskier fumbled over his normally adroit tongue that was endearing in a way that Geralt wouldn't let himself linger on. The blush wasn't bad either.

"I'm sure," he said evenly, "whoever that lucky person is, they will be absolutely flattered to be compared to a horse. Perhaps you can compose a ballad about their long face, or thick haunches." There was no smile on his face for the tease and Geralt took a careful pull of his beer, watching Jaskier over the rim.

Geralt, predictably, had exactly no reaction to his flirting. The man would have been an absolute nightmare to play cards against.

"Bold of you to assume I haven't," Jaskier replied. He propped his elbow on the table and his face in his hand and lifted both brows at the Witcher. His flush persisted and he drummed his fingers against his temple.

"Would you like to hear it?"

Geralt bit the inside of his cheek and cleared his throat. "No, Jaskier, I don't think that I would." The very last thing that he needed was the man singing a song in dedication of a witcher's rear-end in front of the entire inn and its self-proclaimed bad acoustics. No doubt loudly. "Are you going to eat lunch?" Yes, he was trying to switch the topic-- mostly because his cock kept reminding him that he enjoyed the look of those pinked cheeks whenever his attention happen to hang on them. It wouldn't be obvious to anyone but him but he was, of course, enough.

Also, they could speak and do as they would when they were around their fire but here in the middle of a pub and its patrons... suddenly what he and Jaskier had done felt farther away and much more volatile. Geralt, of course, considered that it would change nothing about the way they traveled together-- but Jaskier was Jaskier and he had somehow failed to account for that.

"I have a leftover pie in my pack," Jaskier told him and waved his free hand in vague dismissal. He was hungry, but not urgently so, and the pies he had bought earlier in the morning would suffice whenever he was. Right now he was trying to seduce the Witcher and, as usual, it was proving far trickier than expected.

He hadn't expected Geralt to deflect, but he hadn't ever had the opportunity to do so before, not like this. Jaskier had never propositioned him so obviously in public.

Geralt nursed his drink, seemingly immune to the sly look Jaskier leveled at him--he gave it a few moments more, but the Witcher was resolute. When Jaskier gave up it was with a heavy sigh and a resigned pout. He let his head fall forward off his hand and then swept the whole of himself back in his chair.

"What is the world coming to?" Jaskier asked rhetorically. He was not quiet, but neither was he loud. He clearly wasn't bothered by the idea that someone might overhear him. "You try to thank a man with a good time and he asks what you're having for lunch? Not cock, obviously. Maybe the chebureki? Yes, that's an exceptable alternative."

It might have been more obvious how amenable Geralt had actually been up to that point when Jaskier laid in and the Witcher's face shut down into a stoney mask. He knew the man across the table from him well enough to know telling him outright to shut up would go far amiss-- instead, leaving the last few bites of his meal and a quarter tankard of beer, Geralt just stood up with an almighty scrape of chair against floor and walked away.

His boots struck quick but heavy steps against the floor as he moved toward the stairs. Idiot. What notion in Jaskier's brain could have possibly determined that it was fine to holler about any personal relations that they had while in public? Where any ears could listen. Certainly, fine, there were times in public when Geralt had been rather obvious about his feelings for Yennefer but they were mostly couched in terms of worry-- for Yen or, more likely, for the person standing in her way. But he was ever discreet before saying anything or taking any strides toward something that might seem less than professional. Yen as well. Jaskier was...

Damnit. Jaskier was no one but himself and if anyone was to blame then it was Geralt for thinking that the man could ever be discreet. The slammed the door to their room behind him, wishing they'd spent the coin to get two.

Jaskier started as Geralt abruptly rose, face overcome with a grim mask. The Witcher didn't glower, didn't snap at him, but turned and stalked off. Jaskier watched him, dumbstruck for a moment, before scrambling to his feet and giving chase.

"G-Geralt wait, hey--" he started but, by the time he caught him up, he had slammed the door to their room closed.

For a moment, he had entertained the hope that Geralt had just...maybe...decided to take him up on the offer and had dashed to the room? Overcome with desire? The slamming wasn't exceedingly encouraging, honestly. No, Geralt had probably not appreciated his flirting or candor, Jaskier realized. The bard found himself at a loss as he looked at the shabby wooden door and stood, quite alone, in the hallway outside their room.

