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The bard is an omega, young and pretty but poorly received by the tavern crowd. He smells like a stray, is barely older than a pup, and isn’t very good at his work. Geralt isn't interested in him besides that, but for some unfathomable reason the other is interested in him.
He lets the bard follow him mostly just because getting rid of him would be more annoying, and maybe because he pities him a bit. But it's not going to be that interesting a job, he's already sure. There's no harm in letting a human hang around.
Of course, then they get kidnapped by vengeful elves.
So . . . fuck.
“Is this any way to treat an omega?” Jaskier says huffily. Geralt might hate the brat.
“Shut up, bard,” he says. Jaskier makes an outraged noise, like that’s somehow more offensive than being kidnapped, and Geralt definitely hates him. It takes far too much effort to get the elves to let the other go, though for some reason they let him go too, so that’s . . . something, he supposes. Honestly, he wasn’t particularly trying to get let go, but that’s a whole other thing.
So now he’s got a bratty omega trotting after him like they’re friends or something and Geralt is just . . . not here for this. The temptation to just leave Jaskier to walk back to town alone is a serious temptation, except the idiot would probably get himself kidnapped again. Geralt doesn’t generally hold with the idea of omegas being the weakest of the sexes, but he’s fairly certain Jaskier could be the most virile alpha on the continent and still get himself kidnapped.
“Toss a coin to your witcher, oh valley of plenty,” Jaskier sing-songs, plucking at the strings of his new lute as he walks, and Geralt very, very much wonders who let this omega loose on the world. He’d just like to have a word with them. That word being “why”. “A friend of humanity . . .”
“I am not,” Geralt says sourly.
“Well, you’re a friend to this human,” Jaskier replies gamely.
“Since when?” Geralt says, giving him a dubious look.
“I think around the time you saved my life?” Jaskier bats his eyes up at him and strums another chord. “Yes, I’d say that’d be the time, alpha.”
“Don’t call me that,” Geralt says.
“What, ‘alpha’?” Jaskier says. “I’ve never met an alpha who didn’t like that.”
“I don’t,” Geralt retorts irritably. No one calls a witcher “alpha” unless they’re getting paid for it. He’s not interested in hearing it teasingly, especially not from a brat with no survival instinct.
The last time someone called him “alpha” and meant it . . .
Never mind the last time.
“Hm,” Jaskier says, strumming his lute again. “Well, alright, Geralt.”
It doesn’t actually sound any better than “alpha”, to be honest, but Geralt doesn’t say that.
“Oh valley of plenty,” Jaskier sings, and Geralt curls his lip.
“Are you going to keep singing that the whole way back?” he growls in annoyance.
“Yes,” Jaskier says, clearly unbothered by the growling. “And then I’m going to sing the whole thing to those ungrateful tavern patrons and wring every coin possible out of their collective purses.”
“You’re not making any coin off a song about a witcher,” Geralt says.
“We’ll see, won’t we,” Jaskier says primly.
To Geralt’s disgust, the bard wins over the entire tavern with the damn song and does, in fact, wring every coin possible out of their collective purses. Someone even pays for Geralt’s drink. He’s annoyed, but not annoyed enough not to drink it, obviously.
The song, on the other hand, is incredibly annoying. It’s not even true, for fuck’s sake.
He’s about to leave when someone buys him another drink, and he resigns himself to a little more of the bard’s singing. Unfortunately, Jaskier finishes with the crowd before Geralt finishes with his ale and comes over to him beaming happily, lute in hand. He smells like fresh sweat and fierce satisfaction and simmering lust, but that’s not particularly different from how he smelled before.
“Told you,” Jaskier says smugly as he takes the seat across from him. Geralt gives him an annoyed look.
“You’re lying to them,” he says.
“And they love it,” Jaskier says with a grin. “Have you rented a room yet?”
“Yes,” Geralt lies.
“Oh?” Jaskier’s grin widens. “With what money, precisely?”
Geralt glares at him. Jaskier laughs.
"Why don't you stay in mine?" he offers. "You got kicked around enough today, I'm sure you don't want to sleep on the road."
