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One of these days, Jaskier was going to get Geralt to admit just how useful it could be to have a travelling companion. It had become something of a routine in areas less friendly to witchers, full of rumours and whispered tales of horror and grief, for Jaskier to venture into town by himself for supplies and leads on contracts. And, if he spent a little time correcting false narratives, sang a few especially catchy flattering ballads, well, an important part of being a bard was getting the story right.
Largely what it meant was Geralt getting to spend his time skulking around in the forest getting up to whatever witchery things he did when Jaskier wasn’t watching, while Jaskier himself enjoyed singing in taverns in exchange for generous tankards of ale.
Sometimes maybe a bit too much ale. A part of him, the part that had been exposed to an awful lot of Geralt’s warnings about being distracted while alone in the woods, wished he’d thought to visit the privy before he’d left. He bounced a thigh restlessly as he assessed the way forward. He’d given the ruins a wide berth on his way into town, another one of Geralt’s oft-repeated warnings and a detour that had proven entirely unnecessary when the tavern keeper had laughed off his questions about potential wraiths with the assurance that it was commonly used by travelling merchants as a shortcut through the woods.
The surrounding stone wall still largely followed the dips and rises of the land but it didn’t take him too long to find a hilly space where enough simultaneous wear had been done to the wall itself and the ground below that a gap had formed. A Jaskier-sized gap at that.
He bent to examine the opening and, oh, fuck, yes, out alone or not he definitely needed to find a place to pee soon, but he was reasonably confident he could wriggle his way through the roughly chest-high hole, scramble up the slope, cut through the forest and make it back right on time. Even with a much-needed piss break as soon as he was out of the open.
He slid the satchel of supplies through the gap (carefully), then his lute (even more carefully), eased his shoulders through one at a time and attempted a half-clamber up the small hill to slide the rest of the way through. His foot slipped and an unpleasantly urgent jolt shot through his bladder as he regained his footing.
Something about pushing through and up at the same time wasn’t getting him very far. He tried to wiggle backwards again, just enough to readjust the angle. The jagged edges of the stone wall bit uncomfortably into his ribs and his feet scrambled uselessly against the grassy incline. He barely moved an inch.
Ignoring the tiny spark of panic taking root in the back of his mind, he tried again. Forwards. Backwards. Forwards. Backwards. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing. Every movement he made only seemed to wedge him more thoroughly between the wall and the ground.
Jaskier looked ahead with a resigned sigh. It could be a lot worse. Geralt was expecting him back before nightfall and he’d surely come to find him soon enough, for the supplies Jaskier had picked up if nothing else. He wasn’t too far from their camp or the town, easy enough for a witcher’s senses to track down. Geralt would grunt and scoff and make his comments and then he’d help Jaskier out of his predicament as usual, and they could both put the whole mess behind them.
But, for the moment, he was… definitely stuck.
And really starting to regret that extra ale.
He squeezed his thighs together, made himself as comfortable as possible and tried not to think about it.
**
Jaskier tried, he truly did. But being trapped with his view restricted to grass, dirt, trees and a bit of sky didn’t exactly offer much in the way of distraction and his mind kept drifting to other things. Like babbling forest brooks. Waves, crashing against the coast. The splash of boots through puddles during Oxenfurt’s rainy season. Good wine, pouring slowly from a jug–
“Fuck, Geralt, hurry up,” he muttered under his breath. He bounced his knees and shifted his weight as he tried again to ease even just one hand back through the gap, just enough to free his cock from his trousers, so he could at least empty his bladder onto the ground rather than directly into his small clothes. The movement only served to press his bladder uncomfortably against the wall and he winced as sheer, urgent need pulsed through his body.
The day was easing lazily into dusk and the steadily cooling air only made things worse. Jaskier hopped from foot to foot, starting to feel frantic with need and utterly helpless to do anything about it. Jaskier wasn’t even sure his bladder could take the jostling of Geralt pushing him free, which meant his first move might have to be begging the witcher to get his cock out for him and hold it in position while he took a frantic piss on the ground. It wasn’t… exactly how he’d imagined getting Geralt’s hand on his cock for the first time, but he was willing to work with what he had.
Or didn’t have because Geralt still wasn’t there, no one was there and Jaskier was rapidly reaching the point where he didn’t care if it was Geralt, a stranger or Valdo fucking Marx, just as long as they’d help him pee.
