Sweatpants

Jaskier keeps throwing weird little glances Geralt’s way for the whole week before the concert. Geralt is waiting for the other shoe to drop, for his lively assistant to casually say that this boyfriend-nonsense is no longer needed, but all Geralt gets are. Those. Weird. Little. Glances. He’s this close to finally snapping and confronting Jaskier, pushing him for answers, for certainty, or just pushing him until his back is pressed against office windows, his breathing short and shallow, his eyes wide-open, a little bit scared and maybe, just maybe a little bit excited… And that is why Geralt stays put, grunts, huffs and puffs as if he's roleplaying three little piggies for a living. He definitely doesn’t obsess over his dressing choices, he’s not. He also doesn’t strategize his time of arrival, it’s just logical to think these things through. (Casual leather jacket, black jeans; arriving 30 minutes earlier to mix and mingle, but not really, so there’s less risk of fucking everything up). Geralt doesn’t fuck things up, thank you very much. He’s polite, he might even call it friendly, though other people would call it distant and stoic, but they’re not Jaskier, who looks a little bit breathless from all the running around before the show and a little bit surprised, as if he totally expected Geralt to bail. He also looked a little bit flustered when Geralt puts his hand on Jaskier’s back, who's focusing on telling the right things to the right people (Geralt’s usually good at that, damn it, and he can’t officially blame the way Jaskier feels pressed so close to him, his warmth and radiant and possibly a bit nervous energy seeping into Geralt’s body). When Geralt absent-mindedly pets short hair at the nape of Jaskier’s head, he hears soft intake of breath, but it’s probably nothing, since there’s so much noise around and Jaskier doesn’t move away. If anything, he takes a tiny step to stand a bit closer and Geralt feels like smiling, what an odd feeling, what a strange revelation. It all becomes a bit too much when the performance starts. In the dim lights of a small bar Geralt is frantically planning where he can pull strings to make Jaskier sing in front of a bigger audience. But then he just stops, he ceases to exist, because Jaskier starts singing - and wow - Geralt wasn’t prepared for that. He doesn’t have any backup plan to resist the magic that he sees, to avoid falling deeper and deeper as Jaskier pours his soul into his songs, without any fear or hesitation. If Geralt would’ve spared at least one little thought to how the concert would go, he’d realized that he’d see an unabridged, honest, raw version of Jaskier - it wouldn’t be like him to shy away or sprout generic songs. No, no, no. So Geralt feels his heart grow bigger and bigger with each note. It’s unbearable, really. It’s like floating and falling at the same time. It's a sudden realization that you’re lucky to exist in this moment in time and space and to see, hear and feel that much. Geralt learns Jaskier’s music language, he strains to understand it better, to understand Jaskier better. To hug him and kiss him and keep him close to his staggering, undeserving heart. The show is over faster than Geralt can process it. One moment he was planning for the next venue for Jaskier to perform at, then he was reborn and now he’s hugging a slightly sweaty yet delightfully giddy Jaskier in a small room that can be called backstage if you want to stick fancy names to tiny spaces. When Geralt makes himself take a step back, he keeps his hand on the both sides of Jaskier’s neck, it’s inappropriate, it’s dizzying, Geralt wants more. He whispers “you were amazing”, and Jaskier closes his eyes in delight, he might be blushing but it’s hard to say since his face is already pinkish and blotchy. Geralt wants to pepper it with kisses. So he moves without thinking, on a high of feeling so full, so happy, so content. It feels natural to press his lips to Jaskier, slightly, slowly, carefully. And as if in slow motion, when the brain takes a bit too long to realize what is happening, to kiss not his lips, but the space by Jaskier's nose and cheek, because Jaskier has turned his head and he’s saying something. Geralt almost misses what it is, with horror and humiliation of what he was going to do roaring in his ears, blinding him for a moment. He got so caught up in his little fantasy, where he was a Jaskier's boyfriend, someone who was allowed to share his joy, his space, his life. And now he soiled it. Contaminated whatever balance they had between them. Geralt broke Jaskier's trust, overstepped in the most unthinkable way. “There's no need”, - Jaskier looks almost shy about it, discomfort twisting his lovely face into an unknown approximation of his usual cheerful self, - “Andrew already left. He had to. To get to the plane on time”. Jaskier’s voice is so quiet by the end, Geralt's almost lip-reading what he’s saying. It takes his mudded mind a whole two seconds to remember who Andrew even is. Right. Jaskier’s ex. The one that Geralt was really apprehensive about, and the one who turned out to be a lovely man happily married