The thing is, Geralt is beautiful.
Jaskier sees a lot of fit people naked. Most would think it’s a benefit of the job… not him. It’s not that he isn’t attracted to the people working on the other side of the camera; he just doesn’t sleep with them. He knows tech people who do, which ranges from just creepy through starfucking to outright abusive. He’d just as soon fuck someone normal-looking, if he likes them.
But Geralt is different.
The first time Jaskier worked a shoot with him, he was an awkward PA in the process of deciding to drop out of film school while “Gwyn Rivia” was already a seasoned performer. The second time, Jaskier had to hold the camera and lean over Geralt’s chest to get the close-up of his scene partner’s cock driving into him. It was impressive on a level of pure athleticism — as well as aesthetically pleasing — but Jaskier wanted to be filming the drop of sweat sliding down his throat instead of his perfectly waxed asshole. That wasn’t his job, though. When they were leaving at the end of the day and Geralt grumbled about a burger being all he wanted in his life right then, Jaskier invited himself along — and that was that.
It’s a surprisingly strong friendship made up of a few hamburgers (Geralt treats himself sometimes at the end of a particularly strenuous shoot spent bottoming) and a much larger amount of chicken and steamed green vegetables, which are apparently the key ingredients to his impressive physique. (It doesn’t seem to do the same for Jaskier no matter how often they eat together, although that might have more to do with his inability to stick to a regular gym routine.) It’s a friendship of few words on Geralt’s part and many on Jaskier’s, which suits them both.
All of that makes Jaskier’s hopeless crush that much sadder. He likes the performers he works with, sure. Enjoys his work as much as anyone, though it doesn’t turn him on. It's gotten to the point, after years of working in the industry, where even watching people have sex for fun and pleasure probably wouldn’t get him going. That being said, while watching Geralt perform doesn’t turn him on, it sure does provide him good raw material for vastly superior fantasies. Jaskier knows how Geralt touches himself to stay hard between takes. He knows what he looks and sounds like when he comes. He knows every dip and firm plateau of his body, has shot it all, from his perfect ass to the ticklish soles of his well-formed feet, his weirdly pointy teeth and his obnoxiously large cock, to the way his hair sticks to his face and starts to curl just a little when he really starts to sweat.
The thing Jaskier doesn’t get to do is touch.
It’s not like he’d want to be in the scenes with him. That’s all highly choreographed, completely stripped of romanticism. No, what Jaskier fantasizes about is ridiculously sappy by anyone’s standards: kissing him, wrapping their bodies around each other in shapes that don't angle to the camera, running fingers through his hair, touching him when he’s not hard, or not to keep him hard, just for pure pleasure.
“Got an interesting email this week,” Geralt says.
“Hmm?” Jaskier’s distracted, thinking about how he’s going to rearrange his houseplants to accommodate the new additions presently sitting in the backseat of Geralt’s car. The car he, ostentatiously, owns, which... in this economy? Jaskier has to admit it’s nice getting to ride with him once in a while rather than being crammed into the back of a van with a bunch of lighting equipment, two PAs, and all too often James, his least favorite sound guy. (The man wears too much cologne – also, it remains mystifying how anyone can talk for that ungodly many hours about their weightlifting routine.)
But today Geralt is just giving him and his new plants a lift from the garden store.
“From Yennefer’s people,” he continues.
“Yennefer? Yennefer Vengerberg?” Jaskier says, suddenly interested. She’s a big name in BDSM and at the peak of her career as a performer. Jaskier fully expects her to have her own production company in five years and to take a step into the director’s seat. There’s always another girl coming up who’s younger and hungrier and will do more for less. Any woman who’s smart enough and who wants to stay in the industry builds and uses her brand to move behind the camera or into the office long before she qualifies for MILF videos (not that there’s anything wrong with those).
Geralt just nods.
“She wants to work with you? Well that’s different,” Jaskier says. “Who’s producing it?” The big production companies don’t put “gay” performers in their straight films. It’s a frustrating piece of bigotry that Jaskier has railed against to anyone who will listen. They could be taking the opportunity to break down people’s assumptions, not reinforce them by assuming a straight bloke won’t buy a video with the name of a guy who fucks men in other videos he presumably hasn’t even seen. It’s probably at #2 or #3 in Jaskier’s Angry Bisexual Tirades if anyone was cataloguing them, which they’re not.
“Indie. Triss directing,” replies Geralt.
Jaskier narrows his eyes. “Oh, I see. Now I understand why you’re interested. What with your history with Triss and all —”
“Told her I’d think about it. But only if they get you, too,” Geralt says.