"Hn," Geralt says. The damn bard's not wrong; he’s more than a little bruised, and sleeping on the ground sounds miserable. On the other hand: spending more time around Jaskier.
“I’m sure you won’t take advantage of the situation,” Jaskier says, batting his eyes at him. Geralt’s lip curls in disdain at the idea. If he wanted that, he’d go spend the night at a whorehouse. Not that he can do that without any coin, admittedly, but still.
“I’m not sure you won’t,” he says. Jaskier laughs.
“I would love to, in fact,” he purrs sweetly, leaning forward in his seat like a flower towards the sun. Geralt glowers at him. Jaskier is clearly and blatantly unaffected.
“What are you doing?” Geralt says. Jaskier smiles at him, still sweet as anything.
“Am I being too subtle?” he asks, resting his chin in his hands and brushing a foot against Geralt’s ankle. It’s not that Geralt never gets propositioned, but it still takes him a moment to process the fact that the other is. Why the fuck he’s doing it, Geralt doesn’t know. There’s certainly better options.
“I’m not interested,” he says, ignoring the foot against his ankle. Jaskier looks mildly surprised, tilting his head.
“You let me tag along like that for nothing, then?” he asks, and Geralt glowers at him in irritation. “Hm. No, I don’t think you did.”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking,” Geralt says. Jaskier smiles wider, leaning in again. He smells sweet, sugary and tempting. Geralt’s teeth itch in his mouth.
“You could always sleep on the road, I suppose,” Jaskier says lightly.
“Hn,” Geralt says. The road’s a familiar place to sleep. He can live with a night of discomfort.
Somehow, though, he ends up upstairs in the bard’s room. So that’s . . . a mistake, definitely.
What the hell is wrong with him, Geralt thinks, looking around the room as sweet-smelling Jaskier carefully sets his new lute on the dresser. It’s a small room, but the bed’s big enough for two.
Geralt seriously considers sleeping on the floor. It’ll be uncomfortable, but still more comfortable than sleeping outdoors.
This is stupid. What does he think he’s doing in here?
Jaskier turns towards him, smiling like the sun, and Geralt eyes him suspiciously. Jaskier steps towards him and lifts his hands to touch his shoulders, still smelling just as sweet as before. Geralt’s expression sours.
“What’s with the face?” Jaskier says. “You’re the hero of Posada tonight.”
“Because you lied to people,” Geralt says irritably.
“Well, the elves aren’t complaining,” Jaskier replies with a shrug. “And the locals certainly aren’t.”
“Hn,” Geralt says. Jaskier smiles at him again.
“Relax,” he says. “Enjoy the evening. Free ale, a free bed, and all the entertainment you could possibly require.”
“If you start singing again—”
Jaskier laughs.
“Geralt,” he says wryly. “Just come to bed and rut me like a proper alpha, will you?”
Geralt glowers at him again. Jaskier just looks amused and steps back, shrugging out of his doublet and letting it fall to the floor uncaringly. Geralt almost just leaves. Almost, but . . .
“Well?” Jaskier purrs, looking up at him from under his lashes. Geralt bares his teeth without quite meaning to, and Jaskier’s pheromones sweeten even further. “Oh, tease. Are you going to bite me?”
Geralt immediately seals his lips over his teeth, and Jaskier bats his eyes at him.
“Just saying. I wouldn’t mind if you nibbled a bit,” he says.
“I’m not going to bite you,” Geralt says. Jaskier sighs regretfully, turning around and shucking off his shirt as he walks towards the bed. Geralt does not look at the bare back of his neck, but can’t help noticing it’s marked up all the same. No scars, but definite layers of mating bites all the same. They’re all at least half-healed, but clearly from different sets of teeth. Geralt feels a very alpha feeling, which is the desire to bite over them again and again until Jaskier forgets they’re even there.
But he doesn’t bite his partners anymore, and he’s sure as hell not doing it now. Hell, he didn’t even agree to get in bed with or touch him at all, no matter how certain Jaskier seems that it’s an inevitability.
