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Jaskier waits for Geralt’s return at the edge of the village, leaning against a house and peering through the dark. He can’t see anything, but he knows Geralt is going to return victorious, so it’s only a matter of time. The wyvern he’s slaying is a youngling, by all accounts, so Jaskier isn’t worried. Rather, anticipation is swirling in his gut, cock half hard in his pants as he counts the minutes.
There are no windows on this side of the building, so nobody can see him lurking. It wouldn’t do to get in the villagers’ bad graces, making them think he’s about to rob someone.
He hadn’t planned to do this, in the beginning. Had remained behind in their lodgings while Geralt headed out, taking his time to clean himself and eat something. It had struck him rather suddenly, and he hadn’t spent long trying to figure out if it’s a good idea or not, merely slipped his shoes on and headed out the door, going in the way Geralt had headed. He’s stopped here, not really wanting to push his luck.
Gone are the days where he would recklessly follow Geralt into every battle. These days, he’s only reckless when it’s a monster he hasn’t seen before, or when Geralt least expects it. It’s good to keep him on his toes, so he doesn’t slack off while killing his twentieth drowner that month. Complacency is the road to death, Jaskier knows.
Finally, he sees Geralt come out of the dark and he straightens, before changing his mind and trying to relax against the wall instead so it’s not so apparent that he’s practically vibrating with anticipation. Geralt seems focused and uninjured when he trudges up the path, but it takes him some time to put his attention on Jaskier anyway.
When he does, he raises his eyebrows, eyeing Jaskier up and down.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice rumbling.
Jaskier shrugs, smiling. “Waiting.”
“Waiting.” Geralt repeats, taking a step closer to him. “Is that what you call it?”
“Well, what would you call it?” Jaskier shoots back. He’s actually curious about what Geralt thinks of him, seeing him like this.
Geralt snorts, stepping even closer, until they’re almost pressed chest to chest.
“Lounging like a harlot, perhaps.”
Jaskier gasps, put-upon, even as he grins. “Well, I would never!” he says, putting a hand to his chest. “I cannot believe you would accuse me of such a thing, Geralt.”
Geralt looks amused, even as he takes a step back, seemingly to let Jaskier get moving.
“You shouldn’t be out alone in the dark,” he says. Jaskier merely waves him off.
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” he says, stepping closer to Geralt again instead of walking away. Geralt frowns, eyebrows drawing together in confusion when Jaskier puts a hand on his chest and slides it up. He feels something wet and sticky under his palm and realizes belatedly it’s probably blood of some kind. He wrinkles his nose a little.
“I was actually thinking that, perhaps… you should show me what happens when people like me do linger outside after dark?” he suggests, trying to inconspicuously wipe his hand on Geralt’s arm before sliding both hands over Geralt’s chest now, quietly annoyed by the armor because he would very much like to get a handful of Geralt’s pec and squeeze. His chest just fits so well in Jaskier’s hands.
He looks up to see Geralt watching him keenly.
“People like you?” he asks, and Jaskier shrugs, smiling.
“Yes. You know, people who think too much about their significant others and not enough about what else lurks in the dark.”
He’s grinning now, stepping backwards, and Geralt follows him step by step. He doesn’t look like he’s understood what Jaskier is up to, but it’s hard to read him when his features are shadowed by the night.
He reaches into his front pocket and eases out the vial he’s got there, holding it in his palm for a moment before tossing it at Geralt, who catches it and stops in his tracks to look at it, more confused than ever. Jaskier takes pity, though he doesn’t halt, because he knows he’ll need all the advantage he’ll get.
“I was thinking, perhaps, my dear Witcher, that you should get your reward for your hunt. If, of course, you can catch it.”
Jaskier can see the look of confusion turn to recognition, thanks to the faint light coming from a nearby lantern, as Geralt realizes what he’s holding. It’s not often they do it this way – usually, Jaskier will fuck Geralt, simply because it is easier. Geralt isn’t ashamed of his cock, far from it, but he’s thick enough that the prep takes longer than Jaskier’s patience lasts, and Geralt is ever so afraid to hurt him when Jaskier tries to urge him to get on with it.
Geralt’s head snaps up, finally, and Jaskier sees his nostrils flaring, sees him breathe deep. He can probably smell how aroused Jaskier is by now, his cock aching in his trousers, and he knows exactly what that scent tends to do to him. Geralt cocks his head, and Jaskier considers the distance between them, though he doesn’t glance over his shoulder to gauge where he is. Taking his eyes off Geralt right now would be a mistake.
“Then you better run, Jaskier, if another hunt is what you crave so badly.”