Jaskier finds his mouth hanging open at that. Geralt’s never actually said that he likes working with him, but Jaskier’s pretty sure he does by the way he acts on set and because he’s out here on his day off driving him to get even more plants he doesn’t need. But he’s still never sure that Geralt actively wants him around rather than simply putting up with him when he happens to be present. It’s one thing to appreciate working with someone and not mind their company, and another entirely to tie your potential contract to theirs.
“Okay, wow, and thank you,” he says, “We could do some great stuff, rethink the way they shoot straight BDSM, you know? It’s always so... straight. I mean, obviously, but in the most boring way. If she wants you for it, that means she actually cares who the guy is, she wants to get the camera on him. Yennefer is great, I would never ignore her, but the bottom can be so much more than just a blank slate a man can project himself onto...”
He’s still talking about it while Geralt helps carry the new baby plants up to his flat. He desperately wants to film this scene for Geralt. He wants to capture his expression as Yennefer ties him up, slaps him, whatever she plans on doing — while she pulls some honest reactions from his usually impassive face. Geralt really isn’t much of an actor, doesn’t normally need to try, just lets his body do the talking. Geralt does plenty of rough sex scenes, but as far as Jaskier knows he’s never done the real whips-and-chains stuff Yennefer is known for. And having Triss as the producer means she might actually let Jaskier get a little of that on film. He’s pretty sure she still has a little bit of a thing for Geralt, which couldn’t hurt.
The shooting location turns out to be a basement in Islington. Jaskier’s talking to Regis, Triss’ lights guy, as everyone else is filtering in. Jaskier has never shot in a space this all-encompassingly dark before, the “dungeon” floor and walls painted a uniform black. He’s starting to question if he’s qualified for this, actually, although it theoretically shouldn’t be that different once he gets the levels right. It’s not like the only thing he ever shoots is a string of naked people in endless similarly decorated flats owned and rented by the same circle of directors and producers… just a lot of it.
“Jenny,” Yennefer says later, introducing herself and offering a hand to Jaskier. She’s cool, professional, eyes a dark brown without her signature unnatural violet lenses in. Jaskier’s not sure yet if he likes her, but he trusts that she’s good at what she does. He just hopes she and Triss come up with choreography that lets him show Geralt off the way he’d like to.
He gets distracted by the set-up after that, huddling with the technical team while Triss, Geralt, and Jenny negotiate how the scene will play out. When he’s done and he turns around again, Jenny’s makeup artist is leaning over her and Geralt, already stripped down in a robe, is doing stretches on the floor.
“We’ll shoot the set-up later this week,” Triss is saying, “we’ll need a different location for Yennefer’s house.”
Jaskier snorts internally at that. The building above them is a derelict looking, boarded-up old appliance shop. The “dungeon” they’re shooting in is most likely being rented out to pro dommes when it isn’t being used for the occasional porn shoot. It’ll pass for Yennefer’s basement dungeon in porn logic, where she’s apparently going to drag her neighbor Gwyn to “punish” him for peeping on her bathing. It’s a classic. Simple, but it works.
It takes about an hour to shoot the part of the set-up that takes place in the dungeon set: Geralt in jeans and a tight white t-shirt, Jenny in a sumptuous dressing gown, looking gorgeous and enraged. She’s a good actress, and she plays well off Geralt’s impassive countenance. He doesn’t look particularly afraid of her, more subtly intrigued, which will make whatever they’ve planned for later have a thin veneer of character logic to it.
“Okay, now let’s bring in the spanking bench,” Triss says. “I want to get the bondage started, add some spanking, see how that looks. We’ll film the tying, take a little break, and then I’ll do the final version before we get to the impact play. Jen, don’t leave any marks yet, we don’t want continuity issues if we decide to redo any of it. Denise, can you keep time for me? I don’t want him tied up for more than 20 minutes at a stretch.”
A knot of tension releases from Jaskier’s body, stress he hadn’t noticed was there. Triss understands that Geralt doesn’t normally do this and is making sure to accommodate his needs.
“Can we have him on the bench for a minute first?” Jaskier asks Triss. “I want to check the angles. Make sure I can hide his dick when we want to.” So he doesn’t have to stay hard the whole time is what he means. Triss will understand it, and so will Geralt, who never thanks him out loud for that kind of thing — but that’s not the point. It’s something he does for every performer he works with. It’s honestly supposed to be the job of the director rather than the camera operator, but Jaskier has enough experience now to throw his weight around, and so he does. He won’t work with directors he thinks are actively bad, but even the better ones can get more focused on the shots they need rather than the comfort of their actors. More than once, Jaskier has been the only thing between a director and a scared 19-year-old doing her first anal scene. After wrap they hit on him surprisingly often. He turns them down every time.
