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Jaskier snorts as he scrolls through the latest update to his timeline. “What about Geraskier?” he calls through the room, knowing damn well that the other man has heard him. “I like it. It’s catchy!”
There’s a wordless grunt from the joint bathroom. Geralt-speak for I don’t care or shut up or stop stalking our Twitter mentions.
Jaskier’s lips split into a grin. His favourite activity at the moment is raiding Geralt’s room and bothering him; especially lain out on his plush bed, having rearranged the pillows and sheets to be as comfortable as possible. All the rooms are the same but he doesn’t have Geralt’s scent embedded in his own sheets back in his place. Well, not yet.
It’s not like they’re the only two secreted away into their rooms for the weeks that they’re here. And secret is being generous. It’s not a secret. Everyone knows that if you get hotels-worth of athletes into a confined space with each other, they’re going to start visiting each other for mind-blowing sex. He’s been to one Olympics before and he’s sure he can beat his record this time.
And when he heard that a certain well-built and very flexible and strong gymnast was going to be at the next Olympiad, housed in the same hotel as him, well he just had to pay him a visit. It started with likes and comments on his social media posts. He paid attention any time Geralt was at a meet and he watched it if he could. Then, as naturally as he could, he started slipping more and more into the man’s DMs until eventually he just happened to find himself in the gymnastic venue for the Olympics.
Geralt pads out from the bathroom, wringing the last bit of water out of his freshly washed hair. Jaskier watches him from over the head of his phone. No one has the right to look that good naked. All broad shoulders and chest, thighs that Jaskier would love to perch on and never leave. A towel is slung loosely over his hips, dipping just shy of where Jaskier would like to see a bit more.
He puts his phone and Twitter and a timeline of both of their fans theorising that something is going on between them both aside as Geralt wanders over to the foot of the bed. “You shouldn’t pay any attention to that,” the gymnast says, perching at the end of the bed and haphazardly tying his damp hair up and out of his face. A shame, really. Jaskier does love to pull at it.
Still, he sends a grin aimed right at the man’s back. “Why? Because someone snapped a picture of you kissing my cheek outside of that pizza place? Does it ruin your tough-guy, serious and grumpy image? Whatever shall they think of Geralt Rivia now—”
Whatever else he has to prod the gymnast with cuts off into a gasp as Geralt turns, grabbing Jaskier’s ankles and tugging him down onto the bed. The familiar weight of the man is over him before Jaskier can blink.
“You’re a terror,” Geralt rumbles.
Jaskier fills his senses with Geralt; his freshly scrubbed and washed skin, the familiar scent of his body wash and cologne and the smell of him. He’s warm and his skin is soft and the press of his muscles against him, it’s all too much but he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
“I know,” Jaskier beams, stretching out and letting Geralt catch his wrists and pin him down to the bed. “And you adore me for it.”
Geralt hums. Not quite convinced that he does indeed adore Jaskier for his ability to terrorise the gymnast at every waking moment; whether it’s a morning text that is far too cheerful or swanning over to sit beside him and other gymnasts at the food hall, or late-night visits to his hotel room. For all Geralt wants to keep himself away from Jaskier, especially when they’re in the Village, he’s very fond of pressing kisses to his cheek or neck when they’re out in the city, or having an arm slung around his shoulders or waist.
Jaskier’s fingers curl into his palms. He loves this; having the familiar and heavy weight of Geralt on top of him, pressed into the bed and covered from head to toe. He loved finding out just how flexible and strong a gymnast could be, but sometimes, he just wants to be lain under the other man and plied apart.
His breath thins as Geralt sets his mouth against his cheek, peppering light kisses along the ridge of his cheekbone as he dips just below his jaw. Geralt definitely didn’t appreciate the marks left on his upper arms and shoulders a few days ago. In Jaskier’s defence, he didn’t know that the uniforms of the men’s team would be tank tops. Or he did, and he just didn’t give a shit.
