Well - hate isn’t quite the right word. When they’re on the road, fortunately, for Geralt, all he can smell on the road is the varied flora, Roach, and Jaskier. Unfortunately for him, Jaskier’s scent was so overwhelming that he can barely perceive anything else. Geralt has no idea when in their decade-long friendship - alright, he can admit they’re friends, if only privately to himself - he stopped noticing other scents in the summer except Jaskier, but he sure as fuck can’t smell anything else nowadays.

Jaskier was fastidious about hygiene, both out of his own need to always look “presentable” but also because he knew exactly how sensitive Geralt’s senses are - and fuck, if that small consideration doesn’t always send a pang in Geralt’s chest. So few people ever thought about him as anything other than a weapon, a monster, a necessary means to an end —

Geralt shook himself absently, gripping Roach’s reins a little more firmly as he led her next to him. She neighed a little and he loosened his hand, ignoring the confused look Jaskier shot him from the other side of her flank. It was much easier to think about Jaskier’s scents than Jaskier’s … Jaskierness, and his treatment of Geralt that frankly, made no rational sense.

In the spring, Jaskier smelled of wildflowers that he loved to braid into circlets, the wood of his lute, the sharp tang of the catgut strings.

In the fall, Jaskier smelled of warm apple cider, chestnuts that he stuffed into his pockets, and the damp, earthiness of autumn that he could never quite remove from his fine clothes even with repeated washings.

(Geralt carefully didn’t think about how he didn’t know what Jaskier smells like in winter and how much he desperately wanted to know.)

But in the summer - fuck. It was a whole other story. Jaskier in the summer smelled of clean sweat, and a heady, masculine musk - and worst (or perhaps best) of all, he smelled constantly of a spicy, simmering arousal. Jaskier always smelled of arousal - his baseline level of horny had become familiar, even comforting to Geralt - but in the summer, it seemed ten times worse.

It goes something like this — they’ll be walking peacefully along the road and a warm breeze will rush past. Geralt will catch the sudden rush of scents from Jaskier, and the combination will have him hardening so fast that he has started perpetually walking on the other side of Roach to avoid having to constantly adjust.

Jaskier had questioned him about the sudden increase in personal space, and Geralt, trying desperately not to say anything about Jaskier’s smell, had merely grunted something about heat and needing air. It seemed enough to mollify Jaskier, who hadn’t asked him anything else. And who seemed so blissfully unaware of Geralt, nearly limping alongside Roach, as hard as he was. It was all he could do to not start rubbing himself through his trousers.

They’ll be in an inn - not sharing a bed for once, since summer was a good season for coin - and Jaskier will roll over in his bed, snuffling into the pillow. Geralt will catch his scent as it wafts over from the other side of the room and instantly he’s hard, clenching his jaw and his fists and his entire body to keep from touching himself to the scent of his best friend. Some days, he’s successful, and he manages to fall to an uneasy, unsatisfied sleep. Other days, he’s not so lucky, and he’ll have to use all his training to stay as quiet as he can while jerking himself to a barely-satisfying finish. And afterwards, the rush of guilt is always a cold bucket of water down his back.

He tried to justify it to himself by saying it’s all fantasies. Jaskier would probably be thrilled to know that someone is touching themselves to the thought of him. What did you think about? Set the scene for me, Geralt, he might say. I’m an artist! I need details.Of course you touched yourself to the thought of me! How perfectly normal! Why, everyone on the Continent does it!

Geralt huffed out an incredulous near-laugh at the thought. Jaskier shot him a look across Roach’s back, but didn’t stop his fingers on the strings from where he was composing.

Alright, so maybe Jaskier wouldn’t quite say something like that. Though, to be fair, probably half the Continent had touched themselves thinking about Jaskier, Geralt thought darkly. Jaskier was renowned for his prowess - both in bed, as a lover, and out of it, as a master bard. Geralt certainly wouldn’t be the first person eyeing up Jaskier - and how could he be? Jaskier was a feast for the eyes - his tall, broad shoulders - often hidden away in his fancy clothes, but perceptible nonetheless. His open, beautiful face, with delicate features and his blue, blue eyes, in contrast with his masculine, furred chest and long legs.

Geralt adjusted himself again. His cock was heavy and swollen in his tight leather trousers, and ever step seemed to rub his oversensitive head against the seams. He feared another few minutes of walking might cause him to come in his breeches like a green boy, and Geralt pondered the option of stopping them for a “break”.

He’d been doing that a lot - more and more this summer, though Jaskier didn’t seem to mind the breaks as it meant he didn’t need to needle Geralt to get him to stop on the roads. Geralt would lead them to a clearing some ways away from the road, and he’d tell Jaskier that he was off to do some private meditation, or find herbs, or whatever reason he could think of to get alone. Jaskier didn’t usually question him, pleased as he was with the added stops in their travels, typically instead opting to take a nap at their campsite.

As soon as he was out of earshot of the campsite, Geralt would rip open the laces of his breeches and groan in relief as he brought his swollen, leaking cock out to the warm air. There was never time for indulgences — he needed to get his head clear and set himself back to paces as quick as possible, and he always jerked himself roughly and efficiently. It didn’t take much for him to come every time, not with how Jaskier and his scent always had him on edge practically all day, every day.

It was both better and worse the times they were forced to return to towns and cities. Geralt had lost count of the number of alleys, washrooms, and corners he’d brought himself off in this summer, always to the thought of Jaskier, always both a little ashamed and stressed and frustrated. Once, he was so horny he’d been unable to stop himself from grinding his hips under the table of a tavern as Jaskier chattered away at him from across the table.

He’d rolled his hips slowly, cock twitching against the inside of his trousers, and when Jaskier had licked his lips to wet them, he’d come untouched, spurting thick ropes of come into his breeches. Geralt had gripped his mug so hard it shattered, and he had no idea what his face had done but it was all he could do to keep from moaning his orgasm aloud. Jaskier had merely yelped and laughed, muttering about Geralt not knowing his own strength as he got up to get a rag from the barmaid.

Geralt had been silent the rest of that night, too embarrassed to even put of a facade of normalcy. He was afraid the minute he opened his mouth out would come a confession of Jaskier, I can’t stop jerking myself off and thinking of you. The only saving grace of this season thus far had been the fact that they’d made enough coin to not have to share a bed the way they often had in the past. Geralt shuddered to think about how it would go over if Jaskier woke up, sweating with Geralt’d cock wedged against his ass. At least he wasn’t aware of Geralt’s dramatically increased masturbatory habits thus far.

The worst was when he’d cleared out a rabid fleder from the lands of a lord, and they’d been invited to a banquet in celebration. Jaskier had insisted they go - Geralt, big celebrations are some of the most fun places to perform — he’d bemoaned, and Geralt, the pathetic, weak man that he was becoming, was unable to deny him. So they’d made their way to the lord’s estate, and Geralt had only been able to watch Jaskier perform for mere minutes before he’d slipped away to a dark hallway.

He pulled himself out of his trousers, keeping his senses out for any approaching party guests who would most certainly be horrified at the sight of a Witcher in full armor with his cock in his hand in the hallway of a lord’s estate. Geralt had stroke himself a little slower than normal, savoring the touch, relaxing a little at the feeling of security with the cold stone wall against his back. He’d imagined Jaskier’s hands — calloused, long fingers dancing across the strings of his lute.

How they’d feel if he was touching Geralt — an entirely unrealistic and impossible dream, but one he had allowed himself to sink into at the party. The way they’d catch on his thick, leaking head, dripping precome onto the ground. Or even better — if they were oil-slick, curving into his hole and stroking his prostate. Geralt had come so hard that his spend had actually landed on the other side of the hallway and he would have been impressed with himself if he wasn’t so stressed at the sudden rush to clean it from the wall before someone noticed.

So this was certainly an issue that was not going away any time soon, and he hadn’t gone back to a brothel since the time a few months ago when he’d accidentally moaned Jaskier’s name and the woman had been so annoyed that she’d kicked him out. He couldn’t very well tell Jaskier about what was going on — the very thought chilled him, and he shivered despite the heat. The thought of owning up to his behavior in the last few months and Jaskier laughing at him, or worse, being disgusted and then never wanting to travel with him again… Geralt clenched his jaw at the thought.

Why wouldn’t Jaskier, who was desired by more than half the Continent, be revolted at the thought of someone like Geralt touching himself to the thought of him? Someone who couldn’t offer him anything sometimes beyond hard jerky and a lumpy bedroll in the woods, who could barely understand his musical and academic ramblings, and only could contribute a few measly grunts in agreement. Someone who was scarred, and coarse, and who couldn’t even admit aloud his feelings without suddenly becoming nauseous.

Geralt rubbed the heel of his palm across his chest, soothing the ache marginally. He was half out of his mind with lust, dizzy with love, and still so fucking hot that he could barely think. A few hundred meters ahead, he could hear the sound of a river, and he sighed at the near salvation.

“River up ahead, around the bend,” he said to Jaskier, who stopped his mumblings and turned to him.

“Oh? Thank Melitele, it’s hot as fucking blazes out here. Geralt, I shall positively die of heat at this rate, and you’ll have to carry me to it,” he cried, winking at him and walking a little faster ahead of Geralt.

“Carry you? Not in this weather I won’t, I don’t need your body heat making me any sweatier than I already am, bard,” Geralt quipped back, eyeing Jaskier’s pert ass and hips as he walked ahead of him.

Jaskier turned back and Geralt snapped his eyes up to his face, guiltily, but Jaskier didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seemed to be eyeing Geralt back, sweeping his gaze up and down Geralt’s torso, shirt open to mid-chest — but Geralt didn’t dare hope.

“Come along then, Witcher. Need to move a little faster if you want me to make it to the waterfall alive,” Jaskier said, eyes crinkling, and Geralt huffed as he strode quickly to catch up.

——————————————

The river they’d made it to was, to both his and Jaskier’s excitement, one of the cleanest they’d seen this summer. It was a sparkling, clear blue, rushing along merrily over a flat, sandy bottom. Jaskier had taken one look before dumping his pack on the ground (setting his lute more carefully down, but only just), and sprinting to the riverbank, shucking his clothes as he went. Geralt had quickly turned around, sure that if he watched for any longer he’d come in his trousers even before he got into the river, and he’d instead busied himself with setting up a camp around an unamused Roach.

The spot they’d chosen was surrounded by tall trees offering welcome shade, and the ground was dry and patched with grass and moss. Hm. Might be a good spot to even stop for the rest of the day and just… rest, for once. Melitele, he was becoming weak and lazy. Vesemir would tan his hide for this - but Jaskier’s whoops of joy and obscene moans of relief echoed from the river nearby and he couldn’t bring himself to think of walking again in the heat after this.

“Don’t judge me,” he mutters to Roach, looping her reins around a tree. She ignores him, content to enjoy the shade and much on some sweet-smelling grass. Geralt carefully pulled off his boots and placed his swords near his pack, procrastinating as much as he could before he inevitably had to join Jaskier in the water.

“Geralt! What in Melitele’s sweaty tits is taking you so long? Come in the water!” Jaskier calls out to him. Geralt nearly groans at the innuendo and the thought, and as he casts his gaze over to Jaskier, he notices a waterfall a ways from him. He shoots Jaskier a furtive look to see if he was watching, but the bard is contentedly floating on his back in the river, eyes closed. Geralt shucks off his shirt, trousers, and smalls as quickly he could and hobbles over to the waterfall lest Jaskier get an eyeful of his bobbing erection.

He sighs in relief and pleasure as the cool water rushed around him, and he dunks his overheated body below the surface. The waterfall was just tall enough that he could stand under the spray, and Geralt groans as it showered over him. Out of habit formed from the past few months, his hands drifts to his cock, and he grips himself, mouth open in pleasure. So lost is he in the wealth of pleasing sensation that he doesn’t even hear Jaskier until he clears his throat in front of him.

Geralt snaps his eyes open at Jaskier, who has his arms crossed and a huge smirk on his face as he stares at Geralt. The cold rush of sensation down his spine has nothing to do with the water from the waterfall streaming down his back. Fuck.

“Uh —“ he says, eloquently, immediately dropping his hands away from his cock. The water was up to his stomach, but he knew that Jaskier could see everything beneath the clear, sparkling surface.

“Enjoying yourself, Geralt?” Jaskier asks, eyes sparkling.

