justice for eskel

jaskier milking geralt for payment & for fun

figurative puppy geralt pissing his pants like a bad boy

closeted wolf fucker jaskier

local bard can’t wee in front of people, gets a piss kink instead

tarzan au except with more wolves

area man can’t get laid, discovers Humping™

the gang does a gangbang

small cock appreciation: jaskier edition

geralt milking jaskier for a potion & for fun

small cock appreciation: geralt edition

boot worship with no foot fetish cos i Respect Myself

small cock appreciation: collector’s edition (feat. vague incubus magic mechanics)

actual daddy geralt & his don’t-ask-how-it-happened son

out & proud dog fucker jaskier (with the help of some Magic™)

local hunky himbo confused why art students want to fuck him, more news at 7

eskel deserves the world but the world doesn’t deserve him

man overdoses his boyfriend on viagra, “oops”, he says upon questioning

i don’t know what a threadcount is but pissing your breeches would probably ruin it

that’s Definitely how leshens work (feat. more wolf fucking)

fuck or die curse but Spicy

non-con somnophilia but who is it non-con for?? send in your answers now (feat. bad axii etiquette)

area man just wants some fucking peace, thinks cock cages are the way to go

uno reverse card with witcher jaskier & his New Teaching Methods

it’s not drugs, it’s for my Genuine Medical Problem

He watches Jaskier's head roll from side to side against the wall before he sways forward, chin tucked to his chest. A muscle twitches in Geralt's jaw.

"Jaskier," he says sternly, barely masking his concern. Annoyance, that is.

"Got--got in a fight," Jaskier tells him, lips barely moving. "Think I--I'm broken? But you're here. Now. Geralt."

He smiles again, weak and unconvincing.

Broken. The word echos in Geralt's ears, bouncing around his brain, until he almost sees it spelled out, dripping red.

"Can I--hm. Can I see?" He gets his voice softer, now. Clearly Jaskier is in some sort of peril. Anger would be counterproductive, no matter how badly Geralt wants to put a fist through every one of the drunks downstairs, part their flesh with his blade.

"Y'don't--you. Don't have to." The way Jaskier grits his teeth and focuses on keeping the slur out of his speech is anything but reassuring. "Seen the--uh, the healer. Got me some--something. For pain."

This time, when Jaskier sways, he tips all the way to lay on his side, nearly hitting his head on a sharp edge of the low table pushed close to the bed. Geralt is next to him in a flash, leaning over his limp body, focusing for a moment on nothing but the steady, if somewhat slow, thud of his heart.

Geralt finds himself frantically undoing Jaskier's doublet before he can think about it. He doesn't like the way Jaskier winces when he pulls the thing off, so he keeps his touch gentle for the chemise underneath.

"Fuck. Fuck."

He didn't think--but then he did, maybe, because Jaskier always insists he doesn't need the healer, doesn't need help, doesn't need anything just so Geralt won't think he's weak. So he knew it had to be bad, this, but--

The sight of Jaskier's chest and abdomen stained ink-black with large, brooding bruises still makes his blood run cold. He touches one, finds it swollen and tender.

"Least they haven't--kicked in my teeth," Jaskier jokes, carrying the silly tune over his words.

One of the bruises seems to run low over Jaskier's hip, so Geralt unbuttons his breeches, too, slides them off revealing more injuries than he would ever think could fit on his bard.

He nearly reaches for his sword, ready to cut down every filthy bastard he can find in the inn.

Instead, he closes his eyes and gets a fucking grip.

Geralt's kit is stocked full with potions that could kill Jaskier if he as much as sniffed them, and an equal amount of mild to potent healing herbs that Geralt wouldn't admit he keeps just for Jaskier. He works quickly, picking the right ones, crushing them between his fingers rather than bother with a pestle. It feels good to crush something, frankly.

He overheats the water in his haste, makes it evaporate entirely and the clay mug shatter when he blasts it with too much Igni.

"Witcher magic," Jaskier slurs, moving slowly to lay flat on the bed.

Geralt steeps the herbs in some fresh water, keeps his calm even when he has to force it down Jaskier's throat. He exhales sharply, sitting down at the edge of the straw-stuffed mattress.

He should put Jaskier to sleep. It'd make the healing faster, entirely eliminate the pain that's merely dulled by whatever drug he'd taken.

Yet Geralt hesitates. It's a lot of bruising. A lot of internal bleeding. Some bone fractures, he wagers, though he'd have to feel to check. Privately, selfishly, Geralt thinks he doesn't want to forfeit the time with his bard if somehow this is the last of it.

It isn't.

It isn't.

Still, Jaskier's quiet humming is reassuring. Grounding.

Geralt spots a small pouch on the floor nearby, half-full of a fine, blonde powder. He sniffs it carefully, nods to himself, and dissolves some of it in more warm water. It won't mend broken bones, but perhaps they can get through most of the healing process without Jaskier feeling the brunt of it. This time, his bard drinks eagerly.

"Oh," he sighs after a minute. "Oh, 's nice."

Geralt almost huffs out a laugh. Of course it's nice when he's high out of his mind.

"Does it still hurt?"

Jaskier closes his eyes. Shakes his head.

"'s nice," he repeats.

Belatedly, Geralt realises it'd be the decent thing to do if he protected Jaskier's modesty in some way, no matter how little of it his bard possesses in the first place.

He reaches for a blanket, but his hand only hovers above it.

Seeing Jaskier's body like this still makes rage bubble hot and viscous in his chest, and yet--

Geralt breathes calmly, steadily, like he does when he meditates. Jaskier will be fine, because he has to be. Because Geralt's already failed him once, letting any harm come to him, and he won't do it again by letting the little bastard die. He'll be fine, and the brief, inexcusable panic retracts its claws from around Geralt's throat. Strangely, it leaves him with anything but the clarity he'd expect.

He blinks, and suddenly the bruises, the marks of violence seep away from Jaskier's skin. Suddenly, it's just Jaskier there, his bard; bare and pliant and so out of it he wouldn't notice anything amiss if Geralt were to--

There's a charge in the air that pops, crackles, fizzles. Grows and grows and thunders.

Geralt's palm rests gently on Jaskier's thigh, where the skin is still pale and unblemished.

Jaskier moans.

"Feels good."

It does feel good, is the thing. Something dark and shameful crawls up to the very back of Geralt's tongue, threatens to steal his voice and make it its own. Geralt stifles it, but only barely. He slides his hand up, in morbid curiosity, and presses his fingers into a bruise at Jaskier's hip. It gets him another moan, a happy sigh.

"Geralt."

And it's like a siren song when Jaskier calls for him, like he'd gripped Geralt's soul and torn it out to have for himself. It isn't as though he can't easily overpower the bard on any given day, hunt him and pin him down and take whatever pleases him in spite of any struggle. But there's something different about this, about the sheer helplessness that Jaskier's fallen into. About the lack of consequence if Geralt were to ravish him, ruin him. If he were to press his own marks into Jaskier's battered skin, fuck him as roughly as he'd ever wanted, not hold back--

Geralt lunges forward, hands roaming over soft, hot skin, lips messily against Jaskier's. It's barely a kiss, more a slide of wet, needy lips, but Geralt nearly goes mad even at that, at the feeling of Jaskier's open mouth letting him in.

"Does it hurt?" Geralt asks again dumbly, already knowing the answer. The beast inside him roars.

Jaskier keens, a faint smile never leaving his parted lips.

Geralt doesn't know, suddenly, how he finds himself holding Jaskier's legs spread, though perhaps it doesn't matter. He looks down at Jaskier's soft prick and lower, lower, lower, until he finds his slack, relaxed hole. Feverishly, he considers the fact that Jaskier doesn't seem to feel any pain, like this. He could--but he could--

When he lets go of Jaskier's thighs, they fall heavily on the bed, still apart enough for Geralt to see all of him, all of the hidden, filthy parts that Geralt aches to claim.

He wraps a hand tightly around Jaskier's prick and Jaskier whines long and high, his eyes half-open and unseeing. Geralt leans down, suddenly hungry for it, and puts his mouth on his bard with a need that borders on desperation. His cock stays soft and delicious on Geralt's tongue, and it's a sensation much more heady than he ever would've expected. Distantly, Geralt wonders if he could get Jaskier to come like this, without getting hard at all.

He massages the flesh with his tongue, stuffs himself silly as he can. Jaskier mumbles something when Geralt moans around him, feeling far too needy.

There's saliva pooling in Jaskier's lap, drying on Geralt's chin. He bobs his head faster, sneaks his hand down to rub circles behind Jaskier's delicate balls, until he feels him twitch and pulse and finally, blissfully, drool thick seed at the back of Geralt's throat.

Geralt pulls away swiftly so he can watch it spill, sticky-white on Jaskier's soft, bruised-black belly. It keeps throbbing in his hand for a long time, moans and whimpers falling from Jaskier's parted lips without restraint. Geralt presses his nose to the underside of Jaskier's jaw, catching his breath and catching his bard's scent. He drags his fingers through the spend slipping over Jaskier's skin, pooling in his navel, and he--

"Guh--G'ralt?"

And there isn't a hint of hurt in his voice, in his face, in his scent, and Geralt groans as he pushes two come-slick fingers into Jaskier's pliant body with no resistance.

Geralt's composure snaps in twain like a particularly fragile twig.

Later, Geralt won't recognise himself in the tremor that sets into his hands as he paws at Jaskier's skin, or the undignified way he pries open his own trousers, or the roar that rumbles in his chest when he presses forward, in, sinks into Jaskier deeper than he has any right to be.

It's a heady sensation, the way Jaskier's body parts around him, loose and relaxed and so very open. Geralt nearly comes on the spot, has to grit his teeth and suck in a harsh breath and even that stands barely a chance when Jaskier moans so prettily.

But a mad thought comes to him unbidden; that he doesn't need to slow, or hold back. Because it's hours before Jaskier becomes lucid; days, perhaps, and until then--

Well, until then he's nothing more than a warm body for Geralt to drain his balls into.

With a roar springing forth from his throat, Geralt snaps his hips forward, ruts into Jaskier with a single-minded fervour, his one purpose to fuck, come, breed. Stake his claim and have it stay.

"G--Geralt, Geralt--" Jaskier whimpers on a weak breath, though his eyes stay cloudy and unfocused. Geralt sees his hand twitch at his side, like he's trying to lift it but finds the weight too cumbersome.

Geralt bares his teeth and sets them in Jaskier's shoulder, harsher than he ever would normally. The skin gives beneath the sharp points of his canines.

It's less fucking and more a deep, desperate grind when Geralt doesn't want to leave the intoxicating heat of Jaskier's body even for a moment. He mouths at the stubble on Jaskier's jaw, hastens his pace and whines like a wounded pup when he spills so very deep inside his bard he's sure it could catch.