"--fuck--" he cursed under his breath and considered the door. After (far too short) a moment of thought, Jaskier took a deep, steeling breath and stepped forward. He reached to open the door but decided, at the very last second, to reach out and knock instead. Three quick raps on the wood--he felt stupid the moment he finished.

"Uh, Geralt?" he hazarded.

Geralt wasn't angry. He wasn't... embarrassed. It wasn't worth the emotion. The moment the door divided him from the rest of the inn he took a breath and forced control on himself. This was idiotic. He only needed to explain to Jaskier that if they were going to...

No, no. He'd say that since they'd--

Fuck.

The door swung open with enough force that the vacuum of air created vexed the hinges and rocked Jaskier forward a step, more than enough for Geralt to be able to make a short grab for the front of his doublet and haul him bodily into the room. He was pushed back against the nearby wall and the door slammed closed for a second time in a short minute. "Our business," he grunted, applying pressure to the front of Jaskier's chest, "is our business. It is not the business of the barkeep, the patrons, or any random peasant that we might be passing on the road when the fancy takes you to talk of cock or your appetites. I am not the good Lady Rosetta of Novigrad or any of the other million wenches you joust with between the sheets when the fancy takes you to rut. Understand?"

Jaskier's surprised 'oof' as he was shoved against the wall went unheard as Geralt crowded him. His wide eyes locked on the amber pair glowering down at him and, for a moment, all he could do was stare. It took seconds for Geralt's words to process and Jaskier, idiot that he was, didn't just nod and agree to the Witcher's terms.

No, nothing in his life could be that easy.

Understanding dawned in his blue eyes and a gradual smile spread over his face.

"You're flustered," Jaskier declared in a quiet, dreamy voice. Geralt's fist, still wrapped up in his doublet and shirt, kept him from drawing more than a wheezing breath but the bard didn't seem even slightly put out by it. No, he was enraptured by this sudden turn of events.

"This is what you look like flustered!" he whispered, full of earnest delight and probably more adoration than was strictly safe to inject into his tone.

"Millions? Wait, not important--" Jaskier continued and reached out to catch the Witcher's forearm between his hands so he couldn't just drop him and walk off again. "Geralt, honestly, I had no idea! I'm sorry--" he didn't sound sorry, he sounded gleeful, "--I will be the very picture of discretion, henceforth!"

The words and tone from the man's mouth did not match and Geralt made a low noise that was the very opposite of pleased. Jaskier's hand on his arm could stop literally nothing and a small voice at the back of the Witcher's head-- ignored-- said that perhaps it was time to show the bard how very little control he really had over any given situation. Ignored, always ignored. Which was how they had found themself here. "You and the word discretion have never been uttered in the same sentence," he growled out into the not large space between them, as he had crowded Jaskier back to make his point--failed--with physical bulk.

Failed, always failed.

"Why must you be like this? Behave like this? Do you think that I'd ever offer your cock another sideways glance if I thought for a moment that this is how you would react? For everyone's sake, Jaskier, grow up." With another shove, this one half-hearted, Geralt shook off the man's touch and moved away. It was that easy, after all.

'Jaskier, grow up.'

Geralt often said things that danced on the line of cruelty. Jaskier had always chocked it up to the fact that the Witcher's most constant companion was a horse and, as such, he didn't get much feedback. As it turned out, that was just how Geralt was. It shouldn't have been terribly surprising, honestly, that once he couldn't deflect or defend against a problem he turned to attack--it was how Geralt dealt with everything else.

It was almost impressive, how good he was with his words when it came to wounding. He used them so poorly the rest of the time that Jaskier never expected the hurts before they came.

'Why must you be like this? --this is how you react? Grow up.'

For all his melodrama about Destiny, Geralt was a lucky shot when he fired blind. Every other word in his little waspish rant struck home and Jaskier flinched back. When the Witcher shoved him and shook him off, Jaskier stayed against the wall, expression the very reflection of how stunned he was.

Geralt had punched him to less effect.

Instantly, of course, Jaskier's fool heart started making excuses for Geralt. He was flustered. He was a private person and didn't take well to flirting. He didn't like shows of affection or words of affection or words of thanks, even, and Jaskier knew it. The last two days had been long and boring for him. He must care, he invited the bard along, bought him a horse so they could travel better. Geralt cared about him.