Geralt hums against his jaw. “Where’s okay?” he rumbles, voice low and coming from the core of his chest.
The sound shudders through Jaskier’s whole body. “Gonna be covered in padding from head to toe,” Jaskier gasps, tilting his head to let Geralt have free reign over his neck. “Leave as many marks behind as you can.”
He’s going to go to practise tomorrow afternoon littered in the gymnast’s marks, sore and sated. Doing drills is going to be hell, but he’ll live.
A gasp lurches out of his throat as Geralt’s teeth rasp against his skin. Broad and calloused hands skirt down along his torso, feeling out his chest and his abdomen before skimming his hips. His clothes are already long forgotten about, pooled and discarded on the floor somewhere.
If Geralt hadn’t parted with his hands with a firm squeeze, a silent command of leave them there, he would have reached for the man’s towel and ripped it off of him by now. He can already feel Geralt’s hardening length against him, rubbing against his own thickening cock as Geralt grinds their hips together. It’s a practised movement, both of them pressing against each other and knowing just where to touch to get the right kind of noises out of the other.
The man’s voice is nothing more than a deep rumble, almost like thunder lapping over and through Jaskier’s body. “Expected to come out and find you two fingers deep in yourself,” he murmurs against Jaskier’s skin, listening to the man’s hitched breaths and barely concealed moans. “You really do get off on it, you know that? Hanging off of me when we’re in public. Going to the gym or practise smelling like me or covered in my marks. Why don’t you just start liking people’s tweets about us while you’re at it?”
The laugh that slips out of him is light and thin, just as Geralt starts to dust light kisses along the line of his neck. “Because it gets you so flustered,” he trills, groaning at the first press of the man’s teeth against him. “I love seeing you get shy. You blush when your teammates notice, fuck—”
Thank God he’ll be covered tomorrow. He’ll feel the familiar twinge of soreness that always thrums through him when Geralt nips or leaves him with marks, and it’ll be enough for him to last the day while they’re both at practice and away from each other.
Geralt nips at his neck. When he’s prodded the gymnast just enough, he gets teeth and fingertips pressed into his skin. And he adores it. It’s why he does the prodding in the first place. He really does have to send a thank you post out to their fans for being as investigative as they are – it spurs on the opportunities to poke fun at the gymnast, especially with these results.
Geralt grinds down against him. His cock aches, desperate to get a hand or a mouth around it. Geralt knows how to touch him, and because he’s been a little shit, he won’t get any of it. Not without begging, of course.
Thin moans slip out of him before he can swallow them back down. “Need you,” Jaskier says, pitching his hips up and rubbing his hard, aching cock against Geralt’s. He needs that towel gone. “Please, baby, need you so bad.”
“Desperate little thing,” Geralt murmurs against his neck. One hand leaves his body and Jaskier struggles not to whimper. A few short movements have Geralt bare and set against him, with the towel strewn over the edge of the bed and forgotten about the moment it leaves the man’s hand.
Geralt leans away from him for a moment, and Jaskier tries not to shudder at the sharp nip of coldness left behind once he’s been robbed of the man’s warmth. With Jaskier always around, mostly inviting himself into Geralt’s room whenever he can, lube is never too far away. Jaskier hums as Geralt sets back over him, uncapping the bottle and slickening his hand with it.
Jaskier’s breath thins as Geralt nips at his skin. “What do you want?” the gymnast rumbles. “Fingers, mouth, cock?”
“Bold of you to assume that I don’t want all of that,” Jaskier hums, grinning as the gymnast’s teeth press against his skin again. Bratty. “I’m not leaving, darling. You have me all to yourself, even tomorrow morning. I know you don’t have practice until midday.”
There’s a hummed grunt buried against his skin.
Jaskier clicks his tongue. “Alright, don’t be too excited about it.”
“You have terrible morning breath,” Geralt reasons, trailing more kisses down the rise of Jaskier’s chest.
