#stb fic

And even beyond that, beyond the fact that a sighed “Puppy,” could have heat curling in his gut immediately, he found that he quite liked the submission of it as well—whenever they played, he didn’t have to worry about anything. He only had to be a good boy and listen to her—or, if he was bad, to take his punishment. But he was rarely bad—pleasing her earned him praise that he desperately craved.

And one day, when they’re lying together in bed, sweat cooling on their bodies, Yennefer brings up something more. “What would you say,” she muses, fingers curling round his hair, “to being my puppy all the time?”

“All the time?”

“Only at home,” she amends herself. “The rest of the world doesn’t get to see you like this. Only I do,” she purrs, tugging at a lock of his hair, sending a shiver down his spine.

He bites his lip. It’s a daunting thought, but he can’t deny that he’s interested. “What would that mean?” he asks.

“The same rules would apply—you would always wear a collar, and you wouldn’t be allowed on the furniture, and you would sleep in your crate—unless you’ve been good and I let you join me in bed,” she says.

He hesitates.

“You can say no. We can keep doing this, only playing occasionally.” She pets a hand over his hair, inadvertently reminding him exactly why it is he loves this.

“I want to,” he blurts out. “I want to try it.”

Settling into life as her puppy is much easier than Jaskier thought it would be. The only challenge is this: When Yennefer is at work, and he’s left home alone, he can’t quite settle into the mindset. He supposes he doesn’t have to, not while Yennefer isn’t here. He can’t sink fully into being her puppy, but it feels wrong not to, and so he’s caught in a sort of in-between state, with all the desires of a human being and none of the restraint to stop himself from acting on them.

He doesn’t think twice about pleasuring himself while she’s gone—she won’t be home for hours yet, after all, and he’s so horny he could cry. Surely it won’t hurt much if he rubs one out, right? He has needs, after all, and if she’s not there to help him fill them, well…

He hops up on her bed, buries his face in the sheets that have her scent on them, and starts rutting against the mattress, thoughts of silken skin and sharp nails filling his mind. He’s close, so close, on the edge of coming—whimpering and gasping—

He hears the door open.

The shock of being caught by Yennefer summons his orgasm immediately, that wicked little exhibitionist streak he’s always had rearing its head. But it’s not as satisfying, ruined by the sudden thought that she’s seen him breaking the rules.

He stares at her, breathing heavily, and she stares back. He expects yelling, he expects her to grab his collar and drag him off the bed, berate him—he expects anything except what actually happens.

“Aw, did puppy make a mess?” she coos, walking over and dragging a finger through the cum painting the sheets. He whines, face burning in embarrassment, burying his face in the sheets so he doesn’t have to look at her.

“None of that now,” she says sternly, but her fingers are gentle when they scratch behind his ear. She coaxes him to lift his head, tugging gently at his collar until he looks at her. “It’s alright, I should have known you couldn’t control yourself.”

He perks up a bit—does this mean he’s not in trouble?

He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, for his punishment to come, but she doesn’t do anything that night. Is it a test? Is she leaving him waiting in anticipation, to make it all the more intense when it finally comes?

He’s almost forgotten about it by the time she comes home the next day—later than usual, and carrying a shopping bag, though from this angle, he can’t see what’s inside it. Curiosity is eating him up, but puppies can’t ask questions—and he’s determined be good for her, not wanting to remind her of his recent transgressions.

He greets her enthusiastically, nuzzling into the vee of her legs—maybe she’ll even let him apologize the way he knows best, until she’s shaking with pleasure.

She catches on immediately—of course she does. She’s a good owner, always knows what her puppy wants—though that doesn’t mean she gives it to him, of course. “Do you want to say sorry?” she asks, reaching down to pet his hair.

He whines and nods, eager to earn her forgiveness.

“Go sit on the bed,” she instructs, and he leaps to obey. He’ll show her just how good he can be, and secretly he hopes that he might be rewarded for it.

Antsy with anticipation, he fidgets in place, though he doesn’t dare get up and pace. She doesn’t make him wait long—she follows shortly after, carrying the same bag, which she sets aside. Though he’s burning with curiosity about what’s inside it—and whether it’s meant for him—his attention is pulled away by her shutting the door and beginning to strip, revealing skin that he’s itching to taste. If he had a tail, it would be wagging right now.

She climbs atop the bed and leans back against the headboard, looking every inch the regal queen despite—or maybe because of—her nudity. Her legs part, revealing a glimpse of her cunt, already starting to get wet.

As much as he wants to leap into action, kissing and licking, he’s been trained better than that. He waits until she pulls him in place with a finger hooked around his collar, nudging his head down, before he starts to lave his tongue over her.

His licks are sloppy, uncoordinated, but no lesser for his eagerness. Slick drips down his chin, mixing with drool as he salivates, relishing the taste of her sweet cunt.

After she shakes apart on his tongue once, walls clenching around nothing, she tugs him up by the collar, and he shifts his attention to her clit, licking and sucking until she’s moaning, legs trembling with another orgasm. He knows better than to stop, and returns to licking between her labia, dipping his tongue inside as she shudders.

He flutters his tongue, teeth just barely grazing her clit, and she grinds down, smothering him, though he doesn’t complain. He laps up the slick that gushes forth like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, licking her clean until, oversensitive, she pulls him away with two fingers hooked in his collar.

“Good boy,” she croons, once she catches her breath, and pulls him into a kiss, tasting herself on his tongue. “Apology accepted.”

His heart soars. He’s been forgiven, and he’s been good! He whines with pleasure, nipping gently at her lips until she pushes him away and sits up.

He watches as she leans over and pulls the bag closer—he’d forgotten, and his heart drops when he sees the first item she pulls out. “Oh, don’t be like that,” she coaxes upon seeing his face. “This is to help you be a good boy. You want to be good, right?”

He whines. He does want to be good, but this—a cock cage? Forget a reward, this is perhaps the worst punishment she could give him.

Will she ever allow him to come again? And what about—he gulps—what about when he needs to piss? He trusts her with his life, but not enough to trust that she won’t delight in making him squirm.