His movements, an awkward dance made up of half crouches and vaguely indecent hip thrusts, would probably raise a few eyebrows if anyone did see him but he couldn’t help it. It was a unique cruelty being so desperate alone in the woods, where he theoretically should be able to go wherever he felt like it. He looked at the trees in front of him and all he could think of was taking a long, satisfying piss on one of them. He twisted one leg behind the other and then back in front again.
When the first leak escaped he felt it in excruciating detail, a teasing trickle of warmth running down his thigh, nothing like enough to feel relief but plenty to seal his fate. Jaskier’s face burned with embarrassment and the sheer effort of trying to hold it all in.
He wasn’t going to make it.
Even as he admitted it to himself years of social conditioning protested against just letting go. When the first spurt escaped, a rush of wet heat spreading across his crotch, he tensed instinctively against it and groaned at his body’s stubbornness. He squeezed his eyes shut, thought longingly of chamber pots and tried again.
This time it seemed to take. He moaned in relief as flows of warmth spread haphazardly down his thighs. The wall blocked his view but he could hear the desperate hiss of his stream, the uneven splattering as some of it managed to leak its way through to the ground. It just seemed to keep going, for long enough that he began to worry about someone finding him while he was still actively pissing himself. Stopping would be completely out of the question, not now, when it felt so good.
Eventually, the gushing stream eased into a slower trickle that pooled messily in his small clothes and sloshed as he shifted position, then a few last, lazy spurts then finally, finally it slowed to a stop.
He allowed himself a few moments purely to appreciate not feeling desperate anymore before the discomfort of his position began to nudge at the back of his mind. His trousers were heavy with piss and the ground under his boots felt distinctly muddier than it had before.
Jaskier let his head flop against the grass and tried to ignore the loud, steady noise of his soaked clothes dripping onto the ground.
**
After what felt like a thousand long years of standing miserably in his own piss puddle, his wet legs uncomfortably clammy and cold in the evening air, he heard the snap of a twig underfoot, not too far away.
“Geralt?” He called hopefully. No reply, but maybe Geralt was still just making silently judgemental personal observations about what exactly Jaskier had got himself into. It still might not be quite the most embarrassing position the witcher had ever found him in, but the damp trousers probably pushed it into the top five. Top ten at least.
The soft sounds of movement continued. Whoever it was, they were definitely approaching from behind, which meant their view of Jaskier was going to be his arse sticking out into the air and his drenched trousers clinging to his thighs. He sighed.
“I know I’m probably not making the best impression here,” he forced an awkward chuckle that sounded just as inauthentic as it felt, “but there’s actually a perfectly reasonable explanation for, well. All of this.”
The person still hadn’t said anything, but the gentle thud-crunch of footsteps through undergrowth seemed to be getting closer.
Jaskier shifted uneasily. Surely anyone intent on helping would have said something by now. Maybe it was a bandit planning to rob him. Or… fear prickled coldly in the pit of his stomach.
Or something else, that might have picked up the scent of a piss-soaked bard.
“Geralt, if that’s you, now is really not the time for your whole I’m-so-silent-and-scary-and-intimidating thing.”
Because, if he refused to acknowledge it, maybe he could have an extra minute or two before he was forced to admit that the thing prowling up behind him, close enough now that he could feel the heat of its breath and the air was starting to stink like a long-neglected castle kennel, was definitely not Geralt.
The not-Geralt growled, low and unmistakably bestial, and he winced in panicked humiliation as a last, pathetic trickle of urine leaked down his thigh in response.
The creature bounded the last few steps to him, a movement that sounded suspiciously four-legged, and the next thing he felt was its muzzle against his legs. It ran its nose up the inside of his thigh, inhaling his scent, its breath burning hot through the thin, wet fabric of his trousers. With an incautious jerk of its head, it pushed his thighs apart and he swallowed back a mortified whimper as it nosed eagerly at his crotch. He kicked backwards, hard as he could manage, and it effortlessly nudged his leg away, barely pausing as it sniffed and licked between his thighs like a poorly trained mutt.
“No!” He snapped, straining desperately for an authoritative tone. It felt awfully hollow, with his arse still waving vulnerably in the creature’s face. “Get off me, y-you, um, you bad dog!”