“I do not—Geralt! You say such horrid things!” Jaskier takes his hands back from the pillows. It earns a quirked eyebrow from the gymnast, regarding him for a moment as Jaskier folds his arms over his chest. “No. You’re a real asshole sometimes. I have the best morning breath.”
There’s a laugh buried against him.
Prick. “Hope you slip off of the vaulting table and land on your ass,” Jaskier grumbles, even as his breath threatens to thin as Geralt’s lube-slickened fingers dust against his hole. He does love Geralt’s fingers. He’s so attentive and knows exactly how to pry Jaskier apart.
It doesn’t help that Jaskier’s treacherous legs spread and fall to the side, letting Geralt touch him wherever he likes because he knows that Geralt knows what to do with his body.
He spent a year watching Geralt’s socials, watching him land complex vaults and effortlessly flip and twist through the air on floor events, and he wondered, extensively, what he could get Geralt to do to him if they were to be in the same room for even a moment. Quite a lot, it turns out. And he can do quite a staggering amount of things to Geralt—
The first press of Geralt’s slickened finger against him always ignites the fire, the yearning and wanting of more. If he could spend the rest of his days with Geralt’s hands on or his fingers in him, then he’d do it in a heartbeat.
“Always so good for me,” Geralt murmurs against the sharp ridge of his hipbone, glancing down at Jaskier effortlessly taking one finger. A familiar thrum of soreness shudders up the small of his back. He remembers what it’s like to be stretched around Geralt’s fingers, just before taking the man’s cock.
Jaskier’s hands fall to his sides, catching the rumpled sheets in a tightening grip. “More,” he breathes.
Geralt hums. His breath is scalding against Jaskier’s skin, and the barest hint of teeth is never too far away. Jaskier gasps as the gymnast catches the sharpest point of his hip, barely nipping at it as he draws his finger back out. When a second it set beside it, nudging against him, Jaskier bares his hips down with a groan.
Geralt reaches up, setting a firm, broad hand on his abdomen. “Wait, Julek,” he rumbles, keeping both fingertips poised just at the entrance of Jaskier’s body, slickened and twitching.
A sharp noise lurches out of him. “Geralt Rivia, you fucking prick,” Jaskier reaches down, blindly swatting at his broad shoulder. “Get your fingers in me right now or I’m going next door and finding one of your teammates—”
It earns a growl. As much as Geralt knows how to play with him, Jaskier knows the gymnast’s tells right back. And he’s not afraid to prod at them. When he looks down, he’s met by intense amber eyes staring, unblinking, at him. “They wouldn’t know what to do with you, darling,” Geralt rumbles, travelling back up Jaskier’s body and pinning him to the bed with nothing more than his bulk. He sets an arm onto the pillows beside Jaskier’s head, no other part of him touching the fencer other than his chest and hips. “And you like my fingers, don’t you, baby? My hands and mouth and cock. You can go to the others but I know you’ll come right back here.”
Jaskier’s throat bobs as he swallows. “No one fucks me like you do, baby,” he lilts, lifting his chin and almost grinning as Geralt is lured into a deep kiss. Tongues meet and taste each other, teeth pull at Jaskier’s bottom lip. He wants to be ruined, and there’s no better person around than Geralt Rivia to do it.
Jaskier groans against Geralt’s lips as two fingers press inside of him. He’s already had the man today, he knows what it’s like to take any part of Geralt into him; and his body parts around him so beautifully. Whatever’s left of his breath catches in his throat as Geralt curls his fingers, expertly finding that place inside of him that sends thrills and shockwaves through him with every brush.
“Fuck,” Jaskier gasps, pulling away from Geralt’s lips and falling back against the bed. “Oh, fuck, more, baby. Wanna feel you. Want your marks on me.”