His cock doesn't get a chance to grow soft, though a delicious pain edges into his pleasure. Geralt sits back on his haunches, pulls Jaskier's hips into his lap with a strong grip. Keeps him spread open and filled to the brim and when he pounds his delicious little hole again, Geralt revels in the way his seed gets fucked even deeper. He wants to pump Jaskier so full he wakes up swollen and heavy with it, wants to watch the bruises fade from his taut stomach and see it rounded with Geralt's ownership.

Jaskier keeps mumbling quietly, every one of Geralt's thrusts knocking a moan, a sigh, a slurred word out of his chest. It's maddening, to finally have the thing he'd quietly, privately ached for without ever fully acknowledging it--and to have it so wholly, so--

"Fuck."

Realisation seems to come over him in waves, and suddenly Geralt wants. Wants so much, wants things he'd never given mind to before. Wants to have Jaskier and keep him, do horrible, unspeakable things to his bard. Beat him black and blue and nurse him tenderly back to health.

"Fuck."

Geralt strokes Jaskier's limp prick almost reverently, thinks about wrapping it up in ribbons and ropes and having Jaskier beg to come.

Another time.

Another time, because Geralt's had a taste of something beautiful and sick and forbidden, and he'll never let it slips through his fingers.

His pace grows erratic once more, and once more he finds his teeth wandering. They settle snugly at the side of Jaskier's throat, clamped so tightly he can feel the sluggish thud of his bard's subdued heartbeat.

Jaskier moans weakly and Geralt sees red when he spills again, his balls slapping heavily against Jaskier's body in a final thrust. He strips Jaskier's prick viciously, then, until his bard comes, his spasming hole milking Geralt's oversensitive cock in a raw shock of ecstasy.

There's blood on his teeth and a thrumming in his ears and Geralt collapses on top of Jaskier, still buried in him. He lays a gentle kiss to the top of Jaskier's head, but by then his bard is unconscious.

Jaskier has come to know very well that looks are often deceiving when the time for trials comes; how many of his own brothers succumbed to the poison pumped into them? How many of them bigger, stronger than Jaskier? And him, caught in the middle of all that, barely coming up to their shoulders with how small and scrawny he'd been.

And yet he survived when they did not. He prevailed, and he thrived, and now, as reward, he gets to lead countless young boys to their demise.

So Jaskier knows not to assume--but it isn't an assumption when he says Geralt will make it through the trials. It is a certainty.

"Come on, pup, up you get. Pick up the sword before I have all of you flogged."

He watches more intently, now that Geralt takes position in the courtyard's centre. His fighting stance is immaculate; Jaskier would tremble, had he been one of the other whelps. Geralt towers above near all of them, tall and lanky still, though his shoulders are broad with promise. Jaskier is glad Geralt already excels at swordwork; he's not sure he could teach the boy much, not with how distracted he gets by the shift of lean muscle beneath his clothes, or the way his dark hair curls at his temples with sweat. It's in need of trimming, and Jaskier will mourn when it's no longer at a length where he could twist it around his fingers and pull.

Not that he ever did, but he'd like the choice.

His cock swells insistently in his leather breeches, though the pups remain clueless, their senses still pathetically lacking.

Jaskier keeps his eyes firmly on Geralt's supple form, growing only more wanting. The grace in the pup's movements is astounding. He ducks and parries with a remarkable ease, each blow calculated and meticulous.

By the end, when Geralt is panting heavily and pinning one of his brothers to the ground with a sword to his throat, well. Jaskier is still a creature prone to temptation. It's a miracle he hadn't spilled in his trousers just from looking, frankly.

Gods, does he know how magnificent he is? Jaskier wagers he doesn't; the boys know little of such human things as vanity. Geralt knows that he's tall and strong, and that concludes his value as a near-witcher. He won't come to realise his crushing beauty until years later, when women and men alike cross his Path with wanton looks and open legs. Jaskier yearns to show him now, just how fine of a specimen he is.

Perhaps it isn't his brightest idea, but his cock throbs and heat pools in his abdomen, and Jaskier wants.

"Geralt," he says sternly when the trainees had dispersed, deserting the courtyard.

The boy cocks his head in Jaskier direction and keeps his eyes carefully down. Good, the wolf in Jaskier purrs at the blatant display of submission. He wishes to look into the pup's brilliant green eyes before they're molten into gold, though he can wait for that until they are truly alone.

"Geralt, I'll need for you this evening." He keeps a faux indifference in his voice. "Bathe and be at my chambers by nightfall. Do not tell anybody."

Geralt's eyes flash to his for a split second. He nods curtly and disappears into the keep. Jaskier watches the sway of his narrow hips, the plump swell of his shapely arse.

At last, something to look forward to in this drab place.

***

The tentative knock on his door thrills Jaskier's heart immensely.

He could hear Geralt approach, of course. The boy moves quietly, but Jaskier's sensitive ears still prick up at the indecisive hitch in his breath as he stands before the entrance.

Jaskier schools his expression and waits, perched in a cushy armchair, hands in his lap.

"Come in," he calls pleasantly.

And, gods, Geralt is a vision, isn't he? Hair still damp from the washing, clothes that he fills out in ways just short of indecent. Jaskier wishes only that he'd peel his eyes away from the stone floor.

"Master."

Jaskier almost huffs with laughter. He's yet to get used to that; the Path rarely sees him being called anything other than witcher. Mutant, sometimes, if it's a bad day. Certainly not master, not sir, not anything he goes by here.

"Geralt, lovely. Come in. Shut the door."

Oh, and he smells delectable, too. Jaskier nearly makes to press his nose against that pale throat, drown himself in the scent. It's--warm, somehow. Unsullied. Pure.

"What would you have of me?"

A predatory smile stretches wide across Jaskier's lips.

"There's some changes to your training schedule I must enforce. Very experimental, really, I don't think the other boys are ready for it. But you are, aren't you, Geralt?"

And on instinct, like the obedient pup that he is, Geralt responds,

"Yes, sir."

Jaskier glows in anticipation.

"Good. Good."

Tension still sits tight in the lines of Geralt's strong body.

"Come closer."

He does.

"Look at me."

The shifty green of Geralt's irises is even more astonishing up close. A soft lock of dark hair has fallen on his forehead, boyishly charming.

"Kneel."

It's the first time Geralt hesitates; he flinches, but doesn't dive at the order. Jaskier parts his legs further. Pats the inside of his thigh invitingly.

"Kneel," he repeats, holding Geralt's skittish gaze.

Slowly, uncertainly, Geralt lowers himself to the floor. His hands settle dutifully on his thighs.

Jaskier's instincts tell him to grip fistfuls of those lovely curls; he resists for now, settling instead on gentle petting. Geralt jerks away at the first touch, just so.

"You are lovely, aren't you? Absolutely stunning."

A splotchy blush crawls from beneath the pup's collar. He looks to the side, shifts uncomfortably under Jaskier's scrutiny.

"Nuh-uh. Eyes up. Keep looking at me."

It's thrilling to have Geralt's attention so entirely on him. Jaskier moves slowly, so as not to spook the boy.

(Like he's a predator and Geralt his prey.)

The laces of his breeches give way easily. He can see the confusion in Geralt's eyes; can smell the anxiety spoiling his scent.

"I don't understand, sir. I--I'm sorry."

This time Jaskier lets his laugh ring freely in the still air, echo off the walls. He's glad the wing he'd claimed is abandoned. Kaer Morhen is no place for joy, after all.

"It's quite simple, pup."

Jaskier's cock is well on its way to achingly hard when he draws it out. He doesn't reprimand Geralt when his gaze drops to Jaskier's groin. The boy's breath catches on a sharp inhale.

"Suck."

He can hear the quickened drum of Geralt's heartbeat pounding away against his ribs. He can't hear much else, really.

Geralt doesn't move, frozen in place. His lips fall apart, warm, shuddering breath spanning over Jaskier's cock.

He doesn't repeat himself this time, finally giving into the temptation to grab Geralt's hair and force his head down.

"Be a good boy for me, Geralt. Open wide."

And, the goddess be kind, Geralt does as he's told.

Hesitantly, the pup wraps his gorgeous lips around Jaskier's fat cockhead, face pinched as if he's in pain. Jaskier snaps his fingers.

"I won't say it again. Eyes on me. Don't make me punish you."

Geralt's eyes look impossibly more green when they're glassy with unshed tears. Jaskier pulls tightly on his hair to see if he can get them to spill.

The boy seems lost, yet Jaskier finds that he doesn't mind. He's content guiding Geralt's head down, down, down. A hot, wet hole for him to use. Geralt doesn't gag; doesn't flinch; the wetness at the corners of his eyes brims over, stains his cheeks. Jaskier groans and thrusts his hips up, forces his cock deeper into that tight throat.

"Here's what'll happen, pup," Jaskier says as he tugs Geralt up and pushes him down to swallow more of his cock. The sound of it is obscene. "I'll use your pretty mouth until I'm satisfied. If you're good, I'll let you swallow. If you aren't--" a sharper thrust, mounting panic behind Geralt's eyes, "if you aren't good, darling, I'll come on your face, and have you see your other masters with the scent of my spend all over you."

He'd thought the wet, squelching sound of Geralt's throat spasming around his cock was filthy, but it's nothing compared to the little whimper the boy gives.

"And once they know what a wanton whore you are, darling--well, they'll just have to try you themselves, won't they?"

Geralt tries to shake his head, making his sharp teeth graze sensitive flesh. Jaskier groans at the threat, a shiver rattling up his spine.

"Oh, you don't want that, dear?" he asks mockingly, voice syrupy-sweet. "Would you rather I had you all to myself, then? A good little slut for your master?"

The edge creeps up on him unexpectedly, and Jaskier finds himself fucking Geralt's throat almost frantically. The power he holds over the pup is just as intoxicating as the maddening heat of his mouth. Jaskier growls, bares his teeth and holds Geralt's head down as he spills, moaning his satisfaction loudly.

Geralt sputters and chokes, his watery eyes never leaving Jaskier's when he tries to obediently swallow all that he's given.

Jaskier holds him stuffed full of his softening cock until Geralt reeks of panic, unable to draw air into his lungs and beautiful in his desperation.

"Good boy," Jaskier says finally, yanking Geralt up by the hair, cock slipping from his mouth.

The boy nearly doubles over trying to catch his breath. Jaskier can hear it wheezing past his abused throat.

He casts a glance down between Geralt's legs and smiles wickedly.

"Just one last thing, pup, and then you can go."

Still panting, Geralt nods.

"Strip."

