Fiend's Hard Kinks

Extraneous warnings:  The general badwrong vibe/content of this, light imagined incest/incest play (re: daddy kink,) and the fact that that the word pedophile is explicitly used.

+++++

Geralt knows his proclivities are sick.

He's avoided getting off to the thought of children, for the most part, by avoiding them entirely up to this point in his life: drifting away from friends as they have kids and cultivating entirely adult hobbies and habits.  While being a college professor isn't what he imagined as a child, the academy funds his actual interest in historical research, and the environment is kid-free enough that he settles in and accepts tenure at the third (surprisingly prestigious) college he finds employment with.

He even has a healthy, enjoyable sex life, with consenting adults his age— though he's between long-term relationships at the moment.

He'd dated Yen because she's quick as a whip and he adores her, and because she's very much not anything resembling 'guileless' or 'innocent'.  Their intimacy made him feel less... broken, he supposes.  Though they had their other differences, she eventually picked up on the fact that he was dating her for what she wasn't, not what she was.  It drove them apart in a messy break that Geralt likes to tell himself was for the best.

A year and a half later he took up with Triss.

He’d been torn between elation and anxious distress when she sat him down three months into their relationship and shyly told him she liked to play unconventional bedroom games. Unnecessarily, though he didn't tell her that, she then set about explaining dominant and submissive sexual dynamics, specifically those between 'Daddies' and their 'little girls.'

She and Geralt went on to have two years of loving interactions and fantastic sex before the guilt finally broke him down.  They'd moved from general dd/lg dynamics into harder, more dedicated ageplay when it became clear to Triss that Geralt wasn't disgusted or put off by it— she was outspokenly delighted about him being 'into this too,' buying stuffed toys and shaving herself smooth to live more in the fantasy of it.

It just got too real for Geralt: pinning her thighs open while he fucked roughly into her hairless cunt, telling her to take it like her mother did while she 'cried' and clung to a stuffed animal.  In his mind, in that moment, he wasn't having sex with Triss— he was having sex with the little girl Triss was pretending to be.  The heart-patterned pajama shirt and sports bra she wore hid her breasts, making it easy to imagine a flat, prepubescent chest.

Geralt came as hard as he ever had, grinding in deep, and fell asleep inside of her.

He broke up with her as gently as he could the very next morning.

Six months later, that decision results in his adoptive father entreating his ”only single son” to move back home and help him out.

They're in need of a fourth grade history teacher at Kaer Morhen boarding school for boys and girls, of which Vesemir is the dean.  Geralt's drastically overqualified, but the teacher previously in the position quit when his wife grew ill, and his chosen replacement was arrested for drug possession shortly after.  And besides, Geralt's family.  Vesemir would've asked one of his brothers, both also involved enough in scholarship to handle a year of teaching, but they're in committed relationships, he says, with roots put down and their significant others' jobs to worry about.

Geralt has no good reason to turn down the plea— his college has even expressed willingness to treat it as a sabbatical— other than the fact that he'll probably want to fuck some of his students, and there's no explaining that to his father.

He finds a nice enough apartment in one of Kaer Morhen's suburbs, buys a shitload of sex toys online to take care of any urge he could possibly have over the course of the next year, and says he'll do it.

One month later he's all moved in, the nostalgia of his hometown warming him considerably to the whole ordeal.

It'll probably be fine, he thinks, putting together his syllabus for the first day of school.  He's gone this long with a firm grip on his moral compass, after all.

+++++

The job itself is more manageable than he thought it'd be.  All his students seem starstruck by him, accustomed to aging, no-nonsense instructors without any real physical presence.  While he's not entirely comfortable being the 'cool teacher,' it does mean he's not stuck trying to cow them into behaving, which is a tremendous relief.

His lust is much less manageable. 

The first day of school he hands out the syllabus and outlines his general expectations for the class, followed by mutual introductions and a 'buzz-in' type game to try and gauge what information they'd retained from last year.

Their school uniforms are modest and uninspiring, thank the Gods, and nobody sticks out enough for him to fixate on his first few class periods.  He can work with this: a single year of staying an arm's length from his students.

Then Julian walks into his sixth period.

It's immediately evident the boy's popular, surrounded by a gaggle of laughing peers as they carefully determine where they all want to sit for the rest of the year.  Geralt's briefly worried he's a bully with how his friends hang off his every word, but he's perfectly sweet during his introduction: opening that everyone calls him Jaskier instead of Julian before going on a rambling tangent about his favorite music and literature.

He's so cute: clearly on the front end of his growth spurt rather than in the middle like most of his peers, with big sparkling eyes and a friendly, outgoing personality.

He chimes in to answer nearly every question during the game portion of class, getting the lion's share of them right and lighting up when Geralt tells him so.  A bit of a know-it-all, then, but he doesn't demean the kids who get questions wrong or talk over them if they chime in first, so it doesn't seem like it's going to be a problem.

Julian's behavior won't, at least.  Geralt's on the other hand....

He ushers them all out when the final bell rings with a wave and a cordial thank-you for being well-behaved, which seems to shock and delight them; he'll have to talk to Vesemir about recognizing positive contributions to the classroom, instead of just punishing negative ones.  Jaskier's one of the last kids out the door, bounding excitedly up to Geralt's desk once the coast is clear.

"Hi!  We haven't gotten a new teacher in like three years and you seem really cool and-"  Motor mouth.  Geralt's attention drifts for a moment, imagining how those soft pink lips would feel nursing his cockhead.

"-just wanted to really say hello outside of the whole 'group-intro exercise' thing!"  The boy looks expectantly up at Geralt, relentlessly cheerful.

Geralt... doesn't know what Jaskier wants from him.  He knows what he wants to give the boy, but he's trying very hard not to think about that.

"Hello, Julian.  Pleasure to meet you."  He sees a wrinkle appear between the kid's eyebrows at the name before he turns back his desk, determinedly fussing with his shoulder bag until he hears the click of the door closing behind him.

Geralt jerks off in his parked car before he drives home, trying very hard to think about nothing in particular.

(-his much-bigger body pressing Jaskier into the floor, kneeling over his face to hump into his throat while his little friends watch from the doorway.  Tugging the boy's pants down to pinch and play with his dick, maybe even kiss it if Jaskier's a good little cocksucker—)

He cleans up his mess with the spare shirt in his workout bag, continuing on as though nothing happened.

This happens every day for a week before he gives in and stocks his car with tissue and lotion.

+++++

Four months into the school year Geralt resigns himself to the fact that he's only grown more lusty, not less.  Some optimistic part of him hoped it'd be a flash in the pan: arousing only as something new and unprecedented, fading gracefully away once the novelty wore off.

As it turns out, having nothing to do with novelty, he just badly wants to fuck a child.  Geralt doesn't know if it's better or worse that he's actually fond of Julian now, as an individual and not just a body to project sexual urges onto.

Melitile preserve him.  It's as embarrassing as it is disgusting, having a crush on a ten year old.

Well.  When you're thirty-eight, at least.

The other ten year olds with crushes on him seem wholly unembarrassed by it.

"Anna, if that's not a note for me please save it for passing period."

While he largely stays out of trouble himself, Jaskier is constantly being drawn into the affairs of other students.  He's relentlessly social, company and opinion sought after by his peers even at... less than opportune times.

Anna Henrietta snatches the folded note back towards her chest, looking at Geralt indignantly.  Spoiled girl, but not maliciously so— most of the time.  She walks all over the students and teachers who let her, and respects those who don't.

Jaskier's been the apple of her eye for three weeks now.

He has no idea how that's going for her, on account of the fact that Julian has eyes for nobody but his teacher while in Geralt's classroom.  Speaking of which: Jaskier looks mortified. 

Geralt immediately moves on with their lesson.  He largely goes by the college-professor rules of letting bygones be bygones instead of publicly shaming misbehavior, which contributes greatly to his popularity.  Despite knowing this, Julian sits at his desk like a kicked puppy for the rest of class, casting big, doleful eyes at Geralt every time his gaze wanders back to that side of the room.

Desperate for approval, as always.  Geralt bites his tongue so hard it bleeds when the thought makes him twitch in his slacks.

Jaskier slinks up to his desk after the last bell rings, loitering almost shyly until the rest of his peers have finished filing out.  This can't become a habit.

Geralt wants very badly to be alone with him— which is exactly why he shouldn't be.

"Mr. Rivia?"  He's going to hell for chubbing up at that title, spoken in Jaskier's clear, prepubescent tenor.

"Everything alright Julian?"

"I'm just."  He sucks in a breath, glancing quickly at Geralt's eyes before uncharacteristic shyness grips him, gaze returning to his teacher's chin.  "I'm sorry, about Anna and the notes and— I didn't want her to write them, I didn't write any back I swear-"

The worst part is how sweet Jaskier is.  Geralt could probably divert some of his attraction to the boy into frustration or resignation if he were a little hellion; could reassure himself with what a miserable nightmare sex with such a brat would be, and subsequently talk himself down from wanting it.

"I didn't think you did.  You're not in trouble, it's alright."

(In trouble.  He has a vision of pulling Jaskier over his lap, spanking his cheeks until they glow red and then pulling them apart to smack at his taint and asshole, the boy whimpering all the while.)

Jaskier's plush mouth pulls into a frown.  "You really can call me Jaskier, if you want.  Everyone does, I won't be upset." 

He'd clearly be thrilled by it, actually.  Which is why Geralt wants to keep them formal, even if the two names get equal use in his head.

"I'll keep that in mind.  Was there anything else you needed?"  The little darling obviously isn't accustomed to not being the teacher's pet.

Geralt would love to make a pet out of him — just not the kind a little boy would want to be.

Jaskier looks like he's going to say something else for a moment, then deflates, shaking his head no and averting his eyes.

Geralt wants to pick him up and set him on the desk, unzip his posh uniform trousers and suck his little cock until he cries.

Instead he holds the door open for him, locking it behind them before hurrying home.

+++++

Geralt's called from his lunch to break up a fight in the boy's locker room the following day.

It's the second time he's been summoned for this.  Milva's an excellent physical education teacher, she just can't go into the boy's locker room, leaving her hands somewhat tied when that's where the conflict is.

It's a free-for-all when Geralt walks in, most of the boys gathered in a circle around the action.  Dara— one of only twelve elven children in the whole school— is on his ass against the back wall with a split lip, while Caleb Menge (the shittiest brat Geralt's ever had the displeasure of meeting, though he and his little posse usually stay reasonably quiet in class) has...

...has Jaskier pinned to the floor, one hand in the middle of his back while the other pulls down the back of his underwear.  Which is incidentally the only piece of clothing Jaskier's wearing.  It's clearly a humiliation tactic, malicious but without sinister sexual motivation, but the fire the sight kindles low in Geralt's belly mixes with his concern and comes out the other end as fury.

"What the fuck is going on here?"

In seconds the room goes from roaring to a silence so profound you could hear a pin drop.  Caleb lets go of Jaskier's underwear and scrambles off him, the 'snap!' of the released waistband hitting his ass deafening in the quiet room.

"Julian swung at me sir, and then kept trying when he missed—"

"He said he was gonna round out Dara's ears!  And he keeps saying horrible things about Kiera and Tomira and Triss—"

"I did not—"

"Shut up!"  It's clearly, pointedly directed at Caleb, but Jaskier cowers all the same.  "Dara, would you like me to help you to the nurse or would you prefer to take one of your classmates with you?"

"I... classmate, please."  He reaches for Jaskier, both of them flighty, but Geralt stops him.  "Sorry, not Julian, I need his statement on this.  Anyone else you want; you're not in trouble, but I'll be sending Vesemir—" Ah, shit. "-your principal to come check up with you and reach out to your parents, so we can have clearly outlined consequences for any future discrimination."  Dara quickly grabs another friend and hurries out, glancing sadly back at Jaskier as he goes.

"Caleb, Julian, finish getting dressed and come with me.  The rest of you stop rubbernecking."  He wants to tell Jaskier he's not in trouble— Menge's infamous for both being a bully and lying through his teeth— but Geralt doesn't actually know that for sure.  He knows there are extremely firm no-fighting rules, in part because he and his brothers were half the cause for them, and a whole locker room full of kids saw Julian swing first.

Not that it wasn't warranted, in Geralt's opinion, but he's sure Caleb's parents aren't going to feel the same way.

He drops them both off in the waiting room outside the principal's office, popping his head in to give Vesemir an abridged version of events and his own very firm, if not impartial, opinion on who's at fault.  On the way out the door he pats Jaskier's shoulder sympathetically, giving him what he hopes is an encouraging look before returning to his break.

+++++

Geralt wishes they'd called someone else to mediate.

He's happy to help, and honestly enjoys being able to make sure bullies are taken to task like they should be, but now he's in the irreversible position of having seen Jaskier's nudity.  Part of it, at least.

Gods does he like what he saw.

He humps his cocksleeve so hard the silicone tears when he gets home, eyes squeezed shut re-living the peek at Jaskier's hole, taint, and balls he'd gotten. 

Geralt knows how shitty the boy's parents are, distant to the point of raising hackles at the parent-teacher conference last month— no wonder he’s so desperate for validation from the adults in his life.  It'd be easy, Geralt thinks, still fucking the toy despite the rip lengthening down the channel of it, to convince Jaskier to call him 'Daddy'.

The thought's electrifying.  He's never let himself dwell on... things like this— Gods, it's hard to even think it— dwell on children before, other than teasing, unwilling thoughts at the edge of his mind while he gets himself off.  His balls draw up faster than they have since he was a teenager envisioning Jaskier's skinny young body pinned under him, tears welling in his eyes as he asks why Daddy's doing this to him.

Geralt peaks with a hoarse shout, imagining flooding Jaskier's ass with cum until he drips with it, and lets himself enjoy the afterglow for once without immediately descending into self-loathing.  Rocking into the ruined fleshlight, slowly softening, he pretends he's making sure his seed's pushed nice and deep into Jaskier's little boy guts.  The kid's balls haven't dropped yet, small and tight against his body, and Geralt's obsessed with the idea of playing with them: sucking them into his mouth while jacking Julian off with two fingers, feeling them twitch and jump while he spills his meager load.

He masturbates twice more to the memory, putting on porn in the background just for the ambient audio of skin slapping together, and begins drafting his immediate resignation.

+++++

Geralt decides to sleep on his resignation decision, getting halfway through the letter before saving and tabling it.

Vesemir informs him the very next day that he'll be overseeing Jaskier's two-hour detention after school.

Caleb's going to be in a different room with a different teacher, for conflict-avoidance reasons, and has a full two weeks of detention.  Julian, Vesemir says in the text, was given a token punishment to appease Caleb's parents.  No infractions have been added to his record, and Vesemir tried to be as gentle with the boy as he could without opening himself up to accusations of blatant favoritism.

Geralt can only really focus on the first part.

Two hours.  He's going to be locked in a room for two hours with the object of his sick sexual fixation.

He teaches sixth period on auto-pilot, keeping his eyes fixed on the whiteboard the entire time, and only turns to really look at Julian when he's the last student remaining, sitting sadly at his desk.

"I'm told you'll be here for detention until four; do your parents know when to pick you up?"

Jaskier nods.  He looks miserable— disproportionately miserable for a single detention and an insincere slap on the wrist. 

Geralt debates asking what's wrong before deciding against it, sitting down to grade today's homework in the absence of anything else to do.  Jaskier pulls out a book, sniffling every few seconds.

Fifteen minutes pass in strained silence.  Every loud, hitching breath from across the room makes Geralt hyper-aware of his company— of the fact that nobody's around to stop him from having Julian in every way he's ever prevented himself from thinking about.  Sweet thing's so desperate for validation he probably wouldn't tattle, either; Geralt just needs to be nice enough for Jaskier to feel like they're both culpable for the 'naughtiness,' so he'll be too ashamed to tell—

"Do you hate me?"

Geralt's head snaps up.  Across the room Jaskier's well and truly crying, quiet but with visible tracks down his cheeks.

"No.  I think you were right to do what you did, and the fact that you're being given a fake punishment to appease some shitty brat's parents is laughable."  Language, he's consistently had trouble curbing his /language— though that's the least of the things he needs to curb at the moment.

"But b-before that!  You don't call on me a lot and you won't let me eat lunch in your classroom even though you're here and you always hurry me up like I'm a-annoying you and—"  He's entirely too cute in tears. 

"I like you too much Julian.  That's why it's best we keep our distance."  He's going to fucking jail.

Instead of disgust, interest piques on Jaskier's face.  "Too much?"

Geralt nods, and shuts his useless mouth.  Another five minutes pass in silence.

"I... don't think any amount could be too much.  I mean..."  Jask swallows, bashful, tears dry but throat still thick. "...I like you a lot.  I just didn't... mom says I shouldn't annoy people who're busy with stuff.  And you always seem... busy."

Fuck it.

"I mean a different kind of 'a lot.'  Come sit in my lap, I'll show you."

Jaskier jumps up, nearly tripping over himself to get to the front of the room before freezing, suddenly shy.

Geralt's half-mast and rising quickly.  Fuck, he's actually doing this.  "Come on.  Not gonna hurt you."

Gingerly, Jaskier climbs into the oversized office chair with him, throwing his knees to the sides of Geralt's thighs and settling down so they're face-to-face.  He smiles delightedly despite being too embarrassed to maintain eye contact.

Geralt grips his student's waist and pulls them closer, until their bodies press together and the tent of his cock drives insistently into the ten year old's belly.

"This is how I like you.  You've gotten hard before, haven't you?"

Squirming with giddiness, he presses his face into Geralt's chest, nodding in lieu of talking. 

"And you know how to take care of it, right?"

Another nod, combined with an involuntary twitch of the boy's hips.  Geralt reaches down, not daring to hope—

—and sure enough, Jaskier's pitching a tent to match his own.  Geralt rubs the bulge encouragingly, nearly salivating, eyes rolling back when Jaskier keens and whimpers at the attention before humping into his hand like an untrained puppy.

He's never going to be able to go back from this: it's everything he's ever fantasized about, having Jaskier's body settled against his cock, squirmy but obedient while Geralt untucks his shirt and slides his free hand under it, flicking and pinching Jask's hard pink nipples.

"You can't tell anyone about this, okay Julian?  We've gotta keep it a secret."  He pulls back to tug Jask's shirt up and off when the boy nods, followed by his own, and pauses patiently to let Jaskier ogle his built, hairy chest.

"Why?"  Small hands rub over Geralt's abdomen and pectorals with an innocent curiosity that makes him ache to show Julian exactly how grown-ups take care of these urges, and how little boys can help with that.

"Most people think you're too much of a baby for these kinds of things.  They wouldn't let us do it ever again if they found out, and we'd get in a lot of trouble."  Geralt leans in to lick his mouth, kissing him passionately when his lips part with a squeak.  He keeps kissing until Jaskier scrabbles at his chest, out of air, and rubs circles on the student's soft stomach while he catches his breath.

"But I'm not a baby!"

Geralt slides his hand back down to undo the button of Julian's pants, tugging his zipper so he can reach in.  He's wearing white little-boy briefs with red trim, making Geralt groan and rub the kid's privates so hard he whimpers before pulling them down around his ankles.

