Chapter Text
The game first starts in the evening of an otherwise unremarkable day, just as they’re dropping off to sleep on a cheap straw pallet at a roadside inn.
“You know, I think I could improve the song if I changed some of the lyrics around,” Jaskier says into the dark. Geralt can feel the vibrations through his back. “And maybe the ending—that last verse was shit. I think it might be the content, honestly—no one wants to hear about—”
“Jaskier,” Geralt growls. "Shut up."
Jaskier ignores him as he always does, chattering on and on until Geralt can’t take it any longer.
“I will gag you,” he warns. And the talking comes to a sudden halt.
He hears Jaskier’s pulse racing in the silence, and Geralt thinks at first that Jaskier has taken his threat to heart. Then he smells the spark of arousal in the air; like a stoked fire, hot and heavy with want.
“Will you?” Jaskier asks. It sounds like he’s aiming for levity, but it comes out breathless and strangled. It's the same tone of voice he might use to ask do you promise?
Geralt rolls over, sits up in bed to see Jaskier’s eyes on him, shining in the faint light streaming in through the window. It’s too dark to parse his expression, but his lips are slightly parted. Geralt finds himself staring.
“Yes,” Geralt says, and sees Jaskier shiver.
There’s a long moment where they just stare at each other, a thick tension hanging between them, neither of them moving.
“Go on, then,” Jaskier says, and Geralt sees his throat bob as he swallows.
Well.
There’s a thrum of anticipation in Geralt’s stomach as he reaches over the side of the bed, to the chair where he remembers Jaskier leaving the clothes he was wearing that day. His fingers catch on the scarf—a light lavender silk—and he ties a knot in the centre before rolling back over.
Jaskier looks down at it, then back up at Geralt, suddenly indignant. “The scarf? That was expe—mmf!”
Geralt takes advantage of Jaskier’s open mouth to push the knot between his teeth. Jaskier makes a soft, helpless noise as Geralt cinches it tight and ties it off behind his head.
He’s trembling, flushed—Geralt brushes the back of his hand across Jaskier’s cheek and feels the heat radiating from his skin. The hand travels to Jaskier's hair, strokes it back from his forehead. Then he grabs a fistful and tugs back, baring the soft curve of his throat.
Jaskier’s eyes close, and he draws in a long shaky breath through his nose. His pulse flutters in his neck.
“I can tell you’re enjoying that,” Geralt whispers in his ear, nearly a growl, and Jaskier lets out a muffled groan. “I can smell your arousal. Not to mention—”
His other hand reaches down, brushing light fingers over Jaskier’s cock. Jaskier whimpers, hips canting up, and Geralt pulls back before Jaskier can find any kind of friction.
“You don’t get to take that off until I say. Or do I have to tie you down?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier shakes his head. “You’ll be good?” Jaskier nods.
“Hmm,” Geralt says, a little doubtful. He settles back, releasing Jaskier's hair.
He drapes one arm across his chest. He draws in close, presses his nose to the junction of Jaskier’s neck and shoulder and breathes in the smell of Jaskier’s excitement.
They lie together for a while—Geralt presses himself against Jaskier’s hip, enough so Jaskier can feel how hard he is, but makes no move to address it. Jaskier makes the occasional muffled sound, and each time Geralt thinks about how it would feel to pull out the gag and have Jaskier’s mouth on him instead.
But the idea of the gag itself is so good—knowing that he put it there. That he’s finally silenced Jaskier’s garrulous tongue. That Jaskier can’t remove it without his permission.
He reaches up after a moment, and traces his hand across the edge of it. He feels where it digs into the sides of Jaskier’s mouth, and caresses Jaskier’s lower lip with the pad of his finger. Jaskier makes a small sound as Geralt presses in, just a little, to feel where the knot rests behind his teeth.
It’s wet, warm from the heat of Jaskier’s mouth. Geralt pulls his hand back and leans in, kisses the corner of Jaskier’s mouth.
“You’re being so good,” Geralt whispers, and Jaskier makes a small noise in his throat, flush deepening. “So good for me, Jaskier.”
He flicks the edge of Jaskier's nipple, just to hear the sharp inhale. Then he takes the bud gently between his thumb and forefinger and squeezes.
Jaskier arches up with a soft mewl, breath coming fast and shallow. Geralt strokes his hair with his other hand, very much enjoying the sound.
“Do you want to come?” he asks, voice husky and low with desire, and Jaskier shivers with a smothered needy sound. Geralt’s hand drifts again, and slips down the front of Jaskier’s smallclothes.
Jaskier whines and presses up into his hand. He hasn’t tried to touch himself, or Geralt; has barely moved at all.
Geralt strokes him gently, and Jaskier says something into the gag; too muffled to understand. He moans, and tries to talk again, and then just throws his head back with what is certainly a stifled curse. Jaskier’s cock is leaking already, and Geralt smears pre-come down across the shaft.
Jaskier’s hand comes up, brushes at Geralt’s free hand, and Geralt takes hold of his wrist and pushes it back up against the mattress, close to Jaskier’s shoulder.
“Stay,” he says gently, and laces their fingers together. Jaskier squeezes his hand with a small sound of contentment.
Geralt lines them up and strokes them off together, something they’ve done countless times before. But with Jaskier gagged his sounds are so much more desperate, and Geralt watches how he swallows around the knotted silk and moans, over and over again, and then cries out as he reaches his peak. His fingers spasm as he spills across their stomachs.
Geralt takes himself in hand and follows soon after, pleasure cresting into something sweet and lingering; he groans, and paints Jaskier’s chest and stomach with his seed.
When he's recovered, he swipes a hand through the mess and brings it up to Jaskier’s lips.
Jaskier watches him as he undoes the gag, eyes dark. Then he leans forward, taking Geralt’s fingers into his mouth. He licks them clean with a flash of tongue, and then angles his head up for a kiss.
Geralt obliges, and tastes the both of them mingled on Jaskier’s lips.
“Fuck,” Jaskier sighs, lying back. Geralt hums agreement. He cleans them off with the edge of the sheet, and settles in beside him.
They leave the conversation for the morning, fitting together like two halves of a whole, limbs tangled together. Geralt drifts off to sleep with Jaskier’s face against his shoulder, warm and sated and finally quiet.