Geralt’s teeth set against his neck and collarbone and any stretch of skin Geralt can find. He teeters just on the ridge of pleasure, aware enough to feel his skin being nicked and a bruise forming, but not enough care in the fucking slightest—
His cock aches. The familiar curl of pleasure starts to tighten in his core. Fuck. He gasps. “Geralt,” he moans, reaching for and clutching at the man’s shoulder. His fingernails bite into the muscle of Geralt’s back. “Baby, please.”
There’s a muffled laugh against his skin. “Gonna cum already, Julek?” he murmurs.
He can keep going, no matter if he spills. Geralt knows that he can – the bastard just wants him to say it. He bears down on the gymnast’s fingers, feeling himself edge closer to the ridge again. “Feel ‘s good,” he murmurs, head back against the pillows and eyes fluttering closed. Geralt curls his fingers inside of him, with a third nudging at his entrance. Fuck. His cock aches and he takes himself in hand.
Geralt doesn’t bat him away. The moment Jaskier’s hand is around himself, Geralt groans against his neck. “So tight already,” he murmurs, leaning up and dusting kisses along Jaskier’s cheeks and the shell of his ear. His breath and words are hot against him. “Can’t wait to get you back on my cock, feel you hot and wet around me.”
A moan catches in Jaskier’s throat. “Need it,” he gasps, tightening his grip on himself and stroking. He knows what he likes and what Geralt needs to do to lure him over the edge. His moans thin with his breath as he strokes faster, in time with the man’s fingers inside of him. “Need it so bad, Geralt. Please. Make me cum. ‘S close.”
Geralt is all he can sense; the sharp bursts of pleasure against his skin that shake through him, the fingers sliding so effortlessly into him and curling against his prostate with every other stroke, the pressure of the man over him as he blankets Jaskier onto the bed—
Geralt nips at the shell of his ear. “Cum for me, baby,” he murmurs, dusting a light kiss behind his ear. “Be a good boy and cum on my fingers. Let me feel how bad you want it—”
A moaned attempt at Geralt’s name tumbles out of his mouth, groaning as he cums and stains his hand. He tightens around Geralt’s fingers, clenching around them and baring down. God, he wants the man’s cock. He doesn’t care how sensitive he’ll be—he needs it.
Geralt murmurs sweet words just behind his ear, along his hairline. Murmured praises of good boy and beautiful and gorgeous that send trembling shockwaves through him as he starts to fall down from the peak.
His chest heaves with every breath he tries to take.
“Do you need a break?” Geralt asks, voice low.
His fingers are still in him, Jaskier notices. As he clenches, he doesn’t miss the way what’s left of the amber in Geralt’s eyes gets swallowed by his expanding pupils. His cock might lie wet and softening against his stomach, but he paws at the man’s abdomen. “Need you,” he moans, wincing slightly at the minute shift of Geralt’s fingers inside of him. “Please, baby, fuck me. Need you so bad.”
Geralt noses along his cheek, catching him in a soft kiss. “Where do you want me?” he murmurs, prodding a third finger against the two nestled inside the other man. With how easily he’s taken two, Jaskier knows he can take Geralt’s cock just fine. But Geralt has always been terribly attentive.
Literally anyway you want.
Jaskier hums against the man’s lips. “Back,” he rasps, nudging at Geralt’s abdomen. He listens to the man’s breath hitch. Good. He can play with Geralt’s body just as well as he can with his. He knows just how much Geralt likes watching him perched on his cock, sitting on to it and riding him through the mattress.
He whimpers as Geralt’s fingers pull out and away from him. He does have lovely hands; strong and broad and powerful like the rest of him.
Geralt lies back, stretched out onto the rumpled sheets and haphazardly strewn about pillows. He curls an arm behind his head as Jaskier, all but lounging in his own bed as the fencer struggles up. Pleasure still ebbs through him, aftershocks of an orgasm with cum still staining his abdomen. He doesn’t miss the way Geralt’s eyes trail down his body and linger on the sight of it as Jaskier settles on top of him.