Geralt doesn’t quite know what to say here. What was the protocol for when your best friend walks over and sees you blatantly jerking off in front of him?

Jaskier, upon seeing Geralt frozen, smiles wider and steps forward. Geralt shuffles back until he’s pressed against the stone under the waterfall, with Jaskier mere feet away. The water spills loudly behind Jaskier, who shakes some droplets from his wet hair.

“Um — I — I’m sorry you had to see that,” he starts, and Jaskier shushes him by placing a finger against his lips.

“Do you know,” Jaskier begins, and Geralt knows he’s fucked at the tone of his voice and the predatory look in his eyes.

“Do you know how many times I seen you masturbating this summer, Geralt?”

Fuck. He had no idea Jaskier had seen him. Geralt grunts incoherently, half-fearful of Jaskier’s reaction, half out-of-his-mind horny at how close Jaskier is to him. This close, he can see the flecks of dark blue in his eyes, the freckles across his nose that come out in summer. This close, Jaskier’s scent, heady musk, is almost overwhelming. And the scent of his arousal is so, so thick in the air that Geralt’s mouth waters at the taste of it.

“Tell me.”

He shakes his head in confusion.

“So many times. So many, many, many times, Geralt. And guess what I found out?”

Geralt wisely doesn’t say anything, but Jaskier doesn’t seem to need him to respond. He presses closer, until he’s mere inches away from him. If Geralt leaned forward, their chests would brush — and his nipples tighten and tingle at the thought. He longs to scrape his hands over Jaskier’s shoulders, the sweep of his muscled back —

“I’ve heard you call my name so many fucking times this summer. You always jerk off to the thought of me, don’t you, Geralt? Always have my name on your lips when you come, don’t you?”

Shit. This was worse than he thought. Geralt had no idea he’d been moaning Jaskier’s name out loud, so lost in his pleasure every time. Jaskier shuffles closer, and Geralt closes his eyes, too scared to look at him and see his disgust. There was no coming back from this, but he had to try. Had to come clean, even if it meant ruining the best thing in his life.

“I’m … I’m so sorry, Jaskier. I — I didn’t — it was wrong of me… to debase you like that,” he forces out, hands pressed at his sides to the wall. Maybe if he pressed his hands tighter to the wall he would melt in and become one with the rock.

“I don’t think it was.”

Geralt snaps his eyes open. Jaskier wasn’t looking at him with disgust, or even pity at his pathetic ineptitude with words. In fact — if Geralt dares to hope — his gaze is molten, heated. There is the faintest blush over his cheeks that was starting to spread down his neck, and he licked his lips as he gazes at Geralt. Geralt shakes his head in confusion. Maybe there was water in his ears and he heard him incorrectly.

“What?”

“I don’t think it was wrong of you. In fact, I wish you’d debase me right here. Or maybe I could debase you, if you’d like,” Jaskier replies, rather merrily, pressing closer, until their chests are touching. He pins Geralt’s hands up over his head, and Geralt is unable to contain his moan as his cock throbs against Jaskier’s thigh.

“I… don’t understand,” he says. Jaskier sighs in frustration, but his eyes are fond. He drops Geralt’s hands and steps back, abandoning the sultry tone of voice and crossing his arms.

“Geralt, I’m saying that I heard you jerking off all summer with my name on your lips. I’m pretty confident that you want me. And I very obviously want you, so hello? Are we going to fuck or not?”

Geralt stares at him like he’d grown horns. The phrase I very obviously want you was echoing around his head and he can’t move, can’t breathe with how he was processing it.

“Oh — darling, you didn’t know?” Jaskier breathes out, eyes wide as he realizes why Geralt is stuck.

Geralt shakes his head jerkily.

“Fuck, Geralt — I — you must have, I’ve been so obvious — of course I want you, it’s so clear —“

“It’s not — why would you?” he bursts out, something burning and tight in his chest like hope that he’s scared will get snatched away any second. Any minute now Jaskier’s going to say Geralt, I was just joking, who the fuck would want you?

Jaskier looks taken aback at this, but instead of stepping away, he shuffles closer, and inconceivably, places his hands on Geralt’s cheeks, cupping his face. Geralt closed his eyes to the gentle touch - only in his deepest dreams had he allowed himself to imagine this. Jaskier has touched him often - a friendly pat on the shoulder, an arm slung over his waist when they share a bedroll, a frantic fluttering of fingers when he bandages a wound for him - but never like this, never his face.

It’s a gentle caress; one he might give one of his many lovers, not one that he should be giving to Geralt, rough, monstrous thing that he was. Jaskier deserved someone whole, not broken. Not someone who - couldn’t even control their baser urges, who gave into his animal instinct again and again and again.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, seriously. “You - how could I not want you? You’re - you’re gorgeous, and you’re smart, and strong, and you’re so, so good —“

Geralt whines a little at the praise, cock twitching, and still, impossibly hard despite the conversation topic - always hard, always for Jaskier.

“You’re - the one that’s good, not - not me —“ he grinds out, panting a little as he grips the wall behind him harder.

Jaskier shakes his head vigorously. He opens his mouth to disagree, then suddenly switches tracks.

“Do you know why I didn’t say anything when I heard you saying my name?”

“Because you were disgusted by me?”

“No, dumbass. Because I wanted to give you time to sort through your feelings and come to me. But you never did - so here I am, approaching you, and telling you that I want you. I want you, Geralt. You don’t believe - you never see the good in yourself, but you are so good. I’ll keep telling you until you believe me.” Jaskier says firmly.

Geralt can barely believe him, but Jaskier smells honest, and familiar, and safe, and aroused, and fuck, if he can’t deny that that’s true.

He stares at Jaskier, who is gazing back defiantly, eyes warm and fond. He’s letting Geralt process things on his own time, and fuck if that doesn’t make Geralt’s chest ache the same way it does when Jaskier closes the blinds for his over-sensitive, potion-poisoned eyes. Or when he steps up and haggles up the contract fee for him, or when he brings Roach apples and sugar cubes when he doesn’t think Geralt is looking, or when he sings to himself along side him on the road.

Somewhere along the way, Jaskier’s presence in his life had become inevitable and familiar, as familiar as the heavy grip of his swords in his hands.To protect him was responsibility ground deep into his bones. To love him was animal instinct.

“I love you,” he says, clear and easy. Like the flutter of a bird’s wings in the clear blue sky, blue like Jaskier’s blue, blue eyes that are wide in surprise. 


He almost worries he’s misjudged everything before Jaskier is surging forward, crushing their mouths together.

“I love you so much,” Jaskier mumbles against his lips, tangling his hands in Geralt’s hair and smoothing his fingers down his neck. Geralt groans in pleasure as Jaskier rubs over a sensitive spot, and he jerks into Jaskier’s thigh once more.

Jaskier pins Geralt’s hands up above his head, and he licks into Geralt’s mouth once before nipping down his cheek down to his neck and sucking. He lavishes attention over the corded muscle, and Geralt whines, high and needy and shaking with energy as his cock strains against Jaskier’s stomach.

“You’re so hard for me, darling, aren’t you? Needy thing,” Jaskier whispers, warm and teasing as he grinds his abs against Geralt’s cock. Geralt keens, arching into him.

“So fucking hard. Been so hard for so long, all summer, haven’t you, sweetheart?”

And at this, Geralt groans, remembering the fact that Jaskier’s seen him. The thought of Jaskier watching - and maybe even touching himself, to the sight of Geralt touching himself - his cock spurts out precome, washed away immediately in the water, but Jaskier moans when he feels the momentary heat against his skin.

He brings his own cock up against Geralt’s and he grips them both - but his hand doesn’t quite go around both of them, so Geralt helps him grasp the rest of the way. They both groan at the slick feel of their cocks sliding together — even in the water, Geralt is so wet, leaking so much that their fists form a slick channel for them to fuck.

“Jaskier, fuck,” Geralt pants out burying his face in Jaskier’s neck and finally getting a long, long lungful of the heady mix of scents he’s been admiring from a distance for so long.

“Mm, so hard for me, darling, aren’t you? Like the thought of me watching you, desperate and hard for me, as you play with yourself?” Jaskier purrs, jerking them a little faster.

Geralt moans, unable to form words beyond Jaskier and fuck at this point.

Jaskier shift a little closer, pressing his chest against Geralt’s and the feel of his chest hair against Geralt’s taut nipples has him on the edge, tingling and harder than he’s ever been in his life.

“You like the idea of me watching you, Geralt?”

“Mhm,” he groans back, helping Jaskier grip them tighter.

“Well, I certainly like watching you - you look so fucking gorgeous, so good for me darling - you always go too fast. You jerk yourself so roughly, sweetheart - always look like you’re in pain — when we have time, I’m going to take you apart slowly.”

Geralt growls, low and animal at the thought of this, and he pants against Jaskier’s lips, pressing his forehead against Jaskier’s.

“You know, I saw you at Lord Elric’s,” Jaskier murmurs. “I only played one song during that round because I saw you leave and I just knew you were going to jerk off and I had to see it — and fuck, seeing you come so fucking hard that you hit the other wall…”

“I had to excuse myself to go jerk off after seeing that, and I was almost late to my second set —“

Fuck, that was hot. The thought of Jaskier watching him, as he played with himself, in public, unknowing - he had no idea how he hadn’t noticed Jaskier. Geralt can only assume it’s because he’s so attuned to Jaskier and the familiarity of his presence that he no longer registers him as a threat. That idea would in the past alarm him, but now it only causes his heart to swell and the wolf in him to rumble in pleasure.

He thrusts hard into their combined fists, and Jaskier groans. He brushes a thumb over Geralt’s sensitive, leaking cockhead, and Geralt absolutely whimpers, trembling and wet all over.

“You gonna come for me? You gonna be good?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt moans his assent incoherently.

“Come for me, then, sweetheart. You’re so good, such a good Witcher for me —“ and Geralt explodes as if trained to do it, pulsing out come over their fists that immediately gets swept away. His entire body feels like he’s been electrocuted and he’s almost numb with pleasure that tingles from his toes all the way up to his head. From his closed eyes, he still sees sparks of light, and past the rushing of his own blood and racing heartbeat he can hear Jaskier groaning through his own release.

“Fuck, that was good,” Jaskier says weakly, and Geralt huffs out a laugh.

“Next time you go to fuck yourself, I want to be there again,” he teases.

“Next time, you should fuck me yourself,” Geralt replies, and Jaskier groans at the words.

“It’s a deal, Witcher,” he says, grinning, and they help each other back up onto the riverbank. With the way he catches Jaskier eyeing his ass when he turns around, that next time might be sooner than expected. Jaskier meets his gazes, smirking unashamedly as if to say, can you blame me?

His fine clothes, however, were not granted the same treatment, and anything he had was so wet it would be better used for rags at this point. Not that he carried particularly many things on him when they traveled - much to Geralt’s chagrin - but they were his things, nonetheless. Jaskier felt very cross at having only currently only one outfit to wear, and one that wasn’t even particularly clean, at that. He supposed he could go try to haggle for some - but he was low on coin. Again.

Because, again, the weeks of torrential rain had soaked through even his lute’s normally sturdy, waterproof case. He supposed he was lucky entire thing wasn’t irreparably damaged, but the coin it was going to take to fix it would take almost all of what they had saved up. Which Geralt was also not pleased about, given that payment from the last several contracts had been quite lean. At this rate, he should have just gone to Oxenfurt and asked for a summer term teaching contract.

They’d met up again this spring just outside Hagge, at the intersection of the Pontar and other tributaries. Geralt had been in a surprisingly good mood, even volunteering a few stories of his contracts before they’d met without Jaskier needing to press him.

Or he was in a good mood, before the rain had started… and then never stopped. One would assume that a bit of rain would be no trouble to a battle-hardened Witcher, but Jaskier supposed the unusually long string of bad luck that had followed them would disturb even someone as stoic as Geralt.

First it was something wrong with Roach’s shoes, which had taken almost a week to heal. They’d passed through Rinde, which always brought up bad memories and left Jaskier cattier than usual, sniping at Geralt and picking fights. Then it was Geralt being out of the potions he needed on the wrong contract - meaning that a hunt that should have taken an hour, max, turned into a four hour one that also required bandaging.

