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Give It All Into Your Hands

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“I wouldn’t have figured you for the helpful sort.”

Even with the sheet of rain separating them, Geralt can see the sharp look Jaskier cuts him.

“And I wouldn’t have figured you as the sort to like to sleep out in the rain. And yet, you’re well on your way to earning that privilege.” Jaskier raises his eyebrows at Geralt before going back to the wet rope he’s tying around the wet tree trunk. “Are you finished with that side? Get in.”

It’s not much of a tent, just a length of fat-rubbed wool draped over a line between two trees and weighed down with rocks, but hopefully it’ll be enough to outlast this Attre spring storm. Geralt ducks down and gets in, leaving as much space spare as he can. Jaskier shoves his pack in after Geralt. But he doesn’t follow immediately. First he circles around the tent, testing the tension of the rope and the tightness of the knots.

He eventually wriggles in with a frown on his face and the rope from the wool in his arm.

“You’re not much for knots, are you?” he asks, swiping his wet hair to the side of his forehead.

“Hmm?” Geralt pulls the little candle-lamp Jaskier keeps in his pack out of its protective wrapping and lights it with his spread fingers.

“Depending on how much it rains, that side,” Jaskier points to the tent above Geralt’s head, “might get dragged down if the wool gets wet. You didn’t tie a very good knot.”

Geralt sets the lamp down on some of the only free space they have and helps Jaskier get his arms out of his soaked doublet. That goes on the ground too.

“And you did?”

Jaskier nods. “I did. A two half-hitch.” There’s a hint of showy pride in his voice.

Geralt raises his eyebrow. “Where’d you learn that?”

Jaskier’s fiddling with the length of rope he brought into the tent. The collar of his chemise is wet from the water trickling down his neck, clinging to him.

“Well,” he says, smirking at Geralt, holding the rope up, “You can’t spend the winter surrounded by sailors without learning a few of their knots.”

Geralt leans back on his elbow. “Learning knots? Is that what they call it now?”

Jaskier blushes, but his smirk turns into a grin.

“Let me show you.” He grabs one of Geralt’s wrists and turns it out. He wraps the rope around Geralt’s wrist one time, and then, when he knows he has Geralt’s attention, once again. The rope is wet and rough-slippery from the rain on Geralt’s skin.

Still working slowly so Geralt can see by the flickering lantern light, Jaskier loops the end of the rope under the length of rope coming away from Geralt’s wrist and over itself. He pulls it tight to Geralt’s wrist.

“This is one half-hitch,” he explains. He uses the length of the rope left to tug on Geralt’s wrist. “It’s pretty secure, but it’s better with two.”

“Is it?” Geralt murmurs so he can see Jaskier blush again and hear how his heartbeat kicks up. But Jaskier’s not the only one affected by this – each tug on the rope feels like a tug between Geralt’s hipbones instead of on his wrist. The small tent is starting to warm up from the lantern and their bodies. It smells damp but good to Geralt, like the crook of a sweating neck or the crease of a thigh.

“Yeah,” Jaskier says, biting his lip, already moving. “Shall I show you?”

“Yes,” Geralt says, making room for Jaskier to climb into his lap. He’s heavier than he was in autumn when they parted, and there’s some softness to his body when Geralt runs his free hand down Jaskier’s back. His winter in Skellige with the sailors must have been kind to him.

Geralt was glad to have him back from the moment he saw Jaskier at the port, but he’s especially glad now that Jaskier’s leaning down for a kiss, settling his weight so most of it presses against Geralt’s cock.

Geralt opens his mouth for it but otherwise lets Jaskier do as he likes, which is apparently giving Geralt a series of long, deep kisses while his fingers brush against Geralt’s bound wrist between them.

He finally pulls away to take a deep breath. He leans away, which is the wrong direction, to let some light between them.

“See?” he asks. His voice is lower than it was before and Geralt can definitely smell his arousal now. He nods down at Geralt’s wrist, where there’s a second loop nudged up against the first. “Two half-hitch.”