Jaskier could whoop in victory, pleased that Geralt has taken the bait, but he knows Geralt means what he says. Instead he spins on his heel and takes off. He can’t hear Geralt following him, but when he risks a glance over his shoulder Geralt is gone, missing from the spot he was just standing in. It sends a thrill through him, and he picks up his pace.
He’s torn between excitement and nerves as he quickly turns down an alley, weaving between the buildings. He has a destination in mind, but then he thinks he sees a shadow along a wall and has to spin on his heel, turning back.
He doesn’t know how long the chase goes on for, exactly. When he thinks he’s slipped from Geralt’s grasp, he’ll hear him, or see his shadow. Sometimes it’s almost like he can feel Geralt’s breath at the back of his neck. It makes his heart race and his palms are sweaty, but it’s a good feeling.
Finally, he knows he’ll get caught sooner rather than later, and he doesn’t actually want to be in the town square when that happens. He spots the stables and escapes into them, trying to be quiet so as not to disturb the horses. There are boxes lined all the way down one side, a narrow corridor lining the other. He scurries down it and slips into an empty box, crouching down in a corner, and tries to regulate his breathing.
He knows his heart is beating hard enough for Geralt to hear him from outside, but it doesn’t matter. The point of this chase is to be caught, after all.
He picks at the straw and waits.
It’s mere seconds before he hears Geralt enter the stable, his boots crunching against the floor, though Jaskier knows that is more for his benefit than Geralt actually being unable to keep quiet. He straightens slowly, not seeing well, but he can sense Geralt is there. There’s a faint source of light, and then Geralt appears, eyeing Jaskier up and down, eyes faintly glowing along with the lantern he’s picked up at some point. He’s not even winded, the bastard.
The stench of horse and hay is strong, and Geralt’s lips lift in a snarl to bare his sharp teeth, nostrils flaring like he’s trying to smell Jaskier beneath it all, sweating from the run like he is.
“Oh, wicked Witcher,” Jaskier practically purrs, “you caught me at last.”
“Jaskier.” he says, voice low. He looks pleased, regardless, setting the lantern in the windowsill and then takes a step into the box. “You escaped me longer than I anticipated.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Geralt, surely you know this.”
Jaskier doesn’t hold any illusions that he was able to escape Geralt through his own means. If Geralt wanted to catch him sooner, he would have.
“Hmm.” Geralt is inching closer and Jaskier keeps inching sideways, like he might escape back outside. He’s well and truly trapped, however, and it sends a spark of excitement through him, cock throbbing in his trousers. He knows a good hunt always gets Geralt going, as well, and he wants to get on his knees and mouth at him just to feel the hardness beneath his lips.
The distraction dooms him, and Geralt is on him, wrestling him down into the hay and pinning him down. Geralt kisses him, and Jaskier gives back as good as he gets, straining against Geralt’s hands on his arms. Geralt doesn’t let up, though, pulling back to give him a hard look.
“Stay.”
His tone is warning, and he moves his hands to Jaskier’s trousers, tugging open the lacing. Jaskier is quick to raise his hips so Geralt can ruck them down to his knees, and then tries to kick them off entirely without accidentally hitting him on the way. He’s not wearing his smallclothes, and Geralt’s staring at his cock, breathing hard.
“I don’t want to make it harder than it needs to be, to get what I want.” Jaskier supplies helpfully.
Geralt laughs around a groan, settling astride Jaskier’s lap and sliding his hands up his chest. “You’re awful.” he says, but he seems pleased, and Jaskier wiggles his eyebrows, then pulls at Geralt’s armor.
“Get this off,” he complains, “I want to touch you.”
He tries not to grind up against Geralt like this, even if he really wants to, simply because he doesn’t want some unsavory monster goo to get where he really would rather it not be. Geralt works his armor off in quick, practiced tugs, putting it aside for later. Finally, he’s just in his tunic and breeches, and Jaskier hums and drags his hands up Geralt’s thighs, squeezing and feeling the muscles shift beneath his touch.
Never let it be said he doesn’t appreciate a man in tight leather pants, unhelpful though they may be in the middle of a fight. Or fucking, because getting them off is a chore.
Geralt finally shifts off him and bullies his way between his legs, grabbing him beneath the thighs and hoisting them up over his own to spread him open. Jaskier wrestles with his tunic, choking and fumbling when Geralt spits on his cock and strokes him from base to tip. He forces himself to sit up so he can finally shove it off his arms, then drops back down, uncaring about the chemise he’s still wearing.
Geralt’s hand slides from his cock and further down, thumb pressing between his cheeks, and then he pauses, eyes shooting up to meet Jaskier’s.
Jaskier tries not to grin, even if he’s a little breathless, having Geralt’s touch so close to where he wants it.
“I thought I could give us a head start.” he offers.
“Hmm.”