When the boy's shaking hands fly to grasp the hem of his roughspun shirt, Jaskier thrills at his blind compliance. He watches greedily as more and more pale, smooth skin is uncovered, and his mouth waters. Geralt is every bit as gorgeous as Jaskier expected; shapely and lean at the waist, though his chest widens considerably. Hips curved just slightly, just enough to drive Jaskier mad with the need to wrap his fingers around them, leave them bruised and marked.

He hums expectedly when Geralt stands before him in nothing but his smallclothes. The boy seems to hesitate with a white-knuckled grip on the waistband.

"Go on, pup."

At last, the fabric slides down those thick, alluring thighs, and Jaskier gasps.

The boy has, quite possibly, the most perfect cock Jaskier's ever seen. He eyes it hungrily, reddened and dripping at the tip, and all he can think of is how very satisfying it would be to get Geralt to spear him open on that glorious length, how nice to take it soft in his mouth and feel it swell on his tongue. He nearly goes dizzy with the possibilities, though he tries to push them away, store them for another day.

He directs Geralt to perch precariously in his lap, the boy's legs spread obscenely around Jaskier's hips, his delectable cock jutting forward, wetting Jaskier's abdomen. Geralt's eyes widen and he moans faintly, nothing more than a stutter in his breathing that sets Jaskier mindless with desire. He smooths his hands up Geralt's sides, feels muscle shift beneath his touch. Geralt pants through clenched teeth. His cock twitches.

"Have you ever been touched like this?" Jaskier asks conversationally, as if he isn't currently burning alive with want.

Geralt shakes his head, hair bouncing endearingly.

"No, sir."

"Oh?" Jaskier feigns surprise as he rubs a pink nipple tenderly with his thumb. Geralt squirms, his lips coming open in a silent scream. "Never? None of your brothers ever climb into your bed and take you fast and rough like you deserve? Pity."

He leans in to nose along the column of Geralt's taut neck, to scent him like he so desperately wanted to before. The pup is dripping arousal; Jaskier can smell little else. He rakes his teeth over soft skin, for a heartbeat considers sinking his canines in to stake his claim.

When he wraps a dry hand around Geralt's prick, the pup seizes, whimpers--

--comes immediately. He shakes in Jaskier's arms, thrusting his hips blindly as he rides out his release, his moans high and breathy.

Jaskier mouths at the boy's throat, his jaw, his cheek, before placing a chaste kiss to his parted lips.

"I'll expect you here on the morrow, pup. Same time. Understood?"

There's almost a hint of a smile in Geralt's voice when he says, barely a whisper,

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

***

Jaskier barely makes it through sword practice most days, with how badly he wants to just bend Geralt over and take him in the middle of the courtyard. Have the other boys watch, see what a good boy Geralt is for him.

The pup grows comfortable with sucking cock; Jaskier doesn't have to guide him, doesn'thave to move a finger for Geralt to take him down that tight throat of his and swallow his seed. Once, he'd got the boy to spill in his braies just from Jaskier telling him to do it.

It's addicting, yet Jaskier feels the familiar itch of restlessness just out of his reach. He wants more, and he'll get it.

Quiet footsteps sound out in the corridor. Wool socks on the stone floor.

"Strip," he says as soon as Geralt shuts the door behind himself.

Jaskier is buzzing with wanton impatience.

Watching Geralt undress is no less breathtaking than it was the first time. Jaskier wonders if he could ever get used to such utter perfection unfolding before his eyes.

"Stunning," he whispers, beckoning the pup closer, until they're face to face. "Perfect." He reaches out to touch all of that unblemished, smooth skin. It won't be long, now, until it becomes a canvas for ragged scars, only half-healed when the next comes. "Magnificent."

He drags his hands down the broad expanse of Geralt's back. Grabs a handful of the sinful arse that had been the bane of his existence for weeks.

"Master?" Geralt squeals, voice small and hesitant.

"Come lie down, pup."

Dumbly, Jaskier wishes the bedclothes were darker in colour; black silk, perhaps. Something that would compliment Geralt's skin tone better. Wide-eyed and covering himself shyly, laid down upon the white sheets, Geralt looks--young. Innocent. Temptation incarnate.

Jaskier kneels at the edge of the bed, dressed up still in boiled leather and harsh linen. He enjoys the contrast of dark fabric against Geralt's bare form.

"Spread your legs, dear. Let me see all of you."

Once more, Geralt hesitates, though Jaskier can smell his want, can see the way his cock fills rapidly where it rests at his hip.

Slowly, Jaskier touches the insides of Geralt's thighs. Pushes them apart. Geralt turns his head, biting his lip. He flushes a lovely pink.

"I'm going to touch you, pup. You're so beautiful--there's no need to be shy."

He doesn't have to remind Geralt to look at him. The pup's eyes snap to him, still wide and unsure.

"Where--where will you touch me, sir?"

Jaskier smiles kindly. He enjoys the sound of Geralt's voice, so deep and sinful, yet still crackling with youth.

"Oh, darling. I'm glad you asked. See, I'll touch you here--" he splays his palm gently over Geralt's throat, "and here--" drags it down, over his chest, brushing the boy's hardened nipples, "here--" down his firm stomach, until his fingertips can play over the length of Geralt's prick, "and here," when he finally dips his fingers lower, to where he's pink and tight and untouched.

Geralt gasps, his breath coming quicker, eyelashes fluttering. Jaskier can't resist him a minute longer.

The pup tastes incredible when Jaskier crawls over his body to kiss him. He makes a little sound of confusion, but parts his lips readily, lets Jaskier's greedy tongue in. Gods, he's so soft, so pliant, so utterly perfect. Jaskier kisses him until even he comes up short on breath, touching and touching and touching every part of Geralt he can reach.

Geralt trembles beneath him, his cock sliding against the front of Jaskier's armour with how much he's dripping.

For a moment Jaskier considers a change to his plans, considers climbing astride the pup's hips and sinking all of that pretty, pretty cock into himself.

He takes a few slow breaths to refocus, moving down Geralt's body to savour more of him. The boy's skin tastes of the bland soap the whelps all scrub themselves with, and yet to Jaskier it seems like the most extravagant delicacy. He sucks feverishly at a spot below Geralt's collarbone. Doesn't matter if he bruises, does it? The boys get knocked about in training all the time. And if one of the other masters sees, well, what would they do about it? Jaskier sucks harder, worries the flesh between his teeth as Geralt thrashes beneath him, fingers gripping the sheets.

Jaskier pulls back, tasting blood. A mark remains where his mouth had been. Possessive satisfaction roars in his chest.

He moves in a flurry, kissing Geralt roughly and popping the cork of the oil's vial all at once.

"Oh," Geralt gasps when Jaskier's slick fingers trail over his full balls and lower still.

Jaskier knows that he's selfish, that it's cruel--but for a flash he thinks about how accustomed all the whelps are to pain, how much of it they'll have to endure once the time comes, and in that moment Jaskier considers just--taking.

But Geralt looks up at him with such unreasonable trust, even if an anxious uncertainty stays a sour note in the air around him, and Jaskier's heart softens beyond his control.

"I'll make it so good for you, pup."

He does. He tries. He watches Geralt squirm, watches his cock leak so much it looks like he'd spilled already. Jaskier can barely fathom how much tender affection he suddenly holds for the boy. A witcher is not meant for such things, though Jaskier never cared much for what he's meant to be.

He latches onto a hardened nipple to steady himself, listens to the intoxicating moans punched out of Geralt's chest with each thrust of his fingers. One, two, three, and yet Geralt still seems so incredibly tense, so gloriously, unreasonably tight. He'll get his mouth on the boy, another time, spear him open on his tongue until Geralt sobs with it. Or maybe he'll--fuck, maybe he'll have the pup sit on his face, ride him like that, wrangle as much of his pleasure from Jaskier as he wants.

The muscle in Geralt's thighs jump beneath Jaskier's palms when he pushes Geralt's legs open wider.

"Sir?" Geralt breathes when Jaskier goes to undo his leathers. More hesitation colours the pup's voice.

Jaskier lies between his legs, shushes the boy with a kiss that's far too tender before he sinks into him in one soul-wrenching thrust.

For a single heartbeat, Jaskier feels as though he'd found faith.

He groans heartily against Geralt's lips. Focuses all the decades of carefully crafted self-control to not spend himself immediately. For the first time, Geralt's hands let go of the blankets and settle on Jaskier's shoulders, grabbing, clawing, scratching the leather.

"I--sir, I--"

Jaskier kisses the boy's panting mouth again. Smooths a hand down his heaving flank.

"I know, pup, I know it hurts. It'll get better. It'll get so, so good."

He watches the change in Geralt's expression; frown fading from his brow, his jaw relaxing, his features softening in pleasure. He watches the change and feels it like his own rebirth. Geralt stays tight and perfect, opening around Jaskier's cock like he was made to do it, and Jaskier barely keeps himself in check. He sets a pace and quickens it almost immediately, overcome in a way he isn't supposed to be.

Once he finds his voice, the boy moans like the most expensive whore coin can buy. His breathy moans grow loud and louder, echo in the cold room, fan the flame of Jaskier's arousal. He touches all he can reach, Geralt's belly and his arms and his chest, almost feels the boy's skin thrumming with how rapidly his blood pumps.

The pup unfolds before him in the most exquisite way, his defences lowered in the face of ecstasy. A splotchy flush colours his cheeks and neck. His powerful muscles shudder and quake beneath Jaskier's searching fingers. Each second finds both of them louder, more unhinged, barrelling towards their release faster than is decent.

It's the quickest fuck Jaskier's had in years. Decades, maybe. He'd be mortified, had there been any room for shame in him beside the choking want--to claim the pup, to have him, to keep him as his own, so no one will ever touch him but Jaskier.

The thought borders on delirium. Jaskier can't shake it. He brings a hand to wrap around Geralt's blood-hot cock, barely strokes it before the pup goes stiff, quiet, breath caught in his chest.

He spills with a whimper, twisting away even as his hole spasms wildly, pulling Jaskier in deeper.

Jaskier watches spend pearl on Geralt's quivering stomach, barely clinging to consciousness, wanting only to succumb to the feverish need.

Just as he feels himself tip over the precipice, he pulls out, comes on pale skin, a possessive growl at the back of his throat.

Jaskier drags his hand in the mess on Geralt's belly. Smears it around, rubs it in. His claim.

"Gorgeous," he says with a last kiss before rolling to lay on his back on the rumpled sheets. He rarely finds himself so utterly sated after a coupling.

That is, until the delightful scent of their mingling seed gets cut through with a sharp pang of anguish. He can smell the tears before Geralt's shoulders begin to shake, but it isn't long until the bed rocks with the power of his sobs.