"I know you aren't— that's why I like you so much."  Jaskier's now-bare shaft is an adorable three inches long, bright red with blood and twitching so much it'd be comical if it weren't so goddamn hot. 

Geralt laughs.  "You like me too I guess."

He presses forward to kiss Jaskier's neck, alternating between sucking just lightly enough not to bruise and rubbing his stubble possessively across the vulnerable expanse of skin. 

Jaskier shakes and pants, plainly overstimulated. 

"Want me to help you take care of that?"  He kisses the underside of Jaskier's jaw, then his cheekbone, then licks hungrily over the seal of his mouth.

Bless his heart, Jask licks back, squeaking when he's drawn into another sloppy kiss.  They both pull away panting after about a minute, Geralt diving right back in to press kisses all across his face.  "Well?  You want to help each other feel good?"

Jaskier buries his face in Geralt's chest again, nodding.  Fuck yes.

Fisting a firm hand in Jaskier's hair, Geralt moves the boy's head until it hovers over his nipple before pressing him forward.  "Suck for me while we get you off— just like that, keep using your tongue."

The student sucks sloppy and hard, with a hint of teeth.  Moaning, Geralt tightens his grip, throbbing at the thought of wearing love-bites from a child.  The seal of Jask's mouth goes momentarily slack when Geralt starts stripping his boy-dick, only tightening back up when his hair is lightly yanked in admonition.

"Time to switch, Sweetheart, go on."  The 'pop' of his mouth detaching is almost as hot as the sweet, eager sucking starting up on Geralt's other nipple.   "Yeah, leave a nice dark bruise for me.  Bet you'll love getting fucked; bet you'll squeal on cock—"

With a wail muffled against Geralt's skin, the fourth grader cums, knees drawing in as a single pathetic squirt shoots from his prick. 

"Good boy." 

Geralt's pulling at his zipper the second Jaskier's shuddering abates into peaceful stillness, hoisting the boy with an arm around his waist so he can tuck his own boxer-briefs down under his balls, erection springing out.  He guides Jaskier's hands to his shaft, wetting the kid's palms with precum when he feels just how small they are compared to his own, how dirty and wrong feels to have them touching his cock.

"You're gonna help me feel good now, okay?  Can you do that?"

Orgasm has apparently given him his voice back, though it's a soft, high whimper.  "Yes, Mr. Rivia."  His half-closed eyes flutter, the flush of sex on his childish face provocatively incongruous.  Geralt has enough self control not to grab his phone and snap a picture, but it's a near thing.

Instead he lifts the student with hands at his waist, turning him around so they're back to chest before tucking his dick between Julian's thighs and setting him back down.  The feel of a tiny flaccid prick pressed against his hard grownup cock is better than anything he's ever imagined.

Intercrural sex with Jaskier is a revelation: better than the marathon sex he used to have with Yen, better than the incest games he used to play with Triss.  Jaskier has their enthusiasm in common, he's just too young to know what to do with it.

It's so, so hot.  Gods he's a fucking pedophile.

Geralt slides two fingers into Jaskier's mouth, thrusting against his tongue and the soft inside of his cheeks with the same rhythm he's fucking the boy's thighs.  Jaskier lets him, limp and obedient, gagging when the fingers push too far back but never thrashing or pulling away.

He wants to shove the little slut off his lap, plow his cocksucking mouth, send him home crying with his teacher's load in his belly.  Maybe another day. 

When he's about to come Geralt presses forward and holds there, whispering in Jaskier's ear between sucking kisses to "stroke teacher's cock, go on, you can do it."  He continues murmuring encouragements the whole while he's clumsily masturbated, until he paints the child's chest, belly, and neck with his cum.

Geralt kisses the top of Jaskier's head.

He's going to delete his resignation draft when he gets home.  Vesemir needs him, after all.

"Was that fun?"

Jaskier twists to look adoringly over his shoulder, voice half-drunk.  "Yeah!  That felt... really, really good."

Geralt glances at the wall clock.  An hour and two minutes left of their detention.

Eskel and the rest of his crop made crude, lighthearted jokes about the leshen that attacked the keep having a teenage boy fetish, and didn't think twice about the fact that, while not wholly right, they might actually be onto something there.

Thankfully, even an ancient leshen isn't a match for seven seasoned witchers— they all come back with their arms loaded with leshen timber and bottled sap within the hour.

When it becomes clear nobody will be getting back to sleep that night they're ushered into the main hall for mulled cider— alcoholic, to Eskel and his peers' delight— and given a crash-course on both evacuation contingencies and relicts.

He and Geralt both proceed to not think about that incident for almost two decades.  Eskel's briefly reminded of it the first time he fights a leshen on his own— veins running black with Tawny Owl, prepared for an exhausting, drawn-out, igni-heavy battle— when it practically lets him light it on fire, the vines it sends through the ground towards him dotted with tiny blossoms and clearly trying to grab, not impale.

Maybe it's in season?  They must just get stupid when they're looking for a mate, like bucks do.

Four years later, the next one he takes a contract on replicates the strange behavior.  And the next one.  And the next.

He doesn't think too hard about it.

+++++

Having sex with Geralt in the middle of the woods is a mistake.

It shouldn't be— there's a lot more privacy out in the forest than there is behind thin tavern walls, where all the other occupants of the building are hyper-aware of not one but two witchers in their midst.  They thought they were being responsible when they stumbled into one another on the path, Geralt rolling into town two days after Eskel picked up the contract he was on the scent of, and decided to abstain from their typical intimacy until they were back on the road.

They drink and lodge together until they manage to track and kill the water hag organizing the local inlet's drowners, kissing chastely and teasing one another like teenagers but abstaining from any proper sex while within the earshot of nosy villagers.  People love to look for any reason at all to cheat witchers out of their pay, buggery very much included.

Once the reward's been received and split they leave like the devil's on their heels, spurring their horses to a gallop in a giddy bid to get far enough out of town.

Geralt's got Eskel laid out on his bedroll in a clearing, thick thighs spread as his asshole's fingered open, when they begin hearing crows. 

They ignore it at first.  There's a healthy corvid population here, like everywhere else in the Northern Realms, and they're within ten miles of the village still; if there were a leshen this close to town, they would've heard about it from the grieving villagers.

Except apparently not.

The first vine wraps around Eskel's calf just as Geralt's lining up to plow him missionary style, and before he can shout it's got Geralt's legs all tangled too.

Six more tendrils burst from the ground as they frantically cast igni, too worried about hurting the other to do any real damage before their arms are pinned to their body, and their bodies pinned to each other.  They're lifted upright into the air, feet dangling about a foot off the ground.

Geralt thrashes, visions of corpses with constricted ribcages burned behind his eyelids, while Eskel freezes like a deer in headlights: these vines are flowering too, the same tiny red blossoms as all the leshens he's fought before.

If it was going to kill them it would've started tightening its hold already.

"Geralt— you're going to pass out, stop thrashing—"

"Start thrashing!  If we— we have to get one of your hands free, you're better at signs!  I don't give a shit if you burn me, if this thing doesn't drop us before it actually shows up—"

"Look!"  Geralt does, panicked eyes meeting Eskel's and then following them to where Eskel is looking: at the delicate, beautiful flowers dotting their restraints.

"What the fuck?"

Before Eskel can answer there's a great groaning and creak behind him.  Geralt goes from flushed to bloodless white.  It's agony not being able to turn his head to see what his brother does, though he can imagine the creature approaching excruciatingly clearly.

"I'm... they've never actually attacked back when I've fought them.  Just— don't be aggressive, okay?  Let it—"

A massive, bark-rough hand rests on their pressed-together waists, cutting Eskel off and making his whole body tense.  Something smooth, cool, and disgustingly slippery winds its way around his thigh, brushing against his balls and over his taint.

"This has happened before?"

The slippery whatever— obviously another vine, but secreting something wet and viscous— pushes into his loose asshole before his can answer, making his breath hitch and his hips knock into Geralt's as he instinctively flinches away.

"I-it's in— Geralt, it's putting one of them—"  The tendril drives hard against his prostate, making him holler and-

Fuck.  Son of a bitch, he's... he's hard again.

The slow, relentless drive into his body slides his sweaty chest and pelvis against his brother, stimulation against his cock and prostate combined with the smell of his lifelong lover turning his stupid, randy body against him.

A whole new round of blooms spring up when Eskel's prick starts leaking precum: huge, soft magnolia flowers that he hates to admit feel wonderful against his skin, in stark contrast to the roughness of the bark-hand at his hip and the smoothness of the vines.

He closes his eyes in crushing shame when Geralt's gaze darts, comically wide, from his face to the thing looming behind him, over and over, like he's unable to make the connection between Eskel's pleasure and their captor. 

After another minute of being rocked together— in peril, helpless, overpowered and abused— his own flaccid prick rises back to attention against Eskel's.

He has the decency to look ashamed.

They both flinch— Geralt away, neck drawing back as much as it can in their circumstances, while Eskel jolts helplessly in place— when the Leshen moves forward to press its long, lean body against him.

The 'deer' skull is cold and smooth where it rests against Eskel's shoulder, humanoid form curling against his back like a flesh-and-blood lover while the slippery vine abandons his prostate to wind deeper into his guts.  It twists all the way up his large intestine, mobile in a way that's simultaneously terrifying and rapturous to feel that deep inside his body.  He knows he has nerve endings on the inside, obviously— has been made very aware of it by past injuries— but the sensation of something moving so deep in his body has him blubbering with overwhelmed tears.

Geralt, hard enough to cut glass watching his violation, is quick to shush and soothe him.  "It's— is it hurting you?  Eskel, are you—"

Eskel hollers, prick jumping and dripping, when the end of the vine presses somehow deeper, creating an alarming bulge above his navel that he's sure Geralt can feel through his skin.  "It's t-too— Geralt it's too deep, I can't-"  He trails off with a whimper.

It's both arousing and a betrayal when he feels Geralt's cock twitch against his own at the sound of his crying.

Though there's no hard prick between its legs, the leshen begins rocking where it's pressed against Eskel's back, moving him against Geralt in the cadence of sex while forcing its breeding tendril upwards and onward.

The vine up his ass slowly, carefully winds its way all the way through his body, making him gag on its way up his throat, and—

Eskel wretches and shudders when it slides onto his tongue and out his mouth.

Geralt has about fifteen seconds to take the sight in— his brother tearstreaked and squirming, penetrated all the way through, and he is worried, does love Eskel as much as anything or anyone else in this world, but fuck— before shouting and convulsing when it darts, lightening-quick, into his own panting mouth.

Eskel doesn't know if it's cruelty or mercy when their swollen cocks are wrapped and squeezed, hard and satisfying, while Geralt's body receives the same treatment his has.  The vine's narrow enough that he can still breathe, though having his esophagus full triggers instinctive retching so severe it's hard to repress.  As horrible as it is, watching Geralt's face transform with confusion, rapture, and horror while he's penetrated from one end to the other is mind-numbingly hot.

A muffled whimper is the only indication Eskel gets that it's made it all the way though Geralt.  Bark-hands pet down both of their sides, as though to comfort, and they're given about half a minute to just feel what's happening to them.

Then the movement starts.  The vine inside them starts sliding about a foot forward before yanking back again, over and over, spurring them both into shocked, muffled yelling. 

There are no words for it.  It's in his stomach and his guts and his throat, and he can feel it, every inside part of him he's not supposed to be feeling, while it fucks their entire bodies.  The push from mouth to mouth, back and forth, has their lips mashed together in a facsimile of a kiss, drool pushed from one tongue to the other and dripping off their chins.

Geralt cums first, looking shocked by it.  Eskel follows his brother into orgasm seconds later, physically and emotionally overwhelmed. 

The vine slows and stops its rocking entirely, just like its master against Eskel's back.  New flowers bud and blossom on the restraint-tendrils: pink and yellow ones he doesn't recognize, blooming and closing and blooming again like a mesmerizing time-lapse.

It stops after a minute or so, all of them shrinking and fading back out of existence.  Geralt shudders and sobs against him as the vine's drawn back out of his body, then out of Eskel's. 

It's unspeakably strange, feeling at once so relieved he could die and so horribly empty.  They're both too preoccupied with the novelty of their own bodies, and with frantically catching their breath, to notice the leshen stepping away.

They both hack and heave, rolling onto their hands and knees, when they're finally, blessedly dropped.

The clearing's a meadow by the time they get their bearings again.  Flowers and ferns cover every inch of ground where trampled grass used to be, waving serenely in the breeze.

No trace of the creature or its vines remains.

Eskel collapses onto the soft foliage when it's clear the immediate danger has passed, panting like a dog.  Geralt crawls closer and follows suit.

"You said-"  Geralt's voice is wrecked.  "-that's happened before?"

Eskel's voice is too.  "I said they never attack.  And they're always flowering.  Guess that's... not a thing for you?"

"Nope."

"...are we telling Vesemir about this?"

"Nope."

+++++

It takes two weeks of nursing his wounded pride and venting to anyone who'd listen— he told me we weren't going to work, he's half a century old, his dick probably doesn't even function anymore— before Jaskier does some earnest research into the culture of dominance and submission (which includes watching... a lot of weird porn) and texts Geralt again.

The man's just so hot, and despite how much Jaskier generally adores being fawned over by aging men who know he's too good for them, something about being firmly, respectfully dismissed had been... not as entirely terrible as it at first felt.  He lightly tosses an empty soda can at Priscilla when she suggests maybe someone who doesn't put up with his bullshit and cater to his every whim is exactly what he needs, despite the fact that he's been coming to the same conclusion.

Geralt agrees to meet up again— in a firmly non-sex related encounter— when Jaskier apologizes for... attempted gold digging, really, and expresses earnest interest in hearing what being submissive for the man would actually, realistically entail.

They spend a lovely two hours in the back corner of a coffee shop, with Geralt very frankly and unabashedly talking about things that make Jaskier's face heat and his pulse pound between his legs.  Despite the content of their discussion, none of it feels like coercion or proposition: it's simply the things Jaskier needs to know if he actually wants this, explained entirely without shame or shyness.  Which is honestly as sexy in and of itself as being told he'll be expected to call Geralt Sir or Daddy, whichever better suits Jaskier's preference, at all times in-scene (excepting check-ins and safewording.)

They part with a hug, a chaste kiss, and two more dates planned— one traditional, and one for walking Jaskier through a contract and easing him into their play.

He can't help but preen afterwards.  On Geralt's bio it had specified that he wasn't looking to train a new sub, and would greatly prefer to enter new engagements with someone already familiar with the scene; yet here he was a week later, filling out a contract with Jaskier at his clean, well-lit kitchen table.  (At his house, on his horse ranch!  Well— large animal rehabilitation center.)

They both fall into their bedroom roles with startling compatibility.  Geralt will months later tell him he gave Jaskier a second chance because he knows a brat when he sees one, and likes opinionated subs much better than wilting violets.

Two years down the line they're still going strong, in the healthiest, happiest relationship Jaskier's ever been part of— that also happens to include the best sex he's ever had.  Funny how that works.

+++++

Geralt 10:12 AM:  I'll be at the upper barn for the next few hours, come find me when you get home.  I have some ideas I'd like to run by you.

Jaskier:  GOD you text formal. am i in trouble daddy

Geralt:  No. I'll explain when you get here, too much to type out.

Jaskier:  what if i want to be in trouble?

Geralt:  Keep giving me lip and you're well on your way.  Aren't you in class?

Jaskier:  yeah but it's music theory which i'm honestly more qualified to teach than the grad student who's bungling it.  will you send me a picture of your cock i miss it 🥺🥺🥺

Geralt:  I'm not sexting you at school, I feel like enough of a pervert dating someone my daughter's age.  Put your phone away and pay attention.

Jaskier:  Ciri's seventeen and I'm twenty one!!!  that's not the same!

Geralt:  Looking backwards from here it is.  I'm done responding baby, see you soon.

Jaskier:  mmm i like that you're old enough to really be my father though.  did you know i'd never actually called anyone daddy in bed before you??  a bunch of the old guys i fucked for free drinks asked but like.  if you have to BEG someone to call you daddy youre not daddy you know?

Jaskier:  you not responding has Not stopped me from getting a boner from my own imaginings, just so you know.  should i go to the bathroom and send you a picture?

Jaskier:  daddy :(  my asshole's still sore from getting fisted this weekend and every time i move it makes me think about it + get horny again

Jaskier:  fine!!  ill see you at home 😔

+++++

Geralt's picking Roach's hooves in the four-stall barn across from the house when Jaskier finds him, all his Friday classes front loaded into the early morning so he's off campus before noon.

"Well?  Did I successfully get myself in trouble?"  It's a mutually enjoyable game of give and take.  Geralt's always very clear about where the line is in terms of 'things Jaskier will be punished for,' as he was in their texts, which gives Jaskier total control over whether to back away or step over it.

He usually chooses to step over it, but it's nice always having realistic expectations rather than stumbling blindly and accidentally into a spanking— or, if he's really pushed it, a flogging.

Geralt snorts, bizarrely bright hazel eyes flicking up for half a second before returning to his task.  "A little, but I'm wrapping your punishment up in the discussion I wanted to have anyway and calling it a day.  You talk— and text, for that matter— more than anyone I've ever met, did you know that?"

"Please let this be a segue into how you're gonna shut me up— has Daddy's cock missed his baby's throat that bad?"  Jaskier bats his eyelashes.  He loves sucking cock, to the point where withholding it has become a form of punishment all on its own, and he's been admittedly sassy recently.

Geralt doesn't look up from the hoof-pick again, and similarly doesn't respond to the obvious goading.  "I'm thinking about wiring your mouth shut, actually.  Like they do to stop people from exacerbating jaw fractures."

Jaskier's whole body goes hot, mind kicking halfway from real-life Jaskier to playtoy Jaskier so fast it makes him dizzy.  They'd discussed things like this, semi-permanent and limited-time body alteration, but despite Jaskier's implications that he would Very Much like Geralt to take that kind of control over him it hasn't happened yet.

"...how would I eat?"

Geralt's eyebrows notch up— it's a cold day in hell when Jaskier's first response to a new concept isn't bratting, even if he loves whatever the idea is.  He can immediately tell his boy's gone a tiny bit under, just at the suggestion—  his shoulders have rolled in from their usual impeccable posture, arms bent at the elbow to draw his hands in towards his chest.

It's been a delightful, unspeakably gratifying experience, watching Jaskier go from irreverent wild-child in matters of love and sex to his devoted, thoughtful, submissive partner over the past few years.

"You'd eat liquids, and soft foods cut up into small bites.  Apparently you can still open your mouth about half an inch wide, it's just uncomfortable."  So Geralt did research about this before broaching it.

The older man sets Roach's foot back down when he's done, clipping her lead line on before unclipping the cross ties.  Jaskier follows a few steps behind as he walks her back to her stall, perfectly patient in a way that wouldn't have been imaginable before meeting Geralt, and watching as his boyfriend puts oats in her bucket and kisses her velvety nose goodbye.  Geralt changes out of his riding boots in the tack room and washes his hands before addressing Jaskier again, nodding at him to come along back to the house. 

