Chapter Text
Geralt woke to a warmth pressing along his side, soft and familiar. Jaskier. The bard has inched across the bedrolls in his sleep, curling his body into the broad line of Geralt’s. One arm tucked under his own cheek and the other sprawled over Geralt’s stomach like it belongs there. His hair smells of river water and the sun Geralt pondered.
“Mmf…g’night, my dear…” Jaskier mumbles half asleep, his voice a warm slurred sigh.
Geralt freezes. He’s fought drowners in pitch black water, faced down strigas with blood in his mouth and nothing, nothing, has ever made his heart slam like this.
The weight of that hand. That voice. The soft puff of his delicate breath against Geralt’s neck. It hits him like a punch as a familiar heat starts to pool low in his stomach, sharp and sudden, and his cock jerks hard in his trousers.
“Hhh…fuck!” he bites into his own fist to smother the sound but his hips twitch helplessly, chasing the bard’s warmth.
The orgasm was brutal, wringing him out in pulses as he clutched onto the bard, he couldn’t stop the low desperate groan that leaks into the night air. His seed spills hot against his stomach under the blanket, wetting the inside of his smallclothes.
Jaskier doesn’t stir beyond nuzzling closer to the Witcher’s heat as a little content smile graced his lips.
Geralt lay there in the aftermath, panting quietly, every muscle locked tight with the shame of it. His heartbeat rang in his ears. A rustle of leaves makes him jolt and for a terrible second he swears he saw a shimmer, like a mirror catching moonlight just beyond the treeline but when he blinks, it’s gone.
“…fuck me,” he muttered under his breath.
In a tower far from here, Yennefer sipped her wine in front of a scrying glass, smiling like a cat who got the cream.
Morning brought clear skies and fields stretching wide under the sun, birds singing and the wind tugging playfully at the grass. Jaskier was in his element. Geralt leads Roach along the path, squinting against the brightness, trying to think of last night. His small clothes may be dry now but the memory of heat and wet shame lingers, every step feels like a reminder, you came in your pants over your bard.
And Jaskier, gods Jaskier, is twirling in the meadow like the world exists to adore him. His lute slung across his back, hair catching the sun in honey streaks. He was singing some ridiculous traveling song about tulips and beer and the virtues of handsome Witcher.
The sound punches straight through Geralt’s chest. He grit his teeth, fingers tighten on Roach’s reins. He can feel the heat blooming in his gut already.
“Jaskier,” he growls, a warning he doesn’t mean.
The bard only spins in a wide circle, arms outstretched, voice spilling over the fields. “Who rides with hair all silvered fine, My Witcher brave, my…”
The note breaks on a laugh as he stumbles in the grass, catching himself with a grin over his shoulder. Blue eyes alight and his cheeks pink with sun and exertion. Geralt’s cock jerks painfully against his trousers at the sight, staggering to a halt, chest heaving.
“You…sound…” the words drag out of him unbidden, rough and broken, “…good… nngghhh…”
The orgasm tears through him so violently he has to brace a hand on Roach’s flank. His hips twitch forward, spilling hot cum into his small clothes in thick pulsing ropes. His head tiped back as a deep and guttural moan escaped before he could choke it down.
“Hhhhnnn…fuck…hhhhh…ahhh…”
His thighs tremble, vision blurring for a second. Every pulse feels endless and humiliating, soaked in want.
Jaskier turned mid spin, oblivious. “Geralt? You alright back there? You look…warm.”
“…stubbed my toe,” Geralt croaks, voice hoarse. He forces himself upright, cum cooling sticky against his skin and then, just on the edge of hearing, something like a faint feminine snicker drifts on the wind.
By the time the sun tilts low, they’ve made camp by a shallow river. Geralt busies himself with Roach’s tack, trying not to think about the persistent sticky memory of the day’s incidents but Jaskier, humming a merry nothing under his breath, starts unlacing his tunic.