Jaskier fingers the bottle of lube and squeezes a generous bit onto his hand. He reaches behind him, finding Geralt’s cock. Both of them groan as his fingers curl around it.
“Sure two was enough?” Geralt asks, one hand finding the fencer’s hip and smoothening along his skin.
He can take Geralt’s cock just fine, thank you very much. They’ve gotten to know each other over the past week and a half. But even then, Geralt is big and there’s always a stretch, no matter how many fingers the gymnast plies him open with, or how much he’s slickened with lube and Geralt’s own mouth—
As soon as Geralt’s cock is wet enough, Jaskier sets it against him. “Wouldn’t have lasted,” he hums, moaning as he feels the familiar stretch already just as the head of Geralt’s cock presses against his rim. “Been thinking about this all day.”
There’s no amber left in Geralt’s eyes anymore. Jaskier mourns the loss of it, but it's delightful watching the usually stern and stoic gymnast be driven over the edge by Jaskier putting filthy thoughts into his head.
“Needy little thing,” Geralt grunts, grip on Jaskier’s hip tightening. “Always so desperate to be on my cock. Maybe you should just drop out of the qualifications and spend the rest of your time here instead, baby. Would you like that? Kept here for me to come back to. As soon as I’m ready, you get to have whatever you want—”
Jaskier lets his head drop back. His lips stretch around a long moan at the thought of it. It doesn’t sound like a terrible idea. If Marx is as good as videos are showing him to be, then his Olympiad would be cut short—
He’s addicted to the bite of Geralt’s fingers into his hips. Delicious thrums of white pain bursts through him as he presses himself down onto Geralt’s cock, groaning as it fills him full and the man’s fingers bite into his skin and muscle as he holds him there.
“’S good,” Jaskier moans, letting his hips lie flush against Geralt’s as he sits there, filled to the brim of the man’s length and clenching down around it. Geralt’s hips twitch, wanting to fuck up into the wet heat surrounding him. He’d let him, in a minute. He just wants to feel Geralt stretching out every bit of him for a moment. “’S good, baby, make me feel so full.”
The hand behind Geralt’s head clutches at the pillows, knuckles white as Jaskier bares down onto the man’s cock and clenches around it. Jaskier sits back, letting his hips roll slowly, grinding down on to Geralt. It lures a tight sound of the gymnast. “Fuck me, baby,” Jaskier rasps, letting his voice lower and thin. Geralt’s hips twitch underneath him, shifting the head of his cock against Jaskier’s prostate. “Shit. There. There, baby. Fuck me, make me feel you. Need you so bad—”
Geralt catches his hips with both hands. Fingers find and press into the man’s skin, almost burying straight through into his muscle and bone. God, he’s going to be littered in bruises and he’s going to be sore in the morning, but he can’t give a single shit.
Geralt helps him move. He knows how to fuck himself onto the man’s cock, but Geralt knows how to move with him and fuck that bit deeper inside of him. He’s big, stretching him out and thrums of sharp pressure bite at the small of his back. And still, he thinks about the man’s fingers and would he be able to get one of those in him too—he just can’t have enough of Geralt—
He slumps forward, doing his best to ride every thrust of Geralt’s hips. The only sounds in the room are their skin meeting and cursed attempts at the other’s name, moans and trembling groans littered in between. He reaches out, knitting his fingers into the pillows on either side of Geralt’s head. A delicious flush has started to warm the gymnast’s skin.
God, he wants to put his own mark on Geralt. If it’s tank tops and shorts that they wear, maybe he can have free reign over the man’s chest or hips. He’d like to leave his own reminder on Geralt’s body that this is his, to do with however and whatever he pleases.
His cock twitches, filling again as he rolls his hips down onto the man’s length and fills himself with it.
Geralt groans. “Really?” he laughs. “Came once already and ready to spill again? Feel you tightening up around me, babe. Always so good around my cock.”