The waiting has pushed him deeper under, like Geralt thought it would— he follows like a duckling, wiping his shoes on the mat when prompted and slipping out of them inside the door (he'd initially been dismissive of the 'indoor shoes/outdoor shoes' divide, but 'there's a high likelihood you've stepped in horse shit' was a compelling enough argument to sway him.)

They can't have the actual negotiation right now, clearly.  Jaskier's already too far into subspace for that, but Geralt's counting his clear enthusiasm as a win anyway.  He'll have to set stricter boundaries for them than the (admittedly sexy but entirely too lax)  ones Jaskier tends to come up with, he can already tell, but he thinks they'll be able to make this work.

Geralt ambles into the kitchen starts frying meat and onions to throw on top of leftover rice, directing Jaskier around like a scullery maid when he needs something and letting him burrow his face between Geralt's shoulder blades when he doesn't.  Jask's the touchiest sub he's ever had, in addition to being the mouthiest, and it's strangely gratifying.  Not being overly tactile himself, he hadn't thought of it as something to look for in a partner until he had it: nothing makes him feel as good or as dominant as Jaskier's desperation to have their bodies in contact at all possible times.

He lets Jask know what a good boy he's being: what a good boy he always is for Daddy, even when he's bratting, and it makes Jaskier whimper gratefully against his back, two little spots of moisture wetting his shirt where the boys' eyes are.

In rare form, Jask eats everything in his bowl without complaint, squirming in his chair with impatience while he waits for Geralt to finish but graciously not hurrying him along.  He really does try to be good, firecracker that he is.

"I'll take care of the dishes— do you want to go make yourself ready for Daddy, or just hang out until you're back above water so we can talk about it?"  Geralt thinks Jaskier's obvious erection is a plain enough answer, but they've been working on clear, respectful communication.

"Make myself ready!" 

Geralt purses his lips waits a few seconds, indulgent. 

"Oh!  Please.  I want to make myself ready, please." 

Kissing the crown his his head, Geralt usher him upstairs, taking his time rinsing their bowls and utensils before putting them in the half-full dishwasher.

Sex in the middle of the day is something he had to re-acclimate himself to when he started dating Jaskier.  He has an extremely active libido for a man his age, between his genetics, level of fitness and diet, but a very healthy forty-seven still doesn't come close to the randiness of twenty-one.

Jaskier's in presentation position on the bed when Geralt finally comes upstairs, hole pink-stretched from fingering.  Geralt undresses and gently flips him over with two hands at his waist, wanting to see his face for this, before climbing on top of him.

"There's my pretty boy— you're really excited about this, huh?"

Jaskier grins dopily, wrapping his arms around Geralt's shoulders and his legs around Geralt's waist in an attempt to pull him closer, pull him inside.  "Yeah— Gods, put it in, please fuck me, you can't tell me you're going to seek dental intervention to shut me up and then not fuck me-"

"Hmm.  You were doing so well being quiet downstairs, too."  He rubs his cockhead lazily against Jaskier's taint, pinning his hips when the boy tries to angle them up to get it where he wants it.

"The shock has worn off— Daddy, don't tease me, I've been good-"

The older man actually laughs at that.  "Is that what you call soliciting dick pics in class?  And offering to sneak off to send some of your own?  I'm beginning to think your understanding of 'good' is the crux of our problem, baby."

Jaskier pouts, beginning to struggle in earnest rather than as a helpless token effort: he likes that he's too weak to break Geralt's hold, especially likes when they play games that draw attention to that— 'drunk college student violated by predatory older man,' for example— but now's not the time.

They both moan when Geralt seats himself in one firm thrust, Jaskier going limp and pliant now he has what he's wanted, circling his hips in tiny motions back against his boyfriend's shaft.  "Fuck yes; I don't know why you always make me wait for it Daddy,  you're just as horny for boypussy as I am for-"

"Because you need to learn restraint."  He punctuates the word by pulling all the way out and slamming back in, shivering for how easy the slide is, how well-fucked and well-trained he has his baby.  "That's what Daddies are for, Sweetie, teaching their boys how to behave."  Huffing, Geralt sets a brutal pace, titillated by his sub's mouthiness despite his chiding.  Jaskier's begun the long, continuous whimper that makes up the soundtrack of all their sex: breathless and in-time with the pace of their fucking, slowly growing louder and louder the closer to orgasm the student gets.

"That's why Daddy's gonna wire your fat fucking mouth shut, keep you nice and quiet for once in your life.  I'll miss your throathole, but the blessed silence—"  Geralt ruts in, slower but harder, sweat beginning to bead on his own forehead to match the ruddy, glossy sheen of his frantic fucktoy.  Jaskier turns his head to nip at the wrist braced by his head, toothy and entirely deliberate, eyes bright as he stares meaningfully at Geralt after doing so.

Huffing fondly, Geralt removes the hand pinning Jask's right wrist, pulls his arm back, and slaps him across the face.

They'd both love for it to leave marks, but it's not feasible with Jaskier being a college student with an active social life.  'Love taps,' Geralt calls them, just light enough not to bruise.  He keeps slapping, alternating cheeks, until Jaskier starts to well and truly cry, before moving his free hand down to jerk him off with a too-tight, perfect grip until Jask comes with a wail.

He keeps stripping Jaskier even after the end of the boy's orgasm subsides, tugging his prick and hollowing out his guts until Jaskier grabs his wrist and tries to physically pry it off him, begging mostly in garbled nonsense words for Daddy to please stop, please cum, it hurts.

The fight's what brings Geralt over the edge, continuing to grip tight and immobile at Jaskier's sore, hurting dick until he's done breeding his guts.

In keeping with Jaskier being touchier than his former subs, he requires much more specific aftercare: namely Geralt can't leave him alone, even for a minute, until he's done coming down, or he'll dissolve into anxious tears.

He's perfectly sweet in Geralt's arms, allowing himself to be lifted and carried to the bathroom while Geralt runs water until it's hot enough to wipe them down with.

Geralt slips his own robe on, then puts Jaskier in his, before heading for the living room.  He's watched more TV in the last two years than in the ten before them combined.  Partially because he wants to be familiar with the things Jaskier is into, but mostly because it's just about the only thing there is to do while coddling his sub after a scene: rocking him back and forth in his lap with something mindless playing in the background while he comes back to himself.

Well.  Mindless for Jaskier.  Geralt, unfortunately, has become reluctantly invested in some of the shows he puts on, purely by way of familiarity.

Thirty minutes into a thriller/drama series about a rural woman's inexplicable haunting, Jaskier lifts his head from where it's buried between Geralt's pecs.  He squints at the screen.

"What's the floating zombie thing?"

"Nightwraith."

"Since when does this show have nightwraiths?"

"That's her sister— was her sister, rather."

"Th— the ghost's her sister?  It's been her dead sister this whole time?"

"Presumably why it's been hurting everyone but her; this is the first time we've seen it, though, so they haven't explained much yet.  How are you feeling?"

Jaskier watches the practical effects on screen until the scene ends before taking stock of his own body, stretching out across Geralt's thighs and yawning.  "Good?  Good.  Can we talk about wiring my mouth shut now?  Gods, my cheeks are still hot from the hitting."

"Sorry about that.  Yes— c'mon, into the kitchen."  Geralt turns the television off and gets up, grimacing at the way his back cracks.

"Don't be; you could leave bruises over summer break, if we wanted.  I'll say I'm on a staycation or something, so everyone who doesn't already know we're freaks in bed doesn't invite me out while they heal.  I'd like that, I think."

Geralt makes coffee despite the relative lateness of the hour, doctoring Jaskier's with too much cream before pushing it into his hands and spooning a truly absurd amount of sugar into his own.

"Is that the only source of sugar in your diet?  Like, for real; it's the only sugar I personally ever see you imbibe."

"Usually, yes."  They sit down next to each other, rather than across the table, and Geralt gets right down to it.

"If you're amenable, I'd like to have your jaw wired shut.  It wouldn't last longer than a month, and you could safeword out at any time; I won't be upset or disappointed if it's too big of an inconvenience, or if you just don't like it."

"I can tell you for sure I'm not going to like it."  Ever the contrarian, his expression is thrilled.

"You know what I mean.  If it doesn't excite you like you think it will.  Or if that excitement is outweighed by the inconvenience."

"You're really that desperate for me to shut the fuck up?"  It's mostly teasing— Jaskier really, really likes this as a concept, too— but there's an undercurrent of genuine insecurity.

Geralt reaches out to lace their fingers together.  "I love your company and value what you have to say, but sometimes— most of the time— you're talking to fill space.  Which is fine.  It disarms a lot of people, makes you approachable.  But I think wiring you shut might... get you more used to comfortable silence.  I'm not expecting you to stay muted once it's off, but hopefully you'll be less uncomfortable with silence as a rule."  His mouth quirks.  "And yes, occasionally I do wish you'd shut the fuck up."

"I'm quiet like... half the time when I'm under!"

"You are— that's how I know I like it.  The problem is when you're not under, which is what this would address."

They work out a system of tapping and humming for 'yes's, 'no's, and 'stop's— he'll still have limited speech, so it's not dire, but it never hurts to be prepared— and then call to make the dental appointment for the next day. 

Jaskier's a bit worried they'll ask for a reference when Geralt says it's because of a minor fracture in his jaw, but they don't.  Who'd ask, and pay, to have their jaw wired shut just for fun?

Geralt drives him to the office the next day to have it done. 

They give each other frantic, hurried handjobs in the car afterward, parked at the back of the mostly-empty lot.  Geralt keeps kissing him while he tugs him off, Jaskier instinctively going to open his mouth for it then flinching and whining when he cant, which just makes Geralt kiss him harder.

"How's it feel, baby?"

"Ih feelsh—" Jaskier snaps his teeth shut, gums aching, and shoots Geralt a teary, half-indignant half-worshipful look.  Geralt presses forward over the center console to 'kiss' him again, tonguing deliberately at the braces-like metal anchors dental glued to Jaskier's eye teeth and coming in the boy's hand with an uncharacteristically loud moan.

"Good boy, my good quiet bitch—"  Jaskier squeaks and comes himself, panting through his nose while Geralt uses a spare shirt from the back to clean them up, praising him all the while.  "So proud of you for going through with this, making yourself such a perfect boy for me— head up, Jask, let Daddy kiss you some more."

He lets Geralt run his tongue covetously over his teeth for another minute or so, until the man pulls back satisfied and shifts the car out of park, stopping at a drive-through to get Jaskier a milkshake on the way home.

+++++

It's strange but manageable, spending the rest of the weekend quiet by necessity at home.  Not being able to sass Geralt is a special bit of torture, especially because that's usually how he indicates he wants a scene, but asking to be treated roughly... isn't as bad as he thought it'd be.  It's a bit humiliating, typing out on his phone that he wants Geralt to spank his ass and taint with a hairbrush instead of acting like it's an unwanted and unforeseen consequence of his mouthiness, but it's kind of arousing too: giving in to his masochism, freely asking to be treated roughly just because he likes it.

How much Geralt clearly gets off on it— all of it, the wired jaw and the asking and the hushed, wordless moaning in bed— makes it all very worth it.

Going back to campus on Monday is... less fun, however.

"Jaskier!  Jask, you won't believe what the finance students did in the dorms; the freshman who live there I mean, nobody snuck onto campus— what the fuck?"

Priscilla goes from bright and gossipy to concerned in a heartbeat, cupping Jaskier's face in her hands when he bares his teeth to indicate that he... can't really answer.  "What happened?"  Her expression hardens.  "Did he— I know Geralt plays rough with you, and that you... you like it, but-"

He shakes his head so hard it dislodges her palms, pulling his phone out.  Pris is more understanding than most of his friends about the 'much older boyfriend' thing, and the... 'lifestyle' thing, but she's still deeply wary of Geralt, despite their getting along wonderfully on a personal level.

He goes into his phone notes and types out 'i'm fine!  it's not injury-related.'

"Why else would your jaw be wired shut?  I— am I taking crazy pills?  In what other situation is that the solution?"

Jaskier's beet-red at this point, humiliated and indignant and... slightly, shamefully turned on.  It hadn't occurred to him that his exhibitionism... inclinations would extend to this.

'i'm... power exchange is a thing, okay?  and it's fun, and i'm LOUD, as you know.'

Priscilla stares at the message entirely too long before looking back up at Jaskier.

"He wired your jaw shut because you wouldn't shut the fuck up?"

Jaskier doesn't have an erection, but there’s warmth pooling between his legs, spurned on by the absolute mortification.

'WE had my jaw wired shut because WE thought it would be a fun game to play!  it comes off in a month!!  or less, if i decide i don't like it!'

"Do you like it?"

Jaskier fixes her with a deeply betrayed look.  '............................yes and no.  but... mostly yes?  if you want me to go into this with you i will, but you usually balk when i talk about like.  submission stuff.'

The quarter-past bell chimes out from the student building, making Priscilla grab his arm and pull him with her across campus to the professional practices class they have together.  "Thank you for trying to protect me, but.  Okay, I /have to know.  This makes you horny?  Partial braces and the inability to talk makes you horny?"

His typing's slowed by their walking, but Pris graciously grabs his arm to steer him through the crowds so he doesn't have to look up.  'it's... it's not the not talking specifically, it's the being FORCED to not talk.  like.  okay you know i love him and hes VERY respectful and honestly way better than all of the people i've previously dated, but when we're doing sex stuff-'  He knows this message is getting long and going nowhere but he really, deeply doesn't know how to explain this to someone. '-it's like.  i get off on being a Thing that he fucks, and he gets off on treating me like a Thing that he fucks?   sometimes!  and now that i can't talk it's like... my being a person doesn't matter?  he's just making me a better hole to put his dick in?  again, this is the dynamic of our SEX, not our RELATIONSHIP.'

Priscilla's face goes through nearly the full range of human emotion reading the message, pulling him to the very back of the classroom instead of their usual seats near the front.

"Okay.  I mean that's not what I'm into but it's... theoretically logical.  But you love talking— the sex is really good enough to give it up?"

He wiggles his eyebrows at her.  'first of all yes second of all oh my GOD does geralt get off on it.  like.  he always makes me feel desirable but—"  Priscilla, reading the text as he types it over his shoulder, yanks the phone out of his hand with a disgusted noise. 

"Okay, your sexual procilivites I can stand to hear about, your geriatric boyfriend?  Not so much."

He snatches his phone back.  'he's super hot and you know it!  you've admitted he's hot! you said you'd try to smash if we werent dating last month when we were all shitfaced under the novigrad bridge!'

"How dare you use that against me!  And this is different— okay, thinking about me having sex with an older man is one thing, but thinking in detail about the sex that older man has with my also twenty-something friend is just... it just feels like pervert activity!"

Jaskier laughs and regrets it immediately, clenching his teeth shut and chuckling through them until it subsides.  Their professor— nearly five minutes late herself, walking hurriedly through the door— shoots them a tired look as she shoulders her bag off onto the table at the front of the room.

"We will be talking more about this later!  Well.  I will, at least."

Jaskier types 'fuck you' into his phone, and gets them both in trouble by shoving the screen into Priscilla's face after she smugly refuses to look at it.

+++++

Lunch on campus is an entirely different experience than his weekend at home.  He doesn't tell his other friends the real reason he's got metal-mouth, his sex life being none of their business, and therefore has to weather nearly fifteen minutes of well-intentioned but deeply embarrassing condolences and sympathetic anecdotes.  Priscilla watches it unfold like the cat who got the cream, occasionally making a blowjob motion with her hand and her tongue poking the inside of her cheek when nobody else is looking.

Being something of a fitness enthusiast, Geralt's been making him surprisingly palatable smoothies with his bullet blender for the last two days, in addition to considerately stocking their fridge with ice cream.  Since he can still open his mouth, a bit, Jaskier thought it'd be no problem to eat one meal a day, five days a week on campus like he usually does; just cut it into tiny pieces and chew minimally, right?

About twenty bites in, trying desperately not to draw attention to himself while Pris and Essi try to decide whether a play written about Valdo's dick would be considered a comedy or a tragedy, he realizes what a grave error he's made.

Opening to put food in would be fine in and of itself, but the chewing is a hurdle: halfway through trying to get a bit of mediocre chicken broken-up enough not to choke him, he feels a hot line of drool slip out of his mouth and begin dripping off his chin.

Jaskier pulls a napkin up to his mouth immediately, feigning a sneeze to wipe his face dry and spit the traitorous bit of chicken back out.  He gives his friends a thumbs up when they glance over, getting a nod in return before they go back to their debate.

Jaw aching, Jaskier nudges his tray away from him and wills away his flush, nodding when he's asked if he ate before class and pulling out his phone.

Jasker 1:44 PM: geralt i'm DROOLING.  when i try to chew i DROOL

Geralt: Do you want to have it removed?

Jaskier:  no?  no, i just... i fucking drooled in front of my friends. they didnt NOTICE, but i did!! anyway please kill me

Geralt:  Poor baby.  Do you need Daddy to pack lunches for you?

Jaskier shudders.  They don't really use 'daddy' outside of sexual contexts, and Geralt's almost never willing to engage sexually over text.

Jaskier:  would you?  not to be an invalid, but... drooling.  at twenty one.  not a good look.

Geralt:  I bet you look very pretty slobbering all over yourself, but yes, I'd be happy to send you off with food.

Jaskier:  .....wow this shit Really gets you going huh?  wanna watch me drool while i ride you daddy, all sweet and quiet?

Geralt:  There's a lot of appeal in knowing parts of our play are impacting other parts of your life.  And in knowing that you've been made... a little bit useless.  At least for a while.

Melitile's tits, he's engaging this.

Jaskier:  i'm still useful for a lot of things daddy 😇

Jaskier:  hold on, i'll show you

"Jask?  You done?"  Priscilla presses her palm over Essi's mouth, cutting off her escalating defense of Valdo's theoretical dick-play being a tragedy.

‘yeah! gotta go get a new student id anyway, lost it with my lanyard last week. see u later?’ 

Pris squints suspiciously at him but doesn't contest it, and Jaskier leaves the cafeteria to a cheeful chorus of goodbyes.

His phone buzzes again before he's made it to the bathroom— Jaskier nearly chokes on his own spit, quickly pressing the screen to his chest when a picture of Geralt's hard, dripping cock appears on screen, foreskin pulled back by his huge calloused hand.

Geralt:  You've been asking for one of these for a while.

Jaskier:  holy shit daddy- i would've wired my jaw shut ages ago if i knew this is what'd FINALLY make you send me dick pics at school

Geralt:  You're between classes.  It's different.

Jaskier:  suuuuure it is :)

He's got a half-chub by the time he locks himself in a bathroom stall, ignoring the splashing from the urinals as he tugs his pants and underwear down and switches to the camera app, lifting his arm above his head to get a vanity shot of his handsome, metal-mouthed smile and eager prick all in one.

Jaskier:  i don't think i can j/o in this bathroom without anybody noticing but i want to :(

The Lettenhove estate's kennelmaster was an old drunk when Jaskier was born, and is practically geriatric by the time he's fifteen.  He's still great with the animals— during the limited times he interacts with them— and several of the whelping bitches are dogs raised from puppies that try to maul anyone else who gets near their young. 