Geralt pushes his thumb into him, and the muscles yield easily. Jaskier spent a long time in that bath, working himself open, knowing they would both be too impatient to spend as long on this as it would usually take, should he be dry. He really wants Geralt’s cock in him, just this once, and Geralt seems to want it just as much.
He sighs out as Geralt slowly fucks him, replacing his thumb with his index and middle finger, probably trying to gauge how loose he is.
“That’s good,” he grunts, wiggling a little to get Geralt’s fingers where he wants them. Geralt doesn’t yield, too busy staring at where Jaskier is clenching around his knuckles, nostrils flared and teeth gritted.
Jaskier grabs onto his arm, trying to still him so he can fuck down onto his hand, and Geralt groans.
“Fuck, Jaskier,” he spits.
Jaskier laughs, breathless and wanting, gasping in anticipation when Geralt finally pulls out the vial and unstoppers it with his teeth, spitting the cork aside so he can coat his fingers. A third adds to the other two, and he can feel the stretch now. Geralt’s fingers will always be bigger than his own, and even with four of his own it doesn’t compare to just three of Geralt’s.
None of it will compare to Geralt’s cock, though, and Jaskier shiver, excited.
He reaches for his own cock and strokes himself, clenching around Geralt’s fingers at how good it feels, and Geralt makes a noise deep in his chest.
“Come on.” Jaskier urges him on, panting a little. “Spread me open, I know you want to. Make me feel you.”
Geralt withdraws his fingers. “Roll over.”
His voice is clipped, short, and Jaskier watches him coat his fingers liberally before finally rolling over and pushing up onto his knees and forearms, bracing himself. The hay adds a little padding, which is nice, and he peers down between his legs, seeing only Geralt’s cock straining against the confines of his pants and the oil when it drips from his hand.
“Geralt,” he pants, eager, excited, and Geralt presses three fingers back into him, spreading him and working them in and out. Jaskier can only groan, dropping his head and closing his eyes. He feels overheated, even in just his chemise, despite the chill in the stable.
He nearly jumps when Geralt’s fingers brush over his prostate, fingertips pressing over it. His cock jerks, splattering slick onto the hay, and he has to grasp at the straw. “Fuck,” he spits, trying to rock back onto his fingers. “Fuck, fuck, yes, please.”
Geralt suddenly pushes his chemise up and presses his lips to his spine, hot wet tongue dragging down and over the small of his back as he starts easing a fourth finger inside. It’s slick, wet with oil, and Jaskier tries not to tense up. It doesn’t hurt, exactly, it’s just a lot. Geralt is crooning, mouthing at his back and it helps, distracts him a little.
“There you go,” he murmurs, “Just a little more. Feel good around my fingers, Jaskier. Gonna feel better around my cock.”
Jaskier nods rapidly, eager, and tries to relax into it enough to make it easier for Geralt to stuff him full. Despite spending so much time to prep himself beforehand, it still takes time to open him up enough for Geralt’s satisfaction, and Jaskier knows Geralt will know exactly when Jaskier is able to take his cock. His fingers keep withdrawing and coming back with more slick, until Jaskier feels practically boneless and the slide is easy, the sound gross and wet as Geralt fucks him. He doesn’t try to get Jaskier off, which is a blessing, because Jaskier doesn’t want to come without Geralt’s cock in him. He can’t get hard again on short notice, not like Geralt, who comes quickly and a lot and is raring to go again before Jaskier can figure up from down.
He’s a little grateful that Geralt’s stamina doesn’t include being able to fuck for hours on end.
“Alright,” Geralt murmurs, voice throaty, and slides his fingers out. “I’m gonna put my cock in you.”
“Please, yes,” Jaskier groans, struggling to find his own voice for once. “Fuck.”
Geralt withdraws completely, and Jaskier can hear him shifting in place, probably to get out of his pants, but he has to take a moment just to recover, rather than watch him pull out his cock. He drags his face against his arm, wiping at the sweat, only to gasp when suddenly Geralt’s cock is dragging down his crack, brushing against his asshole before withdrawing. He feels big, and Jaskier is salivating suddenly, almost choking on it when he swallows reflexively.
And alright. He knows he’s asked for this, but Geralt’s cock is still intimidating, no matter how much time Geralt spends fingering him open.
“Come on,” Geralt croons, thumbs rubbing soothing circles over Jaskier’s hips, “just the tip. You can take it. Just the tip first, I promise.”
Jaskier groans, head hanging between his shoulders, fisting handfuls of straw. He’s so open and wet between his legs, feels like Geralt has emptied the entire vial of oil into him, and the sound it makes when he clenches has him blushing even harder. He feels like he’ll never recover. Like Geralt plans to keep him loose and open for all eternity, ready to be fucked at a moment’s notice.
