They only ever stay in a place for two days.
Jaskier’s travel companion disliked villages, hated towns and loathed cities. As such, he only ever came into them for very specific purposes – work, ale, baths and whores. Luckily for him, all four of those things were generally located in the same places. Unluckily for him, he was often forced to sit through the number one thing that nets him the most important thing; work.
The pub was full of people who were liberally inebriated by this time of night and the crowd had slowly begun to demand songs, egging him on in his edgier tunes – hence why Jaskier was standing on a long table lined with beer mugs and laughing men when he once again ran his fingers along the strings of his lute.
The notes bloomed and the men rabbled a bit, banging on the table under his feet and toasting him with snippets of his prior ditties.
“O’ by the Woods
Can you see
A wolf in all his Might”
Pre-emptive howls from those in the crowd familiar with the song sounded from all areas around the crowded pub and Jaskier allowed himself a drunken smirk, throwing his gaze to the back of the room where he knew the Witcher sat. He saw a glint of yellow eyes in the dim light as Geralt took a drink from his flagon and Jaskier grinned at the hint of amusement he swore he saw.
Bouncing with delight
My O’ my! What a Sight!
Why no melancholyyyyyy?”
Jaskier beamed as the beat to his song was picked up by the audience hammering their fists and flagons on the tabletop and slamming their boots into the rushes. The small building was positively alive with the rhythm and merriment as the Bard did a merry jig on the table above everyone.
“Must be that -
Still not wed -
O’ that’s why so jolly!
The entire crowd howled with him, drowning him and his whoop of laughter completely out. The dim candlelight made the happiness and drunken good nature on every haggard face look familiar and chummy and the room stank of spilled ale and damp straw. Jaskier hopped down from the table, strumming his lute and repeating the chorus to throw his head back and howl with the rest.
As he put his foot up on a bench sat upon by three smiling young maids, his eye caught a young man prowling the corner of the room. Jaskier had been in countless pubs and even more brothels, he knew the look of someone looking to turn a favour and this young man had that look about him. He was handsome – tall and reasonably slender for someone obviously learning to wield a sword, he had a shock of dark hair and what appeared from a slight distance to be light eyes. His sharp jawline would look particularly attractive clenched, however that might simply be a personal preference. Jaskier found he preferred men when they were...bottled up.
His gaze fell to the nervous but bright eyes of the women in front of him and he gave them his best blossoming smile of charm, which grew genuine when they all blushed and shifted to face him. Within minutes of ending his tune, he was pulled to the bar by the gaggle of giggling women who pressed pints of ale and small glasses of spirits into his hands. Being the scholarly man of poetry that he is, Jaskier never refused and answered any and all questions about his tales and music with pomp and ceremony. When the man he’d spied earlier didn’t materialize at his elbow after he was reasonably drunk, Jaskier glanced around with badly disguised confusion.
When his eyes fell on that same man sitting in the back alcove, leaning into the shadows and talking with the Witcher with a type of intensity that begged privacy, Jaskier’s face went momentarily slack. He caught it and arranged it into a good-natured smile that he aimed at someone who made a joke about troubadours, in case Geralt looked up in response to his gaze. His peripheral vision confirmed that Geralt not only did not look up at him, but was in turn leaning in to the man. All it took was seeing the intense interest paid before Jaskier had to turn away, surprise and something else pounding in his ears as he unseeingly laughed with some more patrons.
His songs and ballads were known throughout the land – just ahead of his reputation as a man of many beds. He’d never been one to say no to the delights of life and had learned rather early that it wasn’t just women’s bodies that held such treasures. Men owned a different and peculiar interest for Jaskier – all long lines and hard muscle and they sang the most coveted of songs. Moans from his female partners had always felt like a given but the first time he’d pulled a hissed groan out of a man who had calluses bigger than his eyes it was like the world’s most hard-earned trophy and since then he’d been open to any opportunity. Opportunities rarely present themselves, however.
Jaskier sat himself with the willing women of earlier, one whom scooted aside quickly and caressed him with her sparkling eyes as he sat down beside her with a flourish.
“Well? What say you of my grand adventures? Fearsome monsters and,” He fixed her with a lazy, roguish smile as he purred, “fearless men?”