These two facts assure the man's job security pretty much until the day he dies— and set the scene for Jaskier having access to well-socialized, unneutered, accustomed-to-fucking canines pretty much 24/7, with little to no supervision. 

It'll do, in the absence of men.  He's always liked dogs anyway. 

It's shockingly easy to get them hard.  They're primed and randy for any attention to their balls or sheath, and downright eager to mount up.  Jask cries the first time he's knotted, mistakenly thinking it would take weeks of earning their trust for them to take him up on all the ass-waving in their faces he does.  The pain of the stretch comes full circle to ecstasy by the time the dog throws its leg over his back to wait out the tie, the massive stretch of its knot pressing relentlessly against his prostate.

His sides and thighs are all scratched up, and there's slobber on the back of his head and neck.  It's the hottest thing Jaskier's ever experienced.

It might not have gotten as bad as it did, he thinks, if he hadn't discovered his penchant for bestiality going into age sixteen: cock rising for a stiff wind several times a day, with unfettered access to several lusty canines at all hours.

College at Oxenfurt heralds in Jaskier's first sexual experiences with human men— the very first of which he's kicked out of bed immediately after, when he sincerely asks "That's it?"

While he does carry on with several of his classmates after that, male and female, he also makes frequent trips down under the docks, where the strays gather to eat castoff from the fishing boats.  They're easy enough to lure somewhere less pungent, an emptied out warehouse or dead-end alley, and similarly easy to coax to hardness— though he desperately misses how well mounting-trained the dogs back home were, with Oxenfurt's strays humping clumsily against his balls before getting off between his thighs more often than not.  Still, it's something.

It gives him time to get better acquainted with dog cock at least.  He's able to have as much fun as he wants, jerking and sucking and teasing, now that his lovers don't know enough to immediately climb onto him once stimulated, and Gods is it rewarding.  Dogs are so expressive, so eager to please, shamelessly, flatteringly desperate in their desire to fuck him in a way that perfectly scratches that bone-deep itch to be wanted he has.

He can't deny there's also a special thrill in meeting friends with the taste of canine spunk still in his mouth, or being playfully shamed by his lovers for having such a loose hole and knowing it's because he sneaks off to fuck dirty stupid animals in his spare time.

His sex life, in human and non-human arenas, gets leaner after he graduates, though he seizes every opportunity he can.  Greatful tavern owners frequently put him up even when they don't technically have inn-rooms, and sleeping in front of the hearth with an armful of spare blankets means sleeping next to the family dog more often than not. 

It's a wash when the dog's a bitch, perfectly lovely to curl into for heat but sexually uninspiring— but when it's a stud...

Mmm, the small-town dogs tend to be so pent-up, humping his leg before he's even gotten down to present and coming minutes if not seconds into their sex.  They're so enthusiastic, though, Jaskier can't hold it against them— especially not when they're ready for round two (and three, and four) so flatteringly quickly.  Apparently he's an impressively enticing bitch, to his tremendous delight.

And then Jaskier meets Geralt.

Geralt, who's fucking gorgeous.  Geralt, who, from what Jaskier's seen of him in the bath, might actually have the girth to scratch the knotting itch human prick just never does for him, and who's opinion he's quick to realize he actually cares about.  His unconventional sexual habits have always been a naughty, arousing secret around the people he's fancied before: sweet-talking blushing, doe-eyed girls like his guts aren't stuffed with animal semen, reveling in the taboo of it all.  Now though, Jaskier actually worries what'll happen if Geralt finds out: wants to sink into the floor and disappear forever at the thought of being cast off as a degenerate dog-fucker.

The way he and the witcher drift together and then apart make it manageable.  He occasionally even goes home to Lettenhove during their time apart, despite his strained family relations, just to get his fill of eager red doggie dick after so long without.

It all works like it should for three years, give or take, before he blows his own cover.

+++++

Jaskier's twenty one.  There's a cacophonous howling at night in the woods he and Geralt are traveling through. 

Geralt's says they sound like dogs, not wolves, though Jaskier himself can't differentiate the acoustics.  The witcher sprays trees with his urine in a half-mile circle around their camp every night to deter them, and incredibly it works. 

Something about him piss-marking his territory like an animal, and it successfully warding off other, weaker animals, gets Jaskier... unreasonably hot.

Gods, but now he's thinking about animals again.

Traveling with Geralt is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity Jaskier emphatically does not regret taking.  More than musical inspiration he's found a muse, and a man who— despite his stiff recalcitrance— cares for Jaskier as deeply as Jaskier cares for him.  Someone he might, if allowed to wander off from time to time, want to spend the rest of his life with.

Being in the springtime of this wonderful new love has not magically eliminated Jaskier's craving for animal cock, unfortunately.

The village they're headed to is just on the outskirts of the howling woods, its ealdorman having posted notices in every settlement for twenty miles around pleading for help with a ghost haunting his homestead.  There aren't more than thirty people in the whole hamlet, but it's cute-small, not impoverished-small, with a charming watermill in the nearby river and ivy climbing up everyone's walls.

The ealdorman and his family are uncommonly gracious upon their arrival, seeming genuinely relieved anyone has shown up to help rather than resentful they had to resort to soliciting a witcher.  They're welcomed inside with offers of water and bread, and while Geralt steps farther into the house to talk shop about the specter Jaskier stays at the kitchen table and ogles their dog.

It's a mastiff of some kind, laid out carelessly on the rug in front of the fireplace.  The ealdorman's daughter laughs when she sees him looking, moving to kneel by the hound and ushering Jaskier forward.  "Not much of a guard dog, is he?  It's more the idea of Grim that scares people off— 'cmon, you can pet him if you want!"

She has a point— the thing hadn't done anything when they'd walked in, Geralt clearly armed and dangerous, but lifted its head and sighed before putting it back down.  Non-aggressive, then, well-socialized.  And the girl said 'him.'

Sure enough, when he walks around the back of the creature to crouch down next to her he can see its heavy sack peeking out from between its back legs, under its short-furred tail.  It sighs again when he cautiously pets it, but starts wagging after a minute or so, swiveling its chest (regretfully just its chest) to face the ceiling so he can pet it too.

Jaskier's way too turned on.  "Friendly boy, aren't you?"

It's not a joke, or any attempt at humor, but the daughter laughs and titters at his comment all the same.  She's flush and smiling shyly when he looks up, clearly smitten— must not be anyone her age in this sleepy town, poor thing.  He'd seriously consider giving her a night or two to remember if he wasn't so fixated on her pet.

While they're both here, though, a bit of extra info would be nice.  "We— myself and Geralt, that is— have been hearing quite the din from the woods nearby.  Is there a wolf or coyote problem around here?"  Please confirm that it's dogs: hungry, horny stray canines, smart and ruthless enough to plow any hole offered to them.  He'll have to find something to feed them all with first, lest they mistake one type of offering for another, but if he brings a side of pork or something, lets them eat their ravenous fill before going out to wag his ass at them like a bitch in heat—

Except he's traveling with Geralt.  Right.

"Just dogs!  Run off from their villages by looting soldiers after their owners were killed; they're not the menacing kind, thank the Gods.  Not a mangy animal among them, just hungry and persistent, digging through our rubbish and whatnot.  Grim likes to go out and play with them when they're nearby, but we don't usually let him.  Nothing's come up rabid yet, but it can't hurt to be cautious— I suspect he's mostly interested in 'playing' with the lady-dogs anyway, and this area has enough homeless mutts as is."

They continue to make small talk, petting Grim together all the while.  Since there are no empty homes around at the moment, he and Geralt are offered lodging in the family's half-partitioned kitchen: clean with cool tile floors, and honestly nicer than half of the rented rooms they typically stay in, once they've been brought thick blankets and a spare hay pallet. 

Grim comes over some time in the small hours of the morning to curl up at the foot of their mattress.

+++++

Jaskier knows it's stupid, and risky, but he really, desperately wants to fuck their hosts' pet— and thinks he can probably get away with it.  Geralt's out in the fields and the forest abutting them all the following day, trying to find out who the wraith was, what's binding them here, and why it won't show except to specific individuals.  During his short kip back to the hut to refill his water-skin and update Jaskier he explains all of this, warning him that his work will probably be drawn out into tomorrow night since he hasn't found anything concrete to lure it in with.  

Jaskier nods along and hums at all the right places, sitting on the floor to better rub Grim's stomach.  The dog has rolled over so one of its front legs and one of its back legs are splayed in the air, giving Jaskier more surface area for petting and putting the thing's sheath and fat, heavy balls perfectly on display.

Much as he loves Geralt, and mean as it is, he's eager for the man to leave.  Their hosts are staying with the ealdorman's sister at Geralt's behest, since the haunting's likely targeted, leaving Grim home with Geralt and Jaskier to 'watch the property.'  Knowing that Geralt won't be back until far after dusk, off earning their living and being an altogether upstanding pillar of witcherdom, has Jaskier uncomfortably horny.

He keeps himself busy into the early evening with constructive tasks: darning his socks and transcribing the disgusting mess of his field notes into his proper notebook.  Once he's well and truly done with everything else he could possibly be doing, alone in the house with his new furry friend, he decides it can't hurt to have... just a little taste.

The dog stands still and wagging when Jaskier calls it over to where he's sitting on the floor, in a corner by the cold hearth that none of the windows look in on, and starts fondling it.  A lot of male dogs get aggressive when they're stroked between their back legs, but Grim is as docile as ever with one of Jaskier's hands jacking his sheath and the other rolling his balls.  Unused to this kind of attention from humans, it takes a few minutes to get its cock hard enough to peek out, but it's a sight when it does— ruddy-purple with blood and so tantalizing Jaskier can't help but duck his head under its belly to suck it into his mouth.

Grim's hips jerk forward when Jaskier licks the head of its cock, making him laugh breathlessly and pull back, holding the tapered tip in front of his open mouth, tongue out.  Eager squirts of water-thin precum spray into his mouth in time with the animal's pulse, the familiarity of the taste driving him to rub the tip teasingly over his lips and cheeks, loving the feel of it dripping down his face.  He takes it back into his mouth to coax it the rest of the way out, moaning and roughly palming himself through his pants at the way it slides forward, fat and throbbing onto his tongue.

He's always gotten off on this part as much as the actual penetration, hedonist that he is: feeling like a dirty bitch, leaking in his pants while he sucks off stupid dirty animals, desperate to drink down their cum.  Sentimental with how much he's missed this, he starts massaging behind Grim's swelling knot, sucking in earnest to try and get that to pop out, too. When it doesn't happen of its own accord Jaskier pulls back, a string of canine precum hanging from his bottom lip, and shifts focus to licking its balls as he grabs behind the knot and pulls it out.  Dog testicles are so much hotter than a human's, skin taut with how full they are and entirely furless.  They're salty with sweat, entirely unhygienic, and the best fucking thing Jaskier's ever had the pleasure of pressing his tongue to.

For a while the only sound in the room is the wet suction of Jaskier's mouth, the 'shlick' of him pulling the dog off, and the loud, huffing panting of the animal itself, worked into a lather by the loving servicing it's receiving.  Grim has the biggest cock he's ever seen on a dog, and there's not a chance in hell he's passing this opportunity up after so long without a good canine dicking.

Suddenly, from outside, the cacophony of howling starts up again— just like it had his and Geralt's last few nights on the road.  Grim's head shoots up, prancing away with its hard cock still bobbing and spraying under its legs.  They strays sound close.

Jaskier's missed having multiple four-legged lovers at once.  "Are those your friends?  Do you wanna go play with your friends?"  Jaskier certainly wants to.

With a quick glance out the window to make sure the coast is clear, Jaskier pushes the door open, laughing as Grim nearly takes his legs out from under him in his mad dash out the door.  "You— hold up, you boor, wait for me!"  He tears clumsily through his bag to find the oil he keeps for just such a purpose before tearing off after the dog.

He finds Grim and the rest of the mutts out past the edge of the village, about a hundred paces into the woods by the barely-running creek bed.  There are a few worrying ears and tails stiff at attention when he stumbles up, but Grim's quick turn to trot back over and jump excitedly up onto him (cock still out) swiftly cuts the tension.  They crowd around him, sniffing and yipping, knocking him playfully on his back when he sits to get at eye level.

From this upward angle, it's easy to identify which of them are male— six of the nine, actually, which thrills him— and once they're all done acquainting themselves with his scent (including several thorough investigations of his precum-soaked crotch that have him nearly coming in his pants) he calls Grim back over to him, uncorking the oil vial with shaking hands.

Now slick and slippery, the mastiff humps into his grip with force, whining and turning around to press its wet nose against his face and neck when Jaskier lets go long enough to pull his pants down.  The bard wipes his oily hand between his cheeks and across his asshole— doesn't want the knot to get stuck on the dry friction of his skin instead of popping in, where it belongs— and hunkers down into mounting position, praying the dog will know what to do instead of fumbling blindly, because he's /entirely too horny to coax it through the motions.

The other mutts look on with increasing interest, still-soft but clearly attuned to the scent of doggie and human arousal, as Grim walks around Jaskier's back to snuffle curiously at his hole and taint.

"That's it, handsome; you ever sired puppies?  Sweet boy like you, I bet you have— come on, you can do it!  You can mount, baby, I won't be angry, hop on and take your pleasure— shit!" 

Proving that he's a tremendously good dog indeed, Grim hops up to wrap his front legs around Jaskier's waist, claws scratching the hell out of his thighs in the process.

Jaskier used to trim the claws of his hounds back home into bluntness every week, so his body didn't end up scratched bloody by their intimacy.  Grim's claws on the other hand are still very much domestic-sharp, and long— Jaskier knows he's going to be scraped to ribbons by the time the it's done assfucking him, and he doesn't care. Its cock's so wonderfully hard where it prods clumsily into his crack, scrabbling for purchase inside his body. 

They both howl when it finds it— canine dicks slip in so nicely, and they hump so fucking fast, taking him from frustrated anticipation to drooling, cross-eyes ecstasy in a matter of seconds.  "Yes!  Fuck, shit, fuck me fuck me fuck me—" 

Every thrust mashes the knot against his rim but doesn't quite pop it in, a tease that has his prick jumping between his legs and his hips pressing back.

There are wet noses and tongues pressing all over his body now: the male strays have their cocks half-out now, shafts pushed forward to drip onto the ground, the beginnings of their own knots bulging in their furry sheaths while they watch and lick and whine.

It isn't until they're ass to ass, well and truly knotted together— Jaskier reaching out desperately for the cock of one of his other suitors, hungry for something in his mouth while he waits for the tie to go down— that he notices boots in his peripheral vision.

He jolts so hard it tugs painfully on the knot, making him cry out in pain and Grim pant harder, tail lifting to fill his insides with even more watery dog cum.  He follows the boots up a familiar pair of leather-clad legs to an even more familiar belt harness, with the horrifying, sunken face of a long-dead woman with violets growing out of her eyesockets hanging off it. 

Geralt had been able to do away with the nightwraith after all.

This is where he should be having a panic attack, and definitely would be— if it weren't for the way Geralt's furiously fisting his cock where it sticks obscenely out from his undone pantlaces.

"I... it's not what it looks like?"

Grim takes a few curious steps towards Geralt, tail wagging above where his cock's plugging Jaskier full, and drags Jask across the forest floor with him.  Jaskier splatters the ground with his own cum, whimpering, the horror and arousal of being seen like this in combination with his wonderfully full asshole finally driving him over the edge. 

"So you're not getting gangbanged by dogs right now."  His brain's still catching up.  Geralt's jacking off, which means... Geralt's into this—

"I'm not, actually— I'm getting fucked by one dog, while the others watch."

"Would you like to be getting gangbanged by dogs?"

Come again?

The hand Geralt's not choking his dick with traces... something in the air, fingers flashing pale blue.

The biggest of the spectating feral mutts stops its prancing and air-humping, staggering to a standstill with a slowly wagging tail and relaxed, neutral ears.  The witcher twitches his fingers again, and the dog's huge, veiny cock slides all the way out of its sheath, knot popping out fully expanded.  The gorgeous prick jumps eagerly, tapping the thing's belly, spraying precum onto the ground and its front legs in equal measure.

Fuck yes.

"Geralt— thank you, please, I want— mmph!"  Before he can finish the sentence the thing's mounting his face, salty dick pressing into his throat.  Its knot's too popped to fit into his mouth, thank the Gods— he's not looking to be outed as an animal-fucker and choked into unconsciousness by dog dick in the same night— so it just bumps roughly into his lips and teeth as the stray swabs his throat, paws braced on his back.

"You love this, don't you— why didn't you tell me you wanted to get knotted?"  What's that supposed to mean?  Not that he can really flex his critical thinking skills at a time like this— God, he can feel the stray throbbing in his throat, spent prick tingling painfully as it rises back to half-mast— but what could Geralt possibly be suggesting?  That they could've gone out of their way to find dogs for Jask to bend over for?

He looks up as much as he can, brow furrowed, and goes stupid at what he sees.

There's— at the base of Geralt's dick, beginning to swell under the tight, rhythmic clenching of his fist—

Geralt has a knot.

Decisively, Jaskier jerks his body forward, choking himself on the shaft in his mouth in the same moment Grim's half-softened cock pops out of him.  The mastiff paces a few steps forward and sits down to lick itself clean, leaving Jaskier's hole dripping and open.

"Mmph?"  He wiggles his ass hopefully.

Geralt grabs him by the hair when he settles in behind him, teasing his gape with his cockhead while he moves him up and down on the dog.  "There we go, choke on it— you want my knot?  Think you deserve it, keeping nasty secrets from me?"

Jaskier nods as frantically as he can, clenching his open hole enticingly at the witcher.  Geralt slaps his ass, hard and loud enough to make their audience yip and prance, hopefully moving ever-closer. 

During one of these sets, in an unsettlingly clean tavern and dining hall on Temple Isle, Jaskier... may heckle the audience a bit harshly.

He can't help it! The exorbitantly rich and the obnoxiously pious both tend to get on his nerves, and this is a neighborhood brimming with a mixture of the two.  So, on account of that, he— might have— singled out a particularly sour-faced woman in the crowd, wearing the colors of the Church, and asked if the Eternal Fire kindled every flame but the one in her loins, and that's why she's so joyless.

He's instantly pants-shittingly terrified when she waves a glowing hand at him before storming out.  He's seen Geralt's signs, and Yennefer's sorcery— knows magic when it's cast on him by this point in his life.  Despite this, he's able to finish the six songs he set out to play near-flawlessly, patting his body down for warts or mange or some other new development once he's done and finding nothing.

When the next two days progress similarly normally— wonderfully, even, pulling in as much coin at the Passiflora in one night as he normally does across two months of his traveling minstrel shtick— he concludes that either it was his imagination, or she was just a spectacularly shitty witch.  In either case, he's summarily free and clear.

It's such a firm conviction that he doesn't even think to mention it to Geralt when the reunite.  They hug and kiss and retire to bed in broad daylight, regaling each other with their respective journeys over a very late dinner.

When Jaskier wakes up next to Geralt the following morning, he finds it uncommonly difficult to get out of bed.  It's a lassitude he hasn't felt since he was a child: a bone-deep inability to drag himself fully awake.

