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It was supposed to be easy, but with Jaskier in the mix, Geralt should assume by now that it never was and it never would be.
The witcher had taken a contract act outside White Orchard, to deal with a wyvern which had decided the villagers near the coast made for better meat than deer and wild dog. With the serpentine beast being, well, airborn , there was little the bard could do except be in the way as Geralt launched arrow after arrow toward the beast with the hope of bringing it down.
Once down, all he had to do was cut its throat and it would be over.
Again, easy.
Except—
Except.
Except it never was going to be as easy as the villagers claimed; as it turns out the wyvern wasn’t the only thing by the sea. And Jaskier, per usual, refused to take Geralt’s word of “it’s dangerous, these things can and will kill you” as law.
So while Geralt was busy rendering the beast’s head from its body, Jaskier had found that it wasn’t the only monster by the coast. In fact, there had been a nest of drowners tucked into a shallow alcove by the sea. And the nest had been a literal nest filled with a clutch of eggs just waiting to hatch and become an even bigger problem for the folks nearby.
His curiosity with drowner reproduction — specifically, how vibrantly their eggs looked in the mid-afternoon sun, when the rays hit their speckled shells just right, a lovely misnomer of the horrors which could come from such innocuous beauties — had found Jaskier with his back against the wall and a mad mother drowner at his throat.
So not only did Geralt have to deal with a wyvern but also a very angry drowner queen, her sprog, and their clan before being able to make it back to the village — all while keeping an eye on Jaskier in the corner, shaking like a leaf but stinking of excitement and glee.
Even when Geralt gave him the opening, the order, to run, the fool didn’t. This meant not only was the witcher preoccupied with making sure Jaskier didn’t wind-up fish food, but that Geralt's injuries received injuries and an already long day became longer.
Compounded with the fact that in the fray, the wyvern’s head somehow got lost — either pulled into the sea by a drowner or the tide itself — which meant the contract pay was severed in half, well.
It equaled an angry and frustrated witcher, who takes their pay from the alderman with a snarl that’s more aimed at the fool bard beside him than their contractor.
“Oh please, Geralt, honestly,” Jaskier says flippantly when faced with Geralt’s fuming gaze, “it’s not like the reward we got was bad. Look on the bright side of things — now we have a roof over our heads, and I’ve begun crafting a wonderful poem for the Countess the next time I— oof.”
And Geralt doesn’t mean to be annoyed, per se but the thing is: he doesn’t think Jaskier understands. Not only did he nearly find himself sliced and diced by a queen drowner — whose nails have a sort of paralyzing venom in them that would stop most mortals hearts when cut deeply, or enough times — but he did it to compose a love ballad for a woman that, frankly, Geralt thinks is using him for additional clout and intrigue in royal circles.
And the thing they have going is an open relationship: Jaskier is no more expected to remain faithful to Geralt than Geralt is to the bard. But to get oneself killed, maimed, eaten over a poem? About drowners of all things?
He does the natural thing then and throws the bard over his shoulder like a sack of flour on market day, marching them up the stairs to their shared room at the inn.
Shockingly, with the pay reduction, they could only afford one room and a double bed. On their way upstairs, the witcher stews.
One thing Geralt had learned, internalized, at school was the need for practical experience for mental acceptance. So in one fluid motion, kicking the door open then shut, Geralt decides this: Jaskier would only learn to stop throwing himself into danger, thinking little of it, unless Geralt taught him why. With liberal application.
And once that’s decided, then—
The game, the lesson, begins.
Geralt throws Jaskier down onto the bed without much ceremony, but stays with one knee on the mattress one foot on the floor so that he can tower over the bard. Geralt leans in close.
“Why is it,” he all but growls , “that whenever I tell you to run, to hide, to stay safe — you constantly insist on making yourself a damsel in distress? Getting right into the middle of things where you don’t. Belong.”
Jaskier squawks in outrage. His pink, pouty lips part like he’s about to protest, but before he can make a sound Geralt slides a thumb between the opening. He pushes down on the squish of Jaskier’s tongue so that the other man can do nothing but whimper in response.
Geralt begins to undo his breeches with the free hand he has.
“Do you know what happens,” he fumbles with the string, “to maidens caught by monsters? Do you know what beasts do when they catch their nosey prey? Hm, Jaskier?”
And of course the bard can’t answer with a finger in his mouth, but gods does he try. It only results in pulling Geralt’s thumb further into his throat, leaving the only option left to suck on it as if it were a cock. The thought, the look, has Geralt breathing hard through his nose.
“Of course you don’t, do you? You just choose to throw yourself into danger without knowing the consequences like a fool.”
Jaskier frees his mouth to protest, “now, hold on a minute—,” but rudely, roughly, Geralt shoves both his pointer and ring finger inside this time, pushing them back far enough that the bard lets out a gag that tapers into a whine.
“Be quiet,” Geralt demands. “Be quiet and listen, for once in your life, Jaskier. One day you’re going to run into something nasty, if you continue being a fool. Something I can’t save you from. So… I had a thought.”