"Geralt?" Jaskier says softly, turning to look his pup in the eye. Geralt hides his face against the pillow.

"I'm sorry, I--" It comes out muffled, but Jaskier still catches every strained word. "I'll do better, I'm sorry, sir, I promise, please don't--"

Jaskier's head spins. He reaches his hand out and freezes, afraid to touch, scared of breaking the boy further.

"You did everything right, pup," he tells the boy slowly, unsure of where the hurt stems from. Gods, but he loathes the smell of his pup's sadness.

Geralt shakes his head.

"You said--you said you'd only come on me if I'm bad and I--" He's shifting, moving. Up on his knees, crawling down the bed, until he settles between Jaskier's legs. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, don't make me go out like this, I-I-I don't want them to have me, sir, I'll be so good for you--"

Jaskier wasn't aware he had a heart that could shatter so readily.

Alas, he doesn't think he'll gather all of its pieces any time soon.

Geralt doesn't look up at him when he bows to lap at Jaskier's spent cock. He doesn't look up when Jaskier calls his name. Doesn't look up when Jaskier winds a gentle hand in his soft hair to pull him off. He sobs with Jaskier's cock still in his mouth and it's the most pitiful display.

"Geralt, pup, you weren't bad," Jaskier says eventually, stunned. "You were very, very good for me. No one will touch you, darling, no one but me."

Fuck, but he's a fool.

Geralt keeps messily working his soft cock, sinking down on it so viciously he chokes and sputters and wails, and Jaskier has no clue on what to do.

"Eyes up, pup. Look at me, come on."

That, at least, makes Geralt's gaze flick up. Jaskier finds himself once more drowning in the dazzling green of his irises. They glitter in the warm candlelight, mesmerising like a siren's song.

"Do you need me to come down your lovely throat? Want to be a good boy and swallow?"

The pup doesn't respond, doesn't react.

"Or do you want me to breed your needy hole? Pump you full of come so you can keep it?"

Geralt's eyelashes flutter as he groans his approval.

A shudder crawls down Jaskier's spine when Geralt sloppily brings his oversensitive cock back to hardness, desperation in place of enthusiasm. Like he'll die if Jaskier doesn't fuck him again, like he'll never find peace without it. Jaskier combs his fingers through soft curls and urges Geralt up into his lap.

"Careful," he tells the boy when he seats himself completely on Jaskier's cock, his face tensing and relaxing all at once.

"Please," Geralt mutters as he sets to ride Jaskier with reckless abandon.

Geralt's breath is a warm rush on Jaskier's lips. It's easy to close the scant gap between them, easy for Jaskier to sink his teeth into Geralt's plush bottom lip and hold him tightly as they rock into each other. Jaskier doesn't know when he'd grown this dangerously fond, but he presses his nose against the side of Geralt's neck, slick with sweat and fragrant with frantic lust. He thinks once again about leaving his mark to bloom there, in plain view of everyone. The sign of his ownership; something to keep his pup from the touch of others.

Jaskier was wrong, before. This is the shortest fuck of his life, right here, right now. He grips Geralt's hips viciously, bites just beneath his jaw. Sucks the skin between his teeth until the pup keens. His cock twitches in the clutch of Geralt's body, and Jaskier holds him in place when he comes.

"Thank you," Geralt says quietly. He doesn't make to move away. "Thank you, thank you."

Jaskier calms him once more with a kiss and lets the pup drift to sleep curled up on his chest.

###

what i Wanted to write before this went all soft and tender on me was jaskier punish-fucking geralt in the training yard with all the other pupils watching. maybe geralt doesn’t show one night and jaskier finds him in bed with one of the boys (eskel, probably)? not doing anything incredibly indecent, maybe just kissing or touching but jaskier still goes into a jealous rage cos he’s a drama queen like that

***

"I don't see how this is--" Jaskier squeals, tries to shrug out of Geralt's grip. "--in any way necessary, Geralt, the silk will crease, gods have mercy."

Geralt pulls the hood lower over his eyes and walks swiftly, one gloved hand clasped tightly around Jaskier's arm, dragging him down the cobbled street. It's busy this time of day. Jaskier's incessant moaning draws them only more attention.

"Another word and I'll have your mouth sewn shut," Geralt hisses privately to spare them the unnecessary scandal.

Perhaps it is only because he finally realises the gravity of the situation that Jaskier falls silent. Geralt doesn't care for the reason. He quickens his pace.

The shop stands where it always had, inconspicuous and private, tucked away in the shadow of a large armourer. Dust rises from the stale clothes stacked on the shelves, tickles Geralt's sensitive nose; he doesn't spare a glance at the gaudy fabrics. A merchant greets them and Geralt nods at him knowingly, walking straight past him to a heavy door at the shop's back.

"Geralt?" Jaskier says tentatively, his voice quivering.

Geralt pushes the door open and shoves Jaskier inside.

The woman is a different one than the last time he'd visited, though it had been many decades since he'd had any need for services of this kind. Never this one in particular, still.

Jaskier stutters at his side, head whipping around wildly.

"Geralt? Geralt, you filthy old man, what--

He sighs in annoyance at the mischievous glint in Jaskier's eye.

"A gag, perhaps?" the woman asks, amused, and Geralt almost considers it.

"A cage," he says instead, grabbing Jaskier's shoulders and pushing him towards her.

Jaskier flails his arms like a drowning man.

"A--a what now? Geralt? If you think you can keep me in a gods-damned cage, you bastard--"

Perhaps the gag would be a wiser choice.

"Just some parts of you, sweetheart," the attendant says calmly, making to tug at Jaskier's trousers.

Geralt holds Jaskier's arms firmly behind his back as he's stripped from the waist down. He can't help but glance down over Jaskier's shoulder when the woman examines his limp cock.

"Such a sweet little thing," she comments with a smile and gives Geralt a nod before disappearing deeper into the shop. He watches the sway of her hips beneath her skirts.

"Geralt?" Jaskier whispers. His heartbeat drums dully in Geralt's ears, too fast, too loud. "Geralt, what are you doing to me?"

Jaskier's stopped thrashing, though the wheeze of his breath remains anxious in anticipation.

Geralt doesn't answer.

The woman returns quickly, a vial of a viscous, translucent oil in one hand and the steel cage in the other. Geralt marvels at how small it is, though he keeps his expression neutral.

"I'll--" Jaskier begins, though the words die in his throat when lithe, slick hands grab his cock abruptly.

"You'll want to watch, master witcher."

Geralt does.

It's a quick affair, now that Jaskier's given up his struggling. He stands still as a statue, head turned away and eyes squeezed shut. His hands shake when the woman threads his delicate balls through the metal ring, and he gasps when she gently tucks his cock into the cage.

"The fit is a bit snug," she says, lifting Jaskier's newly caged prick, turning it this way and that to get a better look. "Would you like something bigger?"

Geralt shakes his head. Jaskier doesn't try to reply.

The attendant hands him a small padlock with a key in it, and Geralt has to take his gloves off to fasten it on Jaskier's cage. The key goes around his neck, safe beneath his armour.

Geralt tugs Jaskier's trousers up, ties them roughly and perhaps too tightly. He can just make out the cage's shape under the fabric, an obscene bulge that's sure to get Jaskier longing stares.

He hands over most of his purse and urges Jaskier out, back into the world.

***

The bard is silent for three days.

They trudge the path in blissful peace that Geralt will yearn for when it breaks. When they make camp, Jaskier refuses to help. He sets up his bedroll as far as he can, shivering through the night, huffing indignantly. He won't eat until he thinks Geralt is asleep.

The atmosphere is so tense Geralt wonders why Jaskier won't simply leave, until he remembers the little silver key around his own neck.

They get to town, eventually, and Geralt sets out on a contract almost immediately. He doesn't hesitate to leave Jaskier at the inn, for once confident no trouble will befall him. The assurance is a surprising comfort.

On the fourth night Jaskier rouses Geralt from a fitful sleep, perched carefully at the edge of the bed.

"It's enough, isn't it?" he says softly, his expression shattered and pained. "I've learned my lesson. You can--please take it off."

Geralt blinks a few times. Takes a deep breath that chokes him with the urgent scent of desperation, unresolved lust. He thinks, and he thinks.

"No."

"Geralt--"

"No," he repeats calmly, closing his eyes again. "You wear the cage or I cut your useless cock off."

Jaskier gasps, and stutters, and goes quiet again, though not for long.

"If that's what it takes to stay with you then I--I will. I'll do it. But you--" A hand settles lightly on Geralt's abdomen. "You will take it off? Eventually. Right?"

Geralt hums dismissively. He revels in the neediness in Jaskier's voice, his uneven breathing as he settles back on the floor. It nearly rocks him back to sleep, until--

The whimper is a soft thing, barely audible, and yet it's enough to hurl Geralt viciously into wakefulness. He cracks an eye open, breath caught in his throat.

The darkness does little to hinder his sight; he gets a perfect view of where Jaskier's sprawled out on his bedroll, legs spread obscenely, hand desperately clutching his trapped prick. Geralt watches as he tries to get his fingers between the bars, tries to touch his swollen cock through the unforgiving metal. He whines again, louder this time as his head rolls from side to side.

"Jaskier," Geralt says abruptly. Jaskier jumps, though his hand doesn't fall away.

"Sorry," he breathes, voice thick like he might cry. "Sorry, I need it so badly, Geralt--"

And Geralt can smell it, is the thing--the salt of Jaskier's tears and the crushing, overbearing desire that now clings to him. He can't escape it, and maybe--maybe he doesn't want to.

He wouldn't ever admit it, but Geralt's cock grows unreasonably hard as he watches Jaskier frantically try to get off. He'd never thought about it, how good Jaskier would look, how good he'd sound--how achingly wanting he'd become after just a few days in chastity. It almost tempts Geralt to unlock the cage, so he can watch Jaskier's tiny prick bounce when Geralt spreads him out on the bed and fucks him within an inch of his life.

Almost.

"Go to sleep, bard."

***

The cage, Geralt comes to find, does not work as he'd hoped.

Yes, Jaskier's overeager cock can't get him in trouble anymore, and Geralt's glad for that, truly--fending off angry cuckolds never was his favourite pastime.

As far as distractions go, however--well.

The persistent, all-consuming scent of unfulfilled arousal so intense it nearly knocks Geralt to the ground is a slight problem.

He doesn't mind, really, when Jaskier looks so tempting biting his lip and rubbing his thighs together, so delicious pawing at his own prick and his swollen sack. When he begs and pleads and a whine slips into his normally sure voice, turning it thick and watery with tears.

Geralt refuses, refuses, refuses.

Jaskier does not ask to leave.

