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A Discovery of Nature

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Witchers are not unfeeling creatures, like many people seem to believe. Geralt has found that if he pretends that he is, though, things are easier. People leave him alone when they think that he won’t be any fun to harass — not always, of course, but enough to make a noticeable (and much appreciated) difference. Over time, “Witchers don’t feel” had become something of a motto to him. It had helped him learn not to react to things more quickly, like an actor learning their role by living it.

When he had first met Jaskier, he clung to that motto as hard and for as long as he could. He was unable to allow himself the private displays of emotion that he had when traveling the Path alone, and at first he resented the other man for it, though it didn’t take long for him to see it as an opportunity to strengthen his walls, to fix his mask on tighter than before.

That, admittedly, did not last long. Jaskier saw right through him from the first moment he’d laid eyes on the witcher. Perhaps it was the fact that a bard has to be able to read a room, that feelings are as essential to his trade as Geralt’s swords are to his own. Perhaps it was the refusal to believe what people say about witchers, the insistence on experiencing something before he allowed himself to believe it, his career in dramatic embellishments giving him a valuable lesson about believing everything you hear. Honestly, Geralt couldn’t say what it was that drew the bard to him and allowed him to tear down his walls like a battering ram, but it hadn’t taken long.

Well, that’s not entirely true. It hadn’t taken long by Geralt’s estimate. He has always been stubborn by nature, and even when he began to open up to the bard he still refused to openly acknowledge that witchers do have emotions. He had, somewhat childishly, allowed himself to express emotion far before he verbally admitted that he was. He can’t deny, at least privately, that he allowed himself to open up to the bard long before he even consciously realised that he was doing it.

It’s just so easy. Jaskier is friendly, kind, sweet. He is also sharp, observant, petty. He makes friends and enemies as easily as breathing. His tongue drips sugar and venom in equal measure. Jaskier is like a force of nature, an act of the Gods that no mortal can ever hope to control. Of course, Geralt is no stranger to defying unstoppable forces, so he had tried, if only because it was simply in his admittedly contrarian nature. If Jaskier is the wind, Geralt is a mountain; the mountain cannot be moved, the wind cannot be stopped from blowing, but neither remains unchanged by the other, over time. The wind must blow against the mountain, rather than forward; and the mountain must erode to the wind’s will, eventually.

Geralt has allowed himself to be eroded by the bard, warming to his presence in a way that he has never truly been able to with another human, not since he was a little boy untainted by mutations and pain. Jaskier, for his part, has learned the paths that he must take to wind around Geralt, to caress him as the wind.

The wind is a fleeting thing, blowing where it may, and Jaskier is much the same. Geralt had sensed it the moment they met and had, as a result, assumed that he would be the same way with Geralt. He thought the bard would follow him to the next town at the most, and then he would be gone again. Four decades later and Jaskier has not left him yet.

Oh, he has flitted in and out of Geralt’s life like the wind, joining him for months before leaving again just as easily. The only thing is, he has always come back. Even when Geralt had succeeded after twenty-two years of bark and bite in pushing him away, when they saw each other again Jaskier had simply slotted back into place by his side like he was born to be there. All it took was a very overdue and awkwardly-delivered (but no less sincere for it) apology from the witcher and the bard was in his life again like nothing had happened.

After that Geralt had sworn to himself that he would be better — honestly, he had sworn it the second he descended that fucking mountain alone. And he had. They still traded barbs and jabs, still called each other names and made little digs at one another’s shortcomings, but it was good-natured, just a part of their dynamic. Honestly if either of them had a coin for every time Jaskier said “shit” and Geralt told him to “watch your fucking language,” they’d never have to work again.

At first, Jaskier had been confused when Geralt started verbally sparring with him in their travels but he quickly became thrilled by it, and each man gave as good as he got.

“Jaskier, you little shit,” he growls once in a tavern. It’s not quite crowded, but it isn’t empty, and if Geralt could be arsed to pay attention he would notice the spike of fear in the other patrons.