That one, admittedly, had been partly Jaskier’s fault, having spent the last of their coin a few days before drinking his woes away at the tavern to try to forget that they were in Rinde. But really, Geralt should have listened to Jaskier when he promised he’d earn the coin back that night so that Geralt could buy reagents… and he would have, but he was just so tired and Geralt had insisted he go to bed…. it was all a mess.

Perhaps more confusing than their string of bad luck, was the thing that had blossomed between them over the last few weeks. Of all the times for it to happen - Jaskier had almost given up on anything ever happening between him and Geralt. That little place in his heart that leapt every time he saw him was locked away as deep as he could get it, bruised and battered from repeated beatings over the past, fuck, decade they’d known each other.

Geralt had come into their room one rainy day after checking on Roach before bed, after Jaskier had played for their supper - and he had taken one look at Jaskier and before he knew it they were kissing. The heat in his eyes, the almost angry, feral look on his face - fuck. Jaskier had brought himself off so many times since then thinking of that first look. He’d been so surprised. Melitele, he was still surprised.

After tumbling into bed together that time, Jaskier was fully expecting for it to never happen again. But it had happened again. And again. Every time something went wrong, Geralt would turn to Jaskier and raise an eyebrow in question, and Jaskier was powerless but to obey. It would have been the romance he’d been dreaming of the last ten years if it wasn’t for the fact that Geralt didn’t even acknowledge something had shifted in their relationship, when they weren’t fucking.

He was still short with Jaskier, still criticized his singing, still chastised him for his mistakes. Jaskier had whiplash from the mixed signals and his poor heart bled more than ever because Geralt still hadn’t said anything about his feelings. Fuck, if this was all he was ever going to get, then he almost didn’t want it. Not with Geralt treating him - Jaskier didn’t even want to think it lest it be true.

Though Geralt certainly hadn’t visited any brothels since they started fucking. Maybe it was just convenience for him. A convenient way for him to get out his stress and emotions, as much as he liked to deny having them.

Jaskier was always conveniently there. Jaskier will patch his wounds for him. Jaskier will play for his supper and wheedle the innkeeper into giving them rooms. Jaskier will wash his hair and massage his back for him when he’s aching. Jaskier will be a convenient fucktoy for him when he needs a tight hole to fuck, because Jaskier is too pathetic to do anything but beg from scraps for a man who won’t even look his way half the time.

He grips the edge of the windowsill tighter at the thought of this, glaring down into the empty streets of Novigrad below. It wasn’t Geralt’s fault that he saw convenience and took advantage of it. He was a Witcher, taught to use his resources to their fullest extent. No, it was Jaskier’s own fault, broken, lovelorn fool that he was. His own fault for seeing a roguish, hulking figure in the corner and deciding to follow him even after getting punched in the gut.

And honestly… the thought of giving up what little he was getting from Geralt is painful. To see Geralt in all his naked glory, tangled up in his legs and sweating and heavy - to see him, glowing and panting from pleasure, gold eyes molten and white hair falling out of his tie and framing his face - fuck. Jaskier was almost hard thinking about it. His chest aches a little, and he rubs the heel of his palm across his sternum. Always half-hard, always aching in his heart. That was how it was to be friends with Geralt of Rivia.

Geralt had mumbled something about finding a contract that morning, grunting noncommittally when Jaskier asked about coming along. Not that Jaskier expected him to remember his birthday, necessarily, given the general lack of fucks Geralt appear to give about anything.

But he was hoping that today would be a day they could have hung out together downstairs, or in the room, or anywhere, really. Jaskier had woken up in such a bad mood that he hadn’t even bothered to follow Geralt out. He couldn’t even go anywhere in the city with the rain and the lack of coin ruining any potential plans.

So he’d spent the entire day grumpily pacing between their room and the tavern downstairs, which was full of people dodging the dreary weather, and would have been perfect for performing, if not for the fact that his fucking lute was still at the repair shop that they’d stopped at yesterday as soon as they arrived. And now it was almost suppertime, and Geralt still wasn’t here, and he didn’t even feel like doing anything. It was a strange sort of restlessness - he didn’t want to read, or sleep, or eat anything.

He considers taking himself in hand for a sad wank, and his cock twitches in his breeches. Jaskier unlaces his trousers and pulls himself out, still staring out the window at nothing in particular. He strokes himself slowly, not particularly motivated to come - and he brings himself to half-hardness before giving up and tucking himself back into his pants.

At that moment, the door creaks open and shut again. He turns and sees Geralt, holding a black oilcloth bag.

“You’re back,” he says. “Almost thought you weren’t going to be back tonight,” he adds, a little pettily. Jaskier almost kicks himself for the added comment. Geralt looked to be in a decent mood for once; he didn’t need to be picking fights.

Geralt only raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t comment. He unbuckles his swords and lays them against the wall, before beginning to take off the rest of his armor. Jaskier sighs and crosses the room, unbuckling the pauldrons for him and helping him out of the chestpiece. They work in companionable silence and he opens the bag, taking out the contents and placing them on the table as Geralt changes into a soft tunic and trousers. To his surprise, there is a paper-wrapped package, a soft loaf of fresh baked bread, some cheese wrapped in wax paper, a couple of fruit tarts, and a bottle of wine.

“What’s this?” he asks, turning to Geralt curiously. “What happened to tough jerky being ‘enough for dinner’ last week?”

Geralt’s mouth quirks up with this as he slices the bread with his knife.


“You mean to tell me you don’t want to eat this supper I bought for us?”

Jaskier frowns. “It’s just weird. You never buy nice food for us. I have to buy pastries myself if I want them.”

“Maybe I just wanted some tarts today. Who’s to say?” Geralt replies calmly, sitting down at the table and spreading some cheese on the bread.

Jaskier isn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, but he is suspicious of Geralt. Maybe he isn’t Geralt at all. Maybe it was a friendly doppler in the shape of Geralt. His eyes flicked to Geralt’s chest, where his medallion lays cold and still. Or maybe it was actually Geralt and he is just having a reverse personality shift. Cursed, or something. Anything is possible at this point.

“What did you end up doing today?” Geralt asks, popping the slice of bread into his mouth. He pushes another cheese-laden slice over to Jaskier, who sits down gingerly and pulls it to him. Geralt even smiles a little at him as he does, souring Jaskier’s mood even more. Maybe he’d gone to the brothels and that was why he was in a good mood. The thought of Geralt with someone else burns his insides and sets him aflame.

“Nothing. Literally nothing,” he replies flatly, around a mouthful of bread. He pops open the wine and takes a swig straight out of the bottle. Oh, this is good wine, too. How the fuck did Geralt afford this?

“Where did you get this?” he voices his suspicions aloud, narrowing his eyes at Geralt. “What’s going on?”

“Why all the questions, Jaskier?” Geralt counters. “Can’t you just enjoy the food?”

Jaskier’s patience snaps like a rusted wire, frayed thin from weeks upon weeks of mixed signals and hot-cold pain sliding down his spine and sitting heavy in his gut. Maybe his patience had been hanging by a thread for years and this last month was what broke it.

“You know what, Geralt? Why don’t you enjoy the food? Why do I have to sit here and ‘enjoy the food’ when you won’t answer any of my questions? Why is it that I always have to just listen to what you tell me to, when you literally won’t even give me a scrap of information about anything?” He stands up, pacing around the room. Geralt watches him silently, eyes round, body frozen holding the bottle of wine in one hand and a piece of bread in the other.

“You don’t tell me where we’re going unless I wring an answer out of you. You don’t look at me after we have sex, you don’t watch my performances unless I drag you there, you blame me for whenever something goes wrong on a hunt. You don’t even admit we’re fucking friends, Geralt. Friends! Ten fucking years we’ve known each other and you can’t admit we’re friends. Your dick has been in my ass, Geralt. I’ve sung your praises up and down the continent, walked by your side, patched your wounds. If that’s not friends, I don’t know what is!”

Jaskier releases the hold he has on his hair, making it stand on end. He knows he must look wild and crazed right now, breathing heavily, eyes shining with unshed tears, face blotchy and red with anger and sorrow and pain. He can’t stop every word from coming out. 


“You only fuck me because I’m convenient and here. You only keep me with you so I can be your fucking squire and an extra pair of hands because I’m not good for anything else - and I know I’m the stupid one for trailing around after you like a fucking dog - pathetic, stupid Jaskier, always begging for scraps —“ at this point, he’s talking more to himself than to Geralt, and when he looks up he sees Geralt’s mouth open and his face slack. He can’t discern the emotion in his face - sorrow, pity - whatever the fuck it was, it makes him even more upset to see it.

And just like that, all of a sudden, he’s lost the wind in his sails. “You enjoy the food, Geralt,” he says, turning and walking over to the door. “I’m gonna… go do.. something.”

As he’s got his hand on the doorknob, he feels a hand on his shoulder and turns around.

“Wait. Don’t go, Jaskier,” Geralt says. He’s never seen Geralt as serious as this. His face is drawn, and his shoulders are slumped.

Jaskier doesn’t let go of the doorknob, but he doesn’t open it either. It feels like they’re standing on a precipice of something big. He’s so sick of the push and pull with Geralt - always push and pull, always hot and cold, always swirling around each other in a vortex of fate. He’s laid out all his cards this time - well, almost all of them - and he doesn’t know how he’s going to come back from this, if at all.

“Please. Let’s talk.”

He lets go of the doorknob and crosses his arms. He feels so tired. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Geralt say please for anything, and he wishes he was in a good enough mood to appreciate it.

“Talk, then.”

“Can we sit?” Geralt asks, guiding him back over to the table. He’s got a hand just barely at Jaskier’s elbow, almost unsure with how it’s hovering. It’s a strange experience, given that his experience with touch from Geralt is either rough manhandling out of dangerous situations or rough jerking of his cock when they fuck.

Jaskier sits down heavily.

He looks at Geralt. Geralt looks at him.

He’s said enough for a lifetime, at this point. Jaskier feels raw, flayed open and burning, like a piece of skin ripped from a stinging wound. Geralt has to be the one to make the first move this time. There are no more words within him, and there’s a strange sort of calm about him - almost catharsis at having exploded outwardly. At the very least, Geralt will see him for what he is. And at least he hadn’t revealed his heart in that outburst.

Geralt clears his throat awkwardly when it becomes clear Jaskier isn’t going to say anything. He takes a quick drink from the wine, before gripping it with both hands like a mug, more for something to hold onto than real thirst.

“Jaskier. You - you’re usually not so…”

Jaskier has no idea what kind of expression his face is making, but it must not be a good one because Geralt quickly shuts his mouth and reconsiders whatever he was about to say.

“Shit. I’ve fucked this all up.” They sit silently, looking at each other uncomfortably. Jaskier resists the urge to fidget, fingers linked above the table so tightly he’s afraid he’ll never be able to separate them.

“What is ‘this’? What do you mean?” Jaskier asks, no longer able to bear the tense silence.

“Your birthday,” Geralt says, a little mournfully. His mouth is tilted down, and he gestures to the remains of the food on the table.

Jaskier leans back in his chair at this in shock. So he had remembered. He couldn’t remember a single time when Geralt had even wished him a happy birthday, much less thrown a… well, party was a strong word for buying him bread and cheese, but by Geralt’s standards this was basically a banquet.

He opens his mouth and snaps it closed. He wants to see what Geralt is going to say.

“I… said I was going to a contract this morning, but I was actually going around getting these supplies. I… I wanted to surprise you,” Geralt forces out, when he realizes Jaskier is going to continue to sit in silence.

“I know - I realized that I haven’t - haven’t exactly been the best traveling companion the last few weeks,” he continues. Is this an apology of some kind? Jaskier wonders absently. He doesn’t quite feel like he’s in his body at the moment - he’s somewhere above it, floating and observing.

“I wanted to make it up to you.”

“By buying me bread?” the not-him voice says, rather incredulously. Geralt winces at this.

“I’m not… I’m not good with this kind of thing,” he admits.

“You don’t say,” Jaskier mutters under his breath.

Geralt ignores him and takes another swing of the wine before continuing. “I know I haven’t been kind to you these past weeks… and I wanted to make it up to you by celebrating your birthday with you. You always… you always take care of me, even when I… don’t deserve it.”

Jaskier opens his mouth to disagree, but Geralt holds up a hand.