They get everything set then shoot twice through Yennefer tying him to the bench so they can get close-ups. She’s ravishing in her simple black lingerie, even more commanding in front of the camera than she is the rest of the time. She weaves dark purple rope over Geralt’s biceps then under his pectorals, crossing his chest tightly.
Jaskier notices light marks pressed into his skin when she unties him. “This is a little different,” he tells Geralt during break, plopping down next to him on the couch that’s just outside the area they’re filming in.
Geralt shrugs. “Not really. I’m naked, it’s fucking cold, you’re wearing something ridiculous —”
“Hey!” Jaskier protests. Bright colors are his trademark by now. And it’s not ridiculous, it’s professional to wear a shirt with a collar, and plain white or black are too boring for him. He’d wear slacks too, instead of jeans, if he didn’t have to put most parts of his body on the floor at some point during a shoot.
Geralt just looks at him and silently raises an eyebrow.
“What I mean is,” Jaskier leans in and lowers his voice, pitching it just for Geralt’s ears. “Thanks for getting me in on this, and let me know if you need anything, alright? I’m in your corner.”
“Mhmm,” Geralt says, eloquent as always, but the corners of his mouth are turned up in that expression halfway between fond and exasperated that he turns on Jaskier more often than on anyone else.
When they get back to it, Triss ties Geralt to the bench quickly, similar enough to Jenny’s performance that it won’t cause a continuity error. The sound guy seems pleased with the resounding smacks of her hand on Geralt’s ass. Geralt doesn’t take the hits completely stoically — gives Jaskier some good shots of his face screwing up in pain, though without making a sound — but her hand doesn’t leave marks, so Jaskier assumes there’s a technique to getting the effect without hitting too hard.
Triss seems to decide that they’ve got enough footage with Geralt’s unmarked body. The plan is to shoot the whole scene in one day, so they have to move quickly from one thing to the other. They talk through the shooting order: the bit with Jenny fucking Geralt needs to be done as early as possible so he can eat something and rehydrate, but Jaskier knows they need to do the caning first, because it will be visible for the rest of the chronology of the scene.
He can tell Geralt is nervous about that part.
“Don’t be afraid to call a cut any time you need to,” says Triss as she’s tying him up again. “We can break it up to make it easier, or back off entirely and do something else.”
Jaskier doubts Geralt will, his professional pride (or stupidity) getting in the way. It should be fast though. He can get the full-body shots with Jenny pulling her hits and then push through the ones that leave the marks quickly in close up.
It goes about as he expected. Jaskier doesn’t like it, because he can tell Geralt doesn’t like it. Every thwack of the cane against his ass and thighs draws a pained breath and sometimes a short gasp from him. Yennefer is scolding him the whole time, telling him how naughty he’s been, spying on her. It’s going to work great in the film but, as always, watching on set it feels ridiculous.
He wishes he could go to Geralt after, but he doesn’t really have any right. The PA’s already there anyway, checking his skin and his hands where he was bound up while Jaskier has to skim over his footage, making sure they’ve captured what they need before they move on.
The bench is pushed out of the way. There’s no carpet on the floor, for obvious cleanliness reasons; it’s not going to be comfortable. For now, Geralt is lying back on a towel with a bottle of lube, one knee pulled to his chest as he fingers himself open. Jaskier can see the angry red marks on his raised thigh, crisscrossing lines that look just short of drawing blood.
“Can you be ready in five minutes?” Triss asks. Geralt nods. “Jen, can you get over there and help him out?”
Jenny sighs and sits down next to Geralt, harness and giant cock already on. It’s shocking on her slender body. In other circumstances, Jaskier would find it hot.
She talks to Geralt softly, shakes her tits at him, laughs, then starts to jack him. It’s a funny sight, her looking down at him fondly and Geralt fucking into himself with a slightly smaller dildo, eyes focused on her chest, thoughts wherever else they need to be for him to get turned on. Geralt’s had a long and reasonably successful career because he’s good at this, has excellent control, and Jaskier still has no idea what he’s thinking of every time to get hard. He’s always known Geralt was into women, but ten years in he still can’t tell how attracted he really is to men. It’s yet another reason why his crush is so sad. He’s seen Geralt get it up in all kinds of difficult situations, and obviously he doesn’t mind bottoming since he does it on a regular basis, but that doesn’t say anything about his personal preferences. It’s a job. Hell, Jaskier hasn’t even known Geralt to date or fuck anyone outside of work.
The fucking obviously hurts. Not the actual penetration, Geralt is well-prepared for that, but the way Jenny’s hips connect with the cane marks on his ass with every thrust, grinding the leather straps of the harness against them. Jaskier moves around as fast as he can, trying to wring every bit of usable footage from as little time on the clock as possible.