“Just the tip.” he pants in agreement. He tries to look back at Geralt over his shoulder, but Geralt’s hand is there, pushing his head down until his cheek is smushed against the hay, fingers splayed over the side of his face. It leaves him vulnerable, ass in the air, and he shakes a little.
Geralt keeps crooning, more noise than actual words, his cock bumping against the backs of Jaskier’s thighs as he ruts. He feels huge, and Jaskier both drools for it and fears it, gasping wetly as Geralt rubs over his asshole again, a hint of what’s to come. Geralt growls, his hand leaving Jaskier’s face so he can better aim, and then the cockhead is pushing into him. There’s barely any resistance, and they groan in tandem as Geralt stills, cock pulsing.
“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, hips rocking with shallow little thrusts, keeping him spread wide. Jaskier keens a little, pushing back to meet him so he slides deeper. Geralt smacks his hip in return, the sound sharp, and he jumps at the sting.
He said just the tip, but Jaskier feels like he can take all of Geralt’s cock, the slide sloppy and easy.
“Fuck,” he groans, drawn out, biting down on his arm. His own cock is dripping steadily onto the hay, like each of Geralt’s little thrusts are pushing it out of him. Feels like Geralt’s about to fuck the come right out of him, if only he goes a little deeper. “Please.”
He tries to clench and Geralt shudders and shoves his hips forward, fucking deeper into him. Jaskier practically howls. It doesn’t hurt, not when Geralt’s opened him so well, but he feels so full, a heavy ache in his core.
When he’s first gotten going, Geralt seems loath to stop, dragging Jaskier back onto his cock with every shove, keeping him spread so wide. Jaskier loses his voice, forced to gasp wordlessly. He distantly knows he’s drooling, feels hay sticking to him, sweaty as he is. His chemise is clinging to his body, and Geralt rucks it up further to drag a hand over his spine before gripping his waist.
Jaskier is pulled upwards, splayed over Geralt’s lap when he suddenly sits back on his haunches, and he moans when he sinks down as far as he can go, truly pinned by cock and clever fingers. He turns his head, panting against Geralt’s chin, and Geralt kisses him. His hand tugs at the chemise, then grips. Jaskier hears the fabric tearing at the collar but finds he doesn’t actually care when he’s released from the kiss and can only try and breathe, grinding his hips unconsciously.
“Jaskier,” Geralt mouths along his shoulder, voice almost reverent, and Jaskier clutches at his arm, his side, aching and desperate.
“Oh, yes, please.” His voice stutters as he keeps grinding down in Geralt’s lap with what little purchase he manages to get. Geralt growls, impatient, and shoves him forward again.
Jaskier manages to brace himself on his arms so he doesn’t go face-first into the hay, but then Geralt grips his hips and fucks him, and his arms collapse under him anyway. The pace is brutal, desperate, Geralt’s cock plunging into him at a rapid pace that Jaskier can’t keep up with. His moans are pitchy, and when Geralt suddenly shifts his weight and gets right where Jaskier needs him the most, tears spring to his eyes.
He scrabbles at the hay, shoved unceremoniously forward and then dragged back onto Geralt’s cock, and it’s good, it’s too much and not enough and terrible all at once.
His ears ring with the slap of skin on skin and surely someone must notice, even in the middle of the night. Surely someone must see them like this, Geralt taking him in the hay like some beast.
Geralt takes pity on him, or maybe just wants to feel the clench, because he slows his pace just enough to get a hand on Jaskier’s cock. The moan rips from his throat, hoarse and loud, pleasure singing along his veins, and calloused fingers drag over the wet tip, rough and too good. He comes with a startled yelp, spurting into Geralt’s fist, and it makes Geralt groan and press closer, changing to a slow roll of his hips as Jaskier clenches, pulling him in. He drops his hand from Jaskier’s cock to brace against the ground, grunting.
Even if Geralt is as sterile as can be, when he comes it’s like a fucking stud, messy and a lot, spurting into Jaskier’s ass with each forward thrust of his cock, keeping him spread wide. Jaskier takes it, and it feels like Geralt is fucking it into him so deep he can feel it in his stomach. He groans, his own cock still sluggishly dripping come like he can’t stop, not with Geralt in him so fucking deep.
Geralt pulls out of him with a squelch and Jaskier gasps, clawing at the hay for purchase. He can feel the cum dripping out of him already, like there is no more space for it to stay inside, and he tries to clench up to keep it inside. He fails and feels himself blushing miserably in embarrassment as it just keeps coming.
“Fuck,” Geralt whispers, hands on his ass spreading him open more so he can look. “Do that again.”
“Geralt,” Jaskier tries. He feels overheated. “Don’t make me–”
“Again.” is all he gets in reply, but at least Geralt strokes his hands up and down his ass, over his thighs, trying to be soothing.