He gets drunk a lot, now. A cup of wine turns into three and then the whole carafe, and for once Geralt doesn't feel the need to keep a watchful eye and a hand on his sword. He leaves Jaskier to his will and heads to bed, calm and content.

Sleep doesn't seize him for long hours, so when Jaskier makes it back, stumbling noisily through the door, Geralt hums to let him know he's awake. He keeps his eyes shut.

It's a while before Jaskier climbs into bed beside him. The warmth of his bare skin pressed close against Geralt is a shock; the realisation that the cold, hard shape digging into his thigh is the metal of the cage trapping Jaskier's prick is--

Fuck.

His heart doesn't stutter when he feels the hot puffs of Jaskier's breath on his neck, but it might have, were he a weaker man. A hand creeps tentatively over his chest, limbs winding around him until Jaskier lies halfway on top of his supine body.

"Geralt," Jaskier breathes, sounding wrecked, and his hips move abruptly forward, clumsy thrusts against Geralt's side that make Geralt feel the curved steel even through his clothes. "Please, Geralt, please let me get off."

No, slips right to the tip of Geralt's tongue and stays there, unsaid and distant. The way Jaskier's words bleed together sets Geralt on edge. He doesn't dare move a muscle when Jaskier keeps rutting the cage against his body, keeps trying in vain to seek his pleasure. Dry lips settle on the edge of his jaw, grow wet with sloppy kisses. Geralt's own cock swells in his smallclothes, unrestrained.

"I'll do anything."

A hot rush of power hits Geralt head-on, nearly steals his breath away. The word echos in his head. Anything. Anything.

Jaskier moans faintly, right into Geralt's ear. The arm thrown across his chest moves lower, and for a moment he thinks Jaskier is going to touch his frightfully hard cock and it'll be over. He wouldn't have enough restraint to stop himself, then.

But Jaskier merely reaches to touch his own prick, like he did so many nights before; desperately trying to fit his long fingers between the bars, caress his plumped, reddened, tortured cock. Geralt releases the grip he'd had on the blankets underneath him, flexing his fingers against the ache in his knuckles. He wonders if--and he wants to--

His sudden movement doesn't startle Jaskier, to the bard's own credit or the wine flowing through him. He groans when Geralt bats his hands away from where he's fondling himself, leans forward and sucks a mindless mark to the side of Geralt's throat.

Geralt thinks of the way Jaskier's whimpers had sounded in the deep nights just as he grabs hold of the cage and squeezes.

The effect is immediate, though he doubts Jaskier gets any physical stimulation off it. Still, he chokes on a breath, and whines, and suddenly he's trembling wildly against Geralt's side.

Geralt tightens his hold just a little. They both hold their breath when the metal creaks pitifully beneath his fingers.

"Geralt," Jaskier says again, but this time his voice waivers with dread.

Geralt's whole body hums, sings, screams at him to grip just that much harder, fuck--perhaps enough to warp the cage, so it always digs into hot flesh and reminds Jaskier that it could have been his bare prick crushed in Geralt's fist instead, perhaps--

He lets go with a shuddering exhale, rolling swiftly on his side, back turned to where Jaskier's gulping down lungfuls of air.

"Tomorrow," Geralt says, all too loud in the darkness. "You can--I'll let you come."

"You'll take it off?"

"I'll let you come."

Geralt doesn't sleep, arousal hot in his core, skin prickling with anticipation.

***

"Fuck," Jaskier whispers heartily. His hands tremble where they rest, bound, at the small of his back. Should've got the gag, too. "Fuck, you bastard."

He's quite the sight, like this, knelt on the bed with his knees spread and his face shoved into the blankets. Open. Presenting. Captive and helpless and entirely at Geralt's mercy.

Geralt has yet to decide how merciful he's feeling.

He gets an eyeful of Jaskier's round arse sloping beautifully into the arched curve of his spine. Geralt aches to touch, yet he does not.

"You said--" Jaskier begins, muffled against the bedding.

"I know. Patience."

His own cock throbs, confined in his leathers, and Geralt reels at the thought that Jaskier's suffered through this for weeks.

He weighs his options. Reaches for the oil he keeps in case he needs to take Jaskier's cage off. Pulls his hand back before he manages to grab it, thinking. Thinking.

Jaskier wails when Geralt buries his face between his cheeks, tongue flat against his tight, untouched hole.

"Geralt, Geralt, Geralt--"

And Geralt never thought he would want this--never thought he could have this--but a flame of possession, of ownership flares bright and hot in his chest, and he knows he won't ever want anything else.

"That's filthy, you--"

Jaskier mewls and gasps, his thighs quivering until they give out, knees sliding impossibly more apart. Geralt fucks him with his tongue and goes near-delirious when Jaskier cries, big, heaving sobs shaking his body. He tastes decadent. He tastes of despair.

Jaskier's bound hands reach Geralt's head, long fingers weaving into his hair, pulling, holding. Geralt works his jaw greedily and Jaskier's body parts for him, unravels and blooms until even Geralt can't stand it any longer.

The outraged huff Jaskier gives when Geralt flips him heavily to sprawl on his back is vaguely amusing; nearly enough to cut through the thick cloud of desire settled over Geralt's mind, though not quite.

Oil spills over his fingers before he knows it, slicks Jaskier's feverish skin, makes it glimmer and glisten. His fingertips caress the steel cage almost reverently. He stares at it, at Jaskier's gorgeous prick flushed an angry red, swelling against the bars. He stares and it's as if a spell carves itself into his bones, heavy and binding and inevitable.

He pushes two fingers inside Jaskier just as he leans in to put his mouth around that cute little prick, cage and all. It clinks against his teeth. Geralt forces his tongue between rigid metal bars, desperate for a taste. Jaskier writhes beneath him, but his arms are still tied behind his back, immobilised between him and the bedding.

The cage is so small it doesn't even reach Geralt's throat and that's--

Fuck.

Fuck.

Geralt pumps his fingers blindly into Jaskier's tight hole, fits a third one in before he reasonably should. Jaskier moans delectably. His pleas grow in volume.

"Please let me come, pleaseletmecome, I'll be so, so good, I--I've been so good, Geralt, gods--"

Geralt presses his hips against the bed and guides his mouth higher, over Jaskier's trembling belly, over the ribs Geralt can now make out beneath his skin. He sucks a mark there, right over the bone. Moves higher. Thrusts his fingers faster, until he feels Jaskier jolt and his moans drip into a constant, maddening staccato. He puts his mouth around a nipple and finds it delightfully sensitive. He'll try, on another day, to get Jaskier to come just from having his tits fondled. Now, though--

Geralt wonders if he can fit a fourth finger without reaching for the oil.

He can.

A bite just below Jaskier's jaw. A hand closing tenderly around the cage. Squeezing. Crushing. Jaskier goes still, silent, breathless--he clenches tight-tight-tight around Geralt's fingers as the sharp scent of his release pierces the air.

"Good boy," Geralt says, watching Jaskier's soft cock spurt pitiful drops of come over his abdomen. Most of it catches on the cage. Geralt yearns to lap it up, but not before--

His own hand feels heavenly around his cock when he finally makes to undo his breeches. Geralt kneels between Jaskier's splayed legs; watches his hole spasm around nothing, the way his prick tries to twitch in its confines. It isn't long before his orgasm creeps up his spine, mind-numbing in its intensity.

Geralt spills over the cage.

He drops to his knees on Geralt's bedroll, hand already fisting his cock frantically. The smell is faint when he pressed his face to the material, faint and unsatisfying and Jaskier knows what Geralt smells like after a day's journey, he--

Jaskier takes a deep breath and gathers his composure, grip slipping from his cock. Focus. Focus.

Geralt's bag is stuffed full of dirty clothes in need of laundering. Or, rather, dirty clothes smelling so incredibly strongly of stale sweat and musk and manthat Geralt insists are clean just because they aren't splattered with guts.

The scent used to repulse him, once upon a time. Now, fuck, now it makes his head spin and his cock drip, so Jaskier gulps down hungry lungfuls of it. He draws out a shirt that Geralt wore just yesterday, buries his face in it until it nearly smothers him. Reluctantly, he goes back to stroking his cock, Geralt's scent in his nose making it feel like he'll spill any second now. Jaskier's tongue darts out on its own volition, the linen rough against it. Jaskier searches desperately for any trace of Geralt's taste; imagines the way the shirt stretched across Geralt's broad chest, tight around his biceps. In his mind's eye, Jaskier sees himself worshipfully sucking Geralt's nipples through the fabric, wanting only for a taste, a tease, anything Geralt would give him.

Jaskier comes into his fist with a choked gasp and fabric on his tongue, wishing only it were Geralt instead.

***

How does it only get worse when the urge wasn't there at all just a fortnight ago.

A muscle twitches beneath his eye, Jaskier's entire body pulled taut in restraint. He can't move because if he does--

He blinks. The bed creaks. He finds himself on his side, so very close to where Geralt lies asleep, warm and gorgeous and Jaskier--

He blinks again. There's a hand resting on Geralt's bare abdomen. With considerable horror, Jaskier realises it is his own. He tries to pry it away, he wants to just get a grip, go back to sleep, stop thinking about--

Geralt holding him down, taking whatever he wants from him. Pulling on Jaskier's hair and pushing his face into his taint, making Jaskier suck on his balls and choke on his cock. Spit, slap, bite. Take, take, take, until Jaskier's all fucked-out and dumb and Geralt goes in for more.

He can't. He can't have that. But if--

Well, if he just--if Jaskier leaned in, just a little, if he just pulled Geralt's bottoms down a bit, if he tasted his beautiful cock--

It'd make him feel so much better, Jaskier can feel it. Just a taste and he could sleep, and his skin would stop crawling with need, and his prick would stop leaking.

Just a taste, he thinks feverishly as he slips the waistband of Geralt's pants down. He tucks it beneath his balls, his cock soft and still so, so big, resting against his hip.

Jaskier leans down, tongue already out, and the first touch of it to hot, glorious flesh makes pleasure shudder through him. He can barely contain the moan that yearns to spring from his throat. Taking just the fat head of Geralt's cock into his mouth, Jaskier sucks and licks and drools on it until it begins to swell, each twitch making his own arousal throb through his veins. He slides lower, and when Geralt's half-hard cock threatens to enter his throat, Jaskier comes all over the sheets underneath him, harder than he ever had, whining even with his mouth full.

He's still shaking when he starts to gently bob his head. It feels like someone's touching his prick, like a constant, tortuous drag of warm flesh against him even as he thrusts his hips into the air. He whines, again, and Geralt's cock twitches as he tries to fit it all down his throat.