Not Jaskier, of course, never Jaskier. “Good morning to you too,” he says good-naturedly, a hint of a smirk the only thing betraying him.

“I told you to stop,” Geralt says rather than answering the obvious bait. “One would think in your profession a sense of hearing would be necessary but I suppose it explains a lot about your caterwauling.”

Not entirely genuine outrage flashes over the bard’s countenance and, to the horror of the inn’s patrons, the slighter man proceeds to smack the witcher with his lute. “And I thought witchers were supposed to have better senses than us mere men,” he seethes, “but I suppose even your fancy mutagens can’t grant you a sense of good taste.”

The witcher rolls his eyes. “If everyone had your taste, bard, I’d walk straight into the Yaruga. Now for the last time, stop braiding flowers into Roach’s mane.”

“She likes to be pretty, Geralt,” the bard insists. “Just because you wouldn’t know fashion if it crawled up your arse, doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t care how we look.”

“She’s a horse,” Geralt argues. “I can assure you she’d rather eat flowers than wear them.”

When what the townsfolk were initially sure would be a murder turns into good-natured bickering between two close friends, the tension in the room begins to dissipate. No one can shake the feeling of bewilderment the spectacle gives them, but at the very least they will not have to watch a man die today.

“You are a brute,” Jaskier seethes another time as he is thrown unceremoniously over the witcher’s shoulder and carried up the stairs in a different inn in a different town. “An animal, an absolute bloody barbarian.” He brings his fists down on Geralt’s muscled back, and kicks his legs, and both of these things go entirely ignored.

“And you are a drunken fool,” Geralt answers casually, swatting the bard’s backside.

“Don’t you smack me like an unruly child!” the bard wails.

The witcher retorts, “Then stop behaving like one.”

They are, on yet another occasion, bathing together. It is a nice summer day, and the cool water of the river is a relief in the heat. Neither of them will agree later on exactly who strikes first, but either way they are splashing each other in the face, each man pretending to be annoyed when he is hit with a man made wave. Jaskier appears to have the upper hand for one exciting moment, until Geralt is wading over to him. The bard valiantly tries to escape, but it is of no use, and the witcher picks him up by the waist before literally throwing him into the water like a sack of rotten vegetables.

The bard splutters and shouts when he surfaces again. “You’re trying to drown me!” he accuses.

Geralt snorts, amused. “If I did, I’m sure your ghost would annoy me for the rest of my life,” he answers sarcastically.

“You’d never get a moment’s peace,” Jaskier solemnly agrees.

“I don’t already.”

For nearly twenty years now people have been assuming that they are either enemies or lovers — or both, usually one quickly after the other. Most don’t dare to say anything to them, and those who do are usually laughed off by the bard (because no man seems brave enough to ask a witcher about his love life). While it’s usually nothing more than an amusing misconception (and it does sting a little, though neither man admits it), it has somewhat of an unintended consequence.

See, Jaskier falls into others’ beds as easily as the leaves fall in autumn. It makes him feel good to make others feel good. He is not entirely shameless, but he is exceptionally free with his affections. Usually he has no shortage of options, but when people assume that he belongs to the witcher, his pool of potential lovers depletes drastically.

When Jaskier’s love life falls into a dry spell he is almost unbearable. He is irritable and snappish. He loses a not insignificant amount of his usual warmth, acting as one might when going too long without sleep. Judging by the dark circles under his eyes that he tries to hide with his collection of cosmetics that Geralt will never even try to understand, he actually does lose sleep. It’s almost ridiculous, but Geralt supposes that when one is used to fulfilling that certain need without issue, any inability to do so can be unbearable. It is a physical need like any other, after all.