Geralt is, much as the man would hate to hear it, delightfully sweet as he pokes and prods Jaskier out of bed.  Once his lover has dragged him upright with a grip under his armpits it becomes appreciably easier to shake his sluggishness.

Sleep-clumsy, he pulls his clothing on and his baggage together, good-naturedly taking the witcher's teasing: one week back in civilization and he's the same prissy fop he was when Geralt found him.  Jaskier asks if Geralt likes that, having a soft poncy rich boy to fondle, helpless to deny him, and they get so distracted by kissing that the barmaid's sent up to knock down their door— check out was an hour ago, and they do have to clean the sheets between customers, you know!

Despite his long rest, he's a bit slow-handed through the rest of the day.  Not miserable or exhausted, just... delayed.

It's not a big enough issue for concern until it happens again the next day.  And the next, and the next, until a week's gone by where Geralt's needed to physically lift Jaskier up out of his bedroll to start his day.  They spend a few days spitballing ideas— very mild poisoning, perhaps from extended exposure to something?  A magical sleep malady?

A week later and no closer to figuring out what's happening, Jaskier's fine motor control is in shambles, too.  He can still get around just fine, but whenever he tries to do anything more delicate than pick something up— turn a page, for example, or play his lute— he just... can't manage it.  It's like his hands are only half-listening to commands from his brain: he'll go to fiddle with his tuning keys and his hand will slip weakly off them, pawing instead of grabbing.

The whole ordeal is humiliating— being slowly laid low in front of the most competent man Jaskier knows, who also happens to be his lover— but Geralt makes it as easy as he can for him.  The bard isn't made to beg as things grow more and more difficult for him.  Attentive and considerate, Geralt sidles up behind him the first time it takes longer than two minutes for him to button up his pants, wrapping his arms around Jaskier to do it for him with no comment but a kiss at his nape.

Soon he's helping Jaskier pull his shoes on, too, and then his pants, with those pesky thin pant legs, and then his whole loose-collared shirt. 

Jaskier pisses all down his legs and the side of the bed one morning when he wakes before Geralt.  He's been needing Geralt's hand steadying his cock when he pees for the last few days— crossing the wires of emasculation and arousal in his head— but surely things haven't progressed so far that he can't roll out of bed to squat over the chamber pot.

He realizes his error when he shifts his legs over the edge, only to find his arms are no longer strong enough to push himself upright. 

Above his head, Geralt snores, deaf to his plaintive attempts to wake him— sleeping off a potion high. 

He's been laying with his legs slung over the bed and urine wetting a stripe down to the floor beneath his crotch for half an hour when Geralt finally rouses.

Geralt cleans him up with quiet, loving compassion, re-dressing him in soft clean clothes like a child's plaything and then holding him while he weeps.  It's the first time the gravity of it has sunk in for him, and the reality that it's only been getting worse, not better.

He feels a lot better after his breakdown, actually.  Geralt brings him breakfast when he's finally tuckered himself out and starts interrogating Jaskier like he's a contract issuer.  Jask normally hates it when Geralt talks to him like this— puts him under the same condescending, doubtful, cross-referencing magnifying glass he does the people who hire him— but in this moment it's a deep relief.  This is Geralt the Professional, who's never failed to get to the bottom of things since Jaskier's known him.

They spend a very boring hour and a half going step-by-step through the things Jaskier ate and drank the few days leading up the start of this, where it came from and who served it to him.  When that gets them nowhere, Geralt begins rattling off a comprehensive list of illnesses, magical and otherwise, that could cause these symptoms of atrophy without muscular degeneration, making Jaskier extremely nervous even though he doesn't meet the criteria for any of them. 

It truly doesn't occur to Jaskier to tell Geralt about the woman on Temple Isle until the witcher offhandedly suggests a curse, perhaps following him from a cursed location he trespassed on. 

"That's it!"

Geralt, who'd begun looking haggard himself, stares at him blankly.  "You trespassed somewhere cursed?  And you didn't think to—"

"No!  No, but a curse; there was this woman in Novigad, at the dining hall just across the St. Gregory bridge—"  Jaskier proceeds to tell the very short story in flowery detail, voice trailing off quietly at the end in response to the agonized exasperation on Geralt's face.

"That's..."  The witcher scrubs a hand down his face.  Jaskier reaches out to gently shove his shoulder, going meek and quiet again when he's barely able to manage a tap on the chest.

"That's good.  Mostly.  Means it's sorcery, not ambient magic with ambient rules— sorcery can be reverse-engineered, for the most part.  We just have to get in contact with someone who can cast it."

Jaskier shoots down the thought of calling on Yennefer before it's even brought up: she's a brilliant woman, but she'll squeeze favors out of Geralt like she's trying to pull blood from a stone if he entreats her for help a second time, and they both know it.  Triss is known to Jaskier, liked by both of them, and accepts cold hard coin for her services, making her their ultimate choice despite the month of travel down to Vizima it'll take.

Geralt sends her a letter ahead, explaining the situation and adding a few of Jaskier's fingernail clippings and strands of hair.  Deeply creepy, in the bard's opinion, but he supposes it holds to reason that if /he's cursed so is his keratin.  Besides, he desperately wants Triss to already have a solution on-hand by the time they arrive.

He and Geralt take much longer packing provisions and repairing worn essentials than they usually do before they set out.  The shame of his invalid status has greatly abated with a hopeful cure on the horizon, to the point where watching Geralt pack their saddlebags full of vegetables and non-perishables for soft overboiled stew is sweet rather than humiliating.

There's a certain something about watching his companion and bedpartner carefully pack extra braies for potential 'accidents' that has Jaskier feeling strange.  A bit shamefaced, but mostly good, for reasons he can't explain.

He lets himself lull into Geralt's handling when the man dresses him for their first day of travel, no longer prompting Jaskier to help.  Soothed and strangely giddy, Jaskier chatters happily about what else he wants to do in Vizima as he's put together, only pausing when Geralt presses a toothbrush into his talking mouth, tilting his head slightly back so he doesn't drool on himself.

Now that there's an end in sight, it's kind of lovely letting Geralt assume all aspects of his care.

It's not fair to spring it on the man, and Jaskier wouldn't have done it voluntarily, but since things are what they are he doesn't think it's such a bad thing to enjoy it.

Besides, he gets to ride in front of Geralt on the saddle now, propped up by his muscular chest and strong arms the whole way south.  It nearly makes the whole ordeal worth it, though Geralt snorts and nips under his ear when he says as much.

+++++

Jaskier gets sick of the moratorium on sex the third night of their four week journey.

Geralt's quick to take his word for it when Jask assures him that he does want to be fucked, actually, so hard he can't see, but they're both thrown off by the new logistics.

Namely the fact that he can't stay upright on his knees.

It's a scene from a comedy when Geralt first plows into him, satisfied that his fingering has sufficiently prepared the bard, only for Jaskier to tip forward flat on his face.

There's a little bit of laughing on Geralt's part, and then a lot of apologizing also on his part, before they decide to have Jaskier just... lie there and take it.

It has no business being as hot as it is.  Jaskier's crooning and cross eyed while he gets fucked like a rag doll, cock grinding into the fabric beneath him as Geralt pounds his ass.  The witcher has to hold his cheeks open to do it— without the spread caused by kneeling he's forced to brace his hands on Jaskier's ass and push it apart, body weight pressing Jaskier's hips down into this bedroll in the most spectacular way.

Ten minutes into it he's coming as hard as he ever has before, feeling Geralt throb in his ass but unable to so much as clench down.  Geralt tells him he's fucking sloppy like this, that his slack asshole feels like whore pussy, pushing him painfully into a little secondary orgasm on the tail end of his first.

The witcher has to roll Jaskier over to clean him up, gently shifting his balls to wipe down his hole in a passionless, matter-of-fact way that has the brunet aching with the desire to get hard again.

The mood is different when they settle down to sleep, Geralt having helped him relieve himself and curled up behind him.

"Not to get sentimental, but I... really don't know what I'd do if you weren't here to babysit me."

Babysit.  Jaskier shivers.  Not an intentional choice of words, but now that he's said it—

Geralt kisses the back of his head.  "Don't mention it.  I can't exactly leave you unsupervised like this."

He rocks his flaccid cock softly against Jaskier's ass.  Jask twitches his hips pathetically back.

"You might be stuck carrying me by the time we're in Temeria proper, at this rate."

"Then I'll carry you."

Warmth fills Jaskier's chest.  He assumes the conversation's over, until:

"I like you like this."

Jask's pulse throbs in his aching balls.  Oh, they're talking about this?

"Helpless?  Invalid?"  He pitches his voice soft and lilting, and is rewarded with a growl— half admonishment for teasing, half genuine arousal.

"Needy.  I worry about you, Jaskier, and want this fixed, but there's just..."  Geralt spends the few seconds he needs to gather his thoughts sucking a hickey into Jaskier's neck.  "...I mean, you can't get out of bed in the morning without me.  You need me to dress you and bathe you and prop you up on Roach, and then undress you to tuck you into bed again.  You need me."

"What happened to Mr. 'the last thing I want is someone needing me'?"

Geralt kisses the hickey he just gave him.  "It's not the same thing."

"...except for the fact that it's exactly the same thing?  The most extreme form of 'the same thing,' actually, If we're getting specific—"

"No, I mean it's you.  That's different than someone else 'needing' me."

Bless his heart, Geralt seems genuinely oblivious to how... not at all platonic that was.  Jaskier swallows thickly, moisture welling behind his eyelids.  "...so you're saying this whole 'baby bird impression' thing really gets you going?"

"Not when you phrase it like that."

"So sorry, your majesty— so you're saying this whole 'limp helpless hole-to-fuck that desperately needs you to do basic tasks' thing really gets you going?"

Instead of rising to the bait, Geralt humms happily.  Bastard.

"Yes."

"Well... good."

+++++

By the end of week one on the road Jaskier can't feed himself anymore.

They're both way too horny about it.

Geralt watches him intently one morning over breakfast, as his spoon slips out of his weak grip three then four times in a row before he can get it to his mouth.  Jask fixes him with sad wet doe-eyes, and then when that doesn't work whines the man's name in the smallest, most pathetic voice he can muster, which finally does the trick.

"Open up, Jaskier."  Geralt's pupils are slits— he's clearly picked up on the same bizarre tension that Jaskier has, making this new loss of agency feel less like a betrayal of his body and more like a thrilling new part of their play.

Jaskier tries to clench his fists, just to feel the weak, useless curl they form instead.  Even his jaw feels loose, hanging obediently wide as he waits for Geralt to feed him.  He closes it softly around the spoon's neck once it's in his mouth— Geralt has to pull it out at an upward angle to make sure the soft stew stays in his mouth, like he's feeding a child. 

Jaskier feels his precum wet the fabric of his braies in the same moment he notices Geralt smelling it, lip curling back in a toothy, snarling flehmen response.  It makes Jask's nipples go stiff against his soft shirt, the knowing between them, and he lets himself go hazy with it.  There's been a feeling creeping at the edge of his mind every time they fuck, getting stronger with every passing day he's stuck like this.  It's wonderfully soft, but mindless in a way that scares him; it doesn't feel like a curse-thing, it feels like a him-thing, and he doesn't know if that's comforting or alarming.

Tentatively, he lets it take over while Geralt feeds him. 

Geralt clearly notices, if the way his breathing picks up is any indication, but that's not something Jaskier has to worry about anymore.  He opens his mouth when he's asked to, and closes it to swallow when his head is tilted back.  That's the extent of his responsibilities: it's all he can really manage at the moment, anyway.  He's a body to be acted upon, and he trusts Geralt to 'act upon' him however he likes— though he passively hopes some of that 'acting' will involve various states of undress.

Jaskier's pleased when Geralt pulls his cock out with the hand not guiding the spoon to his mouth, though he's not impatient like he'd normally be.  The witcher will get around to getting them off, or he won't— all Jaskier has to think about is opening then swallowing, until he's told otherwise.

He's fed until he's overfull, though he takes no issue with it, and once Geralt has wiped his drool-slick chin dry he keeps his mouth obediently open as it's guided down onto the man's dick. 

He doesn't create a seal with his lips or rub with his tongue— doesn't do anything but marvel happily at the feeling of cock in his mouth, tearing up but unresistant when his throat is breached and humped, nose mashed into Geralt's pubic hair, until he's lightheaded.  He's pulled up by the hair and allowed to hang there, drooling onto Geralt's crotch for the thirty seconds it takes to catch his breath, then he's pushed back down.  This time he's held there until Geralt cums down his esophagus, sighing in pleasure as Jask's body tries to swallow around him.

He lays Jaskier spread eagle to return the favor, groping his ass and thumbing his nipples while he sucks the bard into his mouth— barely getting the head past his lips before Jaskier comes with a whimper.

It becomes a staple of their routine: Geralt feeding Jaskier because he needs to be fed, then overfeeding him, then emptying his balls into that hot wet mouth.  They don't do the last bit when they're in actual towns— not until later, up in their room— but being leaned against a wall and spoonfed, in front of the everyone and the Gods, is its own bit of debauchery.

When this is all over Jaskier'll have to do some severe damage control on his reputation.  Until then, he intends to enjoy this as thoroughly as he can.

+++++

There's only so much weight a person can gain in three weeks.

That said, Jaskier feels like he's gained precisely whatever that maximum amount is.

Some of it's water-weight, no doubt, retained due to their salty ration meat and how thoroughly Geralt hydrates him, but some of it's undeniably fat.  Three days outside Vizima Jaskier looks down as his body, naked on the bed where Geralt put him two hours ago, and marvels.  He's not bony anymore.  His clothes still fit, barely, but all his sharp edges have been smoothed out.

He runs a feather-light touch across his no-longer-concave stomach and newly padded thighs, prick rising.

Geralt's looking down at a piece of parchment when he re-enters their room, having seen to their restocking and mending on his own.

"Triss figured we'd come through here, sent this letter ahead— she thinks she's got something—"

"Geralt."  He looks up to see Jaskier pouting at him, cock pointing straight up as he fondles his little belly.

Without looking away, Geralt sets the letter down on the side table.  "I'm sorry, did I leave you alone for too long?"  He sounds as delighted by the thought as Jaskier is.

Jaskier nods, moving his hands up to rub his nipples so Geralt can have better access to his parts.

The witcher grabs him roughly, clearly getting a feel for Jaskier's new weight.  His stomach and thighs have fattened up with just enough padding to jiggle when he's jostled, soft-giving where they're kneaded.  It's not a form-redefining amount, but it's definitely noticeable. 

Neither of them have gotten over how hot it is when Geralt lifts and parts Jaskier's thighs, one after the other, until he's splayed so open that everything's visible.  He doesn't really need to be stretched anymore— the lack of tension in his body and the frequency of their sex has left him primed and ready, hole parting sweetly around Geralt's cockhead with just the slightest bit of pressure.

Re-acclimating himself to being an active participant in sex is going to be a genuine undertaking after this lovely interlude is over.  He's always prided himself on being an enthusiastic lover, but that was before he knew how arousing it could feel to lay back and just be a hole.

"We could get you fatter." The witcher says, rocking inside of him, apropos of nothing.

Jask shivers, deeply turned on.  "Come again?"

"You eat what I feed you— you can't hunt, or butcher, or even go to market and buy something without my help.  I could find contracts here, near Vizima: put us up in a cushy inn and feed you nothing but candied fruit and butter tablet until your whole body ripples when I fuck you—"

Alight with the thought, Jaskier shakes his head— not because he doesn't want it, necessarily, but because he wants to hear Geralt try and convince him.

"No?  Our hipbones don't bruise anymore, haven't you noticed?  And I know you've been having fun feeling your body move while I fuck it—  It's just an idea, Jask."

'Just an idea,' he says.  "I'm going to be useless for anything but fucking by the time this is over, aren't I?"  Accusatory words with an adoring tone.  "And you like thinking about that, don't you?  Me too weak to walk, carried everywhere like a little prince, ceaselessly needing you to feed and wash and fuck me—"

Geralt /groans, pulling out just long enough to flip Jaskier over and rearrange his limbs before plowing him from the back.

His voice is now half-muffled by the pillow in his face.  "Ever had a doll before?  You'd be able to have all sorts of fun, playing with my hair and dressing me up all pretty, fattening me up to fuck more comfortably—"

Jask giggles when Geralt's cock jumps inside him, the witcher pressing his tongue to the flat backs of his teeth and snarling like a wolf. 

"I like thinking about it, too: you putting your sex toy up in a cute cozy apartment, leaving me there to wait for you.  Y'could find your way back to me whenever you felt like emptying your balls into someone that can't fight back—"

Vindictive, Geralt grabs his dick and tugs, twisting at the top.  The bard comes with a whimper, limp as ever, and whines with hypersensitivity for the remaining five minutes it takes Geralt to get off into his guts.

Jaskier waits until they've both had a minute to enjoy their afterglow before setting the record straight.  "To be clear, I do actually want this whole 'curse' thing dealt with.  As fine as the idea becoming a very expensive concubine may be."

Geralt nods, solemn, though his tone when he speaks is... inappropriately giddy.  "I know.  That's what I was trying to say earlier— Triss thinks she's onto something with dimeritium piercings.  They should weaken the magic's hold on your body, so the effects start dissipating instead of strengthening with time."

Piercings— "And your enthusiasm for this cure has nothing to do with seeing me pierced through my nipples and cock, I'm sure."

"It'll be your decision where you get pierced, I'll just... offer suggestions."

Does he think he's respecting Jaskier's boundaries?  Has he taken Jaskier's recalcitrance to talk about his gender so deeply to heart that he's unwilling to bother him with trivialities like wanting to suffocate between his legs?  Which is very sweet and respectful, no doubt, but now Jask's in the strange position of trying to convey that he wouldn't be opposed to a bit of... eating out with his good friend, as it were.

Jaskier comes up with a very clever and tactful plan to bring it up organically, over the course of a few months, during frank, heart-bearing conversations that will serve a secondary purpose of bonding them closer together.

Then he gets drunk on free drinks, stumbles back up to their room, and wakes Geralt up by grinding his bare cunt against the man's hairy torso before he can put it into motion.

In his defense, it works beautifully.  Geralt, evidently, had thought the bard just fucked so regularly his dick always smelled like slick— but takes no umbrage at all to the cunt-smell being Jaskier's own, and even graciously goes so far as to assure Jaskier there's no ill-will or weirdness between them.  With his face.  And fingers.  And cock.

They've been 'friends who get each other off with alarming regularity' for years now, and Jaskier has never been as happy or as satisfied as he is with their current arrangement.

+++++

Geralt always drops to his knees and noses at his crotch the minute Jaskier sits down to do anything constructive, it feels like.

If this is the biggest problem in his life, Jaskier thinks he's in exceptionally good shape.

He bitches and moans, gently flicking Geralt's nose while he admonishes him for being such a horndog while Jaskier's just trying to read his book, thank you very much.  He also hikes his hips up to help Geralt pull his pants off, cheeks and parts going flush with anticipation.

Sue him.  Who doesn't want a hot, burly brute eating them out like breakfast?