to his beloved boyfriend. He was so nice and normal, it was hard to hate him on principle (how dared he to break-up with Jaskier). Jaskier's already stepped back and Geralt has to force himself not to clench his fists, it would look terrible, as if he was angry at Jaskier. And the only one he’s madly angry at is himself. It still might seep through because Jaskier takes one cautious look at him and laughs nervously. “Well, you better get going. Early morning tomorrow. Right, boss?” He sounds off. It’s such a contrast to the way that he was free, honest and gorgeous on stage. And now he’s a shade of his usual carefree self. Geralt knows that he did it to him and he wants to collapse where he stands. To change it back somehow. He’s willing to pay any price if it’ll make Jaskier happier. Happy. The only one who's poisoning him, as it always is with people closest to him, is Geralt. So he does the best that he can - he leaves. He almost makes it to the exit when a small and strong hand halts his movement. Geralt looks up. “Ciri, right?” The girl in question, charming and smiling when they were first introduced to each other, looks pissed off and dangerous right now. “Don’t Ciri me, you asshole”. Although Geralt wholeheartedly agrees, he’s not sure how she can know that he stooped lower than trash just now. “Oh, please, I know you fucked up! I leave you two for a couple of minutes to kiss and sort your shit out, and I come back to my bestie trying to tell me that everything’s fine, when I can clearly…” - she cuts herself off, noticing something in Geralt’s demeanor. “You know what. You’re driving Jaskier home. I drank so I can’t,” - she looks as if she’d finish the triathlon in top 10 right now, but Geralt knows when to pick his battles. Geralt opens his mouth to reply, but all sounds die on his tongue when Jaskier appears in a corridor and abruptly stops, then moves towards Ciri, avoiding Geralt’s gaze. Geralt is pathetically grateful for that. He’s not sure he’d be able to bear the hurt in Jaskier’s eyes. After some murmurs and light poking, Jaskier moves past Ciri, then past Geralt and they’re out in the chill air of a parking lot. Geralt doesn’t ask (what is there to ask), doesn’t talk (he’d definitely make it worse somehow), so they get into his sleek yet not flashy car and drive into the night. Jaskier is understandably quiet, looking out the window, with his head touching a cold glass. Geralt allows himself quick glances, not too often, usually concealed by necessity of looking at rearview mirrors or turns of the road. He knows where Jaskier lives. He dropped him off a couple of times when they stayed too late and Geralt felt the need to continue their discussion, not willing to part just yet. He reasoned with himself that Jaskier was a wonderful assistant, his input was useful and it was not optimal if he’d just get a taxi. Geralt is slowly realizing how thoroughly oblivious he was. It's an ugly yet strangely captivating thought. So huge and pure, and yet doomed from the start. They're driving past more rural neighborhoods, with less light and more vast spaces, filled with unrecognizable blobs of trees and buildings. The night is adding hazy purple and grey hues to everything, and rare lamps by the road are making everything blue and yellow. When Geralt looks over, Jaskier has his eyes closed, so Geralt allows himself another second to look, to really look at him. At the planes of his face, at slightly damp hair, curling by his ear, at the line of his neck, stretched at an unusual angle, at the slope of his shoulders. Geralt gets hit with a thought that he’d be glad, he’d be honored to drive with Jaskier for all his life. No matter where to, no matter why. This knowledge ss so sudden, deep and true, that Geralt feels a strange sense of relief wash through him. Like he finally, finally understands something fundamental about himself. Something that can never be taken away from him. And even if he ruined any chances to be a friend in Jaskier’s life, at least he can pick up pieces of whatever work-related comradery they had. Geralt has to try to salvage it. If not for himself, then for Jaskier - to make this pure soul's life easier. “We’re almost here”, - Geralt’s voice is too sudden in the tight space of the car. Jaskier jolts, straightens and Geralt feels like slapping himself. There’s no point in prolonging their misery. Geralt parks not far from Jaskier’s building and kills the engine. The silence that engulfs them is suffocating. Geralt thinks that he should’ve left the engine running, it’d be less intense. Jaskier shrugs without really looking at Geralt, - “see you tomorrow, then,”- and moves to get out of the car when he makes a surprised sound and looks at a hand that is currently holding his shoulder and not letting him move. Geralt is looking at his hand with an equal amount of surprise. He clears his throat, but no sound or words come out. Jaskier sits back and waits. He still avoids looking at Geralt, his gaze shifting from Geralt's shoulder, to the small fence outside, to the steering wheel. It’s terrible. It’s heartbreaking. It isn’t right. “It isn’t right,” - Geralt