In the end, Jaskier is the one who calls it. Geralt is suffering and while it’s going to look great in the finished product, he has limits. Jaskier has been watching Geralt get pounded for years by all kinds of guys and various toys, and he’s never seen him look like he does right now.
“He needs a break,” he tells Triss.
From the floor, Geralt glowers at him like he’s going to object. The PA helpfully hands him a blanket and he deigns to grumpily wrap himself in it.
Triss sighs. “You’re right. We have a lot more to do today, Geralt, we can’t break you.”
After a quick review of the footage Triss feels they do need a little more, this time focusing on Yennefer. Jaskier got too caught up in watching Geralt and his reactions, so they have to reset and get more coverage of her tits. They shoot her ass from behind with the dildo out of the harness, just pretending like they’re fucking, which is a relief.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Geralt says afterwards. He’s laying on the sheet-covered couch drinking a protein shake, eyes closed and hair everywhere.
“Yeah, I did,” says Jaskier from his seat on the floor. “And I know you knew that when you told them to hire me, so don’t even pretend, you pretty sack of muscles.”
Geralt sighs, but doesn’t say anything more.
The more Yennefer-centric parts are next, with Geralt on his back on a kind of reinforced massage table, her grinding her pussy into his face and moaning. Jaskier shoots the whole thing tight enough that only she and Geralt’s chest are visible, to give him as much of a break as he can. He can tell Geralt is struggling. She “comes” convincingly, though Jaskier knows it’s a performance; Geralt is in no condition to give great head right now.
Next, Yennefer rides a thigh harness she buckled on him, telling him she’s never going to touch his dick or make him come. She really does, this time, and Jaskier is proud of how perfectly he catches it, films the way she shakes uncontrollably. She really does have great breasts.
They’ve been shooting for 7 hours; everyone is fading. The whole crew breaks for sandwiches. Jaskier wishes he could think of a way to wrap things up more quickly.
“Hey,” he says, knocking his shoulder against Geralt’s. He doesn’t get a response, just a somewhat vacant look as Geralt wolfs down his food.
It isn’t like him. Geralt isn’t gregarious, but he pays careful attention to people. He responds to what directors are asking for even when it’s completely unclear to Jaskier’s ears, and he’s more conscientious about his scene partners than any other performer Jaskier has regularly been on set with. It’s something Geralt seems to take for granted he should do; he seems confused every time Jaskier brings it up, which just makes it even more endearing.
“Ever done anything like this?” Jaskier asks. “For fun, I mean.”
He’s not expecting a real conversation, but the quiet feels oppressive and he has the urge to fill it. It’s not like he wants to get too deep in asking how Geralt’s doing in front of all these people. So he doesn’t wait for an answer.
“One time this guy wanted to spank me. Begged me, really. And of course I didn’t want to disappoint, so I said ‘yes’ eventually,” he continues, spinning out the story until Geralt is finished eating and Jaskier realizes he’s barely managed two bites.
They do skip filming Geralt’s hands being tied up, starting the next shot with his hands bound together and fastened to a hook on the ceiling. He looks good like that, still solidly on his feet but his upper body stretched to the ceiling, chest opened up.
Jenny has her panties back on, her makeup fixed, and she stalks around him menacingly, poking and prodding and pinching over the marks she left earlier with the cane. She asks if she can slap him in the face, and it looks so real when she does it, the smack of her hand on his jaw echoing in the room.
Triss only leaves him strung up for 10 minutes at a time. It’s smart, Jaskier approves, but still it goes on and on, Jenny trying out various kinds of touches for the camera. They’ll have to cut this pretty aggressively: while Geralt has good control, he’s not getting any pleasurable stimulation and she has to periodically jerk him off a bit to keep him hard for the camera. During the third time he’s up, she pinches his nipples and he actually whines, a sound Jaskier’s rarely heard him make. The rest of it goes a little easier with that one surefire way to get a real reaction from him, but Geralt’s shaking so hard by the end that Jaskier’s glad when Triss allows them to move on — if she hadn’t, he would have stepped in and pushed for it.
Thankfully all Geralt has to do now is lie on the floor. He looks authentically pathetic at her feet, naked and shivering, as Yennefer steps on him with her stilettos, spits on his chest. Jenny decides partway through to let him go soft, incorporating it into the stream of insults she spews. It’s a great performance.
Jaskier feels almost strange about filming it. He lingers on the curve of Geralt’s torso as he curls up on the floor, cringing away from her. It’s almost too intimate seeing him like this; some of it is acting but some of it isn’t, and Jaskier wants to shield him from all the people in the room. A piece of him likes that naked vulnerability, and he’s not proud of that. He shouldn’t want to see Geralt hurt, doesn’t want to, but he does want to scoop up the result of that hurt somehow and hold it to himself, be the safe place Geralt can be weak.