Jaskier's eyes stay shut; there's no need to open them, really, when he quakes through another release that sends them rolling back before he'd even managed to come down from the last one. Gods, he never wants to stop, never wants to live again without knowing what Geralt tastes like, what he feels like, what he makes Jaskier feel. His thighs shake underneath him. Jaskier almost takes Geralt's beast of a cock all the way to the base when he's flung into another mind-numbing release. Tears fall freely from his eyes. His prick throbs, spent, and yet it feels like he could come forever.

A pleasant fog settles over Jaskier's mind, and for some moments he exists only suspended between sucking Geralt's cock and coming, coming, coming again and again until his prick can't get hard anymore, just hangs limply between his legs, pulsing come.

It takes Geralt a long time to come, but Jaskier sobs with relief when he feels it. He can't quite taste the seed when it spills so far down his throat, and he wails at that, frantically pulling off to catch as much of it as he can on his tongue. His body seizes with a release so powerful he can't breathe, curled in on himself, pleasure like a current rushing through his veins.

Jaskier swallows and cries himself to sleep, mourning the fact that he can't keep Geralt's cock in his mouth forever.

***

It's too much.

Too far.

Too--

Jaskier can't, he cannot, he thinks as he rides his own fingers, shoulder pressed against Geralt. The bed moves with him and he bites his tongue, glad for how deeply Geralt sleeps after a hunt.

He's close to tears already with how desperately hollow he feels. Even sucking Geralt's cock can't quench this ache between his legs. He thinks two fingers are probably enough when he wants it to hurt, wants to stay tight so Geralt--

No. Gods, no, he's not going to--

"Fuck," he whines, not meaning to do it out loud.

Would Geralt mind, if Jaskier took his pleasure? If he offered pleasure in return? Geralt always comes when Jaskier touches him at night--and Jaskier comes so many times he can barely look at his abused prick without hurting--so maybe he'd want this, too?

Maybe?

Jaskier finds himself slobbering too eagerly all over Geralt's cock, though it doesn't give him the usual rush. He needs it, needs it more than anything, so he's quick to straddle Geralt's thighs, quick to seat himself all the way on that godly, magnificent cock. A sob shakes his body, and then a moan, and Jaskier spills violently over Geralt's abdomen as soon as he's full. His hole spasms. His head spins, but he hopes it's good for Geralt. He hopes it's so very good for Geralt as he begins bouncing enthusiastically, feeling like his release never tapers, like he's coming for minutes and hours and years, trembling through it.

He can't keep quiet anymore, pitiful moans scratching his throat raw, only them and the slick sound of his greedy, needy hole working Geralt's cock.

Jaskier thinks he might go mad of this curse of an orgasm doesn't release him from its clutches. He could pull away, make it stop.

He doesn't want to.

Instead, he goes faster, rides Geralt with devotion and determination, spasming around him frantically, drooling his own seed to catch in the hairs on his witcher's belly.

He wants--gods, but he wants--

Geralt's wrist is limp when he picks it up, though his hands are still so big and strong and rough. The unrelenting ecstasy seems to only spike when Jaskier brings Geralt's hand up to wrap it gingerly around his own throat. He puts his own palm over it and squeezes, all sound dying in his windpipe. A good thing, with how badly he wants to scream his pleasure to the world.

He nearly does scream, though in fear, when the fingers twitch against his skin and the grip grows tight, tight, tight, spots of colour stealing into Jaskier's vision. Golden eyes stare at him intently aa he writhes in Geralt's lap, impaled on his cock, squeezing around him like a good little whore.

"What a mess."

Jaskier shudders at the rough gravel of Geralt's voice, flushed with hot shame. He scrambles to drag his fingers through the seed he'd smeared all over Geralt, tries his best to lick it off with his lungs throbbing dully and his mouth hanging open.

He's halfway through tearing out of his undershirt when footsteps sound in the corridor. They set his mind racing. The thought of being seen like this—no, gods, the very thought of another person, of a warm body, of—

"Geralt?" Jaskier calls as he shoulders the door open. He doesn't knock, of course he doesn't, when had the man ever done anything decent? "Everything taken care of?"

The linen shirt rips beneath his fingertips like it's nothing more than aged parchment.

He should've ridden for the brothel, and he didn't. Mistake, mistake, mistake.

Jaskier doesn't turn, doesn't leave. He lets the door fall shut behind him. He stares. He gawks. He—

"Don't," Geralt says when Jaskier crosses the room in quick strides. "Don't touch me," even as his body screams the opposite, screeches at him to take take take.

He feels Jaskier's gaze heavy on him. On the shirt clinging to his shoulders. On his cock hard and straining against the fastenings of his trousers.

"Are you—" Jaskier swallows anxiously, but his eyes stay calm. "Quite well? Shall I fetch a healer?"

The pink of Jaskier's slightly open mouth is enticing. Geralt wants to reach out and touch, trace his lips with gentle fingers, bite down and draw blood. He takes a breath to steady himself and fuck, he doesn't mean to groan out loud, but he'd never quite realised just how divine Jaskier smells. He wishes he could touch his cock, just to take the edge off, take it out and shove it between Jaskier's perfect lips—

"Don't know what's happening," he chokes out as he scrambles to move away, away from Jaskier, away from the deliciously sweet scent of him.

"Geralt," and he comes closer, the fool, closer and close until Geralt's head spins and his mouth waters, and maybe he can sneak a hand down between his legs, just for a second.

Jaskier touches his forehead, an innocent gesture that Geralt would scoff at on another day.

"Oh." Both of Jaskier's hands move to his cheeks. "You don't always run this hot, do you?"

He turns his face slightly, presses his nose against Jaskier's wrist. Inhales. It's intoxicating. It's overwhelming. He wants and he needs and—

Jaskier jerks away with a startled noise before Geralt realises his teeth had sunk into the thin skin.

"Sorry, sorry, I didn't—"

He stumbles back in a daze. The backs of his knees hit the bed and he collapses onto it without much grace. Geralt frantically gathers the sheets in dire fists, hoping to regain the control that's escaped him. Hoping to rid his mind of Jaskier's scent.

It's absolutely beyond him why Jaskier stays so close. Why he takes a tentative step toward the bed. Why he swipes his tongue over his lower lip, like he's tasting Geralt's desperation.

"Can I help?" The words are barely out of his mouth before Geralt barks a sharp no.

The bed dips, creaks under Jaskier's weight.

"Why do you never listen?" It comes out a breathy thing. He turns his head away from Jaskier as his nostrils flare. There's not much fight left in him, but he clings to the shreds of it all the same.

A hand on his knee nearly burns a hole straight through him.

"Geralt." Jaskier leans in, his breath hot in Geralt's ear, sending an electric current through his spine. "I hope you realise that there isn't much I wouldn't do for you." The hand moves up, up, up his thigh, dangerously high—

"Whatever you need."

Vesemir would strike him, had he known how little self-control Geralt would grow to display. How easily he'd succumb to the temptation laid in the curve of Jaskier's jaw, or the timbre of his voice, or the warmth of his hands.

Grabbing a fistful of Jaskier's hair, Geralt hurls him backwards, crawls over him driven by instinct more than purpose.

"You smell so good," he groans, face tucked behind Jaskier's ear. His scent is so much stronger there, so much more alluring.

When his lips claim Jaskier's in a kiss, it's like breaking the surface at last after being underwater for too long. The air in his lungs had turned lead-heavy, but the swipe of Jaskier's tongue forces a new life into them and he can breathe again, and it's everything he'd ever wanted, and he craves more.

He's kissed plenty of people before. Fucked plenty of people. More than he can count, more than he cares to recall. But it was—never like this. Never this real.

Never Jaskier's hands on his bare shoulders, pawing at his back, never the heated whisper of anything, anything you want.

And Geralt does, he does want, he wants so incredibly much when Jaskier reaches down to unlace his breeches and the mere brush of his fingers is enough to set Geralt rutting, grinding his hips into the pressure and fuck, fuck.

He growls when his seed spurts from between the laces, onto the embroidered silk of Jaskier's doublet, and he wishes, he needs it to be on Jaskier's skin instead, so he snatches Jaskier's hand and presses it against the head of his twitching cock and he comes, he comes on his palm and his wrist and it—

"Fuck, gods, fuck—" because it brings him no relief, only makes him ache for more, so much more and he has to take it, he'll take it from Jaskier, he will.

He'll wreck him, he thinks, and the concept leaves him ravenous.

And Jaskier doesn't say anything, when Geralt continues to helplessly thrust his still hard cock against him. Jaskier lies under him, quiet and trusting, his eyes wide, his chest rising in quick pants as he accepts whatever Geralt gives him, and it sends Geralt's head reeling.

But then Jaskier takes him in hand, strokes him like he doesn't mind, and Geralt's arms shake, struggling to support him.

He keeps his eyes on Jaskier's face in a bout of unadulterated adoration, so he sees the shift when Jaskier looks between them, when his eyes widen even more and his hand falters.

"Geralt, what—"

Geralt glances down as well. He's—he's had this body for nearly a century, now, he's fairly certain he knows what he looks like, and this—surely he's just delirious, burning with an improbable fever, surely—

But Jaskier sees it, too, and his breath hitches as he studies Geralt's face, and,

"It's a—a knot," he says before he can think about it, the words popping into his mind, rolling off his tongue like he'd been born knowing them.

"A knot," Jaskier echoes breathlessly, like the concept isn't wholly, utterly mad. His fingers tighten around Geralt's cock, around the—

"Like hounds have," Geralt adds between desperately ragged pants.

And he hangs his head in shame, his skin burning in an entirely different way, with embarrassment instead of need, until Jaskier, the cunning bastard, says,

"Like wolves have."

Geralt moans at that. He does so again, when he sees Jaskier's eyes glaze over, his lips part. He smells—gods, indescribable. Geralt feels half-feral with it. Why do curses have to be so carnal in nature?

Jaskier squeezes the—the knot, and it's a punch to the gut like he'd just downed a potion, like he's seeing colour for the first time in his life, everything sharp and vivid and he collapses heavily on top of Jaskier as his arms finally give out.

"Does it feel good?" Jaskier asks as if it isn't apparent in the way Geralt groans right into his ear.

He remembers, through a thick haze, remembers a night, months, years ago, when he'd stepped through the door, found Jaskier on his knees and elbows and the inkeeper's son balls-deep in him. Remembers the arch of Jaskier's back before he scrambled to cover himself. Remembers pretending before him and before himself that he didn't enter the room on purpose, that he couldn't hear Jaskier's moans from downstairs. Remembers coming into his own fist behind the stables thinking about exactly what Jaskier would let Geralt do to him.

He needs that now, he realises. Nothing will quench the dreadful heat except the tight clutch of Jaskier's body. Geralt trembles at the thought.

So he rolls off of Jaskier, laying flat on his back, chest heaving unnaturally, cock throbbing. He throws an arm across his face, shielding his eyes from the sun that steals into the room.