Still, word travels quickly around the Continent, especially when it is baseless gossip. At this point nearly everywhere they go, even if he is not with Geralt in the moment, someone has heard the rumour that they are sleeping together. Usually he is able to brush it off, roll his eyes and say something like, “Oh please, as if someone like that would go for someone like this.” And Geralt isn’t entirely sure what that means — whether Jaskier is making another joke about his musculature, or implying that Geralt has no interest in other men, or highlighting the differences in their personality, or even pretending he thinks that witchers don’t feel — but by this point in their lives there is only about a fifty percent chance that this actually works.

An irritable Jaskier is perhaps his least favourite kind of Jaskier. The jibes have a little too much bite to them, he takes Geralt’s own barbs a little too personally, he is less fun. If they can find a brothel, well, none of them will turn down Jaskier’s coin, but that takes the fun and romance out of it, and Geralt knows that the game is perhaps as much a part of it for Jaskier as the act itself.

He tries to go back to the way things were between them in the beginning — in public only, of course — in the hopes that this will give people the idea that if he and Jaskier were sleeping together, they are no longer. As much as he privately wishes they were together in a sexual — and especially romantic, though he wouldn’t dare admit it — sense, he knows that Jaskier wouldn’t want that from him. They have been friends for more than forty years. The bard has always flirted with him, but has never followed through, and Geralt is sure that he would have by now if he were truly interested.

And he doesn’t mind, really — having Jaskier as his friend is something that he treasures like nothing else. If given the chance to throw away decades of friendship for one night of sweet nothings and passion, he would refuse it without a thought. Jaskier is simply too important to him. Still, he has never truly been unfeeling, and there is no denying his feelings for the other.

The idea that they are sleeping together becomes less pervasive, after that, though it makes both of them a little miserable to be unable to banter and engage each other in the way they are used to doing. One night, in frustration, Jaskier confronts him about it in the room they've rented.

“I’m sorry I’ve been a dick,” he says, “but you don’t need to punish me for it!”

Geralt frowns at him, confused and trying to follow the leap in logic that the bard had taken to get to this point. (He doesn’t follow, of course —Jaskier’s thoughts are nearly impossible for anyone but the man himself to actually track, and even he has trouble with it sometimes.) “Why do you think I’m trying to punish you?”

“You aren’t talking to me anymore,” Jaskier seethes. “It’s like — like we aren’t friends anymore unless we’re alone.”

“Jaskier—” Geralt starts, but the bard interrupts him.

“Are you ashamed of me?” he spits, and that makes even less sense than the last conclusion he’d jumped to.

“What?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “You’re ashamed of me,” he accuses, “because people keep thinking we’re together in a romantic sense and you— it bothers you!”

“Why— Jaskier, how could you possibly come to that conclusion?” The witcher is bewildered; if anything, it fills him with a sort of pride that people think he would be able to satisfy the bard in that way, that he would be Jaskier’s type.

“What else am I supposed to think!?” Jaskier demands.

“I don’t want people to think we’re sleeping together because it bothers you,” Geralt tells him.

“What!?”

“People think I have some kind of claim to you and I’m not an idiot, bard — I know it’s cutting into your encounters. I don’t want to take that from you when it isn’t even true,” Geralt insists.

Something in Jaskier’s expression changes, making him look almost like a cat that’s about to pounce, and it makes Geralt suddenly wary.

“So you would,” he says slowly, “if it were true?”

“I don’t follow,” says the witcher.

“If we were sleeping together,” Jaskier says, still speaking slowly as if he’s trying to figure out a very interesting puzzle, “you would want to keep me to yourself?”

Geralt’s mouth goes dry. “Excuse me?”

“Answer the question, witcher,” Jaskier says — demands, really, and something about him using Geralt’s title like that sends a small shiver down his spine.

“I can be a jealous man,” he admits cautiously, evasively, “when it comes to keeping what is mine.”

Jaskier seems to consider this for a moment. “And if I were yours?” he asks, and his voice is low, predatory.

For some reason, Geralt can’t keep his tongue still. “No one else would touch you,” he answers in a hoarse almost-whisper.