“Looks good.” It’s fine, but what Geralt cares about is getting Jaskier’s mouth back on his. They’ve been together again for a week now, but he’s only brought Jaskier to pleasure a few times so far, which isn’t nearly enough.

“Mmhmm.” Jaskier leans back in, belly to belly, his mouth up above Geralt’s. “I agree. But the best part,” he murmurs, lips almost touching Geralt’s, “is that you can’t get away.”

He pulls sharply on the rope, jerking Geralt’s wrist up. The rope burns but the knot holds him tightly.

Geralt starts to groan, the rope burn in his blood worse than his wrist, but Jaskier cuts him off with another kiss, this one rougher than the first, biting. He rolls his ass over Geralt’s cock, rubbing his own against Geralt’s stomach. He holds the rope in one fist and gropes the shoulder of the arm Geralt’s holding himself up with.

“Let me tie the other one,” he’s half-asking, half-demanding, “please.”

This isn’t a real tent, so there’s nothing to brace against. Geralt doesn’t care. He goes to his back in the damp dirt to give Jaskier his hand.

The second knot Jaskier ties is different from the first. It begins in the middle of the rope instead of the end and Jaskier starts it with his own hand, wrapping the rope around his fingers to help take form. Geralt can hardly see what he’s doing even though it’s on top of his belly. Jaskier isn’t trying to show him though, he’s focusing on the knot.

Once it comes off his hand he picks up Geralt’s hand and slides it through the top loop of the knot, pulling it tight. The loop ends up around Geralt’s wrist, braced on either side by more loops. There’s only a few inches of rope between Geralt’s two wrists, less room than Geralt’s had in some shackles he’s worn in his life. He flexes automatically, but he’s secure in Jaskier’s knots.

“Good?” Jaskier asks, undoing the line of buttons on his own trousers now that his hands are free and Geralt’s aren’t.

Geralt can’t help with that, but he can put his heels in the dirt to lift his trapped cock against Jaskier’s arse.

“Yes,” he replies, even though he’s already chafing at how he can’t peel Jaskier’s trousers down for him, can only watch Jaskier do it. Jaskier lifts up so he can get his trousers down to the tops of his thighs, freeing his cock and balls. He’s mostly hard, and a shiver goes through him when he wraps his hand around his cock. There’s another one when he kneels back down on the crotch of Geralt’s breeches, bare skin on wet leather.

The heat of him through the leather and the sight of his slow, self-indulgent cock-stroking is the worst tease. Geralt lifts his hands, forgetting himself.

Jaskier snatches the rope trailing over Geralt’s side. He jerks it down, so Geralt’s hands only rise a few inches off his belly, and then he pins it under his knee. Between Jaskier’s weight and his rope, Geralt’s not going anywhere.

“Fuck, Jaskier,” Geralt snaps.

With a hand on his cock, a hand on the rope, and a dark, smug look on his face, Jaskier murmurs, “You wanted me to show you.”

“And now I want to touch.” Geralt bucks his hips, jostling Jaskier. He’s bracingly aware of his whole body now that he’s pinned under Jaskier and his hands are bound. Everything he can’t do weighs on him, makes him want to move and touch all the more. Jaskier rides the wave of his body easily, eyelids lowered, lifting Geralt’s shirt up his ribs.

“Alright,” Jaskier says, putting the hand from his cock down on Geralt’s bare stomach to keep him still as he backs up and leans down. “Palms up, if you please.”

It strains a little but Geralt manages to turn his hands so his palms are facing up. Jaskier’s breath hits his right palm, followed by a kiss. Just that, Jaskier’s warm, damp lips on his cool, damp palm, makes his hand twitch.

Jaskier laughs at him just before he licks Geralt’s hand, from the heel of his palm all the way to the tips of his fingers. It’s the same way he’d lick Geralt’s cock, his tongue flat and wet. Geralt’s cock, rain-wet in his breeches and not being licked, throbs.

“I swear,” he starts when he’s over the shock of Jaskier’s tongue, only to cut himself off when Jaskier gives the same slow lick to his other hand. This time he even laps at the pads of Geralt’s fingers, tongue slipping back and forth like the underside of a cock. The threat in Geralt’s mind melts to nothing when that starts.