“Please - this is - this is hard for me. Let me finish.” Jaskier closes his mouth and nods, sitting back in his chair.

“What I’m trying to say is… you’re… you’re important to me. You’re important - you’re my friend - no, that’s not…” Geralt seems frustrated with his own inability to vocalize what he’s trying to say. Jaskier would help him, except this is an entirely new conversation topic that they’ve never broached and he has no idea where Geralt is going with this. He feels sort of like being on a runaway carriage, with wild horses pulling the front, roof off, and no idea where they’re going next. They could be going off a cliff, for all he’s aware.

Geralt suddenly pushes the wine bottle aside. He reaches over and grips Jaskier’s clasped hands with one of his own, large and rough with calluses.

“I care about you,” he says, rough and honest. His eyes are earnest - so earnest that Jaskier almost can’t believe it, and his traitorous heart thumps in his chest as he remains statue-still.

Geralt lets him sit in that comment for a minute before continuing.

“This winter was… tough. I missed you a lot. And my family… they really gave me perspective on how stupid I’ve been. So when I set out to find you, I was - I was hoping to tell you that. That you’re important to me.”

“Then why?” Jaskier asks, breaking his silence.

“Why?”

“Why have you been so… hot and cold with me, Geralt? You’re your usual boorish self with me in the streets, but then you - you - you fuck me like -“

“Like I’ll die if I don’t?” Geralt finishes for him, knowingly. Jaskier says nothing, mind racing with confusion, off-kilter from this entire discussion and day and month.

Geralt sighs. “I… that’s part of what I meant when I said I know I haven’t treated you well in… well, maybe ever,” he says, more to himself. “But I want to be better. I just…” he smooths a thumb over Jaskier’s tense hands.

“I was angry at myself every time I wasn’t able to tell you how I felt. And I wanted you so, so badly that I just… snapped… and when you looked at me, so willing and smelling of lust and desire I couldn’t stop myself from kissing you and - and - I just kept coming to you.”


Jaskier doesn’t know how to respond to this revelation - or that apparently Geralt can smell when he’s turned on. That doesn’t bode well him from the last ten years.

Geralt doesn’t seem to sense his turmoil - or maybe he does, because he suddenly brings his other hand up and covers both of Jaskier’s with it.

“Jaskier.” He says, somber and serious. “You’re not a burden. You’re - you matter. You’re not - you’re not stupid, or pathetic, or a dog.”

Jaskier snorts at this, and finally lets the tears that have been welling up fall. Geralt reaches up with a hand and thumbs one away gently, and the soft touch prompts more tears to fall, starting the cycle anew.

“I’m sorry… if I made you feel that way,” he says, roughly. Every word in this conversation sounds like it has been pulled from deep within Geralt.

“We are friends. I'm sorry it took me this long to say that. We are - more than that, I hope, if you’re open to it.”

Jaskier snaps his head up from where he was staring down at the grain of the table wood. He meets Geralt’s eyes, yellow and familiar and shining star-bright.

“I know that you - you’re better than - you deserve better than this life. You deserve better than to have to - have to patch my wounds, or camp in the woods, or haggle for a shitty room in an inn. You deserve to be soft and full and safe in - in a court somewhere. To fuck someone who isn’t — who isn’t me.”

Geralt looks away at this. “I’m asking because I’m selfish. And because I… can’t keep on like this. It has taken me this long to gather my thoughts.”

Jaskier slips a hand out from his grip and reaches across the table. He raises it, and Geralt looks at him sadly, as if he’s almost afraid Jaskier is going to slap him, and instead Jaskier gently cradles his cheek.

“I want to be the one to patch your wounds, and camp in the woods, and haggle for a shitty room in an inn with you, Geralt. I don’t want to be in a court somewhere fucking some powdered noble. I want you, sweaty and unwashed - well, maybe washed - “ Geralt laughs at this. Jaskier gazes at him, his yellow eyes earnest, pupils round, and so, so familiar. The shade of yellow - to anyone else, seeing it means monster. To him, seeing the color means safety and home, and it’s with this thought that Jaskier decides to lay his final card down.

“But the point is, I… I didn’t know you felt that way. I didn’t know you cared. And I guess I just - I guess I just exploded. Because I’ve been in love with you for the last ten years, Geralt. All I wanted was to feel - feel needed. Not just a convenient bedwarmer, or another pair of hands. Or a nuisance.”

“You are a nuisance,” Geralt says, and Jaskier’s stomach drops. “But you wouldn’t be you otherwise. You’re not just a convenience to me,” he continues, fervently.

“I - you always take care of me. No one else does that. And you - I appreciate that more than you know.”

Jaskier returns his hands to Geralt’s, clasping them in his own and thumbing over the scarred backs of his hands.

“I’ll try to … try to be better about showing that I care. At taking care of you. Because you’re important to me,” Geralt says.

And with this, Jaskier realizes that he does take care of Jaskier too, in his own way - he gives him the bigger portion when they’re eating game out in the woods, he shares his bedroll with him when Jaskier is cold, he protects him from wild animals and monsters and disgruntled cuckolded husbands and wives.

Jaskier’s been decoding Geralt’s grunts and molding himself to his needs and communication style for so long. But maybe now, it was time for Geralt to try Jaskier’s way of doing things.

“That’s all I can ask for,” Jaskier whispers, shuffling his chair a little closer to Geralt’s.

“You’re important to me,” says Geralt again, as though there is nothing else he can say. His eyes flick down to Jaskier’s lips, and he barely gets out a raspy, “Jaskier, can I —“ before Jaskier is surging out of his chair and in Geralt’s lap, kissing him.

He licks into Geralt’s mouth, sucking on his plush lips and knocking his forehead into Geralt’s with how desperately he wants to be connected to him. For his part, Geralt isn’t any better, furiously grabbing at Jaskier everywhere he can reach. His large, warm hands roam all over Jaskier’s back muscles, his sides, his broad shoulders, before finally settling on his ass. He grabs and kneads his ass, and Jaskier moans in pleasure into Geralt’s mouth, threading a hand into Geralt’s hair behind his head.

“Fuck, Jask,” Geralt rasps, nipping at his lip before nosing over to his ear and down his neck. He sucks at the side of Jaskier’s neck, bruising the skin. Jaskier groans whorishly as he grinds his cock harder against Geralt’s - his breeches are becoming more and more uncomfortable where they’re strained out against the front of his groin, and he pulls away from Geralt reluctantly to stand up. Geralt watches him unlace his trousers with half-lidded eyes, licking his swollen lips and moving to take his own off.

“Let me help you,” growls Geralt, shuffling forward and helping Jaskier out of his shirt. He drapes it carefully over the chair, but gives much less regard to his own and instead just rips it over his head and tossing it onto the ground.

When they’re down to just their smalls, Jaskier surges forward and throws his arms around Geralt’s neck, slotting their mouths and hips together at the same time. With how close they are in height, it’s a perfect match and the slide of their cocks through the thin fabric of their smalls is deliciously wet. Fuck, he loves how wet Geralt gets - there’s a huge wet spot on the front of Geralt’s smallclothes already, soaked with his precome.

“Where - where should we do this?” Jaskier pants out into his mouth, kneading and massaging the thick muscles of Geralt’s shoulders and neck.

“Where do you want me, little lark?” Geralt hums, low and rough like gravel into his lips - and oh, that’s new, that nickname, fuck - Jaskier’s cock throbs, clearly into it, and he feels more than sees Geralt’s smirk.

“I - I don’t know, anywhere is good,” says Jaskier, and he hisses when Geralt purposely grinds a little harder into him.


“Anywhere you want. It’s your special day,” Geralt growls, reminding him. He walks Jaskier backwards into the wall until he’s pressed against it, the cool surface of the wood a tantalizing contrast against his heated skin.

Jaskier turns his head to the left, moaning as Geralt ducks under his chin to kiss again at his neck, and it’s then that he notices the rain is clearing up.

Geralt sees where he’s looking, and snorts. “You want us to fuck at the window, little lark? Want everyone to see you taking this cock like the good boy that you are? Want everyone to see how much you mean to me?”

Jaskier keens, cock twitching and leaking out precome from the rosy head.

“You want everyone to see how you’re mine?”

“Yesss,” Jaskier hisses out, ripping off his smalls and pulling Geralt’s down too. He hooks a leg around Geralt’s waist and sighs in relief as their cocks rub together between their stomachs.

“They’ll see that I’m yours, too, little lark, do you like that?” Geralt asks - and it’s almost an afterthought. It’s a little unsure - in stark contrast to the heat that belied his previous sentence, and Jaskier looks over to him. Geralt’s biting his lip, panting a little, but there’s a question in his eyes.

“I do. I do like that quite a lot. I like being yours, Witcher,” he replies, smiling at Geralt, eyes crinkling. He’s never felt this light in his life - they might be on a cliff, but they’re stepping off of it together. That much he felt sure of, this time.

Geralt growls in pleasure, low and animal, and the sound sends a shiver down his spine and a twitch in his cock.

“Hands on the ledge, then, Jask, and wait for me.” Jaskier braces his hands on the sill, legs slightly apart. They’re a couple of stories up, and the open window looks out onto the rooftops of the buildings across the street from them.

The rain is slowing to a drizzle, and the setting sun breaks out from the clouds on the horizon, casting a pink and orange glow on the street. Down below, Novigrad citizens are emerging from various houses and stores, their chatter muffled and indistinct. If someone looked up, they’d see his torso, furred and blushing a rosy pink, leaning a little out the window.

The summer air is normally hot and humid this close to the ocean, but the thunderstorm has left behind a coolness to it that calms the stickiness of his body. A breeze floats through the air, blowing his hair a little and causing his nipples to tighten and pucker from where he’s barely leaning out of the window. His cock drips onto the floor between where his legs are spread, and he ruts against the wall under the will just a little, to take the edge off.

“Beautiful.” He hears Geralt’s quiet murmur from behind him, and he turns slightly to see Geralt standing behind him, holding the bottle of oil he’d gone to retrieve. Geralt’s eyes are crinkled, and he looks younger than his ageless, aging face normally shows. His gaze sweeps slowly along Jaskier’s body, from his hair all the way down his spine and ass, down his long, muscled legs to the ground.

And for once in his life, Jaskier doesn’t feel judged - he feels warm and loved and appreciated. He doesn't feel like he has to put on a performance for anyone - he just feels accepted. The difference with which Geralt handles him now - how he expresses himself now during sex, now that all their thoughts and emotions have been aired - is such a night and day from how things used to be that Jaskier’s heart aches with how good it is. It’s so fucking good. Geralt is so good.

“Gonna fuck me, Witcher?” Jaskier asks, wiggling his ass a little teasingly.

Geralt hms at this, stepping close to him and sliding one finger down his spine. Jaskier shivers and grips the windowsill a little harder, rutting just a bit more against the wall. Fuck, he’s so hard.

He hears the pop of a bottle being uncorked, and Geralt presses an oil-slick finger to his entrance. He rubs the pad of his finger over the hole, gentle and warm and teasing. Jaskier grunts a little in impatience, and with a chuckle, Geralt acquiesces and slips it in slowly. They both moan, long and low at this. It has been a little while, and Jaskier feels it, especially when Geralt slips another finger in and begins to stretch him.

“Fuck, Geralt,” he pants out, fingers flexing on the sill, mouth open as he gazes out onto the street. Geralt rumbles in agreement, adding another finger, fucking Jaskier slow like molasses, as if he has all the time in the world. Jaskier braces his feet on the ground, spreading his legs a little wider, and fucks back a little harder onto Geralt’s hand.

“I’m - fuck - I’m ready, please — need your cock, Geralt,” he moans, and the answering growl he receives sends another shiver down his spine. Geralt carefully pulls out his fingers, and Jaskier feels the emptiness like a bucket of water, hole aching to be filled, clenching around nothing.

He hears Geralt slicking himself up behind him, and as he presses his thick cock to Jaskier’s rim, Jaskier can feel the wetness of his precome and oil dripping all down his ass to his thighs. He whines, needy and half out of his mind with desire. His back half is sweating, sticky and overheated from the warmth of Geralt pressed closed to him, but his front half is cool.

