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Faking It

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This is a bad idea, Jaskier thinks as he drags the handsome stranger built like a brick wall who smells of leather and smoke and the kind of booze that doubles up as paint stripper into his hotel room, joined at the mouth and hoping to be joined in other, more intimate places as the night goes on.

It’s always a bad idea. An unkind person might say that Jaskier has more bad ideas than good ones.

A truthful one might say he’d never had a good idea.

But right now, right now, in this moment, it feels so good.

Mr. Sexy feels solid and warm under his hands and can take it when Jaskier bites his lip and grinds against him, needy, demanding.

He had a name, Jaskier’s sure of it. George? Gordon? Gerald?

Something with a G. Maybe. Or a J. Could’ve been an M?

Doesn’t matter. Not when he kisses like a drowning man, not when his hands are warm and broad and strong enough to lift Jaskier clear off the floor, leaving him scrambling to get his legs around a waist that really has no right to taper like it does.

“Hello, darling,” he coos, looking into citrine eyes that glint in the light of the streetlamps just barely bright enough to see by. Getting his card into the little box that turns the lights on wasn’t a priority on the way into the room.

Still isn’t.

Mr. Sexy wrinkles his nose, one shockingly white eyebrow raised.

“Not darling?” Jaskier asks.

“Not darling,” Mr. Sexy rumbles.

Jaskier is more than happy to call him whatever he likes if he’s allowed to peel those pleather trousers off and fuck him like he means it, which he is under the impression he will be.

“Sexy,” Jaskier decides.

Mr. Sexy’s eyebrow inches up, but his nose goes back to being really quite lovely. Jaskier pecks the tip of it, aware he’s still three feet in the air, supported entirely by Mr. Sexy’s goodwill toward him.

Another low, unintelligible rumble and then suddenly all the breath slams out of Jaskier’s lungs at once as his back hits the wall, Mr. Sexy pinning him in place, hard-on grinding against Jaskier’s own through those ridiculous trousers that might well be the most attractive thing Jaskier’s ever seen on a man.

Jaskier plans, more or less, to plough him like a field that’s lain fallow for the past three summers, which feels like the approximate length of time it’s been since he last got laid.

In fact, it has been ten days, three hours, and change.

“Bed,” Jaskier orders, and his voice does not go to the deliciously low register Mr. Sexy’s does, but it does have the effect of making his eyes light up and his hips press a little closer.

Jaskier’s legs wobble as he’s let down, the keycard finally makes it into the slot on the wall, the lights come on too bright at first and he nearly breaks the switch dimming them back down to mood-appropriate levels.

Mr. Sexy looks at him like he’s the walking disaster he is, but he’s not walking away.

There’s lube in the bedside table, because of course there is, what kind of barbarian would stay in a hotel more than one night running and not put it there?

Jaskier's attention is torn between the bedside table and the lube and the increasingly exciting possibility that Mr. Sexy is going to be gorgeously hung, the front of his trousers providing ample evidence that this is actually true.

Jaskier’s hands land on the button of them, and perfect chiseled abs jump under his touch, a low needy moan sounding in the back of Mr. Sexy’s throat.

Perhaps he, too, has gone ten or eleven days without getting laid.

“Are you always like this?” Mr. Sexy asks, and the syllables that aren’t nearly inaudible because of the rumbling are surprisingly polished, and Jaskier stores that thought away for later because there are more important things happening in his life right now.

Like the discovery that Mr. Sexy isn’t wearing any underwear.

Also that his pubes are as white as the hair on his head, which is impressive dedication to the look.

“Like what?” Jaskier asks, looking up at him.

“This,” Mr. Sexy says, which is the opposite of helpful.

“Probably,” Jaskier allows, because the question is probably are you always this eager or this much of a slut and the answer is yes, absolutely, sorry not sorry.

He’s immediately distracted by the nicest cock he’s ever seen, which is what he thinks about every cock he ever sees.

“Oh yes,” he murmurs, and the praise is evidently enough to stop the interrogation.

Pillow talk after, orgasms first.

More kisses as Jaskier pushes them both toward the bed, stripping the white t-shirt off Mr. Sexy’s stunningly ripped torso, complete with a couple of wonderfully dangerous scars.

“You,” Jaskier says between kisses. “Are about to come your brains out, and you absolutely deserve it.”

This earns him another grunt in return, but he’s past caring as he fumbles for lube and condoms and drops half a packet on the floor in his haste, promising himself he’ll pick them up so the cleaning staff won’t have to experience that particular indignity.

Jaskier can’t get enough of kissing this gorgeous man under him, a man who clearly likes to be kissed. He can never get enough of kissing anyone, and it’s nice to have accidentally picked up someone who doesn’t seem to mind.

Long hair turns out to be the perfect grip as Jaskier rides strong, thick fingers in preparation for an even thicker cock, hot and hard and rubbing against his thigh, leaving sticky trails of precome until he manages to tear a condom packet open and roll it on between them.

Safety first.

Those incredible eyes that have to be special effects contacts widen as Jaskier sinks down, fingers digging deep into the flesh of his thighs, heat and pressure overwhelming for a moment, sweat beading on his forehead.

A satisfied grunt escapes him as he bottoms out, thighs already straining, knees locked tight against that ridiculous waistline.

The needy little whimper that spills from Mr. Sexy’s lips as Jaskier starts to move tells him he could, actually, have fucked this man, and if he stays after that might just happen.

No more words, Jaskier’s all out of words as he rolls his hips, biting his lip at the incredible perfect fullness he’d had ten whole days to forget was so good, clenching around the gorgeous cock inside him just to feel Mr. Sexy gasp into his mouth, helpless now. Helpless to do anything but lie back and take it, which Jaskier gets the impression is what he usually does.

So pretty, but not a lot going on behind those clearly-fake eyes. Just the way Jaskier likes them. Men with steel-hard cocks, pretty faces, and candy floss for brains are the best kind.

He wraps his hand around his own cock as he gets close, but his beautiful stranger bats it away and jerks him slow and steady, then hard and fast, spurring them both on until there’s a choked-off cry, arched hips, bruising grip, sigh, hitched breath, broken moan, sticky mess.

His forehead is pressed to Mr. Sexy’s as he rides out the aftershocks, eyes screwed shut, lip bitten hard, muscles clenching to wring the last few drops of pleasure out of the whole thing before he lets himself collapse onto the waiting, solid chest.

Dusted, as well, with white hair.

Serious commitment to the look, then.

Not that it’s a bad look. Definitely worth committing to. Jaskier’s never seen anyone half as striking before.

A broad hand splays over his back as his skin cools and his breathing evens out, warm and strangely comforting, and Jaskier isn’t used to being comforted by random hookups, but he’ll take it. It’s been a long week on tour, he’s tired, and it took a lot of effort not to shout at the top of his lungs and save his voice for tomorrow night.

A little stress relief was exactly what he needed. Maybe it hasn’t been a bad idea after all.

“Again?” Mr. Sexy asks with that voice like tyres on gravel.

An experimental grind tells Jaskier that this marvel of a man is already half-hard.

“Oh, you’re going to be so much fun.”