He frees his cock finally with one last pull. It’s not completely erect yet, but even at this state it’s still larger than Jaskier at his most aroused. Geralt spits into an open palm and begins to rub himself.
Hypnotized, it’s all Jaskier can do to watch the back and forth motion of a scabbed and chapped hand.
“Maybe,” Geralt says after a moment, voice pitched low, “you like the idea of being caught by a monster. Maybe you want to be the damsel, hm? Something enticing to you about being had by a beast?”
Jaskier shakes his head as much as he’s able. The protests are lessened by the cock so visibly straining against his breaches.
“No?” Geralt takes his hand off his own cock to palm at Jaskier’s through royal blue satin fabric. It jumps at the touch. “You don’t act like this because you want it? To be mounted? Bred like a bitch?”
The bard’s face flushes, the same way it does when he’s dipped too far into the nice Redanian vintage. A sharp inhale through the nose let’s the witcher know he’s hit the mark on the head.
Geralt takes the fingers out of Jaskier’s mouth, pushing down on his bottom lip so that he’s forced to open wide. There’s a primal pleasure he takes in watching his lover try to swallow, tongue wiggling in his mouth a veritable welcome mat for the cock he’s about to shove into it.
“I think you like this,” Geralt whispers, knee-walking up the bed to place his thighs on either side of Jaskier’s head. “I think you like feeling helpless — like the idea of becoming a beast’s plaything. Tell me: Would you spread yourself for a drowner? Open your mouth for a sylvan?”
He doesn’t let Jaskier answer, instead slipping a semi-firm cock between the bard’s lips. Geralt sighs through his nose, watching as his lover struggles to choke down what the witcher feeds him.
Jaskier gags on the first shallow thrust as Geralt practically sits on his face, dragging his sweat-soured balls against the bard’s chin, but doesn’t make a move to stop or pull away. A few more easy glides has the witcher thickening from the hot, wet heat.
“Gods,” Geralt groans. He’s not one for praise but it needs to be said. “Your mouth. You could have been a whore in another life.”
His fingers find a home at the crown of Jaskier’s head, grasping firmly at the tufts of hair that’s just long enough to get a nice fistful. Geralt knows he’s large. It’s no secret — when the mutations made him bigger than the average man, it meant bigger in every sense.
In the past there had been bed partners so willing to take him on until they became aware of the size of him. One look at what hung between his legs, and they’d gotten frightened.
Not Jaskier. Through either willpower or a lack of self-preservation, the bard had seen him at his fullest and declared that — with some preparation — he’d take Geralt.
That had been years ago. It was like riding a horse now; once learned, never forgotten.
Geralt pulls out, letting Jaskier catch his breath. There’s a red flush to his face from lack of oxygen and a sheen of spit that makes his mouth shine in the room’s dimmed lighting. The bard groans like being allowed to breath again is a misery.
“Do you like this,” asks Geralt, “do you like being had without any control?”
He doesn’t force himself back in, choosing to hold his cock by the root and smear the head across Jaskier’s lips and even up his cheek. Its glide is made easier by the softness of spit and the beading of precum beginning to leak from the tip.
Jaskier looks up at him through wet lashes. The redness of his face brings out the blue of his eyes even more. A chuckle stumbles out of Geralt’s throat.
“Fuck another life — you look the part of the whore right now.”
“Take me,” says Jaskier, voice raspy. “Stop teasing and take me.”
“And look at you. You even know your lines.” Geralt moves so he’s off the bed, giving Jaskier the space to disrobe himself. He nods to the bard, who understands the meaning instantly and divests himself of his breaches, undershirt and small clothes.
It’s a testament to how turned on Jaskier is that he doesn’t bother to neatly fold them and place them into his bag like usual. Instead they end up in a pile on the floor. Naked as the day he was born, the bard moves back to the bed, propping himself up on the few pillows present so that he can watch Geralt.
His eyes swirl with lust and amusement.
“Well?”
And Geralt, ever the predator, even at his most relaxed, shakes his head. “You misunderstand me, little bird. You’re not in charge tonight. In fact, you’re here to learn a lesson.”
"A lesson?”
“Yes.”
The witcher moves to get the oil from his own belongings and comes back to the bed. Jaskier’s cock stands proudly at attention, it’s owner having no sense of shame to cover himself. He’s even started tugging at it absentmindedly, as if the motion is as natural and second nature as a breath or a blink.
As far as cocks go, it’s a decent one. Maybe even slightly above average when erect, Geralt thinks, but still human and therefore dwarfed by the witcher’s own. He smells slightly like sweat and a little like the sea, and it really shouldn’t turn Geralt on so — but it does. It definitely does.
He places the vial beside the bard the snatches Jaskier’s hands away from his sex.
“Hey! You brute—,”
“But that’s exactly my point,” Geralt says, crowding him. “The way you act — flaunting into any danger, man or monster, cock first like your charms will save you… you’re mistaken.”
Jaskier opens his mouth to speak but Geralt continues.
“One day I might not be able to save you. One day you might saunter right into the lair of something that wants to take you, devour you, and I’ll be helpless to stop it.”