But he doesn’t stop her when she leans forward and fits it around his cock and balls, the cold metal making him flinch back. “Stop that,” she admonishes, flicking lightly at the head of his cock, and he yelps.

It’s a painful few minutes as she waits for his erection to go down enough to fasten the cage closed and lock it, tucking the key away. “There we go,” she coos. “Now we shouldn’t have any more accidents.”

He whines again.

“And,” she continues, “I have a treat for you.” He perks up as she pulls another item out of the bag—a tail plug, and his eyes go wide in arousal when he sees it.

She laughs, but not meanly. “Turn around and present.”

He does, holding his cheeks open the way she taught him to allow better access—and because ‘it makes such a pretty sight,’ according to her.

He jumps at the first press of a slick finger at his hole, but leans back into it as she works him open, little whimpers making their way out of his mouth. The plug slides in easily, popping past the tight ring of muscle and settling right up against his prostate. The fur of the tail brushes against the inside of his sensitive thigs, and it sends him half mad with sensation.

He feels a sudden sharp sting on his ass—she’s spanked him, just to see the way he yelps and clenches around the plug, yelping again when it drives the plug further in, pressing just so against his most sensitive spot.

He forces himself to settle, consciously relaxing his muscles and giving himself some relief. Experimentally, he wiggles his lower half, the tail swinging side to side, and earns an appreciative hum from Yennefer. “Do you like that, puppy?” she purrs. “I certainly do.”

He nods, turning around and nuzzling up against her thigh. She really is good to him.

“Wait until I show you the best part,” she says, rummaging around in the bag once more. Jaskier hears a small click, and then suddenly he feels the plug start to vibrate, forcing precum to weep out of his caged cock, which is valiantly trying to get hard again despite its bonds.

His fingers scrabble against the sheets, trying in vain to find something to cling to as he rides the waves of vibrations. He whines, thrusting his hips forward into the sheets by instinct, but he can’t get any stimulation on his poor caged cock. His desperate humping is as useless as his cock is now.

He buries his face against her leg, whining still, and she takes pity, switching the vibrations off. “I’ve put you through a lot tonight, I know,” she murmurs, petting his hair. “We’ll play with that later.”

He remains frustrated and unsatisfied until he falls asleep, but he’s at least grateful to be forgiven and even allowed a place in her bed.

When he wakes up the next morning, he expects Yennefer to take the cage off. Maybe this was just a brief punishment, a test, and she’ll let him come since he’s been so good.

But she just laughs at his hopeful look—“Silly puppy. This is for your own good, remember?”—and leaves it on. And to make matters worse, he knows that she’s going to be busy all day today—she’ll be home, but most likely locked away in her office while she works.

The sole consolation is that she won’t have the time to torture him with pleasure, something she delights in doing whenever they’re home together. But she won’t be giving him any attention, either.

He dozes for a bit, whiling away the morning, until he gets too bored and goes searching for anything else to do. He would jerk off, but, well, that’s not an option anymore. He considers going to bother Yennefer, but even before thinking about it he knows it’s a bad idea. And he’s trying to be good, after all.

It’s around noon when the urge to pee gets really bad. He’s been holding it all morning, ignoring the steadily-growing urge, but it’s truly undeniable now. Hanging his head, he goes over to her office, scratching at the door to get her attention. The door doesn’t open, though. Heart clenching, he whines, knowing that she’ll be angry with him for disturbing her, but he’s desperate at this point—good boys don’t have accidents, after all, and he’s perilously close to one.

His bladder is straining, almost as if he can feel the piss sloshing around inside. After a wave of need hits him particularly hard, his hands fly down to his cock, squeezing as firmly as he can despite the cage in the way. He needs to go.

He starts to cry, tears of frustration and desperation falling down his face, hiccupping whines making their way out of his mouth. “Jaskier, stop whining. I’m busy,” Yennefer calls from the other side of the door.

So she knows he’s there, and she won’t come to help. Jaskier knows, then, with absolute certainty, that he’s going to piss himself. He’s going to piss right here, right on the floor, through his cage, and it’s going to get everywhere, and Yennefer is going to be mad, and—

He’s peeing before he can even finish the thought, hot piss hissing against the bars of the cage, dribbling onto the floor into a hot puddle, soaking his legs. The relief is great, but it’s overpowered by the intense guilt and shame of the action. He’s pissing on the floor. Like an untrained puppy.

Though his eyes are squeezed shut, he hears the door to the office open. He whines, not meeting her eyes, shoulders hunched up.

“Bad puppy,” she admonishes—the exact words he feared. “What have I told you about making a mess?”

He whines, but it’s cut off as she wraps a finger around his collar and pulls him after her. He rushes to catch up, limbs uncoordinated, weak with relief and heavy with dread. She drags him to the bathroom, has him clamber into the tub, and turns the faucet on full blast. He yelps, the water stinging his skin—at least she’s using warm water, rather than cold. It’s still not something he was expecting, and he’s left dripping but clean in the aftermath.

She towels him dry, rough but not painful, except for when she tweaks his nipples or yanks at a strand of hair or tugs at his tail. He stifles his yelps, though, not wanting to anger her more, even as she clicks her fingers at him to follow her to the bedroom.

He makes as if to jump up on the bed, but one stern glance from her has him reconsidering. Right. Only good boys are allowed on the furniture. He sits at her feet, head bowed, waiting for his punishment.

She bends down and brushes a finger under his chin, lifting until his eyes meet hers. “How can I help you learn this lesson, hm?” she asks, thumb stroking his lips. “I don’t think pain will work—you’re too eager for it,” she mocks. “But pleasure, well—my dirty little hedonist, I think I can teach you about too much of a good thing.” She leans in close, her breath mingling with his. “I’m going to make you mess your cage until you run dry.”

She switches the vibrating plug on. He sucks in a breath, hips jerking forward and almost touching her leg, but he wrestles himself back under control. Don’t make a mess, he coaches himself, his hips twitching as if to drive himself back further upon the vibrator. She laughs delightedly. “Good boy, you’re learning already.”