hears himself saying. Jaskier is finally looking at him with a lost and confused look and it wouldn’t do. Geralt drops his hand and starts speaking, looking Jaskier dead in the eyes, not flinching, not backing out, not giving up on whatever hope is left for their ruined friendship. “I can’t let you go like this. You were amazing tonight and you deserve to know it. And to feel it. And I messed it up. I know I didn’t have any right and I’m,” - Geralt takes a breath, he rarely felt sorry, he felt either guilty or rightfully punished, but sorry meant that he wasn’t beyond redemption, and it was so unrealistic to believe that he was worth forgiving, but he owed it to Jaskier, to admit to him, to lay his heart bare, - “I’m sorry I tried to kiss you”. Geralt doesn’t let himself falter even though the flinch he sees on Jaskier’s face after his words is painful. It’s full of blades. Geralt bravely marches on. “I hope you can forgive me. And you can still tolerate my presence at the work,” - Geralt sees the moment when Jaskier wants to reply, to turn it into a silly joke, to sweep it under the rug. Geralt pleads with his eyes to allow him to finish and Jaskier understands him wordlessly, of course he does, and nods, waiting for whatever Geralt wants to say. “I want you to know that absolutely nothing has to change, I’ll get over my feelings because the worst that I can do is hurt yours. And I would never”, - this time, Jaskier, who was tenderly nodding to Geralt’s words, raises his hand and tilts his head as if he didn’t quite catch it. Geralts has to lower his gaze somewhere to the compartment between their seats, when he reiterated, trying to convince Jaskier to at least not quit his job or suffer stoically at it. “I don’t want you to feel pressured or uncomfortable…” Geralt doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence because Jaskier is more vocal this time and maybe just a little bit annoyed than expected. On the other hand, Geralt knows that he deserves whatever Jaskier throws at him. “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” - Jaskier moves in his seat, getting his left leg under himself, so he can fully rotate towards Geralt. “Let me get this straight,” - Jaskier sounds strange now, but Geralt can’t really blame him. He throws a quick glance at him and freezes, not really comprehending what he sees. Jaskier is fighting a smile, Jaskier is looking very vibrant and barely containing himself. Geralt raises an eyebrow. It might look arrogant but he thinks the situation warrants said raised eyebrow. Jaskier moves closer, placing his weight on his palms, almost crawling towards Geralt, though it’s hard to say in a crowded space of a car. Geralt humms a questioning sound and stays put. Jaskier looks entertained. Geralt feels dazed. “You’re afraid that your feelings,” - Jaskier takes a pause, to confirm with Geralt the first part of that statement, and continues, receiving a nod, - “would interfere with my ability to work under you, right?” There's a hidden joke there, Geralt can feel it, but he doesn't understand it. He doesn't understand anything anymore. Geralt feels like he’s been transported to an alien ship and returned with half the brain missing - he’s lagging so much. And he’s the best lawyer in town. He rarely brags but he has to remind it himself right this moment, when he feels absolutely, fucking lost. After another nod Jaskier smiles beatifically and lunges at Geralt who recoils on instinct, but Jaskier just laughs and pecks Geralt’s lips, they moves a bit back, stares at Geralt, waiting for him to catch up and then giggles into the kiss, when Geralts surges towards him. His giggles die out very soon, morphed into tiny gasps and moans and occasional smiles when Geralt does something that neither of them expected - by being needy, biting and tagging, scratching and roughing up the back of Jaskier’s shirt. By simply taking. By consuming Jaskier's mouth as if it were his dying wish. Geralts grimly thinks that he'd agree to it. To die for it. Morbid? Yeah. True? Also yeah. They both are breathless when Jaskier makes a stern face, places firm (although wandering) hand of Geralt’s chest and breathes out “upstairs?” It’s a little bit annoying that they can’t just magically teleport to the 4th floor, but they make it. It’s a struggle, it’s terrible, but they persevere. Jaskier gasps “I didn’t expect any visi…” once they gracelessly stumble inside, but he gets distracted by very insistent bites that Geralt places on the column of his neck. And it’s funny how eager Geralt is, only Jaskier’s laugh turns into a whine after a particularly harsh bite. As Geralt moves back to access the damage, Jaskier grabs him, pushes him back and says “don’t you dare” before dragging them both towards his bedroom. Geralt allows Jaskier to push him around the room, till the back of his knees touch the edge of the bed, he sits on it and then Jaskier's commanding streak runs out. Geralt pulls Jaskier to straddle him, then puts his hands under the globes of Jaskier’s ass, lifts him and rotates Jaskier on the bed - not really dropping, more like awesomely showing off and slightly