Geralt cared about him, he knew that--why did that make him so absolutely, blindingly furious?

"Fuck off!" Jaskier cursed, inelegantly, several seconds after it would have been appropriate to deliver a retort like that. The redness of his cheeks went, in that short time, from a flush of embarrassment to a patchy red of anger. He pushed off from the wall and gestured sharply at Geralt with a finger.

"I should grow up?" Jaskier asked rhetorically, all but shouting. If Geralt was embarrassed that someone loved him, if he so desperately wanted discretion so that he could hide their shame, he wasn't going to find reprieve in this fucking town. "I'm not the one who storms off at the drop of a hat and slams people into walls! Can't threaten me quiet so, what? Call me childish? Pretend you're doing me a favor by putting up with me? Call me a desperate slut, in so many words?

"Fuck off, Geralt." Jaskier said and finally let his voice drop down to a normal speaking volume. He made a rude gesture at the Witcher and then let his hand fall to his hip. The bitterness that laced his tone was thick. "If I'm so loathsome and childish, I can't imagine how desperate you must have been to fuck me the first time."

"Oh get your head out of your ass," Geralt snapped, angry, just letting himself feel it, not bothering to rein it in as he turned back into the onslaught. The sight of Jaskier almost made him bite his tongue-- he'd never seen the man's face quite that color in the time they'd been together, never heard his voice hit that stinging register-- but drew himself up, his shoulders set and tight. Ready to battle if it would be a battle.

The truth was that the last two days had not been long and boring. He liked horses and despite Jaskier being particular, Geralt had no qualms about spending time surrounded by the smell of leather and manure and the damned hyacinthe that the man bought in his soaps. He wanted Jaskier to have a horse, for them to... to be on more equal ground.

Fuck, maybe this was all his fault.

"I don't care how many people you bed unless it gets a kettle chucked at me through a window by some scorned woman and you damn well know it," he barked back. "And you won't shut up! What else am I supposed to do other than throw you into walls and tell you the truth? Tell me, then, Jaskier. How in the hell do I stop your infernal mouth?"

Had the bard been less livid and ready to shout, he probably wouldn't have decided that his best retort in this particular argument was something so very crass. As it was, the first thing out of his mouth was:

"Did I not just offer to suck your cock, you stubborn jackass?" Jaskier threw his arms over his head and let out a frustrated sound as he rolled his eyes skyward.

"Unbelievable," he added, to Melitele if no one else. "First you can't decide if you hate that I think of you like a lover, that I flirt and treat you like one--and then you claim you don't care how many lovers I have, because you're special and not among them but also fine with them on whole? Clearly, Geralt, you should decide on some designation for us because letting me do it is obviously unsatisfactory--"

"It is!"

Geralt cut him off with words and a menacing step forward. "Because you use three hundred words when three will suffice, Jaskier, always." Two more steps carried him back to the place where he was too close to Jaskier, hedging him back against the wall without touching him. He was aware that his breath smelled like malt and his clothes smelled like horse but Jaskier still, somehow, smelled good enough for the both of them.

"I want you." Three words, simple and direct, breathed against the bard's mouth. He didn't want songs about sucking cock and he certainly didn't want them aired in the middle of the pub. But the floodgates had been opened and there was no closing them now; on their trek down from the hotsprings Geralt had considered several creative ways to shut Jaskier up. "No ribald comments in public." He laid a hand over the bard's sex; the only threat in the touch the pleasure to follow if there was agreement between them. "No woo'ing, we are not lovers and you know it as well as I." And no mention of this to Yennefer. Geralt kept that to himself and instead clarifed: "I want no songs, no declarations.

"Yes?"

Geralt, once again, crowded him back against the wall--but this time, Jaskier did half the work for him, scrambling back just as quickly as he'd surged forward. Geralt loomed like he was made for it and, in a rather macabre way, he was--those amber eyes eclipsed everything else that Jaskier could have focused on and, all at once his heart was pounding so hard he thought it might jump out of his ribs.