As he talks, Geralt wets his fingers with oil. With one hand he grabs Jaskier by his left thigh and holds it up so that the bard’s hole is exposed.
With little preamble, Geralt sinks his middle finger in, up to the knuckle, and preens at the noise Jaskier makes in his attempt to adjust.
“So I wondered: maybe you want to know what being that maiden is like? The one taken by monsters in the night? Maybe that allures you — someone who’s never faced a hardship in his life wanting to have a challenge. Wanting to get roughed up. Is that right, little bird? Did I read you correctly?”
The finger starts moving at a quick, even pace. Jaskier wiggles but it’s useless against the strength of a witcher.
“Geralt—,”
Jaskier’s face is pink and skin is hot. Even a mortal man could tell how much the bard craved this, though the airs upon him tried to protest.
Saving face would get him nowhere though. Especially not in the face of a monster — or worse.
“I’ll give you what you want, Jaskier. I’ll make you the maiden you so crave to be.” The finger continues. Another joins it. Under him, the bard mewls but he tries to keep it in by throwing an arm over his own mouth.
But that simply won’t do. Half the fun of being a beast, of getting to plunder, is the reaction of the prey.
Geralt stops entirely, moving his hand from Jaskier’s thigh to his forearm to pull it downward. After a minute the man understands and two trembling hands come to rest near his cock. He pulls his knees to his chest, gripping at the back of his thighs.
“Good,” says Geralt, nodding. “Now — really hold yourself open.”
Jaskier, if possible, turns pinker and complies. It’s something to marvel at in and of itself that he doesn’t even utter a noise of complaint while he snakes down the backs of his legs to hold both cheeks open.
“That’s right,” Geralt rumbles. “Just like that. Let me see you.”
“ Geralt .” Jaskier squirms in place but makes no move to pause this game, despite the next words out of his mouth being, “stop teasing. ”
But stop wasn’t the word they agreed on when beginning this — and not just this night, but these trysts in their entirety — so Geralt pushes through. He swipes the pad of his spit-dried thumb over the open, sensitive pucker of Jaskier’s hole, which pulses like it’s trying, wanting to take him back in. When Geralt pulls away, the damp touch of oil follows him.
“Wet.” He licks the digit. The oil makes it taste unpleasant, but not bad enough to stop. “Like a woman .”
“I’m not —,”
“But you are, Jaskier — aren’t you? You constantly act like you want to play the damsel — well. Now’s your chance, little bard.” He brings two fingers down now to rub, consistent and merciless, across Jaskier’s hole — not pressing, but there’s pressure. It makes his lover whimper and rock in place, like he wants to take in the two but can’t without a steady force from the other end.
“Remember how I told you that the monster eats the maiden in the end?” Geralt’s tone is pleased, boarding smug. “I never said how that happens.”
Before Jaskier can make sense of what that means, the witcher leans his head low and licks a stripe over where his fingers press down. The sensation of wet and warm and foreign zip through him from head to toe and Jaskier almost kicks out in response. Only Geralt’s firm grip on one thigh stays him.
So Jaskier whines, high and sharp, biting his lip so he doesn’t scream out.
“Even squeal like a woman,” Geralt murmurs, pulling away from Jaskier to kiss and bite at the soft give of his inner thigh. Here, the bard smells uniquely like himself in a way undulled by the various perfumes and oils he often wore. It’s absolutely addicting .
Geralt rubs the start of his stubble at Jaskier’s tender skin, taking pleasure in seeing the bard so helplessly squirm.
“Tell me, Jaskier: Do you like it when I lick your pussy?”
The witcher doesn’t give him a chance to answer. As he’s asking the question, he takes a finger and worms it into Jaskier’s hole, punctuating the statement with a downwards pull. The tongue he shoves inside steals away any ability for the bard to answer. To even think.
Geralt doesn’t have to be a mind reader to know Jaskier’s mind has gone blank because it shows in his unfocused gaze, in the unintelligible, animal noises which are extracted from his throat — from his soul. It’s all the encouragement Geralt needs.
He pulls back and licks a stripe from Jaskier’s hole to just under his balls. The scruff of Geralt’s chin meets the sensitive skin there and the little bird howls like he’s a wolf, thrashing to get away from the sensation.
“Do you want me to fill up your cunt?” Geralt breaths. “To fuck you? Breed you like a beast would? I could put a monster in your belly, Jaskier — would you like that?”
When the bard doesn’t answer, Geralt bites hard — but not deep — into Jaskier’s thigh and sucks a claim of ownership there. The man lets out a cry that walks that thin line between genuine pain and absolute pleasure. Geralt only knows the difference due to Jaskier’s scent.
Blind lust rolls off him in a pungent odor.
“Is this something you’ve thought of? Being held down and fucked by a werewolf’s knot? Or made to be mated with a golyat? You’d let it happen, too, wouldn’t you?”
Geralt shoves his two fingers back inside, sucking and kissing at the tight ring of muscle that so graciously takes him in. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jaskier’s cock bob in time with the down motion of his thrust, greedily trying to take in more than what Geralt offers.