It paused for a brief moment before it gave the inside of his thigh a quick jab with its nose, almost like a reprimand, and, fuck, that was worse, that sinister edge of human understanding lurking around the edges of… whatever else it was.
It pulled back and, for a brief moment, he hoped that maybe that was it, maybe it had just wanted to sniff out the mysterious pee-soaked human stuck in the ruins and that had been enough. But the heat of its body lingered only a few inches away, vast and ominous.
Something thick and hot nudged the back of his thighs, something that was distinctly not a hand or muzzle and he reflexively flinched away with a yelp. Its clawed hands gripped his hips, not quite painfully but unyieldingly firm, and pulled him back into place. Its cock, because, fuck, that pressure was undeniably the thing’s cock, left a messy trail of slick where it had brushed his thighs and he gulped.
Surely it wasn’t going to…
The creature moved a huge hand to rest heavily on the swell of his arse and he tried to remember to breathe. With a swift twist of its claws, it ripped straight through his trousers and small clothes, leaving the ruined fabric to hang in tatters around his arse. Shedding everything but blind animal instinct Jaskier braced both hands against the stone wall and pushed as hard as he could, barely feeling the harsh scrape of ground and wall against his ribs. He kicked frantically against the air as he dragged himself forward, trying anything, anything to free himself. With a low, warning growl the creature gripped his bare thighs and slammed them against the grassy incline.
And then there it was again, huge, hard, leaking and prodding bluntly against his hole.
“Oh no, no no no, no plea—”
It pushed inside him with one sharp, remorseless thrust, and the world went white.
Between the shock and the pain it took a moment for the world to come back into focus. Jaskier dug his hands into the grass and grunted weakly.
He’d taken some thick cocks before, would go as far as to say he loved taking thick cocks every now and then, but never this brutally and never this… much. It gave him no time at all to adjust to its immense size, immediately jerking its hips in a punishingly fast rhythm. His eyes rolled back and he choked out a few gasping breaths.
The creature changed its angle and he clenched around its length with a sharp cry as guilty sparks of pleasure shot along his spine. He was suddenly unbearably conscious of his own cock, hardening and out of reach. The whole situation was horrific, it was violating, it felt like the best of every poorly thought-out fast, rough fuck he’d ever had.
But this wasn’t a rushed fuck or a rough fuck. This was barely fucking at all. This was being mounted and used.
And he wished it had taken longer for it to start feeling good.
What would Geralt think if he found Jaskier now, caught him panting for the cock of one of the very creatures Geralt was charged with hunting? The thought sent an unexpected bolt of pure heat through him and his hips jerked involuntarily. Again, he found himself bitterly regretting not having a hand free.
Jaskier’s cock twitched frantically and untouched as he rutted against the empty air, desperate for friction. The creature had its hands, huge, clawed, so unmistakably not human, wrapped around his hips and it held him steadily in place as it made use of him and he couldn’t move, not to try and get away or to grind desperately against the dirt, all he could do was endure as it filled him up completely.
With a strangled cry and a rush of utter shame, Jaskier came before it did. It fucked him mercilessly through his orgasm, its thrusts growing increasingly erratic until finally, with a guttural snarl, it followed him over the edge. Its cock pulsed hotly inside him as it pumped him full of come, pressing so thoroughly against him that he couldn’t help but feel the thick, coarse fur covering its body. As if he’d needed the reminder that it wasn’t fucking human.
Eventually, the creature pulled out of him with an obscenely wet sound. Its come leaked in rivulets from his aching arse down his bare thighs and he shivered, wondering how long the stretched, sore feeling would linger. For once he was grateful he wouldn’t be expected to ride horseback anytime soon.
He tried to say something, to make an attempt at getting something coherent out of the creature or just thank it for not eating him, but all he could manage was a weary groan. It growled out an uncomfortably human sound of satisfaction, gave him one last thorough sniffing and then it was gone.
Jaskier listened, not quite trusting that the creature wouldn’t come back for a second round he wasn’t sure he could handle, but the sound of its footsteps only faded further into the woods as he became increasingly conscious of just how cold he was with its body heat gone. Eventually, the air calmed. The ambient sounds of early evening resumed and all Jaskier could hear was the rustling of trees and gentle birdsong.
And then Geralt, not too far in the distance, calling his name.