The bard hums to himself, and Geralt thinks that this is the end of it, that the strange moment has passed, until—

Soft, smooth lips press against his insistently, dominantly, and the shiver it sends down his spine must be noticeable because those lips smirk against his for just a moment. Then they’re moving, a tongue caresses his own chapped lips, and he can’t keep his lips shut — why would he? The kiss is quick, hot, messy. The passion of it makes him dizzy, the air charged with lust in a way he’s never felt. He feels a knee between his legs and groans into the wet heat of the bard’s mouth. It feels like his chest is vibrating.

Wait.

Fuck.

It isn’t his chest, it’s his medallion. The potential danger clears the fog of lust in his head enough for him to pull away. The bard whines, but Geralt keeps him at a distance, breathing heavily, and finally he notices in the air the faintest hint of sulfur.

Yellow eyes widen and then narrow, and he is shoving the other away from him without a hint of gentleness. The bard goes flying backwards with a wail, and he opens his mouth to say something, but the look on Geralt’s face must give him pause because he immediately closes it again.

Of course, of course Geralt would be so stupid. He’s seething, he’s absolutely livid. He never should have thought that Jaskier would want him, not like that. Why would he? Jaskier deserves far more, deserves softness and kindness and a future and Geralt can offer him none of those things.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he hisses, and the incubus in front of him flinches. It smells like Jaskier, except for the hint of sulfur and fear. He doesn’t know how long it’s been impersonating his bard, but it must have watched him for a long time because it matches his mannerisms to a fucking tee.

“Oh,” it says quietly, shoulders slumping forward before squaring itself up like Jaskier does when he tries to act more confident than he feels. It’s a defense mechanism that he knows painfully well. “I, yeah, I thought… I should have figured this would be a bad idea.”

Geralt growls. “Yeah, you really fucking should have.”

The incubus looks away and it’s really fucking bothering him that it’s still using Jaskier’s body language like this. “I, um. I should go,” it says, as if Geralt is just going to allow it.

Rather than answer, Geralt stands in front of the door, arms crossed. He can reach his sword if he needs to, but he’d rather try to get answers before it comes to that. The incubus frowns at him, worrying at its bottom lip with its teeth. “Um, Geralt?” it says, and he grits his teeth in an effort not to react. Is it fucking baiting him?

“You aren’t going anywhere,” he says, “until you tell me where Jaskier is.”

It gives him the most bewildered look he has ever seen on Jaskier’s face. “I’m sorry?”

“No,” he says, “you are going to be sorry if you don’t fucking answer me.”

The bewildered expression doesn’t shift — if anything, it deepens. “Geralt, I don’t know what’s going on,” it says, and he growls again.

“Bullshit. Tell me what you did with my bard.”

The incubus throws its hands in the air, its frustration obvious. “I’m Jaskier, you asshole,” it shouts. “You can’t just— just push me away and then call me your bard! I get that you don’t want me like that, I-I overstepped, yeah, fine. But how the fuck did you get the idea that I’m someone else!?”

It is apparently not giving up its charade easily, to Geralt’s increasing irritation. He pulls his medallion over his head and holds it out to the incubus, and when it tilts its head at him he pushes it against the creature’s skin. The medallion vibrates and the incubus’ eyes widen.

“It’s vibrating,” it breathes, looking at him before looking around the room in well-faked alarm. “Is— are we in danger? Geralt, what—”

“Shut up,” he snaps, and it closes its mouth. “It’s vibrating because of you.”

The incubus laughs, once again sounding bewildered. “That’s impossible,” it insists. “You said it only does that around monsters—”

Geralt’s expression does not change, but the creature’s does. Horror dawns on its face as it takes a step back.

“Geralt,” it murmurs, eyes wide. “Geralt, what— what am I?”

“Why won’t you give this up?” Geralt asks, though… he’s less sure, suddenly, that this isn’t Jaskier. Surely an incubus would have given up by now. He scents the air — the sulfur smell has faded, but the pungent scent of fear has spiked.