The bard babbles nonsense as he goes, peppering in “oh fuck” just as often as “please, Geralt, please.” And with his bird singing so nicely — who was Geralt to resist?
He brings his free hand up to wrap around Jaskier’s cock, each pump opposite to the pushing of his fingers and tongue. It doesn’t take long for the bard to be brought right to the edge.
“Geralt,” he pants, “Geralt I’m going to cum, you’re gonna make me cum, gonna make me — mm!”
The litany is cut by a deep moan that makes Jaskier’s abdomen shake and his thighs tremble as Geralt not only pushes him through it but keeps pushing into him with a clever tongue and even cleverer fingers.
Spend spits over Jaskier’s stomach and clings to the hair there. Some even spatters onto his pectorals, sitting pretty between two pebbled pink nipples. Geralt stops his assault on Jaskier’s hole to lick at some of the cum which still weeps from the tip of the bard’s dick.
Jaskier hisses, overstimulated by the mouth on his cock and the fingers still crooking deep into his ass. He moves his hands from his thighs to Geralt’s head, trying to pry it off by pulling at the ponytail there. When that doesn’t work Jaskier starts to wiggle — as if he could move away from a witcher’s iron grip.
“Too much,” he says, “Please — it’s too much.”
Geralt pops his mouth away, a trail of spit connecting him still to the tip of Jaskier’s cock.
“Do you think a monster would stop if you told it to, dear damsel?” His fingers push and push, occasionally finding that core of pleasure within the bard and rubbing at it hard. Just to be a brat, he slips a third finger into the bard, who throws his head back with a yelp.
“See, I don’t think it would,” Geralt continues. “I think a monster would take what it wanted. And from a maiden in distress? With no one around to stop it? Oh, it most certainly would. It would keep your pussy stuffed full until it decided it was finished.”
“Geralt—,”
He bites at Jaskier’s thigh to get him to shut up. “Besides — I know women can cum multiple times. Your gluttonous little cunt should have no problem doing the same.”
The bard sucks in a breath.
“I can’t — ,”
“You can, and you will.”
Geralt surges forward to lick away the cum on Jaskier, hand still steadily pulling wonderful, overtaxed moans from the bard. When he gets high enough up, the witcher pauses his process to regard Jaskier with a smirk.
“Pretty tits,” he says, sucking one into his mouth. He knows Jaskier isn’t as sensitive here as he is in other places, but it would be remiss if Geralt didn’t comment on every part of his body. He leaves it with a kiss. “Maybe next time I’ll make you hold them together while I fuck between them.”
“Geralt,” Jaskier tries again to push him away. “It hurts. ‘S too much.”
Once sufficiently clean, Geralt leans back to admire his work. Jaskier’s flush now runs from the tips of his cheeks, down to his belly and his eyes shine brighter when they’re rimmed with red — tearing up from the persistent pace Geralt insists on keeping. It’s not his best work, Geralt thinks, but it’s getting there.
To add insult to injury, he spits directly onto Jaskier’s ring of muscle and watches as it slithers between two thick fingers and disappears inside.
“Does it hurt?” Geralt coos, mockingly, increasing the intensity of his pushes on the bard’s puffed and abused hole. Jaskier cries out in response. “Good.”
The witcher debates disrobing entirely before beginning to fuck his bard before deciding: If an animal wouldn’t shed its fur, neither would he. Not to mention, the dark and dirty cloth of his clothes looked ever so nice when compared to the tanned-white of Jaskier’s body — it would be a shame not to take advantage of it while he could
Geralt spits again in his palm, giving his own cock a few good pumps to bring it back to size.
“Perhaps I should take you dry,” he says, as casually as one would remark about the weather. “A beast wouldn’t be so nice as to get you slick before a fucking.”
While it could look to the outsider that Geralt was in complete control, all the power in their game lie with Jaskier. Only the human could decide how far things were taken. He and he alone could escalate or make things stop.
So when, through a moan, Jaskier says “mercy, please” Geralt knows not to push, but also not to stop, and grabs for the oil by the bed. Pouring a little onto his fingers, still scissoring in and out of Jaskier’s heat, Geralt stretches and pushes the muscle until he knows it will welcome him sweetly.
“You’re lucky,” says Geralt, slicking himself with the excess rub, “that I am more man than beast. Otherwise, I’d have you raw. I’d eat you whole.”
And Jaskier graces him with a dopey smile, letting the witcher know he’s starting to encroach on that mindset which makes him malleable to even the most base sexual suggestions.
“I’d welcome it, my wolf.”
Geralt grins, showing all his teeth. “I’m sure you would.”
The bard doesn’t even have time to protest a loss of Geralt’s fingers for as soon as they’re out of Jaskier, leaving his hole gasping for fullness, the witcher’s fat cock slides into place and steals all the air out of his lungs and all the thoughts out of his head.
It never gets any easier, taking something that size, but then again, Geralt knows — as Jaskier’s told him often — the bard wouldn’t want it to. There was something to the burn and the fullness, he had said, which made him feel alive.