He whimpers, caught between the dual pain of his flesh pressed against the cage and the pleasure of her praise and the wonderful vibrations. With the plug pressed directly against his prostate, he’s rapidly barreling towards an orgasm—except his cock is kept forcefully soft, weeping through the bars and pooling on the floor. He whines upon seeing it and, without a second thought, leans down to lick up his mess.

Her hand comes down in his hair, at first caressing, but then she shoves him down, nose ground against the floor. “That’s right. Clean up the mess you’ve made,” she says, not letting him up until every drop has been licked clean.

The vibrations keep rocketing through him, assaulting his every nerve. He bites his lip, feeling an impossible orgasm approach. Even confined in a cage, he can feel it building, building, until it overtakes him in a wave, dragged out of him in a slow oozing drip. He pants, riding it through, his panting turning into a steady whine as the plug doesn’t stop.

His oversensitive nerves jump with every sensation, his fingers curling into fists, sweat beading and dripping down his skin. He risks a glance up at Yennefer, silently begging her to stop, but she just raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you want to be good, puppy?” she asks, and he does, he does want to be good, but it’s almost painful now, a second orgasm forcing its way through his body.

He’s right on the edge—but he still needs something to push him over, something to pull him through the wall of oversensitivity and bring him to ecstatic pleasure. He gets it in the form of her sharp nails pricking at his skull, yanking his head up, and her other hand tugging at his collar and twisting. He gasps, air cut off, hands coming to scrabble at his neck, eyes rolling back in his head—and comes like a fucking fountain, cum spurting between the bars of his cage, all the blood rushing from his head, stars filling his vision.

He slumps down, gasping in a breath as she releases his collar, her deceptively strong arms catching him before he can fall into the puddle beneath him. She lifts him up and places him in bed—like a good puppy, his hazy mind tells him—and he slowly comes back to the feeling of her scritching her nails lightly behind his ear in the way that always drives him mad with pleasure, and the sound of her murmuring praises.

“Good boy, Jaskier, you were so good for me,” she coos, and he feels her jostle the cage between his legs. His eyes shoot open and he scrambles backwards with all the urgency his lazy limbs can manage. He can’t handle anything more right now, not with his poor wrung out cock so sensitive. His safeword is on the tip of his tongue when she speaks.

“I’m taking it off, that’s all,” she promises, and he settles down, letting her unlock it and ease it gently off, noting with a whimper the dark lines the cage has gouged into his flesh. “Oh, poor thing.”

Next is the tail plug, and he knows not to jerk back from the slight tug at his stretched rim. There’s a brief flash of too-much as the widest part of the plug exits, followed by the alien feeling of his hole gaping around nothing, fluttering weakly in the plug’s wake.

Geralt laid his trap in advance—a trail of treats leading from the village to just outside his warren, sure to pique the curiosity of the young bard, if not the appetite. And then, hiding in the bushes, belly heavy with eggs, he waited for his soon-to-be-victim to appear.

It didn’t take long. Jaskier—as Geralt had learned his name was—had taken to walking the forest paths in the evenings, sighing over the beauty of the forest or the beauty of a lover or any other thing that caught his poet’s attention. And sure enough, when he saw the first treat Geralt had laid out, he picked it up, and the next, and the next, until he found himself in front of Geralt’s warren.

“That’s odd. Who would--?”

He was cut off as Geralt leapt, bursting from the bushes to snag Jaskier around the waist. The bard yelped, too surprised to even fight back—in a short moment Geralt had navigated the twisting hallways of his warren (an impossible maze to anyone but him) and deposited Jaskier solidly on the pile of furs that made up his nest.

Jaskier stammered for a moment, lost for words as his brain processed the quick turn of events, until he finally gathered his wits. “Now see here!” he started, and then he finally took in the creature before him.

Geralt stood, bare as Mother Nature had birthed him, stomach gravid with new life. His rabbit ears swiveled under Jaskier’s inspection, his nose twitching as he waited for Jaskier to speak.

“What—who are you?”

“Geralt.”

Jaskier paled at the name—he had only just realized he was in the presence of a god, apparently. “What—what will you do with me?” he whispered, fingering nervously at the hem of his shirt. Geralt kneeled down next to him, pulling away his hands and pinning them to his side, just as he pinned him with a stare.

“You’ll bring new life to the forest.”

Jaskier’s eyes flickered downwards and back up again just as quickly. “I think there’s been a mistake, I can’t—I’m not a woman,” he said bluntly, trying to tug his hands out of Geralt’s grasp. Geralt held firm.

“You’ll bear my eggs just fine.” Saying that, he released Jaskier’s wrists so that he could begin to divest the bard of his clothing, but he wasn’t expecting the sudden resistance he was met with.

“What—no,” Jaskier protested, batting his hands away and drawing his knees up to his chest. Geralt admired how it rounded his arse—which he would soon be sinking into. “I—I mean, please, o God of Spring, I urge you to reconsider,” he begged.

“I’ve considered it enough,” Geralt answered, “and decided. You’re perfect for me. Young, full of life and song. You’ll make a wonderful mate.” Then, hoping to calm the bard’s racing heart, he leaned forward and kissed him, gentle lips trying to put him at ease.

It didn’t work—Jaskier went even stiffer, turning his face away and squeezing his eyes shut. “Please,” he whispered. “Please, let me go. Don’t do this.”

Geralt grew angry. It was an honor to be chosen by a god—who did this young upstart think he was, turning down such a generous offer? But he knew of a way to ensure Jaskier’s compliance. “What do you think happens if the God of Fertility is unable to complete his ritual?” he bit out.

Jaskier didn’t answer.

“I’ll tell you. The forest will stagnate, devoid of new life, and your village will starve,” Geralt said bluntly. “If that’s what you want…”

Jaskier bit his lip, reddening it. “No,” he finally sniffed, all the fight fleeing him at once.

“Then let me breed you,” Geralt rumbled, and leaned in for another kiss, testing Jaskier’s resistance. He was met with none, although he wasn’t met with enthusiasm either. That was fine—Geralt didn’t need a willing host.