"Jaskier," he says to the air, to the ceiling above them, to the gods who'd abandoned him and the ones who still listen.

Jaskier shifts next to him, sits up. Geralt can hear him undressing, the sound of fingernails on ivory buttons and the rustle of cotton that follows.

"Anything," is spoken, softly, and the fever spikes so suddenly he nearly chokes on it.

Incredibly, blessedly, Geralt feels the weight of him when Jaskier settles astride his thighs. Warm hands guide his wrists to press into the mattress above his head, timid, doubtful, and Geralt thinks, this isn't right, but his eyes snap open and he can't think at all, anymore.

Because Jaskier—he's—

"Like it, do you?" and there's a teasing lilt to his voice even though his chest heaves still. "You got me pretty damn well."

And he had, he very clearly had, because there's a bruise, dark and swollen, spilling up the side of Jaskier's ribcage from when Geralt jammed the hilt of his sword there to get Jaskier to run, to get away, and suddenly Geralt can't shake the thought of mine mine mine from his clouded head, and it's hard to breathe again.

Jaskier's grip on his wrists isn't hard, is far from unbreakable. It makes it so deliciously easy to snatch his hands free, to push at Jaskier until he tumbles back on the bed, underneath Geralt, where he belongs. So easy to press his famished mouth over where Jaskier's skin is purpled and tender. So easy to dig his fingertips into the flesh, listening to Jaskier's hiss of pain and,

"Careful there, wolf," his voice quiet, breathless.

But there's no careful, not anymore, only need and hunger and undoing Jaskier's wretched trousers in a frenzy to get at his cock, so he can bury his face between his legs and smell him, scent him, fuck.

And he smells so, so good, like the most decadent feast, and Geralt has to taste him, he has to or he'll perish, surely, so he fits his mouth over the head of Jaskier's leaking cock, hears Jaskier whine above him—

"No, no, don't, Geralt, too close, I'll come, I'll come," and there are fingers twisted in his hair, pulling him away, except Geralt has never wanted anything as much as he wants to make Jaskier come, right now, to wring this pleasure out of him like he never had before, and then to do it again and again until Jaskier can't give him any more, until he has to take more, has to pry it from between his trembling thighs.

He will. He has to.

"Geralt—" Jaskier sounds distressed, he sounds panicked as he tugs roughly at Geralt's hair.

Geralt, for his part, had never been this desperate to suck dick. The pain of having his hair nearly pulled out serves only to make him go faster, to rut against the bed and take Jaskier's cock so very deep he'll feel it when it's gone. He'd choke, if he could, but as is he merely lets the head pop into his throat and out with a satisfying shift. He thinks he moans, maybe, but it's difficult to hear over the rush of blood in his ears.

"Geralt, Geralt, Geralt—" Jaskier's got such a pretty voice. Even prettier when it climbs up high, breaks around Geralt's name. He burns with a scathing desire still, but the noises Jaskier makes when he's coming, the feel of it on his own tongue—it makes something release in his tight chest, drives a horribly possessive part of him to satisfaction, if for a moment.

He doesn't want to move. Jaskier struggles underneath him, twists his hips and claws at his forehead, but Geralt relishes the taste, the weight of him. It makes the heat almost bearable.

"Mercy, mercy," Jaskier breathes, and regretfully, Geralt releases him.

He's so hot.

It's worse, somehow, than before.

Geralt doesn't remember the last time he'd been dizzy, but he thinks he is now. The bed spins and the room spins and fuck, he needs to come again, so he rests his cheek against Jaskier's thigh, gets a too-tight fist on his cock, and he'd cry if he could. Maybe he can. He feels like he might.

Jaskier touches his other cheek, and it almost sizzles. He feels Jaskier's gaze on him as he fucks his own hand.

"Gods, will you—breed me? Fill me with your pups?" Jaskier's voice rings clear through the fog in his head, makes him snap up to look at him.

"Jaskier," Geralt growls in response. His own voice sounds foreign, too deep, too threatening. Jaskier squirms against him, eyes wide.

"I want it." And he tips his head like he's inviting. "Want your knot. Want your pups. Want you."

Geralt marvels for a second—that Jaskier is so eager against all odds, that Jaskier wants him even with this bizarre curse (he doesn't dare wonder if he'd be wanted on another day, on a normal day)—but takes the invitation. He leaps up the bed, puts his lips to Jaskier's bared throat, to the place where his pulse rushes loud and hot. An angry red mark remains in the wake of his mouth, and he knows, he knows it'll bloom into a purple matching the splotches on his side, except higher, where everyone will see.

Everyone will know.

They'll look at Jaskier, prancing around, draping himself on fair maidens, rugged blacksmiths and distinguished lords—and none of them will want him, because they'll know Jaskier is his. They'll see him marked and bruised and they'll know Jaskier belongs to the scary witcher they all cower before.

"Mine," he rumbles into the skin of Jaskier's neck, just to be certain, and follows it with a scrape of teeth.

"Yours."

Fuck. Is it hotter, now that he's so close to having?

"Jaskier." Please, he almost adds, but that would be too much. Too dangerous.

He helps Jaskier kick his trousers off and to the side, before he gets his hands under his thighs, pushes them blindly apart far as they'll go. Settles between them, and his dick drags against Jaskier's, and Geralt doesn't whine, not consciously, but he wants to.

"Ge—eralt," Jaskier does whine, voice cracking around the name just as his legs tighten around Geralt. "I've—I've done something indecent. Naughty."

Geralt can only look, mesmerised, as Jaskier's mouth moves, his pink, wet tongue peeking out, threatening to drive Geralt wild. He traces two fingers along his lower lip—thinks, fuck it, and pushes them in.

Jaskier's eyes widen but he seems to fall calm, sucking on the fingers, licking between them. Geralt moves his hips in little aborted moves, thrusts his heavy cock against Jaskier's abdomen as he watches, listens to the contented moans Jaskier gives. Fuck.

Geralt doesn't often dream, not good things, not pleasant things. He dreams of death and suffering and loss, because that's what he knows. But now, now—Geralt thinks this could be a dream, the way Jaskier sucks his fingers as if they are a cock, the way he lets himself be kissed breathless when Geralt takes his hand away.

He rubs spit-slick fingertips over the head of Jaskier's half-hard cock, just to make his bard writhe in sweet agony.

Geralt doesn't whine, but when he manages to slip two fingers inside Jaskier without any resistance he thinks he might scream.

"Jaskier."

He needs to touch, and he needs to be close, and he leans back all the same to watch Jaskier's greedy hole open and eager for him.

"I've, ah—I had a bath, while you were gone," Jaskier breathes.

Geralt can't tear his eyes away from where his digits dissappear into the intoxicating heat of Jaskier's body.

"Just my fingers, and I—I thought about you. I usually do."

His skin is prickling, itching to touch, to have, to claim, his blood threatening to boil over in his veins, and still he just looks. Jaskier is moving his hips, up and down and up, fucking himself on Geralt's fingers, moaning like he can't get enough.

Jaskier—fuck, Jaskier touches himself waiting for Geralt to get back, thinking about him. He leans in close. Lets his fingers slip free. Red-hot sparks of static crowd his vision, multiply until he's blinded. He thrusts against the crease of Jaskier's thigh. Presses Jaskier's leg closer to his chest, makes it tighter for himself. He goes faster. Jaskier is looking up at him with clouded-over eyes. Faster.

Geralt's second orgasm proves more satisfying, only because it paints Jaskier white from his hip all the way to the hollow of his throat.

"Fuck." It shudders out of him. He shudders all over.

His come glistens on Jaskier's skin, caught in his chest hair. It rolls off the side of his ribcage, over the bruise that's bloomed there. Geralt wants to lick it up. He wants to rub it in, brand Jaskier with it. Make it stay. Fuck.

The knot's filled again. Geralt doesn't feel it, not really, not until Jaskier's fingers come to squeeze around it. Then he feels like he's dying, like he'll never breathe again. Like he doesn't ever want to.

"It's so big."

And Jaskier sounds—amazed. Awestruck. Geralt sees how the tips of his long, shapely fingers don't quite touch. Fuck, it is big. Every time Jaskier's hand tightens around it, Geralt feels like he's coming all over again. Maybe he is. It pulses out more of his spend. Gods. And Jaskier said—

Want your knot.

He'd said—he'd asked Geralt to put it in him. Fuck, Geralt wants that. He needs that. He'll stuff Jaskier full of his cock—his knot—and he'll keep him round with seed and he'll never let him up. Maybe it'll take.

He thinks he's about handled it, even if each insistent touch leaves him breathless, weak with a dizzying surge of pleasure. He thinks he's about handled it, but then Jaskier looks him in the eye, his pupils blown entirely black as he says,

"You're such a good pup, aren't you?"

And he looks confused, is the thing—like the words crawled up his throat, forced themselves on his tongue. The perfect words, the exact words that send Geralt into a frenzy, that make it seem as if the whole thing hadn't been frenzied already. He whimpers, whimpers and lets his teeth nibble on the corner of Jaskier's jaw. The skin there is rough, like Jaskier hadn't shaved in a few days, and that makes Geralt even more mad, somehow, more desperate.

"Jaskier," he says, and it sounds like a plea. Maybe it is. His hands shake. They—they never shake. He slides them over Jaskier's sides and they come away sticky. "Jaskier."

"You can—fuck me, Geralt. Have me."

Have the bitch, a voice calls from the darkest corner of his mind, a voice that sounds too much like his own. Take him, take what's yours.

Geralt groans as the last dam holding him back creaks, splinters, shatters in front of him.

He should've ridden for the brothel, and he didn't, because he knew Jaskier would be here, waiting and willing.

His eyes slip shut for a moment against the realisation. Geralt takes a steadying breath, drowning in desire that belongs as much to him as to the beast that claws at his skull and cries for him to breed, to own.

Jaskier tells him something—unimportant, Geralt wagers, because it's accompanied by the press of an ornate glass bottle into his trembling palm, and then he's got a slick hand on his cock, and Jaskier is holding his legs wide open in the filthiest invitation, and Geralt blacks out for a second when he pushes in.

It's a different heat entirely, the sweetest fever he wouldn't mind succumbing to.

He'd go slow, normally. He'd pause to let Jaskier get used to the stretch. He can't. He can't. The last of his fragile composure slips as he thrusts forward, quick and rough.

He barely feels Jaskier's nails rake down his arms, the sting secondary, irrelevant against this pleasure. "Geralt—"

Geralt knows what Jaskier wants to tell him, he knows—but he can't give that to him, can't stop, can't slow down, can't hold back or he'll die, fuck, fuck.