Jaskier refused to admit to himself that he mainly sat here because from this position he merely had to lift his gaze to spy Geralt and hid paramour, the pair of whom were somehow even deeper in discussion. They were leaning together, Geralt’s gaze fixed intently upon the man’s face as he occasionally nodded and made a comment. The other man was toying coyly with his cup of beer, the jug passing back and forth between his hands slowly on the desktop between them. Jaskier saw him look at the tabletop and then look up at Geralt through his lashes. Geralt took a drink and awarded the man with a small smile that Jaskier himself had only gotten on rare occasions.
Something in him watched this interaction with growing outrage.
He didn’t quite know why it irked him so much – it wasn’t like Geralt didn’t show whatever slight humanity he had rather often. The Witcher was known to bed whores or hangers on if he was so inclined and had even on occasion managed to procure company that was somehow both and neither. Jaskier had never openly kept track but when he thought on it, he’d never seen Geralt with a man. It had only been Jaskier himself that on two occasions travelling with the monster-hunter had snuck off to cross swords with someone. Geralt had either never noticed, commented or did not care; something Jaskier found himself gnawing on thoughtfully while he carried on his charade of camaraderie and rowdiness.
Now he wondered if he simply hadn’t been paying the right attention.
He didn’t quite know why the thought upset him.
“You must be very brave to see these things and go up against them unarmed,” The woman told coyly, her voice falsely breathless and her cheeks stained red with ale and lust. Her eyes glittered hungrily even in the near-darkness and her friends seem to respect her interest in him and milled around them talking and laughing. Jaskier decided on his mark and cheekily tugged on a curl hanging by her ear.
“Who said I was unarmed?” He suggested as he dropped his eyes to his lap momentarily. Instead of blushing furiously and turning away as most maids did, this one smiled and looked up and down his body with her eyes. She licked her lips and slid forwards and Jaskier’s eyebrows twitched up in interest as he felt her small hand slide over the meat of his thigh, close to his groin.
“Oh, I see,” She said sweetly as her hands roamed. Jaskier’s smile was arrogant and he leaned back in his seat slightly to give her more expanse to explore.
Jaskier saw himself as the more sexually fluent one out of the two – Yennefer being one of the few situations in which Geralt had somehow seamlessly come out in the lead. Jaskier had long since determined that women like Yennefer somehow did better with grunting and silence than poetry and song because it made them feel more intelligent. He’d long since decided that wasn’t his war to fight. For his part, Geralt seemed to enjoy just as much danger in his pleasure as he did in his work. Maybe the threat of being a monster-killing, cock-swallowing broody pasty arse was what was turning his crank tonight, Jaskier thought irritably as he glanced up to see the two nod and finish their drinks. Geralt finished his first, seemingly suddenly eager and Jaskier looked away quickly.
A hand cupped his groin and then slid deeper down the inside of his thigh as his new friend sighed and said, “Ohhhh, very armed.”
“Heavily, in fact,” Jaskier confirmed tightly as he forced himself to look down into her eyes. Geralt and the other man had stood and were now taking to the shadows, skirting the perimeter of the room. They were headed towards the stairs and Jaskier found himself resentfully noting that Geralt went first, leading the way with a blank and impartial face. He didn’t look at Jaskier once. His compatriot lingered for a few seconds, pretending to watch the sods playing a stacking game with the mugs, before turning to follow the disappearing boots to the upper floors.
With a sharp, decisive inhale Jaskier wrapped an arm around his female friend’s shoulders and gave her a sidelong smirk as he reached for his mug and raised it to his lips. His eyes found the ceiling as he gulped down the bitter, bubbly ale and her hand found a part of his body that was steadily waking up, giving him a squeeze that made him wiggle in his britches. She gave off a hiccupping laugh as he slammed the flagon down again and gazed at her hazily before declaring, “Perhaps it is I who is the monster!”
“Mayhaps I am your Witcher tonight,” She replied to him teasingly as Jaskier stood, snaring her hand and pulling her up easily behind him. He did his best to bury the image that she threw into his eye – Geralt standing in a pond with his sword out protectively in front of Jaskier, shirt ripped heavily from fighting revealing his chest.
“Oh, well then, back to the evil lair we go,” He intoned flirtatiously as the momentum of being pulled up pressed her breasts into his elbow and bicep. Her hands wrapped around his forearm and she gave him a throaty giggle in reply as he swung them around and led her towards the door that led to the stables. There was a short barn there, used to store feed and tack. It was dark and warm from the pub and Jaskier was very good at finding small hidey-holes to fill holes in and he led her straight there, allowing her hands to wander over his torso and briefly grab his bottom as they stumbled out together. The sharp, cold air was forgotten as they kissed, melding their breath into a cloud of ale and frenzy.