He pushed Jaskier backwards until he was lying on his back, and made quick work of his clothes. Jaskier stared resolutely at the ceiling the entire time, face creased in distress, but he didn’t struggle. Soon he too was bare, and Geralt wasted no time in hiking up his legs, exposing his tight hole.

“Wait,” Jaskier interrupted, a new fear in his eyes. “Aren’t you going to—please don’t fuck me dry.”

Geralt growled. He didn’t want to waste any more time—the eggs were growing heavier by the minute, his body anticipating his coming laying. But he supposed lubricant would make it more pleasurable at least, and the boy wouldn’t run the risk of tearing.

He dropped Jaskier’s legs and went to fetch a vial of oil, confident inn the knowledge that Jaskier wouldn’t—and couldn’t—flee. He returned shortly, and Jaskier was still where he’d left him, shivering a bit in the cool springtime air.

Geralt would soon warm him up. He poured out some oil and hiked Jaskier’s legs up again, oiled fingers coming to prod at his hole. He was tight, but under Geralt’s constant pressure, soon yielded to the press of two fingers stretching him wide. And Geralt knew he would only stretch further as the night went on.

Jaskier’s lips parted at the first intrusion, brow creasing in not-quite-pain. “Relax,” Geralt murmured. “It’ll feel good, if you let it.”

Geralt worked him with two fingers until he was panting, subtly shifting his hips in search of more. Geralt obliged, slipping in another finger, rewarded with a moan as Jaskier threw his head back. Geralt reached for his cock, intending to bring him to orgasm so that he would relax further, but was surprised when Jaskier gripped his wrist.

“What are you doing?” he growled, and Jaskier released his wrist instantly, eyes widening.

“Please don’t—just get this over with?” he pleaded.

“You need to relax, or else my eggs won’t fit.” Jaskier turned watery eyes to him, but Geralt couldn’t be budged. “I know what you need. Just relax and let me.”

Jaskier shut his eyes, but made no move to further hinder Geralt as he once again reached to stroke Jaskier’s cock to full hardness. It only took a few strokes before he was moaning louder, bucking up into Geralt’s fist, driving himself back down on Geralt’s fingers.

Geralt twisted his wrist just as he prodded at that sensitive spot inside of Jaskier, and Jaskier spilled with a cry. Geralt pumped him through it, only stopping when Jaskier began to shudder from overstimulation and twist away. Geralt’s fingers remained deep inside Jaskier’s hole, keeping him stretched and ready for his cock—which was proudly standing at attention, eager to sink into that warm slickness.

Jaskier’s eyes rolled back in his head as Geralt breached him for the first time, Geralt himself only barely holding back from sinking all the way in. Fuck, Geralt hadn’t felt something this good in a long time. Even parted around Geralt’s thick cock, and even after orgasm, he was still so tight, hot and contracting sinfully around him.

Geralt sank in slowly, until he was buried to the hilt, Jaskier gurgling underneath him. Geralt could oh-so-faintly see the outline of his cock in the bard’s abdomen, piercing him all the way up past his navel. Geralt pulled out and sank back in again just to watch it bulge, feel the way Jaskier clenched.

“Fuck, gonna breed you so good,” Geralt grunted, his composure leaving him as he began to thrust faster. Jaskier moaned, writhing a little beneath him, his hot, sucking hole fluttering as if trying to draw Geralt deeper. Geralt’s pleasure grew higher and higher, until, with a grunt, he emptied himself into Jaskier, hot cum splashing deep, filling his stomach in preparation for the eggs that were coming.

They weren’t very big, but there were many of them, all clamoring to get out, to be laid inside a warm host. Geralt gripped tighter around Jaskier’s waist, pulling him further down onto his cock as the first few eggs spilled out of him. One, two, ten, bump after bump traveling the length of his cock and being deposited inside Jaskier.

“Fuck,” Jaskier gasped, muscles twitching. “Feels so weird—so much—”

“There’s plenty more to come,” Geralt replied, groaning as another batch made its way out of him. Jaskier made a guttural noise and tried to pull away instinctively, his body screaming at him too much too much too much.

Geralt yanked him ruthlessly back down, and Jaskier screamed, voice cracking as he sobbed. “Please, enough,” he wheezed, and Geralt knew he had to be struggling for air, his lungs unable to fully inflate with how full his stomach was becoming.

He didn’t listen, pinning Jaskier in place despite how he struggled, animal instincts trying to flee, until he gave up all at once, sobbing beginning anew. His lithe body quaked underneath Geralt, each jolt sending a shock of pleasure to his cock, still trapped in that wet heat.

The last egg, one of perhaps a hundred, popped into Jaskier. He lay there shuddering, covered in sweat and his own come, gasping for breath. His eyes were closed, but they flew open as soon as Geralt took his cock in hand again, stroking just to feel how wonderfully tight he clenched around Geralt with every touch.

“Nonono stop,” Jaskier gasped, pushing ineffectually at Geralt’s chest. “Stop, it’s too much—”

Geralt didn’t stop—Jaskier felt too good around him. He grunted, speeding his hand and thrusting into Jaskier, chasing a second orgasm as he forced Jaskier towards his second.

Jaskier came with a cry, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks as he spasmed around Geralt, and Geralt followed him, spurting his seed into Jaskier once more. His body couldn’t take it, full as he was, and it spilled out around Geralt’s cock, leaking out onto Jaskier’s thighs and onto the furs.

Geralt pulled out, watching hungrily as more come leaked out, though his eggs stayed firmly inside, where they would remain until the time came to birth them.

“You’ll carry my eggs so well,” Geralt praised, picking Jaskier up—careful not to compress his overfull belly—and laying him down on a cleaner pile of furs.

Jaskier didn’t reply, too wrung out to even muster a word. His eyes slipped closed, his body falling into a much-needed rest, so that he didn’t hear Geralt’s next words.

“Geralt, don’t just stand there! Do something!” he whined, wriggling in the tentacles’ unyielding-yet-gentle grip. Every movement only made them squeeze tighter where they were locked around his wrists and ankles, and he tried not to think about how that thought made him go all squirmy inside.