He has to laugh at himself for being a ridiculous sap. His knees ache on the concrete floor and everything smells faintly of lube and sweat and ass and he’s fantasizing about putting a blanket over Geralt and petting his hair.
Jaskier is glad when it’s over.
Geralt sits on the couch through the whole break-down. The silence is typical for him, but he usually stretches, showers, and gets back in his clothes. Today he stays wrapped in a blanket until they’re almost through, sipping methodically from a water bottle. Jaskier’s busy helping pack up the lights, so he misses Geralt getting dressed, but suddenly here he is, back in his own clothes already when Jenny emerges from the shower with dripping hair and clean face.
“Give me your keys,” Jaskier tells Geralt.
Geralt blinks up at him, not responding. Jaskier just stands there, hand out, until Geralt seems to finally process what he said.
“I’m driving you home,” Jaskier says.
“Do you even know how to drive?”
“Yes! Just because I’m a reasonable person who has nowhere to keep a car doesn’t mean I don’t know how to drive one. And I’m more up for it than you right now. If I didn’t have a license I’d still probably be better at it than you right now. I’m driving and we’re stopping for take-away.”
Geralt sighs and hands over the keys.
Jaskier talks the entire way to Geralt’s. Not about the filming, they can debrief when Geralt is in better shape, but about anything else that comes to mind. He can’t help it when he’s nervous, or stressed, or trying to distract someone by filling up space. Geralt just stares silently out the window.
“Take a bath,” Jaskier says as soon as they walk in the door, starting to herd Geralt towards the bathroom.
Geralt glances at the bag of food in his hand.
“That’ll keep. Come on, I know you want to,” Jaskier wheedles. He doesn’t want to bring up that Geralt’s still covered in sweat and lube and must be getting itchy by now.
Geralt hums, puts the bag on the kitchen counter, and stomps to the bedroom. While he’s getting ready Jaskier starts running the bath. He knows Geralt likes this, has been around before while he’s bathing, though he usually gives him privacy. He pokes around in the cabinet until he finds his bag of epsom salt and dumps some in.
He waits while the tub fills, sitting on the closed lid of the toilet. The bath is large; Geralt probably had it replaced after he bought this place, or installed it himself. Jaskier knows he used to work as a builder before getting into porn. Geralt doesn’t come in until it’s full, probably waiting to hear the water turn off. When he does, he’s naked, which Jaskier is definitely not used to seeing during their off time.
It hits him differently here, in Geralt’s home. Feels more intimate somehow.
“Want me to go wait in the kitchen?” he asks softly.
Geralt shakes his head, a tiny jerk of his chin, and steps into the bath. His back is to Jaskier in the middle of the movement, the stripes of the cane still painting his thighs. They're not pretty per se, but they are interesting. Jaskier wonders what the texture would be like under his fingers.
Geralt sinks into the hot water facing him, tips his head back and closes his eyes. Jaskier isn’t sure what they’re doing here. He isn’t sure where this is going, or if it’s going anywhere. Maybe this is all in his head. Maybe Geralt is just too tired to object, or maybe he’s decided that this is no different from Jaskier watching him have sex all day. Boundaries are weird in their relationship, but It feels different to Jaskier this time. Who knows if that feeling’s mutual.
He manages at least 60 seconds of silence before his mouth gets away from him, like always.
“Want me to wash your hair?” he asks, which he immediately then regrets.
Geralt doesn’t open his eyes, just says, “hmm,” in that way that Jaskier has learned to interpret as an affirmative.
“Come over here then,” says Jaskier, and Geralt does.
He and Geralt don’t touch each other much. Or, more accurately, Jaskier touches Geralt a normal amount for blokes being mates, and Geralt generally doesn’t touch him at all. But now Geralt is turning his back, ducking his head into the water to wet his hair.
Jaskier has to stand up to reach the shampoo, then kneels next to the tub. He may not be quite sure what he’s doing here but he’s very sure that he wants to be doing it.
Geralt sighs and relaxes when Jaskier works lather through his hair, quietly groans at Jaskier’s nails on his scalp. Jaskier holds every sound he makes, every movement, to his chest, tucks it away next to his heart. This is all private, for him only, not for his camera, and even if it’s all he ever gets it’s perfect. It would be beautiful to shoot him like this, all tender and soft, but not today.
“So, that was a little rough,” he says, holding the back of Geralt’s head and guiding it gently into the water so he can rinse.
“It was fine,” says Geralt.