“The river's clear as glass!” he calls, already stripping down to his shirt. “I’m going to wash off all this road dust before dinner.”
Geralt’s mouth goes dry. He keeps his back turned, jaw locked tight. “Hnn. Don’t go too far,” he grunts.
Water splashed and lLaughter drifted up the bank like warm smoke. Against his better judgment, Geralt glances. Jaskier was waist deep in the river, shirt plastered to his chest and his hair dripping in dark shining strands. His skin glowed in the evening light as droplets slid down his slender throat. He tilts his head back to wet his hair fully, eyes closed and his lips parted on a sigh.
Something in Geralt’s chest twists hard and his cock swells so fast it aches. He presses a hand to the tree beside him, fighting it, he can’t, not here, not again.
The first pulse steals his breath. “Hhhh! Nngghhhhhh gods…”
He bites his lip, trying to swallow it, but the heat tears through him. His hips jerk helplessly as cum surges from him, soaking the inside of his trousers in thick hot spurts. His head tips back against the tree and a deep guttural moan rips free before he can stop it.
“Nnnghhh…fuck…hhhnnn…ahhhh!”
It echoes across the clearing, raw and involuntary making the birds flee from the branches above in a flurry of wings.
Jaskier spins in the water, alarmed. “Geralt?!”
Geralt’s entire body was shaking. He wipes a trembling hand down his face, trying to look composed, even as cum clings wet and sticky against his skin.
“…bear,” he manages to grunt. “Scared off a…bear.”
Jaskier blinked then nodded slowly, clearly unconvinced. Geralt turned away, muscles tight with shame and lingering tremor. Somewhere far away, or maybe far too close, he swears he hears a soft feminine giggle and the sound of a cork popping from a bottle of wine.
Night fell soft and heavy over their camp, crickets hum and the river whispered gently. Geralt sat by the fire sharpening a blade, jaw locked and every muscle coiled tight. He hasn’t relaxed in days and of course, Jaskier notices.
“You’ve been awfully tense lately, my dear,” he says, voice all honey and quiet worry. “Are you hurt?”
Geralt grunted, noncommittal but Jaskier doesn’t buy it. He kneels right in front of him, gently tugging Geralt’s leg to check the cut he got from a drowner’s claws. His fingers are warm and tender.
“Tsk. You’ll scar if you don’t let me clean this.”
He dampened a cloth in a bucket then pressed it to Geralt’s thigh, soft and careful. Geralt’s cock jumped to attention instantly, hot and heavy against his trousers. He clenches his jaw until it aches to try and subdue it.
“You’re always so strong,” Jaskier murmurs, thumb brushing over his skin in a soothing circle. “My brave and unshakable Witcher…”
The words tore something open in him, Geralt’s breath shuddered, he could feel the pulse in his cock, the urgent humiliating heat building low.
“Jask…d…don’t…hnnn…”
It was too late. The orgasm slams through him like a sword strike, his hips jerked against nothing, cock spilling in thick, hot ropes into his small clothes and a low, guttural moan clawed out of his throat.
“Hhhhhh…ahhh…fhhhhhuck! Aahhhhnnn…”
He can’t stop shaking, trembling in the firelight as Jaskier freezes, eyes wide, cloth still in hand. Geralt grips the dirt, riding it out, chest heaving and his sweat damp hair clinging to his neck. When the last pulse ebbs he slumped down, mortified and sticky.
Jaskier, ever gentle, just whispered to him. “…oh. Oh, my poor Witcher.”
Far away Yennefer lounged in her tower, silk robe slipping off one shoulder, cackling into her wine glass as the scrying mirror showed Geralt collapsing like a man felled by love itself.
“Gods, he’s hopeless,” she purrs, brushing a finger over the mirror. “This is my new favorite series. Might need to start inviting the girls over for watch nights.”
She tips back her glass, watching Jaskier tenderly tuck a blanket over the trembling Witcher as Geralt closes his eyes, lips parting on a ragged involuntary whimper.