“It’s harmless, Jaskier. It just needs to breed, and then it’ll let you go.”

“Breed? Geralt!” He would’ve kept shouting, except at that moment, a tentacle wormed its way into his mouth, effectively gagging him. His lips closed around the foreign intrusion, sucking instinctively, and the tentacle pulsed in pleasure. He shivered at the sensation.

“Just relax, Jaskier. It’ll be over before you know it.”

Despite everything, Geralt’s steady, matter-of-fact words did have a calming effect on him. The tentacle monster—Jaskier still wasn’t sure what it was, but it certainly had plenty of appendages—stroked him lightly, encouraging him to relax further. It felt kind of nice, actually; if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine it to be the touch of a lover, drifting softly across his skin, lower and lower until it reached—

He squeaked as he felt a tentacle prodding at his hole, slick yet insistent. He tried to move away, but could get absolutely no leverage while in the tentacle monster’s embrace. The tip edged inside, just barely, the way eased by whatever slick substance covered the tentacles. Jaskier’s toes curled at the sensation.

His prick, already at half mast, leaked drops of precome onto the forest floor. He hated that he was enjoying this, but it just felt so good, the tentacle at his mouth slowly pumping in and out as the one at his ass did the same, working its way in inch by inch.

“Good, Jaskier. Fuck, you look so good like this, so open and needy,” a voice below him growled, and Jaskier started at the reminder that Geralt was there, watching the entire scene play out. He whimpered, more precome leaking from his cock as the tentacle in his ass brushed over his prostate.

Then, just as he was nearing the edge, the tentacle retreated, leaving him empty and wanting. He whined around the tentacle in his mouth, desperate for something—to come, to be filled up, he didn’t know, he just knew he needed it now.

Geralt chuckled, sounding far too satisfied. But Jaskier stopped caring once the tentacle returned, though this time it was thicker, less tapered. It pushed its way inside, Jaskier moaning as he was once more filled up. It was almost too much, stretching him almost to his limit, leaving him right on the edge. He just needed a bit more, another brush against his prostate, or a hand on his cock, anything.

And then the tentacle was expanding, stretching his hole farther than he even knew it could go, and he screamed around the tentacle in his mouth—though whether it was from pleasure or pain, he didn’t know. Everything was all mixed up in his head, and he just—needed to—

The tentacle pulsed, growing larger again, and Jaskier screamed as he came untouched, spine arching as much as it could and toes curling. He came, and came, and yet the tentacle monster didn’t stop, and with horror Jaskier realized it didn’t plan to. He tried to spit the tentacle out, tried to beg Geralt for help, but couldn’t, could only writhe as the tentacle spread him wider.

And then it was pulsing in his ass, and Jaskier felt something moving along it, something large and round that was being deposited inside him. An egg.

It traveled along the length of the tentacle, shoving past his rim and settling around his prostate, and Jaskier jerked at the sensation, overstimulated. He thought that was it, that it was over, but then he realized that it was happening again, another egg being shoved inside of him, knocking against the first, and gods, he was so full.

He was crying, he realized, tears streaking down his face at the barrage of sensations. It was too much, and he was either going to come again or die from it all. As a third egg settled inside of him, he was sure it would be the latter, until another tentacle wrapped itself around his cock and stroked, warm and wet, and he screamed again, voice cracking, as he came for the second time.

He was left panting and limp in the tentacle monster’s grip as he came down from his high, and then it was lowering him to the ground, and Geralt was there, catching him lest he collapse face-first on the ground. Every single muscle in his body hurt, overtaxed, and he was uncomfortably full.

“That’s it. You did good, Jaskier. Just one more thing left,” Geralt soothed, easing him down to lie back on the ground. He waited as Jaskier caught his breath, running a gloved hand along his stomach, and Jaskier realized with a jolt that he was round with the eggs, an obscene bulge in his stomach like he was pregnant. He moaned.

“It’s alright, Jaskier, just relax for me and push,” Geralt coached him, one hand remaining on his stomach while the other searched between his legs for his gaping asshole.

“Push, Jaskier,” Geralt instructed, and Jaskier, face burning, did his best. The eggs shifted inside of him, and he shuddered at the sensation, ass clenching around where Geralt’s fingers were holding him open. “Keep going.”

Jaskier wanted to die of embarrassment, the way Geralt simultaneously looked so unperturbed and clinical about the entire affair warring with the hunger Jaskier could see in his eyes. He blushed even hotter, pushing harder with a small moan, and Geralt helped him out by pressing down on his stomach.

One egg popped out, followed by a rush of slick that had Jaskier covering his face with shaking hands.

“No need to be embarrassed, Jaskier. You’re doing so good,” Geralt praised, and fuck if that didn’t make his dick give a little interested twitch. Because nothing escaped his witcher, Geralt clearly noticed, and raised an eyebrow. “You like that? Like me telling you that you make such a good breeding bitch?”

Jaskier's breath hitched, his dick rising valiantly despite his exhaustion.

“Come on, Jaskier. Only two more,” Geralt coaxed, running his hand along Jaskier stomach, pressing gently against the bulge. Jaskier moaned as they shifted again, coming to rest directly against his prostate. “Push,” Geralt instructed, and Jaskier did, and then another egg was sliding out of him, his rim burning with sensation.

His cock was fully hard now, and Geralt took it in his gloved hand, the leather cool against his overheated flesh. He started to stroke, gently at first, and the picking up speed, and Jaskier writhed, caught between bucking up into it and pulling away from the onslaught.

“This will make the last one easier. Just one more,” Geralt said, pushing down on Jaskier stomach again, driving the last egg out, and with a small cry Jaskier pushed it out and came simultaneously, completely dry.

He wilted back against the ground, completely spent, covered in slime and come and mud and not even caring.

He lay there as Geralt fiddled around with the eggs—when he gathered the strength to lift his head, he saw that Geralt was carefully wrapping them and placing them inside his pack. “They’ll sell well,” Geralt explained, when he saw Jaskier watching him. “Especially now that they’ve been lain inside a willing host.”