“Geralt,” Jaskier purrs, looking back over his shoulder at him as he stops by the bed. It still doesn’t sound any better than “alpha”. Geralt resists the urge to bare his teeth again, but only barely.
“Hn,” he says. Jaskier bats his eyes at him again, touching the bitten-up back of his neck. Geralt . . . well, Geralt’s not a damn teenager anymore, or else he would’ve been across the room and all over him. He grits his teeth.
Jaskier’s an idiot. A reckless brat who should know better than to be doing this. Geralt’s not human; not smart to be around. Not safe to be around. The other’s already got bruises for hanging around him.
“What are you going to do to me, then?” Jaskier asks.
“You’re going to get yourself in trouble, bard,” Geralt says flatly, and Jaskier’s mouth curves into a wide smile, his pheromones sweetening lustfully.
It’s a small room. Geralt can smell him very, very well.
“Am I?” Jaskier hums. His fingers are still brushing the back of his neck. Geralt’s trying not to stare. “Tell me what kind of trouble I’m going to get myself in, Geralt.”
Geralt growls low in his chest, and Jaskier’s pheromones flare sharply again.
“More than you can handle,” Geralt says. He doesn’t exactly mean it as a threat, but it comes out sounding a bit like one; harsher and darker than he means for it to be. Jaskier grins.
“Oh?” he says lightly, kicking off his boots and tugging the front of his pants open. “Then why don’t you show me what you think I can handle, Geralt.”
Geralt’s teeth itch in his mouth. His shoulders stiffen. Jaskier pushes his pants down over the bare curve of his ass and down around his thighs, smelling so, so sweet. Geralt’s never smelled an omega that sweet, it feels like. He must’ve—he’s had a long enough life—but right now he’ll be damned if he can think of a single one.
“Don’t be so fucking reckless,” he says. Jaskier laughs, stepping out of his pants and dropping them to the floor in a heap with the rest of his clothes. He’s naked, unabashed and unembarrassed, and Geralt can see scattered love bites and bruises on his skin, marks from strangers, and wants to lick or bite every single one.
“Don’t be so fucking hesitant,” Jaskier says, smile curving into a smirk. Geralt growls again. This isn’t about him being hesitant. Does Jaskier even know what he’s doing? What he’s offering?
Jaskier sits down on the bed, spreading his legs casually and pulling up one of his knees. Geralt avoids looking. He’s—he’s just—
This is a bad idea, he thinks, and then he’s at the bed and grabbing the back of Jaskier’s hair, tilting the other’s head back, and Jaskier leans into the grip easily and puts his hands on his chest, and . . .
“Idiot,” Geralt says, and then he kisses him. Jaskier sighs contentedly into his mouth, wrapping his arms around his neck. Geralt wants to rut him rougher than he’s ever rutted anyone else. He wants to shove him down and pin him to the mattress and fuck him ‘til the other’s sobbing for his knot. “You’re going to get hurt.”
“Promise?” Jaskier asks with a grin, pulling him down on top of him. Geralt’s glower darkens.
“No fucking survival instinct,” he mutters, gripping the other’s arm roughly. “I could do fucking anything.”
“Yes, you could,” Jaskier purrs, his pheromones flaring again. He squeezes his thighs against Geralt’s sides, and Geralt shoves him down flat against the mattress. “Oh!”
Fuck, Geralt thinks, and follows him down. He kisses him again, harder than he should. Jaskier kisses back eagerly, naked and receptive and so, so sweet.
“Oh,” Jaskier sighs dreamily, wrapping his arms around his neck again. He’s so young, Geralt thinks; giving him permission to do “anything”? What does he think’s going to happen?
He should know better.
He should.
Geralt buries his mouth in Jaskier’s neck and bites down, and Jaskier makes a breathy, delighted noise, pushing up into him. Geralt shoves him back down and Jaskier laughs.
“Oh, Geralt,” he croons. Geralt bites him again. “Ah, ah, yes—”
“Noisy,” Geralt mutters.
“More, more, don’t stop,” Jaskier says encouragingly, dragging his nails across the back of Geralt’s armor. Geralt growls, low and carrying. Jaskier purrs.