Well, if Jaskier wanted livelihood, then Geralt would give it to him. He pushes in and pushes more, halfway to the root without much preamble, not giving the bard a chance to catch back that lost breath.
He bends Jaskier nearly in half so that the soles of his feet face the ceiling and Geralt becomes all that he sees. The rest of the witcher’s cock slowly sinks in, each second it does scored by the drawn out whine of the bard.
“Big,” Jaskier gasps. “Geralt, I— fuck!”
He steals the words right from the bard’s throat by pulling out almost to the tip and slamming home again with a slide. The sound of one great clap of skin on skin sets the tone, the pace, as Geralt hammers into Jaskier. Fixated, the witcher stares at his own cock disappearing into his lover.
A tentative thumb comes to trace the abused muscle’s perimeter, and Jaskier groans like he’s been shot. The difference between their strength is made abundantly clear as the human truly throws his entire power behind trying to wriggle away and the witcher simply chuckles, not breaking his pace in fucking or touching.
“Too much!”
Geralt smirks. “Thought this was what you wanted? Up close and personal with the inhuman?”
“I didn’t— I don’t—,”
“Don’t what, songbird? Enjoy getting taken like the little slut you are? With no consideration for your own pleasure?”
“‘M not a slut!”
“You are though.”
Geralt’s thumb pushes on the pucker of muscle as if it could join alongside his cock. It doesn’t give, though it could if he put enough force into the action; the thought sends a bolt of animal lust though Geralt.
Another time, perhaps.
“I think you like being taken so roughly,” the witcher continues. “It’s the only answer that makes sense: that you put yourself into danger because you think it’ll have you that rush — maybe even a good fuck out of it, too. So does this mean I don’t satisfy you, Jaskier?”
“You do,” he gasps. “I promise, you do.”
Geralt pulls Jaskier’s legs back so they come around the witcher’s waist, opening up a whole new angle to spear his lover at. The new position makes the bard mewl, curl off the bed like it burns, and Geralt knows it’s because of the little bundle of nerves inside now so open for the taking.
Jaskier’s cock hadn’t flagged entirely since cumming, and the new angle seems to give him the right amount of security and exposure to have it harden again. But when he goes to touch it, Geralt bats his hands away and pins both to the bed.
“I’m going to be the one who decides when you get off, sparrow. Your cunt — your pleasure — is mine to decide what to do with tonight.”
“Geralt please .”
“Been saying that a lot tonight,” Geralt grins something animal and fierce, “but begging’s not what I want of you, now is it? So,” and he punctuates the word with a snap of his hips, driving his cock even deeper into Jaskier, “be a good girl for once and listen to me. And if you take your lesson seriously, maybe I’ll let your greedy pussy get off again.”
Jaskier’s eyes roll back, back so far that Geralt thinks the bard might actually have become possessed. Letting his hands go, Jaskier grips his legs again and pulls them so that his knees are almost to his ears and Geralt can take what he needs. His fingers bite a row of crescent teeth marks into the unders of his thighs, some even overlapping the bruising Geralt left with his own mouth.
The noises he keeps making — sometimes little punched out mmh, hhhmmms , and other times a slurred prayer of Geralt’s name — keeps the witcher’s pace like a human metronome.
By virtue of being a witcher, Geralt had never been a religious man. Yet, seeing Jaskier laid out before him, cheeks and chest flush with lust, hair fanning out as if a painting — presenting himself, well; it was enough to turn even the most sinful man pious. Or, considering the actions, the most holy man into an absolute devil.
“Do you like that?” Geralt asks. “Like the idea of being my good girl?”
On one particularly hard thrust Jaskier whines high and long, burying his head into the piled up duvet and pillows surrounding his head. Still — ever dutiful toward Geralt’s command in the end — holds his legs open wide for the witcher to take what he wants. What Geralt wants, however, is to see Jaskier’s inhumanly blue eyes, blinded with lust and want and tears, so he grabs the bard by the jaw and angles him forward again.
Jaskier’s eyes are unfocused, dumbed by his id, but their color shines true.
“Tell me you want this,” commands Geralt. “Tell me how much you need it.”
“Need it — I do, oh god, I need it.”
“Where?”
"Huh?”
Geralt grins, slowing his pace. “Where do you need it?”
The thick drag of his cock, just as relentless as his fingers before it, is enough to put Jaskier on edge. He groans and makes to put a hand on his cock, but is stopped by Geralt’s firm grip.
“You use your words,” the witcher says, “or you won’t cum at all.”
“I told you: I need it,” and Jaskier groans as if he’s pained by the thought of not getting another release, “need you to fuck me, Geralt, please. Let me—,”
Geralt cuts him off, sounding out every word. To Jaskier, it feels like a lifetime. He lessens his grip, leaving the only real force of pressure, of solidity, his presence in Jaskier’s aching hole.
“Where do you want me? Where should I fuck you, Julian ?”
And Jaskier breaks—
But instead of bending to Geralt’s whim he pitches forward, catching the witcher by surprise as he slips out of that tight heat and finds himself on his back. The bard is looming over him, a mockery of how the night started, a shit-eating grin on his face.