He had just been livid--absolutely beyond the pale--Geralt had been--what was happening--

Jaskier's offense was choked off firmly as Geralt confirmed his desires--and then his hand was heavy and pressed right against his groin and Jaskier's breath stuttered a bit. He tried very hard to focus but the smell of Geralt was all around him all at once and the Witcher was growling his conditions--damn it all, he was frazzled. It took quite a lot to reroute himself, to change the flow of his thoughts from fighting to, well, whatever this had become. Fucking wasn't a contest to the bard and the diversion from one to the promise of the other was not a smooth one.

His thoughts jumped but he managed to parrot back Geralt's conditions. Mostly.

"No ribald comments," Jaskier promised idly, his expression shifting to some semblance of shock and somber agreement all at once. He nodded firmly, if only in an attempt to clear his head, and his cock jumped under Geralt's hand. "No wooing, yes, right--no--none of it--"

That oath fell out of him before he thought it over and the moment he said it, Jaskier felt a sinking sensation in his chest. It was foolish, idiotic, but Jaskier was a romantic at heart--to be stripped of the chance to--they weren't lovers? Well, of course Geralt didn't love him, to think otherwise was lunacy--but he couldn't woo him? Couldn't flirt?

Jaskier felt momentarily bereft and lacked the wherewithal to explain.

"Geralt, I--" Jaskier started but, Gods' thinking was hard. He really did let his cock do too much of his focusing for him. Geralt had admitted to wanting him. That was enough--it was more than he'd had before. Friendship and this...was enough. "I want you--please--"

To Geralt, woo was different than flirt-- Jaskier flirted with everyone. Every breath he had flirted with one thing or another. Touching, laughing, joking, constantly. To woo was different, though, that was openly courting someone, confirming that they were... being public and constant and involved. Geralt had no time for that, no inclination either. He and Yen--

Well it didn't matter, that. He still didn't want Jaskier swaning around him like some fool, especially if they were going to be on the road together.

Geralt's fingers slid up the outline of Jaskier's cock through the soft fabric of his trousers. "Then stop talking," he breathed, closer to Jaskier's mouth. It was almost a dare. The heel of his palm twisted and rubbed against the head of the filling sex under his hand. "And do something about it."

"Fucking hell," Jaskier breathed there was something he needed to do--some confirmation he required--how did he always get this deep into things with Geralt before he remembered to ask permission? Geralt wanted him to shut up. Geralt always wanted him to shut up, so this wasn't really any different than usual, except now Geralt was grinding his hand into his dick, daring him to do something about it.

He hadn't been this turned on and eager to show someone what-for since he'd been a teenager. Geralt had only been touching him for a minute or two and already he was rising to the moment--yes, being pushed up against a wall and held there had gotten him going a bit, but that wasn't--look--he wasn't on trial, here.

He also wasn't a shrinking violet.

With Geralt looming and being angry, it was easy to forget, but Jaskier was possibly one of the least shy people on the continent. It was a simple fact and one that he recalled in an odd moment of clarity. He'd charged up here because he'd flustered the Witcher--he'd done it before, even! Geralt was certainly a master of that big, growly, scowling animal magnetism he had going, but Jaskier wasn't a damsel--he'd wanted to push the Witcher down onto a bed and worship his cock.

This whole interlude had been his plan, for fuck's sake--true, he hadn't intended to get into a fight before he did it, but that was beside the point.

The point was: Geralt just gave him permission and a challenge all at once.

He could work with that.

Jaskier was shorter than him, smaller than him, but so was the better portion of the continent. Geralt was built like he made it his personal mission to wrestle mountains into submission--there was no actual contending with that. Fine. Jaskier had never been an especially large fellow--he played an instrument and sang for a living for Melitele's sake--but he had a wiry strength. If Geralt didn't want to talk, fine, so be it, they could be pushy and shove-y.

Jaskier planted both hands on the Witcher's chest and pushed him away. (Or he attempted it, his success did rather necessitate the Witcher's willingness to cooperate.) The bed was opposite him--oh, and it was that gloriously comfortable feather mattress--and if Geralt gave in a few steps he'd have the man's knees against it and he could push him over. Jaskier followed as he pressed and leaned in. A kiss on the mouth felt a bit personal after being told they weren't lovers. Explicitly. He settled for dragging mouth and teeth against the Witcher's neck instead, it was easier to reach anyway.