“Shut up,” Geralt says.
“Take your cock out,” Jaskier demands, wrapping his legs around him. “Put it in me.”
“Be patient,” Geralt says.
“I don’t want to be patient, I want your knot,” Jaskier says, an obvious whine in his voice. Geralt growls again and Jaskier shudders, pushing up into him again. “Yes, yes, come on, don’t make me wait, Geralt.”
“Hn,” Geralt says. Jaskier squirms his hands down between them, looking for the openings in his armor. Geralt . . . lets him.
“Oh, come on,” Jaskier mutters impatiently, dragging uselessly at his clothes. Geralt almost snorts. Jaskier squirms. “Geralt!”
“Don’t be a brat,” Geralt says, shoving the other’s hands away before stripping off his gloves and pulling his half-hard cock out himself. Jaskier’s eyes widen and he props himself up on his elbows, staring down at it.
“Oh!” he says breathlessly. “Oh, you’re big.”
“Hn.”
“How big does your knot get?” Jaskier asks, biting his lip.
“I don’t fucking measure it,” Geralt says in annoyance. Jaskier licks his lips.
“Put it in me,” he says, eyes glittering greedily.
“Be patient,” Geralt says irritably, then slides down to put his mouth on the other’s own cock. Jaskier yelps, knocking his head back against the bed. Geralt drags his tongue and Jaskier yelps again, grabbing his hair and knotting his fingers in it.
“Oh, oh, oh—!” he gasps, pushing up into Geralt’s mouth. Geralt grabs his hips and pins them to the bed. “OH!”
Geralt drags his tongue across the other’s cock again, then ducks his head lower to lick at his hole. Jaskier makes a heated, high-pitched noise, hips struggling to buck in his grip. Geralt digs his fingers in.
“Geralt, Geralt, come on, Geralt,” Jaskier whines, pulling at his hair. Geralt pushes his tongue inside him and gets another gasp. He wants to make Jaskier come at least once before he fucks him; help his body relax and make it as receptive as possible. He’s overwhelmed less experienced people before, and he wants to minimize that.
Not that he really thinks Jaskier’s all that inexperienced, going by the back of his neck.
“Geraaaaaalt,” Jaskier moans, and Geralt fucks him with his tongue and digs his fingers into the meat of his ass. Jaskier makes more of those heated, high-pitched noises. “Geralt, Geralt, oh please, please, Geralt! Close, I’m so close, gods gods gods don’t stop—”
Geralt doesn’t stop, obviously. Jaskier comes with a cracked, keening cry, arching against the mattress and pulling his hair again. His slick drips onto Geralt’s tongue, his scent somehow finding a way to grow even sweeter, and Geralt wants to get back up and just shove his dick in and fuck him blind. Jaskier’s still panting for breath, trying to recover, and the temptation to do it is . . . it’s a temptation.
A very strong one.
“Ohhh,” Jaskier groans, his thighs trembling. Geralt forces himself to hold back. He licks the other clean, and Jaskier gasps louder.
Geralt’s knot aches for attention, even free of the restriction of his clothes and armor, but he keeps holding back. He’s overheated, skin prickling hotly, and he wants more. He wants to fuck him. He wants—
“Still not taking off the armor?” Jaskier asks fuzzily, blinking down at him through heavy eyes. Geralt bares his teeth at him and stands up to flip him onto his stomach, and Jaskier gasps again and immediately pushes his ass up to present, and Geralt . . . “Oh, come on, hurry up.”
Geralt tries to start slow with new partners; to be careful and hold himself back. He doesn’t use his teeth, he doesn’t get rough, and he takes his time. Jaskier’s whining for attention, though, pushing back into him greedily, smelling so aroused and desperate and good—
“Oh, oh,” Jaskier says, and Geralt leans down and puts his teeth in the back of his neck with a snarl. “Ah!”
Jaskier grabs the back of his head, holding him close, and Geralt sinks his teeth in roughly. Jaskier yelps. Geralt snarls again. This stupid brat, telling him to do whatever he wants, egging him on and whining for more—what does he think’s going to happen, exactly?