Jaskier groans and crosses his arms, burying his face against them so he can hide, but tries to clench up again so he stops leaking. He fails again, feels how useless it is when more drips down, slick and hot. Geralt groans, fingers digging into his ass a little, and then there’s a tongue, dragging from his balls to his asshole and pushing inside.
“Fuck!” Jaskier spits, legs sliding further apart to accommodate Geralt’s broad shoulders. “Geralt, please, no–”
“A little,” Geralt rumbles, right against his taint, “just a little.”
“That’s what you said about your cock,” Jaskier gasps, moving an arm back so he can grasp at Geralt, getting a fistful of hair. “Fuck, fuck.”
Geralt laughs, a low little chuckle right up against his ass that makes Jaskier feel dizzy. Another drag of his tongue, and then he draws back. It’s a small mercy, and Jaskier lets go of his hair to allow him. His knees can no longer carry him, but before he can collapse Geralt takes hold of him and turns him over, laying him on his back against the hay.
Jaskier blinks up at him, still not having caught his breath, and Geralt hums. He drags a thumb over Jaskier’s cheek, wiping at drool and tears, his sweat, and Jaskier hasn’t felt this filthy in a long time. Not even two weeks in the wilderness can compare to this. His mind feels blank, and he can’t come up with words this time, can’t ramble like he usually does, and Geralt looks both amused and partly concerned.
“Did I break you?” he asks, settling in Jaskier’s lap at last, hands running over Jaskier’s chest like he can’t quite keep from touching. A nail drags over his nipple, and Jaskier jerks a little at the sting, too much now that he’s come.
“Maybe,” he finally replies, realizing Geralt will want a response, “yes.”
Geralt nods a little, but the response seems to erase his concern entirely, instead of amping it up, like Jaskier might have expected. “Good. Might teach you not to make me chase you like a predator going after soft prey.”
“I did no such thing.” Jaskier grunts.
Geralt pinches his nipple, and he digs his nails into Geralt’s thigh in response. Belatedly, he realizes Geralt is still wearing his pants, and had only gotten his cock out enough to satisfy whatever itch Jaskier had.
“We should go,” Geralt says eventually, and he seems reluctant. “We won’t be alone here forever.”
Jaskier nods and Geralt rises, holding out a hand. He helps Jaskier to his feet and catches him when his legs immediately buckle, gathering him to his chest.
“Fuck,” Jaskier grumbles, trying to walk with Geralt’s hands steadying him and to not feel like a newborn colt taking its first shaky steps.
He catches a look at Geralt’s face, and Geralt looks pleased, proud, clearly happy to have been able to reduce Jaskier to such a shaky mess. Jaskier whacks his chest. “First you ruin my clothes, then you ruin me, and now I have to try and walk back without falling, naked, and you’re laughing at my misery?”
“Yes.” Geralt replies and gathers Jaskier to him, holding him tight and pressing kisses to his neck.
“Don’t think I won’t retaliate,” Jaskier threatens, even as he leans all his weight against Geralt, trusting him to keep them both upright.
“I look forward to it.” Geralt merely says, scraping his teeth over one of the bruises he’s previously left. Jaskier shivers, twisting enough to look, and Geralt looks ready to wrestle him back into the hay, people be damned. He knows that, should there be no possibility of getting caught they would be going nowhere.
As it is, they do eventually manage to return to their lodgings, Geralt gathering their scattered belongings and drawing a cloak around Jaskier to cover him up. His feet stick out at the bottom, bare, and with the town slowly waking up they draw some long glances, messy as they are. Jaskier is sure he’s got hay stuck in his hair, and Geralt, the utter bastard, says nothing, face neutral, only nodding a little at the blacksmith when they pass his shop.
Usually Jaskier would complain that they’re not staying in a proper inn, but now he’s all the more grateful that they’ve procured somewhere to stay that is just for them. At the edge of the town, with no other occupant within, they can do as they wish and not be interrupted. Nobody wants to come knocking needlessly at their door when there is a Witcher within, even if he did save their town from a wyvern, and a pack of barghests before that.
Geralt ushers Jaskier over to the bed and sits him down, and Jaskier winces only a little. He’s still dripping, and it’s getting on the cloak, but that suits him just fine. It’s Geralt’s fault it’s happening in the first place. Like this, he has a first-row view of Geralt as he strips off and tosses his clothes to the side, naked for the first time since they started their tumble in the hay. Geralt is quick and efficient as he gets a fire going in the fireplace, and Jaskier ends up laying down on his front as he waits for whatever it is he’s planning, watching him with his head pillowed on his arms.
He’s asleep before he knows it.