“Sure, but that doesn’t mean it was easy.”
“Thank you,” Geralt says, softly and unexpectedly, and Jaskier’s pulse beats loudly in his ears.
“Just doing my job,” he says, and then, for some reason, “I’m always here when you need me. When you ask.”
“You are,” says Geralt, as he turns his face to Jaskier.
It could still just be friendly intimacy, just Geralt wanting some comfort after a hard day. Just Geralt being his usual straightforward self, unashamed of his body and its needs. Just a guy who, Jaskier reminds himself, gets touched in the most intimate ways all the time for a living.
“I mean, um. I’m your friend. We’re friends, right? That’s. What. Friends? Do?”
Geralt looks at him, lets the silence stretch, pulling slow like taffy until Jaskier almost can’t stand it. Not moving forward or pulling away.
Finally, Geralt leans forward, rests his arms on the side of the tub.
He’s gone right up to the line, the razor’s edge of plausible deniability. Maybe he’s only uncharacteristically talking about his feelings because Jaskier pushed him in a moment when he’s too tired to put up the usual fight.
Or maybe this is a moment. They’re having a moment, and if Jaskier is too chickenshit to take it he might never get the chance again.
He puts his hand on Geralt’s face, giving him a last chance to pull away, before he leans in and kisses him.
It’s perfect. Of course it’s perfect. Soft and sweet, and then wet and hungry, and he’s almost tempted to crawl into the bath with Geralt, push him down and keep kissing him and kissing him.
But eventually they pull apart, their lips sticking for a sweet moment. Geralt’s still so close to him, Jaskier can see his pupils blown wide.
“I’m still hungry,” Geralt says, and grins showing all his teeth, one of his rare smiles.
“Fine, come on then,” says Jaskier, also grinning, and tears himself away to go to the kitchen. He decides they can eat straight from the containers. Not like they didn’t just swap saliva. He’s giddy, not sure this is really happening, that it’s really real. Filming a comeshot is one thing, kissing is another entirely.
Geralt walks into the kitchen in sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, the first time Jaskier’s probably ever seen him in a shirt he’s not stretching at the seams. It’s adorable.
“Hey,” Jaskier says.
Geralt rolls his eyes, lips quirking up at the corner. “Hey,” and grabs a fork and a random container of food.
They eat in silence, but Jaskier can hear Geralt in his head teasing him about the only times he keeps his mouth shut being when it’s full of something or his camera’s rolling.
When they’ve slowed down, he breaks the silence.
“I’m not having sex with you tonight,” Jaskier says, kicking himself for the phrasing as soon as the words leave his mouth.
Geralt raises an eyebrow.
“I mean, assuming you want to have sex with me? Which I guess I shouldn’t assume. But anyway, you had a tough shoot and you’re coming down from some kind of headspace and I’m kind of still in protecting-you mode? So you should know that I definitely want to at some point but not right now,” he gets out almost in one breath.
Geralt covers Jaskier’s hand in his own. He hadn’t noticed he was fidgeting.
“I do. That’s fine. That’s good,” says Geralt, pauses. “Want to sleep here?”
Jaskier nods, and says, “Maybe in the morning, if you’re feeling it? I do make a good breakfast.”
Geralt shrugs affably. “I’m going to bed. Coming?”
Jaskier follows him. He strips when Geralt does, realizing suddenly that Geralt’s never seen him naked before, although honestly he’s probably too out of it to really notice right now.
Geralt beckons him closer, and Jaskier goes. He’s allowed to touch now, press his naked body against Geralt’s warm side, stroke a hand down his chest.
“This doesn’t count as sex,” Jaskier says before his lips meet Geralt’s. He’s turned on, of course, the kiss going straight to his dick, but he doesn’t have to do anything about it. Geralt must be able to feel it, but he knows Jaskier’s plans.
He drifts off to sleep with his head on Geralt’s chest.
Jaskier wakes slowly in an unfamiliar bed. He blinks, remembering what happened last night. He’s not touching skin anymore, and he rolls over to see Geralt stretched out on the other side of the bed, looking at his phone.
“Next shoot’s tomorrow,” Geralt says, voice even more gravelly than usual.
“So we have all day! I have no other plans, just letting you know.”
“Hmm, and you’re spared a morning hanging around while I squirt water into my ass,” says Geralt, putting his phone down and rolling towards Jaskier. “It’s tomorrow,” he whispers, and kisses him.
They both have morning breath, probably. Jaskier doesn’t care.
“How’s your ass? The outside of it, I mean,” he asks.
Geralt rolls onto his stomach and pulls the covers off. “You tell me.”
The welts aren’t pink and raised like they were yesterday, but there are bruises blooming where they faded, thin bands of purple with red lines down the center. He touches one softly.