“Geralt,” Jaskier pleads, rubbing his ass back against him. Geralt shudders, and Jaskier whines again. “Geralt, come on, I’ve been wet for you for hours—”
Geralt shoves his cock into the other and snaps his hips in deep. Jaskier moans. He’s wet and tight, and he clutches up even tighter when Geralt digs his teeth in deeper.
“Geralt!” he gasps, clawing at the bed. Geralt thrusts as deep as he dares to and Jaskier chokes, hands fisting in the blankets. “Oh, you’re so big, gods, how are you so big, fuck me, come on come on, fuck me hard.”
“Hn,” Geralt says. He covers the backs of Jaskier’s hands with his own and fucks into him as carefully as he can, and Jaskier squirms beneath him and makes a pleading noise.
“Harder, harder, harder,” he says, moving back into him.
“Stay still, brat,” Geralt growls, digging his teeth into the back of the other’s neck. Jaskier pushes back into his teeth, but doesn’t stop squirming.
“Give it to me, give it to me, I want more, I want it all,” he babbles breathlessly. “Get in me, give me your knot!”
“I said stay still,” Geralt snaps. Jaskier just shoves back into him again, greedy and impatient and reeking of lust. Geralt snarls lowly, baring his teeth. Jaskier moans.
“Knot me, knot me, come on and knot me—”
“Shut up—”
“Knot me!”
Geralt grabs Jaskier’s hips and holds them still, and Jaskier chokes again and struggles in his grip. Geralt fucks him slow and steady and Jaskier curses and keens, clawing at the bed again. He’s only human; he’s easy to hold in place. Geralt can fuck him however he wants to, and there’s not a damn thing Jaskier can do about it.
“Harder, harder,” Jaskier pleads, and Geralt doesn’t listen. He leans over Jaskier’s back and keeps up the slow and steady pace, and Jaskier struggles harder but still can’t break his grip. “Ohhhh, come on, that’s not fair!”
“Don’t be so fucking reckless,” Geralt says.
“Then don’t be so fucking slow!” Jaskier says.
Geralt snarls again. Jaskier moans. He smells so good that Geralt wants to fucking ruin him. Damned bard. Damned brat. He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for.
“More, more, give me more,” Jaskier begs, and Geralt bares his teeth and snaps his hips in roughly. Jaskier chokes. “Don’t stop, don’t stop!”
“If you keep talking like that you’re going to get yourself in trouble,” Geralt growls, leaning more heavily over the other and snapping his hips in again. Jaskier moans raggedly, pushing his forehead into the mattress.
“Promise?” he pants, turning his head just enough to glance back at Geralt with heavy, heated eyes.
Geralt growls. Jaskier wriggles in his grasp, trying to push back into him. Geralt shoves him down into the bed and pins him there and just—Jaskier’s asking for it, it’s what he wants—
“Geralt!” Jaskier yelps as Geralt starts fucking him deep enough that his half-blown knot presses against the other’s rim. Jaskier gasps and chokes and moves back into him eagerly, scrabbling for purchase on the mattress and trying to arch into him. “Oh, oh, ohhhhhh—yes, yes just like that, don’t stop don’t stop! Fuck!”
“Are you always this godsdamn noisy?” Geralt mutters, putting his nails in the back of the other’s neck and getting a raspy little mewl for it.
“Is your cock always this big?” Jaskier manages breathlessly. “Feels like you’re gonna split me in half.”
“Hn.”
“I mean it, I’m not going to walk right for days—”
“Shut up.”
“Oh, oh, oh—”
Geralt growls. Jaskier keens. He’s so loud. It’s irritating.
And it makes Geralt harder than he’s been in months.
“Geralt!” Jaskier moans, and Geralt digs his nails into his neck and fucks him harder. Jaskier clutches up around him and makes noises that make it hard not to immediately come. Jaskier takes him easily, greedily, like he’s just been waiting for this, and Geralt’s already this close to blowing his knot. He puts a hand on the other’s cock to stroke and Jaskier gasps breathlessly, squirming urgently between his dick and his fingers.