When he wakes, it’s to a low murmur of his name in his ear and two of Geralt’s fingers slipping into him where he’s still loose and open.
Jaskier shudders, still half-asleep as Geralt’s fingers work in and out of him in little pushes and twists.
“Geralt.” he mumbles, and Geralt’s mouth presses against his shoulder.
“I got a bath ready,” he says, voice low, “but I couldn’t resist. You feel so good, Jaskier. Looked so good. Still leaking my come.”
Jaskier can only imagine how he feels around Geralt’s fingers, as loose and wet as he still is, and he shivers a little as Geralt lays down over him and presses him into the bed. He registers distantly that the cloak is gone, and the chemise is finally in tatters around him, baring his back. Geralt’s mouth keeps pressing kisses over Jaskier’s shoulders, his neck, nipping occasionally with sharp teeth.
“I don’t think I can,” Jaskier mutters, trying to drag himself out of the haze of sleep he’s still clinging to. Geralt is hard, cock nudging against his ass, and the thought of getting fucked again has him shaking. It’s daunting, but he’s not scared of it. Just apprehensive, so soon after getting split open and taken apart.
Geralt hums, shifting so he can put his mouth to Jaskier’s cheek, and Jaskier turns his head enough so they can kiss.
“I know you can,” Geralt mumbles against his mouth. “I wanna come in you again before I clean you. Wanna feel what it’s like when you’re so full, too full.”
Jaskier groans a little but nods, because while he’s tired some part of him is waking up, a tickling curiosity over what it might be like if Geralt just keeps fucking him and fucking him and filling him up over and over until he’s utterly spent. It sends a thrill through him, not unlike when he sneaks closer to a fight than what is necessarily safe, just to watch Geralt be more a beast than a man.
Geralt croons gently in his ear, even as he lightly kicks at Jaskier’s ankles to make him spread his legs so Geralt can settle in between. He withdraws then, sitting up on his knees, and Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut as Geralt removes his fingers at long last only to replace them with his cock. He slides in easily and presses Jaskier down with his weight again, content to remain so close and roll his hips in languid movements, barely sliding his cock out before pushing back in.
Jaskier breathes out, hitching little gasps. Geralt isn’t aiming for anything in particular, it seems, not trying to shift himself to push against his prostate, and he’s grateful for it. He likes when Geralt takes his pleasure and cares little for Jaskier’s own, even if it’s rare. Most of the time, Jaskier has to remind him that it isn’t bad to seek what he wants for himself. Geralt is an eager lover, in so much that he does his utmost to give Jaskier what he needs and puts himself second.
So Jaskier has learned to push, to prod at his sore spots and watch Geralt lose his carefully crafted mask, lose his temper and go halfway feral by whatever show Jaskier puts on. It tends to work, like his little foreplay in goading Geralt into chasing him, and the result is always incredible, bordering on too much, bordering on what Jaskier can take.
He groans when Geralt shifts his weight, fucking into him a little harder. He can’t properly breathe like this, but it doesn’t matter. He’s gripping the sheets, and one of Geralt’s hands comes to rest over his, tangling their fingers together like it’s all a soft lovemaking, even if each of Geralt’s thrusts are making his cock rub against the beddings with just on this side of too much friction, each push of his cock filling him up so good.
He’s keening a little, he realizes, unable to close his mouth, and Geralt grunts above him, pushing up a little so he can better fuck his hips forward, letting go of Jaskier’s hand to instead brace himself against Jaskier’s shoulders. It pushes him even further against the bed, keeps him still and unable to do much but raise his hips a little, trying to push back onto Geralt’s cock every time he withdraws.
Jaskier almost dozes a little, aware of Geralt fucking him but able to drift out of focus. It almost startles him when Geralt suddenly groans, hips stuttering, and then flooding him with come, the sound of it loud in the stillness of the room. He shudders a little, gasping when Geralt withdraws suddenly. His come follows in what feels like a gush, sliding hot and sticky down between Jaskier’s legs, and he groans, kicking his leg with what energy he can muster when Geralt’s fingers rub through the mess.
“Don’t.” he mutters, face heated.
“I won’t,” Geralt murmurs, leaning over him and kissing his ear, which is what he can reach when Jaskier rubs his face against the bedding. “Let me get you in the bath.”
“It better not be cold.” Jaskier mutters, curling up a little now that he can, even if it almost feels like his body isn’t going to cooperate.
Geralt hums and withdraws, his weight shifting off the bed, but Jaskier doesn’t bother trying to see what he’s up to now, shivering a little on the bed now that he isn’t being smothered by Geralt’s weight. Come keeps sliding out of him and he winces a little, knowing it’s going to be useless trying to clench up and try to keep it inside.
They’re going to have to destroy the bed, surely.