prolonging the next part. All Geralt's doubts resurface and then fade away when he crawls over Jaskier and places one hand on his face, then whispers “hi”. It's a devastatingly vulnerable moment for him, though a shining smile and tender “hi” in return make it all worth it. Geralt dives down, gliding his free hand towards the waistband of Jaskier’s jeans. It’s really hard to do hovering on one hand, so Geralts lowers himself into Jaskier’s body and it’s heavenly. The heat, the movement beneath him is brilliant. Geralt would say he wants nothing more, but he’s greedy, so he moves up, to kiss Jaskier, to lap at his lips, then nip, then, oh, to fuck into his mouth. The sounds he hears are beyond his wildest imagination. Jaskier is tagging and exploring planes of Geralt’s body as well, trying not very discreetly to get the most of the clothes out of the way, so Geralts breaks the kiss, sits on his hunches to take off his clothes. He wants to be fast and efficient, he also wants to drink in Jaskier’s awed look as he strips. It almost makes him falter, prolong it, make a show of it, but there are more pressing matters ahead - and it’s Jaskier’s clothes. It’s much harder to get them off when the wearer of said clothes is easily distracted, and only when Geralt’s hand gets caught in Jaskier’s sleeve, they make a coordinated decision to part, take off jeans and underwear, ogle each other for a moment and then continue with renewed enthusiasm. It’s been a long day, they both should be tired but the enormity and pure bliss of what is happening outweighs the concept of “I’m so tired I’m gonna pass out”. Their cocks are touching while they lay down, kissing, and Jaskier moves to be on top. Geralt is trying to get him down to kiss him some more, but Jaskier is gaping at him with such a wondrous expression, Geralt lets him, instead opting to touch their cocks together, rubbing them, gliding them, feeling how they move, heated and already wet with precome. Jaskier gasps and moves in tandem with Geralt’s touches, patting Geralt’s fingers, brushing over their cocks. It seems so simple, yet it’s so unimaginable, so beyond everything that was in realm of what Geralt thought was allowed, that he shudders slightly, making Jaskier look at him, really look at him. It’s too tender, too nice when Jaskier lowers to kiss the corner of Geralt’s mouth, his cheek, his eyelashes, his brows. So Geralt growls, tugs Jaskier closer, continuing to pump their cocks in an erratic rhythm. Their kiss feel more like fucking than cock-grinding that is happening at the same time. Jaskier moans into it, getting his hand into Geralt’s hair and tugging slightly. They both are close, too close, none of them wanting it to stop, yet being unable to slow down even for a fraction of a second. Jaskier is gasping for air, trying not to break the kiss, and to grab Geralt’s shoulders, his sides, anything for an anchor. Their cocks are pressed between their bodies, with Geralt’s hand touching blindly, feeling too hot, too greedy, too gone to care. He meets Jaskier’s thrusts into his body and into his hand with his own, their kisses more like breathing the same air, licking whatever is near. And it’s so pure and honest in its desperation that Geralt holds onto Jaskier and comes, feeling overwhelmed, completed, utterly destroyed and strung out. Jaskier makes small moaning sounds into his ear. Geralt feels his own come mixing with sweat and precome on Jaskier’s cock, making the glide smoother, sloppier, louder. Geralt kisses the tendon on Jaskier’s shoulder, moving to capture more, while riding his orgasm and feeling too much, wanting to stop all motion and yet yearning to see Jaskier come undone. Jaskier's hands are moving in strange patterns, searching and grounding. Geralt's never felt more seen and known than at this moment. Geralt changes his loose grip on Jaskier’s cock and starts whispering “Jaskier” and then “come, please” and, after another twist of his wrist and accidental sliding of a thumb over cockhead, Jaskier comes, staying still for a second, taut and breathless, and then Geralt feels Jaskier’s come landing on his stomach, his nipples. Geralt was never the type to be messy in bed, but now he wants to smear their come, to taste it, to mark Jaskier with it and then lick it off him, then touch Jaskier’s most tender and responsive parts, find them, map them out, it’s a wonderful adventure to go on to, but maybe later. Maybe not today. Geralt settles on slowly working Jaskier through his orgasm, finally letting him go and smoothing Jaskier’s back while smiling into his neck. It’s pure bliss. Judging by Jaskier’s incredulous half-puff, half-laugh he’s thinking the same. Geralts waits a bit and then shuffles them to lay on their sides. He never knew he’d enjoy these simple moments, not wanting to bolt to the bathroom to clean up and then leave. He wants to clean up, of course, but it can wait just a bit longer. Jaskier touches Geralt’s broad chest with his fingers, half cleaning the come away, half making it worse. There’s a tired but content smile on his face. Geralt wants to kiss it. Then he remembers that he can, so he does.