They both groan when Geralt sinks in, and Jaskier stuffs a fist in his mouth to keep from screaming when he sheaths himself fully. Fuck, he’s so fucking huge. He feels Geralt sink his teeth in to his shoulder to keep from the same, and his cock spurts out more precome onto the ground beneath him. “So good for me, little lark - always so good. Fuck, Jaskier.”

“Fuck, fuck - Geralt, please!” he cries out, muffled around his fist, and Geralt grunts behind him as he begins to fuck Jaskier harder. He’s got his hands tight around Jaskier’s hips, but he drops one around to his front and begins to jerk him in time with his thrusts.

Jaskier’s sobbing into his fist at this point, wet all over, nipples tingling from the cool air; his other hand still gripping the windowsill. He looks out onto the setting sun, and the juxtaposition of the muffled crowds below and distant music with the obscene sound of their fucking has him so hard he bites his fist to keep from exploding right then.

Geralt is so wet that his precome is dripping down the back of Jaskier’s thighs, and on the next stroke out he gathers some from his cock and uses it to jack Jaskier a little faster. Jaskier feels tears leak out of his eyes at this - he fucks his cock into the tight, wet clutch of Geralt’s fist and it’s all he can do to keep his hand on the sill and take it.

It’s so, so good - and if he just was able to move a little - on the next pass in, Geralt nails his prostate straight on, and Jaskier’s eyes roll back in his head from the wave of pleasure.

“There?” Geralt has the audacity to grunt out in amusement, and all Jaskier can say in reply is an unintelligible gurgle of pleasure. And fuck, if that wasn’t enough of an answer for Geralt, the menace, who starts to hit that spot every next stroke with unerring precision.

They continue like this for a while - maybe hours, maybe minutes, maybe days. For all Jaskier knows, he’s died and this is his afterlife - his punishment, or his heaven, maybe, to take Geralt’s thick fucking cock for the rest of his days. On the next thrust in, however, Geralt slams himself in as deep as he can get and grinds against Jaskier’s prostate - not pulling out, just grinding against him and stimulating that spot as much as he can and Jaskier is only human -

He comes in thick ropes, painting the wall below the sill, the ground, and Geralt’s fist. He can hear himself making a strange, animalistic noise, but he can’t stop himself as he jerks and thrashes, caught between Geralt’s cock and his solid body and the open window. His eyes are open but there’s a grey haze over everything, and spots dance in his vision. Fuck, it feels like his soul just came out of his body.

Distantly, he can hear Geralt groaning in pleasure as he surrenders to the clenching of Jaskier’s hole, coming hard and painting the insides of his walls with thick ropes of come. The flood of warmth is an added layer of pleasure, and he jerks again, riding out more aftershocks on the tails of the waves of his orgasm.

The grey clears from his vision as he comes back down, panting like he ran a race, and he hears Geralt behind him doing the same. Geralt slowly slides himself out, and he stuffs two fingers back into Jaskier’s gaping hole, plugging him and keeping his come inside. They both moan at this - Geralt from the sight of his come dripping out from Jaskier; Jaskier from the feel of Geralt’s thick fingers in his sensitive hole.

He feels, more than hears Geralt kneel down, and he jumps when he feels the swipe of Geralt’s tongue over his hole.

“Fuck!” he shrieks, clapping a hand over his mouth and glancing down to see if anyone heard. No one looks up, but his heart is racing with the thrill of it - the face that anyone could look up and see him hanging partly out of the window - and they’d know something was happening, but not what.

They wouldn’t know that Geralt had his face buried between his cheeks, gently licking over the puffy, swollen rim of Jaskier’s used hole. They wouldn’t see Geralt under the sill, spreading Jaskier’s cheeks and licking into him, sucking his own come out and moaning with pleasure at the taste.

Jaskier’s cock twitches valiantly at this, but doesn’t get hard again, which he thinks is fair, given that he just came harder than he ever had in his entire fucking life barely a minute earlier. Geralt finishes licking him and stands up, humming in satisfaction. He turns Jaskier around to face him, face sweaty and glowing, hair sticking to his neck. He’s never looked more of a wreck. He’s gorgeous.

His eyes are warm, pupils huge as they take in Jaskier’s front, streaked with come, and he swipes a finger through the mess and brings it to his mouth. Fuck.

“Mercy, Geralt, please — I am but a humble bard,” Jaskier begs, placing his hands on Geralt’s shoulders and pushing him back to the table. Geralt makes a noise of amusement and smacks his lips. He plops down, naked and unashamed, on the chair and grabs a fruit tart, offering it to Jaskier who declines in favor of taking a huge swig of wine.

Jaskier’s eyes catch on the paper-wrapped package, still sitting on the corner of the table, just barely covered by the oilcloth.

“What’s this?” he asks, corking the wine and picking it up.

“Oh - uh, it’s a present. For your birthday,” Geralt says around a mouthful of tart, looking a little embarrassed. He raises an arm and scratches the back of his head, not quite meeting Jaskier’s eyes.

“A present? I thought you just gave me my present,” Jaskier teases, swatting Geralt’s arm when he rolls his eyes.

He carefully unties the twine and shucks off the brown paper, revealing a thick, leather bound notebook. The front has a square cut out from the leather, with a thin pane of glass embedded in it, and behind the glass is a pressed buttercup, giving it the effect of a window on the cover.

Jaskier presses a shaking hand to his mouth, and looks at Geralt, who can’t quite meet his eyes.

“What — Geralt, what?”

“I… I got the idea over the winter and I had it made — sent a messenger hawk down the mountains to Novigrad, so that the bookbinder could make it for me and I would just have to pick it up.”

Jaskier gently opens the cover with trembling fingers, barely touching it as if it would disappear in a puff of smoke. To his surprise, it’s not just an ordinary notebook - the pages are lined normally on one half, and when he turns the page, the back of the page is formatted like sheet music, with the staves printed in thin, clear ink.

He ruffles through the rest of the book and it’s like this. Some of the normal-lined journal pages are blank, with a border in them as if something is meant to be sketched there. In the center of the book is a cornflower-blue ribbon. And when he flips to the back, he sees Geralt’s script there, spiky and thin and familiar: to walking the Path with my best friend for many more days.

He looks at Geralt in question, who finally meets his eyes.

“It’s a travel journal, but one especially for you. There’s places for you to write, and places for you to compose, and…” he pauses. “Places for me to draw for you - monsters, herbs, whatever it is you want me to record for you. Because you’re important to me. Because I want you to walk the Path with me, if you’ll have me.”

Jaskier doesn’t know whether to cry or kiss him, so he opts to do both.

“Of course I will, Geralt. There’s no getting rid of me now,” he whispers into his lips.

They hear Ciri squeak, the sound of splashing, and frantic rustling.

“Uh, I-I - just a second,” she calls out, voice shaky as she scrambles around her room. Geralt snorts at her weak attempt to seem nonchalant.

Eskel’s about to knock again when the door suddenly flies open, Ciri standing there in a hastily-tied robe, dripping water all over the ground. Her hair is wet, her cheeks are rosy with arousal and embarassment, and behind her, they can see the bathtub in her room half full with water still sloshing around.

“I was just washing up,” she attempts.

“Really, Ciri?” Geralt says, brow raised at her. “We can smell you down the hall. Cut the act.”

Ciri grumbles something about stupid witcher senses as she opens the door and allow them in. Eskel closes and locks the door behind him - not that he thinks Vesemir or Lambert would bother them, but he doesn’t want to take any chances.

“So,” he starts. leaning against the door with his arms crossed. Geralt moves to sit on Ciri’s bed and begins taking off his boots.

“So,” Ciri mimics, leaning awkwardly against the tub with her arms crossed. Geralt hums, clearly amused at all the proceedings but making no move to help Eskel out.

“Geralt told me what happened last night.”

Ciri’s eyes widen a little, gauging his mood, and finding it to be good, she flicks her gaze down to the front of his trousers which still have a huge wet patch on them.

“And you guys had some fun while he told you about it?” she asks, coming out of her shell a little and deciding to be on the offensive.

Eskel starts in surprise. He hadn’t known that Ciri had known about him and Geralt. Or rather, that she would be observant enough to tell. He sees the shaking of Geralt’s shoulders out of the corner of his eye, the bastard laughing silently in the corner as he strips out of his wet clothes.

“You know about us?” he asks curiously, scratching the back of his head a little awkwardly.

Ciri rolls her eyes. “Your rooms are down the hall from mine - I may not have witcher senses, but I can definitely hear you during the night…” She wrings out her wet hair in the tub, water draining out in thick streams into the basin.

The slight cockiness in her voice is belied by the tenseness with which she’s holding herself. Eskel runs his eyes over the shape of her body, her long legs pressed tight together under the robe, and he wants.

“Is that what you’ve been touching yourself to then, little cub? The sound of us fucking down the hall? Did you come on your fingers wishing that it was us filling your slutty hole?” he husks out, hands glued to the wood of the door behind him. If he let go, he was certain he was going to tackle her. His cock is straining once more and the feel of his still-wet breeches against his bare cock as he slowly shifts his hips - fuck.

She squeaks a little at this, one hand gripping the edge of the tub and one hand gripping her robe as if she’s afraid it’ll fly open at a moment’s notice.

“Y-yeah, I did, Eskel,” she admits breathlessly, holding his gaze shyly. Neither of them make a move to go to the other, stuck in the revelation.

A cough from the bed breaks the silence. Both of them swivel their heads around to Geralt, who is laying on the bed nude, clothes in a heap on the ground. He’s got one arm behind his head and the other gripping his hard cock, stroking it slowly as he looks at them.

“While the two of you sort out your thoughts, I’m going get started,” he says in amusement, jerking himself slowly and rubbing over his rosy head.

Eskel’s mouth waters at the sight of him, laid out like a feast. Geralt is gorgeous like this, white hair fur-soft and splayed out around him like a halo. His golden eyes are warm and shining in the candlelight, and Eskel wants desperately to kiss him. To kiss down his scarred body and suck his cock, to fuck him and be fucked - and so he strides over, shucking off his clothes as he does and leaving a trail all over the ground.

He leaps into the bed and climbs on top of Geralt, their hard cocks brushing together as he presses his mouth to Geralt’s.

“You taste so good, wolf,” Eskel moans into his lips, and Geralt hums in agreement as he licks into Eskel’s mouth.

“Can I fuck you?” he asks, smoothing a hand down Geralt’s chest and rubbing his stiff peaks.

“Yes,” Geralt husks out, and Eskel gets up reluctantly from the bed to walk over to the tub where Ciri’s still standing, frozen and watching them with interest. The scent of her slick is so strong he’s drooling with it, and her blush has spread from her cheeks down the sliver of her chest that he can see from the opening of her robe. Her gaze is stuck on the hard length of his cock, jutting out massive and obscene from his body as it droops from its own weight.

He bypasses Ciri entirely to reach behind her and grab the bath oil she was using and turns back to Geralt, who has very obviously been admiring his ass this entire time.

Eskel pries the cork open with a pop and pours a generous amount of oil onto his fingers, warming it slightly by rubbing them together as he sets the bottle aside on the bedside table.

“Like this or on your front?” he asks, leaning over Geralt.

“Why not make Ciri decide?” Geralt asks, amused, pupils blown huge.

They both look over to her. She’s loosened the grip on her robe and now has both hands behind her gripping the edge of the tub, legs pressed together in desperation as her hips grind against nothing. Her eyes flick over the two of them continuously, as though she has no idea where to look first.

“Like this?” she asks, after a moment, looking to Geralt for approval. Both him and Eskel moan at her request and Geralt nods, spreading his legs wider for Eskel, who kneels in between him.

Eskel presses an oil-slicked finger up against Geralt’s hole, rubbing the pads of his finger over it gently. With his other hand, he strokes firmly, but slowly up Geralt’s cock, taking care to massage the tip and rubbing just under the head. Geralt is groaning almost continuously at this, hands tight and gripping the sheets so hard Eskel is worried he’s going to rip them.

He presses a thick finger into Geralt, and the hot clutch of him elicits a deep, animal growl from him as he imagines sinking his cock in. The sound of Ciri loosening her robe comes from the right of him, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Geralt as they both watch where he’s slowly finger-fucking him. He adds another finger, stroking his cock from root to tip and reaching down to gently fondle his sack as well. Geralt grinds his hips into Eskel’s hand, panting with his mouth open as he fucks himself on Eskel’s fingers.