“Geralt, please,” says the other. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Prove it,” Geralt says suddenly. “Prove you’re really Jaskier.”

The bard is shaking and Geralt feels guilty, wants to comfort him, but if it isn’t him, if it really is a creature— No, he can’t take that chance, not without knowing.

It (he?) laughs, but it’s a hollow sound bordering on hysteria. “How the fuck do I prove that I’m me? I don’t know what you want from me, witcher.”

“The first thing you said to me,” Geralt answers. “What was it?”

Despite himself, the corner of the other man’s mouth twitches in amusement. “Love the way you just sit in the corner and brood,” he whispers.

Oh.

“Jaskier,” he says, immediately relaxing his stance. “I’m sorry. You don’t know?”

“Know what?” Jaskier asks him frantically. “Geralt, please, this is too much for me already without adding ploughing riddles. What am I?”

Geralt sighs heavily, gestures to the bed. When the bard doesn’t move, he says, “Sit.”

“I might not know what I am, but I know I’m not a fucking dog,” Jaskier says with a glare, but there’s no real bite to it, and he goes to sit on the bed as instructed. Geralt sits next to him, not sure what to say.

“You aren’t human,” he thinks is a good start, but it only makes the bard scoff at him.

“Really,” he says drily. “Brilliant observation. Somebody give the man a prize!”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “On second thought,” he teases, “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you.”

“That is entirely unfair,” Jaskier snaps, crossing his arms.

“You’re an incubus.” Dancing around it won’t make it easier, so he simply says it. Jaskier opens his mouth, perhaps to argue or ask questions, so Geralt continues before he can interrupt. “Partly, at least. If you were a full incubus I think we both would have known by now.”

For what feels like an eternity, the bard is quiet, looking at his own hands folded in his lap. Geralt does not interrupt his thoughts, knowing that if the other man had something to say he would have said it by now. It’s best to wait for him to process this information, he thinks.

“It makes sense,” he finally murmurs, not looking up from his lap. “Damn it all, I wish you were just fooling with me, but it makes sense. I haven’t gotten any older in all the time I’ve known you, and if I’m alone too long…” He trails off, slowly looking at Geralt in horror.

“Have I… when I’m with…” For once the master bard’s words seem to fail him. “I mean, is it… Do people sleep with me because they choose it, or…?”

Suddenly Geralt understands what he is trying to ask. “It doesn’t work like that,” he says. “Succubi and incubi can influence others but they can’t make them do something they wouldn’t do on their own. They — you — can influence others through lust, but a succubus wouldn’t be able to seduce a man who only sleeps with men, for example. And even then, the compulsion of a full incubus can be resisted. You are not a full incubus. I don’t know for sure, but you probably can’t do much more than provide enhanced pleasure.” It feels like he’s reciting a bestiary entry rather than comforting a friend, but it seems to work nonetheless. As he speaks, the bard slowly but perceptibly relaxes, until he is sitting with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

“How could I never know?” he says into his hands. Awkwardly, Geralt places his hand on Jaskier’s back, trying to soothe him. Jaskier looks at him with wide, sad eyes. “How can you stand to touch me right now?”

The witcher glares at him sharply. “This doesn’t change who you are,” he says, “just what you are.”

“Oh, so it only changes almost everything,” the bard snarks.

“No, it changes almost nothing,” Geralt retorts. “If Zoltan weren’t a dwarf he’d still be Zoltan.”

“Don’t tell him that,” says Jaskier jokingly, before growing serious again. “Dwarves aren’t monsters, Geralt. I-I am. And I didn’t know.”

“You’re not a monster, you’re a bard,” the witcher corrects him. “One could argue that that’s far worse.”

Jaskier smacks his arm but like always, there’s no real anger behind it. “You didn’t know either,” he accuses. “Some witcher you are!”

Geralt shrugs. “My reputation has been embellished over the years. Some nuisance of a bard won’t stop telling people lies about me.”