His eyes are wild, alight with lust and love and something else Geralt can’t quite recognize. It’s in this moment, Geralt becomes flush too: because sometimes he takes for granted how feral his little bird can be; how never before had a human risen to the defy, to bite back against, the great White Wolf.
The bard is both a challenge and a prize, all wrapped into one. It puts a soft smile on the witcher’s face, somewhat out of place with the ferocity of their current loving pace.
He might be foolhardy, but he is Geralt’s hardy fool.
Jaskier settles his thighs on either side of Geralt’s thicker ones, positioning so that his ass can rub against Geralt’s shaft. It slides seamlessly between Jaskier’s cheeks. The glide is made easier both by the left over oil and Geralt’s own weeping pre-cum.
“Is this what you wanted, Ser Wolf? Hm,” and Jaskier has the audacity to bat his eyelashes at Geralt, as if moments ago he wasn’t writhing for release like a bitch in heat. His eyes glow like he’s been stricken by fever. “Did you want to cum in my maiden cunt? Fuck my pussy so hard I feel it in my throat while you teach me a lesson?”
It wasn’t like Jaskier never swore. But hearing those words, in the context he used them, fall from his mouth made Geralt grit his teeth and meet Jaskier on the upthrust.
“I did well at Oxenfurt, you know, but not because of what the teachers beat into me— but because of my curiosity. My insatiable lust,” Jaskier licks his lips, “for knowledge. And what I know, of the many things I know is this: Not all maidens are damsels in distress.”
He rubs teasingly against Geralt, and if the witcher weren’t so gods damned horny he’d almost feel proud. But pride isn’t what’s being taught here: it’s humility and, perhaps, a touch of obedience.
Clearly, his teaching touch is lacking.
So perhaps, Geralt thinks, a bit more force is necessary. It’s usually that pesky over abundance of confidence which gets him in trouble anyways.
“Oh, I’m aware,” he says, “that some maidens use their soft looks to their advantage. That a damsel in distress doesn’t mean she’s in distress. But you, dear one—,”
Two strong hands came to the bard’s trim waist, holding him in place while Geralt lined up his cock to slide back into his lover.
And Geralt chuckles. “The trouble you’re in?”
The realization he might have bitten off more than he could chew came to Jaskier then and Geralt could see it in his eyes.
“All the money, all the charm, on the continent couldn’t save you, little bird.”
No sooner had Geralt’s head breached that tight ring of muscle, both hands having grasped handfuls of Jaskier’s ass, the witcher snap his hips once more and left no time to adjust.
It punched a noise out of Jaskier that could have been “oh, fuck,” were Geralt paying attention. But the rush of blood, of lust, in his ears was simply too loud.
He fell forward, elbows digging into Geralt’s pectorals through his shirt, bringing the witcher’s mouth close enough that the man could growl into Jaskier’s ear.
“That’s right,” grit Geralt, kneading at the bard’s rear and holding it open even wider. “I’m going to fuck your cunt so hard you won’t be able to walk straight for a week — fill you up so much that you’ll swell with it. People will think you’re pregnant — could you imagine that? Being so fat with my cum?”
“Gods, Geralt!”
“And even if you want to spread yourself out of curiosity for some fucking beast, no monster would have you. Every creature on the continent would be able to smell my cum in you. On you. You’d reek with it.”
“Fuck— Please!”
Poor boy, thinks Geralt, doesn’t even know what he’s begging for.
“With the marks all over you, everyone will know— that you belong to a witcher .” Geralt slaps him firm on one cheek and then the other, glowing at Jaskier’s cries. “No one would be stupid enough to take what’s mine. And you’re mine, do you understand me? To fuck, to protect— mine.”
Jaskier nods, like he’s too drunk off Geralt’s cock to formulate a coherent sentence, let alone speak it outloud. Stupidly, all he can do is mumble “yours, yes, yours,” and hold on for the ride.
“That means you don’t wander off when I tell you to stay put and you keep you pathetic cock in your trousers instead of looking for the wrong people to get sucked and fucked by — you understand?”
“I do! I do!”
The clapping sound of skin meeting skin fills the air. It’s a wonder no one’s come banging on their door yet, telling them to quiet down.
“Why’s that, Jaskier? How do I know you understand, hm? That I know you’re mine?”
“Because—,” he sits up straight as Geralt pulls him back by the hair, losing his words in a moan from the new angle and the restriction of air. The witcher slaps the thick of where Jaskier’s ass meets his thighs which brings the air back into his lungs with a gasp.
“You need to speak up, songbird. Don’t think I heard you.”
Jaskier gasps. Whether it’s from lust or asphyxiation, it's a toss-up. “Geralt!”
“I asked you a question, didn’t I?” He slaps the same spot again, on Jaskier’s other side this time, and slows his pace once more. There will definitely be marks in the morning: hand prints holding bite marks. Geralt wishes he could see them now.
What a sight it would make.
“It’s rude not to answer. And you don’t want to be rude, do you, sweetheart?”
