Jaskier is usually quiet when he sleeps.
In fact, that’s pretty much the only time he’s quiet.
He might whimper a tiny little noise when his peace is disturbed by a nightmare but it usually only takes Coën pulling him closer and touching a calming kiss to his temple for the bard to calm down.
But tonight, something was different.
Jaskier was long asleep, exhausted after a few long days on the Path but content and comfortable in a bed of a rented room, curled up in Coën’s arms. The witcher had stayed up longer than him, thinking over a contract he’d seen on the notice board just a little outside the inn earlier in the evening, but around midnight, he’d slipped into a dream, as well.
And it’s well into the night that Coën is woken up by the sound of his name. Jaskier is pressed closer to him than before, his breath hitching just a little somewhere in the back of his throat as he breathes out the witcher’s name again.
Without opening his eyes, Coën wraps his arms around him a little tighter, keeps him closer, calming and comforting, and it’s only when he reaches to place a kiss on the bard’s temple that he realises that he doesn’t smell of distress. In fact - and this catches Coën off guard - Jaskier smells of arousal, sweet and viscous like honey.
A breathless little moan escapes his parted lips and his fingers flex where they’re resting against the soft fabric of Coën’s black shirt.
Coën’s first instinct is to wake him up so that in the morning Jaskier won’t have to blush about this but then again, they’ve been together for years now and have done so many things to each other over that time that there are better reasons for the bard to blush. And, after all, it is Coën that he’s calling out for.
So the witcher doesn’t wake him, just shifts on the bed high enough to be able to see Jaskier’s face, the pleasure painted on it.
Jaskier chases after the warmth of his body immediately, pulling himself even closer to the witcher and gasping softly when his hips press against Coën’s thigh. He’s fully hard under the think fabric of his smallclothes, and Coën has to bite his lip not to react to it with more than a sharp inhale. Jaskier is a pretty light sleeper and Coën would hate to wake him now, just because he’s not careful enough.
Jaskier makes a breathless little sound, like a whimper, and rolls his hips against Coën’s tight in search of some sort of friction. The witcher allows for it, watching the way Jaskier’s mouth falls open in a silent moan.
When he speaks again, it’s a little hard to make out the words but in no way impossible.
“Fuck, Coën--” he breathes, breaking off into a moan and hiding his face in the witcher’s chest. “Come on, please--”
His breath is hot on Coën’s skin, even though the fabric of his shirt, and it’s getting harder and harder for the witcher to keep his hands to himself but his self-control has always been impeccable, so he just holds Jaskier close to himself.
He’d never really thought about it before but it turns out to be very… thrilling - being the subject of someone’s dreams. Let alone this kind of dreams.
Jaskier rolls his hips again, his entire body leaning into Coën’s, chasing after the pleasure.
“Don’t--” the bard sniffles, nosing at the witcher’s open collarbone when he finds access to it. “Don’t be gentle, not now--”
Oh, so even in his dreams he stays true to himself.
Coën has to bite his lip much harder when Jaskier’s nails dig into his chest, his back arching sweetly, and his breath stutters the same way that it does whenever they’re in bed together and Coën moves his hips for the first time. It might just be the sweetest sound the witcher knows.
Jaskier moans louder, though still not in the way he does when awake, and Coën can’t help but let his hand slip down to the small of the bard’s back, giving him more pressure. His cock is hot and throbbing against the witcher’s thigh, and he wonders if Jaskier will be able to come just like this, lost in his dreams.
“Faster--” Jaskier pleads, his entire body restless, the bedsheets getting crumpled and twisted beneath him.
Oh, Coën would give a lot to know what exactly Jaskier is dreaming about, what makes him so hard and desperate, but right now all he can do is watch, trying to ignore his own lust now burning through his veins.
Coën’s name escapes the bard’s lips again, loud and breathless, and the witcher raises his other hand to gently run the tips of his fingers down Jaskier’s cheek, calming him. He doesn’t want anyone else to hear him, want to keep this only to himself. A secret, a treasure that no one else needs ever know about.
“Hush, my love,” he murmurs. “I’m right here.”
Jaskier seems to sense his touch, though he doesn’t wake up, and leans into it, his other hand, previously tapped somewhere between their bodies, finding Coën’s thigh and getting a grip of it.
He does quiet down just a little, just enough for his voice to remain within the confines of the bedroom, as his moans break off into soft whimpers, just like the ones that he gives the witcher when his pleasure starts building, starts sharpening.
“Please--” he pleads, his face hidden somewhere between the witcher’s neck and shoulder. “Please, right there, please--”
This is almost too much to take, and Coën has to steady himself with a deep, sobering breath in order not to move, not to meet Jaskier halfway in his uncoordinated thrusts. Partially because he doesn’t want to touch him so openly when he’s not entirely aware of it but mostly because he wants to see him chase his pleasure on his own.
Jaskier’s scent gets sweeter with lust, and his breath comes in short gasps as his fingers flex on the fabric of Coën’s shirt again, crumpling it.
He whimpers something that sounds like yet another plea, breaks off into a soft sob, and then his entire body seizes, trembling through an orgasm.
Without even thinking, Coën pulls him closer, wraps his arms around the bard, and when his thigh presses against the bard’s cock again - the fabric of his smallclothes surprisingly still dry - Jaskier’s eyes fly open and he wakes up with a gasp.
It takes him a second to come back to his senses but once he does, he blushes a beautiful, deep red and hides his face on the witcher’s chest, refusing to look up even as Coën slips his fingers under his chin.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, stubbornly keeping his eyes downcast and blushing even more. “I didn’t-- I couldn’t--”
Coën just laughs, brushing Jaskier’s grown-out hair out of his face and pulling him in for a kiss.
“Don’t apologise,” he murmurs, nosing at the bard’s neck and touching a teasing kiss to the heated skin, his hands slipping down to Jaskier’s thighs, still trembling. “That was incredibly hot, if you want my opinion.”
Jaskier’s breath stutters just a little as he pulls back to finally look at the witcher.
“You actually liked it?” he asks, searching Coën’s face for an answer.
Coën shrugs with one shoulder, flipping them both around so that Jaskier is pressed to the mattress, and grinning at him, all sharp teeth.
“I did,” he murmurs, dipping his head to steal a long, teasing kiss from the bard’s lips. “Now, will you tell me what you’ve dreamt of?”