Jaskier dropped his head back down on the ground with a thud. “Don’t say things like that,” he rasped.

“Why? Does it make you want to get hard again? Think you could come a fourth time?” Geralt asked, stalking over and cruelly pawing at Jaskier's spent prick. Jaskier could do nothing more than whine, not even having the strength to flinch away. Geralt chuckled. “An experiment for another day, maybe.”

Jaskier gulped, already dreading—or was it anticipating?—that day. For now, though, he was content to flop about as Geralt gathered his errant limbs up, lifting him like one might an overtired child. Jaskier let his head loll back against Geralt’s broad chest, already drifting off to sleep.

“Sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt rumbled. “You did well.”

Jaskier gulped as Geralt stalked closer, traitorous cock stirring in his pants. Now was not the time—especially when he had been on his way to the privy before Geralt had stalked into the room.

“Geralt,” he greeted nervously. “How, er, how did it go?”

Geralt only stared at him with those depthless black eyes, and then walked closer, growling softly under his breath. Jaskier tried not to flinch as Geralt leaned in close, sniffing at his neck, gloved hands coming to clutch at his doublet.

And then the bastard bit him, not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to bruise, for sure. Jaskier gasped, ignoring the way his cock hardened even further under the attention.

His head was spinning with sensation, the room suddenly too hot, as Geralt made his way down Jaskier’s neck, then dropped to his knees to nose at Jaskier’s clothed cock.

His cock, which, despite being rock hard and weeping precum, was still reminding him of another pressing need that Geralt had interrupted. “Geralt,” Jaskier gasped, pushing him away. Geralt let him, albeit reluctantly. “Not that I don’t love this—but—is this really the time?”

Geralt looked at him blankly, and with a hint of frustration. Oh, gods. Was something wrong? It was like Jaskier had been suddenly doused with a bucket of cold water. “Geralt,” he said firmly. “Did something happen on the hunt?”

Geralt growled, baring his teeth, and then, after a moment of silent staring between them, forced words out. “Succubus. Has—venom. Makes it—I have to—fuck.”

Jaskier pondered that for a moment. “Soooo… like an aphrodisiac?” he asked, and was rewarded with Geralt nodding furiously and diving for Jaskier’s clothes again. Jaskier let him, because as long as Geralt knew marginally what was going on, he was alright with it. Especially when his need was this potent.

Except— “Geralt,” Jaskier gasped, as his doublet was rapidly stripped off, followed closely by his chemise. “Wait.”

Geralt growled again, louder, but sat back on his heels.

“Just—give me a moment to go to the privy, and then I’m all yours—”

“No,” Geralt growled, and tackled Jaskier—thankfully onto the bed behind him, and he hit the mattress with a soft oof.

“Wh—What do you mean, no, get off, you brute—” Jaskier said, squirming underneath Geralt’s bulk, but he was hopelessly pinned. He didn’t think about how that thought made his stomach flip.

Geralt sucked another bite mark onto his neck. “Hold it.”

And fuck, but that was hot. “But—what if I can’t hold it?” he protested weakly.

“You will,” Geralt promised, voice deep and gravelly. Jaskier’s cock twitched.

Geralt waited for all of half a second for him to protest again, and when none was forthcoming, he returned to his mission to unclothe Jaskier as quickly as humanly possible. Or witcher-ly possible.

His trousers and pants soon joined his other clothes on the floor, and Jaskier managed to at least get Geralt out of his armor, which took care of most of the gore. He was relatively clean underneath, enough that Jaskier deemed it acceptable for Geralt to immediately press himself full-bodied against Jaskier, skin radiating heat.

And then Geralt was shifting downwards, mouth trailing along Jaskier’s body, mouthing at his neck, his chest, his waist, and then enveloping his sock in his hot, wet mouth. Jaskier shouted, his need suddenly that much greater.

He stuffed a fist into his mouth, biting down on his knuckles, as Geralt sucked his cock. All too soon, Jaskier felt his need rising—but whether it was to come or to piss, he didn’t know. He pushed weakly at Geralt’s forehead, begging silently for him to stop so that he could collect himself. Geralt pulled off with a wet pop, hungry eyes begging for more.

“I can’t,” Jaskier reprimanded him, “not unless you want this to be over quickly.”

Geralt grunted—disappointment, or acknowledgment?—and left his cock be, coming back up to capture Jaskier’s lips in a deep kiss.

It calmed Jaskier down enough that he didn’t feel right on the edge anymore. Geralt, meanwhile, was still as wound up as ever, humping the mattress between Jaskier’s legs, letting out small whines.

“Alright,” Jaskier gasped out, breaking the kiss. “Fuck me.”

Geralt growled, diving down, slinging Jaskier’s legs over his shoulders, bending him nearly in half. It put that much more pressure on his poor bladder, and he whined, though his cock was twitching in anticipation.

Geralt wasted no time in coating his fingers in slick, though he was gentle when he breached the tight ring of muscle. His hole was even tighter for how tense he was trying to hold on. Geralt, impatient, sank another finger inside, and Jaskier groaned at the stretch. He was used to it, with how often Geralt prepared him, but it was so much every single time.

Geralt pushed deeper, crooking his fingers just right—fuck, Jaskier saw stars as his fingers brushed against his prostate. He moaned like a whore, relaxing his muscles the tiniest bit—only for a dribble of piss to come streaming out of his cock. Mortified, face burning red, Jaskier’s hand shot down to wrap around his cock, clenching around the flow that desperately wanted to escape.

“I said hold it,” Geralt growled, nostrils flaring, pulling his fingers out of Jaskier to instead join his where they were wrapped around his cock. “Don’t want to ruin the bed, do you?”

Jaskier sobbed, once, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I’ll be good, I can hold it,” he promised. “Please, I promise, fuck me!”

Geralt stroked his cock, just the once, and then reached down to line his cock up with Jaskier’s hole. And then he was pushing in, in, in, filling Jaskier up so completely, so fully, that he thought he might burst.