“Alright, come on,” Geralt says, suddenly by the bed again. “Don’t let it go to waste.”
Jaskier grumbles but allows Geralt to help him off the bed, and his legs are shaking with every step as they make their way over to the washroom, where there is a tub filled with water, lightly steaming. Jaskier appreciates it, he does, and he leans close enough to press a kiss to Geralt’s cheek, before allowing Geralt to help him over the edge of the tub and into the water.
He hisses a little, the water almost too hot, hisses even more when he has to sit down and it laps at his sore rim. But it feels good, too. His body is aching a little, after everything.
Geralt gets in and sits down, then eases Jaskier into his lap.
“Alright?” he asks, smoothing his hands up and down Jaskier’s sides, looking amused. Jaskier tries to glare at him, but he’s not sure how successful he is.
“I’m not going to be able to sit for days.” he mourns.
Geralt has the gall to roll his eyes.
“You wanted this,” he reminds him, grabbing a washcloth and soaking it before dragging it over Jaskier’s shoulders. “My reward, I believe you called it.”
“And what a good reward it was.” Jaskier sighs, pleased, because it really is good to have Geralt’s cock in him, once they finally work up to it. He can’t blame Geralt for wanting it more than once, nor is he going to pretend he doesn’t want it, either. Though it is fun to put up a token of protest, if only for how wild it can drive Geralt when all he wants is to get his cock all nice and wet.
“Hmm.”
Geralt washes him, dragging the cloth up his back and down his front, over his arms. He even takes time to clean between Jaskier’s fingers, and Jaskier squirms a little in his lap, impatient for something he can’t quite name. It’s nice, but it’s not what he really wants.
Geralt hangs the cloth over the rim of the tub and wraps his arms around Jaskier’s waist, suddenly, pulling him and kissing him. “I should clean you properly,” he mutters, nosing at Jaskier’s cheekbone next. “It’s only fair.”
“I suppose you should do that, yes,” Jaskier agrees, even if he’s not entirely sure he wants Geralt’s fingers inside him, knowing he’ll be sore and sensitive.
Then again, he’s always enjoyed things to be a bit on the side of too much.
Geralt smiles against his cheek, kisses him again and drags his hand down his back. He squeezes one asscheek first, and Jaskier lightly smacks his chest.
“Get on with it.” he orders, and then braces himself on Geralt’s chest when two fingers push between his cheeks to feel him out, dragging over his rim. They push into him before he can open his mouth and protest again, and he shivers a little and sags in the hold Geralt has on him.
It doesn’t feel bad, with them being in the tub, and Geralt slides his fingers in and out for a long moment, ostensibly to clean him out, though when he starts crooking his fingers and searching out Jaskier’s prostate, he knows Geralt has more nefarious plans.
“Oh,” he gasps, slumping forward until they’re pressed chest to chest and he can push his face against Geralt’s shoulder. “I don’t–”
“You can take me one more time,” Geralt mumbles, and Jaskier can feel he’s getting hard again, cock pushing against his own. “I didn’t get to make you come again.”
Jaskier pushes back, not entirely sure what his face is doing, because Geralt keeps pressing against his prostate every time he attempts to talk.
“Geralt!” he finally hisses, pushing down on his fingers. “Again?”
“Please?” Geralt asks, easing in a third finger. His face goes a little slack when Jaskier tries to clench down around the intrusion and doesn’t quite succeed. “I know you can take it. One more time, Jaskier. I know you can take me. I wanna feel you.”
It’s not often Geralt asks him so prettily, and Jaskier does feel the itch, his own cock swelling with renewed interest. Geralt’s cheeks are red, from the heat of the bath, from his want, and Jaskier can’t imagine he’s faring much better if all of this gets Geralt looking like that.
He nods, unable to voice all the things he wants to say. Geralt groans with relief, pulling his fingers out and pushing at Jaskier to make him sit up on his knees. He follows wherever Geralt wants him, and it isn’t long before Geralt is easing him down onto his cock, gripping his hips. It’s laughably easy, this time, no resistance at all, and they groan in tandem.
“Fuck,” Geralt spits, hips jerking and cock pushing up into him. Jaskier grabs onto the edges of the tub to hold on, gasping. “You take me so easy. So fucking sloppy, Jaskier, fuck.”
Jaskier can really just nod at this time, head falling back as he tries to fuck himself down onto Geralt’s cock. He can’t really manage it, but it doesn’t matter, because Geralt wraps his arms around Jaskier’s waist and does it for him. He braces his feet and thrusts up into him, pressing his face to Jaskier’s throat and scraping his teeth over the skin as he does.