The ease with which they slip back into their usual banter is a comfort to both of them. Just when Geralt thinks that Jaskier has fully relaxed, however, the bard tenses and looks away again. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“For what?”

“I didn’t mean to, you know, make you uncomfortable,” he admits sheepishly.

“It was my fault for assuming you weren’t you,” Geralt says, and it surprises him when Jaskier laughs.

“No, you silly witcher, I mean when I kissed you.”

“Oh,” says Geralt, then, “you didn’t make me uncomfortable. Well, except in the way you were intending to.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, then, “oh. You mean…?”

It is Geralt’s turn to look away, and this is not the first time that he is glad that he is physically incapable of blushing. “I meant what I said,” he admits, glancing back towards his friend, “and you didn’t assume anything incorrectly.”

The grin that stretches slowly over the bard’s face is absolutely feral, there’s no other word to describe it. The thrill it sends through Geralt’s body is not unexpected, but he still hadn’t anticipated this, any of it. Still, he is not unwilling — far from it, in fact.

“In that case,” Jaskier says, purrs really, “perhaps we could finish what we started?”

For the second time this evening, Geralt’s mouth goes dry. He swallows and nods, suddenly even less able to find the right words than usual.

The bard tsks at him. “Now now, dearest, I’ll need you to use your words. I want to be sure you want this.”

The witcher knows him well enough to be able to see right through his teasing tone. He knows that Jaskier is still uneasy, still hasn’t quite let go of the idea that his previously unknown nature would force Geralt to do this against his will. Swallowing again, Geralt rasps out, “Yes,” his voice even rougher than normal.

That sulfur smell is building again but it is still mild enough that Geralt is not surprised that nobody noticed before. If not for his enhanced senses he might not have even noticed — fuck, if not for his medallion he probably would have brushed it off even then.

Jaskier grins at him like the cat that got the cream and slinks off of the bed, sliding to his knees in a fluid motion that makes Geralt feel a little weak in the knees and sends a sharp spike of arousal through him. He lifts his hips to help Jaskier remove his breeches, before deceptively strong hands are pushing his hips back down on the bed.

For a moment the bard simply stares, tongue darting out to wet his lips unconsciously. “You’re gorgeous,” he breathes, the hot air hitting Geralt’s cock and making him curl his hands into fists already. The air is heavy with lust again and for the life of him Geralt can’t tell how much of that is from Jaskier being part incubus and how much is just from him being Jaskier.

He presses a kiss to Geralt’s slit and the witcher shudders, prepares himself for the wet heat of the bard’s mouth, but then that mouth is moving. Jaskier kisses and nips at his thighs, laves his bollocks with his tongue, but his mouth doesn’t touch Geralt’s cock, the little tease.

It feels like an eternity and Geralt is embarrassingly close to begging when Jaskier’s lips finally wrap around his head, and there’s a pitched whine that Geralt doesn’t immediately realise is coming from his own throat.

Jaskier’s tongue drags under his foreskin, still toying with him, and Geralt feels his desperation building again. He has never felt like this before but something about seeing his bard knelt between his legs is really doing it for him.

“Beautiful,” Jaskier murmurs, blowing against Geralt’s wet head and making him groan before practically diving back down and taking Geralt deep into his throat. He manages half at once — more than anyone has ever taken to start — and one hand cups and rolls Geralt’s bollocks as he bobs his head, slowly descending more with each downward motion until the entire fucking length is in his throat.

He takes a moment to simply let Geralt rest in his throat, seeming to enjoy the weight of it, breathing through his nose far too well for someone whose mouth is stuffed with the witcher’s not inconsiderable length. Then, he’s swallowing, throat rhythmically contracting around it, and Geralt cries out again. Fuck, he’s never been this vocal before. The bard bobs his head up and down again, sucking him wet and messy and perfect.