“No,” Jaskier all but sobs, hands grasping desperately at Geralt’s shirt, “no, please. Don’t stop, my love— I’m yours, I'm close.”
“Well if you’re close, all you have to do is tell me: What are you, Julian?”
The game they’ve been playing all night finally comes to a head. Geralt stops fucking Jaskier completely, letting go of his hair to clamp down on to both the bard’s wrists, holding him in place. Even squirming doesn’t draw the witcher’s cock deeper, and the man lets out a frustrated whine.
“Geralt, no!” There are tears of frustration in his eyes, clinging to the lashes. “I’ve been good!”
“So good,” the witcher agrees. “Soft and pliant — my good girl; letting me fuck you, claim you. Won’t go wandering off into beast lairs now without listening, will you?”
The switch clicks in Jaskier’s head and he finally understands.
“No,” he says, and the words stick to his throat as it goes dry, “no I won’t wander off anymore — I’ll listen. Be a good girl.”
Jaskier grinds down, cock now all the way hard again after all the relentless stimulation. It doesn’t pull Geralt in any further but the sensation of the bard’s tight heat still sparks a twinge in his belly.
“Don’t need any other man or monster,” he whispers, bowing his head like he’s humiliated to admit it, “just want to be a good girl. Your good girl.”
Geralt looks up at the bard like he’s a holy sight. Not for the first time — tonight or any other night — he’s floored by the devotion Jaskier has for him and how far the utterly human bard is willing to push himself, debase himself, devote himself to the witcher.
He doesn’t deserve it, Geralt thinks, reaching a hand up to cup his lover’s face — but god will he try and earn even a modicum of this love Jaskier has for him.
The pace he sets now is nothing like the bestial fucking before; it’s soft and hot, like fresh laundered clothes that still smell like the sun. Warmth envelopes them both like a coat as Geralt’s hands slip to Jaskier’s thighs, running his hand’s back and forth across the soft hair there.
Jaskier’s frantic moaning has morphed into soft sighs as the witcher takes him, takes him, takes him. As far as either of them are concerned, the world starts and ends right here on this bed. There’s no one else but each other.
“So good, Julian,” Geralt says, whispers, breathes. He grabs Jaskier by the back of his neck and pulls them together for a kiss.
The tandem they move in makes the other question if they were born simply to do this.
“I’ll be good. I’ll be so good, Geralt,” the bard pants when he’s able, “but please let me cum. Fuck my pussy, fill me up, let me —,”
His words are lost as Geralt once again rolls them over, putting him back on top this time. This way, he has the leverage to drive home, drive deeper, and give his little bird what he wants.
Geralt wraps Jaskier’s shaking legs around him, looming so that his arms are on either side of the bard’s head and boxing him in.
Back to where they started. They meet once more for an open-mouthed kiss which is more panting than anything else.
"You’ll cum,” Geralt promises with each thrust, lips so close to Jaskier’s ear they brush the outer shell. “I’ll fill my greedy little girl’s hole to the brim, so much you’ll drip with it. Won’t even know what to do with it.”
“Yes!”
“And what will you say when I do that for you? When I finally fill your hole with what you want so bad?”
Jaskier moans, and the tail end of the sound becomes a “thank you.”
At this point, Jaskier is little more than a cocksleave for Geralt to have his way with, mouth hanging open like he’s dumbed by the sensation of being used, only able to utter ah, ah, ah , again and again. It shouldn’t be as attractive as it is — but then again, stunning Jaskier into a silence, or as close as one could get to it, was a marvel in and of itself.
That, and the fact that there was something about watching the ever eloquent bard go cum-dumb that simply set Geralt alight in a fiendish way.
He pulls back to sit upright, fucking into Jaskier’s clutch so hard the bed has begun to smack the wall with forceful slaps. Or, it had been doing that, and the two had been so focused on each other Geralt had only now noticed.
Either way, he’d make sure to leave behind extra coin for the lady of the house. Not being disturbed by this point certainly was a choice of the owners, not an accident.
Jaskier’s hands fist into the bedding so tight Geralt is sure he’ll rip them. The bard’s prick is upright and beet red, but still he refuses to touch it, following Geralt’s word.
Good girl indeed, the witcher thinks. He licks a broad path up his palm and takes Jaskier back into his hand while the other holds on to a tense thigh.
“Fucking — Geralt! Fucking—,”
He pushes a coarse thumb onto the soft cock head and a spit of precum flows.
“If I rub your clit,” Geralt asks, looking every bit the predatory wolf of his namesake as he tugs on the shaft, “will you squirt for me? Make a mess all over yourself?”
“Anything — anything.”
“Then be my good girl, Julian , and cum for me. Show me how much your cunt needs my cock.”
It only takes a few more passes and pushes before Jaskier is cumming, back arching off the mattress, hands turning white from holding tightly to the sheets. The scream of pleasure he gives as he unravels… it takes every ounce of self-control Geralt has not to follow suit as he watches Jaskier paint himself in his own release.
Thrusting shallowly through Jaskier’s second orgasm, it takes Geralt a moment to realize the bard is mumbling something.