"Oh, fuck."  Jaskier throws his head back, reaching into his loose shirt collar to fondle his nipples with one hand, burying the other in white hair.  Geralt strokes his huge hands up the underside of Jaskier's thighs, coaxing them up enough to drape over his shoulders, giving him better access to Jaskier's slit.

Jaskier's received a lot of memorable oral in his life, but nobody's ever been as hungry for it as Geralt is: conspicuously needing to swallow down pooling saliva every few seconds whenever Jaskier gets horny, and mouthing reverently between his legs every time he's allowed down there, until Jaskier has to physically push him away from overstimulation.

How much the witcher wants it makes him as wet as anything ever has, slick dripping down across his asshole to pool beneath him and make a wet mess of the bedsheets— or, in this case, wooden chair.

Geralt's not in a hurry— never is with this, savoring it like it's some sort of fine wine— pushing his big tongue repeatedly up the full length of Jaskier's seam, pointed tip parting it as he goes to drag teasingly over his 'taint,' hole, and then clit before starting again.

Jaskier originally planned to spend his morning reading the new collection of stage plays from down South he'd had Geralt exchange for a handful of harpy talons— one must keep up with contemporary literature if they want to be taken seriously— and while he really does want to get to it, he has a long standing policy that cunnilingus always takes precedence.

He'd try to read while being attended to— loves the power differential of it, going about his prissy rich-boy business while the big bad witcher worships his juicy cunt— but it just gets him so hot.  Much too distractingly hot to internalize new content.

"Mmph, you like it down there baby?"  Geralt groans, pausing his lapping to work his tongue against Jaskier's dripping hole.  Jask's nipples aren't anywhere near as sensitive as they were before having his chest removed, but they bud all the same at the hard press of Geralt's face into his crotch, stubble already giving him beard burn.  "Yeah you do, I know you do.  Should've told you I had a cunny right off the bat, huh?  Saved us a lot of time and grief— though I'm still very flattered you just assumed I got enough tail to always smell like slick.  Bet you would've let me ride along on Roach if you'd known I had a cunt for you to eat—" 

Geralt makes a plaintive noise, looking up at him with exasperation.  "I know you'd put your mouth on me no matter what I had, I'm just playing.  Am I not allowed to feel desirable?  Besides, while I imagine you're just as much of a trooper with a dick in your mouth, don't act like you're not ravenous for puss.  I've heard very flattering things about your patronage in brothels all across the continent."

Pulse throbbing between his legs, Jask sinks down farther in his chair, face sweaty-red, grinding his plush labia into Geralt's jaw.  "Yeah, keep licking.  We s-should play bedroom games, Geralt— what do you think about that?"

It's not the first time he's broached it.  Geralt is wary of anything but tenderness in bed, even pretending, after a lifetime being accused of egregious sexual misconduct for existing, but Jaskier knows the thought excites the witcher just as much as it does him.  "Just playing, Geralt, just pretending— I was a skinny, out-of-shape thing leaving Posada with you, do you remember?  Wouldn't have been able to buck you for the life of me if you'd decided to take liberties— crawled on top of me while I was sleeping and started tonguing my pretty pussy.  I'm already a slut, aren't I Geralt?  What would the harm be, getting a taste, even if I thrash and cry; Gods, you could smell how horny I am, know how much I really wanted it."

Geralt's panting like a beast of burden, eyes squeezed shut in rapture as he seals his mouth over Jaskier's gash and starts fucking him on his tongue, cheeks pulling in with the force of his jaw's rhythmic movement.  He never moves up to Jask's clit until the end— knows it's over for Jaskier in a matter of minutes, sometimes seconds once he does— instead shallowly penetrating him with his broad, hot tongue until the bard wants to scream with it.

Geralt growls so deep it vibrates against Jaskier's core and digs his fingers into his thighs hard enough to bruise when Jaskier gushes, the bard's gentle touch at his own not-so-sensitive nipples turning into tugging and twisting.  "Ah!  Gods— wouldn't that be nice?  You could climb on top of me once you've gotten me sloppy enough, made me a good wet bitch for you, and slide your big fucking horse cock into my boypussy.  Make me earn my keep—"

Jaskier clenches and spasms at the rustle of Geralt fumbling one-handed at his pantlaces, followed by the slick, rapid sound of him jacking off.

He can't help but preen.  "Eager, aren't you; do I taste that good?"  Thighs shaking, and starting to get a little lightheaded from his shallow breathing, Jaskier tugs pointedly at Geralt's hair.  Delighted to serve, the witcher rubs the flat of his tongue adoringly over Jaskier's slick-wet rim once more, kissing his hole like a mouth in parting, before shifting higher up Jask's gash to blow his clit.

He's about an inch and a half long all flush with blood, stiff as steel with his little head peaking excitedly out of his hood.  It's easy work for Geralt to wrap his lips around it, tracing the pulled-back seam of his 'foreskin' with his tongue before hollowing his cheeks to suck.

Jaskier goes wild, tightening his grip in the witcher's hair to a doubtlessly painful degree as he shoves him into his sex, bucking like a wild horse onto his broad handsome face.  With the man's mouth on his button he can feel Geralt's stubbly chin pressed between his lips, rubbing gratingly over his hole until it's drenched to the point of dripping with Jaskier's cum.

"Fingers!  Fuck darling, be a good wolf, g-give me something to bear down on—" 

He finally goes slack, shuddering and sighing, when Geralt considerately presses two fingers into him, made frictionless by how soaked he is.  Eyelashes fluttering, Jask rocks gently against his lover at the tail-end of his climax, deeply satisfied now that he has something to milk with his contractions.

The sounds of Geralt's masturbation continue.

"You're a delight with your mouth; remind me it has better uses next time I get after you for being non-verbal.  You want to stay down there and drink my slick?  Or stand up and shoot on my pussy?  I'll hold it open for you— you've certainly earned it—"

Quickly and clumsily Geralt scrambles to his feet, choking his purple-red cock with a punishing grip while he aims it at Jask's quim.  Even overstimulated, stomach trembling, Jaskier can't help but softly rub his index finger against his still-budded clit when he goes to hold himself open, tapped-out but still horny for the sight of that huge drooling weapon of a prick.

"You're gonna put that in me later, right?  I need a few hours, don't get me wrong, but you've got me all warmed up for it now." 

The witcher makes a wounded noise as he cums, impressive aim painting Jask's pink parts cream.  Jaskier rubs two fingers through it, pushing as much as he can into his hungry cunt, and licks his fingers clean.

"Good boy.  Now— I say this with all due love and respect— let me get back to my book."

Geralt laughs, pressing the taste of Jaskier's slick into his mouth as they kiss.  "Thank you Jask."

He likes that almost as much as the oral— Geralt thanking him for allowing him the privilege.

"The pleasure's mostly mine.  Now shoo— kill the fork-whatever, earn our keep.  Your cum'll still be in my pussy when you get back."

Geralt fucking wheezes, going in for a deeper kiss, but Jaskier shoves him away.  "Go!  I expect dinner brought up when you return, too— I've already gotten you something to eat today, and fair's fair."

+++++

It's on a 'recently uploaded' page— clearly the back-end of the website, for posting users not browsing consumers— with a video dated from last night showing it’d been successfully added to his page.

Geralt's first instinct is to flinch away: avert his eyes and close the tab that has a glossy, high definition picture of his sixteen year old, cock and balls hanging between his legs, spreading his cheeks to show the camera his shaved, perfectly pink hole— until he sees the username out of the corner of his eye.

DaddyFuckedMe

Geralt stands in the middle of Jaskier's room, looking pointedly away from his computer, for a good five minutes.

Then he pulls out the kid’s desk chair to sit down, looking closely at how it and his mouse were positioned so he can re-stage them when he leaves.  It feels terrible, this violation of trust after a lifetime building it, but Jaskier's tangibly putting himself in danger with this.  Geralt has no doubt he signed up as 'eighteen,' or the website he's hosted on would be in a lot of legal trouble, but nonetheless everyone watching Jaskier's content is consuming child porn whether they know it or not.

What if they find out who he really is, where he lives?  What if Jask feels he can't come to Geralt for help, too ashamed to explain why, and gets blackmailed into shit he doesn't want to do?

Geralt right clicks and opens the homepage of Jaskier's channel in another tab, stunned to see a subscriber count in the thousands, and a follower count in the tens of thousands.  The header is a picture of Jaskier done up in a strappy yellow leather harness, clearly more aesthetic than function but very comely, spreading his thighs on his neatly made bed with his cock outlined in his panties.  In this picture, with this context, the relative childishness of Jaskier's bedroom is sinister; he'd offered to buy Jaskier bedding that wasn't the colorful primary patchwork it'd been since he was in middle school last year, but the boy had waved the offer off, claiming he liked a bit of color in his life, thank you very much.

The intentional staging of his childhood stuffed animals behind him gives away the actual reason for his insistence, more than likely: he's playing very much into the ""barely legal"" angle for these videos.

Sick to his stomach but unable to ignore this now that he knows, Geralt looks though the video thumbnails.  There's a startling number of explicitly sexual outfits and toys, front and center to tease the content within— three different dildos, two harnesses, a set of butt plugs and a posture collar, just on the first page.

Jaskier's been using his allowance— and the extra money he begs Geralt for every week, ostensibly to 'go out with his friends' (Geralt's not hard up for cash these days, blessedly, and likes to encourage Jaskier's healthy social tendencies)— to buy sex toys.  So he can film himself masturbating and post it on the internet.

More upsetting than that are the titles.  'Barely-Legal Twink Begs Father Not To Cum Inside Him (PoV),' '[Audio/Masturbation] Little Boy Begs to Play With Daddy's Hard Thing,' 'Double-Penetration With Dildos/Incest Fantasy Narration.'

Most of the links are greyed out— coming up with a 'click here to subscribe!' bubble when hovered over— except the videos labeled 'Just Chatting.'  There's one uploaded every Thursday, with Jaskier in an array of fashionably put-together women's and... children's clothing, thumbnail frozen in speech in front of the camera.

Against his better judgement, Geralt clicks the most recent one.  An introduction starts to play: a short, startlingly cute and seemingly high-budget animation of Jaskier.  The sprite wiggles its butt in pastel shorts before tucking them down under its ass, so animated-Jaskier's hole, taint, and and the swell of his balls are on display.  Flustered, Geralt hastily clicks to the middle of the video rather than see where the intro-cartoon is going with that.  

It's an out of body experience, hearing his son's voice ring out of the speakers.  Jaskier's wearing an oversized star-patterned t-shirt that Geralt recognizes, and a latex mini-skirt that he does not, sitting with his legs folded under him on his bedspread.

"When did I realize I was hot for Dad?  God, not consciously until I was... twelve?  That's when I started actively touching myself to him, at least."  Twelve.  Geralt had been worrying about what to feed his seventh grader five nights a week during the boy's vegetarian phase, while Jask had been masturbating to thoughts of his father.  

He exhales roughly, vaguely nauseous, and tunes back in a few seconds later.  "-but I remember first getting hard because of him around...six?  We used to go to the beach a lot with Dad's foster brothers, and I remember my stomach feeling all tight and funny and my dick getting stiff watching them n' Dad roughhouse in the water."  He shivers on camera, reaching under his skirt to trace his cock.  The chat lights up requesting he push the fabric up, let them see, but Jaskier ignores it.

"I got a little excited for my 'uncles' too, but it was always mostly because of Daddy.  He's a mixed martial arts coach— had me when he was like, seventeen.  My classmates always thought it was funny when this big stacked hunk came to pick up cute little me."  'Thought,' he says, as though he's not still in high school; as far as his viewers are concerned he's not, Geralt supposes.  Jaskier laughs, eyes going unfocused for a moment as his hips buck into the obscured motion of his hand.

Geralt's not thrilled Jaskier's sharing details of either of their identities— on this very public porn site where he's talking about his not-at-all-theoretical incest fetish— but his body has other priorities at the moment.  Namely, to his genuine horror, trying not to get hard.

"Wish I could say I knew that meant I wanted his cock back then, because that's hot, but— this may shock you— I was a perfectly well adjusted child, who didn't know how to connect the dots on my urges until I actually started puberty.  Mmm, now I wish he'd fucked me back then, though."

Smiling impishly at the camera, Jaskier finally flips his skirt up.  The sheer fabric of his panties does nothing to hide the drenched outline of his cock, drooling pathetically through the lace every time his fingers skate teasingly over it.  "I was a very cute sissy boy, as I'm sure you can imagine.  Never had many common interests with Dad, but he picked up mine so we'd have things to do together— he always did all the 'butch' bits of our school theater, cutting out the wooden staging and assembling prop furniture, that kind of thing.  Must've known I was a little fag ages before I did."

There’s a quiet pause where he leans into the camera, clearly reading chat.  Jaskier is... very attractive like this, the barest hint of gloss on his lips.  Geralt wants to sink into the floor and disappear forever.

"My favorite fantasy?  Fantasies are more of a day-by-day 'what am I in the mood for' thing, aren't they?  Right now though.... hm.  We went on a lot of camping trips when I was in grade school, and I love to imagine him unzipping my sleeping bag and climbing in with me.  Dad's got these big, heavy balls— he doesn't close the door when he showers because he doesn't want the mirror to fog up, okay?  Of course I look, I'm not a saint— anyway.  He climbs into my sleeping bag because there's no other warm body to take his load out there, and because he's hungry for his baby, and I cry and ask him what he's doing to my naughty places but he doesn't answer—"

Jaskier's practically gasping by this point, jacking himself off through his underwear, obviously lost in the thought.  "And once he's fucked me he can't help himself.  He touches me in the car when he picks me up from school and molests me in bed after I've gone to sleep at night— Dad's so handsome, I wish you could see him, broad chiseled and strong.  Gods, his cock would've ripped me apart.  Wish it had."

Geralt needs to turn this off.  He's... Jaskier is his child, has been his whole world since the boy's mother unceremoniously dumped him in Geralt's arms after a pregnancy she didn't deign to tell him about.  He's always been as into men as he has women, but he's never thought of his son as a potential sexual partner—

—until now.

Geralt doesn't stop the video.  On screen, Jaskier keeps talking.

"When I was like fourteen we were sharing a bed at a hotel— going to Disneyland with some family friends, girls in one bed and boys in the other— and he rubbed his cock on me for nearly an hour while he was asleep.  Fuck I wanted to suck it— it's such a fun porn plot, y'know?  But there's no way to do that in real life without waking someone up.  Got a hand on it through his sweatpants though."

His comment feed is a mixture of people being enthusiastically, encouragingly vulgar and people who'd originally thought this was a more theoretical, or at least played-up Daddy kink, and are now uncomfortable with the mention of actual, physical incest, however one-sided.  Jaskier seems delighted by the disparity.

"Oh, stop being prudes.  My username's DaddyFuckedMe, if you didn't know what you were getting into that's not my fault."

There's a slamming and shuffling noise in the background of the video, clearly from downstairs, making Jaskier swivel in his chair.

"Hey— I'm home!"  Geralt's own voice.  Melitile's tits.

Jaskier giggles.  "That's Dad, I've gotta go.  Should I take care of this—" He rubs teasingly over his covered, dripping-hard prick, "—before I change?  Or tuck it into the band of my sweatpants, go ask Daddy about his day all hard and desperate?"  The overwhelming response is 'go greet your father with an erection.'  Jask laughs.  "I was hoping you'd say that!  I'll tell you how it goes later.  Mmm, I came in my pants like this during movie night once.  I'd just finished a stream, and he'd just gotten home from the gym— he let me press my face into his rank fucking armpit every time I got 'scared'—"

"Is Priscilla still coming over?  How many people am I cooking for?"

Jaskier's face goes from lusty to loving in a heartbeat, glancing over his shoulder at the door with doe-eyes before shouting back.  "She's staying home!  Be down in a minute!"

His son turns back to his camera, blows a kiss, and ends the video.  There are fifteen or so seconds of cute, cheery music— doubtlessly something Jaskier composed himself— with links to the tiers of his paid content and brief descriptions of what they entail.

Geralt sits there for another ten minutes, looking at nothing.  His son spies on him in the shower.  Spies on him in the shower and imagines what it would've been like if Geralt molested him as a young child.

He closes the tab meticulously re-stages Jaskier's things when he gets up to leave.

Geralt's going to... he has to...

He doesn't know.

+++++

He tries to act normal when he picks Jaskier up from school a few hours later— not successfully enough, since Jask immediately asks him why he's been sucking lemons in his absence— but the boy buys it when he says he's just frustrated in general with the work situation.  Geralt's gotten a few notable new professional clients who insist on sticking to their old, shitty meal-planning, and are now pissy they're not getting the results they want in spite of Geralt very clearly outlining that the problem is dietary.  Jaskier doesn't have any personal interest in fighting, like Geralt doesn't have any personal interest in theater, but they're both extensively knowledgeable on both topics through osmosis.

"If they're not gonna listen to what they're paying you to tell them that's not your fault.  I feel like the way you look should be enough of a testimonial, anyway."  Geralt's hands squeeze the wheel tight.  Yesterday it would've been an innocuous enough comment.  Today he knows his son fondled his morning wood at age fourteen.  Pulling onto their street, he hums noncommittally, unable to think of anything non-accusatory to respond with.

Jaskier continues, always the biggest proponent of his father being treated fairly.  "You shouldn't be stressing about this off the clock, anyway— you have too little free time to take their bullshit home.  We could rent a move when you're done working out, if you want?"

'He let me press my face into his rank fucking armpit every time I got 'scared'—'

"Maybe."

Jaskier pokes his side for being non-verbal, but grabs his backpack and gets out of the car good-naturedly enough, loitering around his father as Geralt throws marinated chicken into one skillet and broccoli into another while reheating yesterday's rice.  He meal preps pretty extensively, a habit from fitness that became life-saving as a parent, and has always prided himself on their meals being content-varied and timing-consistent.  He used to think Jaskier hung out while he fussed in the kitchen out of a mixture of hunger and appreciation— and maybe he does— but it's also clearly something else, too.

Jaskier empties the dishwasher while Geralt cooks, brushing against him with every pass.  Now that Geralt knows what this is he can't not notice it, the way Jask steadies a hand on Geralt's arm when he has to slip behind him, and presses their hips flush side-to-side when they stand next to each other.  His little boy is hot for him.

It should be a repulsive thought.  It isn't.

When the second round of cut-up chicken spits at him when he goes to push it out of the skillet and into their bowls, splattering his shirt with oil and marinade, Geralt removes the garment— making a show of rubbing where the heat got him through the fabric.  "Would you set the table when I go grab another—"

"You don't have to!"  Jaskier is bright red, eyes darting between his father's face and the dark hair all across his torso.  "I mean— it's... fuck it, right?  You're hungry, I'm hungry, who cares?"  He's a bad liar when he's horny.

Geralt plays along, shrugging and grabbing a fork before sitting down.

He really, really, really shouldn't be getting off on this.  Geralt knows he's in good shape, in a matter-of-fact, 'it's my job' sort of way, but it's been entirely too long since he's really felt desirable for it.  That said, it's... unacceptable, to work through those feelings with his son. 

He kind of wants to anyway.