It doesn’t take much to make him come again. Jaskier practically collapses with it, burying his face in his arms and visibly shaking all over. Geralt forces himself to slow his pace, to not overwhelm him when he’s oversensitive and—
“Don’t stop!” Jaskier says.
“Brat,” Geralt says roughly, but he listens. He fucks Jaskier deep and hard, just like he’s been begging for, and Jaskier keens and keens and keens underneath him. He’s slick and hot and so wet inside, so easy to fuck that Geralt nearly pushes his knot in without even thinking about it. He holds back, barely, and Jaskier whines in disappointment.
“Ohhhh, come on,” he says pleadingly. “Come on come on give it to me, give me all of it, anything, come on—”
“You’re going to get yourself in trouble,” Geralt says for at least the second time, if not the third. Maybe Jaskier’s taken his cock fine so far, but big as it is, his knot’s bigger.
“I want it,” Jaskier begs, clutching up around him again. Geralt growls. The temptation to just pin him down and shove his half-blown knot in and come inside him ‘til the other reeks of his pheromones is . . . not a small temptation. Jaskier’s not helping, begging and pleading like that.
Geralt knows people don’t always know what they can take. He’s had partners ask for more than they could handle before, and it never ended well. Jaskier’s so greedy, though, and already taking him so easily, and . . .
“Geralt,” Jaskier whines, arching up into him, and Geralt snaps his hips in. His knot presses fully into Jaskier’s body and Jaskier lets out a heated, high-pitched cry and immediately tries to lock it. Geralt feels a rush of heat spike through his gut and pulls back out, and Jaskier makes a desperate sound and reaches back to grab at his hip. Geralt thrusts forward again immediately and Jaskier cries out again, so he does it again. And again. And—“GERALT!”
“You’re too fucking loud,” Geralt growls, but he doesn’t stop fucking him and Jaskier doesn’t so much as attempt to muffle his cries. Half the damn inn can probably hear him.
Geralt doesn’t care.
“Geralt!” Jaskier moans again, and it still doesn’t sound any better than “alpha”.
Geralt puts his teeth in his neck and bites down sharply, his knot swelling inside the other, and Jaskier practically shrieks. Geralt’s pretty sure he just came again, but for the moment he’s a little more concerned with the way Jaskier’s body is clutching up around his cock and the way it feels. His own orgasm is a harsh, sudden thing that tears through him with very little warning, wrung out of him near-painfully, and he bites down hard enough to taste blood. Jaskier moans again and grabs the back of Geralt’s head, fingers knotting in his hair, and Geralt bites down harder.
“Oh, oh,” Jaskier gasps out. There’s blood in Geralt’s mouth.
He grinds his hips against Jaskier’s; grinds his knot against the most sensitive places inside him. Jaskier makes hitched, heated little noises and presses back into him. He smells more like Geralt than Geralt himself, smells claimed, and Geralt’s inner alpha growls lowly in satisfaction.
“Well, you’re good at that,” Jaskier says breathlessly, untangling his fingers from Geralt’s hair to brush through it. Geralt forces his jaw to loosen and takes his teeth out of the other’s neck. He looks at the abused skin there and can already tell the wound’s going to scar.
Jaskier doesn’t have any other mating bite scars.
Geralt shouldn’t like that.
He strokes the back of Jaskier’s neck, not so much an apology as a statement, and Jaskier shudders.
“That hurts,” he says approvingly.
“It’ll scar,” Geralt says bluntly, showing him the blood on his fingers. Jaskier glances back at him, mouth curving into a smile.
“Ooo,” he says. “That’s going to be quite a song.”
Geralt gives him an irritated look. Jaskier laughs.
“People don’t bite me that hard, usually,” he says. “I’m actually not sure how many other scars I have.”
“There aren’t any,” Geralt says.
“Oh, then it’s going to be quite a song indeed,” Jaskier purrs, his eyes going half-lidded. “Can’t say I know anyone else who got their first mating bite scar from a witcher.”
“Brat,” Geralt mutters, licking the blood off the back of his neck. Jaskier squirms underneath him, pulling at their tie.