“Please, please, please,” he says, eyes unfocused, only the most base thoughts coming out of his mouth. “Cum in my pussy — please. Cum in me, cum in me, darling, I need it. Need your cum in my cunt, please I’ll be a good girl I promise I—,”
“Anything,” Geralt shushes him, unable to refuse a request so sweet, “anything.”
He meets Jaskier’s autopilot pushing with his own snapped hips, joining the bard in the land of pleasure as he listens to his little bird sing “thank you, thank you, thank you” in chanted time with their thrusts.
Usually, Geralt is quiet when he cums, but tonight he groans low and satisfied.
“So good, Julian,” he burrs, pushing deep so that not a single drop could escape, “such a good girl. Taking me all, taking me all the way.”
“I want it. More. Need it.”
Hands come up to grab at the witcher’s face, pulling him into a kiss that he’d have gone to willingly anyways.
Geralt knows the fuzziness in Jaskier’s brain right now doesn’t allow for him to realize the fucking is over until a little while after, when the adrenaline has fallen and their breaths have returned to normal. So he plays along, allowing the human to go gently down the path to clarity rather than rip it from him all at once.
Instead of pulling out, Geralt thrusts shallowly and waits for his cock to soften as he kisses and praises the bard. Jaskier had told him once that the sensation of empty after being full for so long hurt — almost like a physical wound — when experienced so abruptly after the high of sex. So if his little bird wanted to be all plugged up, for as long as he could, that’s what Geralt would do.
“You did good, Julian,” he whispers, pressing kisses to each of the bard’s fingers as he unfurls them from their fist shape one by one. “Very good. Thank you.”
Jaskier hums. His eyes have slipped closed.
“Love you,” he says, shy, as if it’s a secret. Jaskier’s dominant thumb presses against the witcher’s lips like a kiss of its own.
And Geralt has never been good with words, managing to consistently say the wrong thing at the wrong time — or never say anything at all, when needed; but here, the equation is simple and the answer is one he knows by heart.
“And I you,” he says.
When he can tell Jaskier has come back to himself enough, Geralt pulls out, watching as a dribble of slickness and cum follow out of the abused hole. The thought of pushing it back in, of toying with the bard even more, crosses his mind but he thinks better of it.
They do have to make for Crow’s Perch in the morning, after all.
Geralt swipes a finger through the spend to clean it away, shushing the bard as he whimpers in protest. A word, a noise — either way, it’s unintelligible.
“I’ll be back,” he assures, rising to get a towel and glass of water. For good measure, Geralt rings the service bell outside their room and waits for a chambermaid to come by so that he can request a bath for the bard despite the lateness of the hour and a small plate of cheese, bread and apples.
Understandably, the maid can’t bear to look him in the eye. We’re he a mortal man, Geralt would feel sufficiently abashed; but as it stands, he isn’t so he doesn’t. After all, tending to Jaskier in this state was equally as important as the act of fucking, Geralt felt, if not more.
When the witcher returns, more spend has leaked out of Jaskier — who, in turn hasn’t moved a muscle to either clean it or stop it. In fact, the bard has fallen into a lightly dozing state, barely aware of what’s going on around him but trusting Geralt enough to manage it all.
Seldom do people look at a witcher and think security. Yet, again, Jaskier finds ways to constantly surprise him.
Grabbing a cloth from his pack, Geralt wipes down the bard completely despite his sleepy noises of protest. The bath water and food are delivered by the time the man comes back to the present with clear eyes and an empty belly.
“Jaskier,” says Geralt, rousing him with a soft touch. “C’mon. You need to get—,”
“I know,” the bard replies fondly. Sleepily. “You and your post-sex routines, I swear…,”
It’s the non-argument argument that happens every time. Jaskier will protest he’s fine and can clean himself on his own and Geralt will insist that he could but that the bard should, for once, allow Geralt to be the nurturing one (as yes he did have that capability, thank you very much.)
The responses are practically formulaic at this point.
It usually goes like this—
Geralt will buss a kiss to his lover’s temple while pulling him to his feet and say: “Up now. Into the bath.”
Jaskier will sigh like it’s the most anyone has ever asked of him and say coquettishly: “Only if you join me, witcher dear.”
And the two of them will shamble to the water, Geralt disrobing on the way, before sinking into the water and into each other like they’re flowers of the same bulb; each their own man but twined together, inseparably.
“This water is too cold,” Jaskier will say, and lean with his back to Geralt’s chest.
But the words unspoken read: I love you. Thank you for doing this. For being you. For loving me.
“It wouldn’t have been if you were faster,” Geralt will reply, heating the water with a little burst of Igni as he does.
He’ll place a kiss to Jaskier’s nape, which means: You’re welcome; it’s no bother. I will love you until the end of days, and then some.
So when Geralt sets the bath and kisses Jaskier, he begins the routine that they know so well. And by doing so, the witcher thinks, they return to their normalcy: Wherein Jaskier will try, and fail, to follow Geralt’s orders; and Geralt, ever the dutiful teacher, will be there when again his good girl needs to be reminded about manners.