His relationship with Jaskier's mother had been a flash in the pan as a teenager.  He and Yennefer were similarly strong-willed and diametrically opposed on too many issues, while Triss had been far too ready to try and take advantage of him in a perceived time of need.  Who knows him, and moreover likes him, just as he is, more than Jaskier?  Who else on earth could Geralt imagine happily spending his life with, in any sort of permanent capacity?

Geralt's love exists in the doing more than the saying: relentless reliability, being the one who's always willing and able to step in to help, to answer the call at two in the morning and share the weight of any burden.  Jaskier understands that — would never think him uncaring, like past lovers have accused him of, not when Geralt's involved with his every school production, shows up to his every piano recital, cooks and launders and single-handedly does a job intended for two people because he loves Jaskier.

Still, his exes may have been onto something when they suggested he could stand to say it more anyway, just for clarity's sake.

"Jask?"

The boy's still transfixed by Geralt's pecs.  "Hmm?"

"You know how much I love you, right?"

That, finally, snaps him out of it.  His eyes jump to his father's face, expression going from confused to elated to tender, eyes misting over with tears.  Oh Hell; he really should spell it out more, shouldn't he.

"I-"  His voice chokes up.  "I know Dad.  I love you too."

They finish their food in comfortable silence, Jaskier coming around the back of his chair to hug him when he's done, pressing their cheeks together with his eyes squeezed shut.

+++++

Geralt exercises restraint for two weeks after that; pretends he never saw it, outside of keeping an eye on Jask to make sure he's not interacting with any questionable characters in real life, and doesn't tempt him again with various stages of undress.

He comes home from work significantly early on Monday of the third week— his last client cancelled on him— to the overwhelming stench of weed and the creak of his son's bedsprings.  This has happened a few times before, but Geralt used to just get back in the car and go help Eskel out with the more physical shit at the vet clinic until he was supposed to be home— Geralt remembers being sixteen, and there's no point embarrassing the kid.  

It's entirely different knowing what's actually happening up there: that Jaskier's doing it for an audience, while rambling about how much he wants his father to fuck him.

He tries to go about his normal routine: force himself to eat, put in a load of laundry, change out the sugar-water in Jaskier's hummingbird feeder.  It's appreciably more difficult than usual while listening to the clear sounds of his son assfucking himself upstairs, a long, drawn out 'Daaaaaddy!' carrying audibly down the stairs every few minutes.

Fuck it.

He's deliberately loud when he opens Jaskier's door and then closes it behind him; Geralt has no desire for this to be furtive or secretive, at least in the confines of his own home, if they're going through with this.

Jaskier has a surprisingly nice lighting setup, doubtlessly also bought with Geralt's money, with a camera atop a short tripod on his desk facing his bed.  He's naked by this point in the stream, a pastel cotton dress much too short for his height and surprisingly modest panties (childlike, Geralt's mind supplies) discarded on the floor beside him.  

"I— Dad!?  Oh my God, get out, Dad get out—"  The teen startles so hard the dildo slips entirely out of his ass, falling onto his bedspread as he scrambles backward.

"What happened to wanting Daddy to fuck you?"

Jaskier freezes like a deer in headlights for thirty agonizing seconds.  Geralt can see the chat feed on the screen behind him going wild, much to small and distant to make out but obviously enthused by the sudden turn of events.  Jask’s response is obviously delayed by how stoned he is: not out of his mind, but obviously red-eyed and slow-processing.

"I..."  He looks so guilelessly hopeful that it re-doubles Geralt's guilt.  "You mean it?  Really?"

Still not guilty enough to stop.  "I mean it."

Trembling with excitement, Jaskier turns to tell his audience that 'This is my dad!  Say hello everybody!' while Geralt undresses behind him, already at attention from the audio preview he got downstairs.

Geralt's never had a lover as gangly as his son.  It's a novel sensation, climbing into bed with him and pressing their bodies together, as is kissing him.  He has the enthusiasm that makes or breaks it, and enough skill to impress, but there's somehow still a beginner-ish, slobbery puppy element to it that melts Geralt's heart.  The boy arches his back when his hair's pulled, obediently letting his dad puppet him this way and that with his grip on it.  "Kiss me more; oh, and look!  My pussy's aaall stretched— y'can slip right in if you want!  Wanted you forever, Daddy—"

His son's asshole is just as soft and perfect as it looks.  Geralt ushers him up onto his hands and knees before sinking in; his own flesh and blood, the sweet child he'd hand-held through his first steps, now a hot, accommodating sleeve for his cock.  It's a testament to how much Jaskier plays with himself that it doesn't feel like any ass Geralt has ever fucked before.  Even well-stretched and slicked, there's always been a certain clutch and drag to the back hole that there isn't with the front, in Geralt's experience— until now.

"Got a little pussy on you Jask, fuck—"  It's swallowing him up; Geralt's had whores who backed out upon seeing him at full mast, and here his ass-slut of a sixteen year old is, taking it like... like he was born to.  

Gods this is fucked.  Geralt's growing to like it as much as Jaskier clearly does.

His son takes mostly after his mother.  There's some of him in his son's height and the bone structure around his eyes, but his coloring is all Helena's side of the family— as is his joke of a prick, jumping and leaking at Jaskier's navel.  "How'd you end up with that little thing between your legs?  Got your mother's looks and her clit."

"Dad!"  Jaskier's bright red from his hairline to his collarbone, eyes wet.

This... might be too far— is definitely too far, actually, but Jaskier clearly and explicitly gets off on the taboo of the situation, the element of close familial incest, so Geralt goes for it anyway. "You glad your mother signed you over to me?  Nobody else to notice you limping when Daddy fucks you too hard?"

Jaskier bucks, driving Geralt's cock so far in that they both pause, sucking air through their teeth.  Balls deep in his teenage son, slutty young hole fucking milking him.  "Yes!  'M Daddy's boy; nobody else knows how to take care of me, nobody else is as good to me—"  He cuts off, thrashing and crooning delightedly when Geralt pulls most of the way out and starts fucking him shallowly on the first few inches of his cock, driving relentlessly and deliberately into his prostate.  Geralt snickers.

"Pillow princess; where's all that dick-taking bravado from your videos, pretty boy?"

Embarrassed, Jaskier begins pushing back into him again.  "I've only had toys!  It's d-different— oh Gods, Dad—"

"Yeah?  Poor baby, Daddy taking your V-card in front of all these strangers.  Is it still fun?  Being watched while your father reams you, instead of just pretending?"  Geralt doesn't give him a chance to answer, grabbing his shoulders to pull him back onto his cock with every thrust.  He's seen the toys— toys Geralt's money bought— that Jask shoves up his ass.  He can take this pounding.

The feed on Jaskier's computer showing what the streaming footage looks like is mesmerizing.  Jask looks plowed-stupid, the lighting set up on his desk glimmering off the drool on his chin, eyes mindless and unfocused.  His wheezy breaths with every thrust have turned into a continuous, repetitive 'ah!' with the deeper penetration, as melodious as Jaskier's singing voice and twice as pleasing to Geralt's ear.

"That's what I thought.  Don't know why I'm rewarding bad behavior."

"I'm not bad!  Daddy I'm good, be sososo good for you, I p-promise—"

"You've been on internet telling strangers about how much you wish your Daddy'd kiddy-fucked you; what part of that do you consider good behavior?"  Jaskier sputters, whole body flush-red with shock and chagrin.  "Yeah, I watched those.  If you wanted to smell Daddy's armpit you should've just asked; oughta make you suck my balls for being such a mouthy little whore, see if you still like the sweat and grime with your nose mashed into my taint—"

Jaskier screams when he cums.  Attentive, and aching with love despite his verbal degradation, Geralt gentles to a slow rocking, working his son through his first orgasm with a partner.  When Jaskier stops shaking Geralt leans over him to press a kiss to his cheek, still rock hard inside of him, whispering into his ear too low for the mic to pick up.  "I'm going to pull out, Sweetheart, and then I'm going to flip you over and cum on your face.  Do you want the camera on or off for that?"

Jaskier's smile, turned to look at Geralt over his shoulder, is blinding.  "Leave it on."

+++++

1.  No Worries!  I have a wholly dependent on Geralt Jask prompt basically done (just needs re-reading,)

a transjask cunnilingus prompt from @witcherhdkinks​

an experienced dogfucker Jask who gets caught one

a jaw-wired-shut Jask one (in a loving relationship that leans hard into power play; I’m making it modern au if the prompter is reading this)

and a Geralt and Eskel being fucked by monsters one! 

Sorry for the turnaround time!  I thought about trying to force them out when I wasn’t feeling it but like.  I feel better about having them be the length they organically turn into rather than short and potentially shitty because I’m in a hurry.

2.  I’M GLAD YOU LIKED IT!!  Always really sweet to hear, especially when It’s something I don’t explore a lot; Jask just being resigned to how useless he is was also Very Fun to write.  It’s at the end of the list, but someone prompted a continuation, too!

3.  HMMMMmmmmm; like i talked about in the notes of the weight gain one I just posted, I’m in the mood for the stuff on my kink list I haven’t done before?  The ones I write a lot really are my favorites, but breaking them up makes my writing for them a lot less repetitive. 

Specifically... hmm, I haven’t gotten any puppy play asks, which I like from both angles; Jask w/ big guard dog Geralt, maybe getting off on how he wants his ‘dog’ to fuck him, and pampered pup Jaskier who’s a good sweet cuddly boy, always licking at Geralt’s cock because he’s a horny puppy.

And ageplay; like, adult Jask and Geralt.  I have definitely written about it in the kidnapped verse, but I haven’t had any stuff specifically dedicated to it, and it’s... Very Hot to me.  Not baby-age stuff, but like.  Toddler through young child, either because Jask likes it and begs Geralt to indulge him or because Geralt forces him into it.

I Completely understand why it’s a big no for most people, but... vore, too?   It shocked me when I was first like ‘oh my GOD i DO find this hot, god damn it’ but like... it’s part of the power play thing?  Someone being reduced to a hole to fuck and then meat Should Not Be Hot but sometimes is for me. 

With the same sentiment, darker (lethal) stuff?  Sorry that got DARK, I just haven’t gotten any at all yet in that vein, yknow?

Being able to walk into any one of the numerous clean, hygienic dining establishments open all hours of the day and night whenever he was peckish, combined with the free spread put on every day for faculty, had gotten rid of the gauntness in his cheeks and under his ribs within a few months.

He's very pleased with it, at first; his boniness created a genuinely painful clackity-clackity-clackity of hipbones against similarly svelte partners that was consistently uncomfortable.  Geralt's got enough fat padding on top of his muscle for Jaskier's comfort, but Jaskier leaves the witcher's hips purple-bruised after a vigorous pounding— they laugh about it being the only way Jaskier could ever physically harm the man.

Months three through five of his new tenure, he's extremely excited for Geralt to return.  He's doing a tour of contracts in the far south, and had kissed Jaskier goodbye with a promise to be back within the coming year.  There's a good stretch of time where he's smug about his new flush-healthy form, and fantasizes about Geralt's reaction.

Then, in month six, exams happen.  The stress of trying to prepare his students for the bullshit arbitrary standardized portion of them combined with the fact that poor scores will directly impact his own funding has him up late into the night working, drinking low-content wine and grazing near-constantly on pastries to keep himself awake and break up the monotony of the tasks.

It becomes very apparent what month six has done to his figure in month seven, but by then it's too late to pull back; eating is part of his routine and he likes it, still feels like it's a special treat every time, after all his years of necessary dearth.

He simultaneously desperately wants Geralt back, the comfort of his long-time lover, companion and best friend, and dreads his return.  The whispering of his students isn't too bothersome— they all love him, which softens the blow of the... notice they've taken of the changes his body has undergone.  But to hear the things murmured as he passes by in hallways from Geralt would be impossible to recover from.

His witcher, by necessity, is the fittest person Jaskier's ever met in his life.  He knows weight doesn't correlate to fitness— Eskel's broad, heavy body, strong as a bear and more enduring than any of his brothers, is testament to that— but it feels like it does, and he worries Geralt will feel the same way.

He won't just abandon Jaskier, the bard knows.  There's too much love between them, too much history for his muse to leave him behind, and vice versa; but he might not want to be intimate anymore.

The day Jaskier gets a letter from Geralt that he's in a town a week away, that he's missed the bard terribly and will be at Oxenfurt as fast as Roach can carry him there, Jaskier eats himself into a food coma.  Which is only making the problem worse, but he can't help it!  He's missed him so much, wants nothing more than to curl into bed with him for a week and not get up for anything but necessary bodily functions.  The thought that Geralt might not want to do the same anymore is crushing. 

What if he... he'll hug Jaskier of course, he'll still love him, but his witcher tends to come home to him with one thing on his mind after so long.  If he sees Jaskier and decides he's not... suitable for that anymore, he might leave for a brothel.  Just for a few hours, to be right back and finish catching up, but the potential confirmation that he's just too fat to fuck anymore is so frightening he doesn't know how to cope with it.

He cancels his classes on the day Geralt's scheduled to ride in, claiming a stomach bug.  Five months ago he'd fantasized about Geralt walking into one of his lectures when he returned, his students staring in awe as he tells the witcher to wait at the back of the class, basking in being wanted and others knowing he's wanted.

Now he can't abide the vulnerability of it: other people there to witness the first time Geralt sees the weight he's put on, the way his eyes widen and his expression drops—

Jaskier manages to keep from crying when he hears a loud, familiar knock on his door.

Geralt's face does transform when he first sees him, speechlessly ignoring Jaskier's small, watery "hello, Geralt," but it's not into any expression the bard recognizes.

Before he can ask about it— not sure if he even wants to— he's pushed back inside his own house so the door can slam shut behind them.  Geralt leans in to kiss him as he continues to walk them backwards, all the way to the bedroom.  His lover, still his lover, he hasn't lost him!  Jaskier's as happy as he's ever been when he's backed up into bed, stripping himself naked—

"I leave you alone for one year and come back to a sloppy bitch.  You really have no self control, do you baby?"  Geralt's voice is oddly low and rough, grabbing two handfuls of Jaskier's soft pale belly and kneading it. 

Jaskier's devastated for about two seconds, so hurt he thinks he'll burst into tears— for the first time in years, as a grown man.  It'll be almost as humiliating as Geralt seeing the cow he's turned into in his absence— and then Geralt continues.  "Holy shit, Jask, why didn't you do this sooner?"

Do this sooner.  Do this... "Let myself go?  Why didn't I let myself go sooner?"  That can't be what Geralt's talking about.

"Yes."

That is what Geralt's talking about.

Geralt strips out of his armor faster than Jaskier's ever seen him do it before, and when he pulls his unlaced leather pants and braies down in the same tug his cock springs up to slap his belly, already red.

Jaskier is so confused, and so horny.  Geralt sucks his way up Jaskier's body as he climbs on top, starting all the way down at his calves and biting up his thick thighs like a ravenous animal, making what will doubtlessly be a clear, unmistakable trail of hickeys in a few hours.  "Is all this for me?"

What.  What?  "I- yes, I... suppose it is.  Nobody else is jockeying to hop on, if that's what you mean."  Geralt lays on top of him to grind their bodies together before returning to his hands and knees over him.  It, as much as anything else these past few months, makes him feel huge and squishy, but for the first time that sensation... isn't altogether bad.  Geralt kisses him long and deep at the response, the hardness of his cock driving against the softness of Jask's belly new and novel.

"Half this city has a single brain cell to share between them.  You look good fat, Jask."

Oof, the f word— except Jaskier likes it this time.  Geralt hikes his hips up to straddle his middle, so his balls are pressing down into the bard too, biting his lip and grinding down as he reaches back to paw at the biggest swell of Jaskier's stomach behind him, just above his prick.

"You want me to push your tummy out of the way so I can play with your dick, handsome?"  Handsome— and for all his lusty degradation, he sounds like he means it, too.  Jaskier whimpers.  He hasn't felt sexy— hasn't felt sexual at all for the past few months, ever since he had to bite the bolt and go buy an entirely new wardrobe, grown too big to fit into his old clothing.  It all hits him at once, as Geralt grabs covetously at his no-longer lanky body, how much he's missed feeling like an object of desire, missed being horny and shameless.

He looks down at his own body, his lifelong lover on top of it, and feels pride rather than shame, a mounting, breathless excitement building in his chest.  Geralt likes him like this— thinks he's made himself into a softer, more perfect hole to fuck.  "Yes!  Oh Geralt, please, m-move—"  It's still difficult to say it, "-move my belly so you can jerk me off!"

The bard's full to bursting with pride when Geralt jerks and moans, reaching back gracelessly to do just that.  The witcher's more verbose in bed than he is out of it, as a rule, but Jaskier's never heard him ramble in any situation like he's doing now.

"You've made such a good mounting toy out of yourself, Jask; I don't have to worry about breaking you when I'm in rut anymore, do I?  There's so much of you to fuck, no more bony ass for me to bruise my hips against—"  At the mention of his ass Geralt's nostrils flare, dismounting in one smooth motion to grab Jaskier like he's still a lanky waif of eighteen and flip him onto his stomach.

Jaskier's so pleased his face flushes with it with it when Geralt wheezes, the sound punched out of his chest like he can't help himself.

The slap is a shock: no light love tap, hard enough to sting.  Even more of a shock is the way it makes him ripple, able to feel it in his other cheek and his thighs, and the way it desperately it turns Jaskier on.  High on arousal and the power of it, he shakes his ass at Geralt like he always does when he wants the man to get on with it, balls drawing up at the feeling of his body moving with the motion.

He can't believe they've never explored this before.  "And when exactly were you going to tell me you greatly prefer sturdier partners?"  They could've been doing this for years— Gods, Geralt could've been the one who fattened him up, forcing him into second and third helpings in the name of making him less 'fragile' until he was soft and plush all over, turning a famously willowy playboy into his fat fucktoy.

Geralt seems to be having the exact same revelation.

"I should've— thought you saw the whores I picked out, baby, and for once in your life had too much tact to mention it.  Not that you haven't always been a vision, Jask—"  Oh, he's sweet when he's this turned on— "-but now... fuck.  I would've retired you from the path sooner, if I'd known I'd come home to you having grown a pair of tits."

Oh Gods— and Geralt's right, reaching around his torso to cup the meager but noticeable pudge filling out his chest.  He hasn't been penetrated yet, but Geralt's humping his ass like a dog, clearly getting off on how much there is to fuck between, how he'll have to pull Jaskier's cheeks apart with his hands to get at his asshole when he wants to fuck in.

The bard had noticed that Geralt indulged in heavier 'company' from time to time, making a beeline for bigger girls in brothels like a hound on the scent of a fox, but before now he'd never stopped to take stock of how frequently he picked them out.  He'd kind of assumed the witcher was just very into large chests; although upon reflection a good number of those women had perfectly average chests on their soft, curvy bodies, and Geralt still practically had a line of spit drooling to the floor when he saw them.

Geralt still wants him.  Wants him more, and the certainty cuts through the last of the self-consciousness plaguing him for months, his usual inflated ego and charming depravity elbowing their way back to the front of his personality.  "Big talk for a man who hasn't started fucking me yet— mmm, I have to reach under my stomach to pull off now.  The padding's made the base of my shaft disappear into the pudge; It's almost a whole inch shorter now, did you notice earlier?"  Like whiplash, the things that were a drowning, crushing point of shame yesterday make him so hot he can hardly breathe through it now, delighted to tease Geralt with it.