It continues like that for — fuck, he doesn’t know if it’s seconds or years before he puts a barely-trembling hand in the bard’s hair and tugs, as gently as he can. “I’m— Jaskier, f-fuck, I’m—”

The bard doesn’t back off. Instead, he hums, then looks Geralt in the eye as he takes it to the base again and swallows and Geralt can’t stop himself, he’s coming with a broken shout and Jaskier is swallowing it all like it’s what he was born to do.

When his orgasm ends Geralt feels euphoric. Someone is making broken little noises and it takes him a little too long to realise that it’s him, he’s the one doing that, all because of Jaskier.

“Shh, dearest, you’re alright,” Jaskier says, cupping his cheek, comforting him in a way that seems strangely practised. Dimly, Geralt realises that it probably is, and it’s actually hilarious that Jaskier thought everyone’s orgasms were just like this until now.

“Fuck me,” he says, his brain not working at the same pace as his mouth.

The look that Jaskier gives him is hungry, there’s no other word for it. He looks like he’s just been offered a feast. Still, he asks, “You’re sure? You don’t need a moment?”

Geralt shakes his head, murmuring, “Witcher stamina,” and Jaskier grins at him and then takes his mouth in another searing kiss.

“Alright,” the bard murmurs against his lips. “In that case, darling, I am going to wreck you.”

The witcher knows that he should be embarrassed by the noises he’s making — he’s never been this loud before and he doesn’t know how to stop — but he can’t bring himself to think about anything but Jaskier, his hands and lips and body wringing pleasure from him like water from a washcloth.

“So good for me,” says Jaskier. In the private moments when Geralt couldn’t help himself from thinking of this in the past, he had always assumed that Jaskier would talk through it, and it’s actually a comfort to know that at least this is as he expected. He’d heard the other man through the too-thin walls of inns and brothels, heard the endearments that he placed on his lovers, but he’d never thought he’d be one of them, never dared to let himself hope for it. Thus, he isn’t prepared for the shock of heat it sends through him.

“Jaskier,” he groans, like it’s the only word he knows anymore.

“I’ve got you, darling. Look at you, so sweet and pliant and good, just for me. Is this all for me, dearest?” When Geralt doesn’t answer, Jaskier places a sharp bite to his nipple, and it has him almost choking on the noise that tears itself from his throat. “Well, is it?”

“Yes,” Geralt answers like a benediction.

Jaskier beams. “Good boy,” he purrs, and Geralt’s cock twitches against his thigh, already hard and full. Jaskier’s mouth busies itself with the expanse of his chest rather than endearments, which doesn’t give him the reprieve he’d hoped for. He can’t think, and he doesn’t know how this is affecting him so much. He’s a witcher, for fuck’s sake — but, at the same time, this is Jaskier. Geralt can feel the incubus’ power heavy in the air, and if it were anyone else on top of him he would be able to fight it off, but he finds he doesn’t want to. He wants to give Jaskier what he wants, what they both want. He wants to let Jaskier take care of him.

They’ve never slept together before, but Jaskier plays his body like a fucking lute. The smug bastard isn’t touching anything below his waist but somehow he’s pulling these desperate noises from the witcher all the same. Fuck it all, but he’s pushing buttons Geralt didn’t even know he had, and after — fuck, he doesn’t know how long, it could have been seconds or centuries for all he knows or even cares — but after some amount of time, he pulls on Geralt’s ear lobe with his teeth and whispers something hot and filthy and Geralt is coming again.

He’s been around a long fucking time, but that has never happened before.

The bard, of course, is looking very pleased with himself, and Geralt brings an arm up to cover his face. It’s too much, being taken apart and seen like this. Strong, firm, gentle hands that he knows are so skilled in so many ways wrap around his arm and pull it away from his face, and he actually whines, though he lets it happen.

“Alright, darling?” the bard asks, and it should make his embarrassment spike but it only makes him feel warm and fond. His concern looks genuine, feels genuine, and of course it is, it’s Jaskier — and Geralt nods. “Words please. Should I stop?”

“Don’t you dare,” the witcher growls.