Jaskier threw his head back, eyes rolling back in his head, clutching desperately at his cock. Fuck, it felt like Geralt’s cock was nudging right up against his bladder, each powerful thrust sending jolts of pain and pleasure through him.

Geralt moaned, sinking his teeth into Jaskier’s neck once more, and picked up the pace. Jaskier was crying now, letting out little whining cries with each thrust, on the verge of letting go. Whether that was his orgasm or his bladder, he didn’t know.

“Mm—mm—mm—fuck,” Jaskier sobbed, as Geralt’s massive cock brushed against his prostate relentlessly, stretching his hole with every thrust. “Gonna—come—”

“Then come,” Geralt growled, thrusting faster. With a deep, guttural cry, he came, hot seed splashing inside of Jaskier, filling him up. Jaskier cried out and came too, ropes of come spilling over his chest, seemingly endless in their intensity.

Amidst the ecstasy, he felt Geralt pull out, followed by a rush of come leaking out of his hole. He lay there for a second, panting, before a different need made itself known.

“Fuck,” he moaned, struggling to his feet, hand clenched desperately around his cock, legs crossed.

He wasn’t going to make it all the way to the privy. He groaned, struggling not to let go right there, in the middle of the floor, where Geralt could see.

“Jaskier,” Geralt called from where he was lying on the bed. His eyes had returned to their normal color, the venom out of his system, though he was now wearing a devilish smile. “Let go.”

And fuck, that was all it took. He whimpered as hot piss burst forth, running down his legs, puddling humiliatingly beneath him. All he could do was stand there, legs wobbling, hand clenched uselessly around his streaming cock.

The relief he felt was undeniable, though, whatever the cost was. It felt like ages before the flow finally tapered off, leaving him wet and embarrassed, but lightheaded with his release.

“Fuck,” he whispered, looking down at his mess, but then Geralt was there, cupping his face in his hands.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he rumbled, sweeping Jaskier off of his unsteady legs, and placing him in the tub full of water. It had long since gone cold, but a quick Igni took care of that, and Jaskier basked as Geralt took care to wash him clean of the urine and the seed that coated his body.

By the time Geralt was finished, Jaskier was nearly asleep. Geralt walked him through drying off and climbing into bed, though Jaskier grumbled, but it was all worth it when Geralt slid into bed behind him, wrapping a large arm around him and pulling him back against his broad chest.

“Thank you,” Geralt murmured in his ear. “It wasn’t too much, was it?”

Jaskier yawned and shook his head. “No, ‘s good.”

He could hear the smile in Geralt’s voice as he responded. “Good. Sleep, Jaskier.”

The dragon in question was standing protectively in front of the entrance to its cave, tail lashing and teeth bared—but it didn’t attack. Strange.

Geralt carefully lowered his hand from where he had been gripping the pommel of his sword, watching with awe as the dragon relaxed some. So it was intelligent, then. Sentient, even?

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Geralt said calmly, staring into its eyes, willing it to understand. “I was sent up here to investigate, that’s all.”

“And how am I to trust you, witcher?” spoke the golden dragon—quite intelligent, then. “I know your kind well. You hunted my brethren to extinction for a handful of coins at the order of the humans. Little better than cold-blooded killers, all of you.”

“Not all of us. Me, my brethren—we don’t kill dragons. We don’t kill any sentient creatures, as long as we aren’t forced.” With every word, he hoped the dragon would sense the truth of it—he truly didn’t want to hurt the dragon, but he would, if it was a threat to the people living below.

The dragon narrowed its eyes. “Why are you here, then?”

“As I said—I was paid to investigate the creature living on the mountain. As far as I can see, you’re doing no harm living up here. My work is done, and I’ll leave you in peace.” Geralt slowly lowered his hands as he spoke, relaxing, and the dragon did the same, straightening from its defensive crouch.

The dragon stared at him for one long, inscrutable moment—Geralt felt as if he were back under the judging gaze of the master witchers back home, small and inexperienced. Looking into the dragon’s eyes, he could tell that it had seen countless more winters than him, was wiser and more experienced than he could ever hope to be.

And then it huffed out a puff of smoke, lumbering aside to reveal its nest behind it. “I thank you, Geralt of Rivia, for your understanding and kindness. I will let you go in peace now—unless you desire to fulfill another purpose here. I would pay handsomely should you agree, but neither would I force you should you disagree.”

“What is it?” Geralt asked warily. Never had he gotten a contract from a non-human before.

“I would take you to my nest for an evening. It is mating season for my kind, and though I would normally spend it alone, I would prefer a willing partner, if you’re so inclined.”

Geralt stared. The dragon stared back with its fiery gold eyes, unflinching.

“I’ll do it,” Geralt said.

--

The dragon led him inside the cave to its nest, which was quite cozy, considering. It had gathered animal pelts and arranged them into a thick blanket on the cavern floor, and piled even more around the edges, forming a protected depression just large enough for the dragon to spread out in. Geralt hovered by the edge, uncertain about where to go from here.

The dragon, meanwhile, lit a fire on the other side of the cave, where the smoke wouldn’t smother them, but close enough that Geralt could feel its warmth near the nest.

“Is it custom for humans to breed fully clothed?” the dragon asked, a note of humor in its voice if Geralt wasn’t mistaken.

“No,” Geralt grunted, blushing, and began to strip, quickly and efficiently. Off came his swords, his armor, his clothes, until he stood naked and unashamed in front of the dragon. “How do you want me?” he asked stiffly.

“I want you relaxed, for one thing,” the dragon chided. “As I said, I would like a willing partner. There’s no shame in changing your mind.”

Geralt unclenched his fists and willed his shoulders to drop. “I am willing. How are we doing this?” he asked again.

“Lie down in the nest and try to relax. I’ll be back shortly,” the dragon ordered. Geralt climbed inside as the dragon disappeared into another chamber of the cave.

Lying down on his back, he felt very vulnerable, and had to fight the urge to cover himself. Never had he been so bare, so unprotected in front of a monster—but the dragon wasn’t a monster, he had to remind himself, it was intelligent and nonthreatening.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply a few times, trying to get into the meditation headspace that always did wonders for calming him down. As he did, he reached a hand down towards his cock and started stroking idly.