While he would have been content turning Jaskier's face into the wood and--

well, shutting him up,

but Geralt let himself be pushed back the few steps to the bed, Jaskier's hands a warm pressure against his chest. He let himself be seated, and then spread out beneath the bard's attention. There was something to Jaskier like this, something that the witcher had only ever noticed when the man was-- specifically-- trying to capture a melody that was eluding him. It was a tightening focus, a sort of sharp determination to pry under the surface. The attention was strange when it was turned on Geralt but... strange in a way that twisted a heated knot in his gut and his made his fingers clench into the wonderfully soft mattress beneath him. He tilted his chin up, casually offering Jaskier the length of his neck.

Unlike the bard, Geralt had no problems with kissing. Whores kissed, parents kissed, dogs licked each other when they said hello. It was pleasurable, and, when Jaskier's mouth came close enough-- Geralt claimed it with an appetite.

Geralt was being surprisingly cooperative--well, now he was--and let himself be arranged to Jaskier's convenience. Jaskier's hands worked as he attended to Geralt's neck. The bard let out a short, soft sound as Geralt kissed him--it was too brief to be much of anything, happy or unhappy, but it was uncommon. He stilled a moment as Geralt claimed his lips, but it was only a moment--his fingers found the fasten at Geralt's waist and popped the top clasp. He pressed back, then, as his fingers moved down that row of buttons. He licked into Geralt's mouth with his newfound focus, but the actual act started to rankle before long.

(They weren't lovers.)

He could have savored this were that sentiment not so fresh on his mind. Geralt tasted like the good ale of this particular establishment, his mouth was hot and heady, Jaskier had wanted to kiss him off and on all day, but a line had been drawn. (Jaskier's fool heart wasn't keen to prod at the boundary so quickly.)

Fortunately, it didn't take Jaskier's fingers much time at all to unbutton Geralt's fly. Even when working blind, the bard's hands were nimble and quick.

He broke away from Geralt's mouth and dropped to his knees alongside the bed. He would have asked, any other time, whether Geralt would prefer he suck him or simply fuck him, but they weren't talking. That was the theme for the moment and Jaskier had committed to it. His fingers found the Witcher's cock inside his trousers and, before he'd even pulled it free, Jaskier was mouthing along the underside of it.

Jaskier would have asked and Geralt would have probably told him to make up his own mind and then act on it. Sex was a give-and-take-- if Jaskier sunk between his knees and Geralt wanted his cock somewhere other than the man's mouth, he'd speak up. Why Jaskier needed to codify everything with language was and would always be a mystery to Geralt.

Now he gave a quiet grunt as Jaskier sank back, those clever fingers slipping buttons free and prying at his cock with hand and mouth. Geralt arched his back and shifted slightly on the bed, moving just enough to sink himself down into the weight of the mattress, his thighs flat. His sex twitched with the attention, mostly full and heavily laying in the crook of his hip.

Is this how they'd be, then, from now on? Arguing and then making up with sex? Geralt knew that it was a bad precedent to set but he'd never quite been in such a position before and there was a part of him that would never be able to get the sound that Jaskier had made back at the hot springs when he'd orgasmed out of his mind. He wanted to hear it again. He wanted the silences, too, that came with occupied Jaskier, or Jaskier with his mouth full. Geralt realized that they'd perhaps loosed something that they'd never quite be able to put back again... but at the same time, he felt a gnawing pit of hunger at the base of his gut when he considered the possibilities.

Geralt was pliant in a way that was rather unique to this situation--he let Jaskier do as he would, settled and sank into the mattress, and grunted as Jaskier took him in hand and lost himself in laving attention on the pretty cock in front of him. And, damn it all, there was a sentiment he wasn't going to be able to express--why had Geralt been so firm on declarations? Did praise and filth qualify? Somehow he doubted the Witcher would appreciate him waxing on about the color and weight of his erection.

Jaskier dragged the flat of his tongue up the length of the Witcher's cock, letting saliva smooth the pressure of his hand that chased after. He wrapped his fingers around him and drew the tip of him into his mouth, sucking idly as he traced the crown of his cock with his tongue--and the taste of him. Oh, he hadn't had this before--Geralt's cock tasted like the very distillation of that musk that lingered under the smell of horse and sweat that clung to him. Fuck. Jaskier moaned around him and bent forward so that he could pull him to the back of his throat.