Geralt shuts him up by coating his cock with the oil on the nightstand (dripping it onto his sheets, ruining them, he'll get an earful for that later,) palming his cheeks apart so wide it burns a bit, and slamming into him.

Toys are good— great, even— but Jaskier has missed an ass full of hot, dripping, throbbing cock.

Their fucking is deafening.  It was always loud, with the force at which they went at it, but the slap slap slap of Jaskier's ass and thighs impacting Geralt's body with every thrust, rocking back into him hard with the force of their own momentum, is like the cacophony of a full whorehouse.  No wonder Geralt likes this.

"C-call me— Geralt talk to me, call me names, tell me I'm, I'm—"

Geralt slaps his ass hard enough to bruise, again.  "Call you what?  A greedy whore?  A lazy slut with nothing better to do than sit around and eat, get nice and soft for me to come home and plow— gonna titfuck you next, straddle your fat fucking torso and come all over your chubby face, baby, so gorgeous like this—"

Jaskier messes himself against his bedding, the contractions of his asshole making Geralt slow down to a luxurious pace.  "There you go, big boy, let it feel good.  You like it when I call you a heifer?  When I fuck your juicy ass like I've paid for it—"

Geralt goes non-verbal for a minute, snarling wordlessly as he humps Jaskier so forcefully it pushes his body an inch up the bed with every thrust.  The way his flesh parts to allow the hard press in of Geralt's body when the witcher comes makes his own balls twitch sadly, aching for more to give.

He's cleaned up with all the pomp and circumstance Geralt usually showers him with after so long apart, but somehow more amorous, both of them shivering when he has to push Jaskier's fat out of the way to wipe down his prick and balls, brace a hand on his ass to get at his hole.

"Not to break our great tradition of fucking and then passing out, but I've missed you something terrible, dear-heart; how do you feel about going and getting dinner?"

Jask laughs when his beau pulls his clothes back on as impressively fast as he'd pulled them off, shifting from one foot to the other with eagerness as Jaskier leisurely gets himself re-dressed, musing about where they might go— what do you think of seafood, Geralt?

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A/N:  Did I type the phrase 'bite the bullet', realize this is a medieval fantasy setting, and then just change it to 'bite the bolt' instead of figuring out some other turn of phrase for resignation?  Yes, yes I did.

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Cirilla gets her first blood at eleven.  Geralt starts trying to impregnate her the very same month.

He tracks her cycle, though it'd be hard not to notice when she's ovulating even if he didn't— new fertility is a prominent, mouthwatering scent.  The downy-soft beginnings of hair between her legs make the smell linger, driving Geralt to distraction for days after her her ovaries have released an egg, begging him to get a child on her.

She's understandably hesitant when he broaches the subject.  He'll be breeding her no matter what, he's decided, but it's important Cirilla's on the same page: excess anxiety or fear during her pregnancy could impact the baby.

"I don't know if I want to be a mother." 

They're set up in a Scoia'tael camp just outside Aedern, the inside of their spacious tent soft with pelts and woolen blankets.  In a technical violation of the witchers' sacred neutrality, Geralt makes a point of tipping scales in favor of non-humans where he's able, and it pays dividends in the form of a place to land wherever rouge elves and dwarves make camp.

Geralt rubs her flat stomach adoringly.  "Your body does— we wouldn't be having this conversation if you weren't ovulating, honey."  She's become accustomed to sitting in his lap whenever possible, skinny thighs thrown wide over his own thighs and pelvis.  It makes it easy to segue into sex without ordering her to strip and bend over— she's so sensitive to having her nipples rubbed, and her body otherwise played with, that after ten or fifteen minutes of it the sweet thing thinks it's her idea: bashfully asking for Geralt to 'make me a witcher now, please?' 

"What's ovulating?"

He slides one hand up her leg until it's under her dress, pushing it under her panties to fondle her slit.

"It means if I fuck you now, you'll probably catch.  You smell so good like this."

She's fully intent on him now, having hooked onto the excitement in his voice, forever desperate for deeper approval, more assurance that he won't abandon her.  His precious, emotionally damaged girl.

Geralt traces the the sign for axii in the air with the hand not molesting her, just out of her line of sight.  "Don't you want a family with me?  You'll look so pretty, Princess, full of Daddy's pups."  He holds the physical sign longer than he usually does.  It'll make her a bit stupid for while, limp and drooling the rest of the night, but the suggestion'll root itself nice and deep.

"Besides, you don't really want to be a witcher.  All toil and grime, day after day for centuries.  Princesses deserve better than that— deserve to be kept fat with as many children as they can carry, for as long as they can carry them."

Ciri blinks slowly, drowsy as the thrall finishes taking hold; there's little danger of her remembering anything between now and morning as anything other than a fleeting half-dream.  She nods, pushing the palm of one hand down to rub curiously at her belly.

Giddy with anticipation, Geralt lets himself be as rough and lusty as he wants."I love you so much, Sweetheart." 

Ciri hums inarticulately, staring blankly up at the tent canvas with unfocused eyes.  Committing to buying her a newer, nicer one, one she'll get to pick out herself, Geralt grabs her dress by the collar and rips it off her.  He loves her too much to play the meaner games he enjoys— ordinarily at least— but outside of physical harm he has carte blanche tonight, and intends to use it.  Ripping off her panties next, he pushes her off his lap onto the 'bed' of animal furs making up the floor of the entire tent and takes a moment to rub their bodies together, completely smothering her skinny, helpless form under his. 

Her swan's neck looks so delicate with his hand wrapped around it, resting but not squeezing.  Geralt knows she won't respond— probably can't— but it doesn't stop him from running his mouth for his own gratification.  "Wish I'd gotten you younger, baby bitch— more time to plow your fields before they were fertile."  He guides his cock between her legs with the hand not on her throat, loving how huge and threatening it looks, dripping precum against her parts, forcing its way between her lips.

The first push into her is heaven, as always; Geralt knows he should've fingered her open (even with the frequency of their sex she's so much smaller than he is,) but he wants to enjoy the fantasy of this: a second first time, Cirilla ensorceled, her father-surprise raping her pussy. 

He reaches down to rub where her labia is stretched taut around him, dragging the ridge of his crown against her front wall until she's wet enough for him to slide farther inside.  Her clit is adorably perky under the pad of his finger, making her stomach quiver and her toes curl when he rubs it.

Once she's wet enough for the slide to be seamless rather than chafing, Geralt pins her thighs wide and starts fucking her more roughly than he's ever let himself before, fascinated by how wide she stretches to swallow him up, over and over, even at this brutal pace.

If Cirilla hadn't been promised to him, or Cintra hadn't been sacked, she'd probably be engaged to some prince right now: purity strictly guarded during their engagement, for her husband to take on their years-off wedding night.

Instead she's here, in a Scoia'tael camp, being impregnated by a witcher.  "Such a slutty princess, knocked up so young—"  He knows he's going too hard, can see the top of Ciri's head being knocked against the metal buckle of their saddlebags with every thrust.  Arousing as it is, he tugs her back down towards him before folding her legs up and working himself into her cunt, grinding deep until he comes, urethra pressed against her winking cervix until he's milked dry.

Ciri's clit stays budded as his cum leaks out of her tiny pink gape— fuck, Geralt loves girlpussy— making Geralt lean down to suck on it, hard, until she shivers and cums with a peaceful sigh.  This is normally the part where he'd lick her clean, at least partially, but he presses her thighs tight together and rolls her onto her side instead, reaching one hand down to plug three fingers into her cunt while he spoons her.

Her scent won't change until a few weeks after conception, so there's no way of knowing if his seed has taken— but Geralt's looking forward to continuing to try in the interim, just in case.

+++++

Ciri's scent shifts from fertile to fertilized almost two weeks to the day later.  He sweeps her up into his arms and kisses her when he first smells it, carrying her out of their shitty Novigrad dock hotel and down to the market, letting her pick out as much taffy and hard candy as she can carry: a reward for conceiving like Daddy asked her to.

Geralt adores the new enthusiasm for motherhood his thrall has created in her, listening to her chatter happily about names for their pups while she pulls her travel-clothes off for bed one night, two months down the line.

Geralt doesn't especially give a shit about names.  The pup or pups'll be given to Vesemir and the old guard to raise, like every other witcher's brood is— leaving Geralt free to fuck more children into his child surprise.

Still, he nods along agreeably, assuring her that she can name their children whatever her heart desires.  This encouragement turns from verbal affirmations into low, affirmative grunting as more and more of her clothing comes off, unlacing his own breeches to kick them off and grab his dick when she's down to just her panties. He doesn't know when the sight of her naked body will stop being so instantly, viscerally exciting.  It certainly hasn't happened yet. 

Geralt preempts her before she can grab her modest nightie.  "Undies off too Cirilla, and sit on the edge of the bed. I want to look at you before you get changed."

Look, among other things.  She does what she's told, as always.

Pregnancy has made her chest so full it's vulgar.  On a grown woman it wouldn't be outlandish— big enough for a satisfying handful but well within the realm of what's reasonable— but on waifish Cirilla they look massive.  They sit high and perky, big forward-facing nipples constantly budded under the friction of her loose but necessary chest wrap, and get Geralt so fucking hard it's difficult to function sometimes.

"You're so pretty, Princess."   Her face lights up before turning away, bashful, and Geralt can smell the wetness beginning to leak from her pussy.  His precious girl knows damn well what compliments from Daddy portend by now.  "Play with your big-girl tits for me— that's it, make yourself feel good." 

The juxtaposition of her rail-thin, formless bottom half and her hands pushing together full breasts on top turns Geralt stupid.  The baby bump started to show a few weeks ago, and it's all Geralt's been able to think about since: the soft curve of Ciri's stomach where she's growing his pup. 

He lets his cock go to walk to the bed, kneeling down in front of her with a smitten expression when she flushes and smiles shyly.  "Keep playing, Ciri; Daddy just wants to feel the baby."  Her belly button's not poking out, but it will be soon— he's already made plans for magical aid farther along in the pregnancy, because a full term pup's going to be so big in her she can't walk the last few months.  This poor little girl lying prone on her side for days on end, leaking milk, because Geralt can't resist underage cunt.  Groaning, Geralt leans in to suck one of her nipples into his mouth. 

He's breathlessly excited for Ciri to start getting big— he'll have to take her to Kaer Morhen in another month or two, while it's still safe and relatively easy for her to travel.  His dick throbs thinking about the journey there: she'll be far too pregnant to hide it or pretend it's anything else by then, and every dirt-poor farmer and seamstress who sees them together will know the big bad witcher fucks his daughter nice and deep.

He sucks hard enough to leave a hickey, tongue-tip rubbing harshly, and Cirilla shudders and squeaks.  There's a dark stain of slick on the bedding between her legs, pulling focus as he lifts his mouth away.  "Horny thing."  His tone is achingly fond.  "What do you want?  Little girls who carry their Daddy's babies can have whatever-" He leans in to press another sucking kiss at the underside of her breast, "-they-" another kiss, "-want." And another.

"If it's okay... I want you inside again."  Still so bashful actually discussing their sex, despite the relentless frequency they've been having it since he got her.  What once seemed like an impossible fit is now snug but comfortable for both of them, Geralt able to get about three fourths of his cock in before it hits the back wall.  Her vaginal canal has gotten noticeably longer and plusher since the first signs of her puberty, now clutching greedily at his prick instead of needing to be forced open anew with each instance of penetration.

It's a very easy request to indulge.  She's a vision on her back: white hair haloed out around her head, soft new tits sitting wide across her chest.  The rest of her still has the lankiness of childhood, excepting the proof of his depravity rounding out her womb— Geralt can't imagine anyone being more attractive to him than she is in this moment.  He holds himself considerately up over Ciri while plowing her, careful not to squish their pup between them, leering down at every gorgeous bit of her as he settles into a rhythm.

"Gonna have to start fucking you in the ass in a few months here; wouldn't want to upset the baby."  His hips stutter at the thought: Cirilla on her hands and knees with her belly hanging beneath her, cunt dripping while her backdoor's reamed. 

Huh.  They'll both be holed up at Kaer Morhen, waiting for her to whelp by then. 

He can't wait for his brothers to see what he's done to her.  They've met Ciri in passing, when she and Geralt rode up to scavenge the old alchemy lab for white gull and monster chitin at the very front end of Spring last year, but they haven't wintered together with the pack yet.  He was loathe to potentially draw her pursuers to the keep, in the beginning— but Nilfgaard seems to have lost the thread of her these past six months, and she's pregnant now besides.  Wolf pups should be born in the den, lest he and Ciri have to undertake the perilous and tedious task of transporting squalling infants through a fortnight of wild woodlands and deer paths after the birth.

'Infants.'  He keeps defaulting to plural in his mind for some reason.  Geralt wonders if it's wishful thinking or the magic bond between them that's giving him visions of litters of pups, over and over, until he's gotten everything he can out of her cunt and her breeding years are past. 

Ciri's too strung out on their foreplay and sex to respond to his gentle goading, eyes unfocused as she whimpers in time with the squelch of her cunt.  He sucks his pinky into his mouth, hoists her hips up off the bed, and shoves it shallowly into her asshole while they rock.  She flinches, but the tightening of her canal around him in response to the discomfort is too good to really care.  It she were in agony she'd tell him.

The other wolf witchers'll be impressed if he managed to get twins on her, if he's right about this.

Well.  Eskel will.  Lambert's going to be livid with Jealousy.  Eskel's had Deidre to play with for almost six years now, and now not only does Geralt have Ciri, she's whelping for him— Lambert's the only one of their trio without his very own princess at this point.

Geralt comes when Ciri does.  He usually outlasts his partner by a not-insignificant margin, but knowing he's brought his little girl to climax— at an age when she should be just on the cusp of discovering masturbating— gets him off like nothing else.  Knowing that she can't catch because she's already caught doesn't diminish the boorish satisfaction he takes in flooding her insides with cum.  Geralt shifts to lay on his side, moving Cirilla with him, making sure to keep himself seated in her cunt— there are few things as satisfying as waking up to his morning wood already snug inside his daughter, slicked by last night's seed.

He kisses the back of her neck and rubs her baby bump until she drifts off.  It doesn't take long— orgasm almost always lulls her to sleep, still Big and Overwhelming still despite their years of practice.

He should ask Eskel to breed Deidre.  The other witcher put her on birth control when she flowered, wary of raising a (another) child, but Geralt thinks it's good for Ciri to have company and support for her pregnancy.  He doubt's Eskel'll object once he smells Cirilla, the mixture of spring-youth and impending motherhood good enough to eat.

That'll be nice.  Deidre'll whelp several months after Ciri, of course, but they'll be able to play wetnurse for one another until the babes are weaned and handed off— he can already smell the mild undertone of milk changing Ciri's scent, mammary glands swelling in anticipation of a mouth to feed.

He'll have it all for himself until their baby's born: an excuse to suck her poor, hurting tits every morning and every night, not that he really needs one.

The witcher stretches, yawning.  "Your nappy needs changing?"

Jaskier nods, hunched in on himself, making Geralt reach out to card his fingers through Jask's hair as he throws his legs over the side of the bed.  "Don't look like that; I'd rather you wake me than fall back asleep in a wet diaper and give yourself a rash.  Grab your changing blanket for me, please."

Jaskier pulls it obediently off the nightstand, laying it out on top of their sheets and climbing onto it.  It's waterproof, and washes clean remarkably well: Jaskier was moved to tears when Geralt first got it, still new to their play and so bone-deep ashamed of staining their bedrolls and inn bedding with his urine.  The elimination of that worry helped him bloom into their dynamic— knowing he doesn't have to stress about making a mess or taking care of himself, just trust Geralt to diligently tend to him.

Jaskier's laying perfectly prone when Geralt returns to their bedside with a new nappy and a diaper cloth with a cheerful floral pattern.  He knows they're just squares of cloth, unremarkable to anyone who doesn't already know what he and Geralt do with them, but it always feels wonderfully illicit asking for a yard of this or that fabric in the city markets, hyper-aware that Geralt’s going to be pinning them around his nappy.

He feels tremendously loved when Geralt leans in to kiss above his belly button before unpinning his current cloth and diaper, lifting his ass and lower back up off the bed so he can slide it out from under him.  The cold air makes his wet cock and balls shrink back against his body, knees drawing in at the vulnerable sensation.  He paws at Geralt's shoulder when the man raises to walk away again, whining wordlessly.

"Hold on, fussy boy, I have to heat the wash-water before I put it on your parts."

Oh, Jaskier loves this bit.  Geralt's so considerate of him, especially when they're playing power games, liberally using igni to keep baths and bedpans perfectly warm for his companion and... responsibility.

The cloth is as warm and lovely as promised when Geralt returns to clean his cock, friction it causes crossing the wires between comfort and carnal.  He mostly wants to go back to sleep, but it's undeniably exciting in a lazy, non-urgent way to be tended to so well.

He shivers, head fuzzy, and rocks gently into the warm wetness rubbing down his privates.  "Sorry for making a mess."

"You couldn't help it.  Legs up so I can wipe down your taint."  The mildly scratchy towel feels incredible behind his nuts, still slightly hotter than his body temperature.  Jaskier loves when Geralt says things like that: so sweet in the face of Jaskier's messes and indignities, compassionate to the fact that Jaskier's just too useless not to wet his diaper like a toddler sometimes.

By the time Geralt starts carefully drying him off he's mostly erect.  He shivers when the witcher's wrist taps his growing prick, but is otherwise perfectly sedate and obedient. 

Even once Jaskier's all dry, Geralt keeps softly stroking him, a smile playing around his lips.  "Excited about cleanliness?"

Jaskier snorts.  "Excited about you fondling my dick, no matter the context.  My brain knows that you're down there because I peed myself, but the heart wants what the heart wants."  He fixes Geralt with his best doe-eyes.  "Take care of it for me?"

He... already kind of is taking care of it for Jaskier, but it's polite to ask and all that.  Geralt puts aside the drying towel and takes him in hand with a firm grip, mindful not to chafe him in the absence of lubricant.  "Sure thing."

Jaskier never would've believed it a few years ago, but a straightforward, hurried, goal-oriented handjob is the best thing in the world sometimes.  Geralt's not drawing it out for Jask's pleasure, not reveling in his excitement: he changed Jaskier's nappy and now needs to jack him off, so he can pull a new one on and get back to bed.

"I can't— yes yes yes, like that—" 

"Good boy.  That feels better, doesn't it— let's take care of those urges."  Geralt squeezes at the top of his stroke, like he's milking the precum out of Jaskier, and holds the wetrag in front of his urethra to catch his mess.  Jaskier slumps back slack as a doll when he comes, crooning happily.

Urges.  Like his sexuality is perfunctory, laughable, an entertaining spectacle for Geralt to gentle him through.  What an appealing thought. 

Geralt re-diapers him with the speed of a practiced hand, double-checking all the pins are closed so they don't poke him.

Spooning back under the covers, Jaskier can feel his lover's quarter-chub through the thick fabric swaddling his ass— nudging indolently forward into the padding until they both fall back asleep.

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