When he’s wet Geralt’s hand to his satisfaction, Jaskier sits up again, to rearrange them to his liking. He pushes Geralt’s arms up so his bound wrists are resting against his own navel and follows them up so he can slip his cock between Geralt’s hands.

“Oh,” he sighs, cupping Geralt’s hands so they make a channel around his cock, “that’s good.” He slips out and then in again, bottoming out like he’s fucking Geralt’s arse, looking down as he does it. He holds himself there, Geralt’s fingertips digging into his pelvis, the tip of his cock just peeking out from between Geralt’s palms.

He rocks into Geralt’s hands a few times, getting a feel for it, finding how tightly he likes Geralt’s hands around him. It’s obvious when he’s found it: he starts to thrust in earnest, licking his bottom lip, eyes hot on Geralt.

He isn’t sitting quite on Geralt’s cock anymore, so the friction Geralt gets is incidental, enough to drive him mad but not get him off. He tries curling his hips up, but that doesn’t help. He can’t even properly get his hands around Jaskier’s cock like this, can only really rub his thumbs against the top of it as Jaskier’s cock slides through his hands. He might as well be just a toy for Jaskier’s pleasure.

The thought paralyzes him. He has to stay like this for as long as Jaskier wants him like this, on his back in the middle of this rain storm, his bound hands a wet, tight place for Jaskier to fuck, the rest of him unnecessary.

He groans explosively, ears ringing, desperately curling his hands around Jaskier’s cock as best he can.

Fucking Geralt’s hands harder, Jaskier thumbs the ropes around Geralt’s wrists. He leans his weight on Geralt’s wrists, putting all his power into his thrusts, just how he fucks Geralt close to the end.

“You are so lovely,” he tells Geralt breathlessly, leaning down for a kiss. Geralt opens his mouth to take it, moaning like he’s getting fucked.

Still kissing Geralt, Jaskier reaches down to squeeze Geralt’s hands together. He reaches his end like that, filling the tight space between Geralt’s palms with come, exhaling hard into Geralt’s mouth. He goes to one elbow over Geralt so he can circle his hips, wringing all the pleasure he can from Geralt’s hands.

Geralt holds his hands the way Jaskier put them, breathing in the sweat from Jaskier’s neck. Either the rain is still pounding or his head is, he’s not sure. He can’t feel his back on the damp ground or his own hard cock anymore, just Jaskier’s weight on top of him, the slide of Jaskier’s cock slipping out of his hands.

“Gods,” Jaskier says softly satisfied, kissing the side of Geralt’s face. “I waited all winter to do something like that.”

Geralt nods uselessly, turning his head so he’s easier for Jaskier to kiss. Jaskier rubs his arms from his shoulders down to the rope of his wrists, and that reminds him how little he’s moved, stirring up an ache everywhere.

“Jaskier,” he says, cracking under the weight of his want.

Jaskier pulls back, searching his face in the lamplight. Soft concern comes over his features.

“Sorry,” he says, “you must be dying.” He sits up again, hands busy again at Geralt’s wrists, undoing the knots. He’s fast at it, but it still feels like it takes ages. The feeling that rushes into Geralt’s hands once the rope comes off and he can lift them again is an intense, tingling relief. He makes a noise that gets lost under the sound of the rain.

“Come here,” Jaskier soothes, even though Geralt is still pinned under him. He uses Geralt’s shirt to swipe the spend from his palms and then starts unlacing Geralt’s breeches. He’s faster at that than the knots.

“Let me suck you,” he says, shuffling back as he pulls Geralt’s breeches down far enough that he can lick Geralt’s cock. His tongue is flat and wet, moving steadily from base to tip before he takes Geralt’s cock into his hot, welcoming mouth.

Geralt’s sticky hands rise of their own accord to grab Jaskier’s wet hair as Jaskier starts to suck his cock, the pleasure of it so great it feels like his whole body is tied in knots.