As much as Jaskier was trying not to think about that little nagging delineation (Not lovers? As they both knew?), as hard as he attempted to fall into the moment, his mind drifted. It was frustrating, to be distracted whilst he had a--what was he even supposed to call him? Geralt was still hesitant to use the term friend in casual conversation? Paramour would be right out, Jaskier suspected--focus--Jaskier hummed on reflex, bobbed his head and swirled his tongue around the hot flesh in his mouth. Designations--friend, lover, whatever--those could come later. Surely.

Damn it all.

"--But what, exactly, would you call us if not lovers?"

Geralt's fingers pushed into linens, creasing them under his palms as hips raised with a groan for Jaskier's mouth on him. He was happy enough to let go of the fighting and bickering and semantics and just-- do this. So his eyes were closed, chin tilted up to put his head back, to create a line of pressure down his spine. To let his balls draw up in time to the slow rhythm of his pulse they ached to. His thigh muscles twitched as his cock sank into softly resisting muscles--

A question spilled into the air and his eyes opened, staring at the low-beamed ceiling.

Jaskier was talking.

He was asking a fucking question while Geralt's cock sat hard and cooling in the room's air.

It was absolutely nothing to get a knee under Jaskier's stomach and jerk the man far enough forward that Geralt's arms could help follow through with the rest: the bard was tossed up onto the bed like a sack of grain in just a few quick, efficient uses of muscle. His face ended up down in a pillow, his arms locked high behind his back, and Geralt's knees pressed into the back of his, holding him down beyond any ability he might have other than death to get away. That Geralt's still-hard cock was pushed against Jaskier's ass seemed neither here nor there in that moment-- the insistent pressure was less present than the rough breath against the bard's ear.

"Why," Geralt growled, "do you need to know?" Each syllable rode the edge of danger. By all means, it implied with hissing sarcasm, let us continue this conversation.

Jaskier talked quite a lot, even he would have acknowledge that. It was part and parcel of being a poet, a bard, but also just his own personal inclination. He was full of words and very much enjoyed talking--he especially enjoyed talking to the people he bedded. The most obvious reason for that was, of course, that he liked the people he bedded. The less obvious reason for that was that he had been bedded by people that he--did not like. It was, at once, courtesy and self-preservation.

Part and parcel of being a wandering bard, really.

He trusted Geralt to his very core--the Witcher had saved his life more times than he could count. (True, he put himself in jeopardy more often than not, but the life-saving was legitimate.) Geralt might be inclined to punch him if he said something especially off color or prodded at an excruciating old wound, but by in large the Witcher was rough in the way a big dog might be. He was big and he was fast and he was strong and, above all, Geralt was used to being able to use these attributes to solve issues.

Crowding argumentative people spared him having to fight them, spared everyone some hurt in the long run, saved lives really. Moving Jaskier around when he needed him out of the way was a small indignity for safety. This--this was not that.

He knew Geralt wouldn't hurt him. Knew it to his very core. Geralt, for all his grousing and grumpiness, was a good person, better than most--

Jaskier went very, very still beneath the Witcher. The fear that coiled through him, then, was paralyzing--Geralt wouldn't hurt him of course, he knew that--his hands were between his shoulderblades and he had no hope of twisting free without breaking or dislocating something. His heart was racing--this was silly, it was just Geralt being Geralt, rough and tumble as it were--he couldn't breathe. The mattress was soft enough that he wasn't having the breath crushed from him, his lungs had room, he just couldn't fill them. He was still dressed, not even slightly disheveled really--there was a cock against his ass and there were teeth near his ear, near the back of his neck. His legs were pinned.

Panic warred with terror in Jaskier's chest, his heart was racing--idiot, this was too dramatic, far too dramatic--Geralt had...asked him a question. All parts of him knew he should answer--why not answer when Geralt asked him a question--it was easier to answer than to stay quiet.

"I--" he starts and it's breathy, an airy sort of tone, intentionally disaffected. "I don't know? C-curiosity?"

Edited (How did I preview this twice and still forget a phrase???) 2020-04-08 17:49 (UTC)

PSL Horsetrading with Monsterbytrade

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