In his mind, he remembered Geralt’s emotionless yellow eyes watching him fireside as he tuned his lute, shined his shoes and scrubbed gore out of his doublets. Sometimes the mutant would even slow in the methodical cleaning and sharpening of his sword or the grinding of his precious herbs; Jaskier had assumed it was Geralt judging his flouncy bard ways. He wondered now, briefly, who would initiate a kiss once the two were alone. Would the young buck shyly try to take his prize or moan into Geralt’s mouth when he was savaged against a door?
Jaskier groaned into the woman’s mouth as she stripped his doublet up and untied the laces on his britches roughly between them. Their kisses were sloppy, drunken and Jaskier experienced a short bolt of confusion when he instinctively reached down her top and found the soft, warm weight of her breasts in his palms. Impatiently, she pulled away from kissing him to pull the sagging white undershirt aside, exposing the small peaks to his eyes and fingers.
Geralt wasn’t a stranger to the normal life of men and had never shown any indication of interest in one. He slept mostly naked in the high heat of summer, they often bathed in rivers and streams together, had lounged mostly nude while waiting for their clothing to dry. He’d never seen the Witcher take himself in hand but Jaskier himself knew about their doglike senses and made a point to keep his pleasures to himself on the road, so it wasn’t unreasonable to assume Geralt did the same. This is what men did. It never occurred to him the times he’d gone off to relieve himself of his morning affliction he’d half hoped to come across Geralt in the same situation.
The commiseration of familiarity, right?
“Mmmm, truly a monster,” The woman moaned as she finally freed and stroked him. Jaskier belatedly grabbed her breasts, panting slightly as she pressed herself closer and her grip on his cock tightened. He pinched and rolled her nipples, kissing absently at her shoulder as she leaned her head against his clavicles to jerk him. She was inelegantly rough – perhaps ale, perhaps her milkmaid hands, perhaps her own desperation.
Geralt did everything with purpose – the herbs, the campfire prep, roasting animals. He had cut the edge of his thumb cleaning a blade a few weeks prior and absently raised the digit to his mouth, sucking on the wound irritably as he used one hand to wrap the maintenance kit’s leather back up. His hands had such power but moved with such grace, seeing a thumb so crudely placed between the mutant's lips had caused Jaskier’s brain to short circuit for a second. He wondered fleetingly if Geralt handled a cock like he handled a sword hilt – his own or otherwise.
“Poor thing, so hard. Must have been on the road a long, long time,” The woman simpered cajolingly at him and Jaskier gave a shaky laugh as she stepped back from him and began to gather her meager skirts and sink to her knees. Jaskier pulled his shirt up and opened the front of his britches further - he needed to get this over with and take his full mind and empty balls to bed.
“We’ve certainly missed the city and its...,” Jaskier paused and she licked her lips, looking up at him as he said, “charms.”
Jaskier groaned and sunk his fingers into her hair as she leant forwards and he was engulfed in the hot heat of her mouth. Her hand wrapped around the root of him and followed her mouth as she pulled back and then swallowed him again, establishing a pattern.
Jaskier’s eyes looked up, finding a window with a faint light behind it. He wondered how things were going up there – had they progressed similarly? Was Geralt stroking that man’s fine dark head as it bobbed in his crotch? Jaskier moaned and thrusted gently into the woman’s mouth, effecting a muffled giggle from her. He throbbed as his mind showed him a better scene with a different dark-haired man splayed on the bed spread eagle and the silver haired Witcher feasting on his groin in the moonlight.
Maybe they had skipped the pleasures of the mouth? Mouths and tongues were the expertise of people with time and finery – the opportunity to lap an orgasm from their partner and bask in their taste and texture. Was that young man frantic and panting as soon as he touched Geralt’s fine white skin? Was he doing all the work, frenzied and furious, performing in Geralt’s lap as the warrior watched? Or were they a bed of snakes – scarred white skin pressed against slightly tanned skin in a complicated tangle of limbs and tongues, romping and writhing on the large bed Geralt had paid for?
The bard’s head dropped back to thump harshly against the pole and he clenched his hand in her hair as he focused on the pleasure building in his gut. When her fingers toyed gently with his balls, he pictured a large calloused hand tenderly massaging them the same as they did to rub oil into Roach’s chafe wounds.
Large, squared fingers with a knowing, sure stroke. Dipped in oil thick enough it clung in a film between two extended fingers. Jaskier imagined those fingers coating in a thick oil and then applying that oil to him – to make him slick, to make him easy.