“One more, wolf,” Eskel says, more to himself than to Geralt as he adds another finger, stretching him open. Geralt murmurs in agreement, cock hard and angry red, leaking precome steadily down the tip. Fuck, Eskel loves how wet he gets. So good. He slowly pulls his fingers out and lines up his own throbbing cock at Geralt’s hole, which flutters and clenches around nothing. He jacks himself, slicking himself up and rubbing against Geralt’s rosy entrance, but not pressing in - just teasing and hinting at it.

“On with it, ‘skel,” pants out Geralt in frustration, glaring at him from the pillow.

“Alright, alright, patience,” Eskel snarks, slowly broaching his hole and sinking in slowly. They both let out a huge groan of pleasure when he does. For as much time as he spent opening Geralt up, Eskel doesn’t see fit to slow down and he sheaths his massive cock into Geralt with one single stroke. He grinds up against Geralt’s prostate and Geralt whines, rolling his hips in a circle in the air, bucking against him. Eskel continues just roll over that velvet spot, barely thrusting out at all, eyes almost rolling back with how fucking tight and good he feels around him.

He finally chances a look over at Ciri, who has her robe open and is fingering herself while watching them. Her plush lips are open and panting around heavy breaths, eyes huge and heated as she fucks her slender hand. Eskel trails his eyes down her body, admiring how she plays with a nipple in one hand and pets over her clit with the other.

“You like what you see, cub?” he growls out, purposefully lowering his voice to a low animal rasp, and she whines, high and broken at this.

“Yes - yes - yes, Eskel, fuck,” she whimpers, fucking herself a little faster at the sound of his voice.

Eskel fucks Geralt a little harder, the squelch of their joining obscene and luscious and loud in the room. He looks back at Geralt, and the sight of his face, so beautiful and contorted in ecstasy has Eskel over the edge as he comes, groaning almost in pain. Geralt whines at the feel of hot come painting his insides, the delicious stretch of Eskel’s massive cock stretching him. Eskel gently withdraws with a contented sigh that turns into a noise of possessive pride when he sees the gush of come leak from Geralt’s hole onto the sheets of Ciri’s bed.

“You didn’t come?” he asks, looking in surprise at Geralt’s cock which remains red hot and turning purple at the tip with how hard he is.

“No, not yet - though I’m close,” Geralt laughs, wiping a hand over his sweaty brow. “I wanted to save some for our little swallow.” They both turn to look at Ciri, who’s still fingering herself desperately, thighs shaking with need.

“Stop that!” Geralt says sharply, and Ciri whimpers, but immediately takes her hand away from herself. Eskel licks his lips to see her thighs, wet and shining with slick, and the sight of her hands trembling as she grips the tub has him starting to fill again with interest.

“Come here.”

She shuffles over, knees as weak as a baby deer, and stops at the edge of the bed in anticipation.

“Do you want Eskel’s cock?”

Ciri looks at said cock in question, half-hard and massive, hanging from Eskel’s front as he knees on the bed between Geralt’s legs. She nods, meeting his eyes shyly.

“Do you think you deserve Eskel’s cock, after that shit job you did today at training?” Geralt says, sternly. Eskel is amazed at how he’s able to control his voice, though the stern effect is a little undercut by his fist gripping his straining cock and the clear exertion in his body to hold himself together. His eyes roam over Geralt’s tense forearms, muscles jumping with every tremble.

“N-no, but that - that wasn’t my fault,” Ciri protests.

“Hm, and yet I think you were the one who followed me last night instead of sleeping in your bed like a good girl, isn’t that right?”

“You told me to ask for —“ Geralt cuts her off with a growl.

“Are you the one calling the shots here, Ciri?” She shakes her head slowly.

“Here’s what I think. I think that I was lenient and gave you the cock you so desperately begged for last night, but I warned you that you’d have to perform during training today still. And because you didn’t, we’re going to need to punish you,” Geralt muses, tapping one hand on his lips.

Ciri jerks her head up in anticipation, waiting with bated breath.

“I think, since you want our cocks so badly, little swallow, that you can have them.”

Eskel throws a look at Geralt. “Not much of a punishment, wolf.”

Geralt holds up a hand. “I”m not finished. You can have our cocks - but we won’t let you come until we say so.”

Ohhhhh. Fuck. Fuck. Eskel loves this game and his cock does too, rapidly filling as he strokes it slowly. Ciri looks aghast at this.

“Can’t - can’t come?” she asks, thighs twitching as she gives Geralt a pleading look.

“Mhm… I think that’s a fitting punishment for you, don’t you think? After all, you’ve been keeping us up night after night, in addition to your training today,” he asks, raising a brow at her. She bows her head, appropriately chastened.

“Ciri. If you don’t want to, you don’t have to. We can do something else,” Geralt says after a pause, serious and gentle. His eyes are warm and he holds out a hand to her from the bed, which she grips on to instantly. She looks over at Eskel, and her eyes are full of fire and light as she nods.

“No, no, I want to, I just - what if it’s too much?” she asks.

“Tell us what you don’t want, and we’ll avoid it,” Geralt suggests.

Ciri considers this, arms crossed as she stands before the bed.

“I don’t really want pain - except maybe you could… spank me?” she asks, a little shy but also a little brazen at the same time.

Eskel moans lowly at this, gripping his cock tightly, and Geralt’s eyes flash with heat.

“Of course, little swallow. We can do that. No pain, except maybe spanking.” He motions for her to come onto the bed and she scrambles on eagerly. Eskel shifts back to make space for her and she hovers on her knees over Geralt’s cock as he lies on his back.

“Eskel?” Geralt asks, and Ciri turns expectantly to him. Eskel breathes out slowly, and makes the sign for Axii.

“You won’t come unless we say you can.”

“Won’t come… unless you say so,” Ciri repeats, eyes glassy. He drops the sign, and she shakes her head a little to clear the fog.

“You sure you want to, after last night?” Geralt asks, and Ciri moans, remembering.

“Yes - yes, please, I’m - I’m aching for it,” she admits, grinding the soaked lips of her cunt over the tip of his cock. He growls at the sensation, gripping onto her slim hips firmly.

“Alright, then. Patience.” He lowers her down, sinking her down slowly until she’s taken all she can, and they both whine at the velvet heat of her around him. Her slick mingling with his precome makes a wet, obscene sound as he begins to move, thrusting up slowly into her.

Eskel watches from around Ciri, eyes glued to where Geralt’s cock is thrusting in and out of her tight hole. She’s stretched around him, and he reaches over to pet her clit where it pokes out around Geralt’s cock. She squeals, reaching around to hold his neck with her arms, leaning back against his chest and bucking wildly.

“Easy, cub,” he laughs, petting more firmly and spreading her wetness all around. Geralt moans at the sight of them together, fucking up a little more firmly into her.

“You think she’s ready for me?” he asks.

“Yes - fuck, Eskel, please —“ Ciri answers for him, leaning down. She lowers herself, still impaled on Geralt’s cock, until her breasts are touching his chest and her ass is in the air, as if she’s presenting. All three of them moan brokenly at the sight, and Eskel has to grip the base of his cock to retain a semblance of control.

He pours some more oil onto his fingers and smooths a rough hand down her back, down the softness of her asscheeks. He slaps on suddenly, using only a minute amount of force, and she jumps, clenching around Geralt’s cock and causing Geralt to growl in response as his hands tighten around her hips.

“Fuck!” she cries out in a pleasure-soaked voice, gyrating her hips a little. “Again, please?”

Eskel smacks her ass again, a little harder this time, and strokes the reddened cheek a little before petting gently over her fluttering hole. He reaches down just a bit to where her cunt is spread around Geralt and gathers some of her slick, mixing it with the oil on his fingers before he sinks one right into her ass.

“Fuck!” Ciri shrieks again, some slick dripping out around Geralt. Eskel can see the clenching of Geralt’s jaw and how he tight he’s holding himself to make sure he holds himself still, keeping from fucking up into Ciri like he so desperately wants to.

Eskel shushes her, gently fucking in and out with his fingers, before adding another.

“How does it feel, cub?” he asks, checking in on her from where she’s panting on top of Geralt’s chest.

“So - fuck! - so fucking b-big, so full,” she moans out, and Geralt chuckles.

“Not even his cock yet, little swallow. Gonna be fuller yet. Gonna have you so full you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

She whines at this, grinding forward a little but not gaining much purchase with how tight Geralt is holding her hips.

Eskel slips his fingers out and spreads her cheeks open, admiring how her hole trembles and clenches down around nothing, desperately needing to be filled.

He slicks up his cock using the oil, Geralt’s precome, and Ciri’s slick, and presses it to her hole.

“Gently,” Geralt reminds him through clenched teeth. The three of them moan, long and pained as he presses inside.

“I know,” Eskel snarls, skin tight and hot and almost out of his mind with how tight she is. He sinks in as far as he can get. Ciri is panting and thrashing around on top of them, and he holds her tight above where Geralt’s hands are gripping her.

“Big, fuck, f-fuck, so big,” she whimpers, bucking about as if she has no control over her body.

“That’s it, little swallow, so good. Look at you taking both of us, perfect little cockslut, hm? So good for us, baby,” Geralt rasps out, petting her sides.

“You feel so good, cub, so tight and hot —“ Eskel groans, and as he starts to move Geralt does too and he can feel Geralt’s cock through the thin membrane separating them. Ciri is so tight and wet and vice-like and he’s half feral, growling and clenching his teeth to keep from screaming. When he reaches around to Ciri’s front, he can feel the bulge of him and Geralt through her stomach, poking out a little, and he snarls at this, fucking a little harder. Eskel pets roughly over the protrusion of them both and snaps his teeth.

“Fuck, fuck, Eskel, Geralt,” Ciri pants, wailing and dripping more slick as she braces her hands on Geralt’s chest and fucks back onto both of them. The smell of sex and musk and slick in the air create a heady aroma and Eskel drools a little with it. Shit, he never wants to leave this bed.

“You gonna come, little swallow?” Geralt growls, reminding her as he fucks into her from under Eskel.

“I’m close - I’m - I’m - co—fuck!” she shrieks, suddenly clenching down but finding her orgasm stopped by the command she was put under.

“Well, well, Eskel, look at that,” Geralt rasps out, half amused and half aroused as Ciri wails in frustration. Eskel says nothing but he knows Geralt can tell how turned on he is with how tight his jaw is clenched. They fuck into her, deep and slow and intense with how it drags against her tight inner walls and Ciri moans little broken moans the entire time.

“I think it’s your turn, wolf,” Eskel says after a bit, and turns his eyes to him. “You gonna come for us?”

Geralt groans, and obeys, just like that, and Ciri thrashes and whimpers at the feel of hot come filling her up with the two thick cocks inside of her.

“So good, little swallow, so good,” he growls, fucking up into her, and the rush of warmth from Geralt’s come sends Eskel over the edge too. He roars, gripping Ciri tightly around the waist and the pleasure from coming is so white-hot and intense he feels tears leaking out of his eyes.

Ciri is screaming in pleasure and begging to come, but Geralt snarls and fucks back up into her, still hard and unrelenting. Eskel loves him so much, and he follows his lead, snapping his hips back into Ciri as far as he can go.

They continue like this for a while, filling her again and again until Ciri’s belly is a little round with how much come is inside her. She’s out of her mind, blissed out and moaning brokenly over and over, cockdumb and on fire with pleasure that she’s never experienced, laying on top of Geralt’s chest and just taking it with how much she enjoys being their little cockslut.

“You had enough, little swallow? You want to come?” Geralt rasps out, finally, and she just mumbles her assent into his shoulder where she’s laying, exhausted and so, so desperate to come.

“Please, daddy,” she begs, barely audible, and both him and Geralt groan lowly at this. They both slip out, gently and slowly, growling at the huge gush of come that follows.

Ciri whines a little in embarrassment, but she’s too exhausted to say anything when Eskel presses down gently on her stomach. He savors the almost fountain of come that rushes out, and they turn her over so she’s laying on her back, gaping holes and clit still swollen and in need of release. Geralt props himself up on her side and gently smooths a hand through her hair, and she whines, tilting her head up for a kiss. Eskel loves them both so, so much, and he kneels down in between Ciri as he laps up his and Geralt’s come from her.