“Geralt,” he says, voice breathless, not sure what he wants. Geralt moans, tongue dragging over the hollow of his throat. God, Jaskier is going to be bruised everywhere, he won’t be able to leave their home without people staring. He shivers, knowing people will think Geralt is a brute, but he doesn’t mind it when he knows that for all intents and purposes, Geralt is his. His brute, his Witcher, weak to his whims.
Jaskier could ask Geralt to jump, and Geralt will only wonder how high.
He wraps his arms around Geralt’s neck, shaking as they are, and leans in and kisses him, has to feel his mouth, his tongue, taste him even if all that is on Geralt’s tongue is remnants of his own come. It’s filthy, and so good, and he bites at Geralt’s lip.
“Slower,” he mutters. They’re spilling water everywhere, and it’s going to be awful to clean up. Geralt groans, brows furrowing, but slows his pace so Jaskier can muster the energy to rock in his lap. “Good boy.”
Geralt snarls and winds a hand in Jaskier’s hair. His eyes are lidded and dazed, but he’s attentive as he licks into Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier lets him and wishes they weren’t in the tub, simply because he wants Geralt over him and feel the way he tends to cage him in when they fuck like that.
But it’s good like this, better on his sore body with the water, and he slips a hand to his cock and strokes himself, leaning against Geralt for purchase. Geralt’s mouth moves to a spot just below his ear, tonguing at the spot and biting at his ear, unable to stop from fucking his cock up into him. He’s close, he has to be, and Jaskier wants to come before he does, just to give him something, even if he’s fairly sure he’s so loose Geralt won’t feel it.
It catches him by surprise when he does come. The pleasure rolls through him and he gasps and stutters in Geralt’s lap. Geralt pulls him down as far on his cock as he can and holds him there, watching him keenly, and Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, overwhelmed.
Geralt is almost silent when he comes, his groan low and drawn-out, and Jaskier feels his cock twitch, feels it fill him up again, leaving the whole bath a moot point. He can’t find it in himself to care, slumping and trying to catch his breath, blinking his eyes open to see Geralt’s head thrown back in bliss.
It bares his throat beautifully, and Jaskier has to put his mouth to it, panting against it as Geralt strains against the wall of the tub and finally, finally stills, sinking a little further down in the water. He raises his head, and the almost dazed look on him gets Jaskier laughing, as much as he can find the energy to, lifting himself enough for Geralt’s cock to slip out of him. It’s followed by what feels like an endless amount of come, and Jaskier is only relieved to be in the bath so he can’t feel the severity of it.
He grimaces, but he can’t actually get himself out of the tub, trembling finely in Geralt’s hold. He feels like a piece of wet string, useless and incapable of anything.
“Yeah, yes, I get it,” Geralt grumbles nonetheless, even if he looks like he doesn’t want to move a muscle. The water has grown tepid, though, and it’s filthy, and not very fun for either of them.
Still, they remain where they are for another few minutes, and Jaskier is close to falling asleep against him by the time Geralt starts shifting around and hauls himself to his feet, pulling Jaskier with him. Jaskier can appreciate his strength, if only in situations where he can’t do much of anything himself.
“’t was good,” Jaskier mumbles as he lets Geralt manhandle him and pat him down with a towel until he’s relatively dry. “Thank you.”
“Hmm.”
Jaskier squints at him, and Geralt’s mouth twitches, even as he herds Jaskier towards the bed.
“Gross. No.” Jaskier says, as he looks at the state of the bed. “Absolutely not.”
He’s slurring a little, he can tell. Geralt almost looks fond as he looks at him.
“Fine.” he acquiesces, and maneuvers Jaskier with one arm while grabbing some dry, unused blankets and spreading them out in front of the fire. Jaskier is honestly impressed that he manages this after having come three times in a rather short amount of time, but then again, Geralt is rather capable. Jaskier is fairly sure he can count on one hand the amount of times Geralt has been truly lost to the world while in his company. Usually when he’s injured.
“Come on,” Geralt urges and lays him down onto the blankets. It’s nice and cozy and warm, and Jaskier spreads himself out easily, stretching and wincing a little as his back cracks. He’s not exactly young, anymore. Not young enough to keep up with Geralt and his endless sex drive, at least.
Jaskier reaches for him and grabs his hand, tugging.
“I should clean up,” Geralt mutters, but he’s already making to lie down as well.
Jaskier waves him off. “Later. Sleep now. Stroke my hair.”
“Demanding.” Geralt tuts but does pull him close and get a hand in his hair. Jaskier hums, tucking his nose against Geralt’s shoulder. He feels like he’s earned some cuddling. He’s going to wake up and be sore all over and Geralt is going to give him the familiar I’ve told you to stretch and take care of yourself look he always sends Jaskier after they’ve had marathon sex.
Whatever. Jaskier didn’t get to where he is now by doing what he’s been told.