"I'm sorry, sorry, Jaskier, sorry—" he mumbles against Jaskier's temple when he tastes tears. They burn on his tongue, pierce his soul with an ugly guilt. He licks them up all the same, drives his cock deeper without meaning to. Faster. Fuck.

"It's fine, it's good, you—" Jaskier sobs, a horrible, shuddering thing, but his palm comes to rest on Geralt's cheek. It's—grounding, somehow. "Don't hold back."

Claim the whore. Yours. Yours.

Geralt prays for strength, then. For clarity and restraint.

He finds neither.

Instead he finds a bottomless, insatiable hunger—so overwhelming it steals his thought altogether, leaves him mindless and weak and craving to scratch an impossible itch.

Jaskier feels so good around his cock. There are tears of his own threatening to brand his skin. It's—

Jaskier's so tight, oh, so tight and warm and—

Heat had been the thing that drove him to madness, before, but now, now—

It's a cure, a blessing, it's—

"Do it," Jaskier whispers as he surges up to press his parted lips against Geralt's. "Put it in me, knot me, Geralt."

"You want it? You want it?"

"Fuck, I want it—"

"Beg for it," he manages before he has to start kissing his bard again. Yours. "Beg for it."

Jaskier nods, his teeth pinched around Geralt's lip until it nearly splits. "Please, please, I want it, I need it, give me—your knot, put it in me, oh, oh—"

The knot swells, and Geralt thinks he might go crazy. The knot swells, and he thinks it might tear Jaskier to pieces. The knot swells, and it presses close close close against Jaskier's rim, and it pops in, and then he doesn't think at all.

Can't—can't think even if he wanted to. He'll never hold a thought again. Not a single thought other than how blindingly good it is to have Jaskier tight on his knot, to be locked together as he fills his bard with come. His teeth ache, so he clamps them down on Jaskier's shoulder. It doesn't help much. It's almost like—like there's another place he should mark. A place he could sink his canines into that would bind them, somehow.

His head spins. He's vaguely aware that the knot expands inconceivably more as it pulses. He grinds desperately forward. It feels so good. He whines. Maybe this'll never stop. Maybe he'll float in this impossible ecstasy until the end of time.

The flutter of his heart is the first thing that filters through his dazed mind. It's not meant to flutter.

As though across a dream, he hears Jaskier calling his name. He laps at the dents his teeth had made. Yours.

He doesn't expect Jaskier to get even tighter around him. It knocks the breath straight out of his lungs, and that's not meant to happen either.

"Gods," Jaskier whispers somewhere next to him. Geralt agrees.

The air is thick around them, but not with the curse; it's heavy with sweat, with unwavering arousal. The smell of Jaskier's spend. Fuck.

"You—" he says, voice hoarse.

Jaskier laughs, breathless, and Geralt can—he can feel it around his cock. "Sorry."

A look down the length of Jaskier's body, the sight of his bard still covered with seed—Geralt's, his own—sends him rutting forward without much say in the matter.

"Fuck. Fuck."

Geralt doesn't allow himself pleasure often. Only if its lack proves distracting. This, now—he doesn't know how he's ever done without it. He doesn't know how he'll manage to let Jaskier off of his cock, his knot. Perhaps Geralt just needs to keep him like this. Always open, always ready. Always dripping with come. Always—

His head feels clearer, maybe. Clear enough to keep his eyes focused, to see the wince twisting Jaskier's features. Dread grips his heart in a vice, his throat growing too tight to breathe.

"Jaskier."

The only thing more frightening than the thought of hurting Jaskier is the sudden, cold shiver of realisation that Geralt couldn't get himself to stop. Not now, not if Jaskier cried and begged him to. Not at all, not ever.

Gods, Jaskier's big blue eyes, rimmed-red and gleaming even more as he chokes on tears, chokes on pleas and protests, but Geralt keeps taking his pleasure in spite of it all, keeps—

"Geralt?" He snaps back to a feverish reality and finds his fingertips resting against the wet skin of Jaskier's cheek. "Oh, don't worry about it. Four orgasms in one day will do that to a man."

Fuck. Geralt has to grit his teeth to keep still.

"—four?"

The smile Jaskier gives him is almost bashful.

"You were gone a long time."

Geralt bows his head to mouth absent-mindedly at the soft, bruised skin of Jaskier's neck.

"Not—not that I'm not enjoying myself, but—why now? What brought this on?"

Don't ask, Geralt thinks miserably. Don't ask lest I slip.

"Curse," he manages to say. It's the truth. Part of it. Should've ridden for the brothel.

"O—oh. All of it?"

"Hm."

"The, uh. The kn—"

"Hm."

"Ah. Pity."

Pity, Jaskier says, because he's not really interested in Geralt, only the horrid, monstrous part of him. A part that's not even his own.

Geralt knew this isn't real, and he—he'd still—

"I'll—" It chokes him, but he's already come this far. He'll see it through. He'll see it through, because he'll die otherwise. Just for survival, this. "I'll need you. Again. In a minute."

Jaskier mutters something at that. Geralt sees his lips move, but he can't hear the words. His vision swims, like a heatwave, melting Jaskier's expression into a soft, malleable thing. Could be anything. A burning want, not unlike Geralt's own. Fascination, maybe.

Love.

No. No.

He pulls out too harshly, too quickly. The knot is still half-swollen, the drag of it the sweetest torture. The only thing sweeter being the sight of his seed gushing onto the sheets in his wake. Gods. Gods.

"Take whatever," is what Jaskier tells him as Geralt plugs his stretched hole with two shaking fingers. "Just don't—don't make me come. Please. I am but a mere mortal."

He sounds eager, still, if tired. Geralt is tired, too.

And so, so very hungry for more.

Rolling Jaskier onto his front is the easiest of tasks. Geralt grips knuckle-white at his hips and his hair and drags him up onto unsteady knees. A growl rises in his chest as he watches his spend drip down Jaskier's thighs, his pert balls. He'd never been quite so interested in—in breeding someone like this, planting his seed, marking Jaskier up inside and out, and now, now—

"Fuck."

He pushes back in and it feels like coming home.

Like it's meant to be.

Like Destiny, in her infinite wisdom—

"Fuck."

The snap of his hips knocks the air out of Jaskier, a little hitch of breath that slips into moans and whimpers. Time ceases to exist. Geralt isn't even certain that the inn still stands where it'd been—they might be floating in a bottomless void and Geralt wouldn't know. He wouldn't care.

Maybe it's that, that he doesn't care. Maybe it's because this isn't real, beyond the raw carnal need, because it doesn't matter, that he asks through clenched teeth,

"… talk to me."

Jaskier's got his fist shoved halfway in his mouth, Geralt sees now, so all he gives in response is a confused hum. Damn him.

"Say you—say you want this." Say you want me. Lie to me.

The bed's frame creaks dangerously, yet Geralt can't get himself to slow.

"I want it so much, gods, my wolf, have mercy, I—" a gasp, a whimper, the slap of their skin, "Your knot feels so good, so—" a tremor in Jaskier's shoulder, twitching muscle and wet moans, "I want it in me forever, please, I'll stay on it and you—you—"

He lasts longer, this time, the pleasure cresting slowly, but Jaskier's words make his hips snap forward brutally, his knuckles white around Jaskier's hips.

"—you can breed me full and keep me tied to the bed and I'll thank you for it, gods, just let me have it, let me sit on your knot until I can't remember what it's like not to be full—"

It's too late, when his release hits him like a punch to the chest; the knot's already full, fuck, it'll never fit, except, except Jaskier's asked for it so sweetly, so beautifully, and Geralt squeezes his eyes shut and throws his leg over Jaskier's hip and forces the bloody thing in with a roar.

Jaskier screams. Geralt can barely hear it through the buzzing in his ears. He watches Jaskier's thighs shake, his fingers twist tightly around rumpled sheets.

They pant together for a moment, desperate gulps of air. Then, when Geralt's cock finally stops pulsing come, when thinks he's picked up all the pieces of his shattered composure,

"Can you fuck me with it?" Jaskier asks in a small voice, sounding drunk, fucked-out.

Geralt's head spins. Surely Jaskier doesn't mean—

"It's—so much when it pops in. But—" He shudders. Geralt can see it in the curved line of his spine. "Please. I'm sorry. Please."

Red bleeds into his vision. Jaskier arches his back more, shakes his hips and makes Geralt near-delirious.

He tries to pull out. The knot won't budge and it's—so fucking good. His hands shake, again, and he braces them at the base of Jaskier's spine and pulls out with considerable effort. He watches Jaskier's hole stretch so incredibly wide around the knot, watches it pulse and flutter around the thickest part of it. He keeps still. Just looking.

"Fuck," Jaskier whines feebly. "Fuck, that's—"

Geralt pulls his hips back, slipping out of Jaskier's body completely. Jaskier stays open, gaping, leaking spend. He shivers violently.

Pushing his swollen, oversensitive knot back in is a feeling so intense Geralt nearly doubles over.

Jaskier says something, his voice hoarse, but Geralt can't hear it, can't hear anything but the pounding of his own heartbeat. He puts his thumbs against where their bodies connect and pulls out again, slowly. The muscles in Jaskier's thighs spasm.

"Geralt, Geralt, Geralt—fuck, that's so good, so—please make me come again, please, oh—"

The echo of Jaskier's words sounds in his head, asking him precisely not to do that, and when he reaches to touch Jaskier's cock he finds it only half-hard. Jaskier squirms away.

Geralt squeezes the head of Jaskier's prick harshly and shoves the knot it again and Jaskier goes so very still before he spills over into Geralt's palm.

The vice-tight grip of his body makes Geralt lose his bearings and he collapses forward, forces Jaskier to splay flat on his belly with Geralt plastered to his back.

"Gods," Jaskier wheezes, and Geralt's so horribly hot all over again.

He grinds the knot forward, tries to get it deeper, deeper, deeper, feeling like he might come again even before the knot's gone down. Jaskier still contracts around his cock, and Geralt's—so close, so close, and he ruts frantically forward, and he sinks his teeth in the back of Jaskier's neck and spills again so violently that tears roll down his cheeks, the smell of ozone heavy in his nostrils, a faint crackle of Chaos against his skin.

It takes a long moment for his heart rate to trickle back to its usual sluggish thud, but when it does, when Geralt releases the skin between his teeth—

The fever recedes so suddenly, it's like he put his head in ice-cold water. Frigid air rushes to his lungs, cools the sweat on his skin. At last he can think clearly.

He tries to roll off of Jaskier, but finds them bound together still, Jaskier's ruined hole clinging to him weakly. Seems like the knot is a permanent feature, then.

"Leave it there," Jaskier mumbles, sounding on the edge of consciousness when Geralt goes to pull out as gently as he can manage.