Jaskier parts with one pillow to reach for the band tying Geralt’s hair back. As soon as he wrangles it out, he tosses it to the side and cards his fingers through the man’s damp hair. “A testament to how good you feel, really,” he hums. Geralt regards him for a moment before he gasps. Jaskier tightens his hold on the man’s hair, tugging at the roots. The man’s hips falter for a moment. “So big and everywhere, sometimes I think I can feel you in my throat. I wanted to suck your cock. Wanted to go to the gym tomorrow and not talk to anyone in case they figured out where I was.”
Geralt has ruined his voice before. Not a terrible tragedy. A quiet Jaskier is a peaceful time for him; and it doesn’t stop the plume of pleasure trembling through him when he hears the rasp of the man’s ruined voice and knows that he did that.
Geralt’s grip on his hips tightens, getting them back into rhythm. “Can you cum again like this?”
“Move faster. Touch me,” Jaskier gasps. His breath thins as Geralt fucks up into him, chasing after his own release and reaching down for Jaskier’s cock. As soon as his calloused fingers curl around him, stroking in time with every thrust of his hips, Jaskier’s breath and moans catch in his throat. He’s nearly there. He’s so close and just needs to be nudged over the edge—
Jaskier’s gasps break off as he cums, hard and clenching down around the cock buried inside of him. His lips stretch around a silent moan and his brows pinch together as Geralt keeps going, fucking up into Jaskier before stilling, flooding him full and following him over the edge.
Jaskier slumps forward, setting a hand into the bedding in an effort to keep himself upright. His thighs ache and he’s pretty sure the small of his back will be sore tomorrow.
Familiar firm arms wind around him and bring him down, huddled against a broad chest. He hums as lips find his temple and his hairline. He likes this Geralt. He didn’t think that when he started trailing after the gymnast’s social media accounts that he would ever be bundled into his arms, peppered with kisses and mapped out with soft touches while they drifted down from a release together, but he’ll gladly cherish whatever he can take from the short time they’ll spend together.
A breath huffs out of him as Geralt turns them on to their sides. He’s too soft to stay inside of Jaskier anymore, and the fencer all but whines as his cock slips out of him. A trail of cum follows, staining the inside of his thighs.
He’ll have to clean up, or smack Geralt on the ridiculously broad shoulder and get him up to do it. It’s his mess after all.
Until then, he’s happy to be at the mercy of Geralt’s attentions; gentle fingers dusting over the blooming marks left on his shoulders and neck, brushing strands of hair back from his sweat-slickened forehead. It’s so soft. It’s not what he expected from the gymnast; someone portrayed as so serious and silent and stern, who would stare down the runway at the vaulting table as if it insulted him and his mother. The man who only cracked a faint smile at the official ordaining him with a gold medal at the podium of competitions. It’s not the same man who’s here, who Jaskier has come to know.
He’d go as far as to say that he loves him, this Geralt.
The bed shifts as Geralt moves. The touches leave with him and Jaskier struggles to bury his whine into the pillows left behind. He has Geralt’s scent and his lingering warmth, but not him.
He’s back before he can start pawing at the sheets. A wetted and cooled cloth takes away most of the mess and Jaskier winces at the familiar thrum of soreness lapping up through his hips and back.
“Might not go to training tomorrow,” Jaskier mumbles against the pillow, sleep sinking its claws into him and dragging him down.
Even with his eyelids drooping closed, he still listens to the familiar rumble of a laugh that comes out of Geralt. “Go to training or else your coach will kill you,” he replies lowly. A gentle touch dusted along Jaskier’s cheek and behind his ear lures him down into sleep. “You need to make good on that promise of winning gold.”
A promise he remembers making and a promise he’ll cash in; a joint-break after the Olympics, away from their sports, to a quaint little villa Jaskier has already investigated and half-booked online. One short sprint through the post-Games media to show off their gold medals and they’ll be lounging in a villa on the Amalfi coast in no time.
He just needs to muster up the energy to get to training first.