“Come for us, cub,” he whispers into her cunt, and she suddenly screams, back arching high off the bed into his mouth, slick gushing out. Eskel greedily drinks it all up, moaning at the sweet taste and licking at her clit through her orgasm. Ciri jerks for what feels like an eternity before finally coming down from her high and she lays limply on Geralt’s arm, breathing smooth and peaceful. Her face is blissed out and sweet, golden-white hair all around her.

“Let’s get her cleaned up. She’s worn out,” Geralt murmurs to him, and Eskel grunts in assent before they lift her out of the wet sheets. Geralt balls them up and throws them to the side before pulling a clean set out of the cabinet and cleaning off the bed. They gently place Ciri back on and wipe her down with a clean rag, before pulling a blanket over her.

“We’ll give her the rest of the day off, this time,” he says to Eskel, who snorts in amusement.

“Might need tomorrow off too, at this rate,” he chuckles, and Geralt’s shoulders shake with the effort of not laughing out loud.

Eskel tosses the beanbag at her and Ciri lunges forward, this time catching the bag with her sword and slicing it cleanly in half. He throws several more in quick succession and she manages to slice through all of them, beans spilling out and adding to the pile on the ground around her.

“Better,” he acquiesces, though he can still tell something’s up. “You’re not as fast as usual today, cub. What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” Ciri says unconvincingly, eyes darting behind him for a split second before snapping back to his gaze. He turns and looks at Geralt, who is sitting there innocently with his arms crossed. Geralt raises a brow at him as if to say, who, me? and Eskel groans internally. So he’s going to have to find it out himself, then.

“Alright then, if nothing’s up then you won’t have any trouble sparring a round with me, hm?” he asks, unfolding his arms and walking to her.

Ciri groans, but realizes she can’t say anything without giving herself away, and nods. “I’m just… I’m just tired,” she says, placing her sword back in the scabbard and tossing it to the side.

“Monsters aren’t going to let you go in a fight just because you tell them you’re tired,” Eskel replies, amused. Ciri rolls her eyes at this but readies herself in a fighting stance.

He strikes without warning, lunging forward at her. Ciri dodges him, but just barely, and twists around him to try to grapple him from behind. Eskel crouches as soon as she does, and when she tries to hold on to him, she fails to get any leverage. He flips around, grabbing her around the middle and pinning her arms down by her sides. Ciri snarls, biting at him, but Eskel remains unperturbed and presses her into the ground, belly first. The thrashing of her legs would be enough to buck a normal man off, but Eskel is heavy and basically a solid brick wall and he doesn’t give an inch.

“Ugh, I give, I give,” she says, muffled into the ground, banging her fists on the stone. Eskel leans in to the side of her face where he’s crushing her into the ground and as he goes to whisper to tease her about the quickness of the fight, he suddenly smells something curious. He takes a long, long inhale in at the side of her face. That’s - that’s the scent of Geralt’s come on her face, faint and barely there, having clearly been washed off, but still perceptible to a witcher. He and Geralt have fucked so many times he’d know that scent in his sleep, and his mouth waters at the aroma, cock hardening swiftly in his breeches at the though of the two of them together.

He sits back on his shins swiftly.

“Go wash up, cub. I’m feeling lenient today. We’ll find you later,” he says, rising and turning to face Geralt, who is barely hiding a smirk. He knows Geralt knows what he just scented on her.

Ciri makes a questioning sound, but Geralt jerks his head in a nod at her and Eskel hears the sound of her shuffling around, grabbing broken beanbags and her gear. He waits until she leaves the courtyard to approach Geralt, never taking his eyes off him.

Eskel drops into Geralt’s lap, the other’s arms immediately coming around his thick back and petting his flank. He leans in and licks a stripe up Geralt’s cheek before catching his plush lips with his own, groaning into the kiss.

“I smelled you on her, wolf,” Eskel growls, lowly. “When did this happen? Did she finally come to you?”

Geralt hums a bit. “Sort of,” he says. “So you know how I’ve been waking up every night, hard as a rock for no fucking reason?”

Eskel chuckles. “Yep. Same here. Figured maybe it was some sort of mid-winter horniness that snuck up on us,” he says, grinding his sizable bulge over Geralt’s own. They pant into each other’s mouths, as Eskel holds fast to Geralt’s shoulders in an unknowing mirror of Ciri from the night before.

“What’s happening is Ciri has been fucking herself at night and even though we can’t hear her through the walls, she’s so wet that I can smell her through my sleep and it’s enough to wake me up.”

“Fuck, really?” Eskel groans, pressing harder against him. Geralt nips at the side of his face, kissing the scars gently down to his neck.

“Mhm,” Geralt mumbles into the crook between his shoulder and neck, biting lightly and scraping a big hand down Eskel’s back to grip his ass.

“So last night I woke up, turned on as ever, and I decided to go down to the springs to relax enough to sleep,” Geralt continues.

“Very - fuck - very reasonable,” pants Eskel, rolling his hips against Geralt. He’s so hard he’s worried his breeches are going to rip with how much his cock is straining against the front, and Geralt doesn’t look any better, with a huge wet patch down his front from how wet he’s getting. Shit, he loves how fucking wet Geralt gets, always leaking so much precome. His mouth waters and he aches to sink to his knees and take that gorgeous cock into his throat, but he wants to hear the rest of this story and instead continues grinding in his lap.

“I was just washing myself - very innocently, mind you, when I hear a little sound and I turn and see our little swallow ‘hiding’ behind a rock, touching herself at the sight of me,” says Geralt, and it’s clear from the way he says hiding that Eskel knows Ciri wasn’t doing a very good job.

“Oh really? So we have a little voyeur on our hands? I can work with that,” he says, nipping at Geralt’s ear and scraping a hand down his chest. Geralt is wearing a simple tunic and trousers today, and Eskel’s hand catches on his nipples the way he know Geralt likes. He’s rewarded with a buck of Geralt’s hips and a low growl, as Geralt grinds into him harder, gripping his ass with both hands and massaging.

“Oh yes, we most certainly do. And I decided, hey, if our little swallow wants a show, I’ll give her one,” Geralt laughs. “You know the rock bench in the corner on the far side?”

Eskel nods, eyes sparkling in amusement to hear how the story ends.

“I jerked myself nice and slow there because I knew she’d have to come out to see me better - and she did, she came closer and still thought she was hiding but I knew she was there. Little slut was fucking herself so loudly I’d have to be unconscious not to hear it.”

Eskel closes his eyes in pleasure, moaning at the mental image of Geralt stroking himself slowly and tight like Eskel knows he likes, and Ciri hiding poorly behind a rock watching him and playing with herself. Fuck, what a sight that pair would make.

“And then what happened?” he rasps out, finally giving in and opening the front of his breeches to pull himself out. He doesn’t miss how Geralt’s pupils dilate at the sight of him, licking his lips and opening the front of his own trousers. Eskel takes both of them in his big hand and strokes slowly from root to tip, slick from how much Geralt’s leaking. They both groan brokenly.

Overhead, clouds are rolling in and the crack of thunder startles them.

“Better hurry up, wolf, or you’re going to be telling this story in the rain,” he snarks, stroking them a little faster.

“So then I came and I heard her whisper my name as she did,” Geralt continues. “I called her forward and encouraged her to tell me what she wanted, and of course I gave our little swallow what she wants.”

“Can’t deny her anything,” Eskel chuckles. Geralt laughs at this. “Not when it matters, that’s for sure.”

“So you fucked her on the bench?”

“I fucked her on the bench,” Geralt confirms, slipping a hand into the back of Eskel’s trousers and stroking down his crack. Eskel jerks forward, hole fluttering as Geralt pets over it gently, and the thought of Geralt and Ciri fucking in the springs last night is so hot that he can’t stop his orgasm from hitting him like lightning. Eskel feels like his blood is molten lava, so hot inside him as he bucks over Geralt’s lap, and every stroke from Geralt’s callous-rough hand is like touching a live wire.

“Fuck, wolf, that is so hot,” he rasps out, sounding in pain, and Geralt groans in agreement. Eskel takes them both in hand again, having lost his bearing while coming, and jerks them swiftly, thrashing a little from the feel of Geralt hot and throbbing against his oversensitive cock. Geralt growls, increasing in pitch until he’s whining into Eskel’s neck, panting little broken pants of fuck and Eskel and harder. He comes with a shout, pulsing ropes of come out all over both of their still clothed tops and dripping down onto their trousers.

“Fuck, that was good,” he breathes out, relaxing his hold on Eskel’s ass. Eskel snorts a laugh at this, gingerly tucking himself back into his wet pants and rising off of Geralt’s lap. Overhead, lightning surges through the sky and raindrops begin to pelt them.

“Should we go inside and find Ciri? Maybe I can make it up to her for being hard on her after you kept her up last night…” Eskel says in amusement.

“Oh, I don’t think you should be giving her a present for that,” Geralt laughs, walking alongside him out of the courtyard and into the keep. “If anything, I think our little swallow needs a little discipline for not being able to focus today because she was so desperate for cock last night.”

“That’s too true, wolf. Right you are,” replies Eskel as they climb the steps up towards their bedrooms.

“Let’s see what our cub is up to.”

“Well?” he asks, amused. Ciri stands stock still like a deer in headlights, her shift abandoned on the ground next to her. He makes a little come-here movement with his hand, and she shuffles close to him. Even with her being grown now, her nude, slender body is still tiny compared to his, and she looks almost like a wraith with her pale, shining skin as she glides over to him. A sexy, shy wraith who is biting her lip in anxiety. He can smell the nerves on her.

“I didn’t… I didn’t know you…” she begins, but trails off as if unsure. He pats the stone next to him and she sits down cautiously, gauging his mood.

“You didn’t know I knew you were there?” he asks.

Ciri nods. She twists her hands together anxiously, and when he glances down he can see that her fingers are still wet and glistening with her slick. He groans internally and his cock throbs again, already half hard so soon after coming.

“You didn’t know, but you still decided to pleasure yourself watching me, even though you thought I wasn’t aware of your presence, hm?” he asks, amused.

She nods again, eyes downcast.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart.”

Her gaze snaps up and she meets his eyes, but only just. Geralt shuffles closer to her until their thighs touch and places an arm behind her. She leans against it and relaxes a little, body automatically relaxing in safety at his closeness despite her nerves.

“I heard you say my name, Ciri.” She bites her lip at this. “Why didn’t you just come to me if you wanted me?”

“I wasn’t… I wasn’t sure if you felt the same way,” she mumbled.

“Since when have I ever denied you anything?

At this, Ciri raises her eyebrows and gives him a look as if to say, really? It brings him joy to see a little of her old fire come back. He feels unsure around this new, anxious, awkward Ciri from the last few weeks.

Geralt chuckles. “Alright, alright. I’ll give you that. I’m not the easiest teacher in the world.”

He smirks at her. “But you know, we did teach you to be decisive. To say what you want and be clear about it. You gonna do that?”

Ciri twists her hands again nervously and brushes one foot over another.

Geralt sighs, and turns so he’s facing her even though they’re next to each other. His chest brushes her shoulder, and he slips the hand behind her around to her side to crush her in a warm embrace. She immediately melts into his arms, hands coming up and holding his neck.

He leans down and noses at her ear and he feels her shiver, hard nipples brushing against his chest. They both moan a little, and the feel of her warm breath on his neck has his cock filling to full almost instantaneously.

“You gonna be a good girl for me, little swallow, and tell me what you want?” he whispers in her ear, gently cradling the back of her head with a large hand.

Ciri whines at this, high and broken as her hips jerk.

“I- I want…” she begins. Geralt hums to show he’s listening as he kisses down the side of her neck.

“Will you fuck me, Geralt? Please?” she finally gets out.

He growls lowly at this, cock throbbing at the need in her voice.

“I can do that, sweetheart. If that’s what you want,” he says, voice like gravel as he shifts them so she’s sitting on his lap on the stone. She moans at that, and rolls her hips in the air a little.

“Y-yes, yes, please, I need you,” she gasps out, pressing her forehead to his as she grinds against him and humps the air above his stiff cock. Her eyes flick down to his lips, and Geralt surges forward, crushing her closer in his embrace as he devours her soft mouth. She moans brokenly into the kiss, licking into his mouth and kissing him as if he’s water and she’s been lost in the desert for ages.