“Got anything I can put on these?”
“Arnica cream in the bathroom,” Geralt says into the pillow.
Jaskier gets it, rubs it in gently, and then keeps touching him, ghosting fingers up his back, then scratching with his short nails. Geralt arches into his touch. Jaskier kisses the back of his neck.
“I’ve wanted to touch you for so long,” he murmurs into Geralt’s skin. Geralt’s reply is a contented hum, so Jaskier keeps going. Firm over the muscles of his back, a drag of fingertips over the bruised skin. He wishes he could grab, dig his fingers in and feel Geralt’s firm, round ass in his palms. “I figure I should give your ass a break today, yeah?”
Geralt hums another assent, and Jaskier keeps touching, the inside of his thighs where the cane didn’t hit, the backs of his knees and Geralt jerks at that, ticklish. Combs his fingers through Geralt’s hair, curling more than usual since Jaskier washed it. He must blow dry it straight, but Jaskier likes it this way. He taps Geralt’s shoulder and he rolls over.
He wants to try everything. This isn’t normally the way men fuck, in his experience, and he does want Geralt’s enormous cock inside him someday, civilian style, careful and slow and without endless enemas first, but not today. Today he wants to do everything Geralt doesn’t get to spend time at on camera.
He kisses the column of Geralt’s throat, sucks on the side of his neck and gets the hint of a growl so he does it again and again, worrying with his teeth, knowing he’s going to leave an unmistakable trail of red marks that they’ll have to cover with makeup for the shoot tomorrow. He relishes in it.
Geralt’s chest is incredible, a work of art, and he doesn’t want him to feel like he’s playing with his tits the way he would a woman’s but he needs to see what the reaction will be when he sucks a nipple into his mouth.
It’s just as good as he’d hoped, Geralt burying one big hand in Jaskier’s hair and holding him there, a moan that seems to get caught in the back of his throat before it can fully escape. Jaskier holds the nub in his mouth, flicks with his tongue, and Geralt practically writhes against him. So he keeps at it, uses his fingers on the other side, too, chest hair bristly against his palm where it’s trimmed short.
Finally, he pulls back, kisses down the side of Geralt’s ribs, his hips, that perfect dip between his abs and groin. Parts his thighs and crawls between them to kiss the sensitive skin there. He's ignoring Geralt’s cock as long as he can, enjoying himself in the deliberate slowness of it all. He moves its half-hard length out of the way to mouth at his balls.
“What do you want?” he asks, looking up at Geralt through his eyelashes.
“To touch you, too. Get back up here,” Geralt says.
Jaskier crawls up him as slowly as he can. Geralt is looking at him in a way he isn’t used to being looked at. Like he’s hungry for all of him. Not that Jaskier thinks he’s ugly or anything, but his partners are usually more interested in his hands and mouth and voice than they are purely in his body’s aesthetics. It’s a little uncomfortable, but hot at the same time.
When he gets back up to Geralt’s mouth, he sinks into kissing him again. He’s all broad and warm and he can’t stop himself from thrusting into Geralt’s hip.
“I haven’t... done this for fun in a while,” Geralt volunteers, and Jaskier feels irrationally fond.
“Take your time, I’m not going anywhere,” he says, bringing his hand up to play with Geralt’s nipple again. “Fuck, I could do this forever.”
Geralt makes an encouraging noise.
“Hunt down every sensitive spot on you and touch you there, until you can’t stand it, until you beg me to touch your cock,” he continues, at first afraid he’s gone too far but Geralt makes this sound and he knows he hasn’t. “Hold you down, tie you down, make you take it. Make you wait until you think you can’t stand it, until you think you’re going to explode.”
“Oh god,” Geralt pants.
“The name’s Jaskier, actually,” he says and Geralt groans. He shoves Jaskier away from him just a little, enough to have room to drag his hand down Jaskier’s chest and belly and wrap it around his cock. Jaskier has a moment to wish he had done more manscaping but there's nothing to be done now about his desperately unfashionable amount of chest hair. (Maybe Geralt likes it? Maybe?). Jaskier wants to pout about losing access to that nipple, but Jesus it’s hard when Geralt is touching him, soft and slow.
“You know how I like it, how do you?” Geralt asks. That’s a good point, Jaskier’s seen him touch himself countless times but Geralt has never seen anything of him.
“Light and fast,” he gasps, thinking about how he touches himself in comparison. Geralt’s hand speeds up and Jaskier moans into his neck, into his mouth. He wanted to be the one doing this to Geralt, but he doesn’t want him to stop. “Shit, you’re going to make me —”
“Yes,” Geralt breathes, and Jaskier collapses there on his side and just clings to him, free hand coming up to tangle in his hair close to his scalp. He yanks at it, almost accidentally, and when Geralt doesn’t object, deliberately tightens his grip. It feels like all that’s holding him down as he gets closer and closer.