As he relaxed more, his cock grew harder beneath his touches, blood rushing to it, and he bit his lip, slowing down before he came. The night hadn’t even started yet—he had infamous witcher stamina, but he had the feeling he would need every bit of it to keep up with the dragon.

He opened his eyes and yanked his hand away from his cock as he heard large footsteps returning. The dragon’s head appeared over the lip of the nest, a small bottle clutched in its jaws.

The dragon dropped it gently on top of Geralt’s chest, and he realized with a blush that it was oil. “Prepare yourself,” the dragon said, pinning him in place with those huge golden eyes.

He snatched the bottle up and yanked the cork out with his teeth, pouring a liberal amount on his fingers. He thanked every god he knew of for the whore in Vizima who had taught him how to open himself up a year ago.

It meant that he knew exactly how to tease himself, how to circle a finger around his entrance, dripping wet with slick, how to gently push a fingertip in, feeling the way he clenched around himself at the first press inwards.

He pulled his fingertip out and pushed it in another inch, gasping at the stretch, though he knew it was hardly anything yet.

“Beautiful,” the dragon murmured, gaze fixated on where his finger was disappearing into himself. Geralt’s face burned hot and he snuck another finger in, mouth dropping open and eyes falling shut. At least now he didn’t have to look at the dragon looking at him with that burning gaze.

He stroked his fingers in and out, breathing heavily, feeling his hole loosen around his fingers as he relaxed more. When he deemed himself ready for another finger, he added it, cock twitching as the stretch increased—not enough to burn, but enough to have him gasping for breath with every movement.

“So good for me,” the dragon purred, and Geralt opened his eyes to see it climbing inside, head dipping close, hot breath puffing over him.

Geralt pulled his fingers free with a wet squelch, letting his hand fall. The dragon hummed and nosed closer to his hole, little puffs of air over it making him shiver.

“Well? Are we going to do this or not?” Geralt croaked.

The dragon chuckled. “I don’t think you’re ready yet,” it said modestly, and Geralt glanced down for the first time to see its cock, standing proud between its legs, absolutely massive. He gulped. He wanted that in him now. “Just a bit longer, little wolf,” it said, and dipped its head again.

Geralt shouted something wordless as he felt its tongue, hot and wet, sliding across his slicked hole. “Alright?” the dragon purred, lifting its head. Geralt nodded faintly, and it ducked back down, delving in again. Geralt brought his fist up to his mouth, biting down on it to stifle any embarrassing whimpers he might have made.

And then its tongue pushed inwards, and all of his efforts to keep silent went out the window. It was so thick, and hot, like a cock but more, moving and wriggling and gods he wasn’t going to last long.

He reached a hand down again and stripped his cock madly, coming mere seconds later, shouting out his pleasure as the dragon wrung him dry.

He panted as he came down from his high, the dragon retreating and letting him catch his breath for a minute. By the time he felt settled enough to open his eyes, he was met with the sight of the dragon’s cock, now leaking and flushed, rutting into the furs of the nest.  

“In me,” he gasped, throwing his head back. “In me, now, I’m ready.”

The dragon groaned, nipping at his neck with those wicked, razor-sharp teeth, but Geralt felt no fear. He threw his head back, allowing the dragon greater access to his neck.

The dragon moved, shifting upwards, great body completely covering Geralt, warm and heavy, and then the tip of its cock entered him in one smooth thrust. All of the air left Geralt, or else he would have whimpered at the intrusion.

He rocked his hips into it, urging its cock deeper, harder, faster, but it remained maddeningly out of reach. He whined. “More, please, give me more,” he begged.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” the dragon grunted, seemingly holding back out of sheer will.

“You won’t, I’m a witcher, now give it to me,” Geralt snarled, surging upwards. The dragon let him push it to lie on its back, and he sank onto its cock with a moan. He was so full; he could practically feel the dragon in his throat, its massive cock coring him open.

He panted, moving his hips in small circles until he got used to the stretch, to the fullness that was pervading his entire being. As soon as he was, he unceremoniously lifted himself up and dropped back down, eyes rolling back in his head as its cock brushed right against his prostate.

“You feel so good for me, little wolf. So hot and tight, yes,” the dragon hissed, meeting Geralt’s thrusts with its own. Geralt shivered, cock once again hard and leaking.

“You’re so big,” Geralt muttered in response, increasing his speed until he was riding the dragon with everything he had, letting out little grunts with each thrust.

The dragon groaned, long and low, and then it was coming, cock spurting inside of Geralt, filling him up. Geralt threw his head back and came too, taken over the edge by the feeling of being so completely full.

He hardly even noticed as the dragon sat up, pulling him with it, limp as a ragdoll. The dragon arranged them until Geralt was on his hands and knees, though that didn’t last long, as his arms immediately gave out and he crashed face-first into the furs.

The dragon kept on, heedless of Geralt’s complete lack of energy—but Geralt didn’t ask it to stop. How could he, when it felt so good? Every movement had its cock slamming into his prostate, sensitive but not too much. He moaned. “More. Gimme more,” he slurred. “I wan’ all of it.”

“Don’t worry, little wolf. I’m nowhere near done with you. You’ll be screaming before the night is up,” the dragon promised in a low growl.

It resumed its hammering—Geralt whined and reached a hand down, intent on getting off again, but paused when his hand brushed his stomach. Was that—?

He realized that his stomach was bulging outwards, and not only from the come the dragon had pumped into him. It was the dragon’s cock, he realized, as he felt it moving underneath him.

The thought was so hot—that the dragon was so big he could feel it even through his stomach—that Geralt’s toes curled and he felt himself coming again, hole clenching and fluttering around the dragon’s cock, toes curling, every muscle in his body tensing.

His vision went white.

--

He came back to himself gods knew how long later, lying on his back in the nest of furs, clean and sated. The dragon was curled around him, like a big, scaly furnace, the heat perfect for his sore and overtaxed muscles.