On the next roll of her hips, the soaked lips of her cunt catch on the tip of his cock and they both moan, hers high and breathy and his low and sounding in pain. She does that several more times and brushes her cunt over the length of his cock, not going in but coating him in a clear layer of slick that only adds to the wetness of his precome dripping from the rosy head. She brings a slim hand down and presses his cock against her clit and rubs it against her, grinding against his abs.

Geralt bats her hand away and thumbs gently over her clit, rubbing along the edges of her cunt and spreading her wetness around. WIth the way that she’s perched, kneeling over him sitting on the stone, hands on his shoulders, he has to look up a little to see her, and he catches her biting her lip and gazing at him. Her eyes are lidded heavily, the black of her pupils almost completely round, and in the faint light he has no trouble seeing that the emerald is just a thin ring around the edge. He taps one finger in question on her cunt and she nods frantically, exhaling sharply in relief as he gently slips it in.

She’s so wet that he has no trouble immediately sliding another finger in, and he looks at her in confusion at how easily he’s able to do this.

“I-I’ve been… practicing,” she pants out, gripping his shoulders as he pumps his fingers in and out and grinds the heel of his palm against her clit.

“Oh? Tell me more,” he says in interest, curling his fingers inwards at her walls. She closes her eyes and moans sharply at that.

“Tell me, little swallow. Don’t make me ask again,” Geralt says sharply - but the sharpness isn’t a real threat and she knows that from the slight uptick in his lips as he tries not to smirk.

“I’ve wanted you to - oh fuck, right there - fuck me for a while now,” she starts.

“We know, sweetheart,” Geralt cuts in, amused. Ciri groans in embarrassment at this, pitching forward and hiding her face in his neck.

“Damnit, how? I’ve been so quiet,” she mumbles.

“You smell so strongly of arousal all the time that we can barely get anything done,” Geralt replies.

“We? Do Eskel and Lambert know, too?” Ciri asks.

Geralt mhm’s at her, laughing a little at how she groans at this.

“Oh yeah, they both definitely know. You’d have to be as dense as a drowner - or as unaware as a human - not to smell your slick, little swallow,” he says, teasingly. She knocks her head against the bottom of his jaw a little in protest at this, but that quickly turns into sliding her nose down his jaw when he fucks his fingers into her a little faster in retaliation.

Then something she says catches up to him. “Wait, quiet?” he asks.

Ciri nods against him. “I’ve been… playing with myself… I have these little wooden toys I carved when I was supposed to be helping repair stuff in the Armory,” she says.

Geralt groans at this, bringing his cock up and grinding it against her thigh as he pumps his fingers harder still at this. He adds a third finger, Ciri moaning all the while and gushing slick down his wrist and her thighs. He’s so hard he might explode even before he’s inside of her - Geralt hasn’t felt this desperate since he was a teen, before the Trials - and yet something about Ciri just brings it out in him.

“Naughty girl… playing when you’re supposed to be working… do you think you should be punished?” he teases.

“I — I — no, I didn’t when I was… I didn’t fuck myself until night, when I thought everyone was asleep,” Ciri protested, whining and jerking when he twists a nipple a little meanly.

“Oh, so you only fucked yourself when we were sleeping, hm? Thought no one would be able to hear you through those thick, stone walls? Thought no one would hear you fingering your slutty little hole, little swallow?” he growled. She moaned loudly at this, more slick dripping out and hands flexing where they were braced on his shoulders.

“I — “ Geralt shushes her as he thumbs over her clit.

“Well, luckily for you, you’re right,” he begins, “none of us heard you. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t smell you - and now I know what was waking me up in the night, and why I would wake up hard as a rock, with the scent of your dripping cunt just down the hall keeping me awake.”

They both moan brokenly as he slips his fingers out, and he sees her legs shaking and cunt twitching, fluttering with need as she desperately clenches around nothing. He brings a trembling hand down to his cock and grips the base, closing his eyes momentarily to acquire a modicum of control.

“I should punish you for keeping me up at night and disturbing my sleep,” he considers, gripping her slim waist and holding her in place as she squirms a little, trying to catch his cock on her cunt to no avail.

“Please…” she whimpers, pouting at him, grinding her hips unconsciously, unable to stay still with how turned on she is.

Although he joked about it earlier, he’s never been able to say no to Ciri when she really needs it, strict or not, and he shushes her, heart aching to see his princess fulfilled.

“Maybe another time. I’m feeling generous tonight, little swallow, so I’ll give you want you want, as long as you say it. Ask for it. Demand it, the way I taught you.” At this, he raises his brow at her and gives her a challenging look.

Her heated gaze turns molten at this as her eyes flick between his mouth and his stare, and he sees her straighten her spine a little the way she does when she’s focusing - preparing for a fight.

“I want your cock, Geralt. Will you give it to me?” she asks, challengingly, head tilted to the side.

Geralt moans, as said cock throbs in his hand. “Good girl, asking for what you want, being so direct and honest. That’s my little swallow. I think good behavior deserves a treat,” he rasps out, and he slowly lowers her with one hand onto his cock.

They both groan loudly when the tip sinks in, and she squirms around, bucking wildly as she pants out.

“Fuck, fuck, Geralt, you — fuck, you’re so fucking big,” she whimpers, and he rumbles when he feels more slick drip out around his tip. Fuck. She’s so wet and tight and hot and perfect and it’s just the start; he’s barely even got his head into her. Geralt has no idea how he’s not going to blow his load in the next ten seconds, and he grips the base of his cock even tighter.

“That’s it, sweetheart, slowly,” he encourages her, and she pants out harshly, sinking down minutely onto him. Geralt feels out of his mind and sweaty all over with how fucking hard he is. He hisses as she sinks down further, taking a third of him into her, and Ciri is moaning little broken moans about him continuously, rolling her hips and grinding her swollen little clit in the air, pulled a little with how thick his cock is in her. He fucks up into her a bit, in short movements, staying as controlled as he can even with how he just wants to sink all the way in.

“G-Geralt!” she whines, and with a determination in her eye, she sinks down with one stroke until she’s taking almost two-thirds of him. She cries out when she’s taken all she can and Geralt growls, roughly, feeling half-feral with how tight and wet she is.

“How do you want me, sweetheart?” he asks, rolling his hips slowly. She hisses every time her sensitive clit grinds against him.

“Tell me,” he says, nipping at her cheek. He’s got one hand cradled around the back of her head and she leans into him a little more, perched over his lap and kneeling with her legs spread on either side of him. They would almost look like they were just embracing, if not for the gigantic cock slowly pistoning in and out of Ciri.

“Like this - s-slow?” she asks, and he hums in agreement.

“Slow it is, little swallow. Whatever you want,” he says. “Anything for you, being so good. Being such a good girl for me.”

At this, Ciri jerks in pleasure and comes, tightening around his cock and crying out as she gushes slick all over him, mingling with the come on his stomach from his earlier play. He muffles another growl into her neck at the feel of her cunt pulsing and clenching around him, and his eyes roll back into his head as she sinks down a little further, just the barest hint looser from her orgasm.

“Fuck, yes, sweetheart. So, so good, little swallow, coming on my cock. Such a good little slut, does that feel good?” he rasps out, barely holding onto his control.

“Yes, daddy, fuck - you’re - you feel - fuck!” she cries out, riding the last waves of her orgasm out as she bucks above him, grinding roughly into his stomach. The hard buds of her nipples press into his own, and at this touch, Geralt explodes, coming so hard in that he black out momentarily and comes to with Ciri moaning brokenly around him. Her cunt milks his cock, sucking on him, and it drips out from her lips down his length into the puddle of slick beneath them both.

She’s got her forehead pressed against his and he pressed a gentle kiss to her panting mouth as he strokes her sides. She’s still grinding a little, rolling her hips as she comes down from her orgasm, and he’s gentle as he stills her hips. They both moan as he slips out, the rush of come and slick that follow have his mouth watering, and he moves them so that she’s laying on the seat where he was sitting.

Geralt spreads her thighs gently with his hands, and she’s gone scarlet, biting on a fist as she watches him.

“What are you — ohhhh, fuck,” she moans, as she watches him lick her slick from the stone. He moves to her thighs and hums a little, pressing his face into the softness of her skin and sighing a little, breathily. He pauses at the juncture between her thighs, warm breath fanning out over her lips and looks up at her.

“Please…” she begs, and he acquiesces, licking over her cunt. Ciri moans, leaning back on her elbows, hair entirely undone from her bun and trailing over her shoulders.

The heady, salty, sweet taste of his come and her slick on his tongue are almost enough to make him hard again, but he tempers himself a little, and licks into the velvet clutch of her. He swipes his tongue over her clit and she jerks, raising a hand to pluck roughly at a nipple. Geralt moans around her when he sees this, and the vibrations in turn send another rush of come and slick out. She’s dripping like a waterfall at this point and Geralt greedily presses his face into her, kneeling at the apex of her thighs like an altar as he nudges her knees apart. He scrapes one of his fangs ever so gently against her, and she jerks, back arching and she shrieks, echoing around the chamber as she comes again, quick and easy on the tails of her previous orgasm.

“Geralt!” she wails, slick rushing out and covering his face. Geralt moans, stroking with one hand over his half-hard cock, which is quickly coming back to attention. Fuck, he hasn’t come this many times in a long while, but Ciri brings it out in him.

“Yes, sweetheart, so good for me,” he mumbles, drinking the slick from her like water. He leans back when she’s done grinding through the aftershocks and meets her gaze.

She’s so lovely, he thinks, smiling gently down at her as she grins back at him. Her gaze flicks down to where he’s slowly stroking his growing cock.

“Can I help you with that?” she asks coyly. Geralt groans, throbbing at how slutty she looks, spreading her legs a little.

“As much as I’d love to, I don’t think it’s a good idea to fuck you again - especially since this is your first time,” he admits.

“It’s not my first time - I told you, I practiced,” she replies a little indignantly, puffing our her rosy chest.

Geralt chuckles. “First time with a real cock, little swallow. I know your toys aren’t as big as me,” he said gently, without a hint of arrogance. She’s a spitfire thing, but he doesn’t want to rush her and hurt her. Unless she asks for it down the line, a voice inside him growls, and he shushes it.

She huffs, pouting a little, but brightens as an idea comes to her.

“Will you — will you come for me then? On me?” she begs so sweetly. Geralt groans, stroking himself faster as he braces a hand on her shoulder.

“On you, little swallow? Is that what you want? You want my come covering your face, marking you, so that even if I clean you off, everyone will know you’re mine?”

She moans at this, gripping his muscled thighs and bringing him closer to his face as he jerks himself a little faster.

“Yesss,” she hisses, then says, “wait - or in me?”

“Which is it, sweetheart? Which do you want? You gotta tell me,” he rasps, stroking over his head and down the throbbing vein.

She hesitates. “Both?” she finally asks, shyly.

Geralt growls lowly and nods at this, He stripes himself quickly, harshly almost, over her face, as she opens her mouth and sticks her tongue out at him. Her eyes sparkle in joy at him, and she looks so pleased his heart swells. Anything for his baby girl.

“Come for me, Geralt?” she asks so nicely that he has nothing he can do but to obey, and he comes in thick ropes all over her beautiful face, moaning brokenly the entire time as she closes her eyes in pleasure. It drips down her cheeks and she lunges forward, latching on and catching the tip of his cock in her mouth. He jerks in surprise, but she holds him tight around the hips and sucks on his head, milking every last drop of come out of him.

“Fuck, Ciri,” he pants out, smoothing a shaking hand down her hair as she hums around his cock in pleasure, savoring the taste of him. The sight of her pleased eyes gazing up at him, with her plush lips wrapped around his cock will be the source of his fantasies for a long, long time.

“Fuck,” he roughs out again, voice like broken glass. She releases him with a pop, wiping her face with her hand and licking it, closing her eyes momentarily.

“Fuck,” she agrees. Geralt laughs a little at this. He feels drained and exhilarated at the same time.

“To bed with you, little swallow,” he says, helping her up.

“But maybe we should clean off a little first?” she asks, cheerily pointing at her fluids-soaked body, and he snorts.

“Alright, I’ll help you clean up. No starting anything though, you have training early tomorrow,” he says, faux-sternly, and she salutes him in mock agreement.

“Who, me? I wouldn’t dream of it,” she snarks, as they walk over to the other pools, hand around each others’ backs.