Jaskier chuckles, pressing a fond little kiss to the tip of his nose. “Don’t tempt me, witcher, or I may never stop.”

That does something for Geralt, one hundred percent, and of course the smarmy fucker notices it. “Fuck me,” Geralt says again, only to be answered with another short laugh.

“In due time, sweet witcher,” he purrs. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

True to his word, Jaskier does not stop. Even when it’s too much, when it’s so good it hurts, when his body is begging for a break, he refuses to allow it, doesn’t want the bard to stop. No one has ever been able to overstimulate him like this — fuck, no one has ever tried — and he didn’t know it was possible for him to come so many times that nothing comes out, but here they are.

Jaskier had apparently seen him as more of a feast than the witcher had initially thought, because before fucking him the first time he laid himself between Geralt’s legs with a happy little wiggle before setting in and eating his hole out in the absolute filthiest way. The noises he made were almost enough to finish him off on their own, but coupled with the movement of his tongue and lips it was over almost embarrassingly quickly. The tongue had been replaced with oil-slicked fingers that were only too happy to stretch and probe and twist inside him, pressing and toying until they found something that made him see stars. The bard proceeded to milk that spot with his fingers until Geralt spent himself again before pressing an honest-to-Gods kiss to his perineum.

The first time he presses inside is almost a religious experience, which is frankly a pretty high endorsement from someone like Geralt. Jaskier, it turns out, is blessed not only with a considerable size, but the knowledge and skill to use it perfectly. It doesn’t take much for him to know exactly how Geralt likes it and honestly, he probably should have figured out this incubus thing a long fucking time ago.

It turns out that incubus stamina can give witcher stamina a run for its money, and Geralt wonders in the back of his mind, in that small, smothered part that can still think, if the bard has ever been truly sated before. He wants to be the first to give the other man everything he needs, everything he wants, but that’s an awkward question for another time.

Things like thinking and pondering are overrated when compared to the feeling of Jaskier eating his own fucking spend out of Geralt’s body. How his jaw isn’t sore by now, Geralt has no idea — whether that’s an incubus thing or a bard thing or a Jaskier thing, who can say? And frankly, who cares? Who could care about anything but this, right now?

The night passes in a sort of haze. Jaskier asks him several times if it’s too much, if he should stop, but Geralt is frankly having none of that. He’s not fragile, he can take this, can take everything Jaskier has to give him.

“Greedy,” the bard murmurs, licking his lips, but the tease is appreciative rather than an honest complaint. It’s almost praise the way he says it, and somehow Geralt is still shaking with how much he wants this man. “If you insist, then who am I to deny you when you beg so prettily?” Geralt wants to argue that he isn’t begging but he just can’t find the words. “I’ll give you everything, sweet thing,” the bard coos.

And fuck, he does.

The moon is low in the sky when they’re finally finished; it won’t be more than a few hours before the sun is up. How is it possible that they’ve been at it this long? How are they alive? The air is still heavy with the cinnamon-spice of lust, the smell of sex almost entirely overpowering the subtle undertones of sulfur. When Jaskier stands, looking tired in the way one does after an enormous, hearty meal, he opens the window and the cool air is so nice. It’s a balm on Geralt’s burning skin, it clears the air and his mind just a little, just enough.

“Thank you,” the bard murmurs, curling around him under the blanket like he’s got tentacles rather than limbs. “Fuck, darling, no one has ever been able to wear me out like that. You’re magnificent.”

Geralt shivers a little, and they both know it has nothing to do with the cold air but Jaskier uses it as an excuse to snuggle closer anyway. He finds he doesn’t mind, but he doesn’t know how to answer either, so he says, “Hmm,” and holds Jaskier close to him with his own tired, leaden arms. They’ll have to pay for at least another night’s stay — neither of them is moving any time soon — but he finds he doesn’t really mind. Even a witcher can take a day off every now and again.

And if rumours spread like wildfire across the Continent about the long, loud coupling of the White Wolf and his bard? Well, neither of them really minds that anymore, either.