“Apparently being a brat has worked out for me,” he says. Geralt snorts. Jaskier purrs at him again. “Brat” isn’t a strong enough word, Geralt thinks. He strokes the back of the other’s neck again as fresh blood slowly wells up from the bite, and Jaskier presses into the contact.
“You shouldn’t tell people they can do anything they want to you,” Geralt says.
“I don’t,” Jaskier replies lightly, folding his arms against the mattress. “I told you you can do anything you want to me.”
Geralt barely keeps his teeth in his mouth. That’s a lie, he’s sure. He already knows Jaskier’s a liar.
Hearing it, though . . .
It’s a lie he likes.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Geralt says, because liking a lie is dangerous.
“Am I? Mmm, come on, tell me how much trouble I’m going to get myself in again,” Jaskier croons. Geralt rolls his eyes. “No, really, it’s hot.”
“Hn,” Geralt says. He presses his fingers against the back of the other’s neck and Jaskier grins at him. Yes, he’s definitely just fucked an idiot.
The lack of fear, though, the utter disregard for the rumors about him, the cheerful brazenness . . . he can’t deny there’s an appeal there. Even if it’s just more examples of Jaskier’s demonstrable lack of survival instinct. Too much of an appeal.
This was a bad idea, Geralt thinks, carefully testing their tie before pulling out. Jaskier hisses softly, audibly disappointed.
“I already miss your knot,” Jaskier sighs. Geralt doesn’t say it, but he misses being inside him too. Which, again, is too much. He ought to know better.
He does know better.
He gets off the bed and Jaskier rolls onto his back with a languid stretch, and Geralt . . . watches, of course, because he’s a fucking idiot too. Jaskier reaches down between his thighs and hums, smearing his fingers through the come leaking out of him. Geralt licks the blood off his own fingers unthinkingly, still just watching.
“How’s it taste?” Jaskier asks with a sly smile, and he’s the worst idea Geralt’s had all day. Geralt grits his teeth; puts his cock away and fixes his rumpled clothes and armor. He pulls his gloves back on. He can’t believe he just fucked someone in his armor, but of course he did. Now he’s going to smell like sex no matter what he does, just like this room does.
Jaskier sits up, still languid and lazy. He draws one of his knees up to his chest. Geralt wants to eat him out until he fucking sobs and fuck him all over again. He wants to leave right now and never see him again. He wants . . .
“Aren’t you going to sleep?” Jaskier asks, looking a little surprised.
“No,” Geralt says. As if he could actually sleep lying next to this omega.
“Oh.” Jaskier looks . . . not vulnerable, but certainly less smug than he was a moment ago. The least smug Geralt’s seen him look since he first let him follow him, in fact.
Well, that’s not his damn fault.
“I think I’m a little insulted,” Jaskier says with obviously forced levity. “You’d really rather sleep on the road than share a bed with me?”
“I’ve slept on plenty of roads, bard,” Geralt says. Jaskier makes a face at him.
“Oh, rude, Geralt,” he says. “Fine, then, more bed for me.”
Geralt looks at him for a long moment, feeling like there’s something he should say but not sure what it is. He’s used to biting things back, but right now he just doesn’t know what’s trying to escape his mouth.
Best to keep it bitten back, then.
“Well?” Jaskier says huffily.
“Hn,” Geralt says. Jaskier makes a face at him again, but then his expression turns thoughtful and he stands up and steps towards him.
“You really don’t have to leave,” he says, and reaches towards him. Geralt makes the mistake of letting him, and Jaskier wraps his arms around his neck and tilts his head just so, and . . . “I can think of so many better things for you to do.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” Geralt says stiffly as Jaskier just stands there, waiting in the perfect position to be kissed. Jaskier grins. Geralt . . . is an idiot, mostly, and kisses him. Jaskier makes a happy little noise, pressing their bodies together and winding his arms tighter around him.
“Oh, that’s more like it,” he murmurs. “Come back to bed, Geralt.”
It still doesn’t sound any better than “alpha”, but Geralt goes all the same.