“Yes,” he echoes and comes, tugging so hard on Geralt’s hair that it probably hurts, biting down on his shoulder. Geralt pets his back, holds him through the aftershocks.
“Shit,” says Jaskier, looking at the bite mark he just left. He can see the impression of his teeth.
“Don’t worry,” says Geralt.
Jaskier was aware that he’s a biter, but he’s usually in better control of himself.
He’s floaty, breathing hard, all his hot desire drained away, but the throb of a deeper need is still there underneath, even stronger. He wants to make Geralt feel at least that good, twice that good. Wants to take care of him, always has, but Geralt’s resisted it at every turn, taking only what Jaskier can sneak past his defenses, which now seem to be lowered significantly.
Geralt pulls his hand away, and Jaskier grabs his wrist, brings it up in front of his face, and licks his own come off Geralt’s hand. He looks into Geralt’s eyes and slowly, deliberately sucks two fingers into his mouth.
Jaskier works over his fingers like he would a cock, lips carefully over his teeth, tongue working the dip where they’re pressed together. Then he moves back to the palm, thoroughly cleaning it, before giving each finger individual attention. Geralt is practically purring, hips moving like he’d like Jaskier to be doing that to specific other parts of his body.
Jaskier finally lets his hand go and pushes up to lean over his chest again. He grabs Geralt’s pec like it was a breast, not caring anymore what it looks like, grips it tight while he scrapes his teeth gently over the nipple. Geralt reacts as strongly as he’d hoped, and Jaskier stays there, holding down his chest while his hips thrust into the air.
“You want something, you have to ask nicely,” Jaskier says with a wicked smile before diving for the other nipple.
“Not... fucking... begging,” Geralt grunts.
“I guess you’ll be waiting a long time, then.”
It’s not really a long time, a couple more minutes, before Geralt gives in. He didn’t actually have to beg, Jaskier would’ve accepted “I’d like you to blow me now” just as well, but he’s not complaining.
“Please just touch my dick,” he says, and Jaskier does.
“You want my mouth down there or up here?” he asks, and Geralt thinks a minute before replying.
Geralt’s a lot to take, so Jaskier doesn’t put much more than the head in his mouth - this isn’t for show - swiping his hand to pull saliva down to cover the whole thing, getting it wet. He works his lips up and down over the sensitive ridge there, pumping his hand in time, slow and tight like he knows Geralt likes it.
He slides his lips up the underside of Geralt’s cock, looking up now that his head is in a position where he can. Geralt’s looking down at him, head propped up on the pillow, and it’s fucking devastating, kiss-swollen lips and hair sticking to his sweaty face. Jaskier sucks him down again and moans around him, loud.
“Faster. Please,” Geralt says.
Jaskier speeds up, pulling his mouth off with each stroke so his hand strokes up and down Geralt’s full length. Geralt’s panting above him, jerking his hips like he’s trying not to fuck Jaskier’s mouth, and Jaskier adjusts so his forearms are propped on Geralt’s thighs, pinning him down. His jaw is starting to hurt but he doesn’t care.
“Hey,” Geralt gasps, and Jaskier realizes it’s a warning and moans some more, encouragingly.
Geralt yells when he comes, and Jaskier doesn’t pull off until he’s swallowed everything down. That’s something he’s never seen Geralt get to do in all the times they’ve worked together. It feels like a weird kind of secret intimacy, hiding the things that the camera demands in the other part of their lives.
Jaskier flops down on his back beside him, breathing hard, licking his lips.
“So I’d say that was successful,” he jokes.
“What, no cuddles?” grumbles Geralt.
“You want to be cuddled, you get your ass over here. I’m not doing any more of the work for at least five minutes.”
Surprisingly, Geralt does, taking Jaskier’s arms flung wide as an invitation to snuggle up and lay his head on Jaskier’s chest. He doesn’t quite fit there, body too broad, but it’s comfortable anyway.
He never in a million years would have predicted Geralt as... cuddly.
“I always wondered, do your shirts just magically lose their buttons?” Geralt murmurs into his skin. His arm is on Jaskier’s chest, deliciously large and heavy, and he’s idly moving his fingers over Jaskier’s sternum, tangling in the hair there.
Jaskier huffs. “It’s a style.”
“A ridiculous one.”
“Ah, but I’ve been reliably informed that it attracts porn stars.”
“Porn stars, plural?”
“Maybe just one, but that’s exactly the number of porn stars I want.”