Jaskier groaned aloud and made one of his many, many mistakes.
The woman on her knees in front of him stiffened and jerked back, the tip of his erection falling free of her mouth with a soft ‘pop’. Suddenly, she struggled to a stand and was in front of him with outrage on her face.
“Did you just.... did you just moan for the Witcher? You...you, true monster fucker! Lusting after a mutant – and a fucking mutant man!” She shrieked and Jaskier’s hands shot out to muffle her instinctively.
“No, no, no – that's not what you heard. I said -,” He murmured as placatingly as possible as his ears burned red and panic coursed through his chest. She threw herself away from him, stumbling unsteadily with drink as she screeched.
“I can’t believe you! No wonder all your ballads are about some handsome... freak! Disgusting!”
“Melitele, strengthen me,” Jaskier cursed after she spat at him and fled the stable in a rage. He heard the door to the pub open, exposing the cheering and drunken bawdiness to the night air before it slammed shut again. She was likely heading inside to spread his humiliation around.
Jaskier huffed out loud as he did himself up, tucking himself away and savagely tightening the laces before casting a moody glare up at the window that had imbued him with unsettling images. All of this was easily solvable – one drunk spurned spinster against the velvety tones of the most superfluous bard in all the realm was a nonissue. It helped he hadn’t entirely seen her face and would honestly be able to claim he didn’t know her.
Mollified in his burning embarrassment slightly, Jaskier straightened himself once more and headed for the pub. He could slip inside and sidle up the stairs – there was a linen closet in the upstairs hallway he could nap in while Geralt...
Jaskier sniffed to himself and buried the thought, heading for the door and putting his hand on the knob. As he did so, it was jerked open and the person hurrying through the exit knocked into him. They both stumbled slightly.
“Apologies to the obvious personal messenger of the Kin-…" Jaskier started sarcastically before his words fell away.
The man looked at him briefly and Jaskier noted him as Geralt’s young man, his hair far more disheveled and a wild look in his eye. He glanced at the bard so quickly it was almost as if he didn’t see him before he hitched his hood over his head, sidestepped the surprised poet and hurried towards the horse manger. A craven in escape mode, Jaskier noted as he watched the cloak turn to shadow before turning inside.
The bar was still loud and boisterous, people now dropping into their ales or outright sleeping against table legs and log piles for the hearth. No one paid him any mind and he entered, surveyed the room briefly and then resentfully stomped up the stairs. Every step he took he found himself more and more upset – not only did he not get relief but it would appear Geralt found his rather quickly.
Probably in unison.
Jaskier tittered a small sarcastic laugh to himself as he resolved to attempt to remain indifferent. Go in, strip down, get into his bed. He’d wager with how hard and fast this night had gone that the Witcher himself would be sleeping like a strzyga during the day. With almost angry intention, Jaskier didn’t pause at the door and instead barged in and clipped it sharply shut behind him.
“Geralt,” He greeted stiffly as he turned around and paused.
“Jaskier,” Geralt replied without opening his eyes. His head was tipped back and he was resting in the steaming waters of a massive copper tub. It was almost comically large and certainly not intended for just one overly-muscular man.
Jaskier remembered the early times with Geralt and how skittish and furtive he’d been around the mutant when it came to their bodies. It was Geralt who often baldly and obliviously violated the boundary between normal and secretive but did so in such a way as to prevent Jaskier from ever considering before this moment that there was reason for it.
He snorted and tossed his lute onto the corner bed that he’d earlier claimed as his own.
“Waiting for our chamomile oil, are we?” Jaskier meant to ask but it came out as more of a snipe.
“I just got in. Took you long enough to finish up,” Geralt replied by way of explanation, voice flat and unaffected.
No wonder Jaskier had never picked up on it, he decided as he studied the other man. His hair was so white it appeared to shine silver in the firelight but other than the fine hairs curling in the steam from the water and the obvious fact that he was naked, he looked unchanged. The bard unbuttoned and scooped his shirt off, balling it tightly and tossing it aside.
“Yes, well, some of us do our best to make sure the rest of us make coin,” Jaskier replied lightly and ignored the sound of Geralt sitting up slightly in the bath.
“What are you doing?” Geralt asked. Jaskier inhaled sharply as he sat on the bed to tug his boots off.
“It’s different when we’re not sleeping in a bog but this is what going to bed looks like.”
“You haven’t bathed.”
“I’ll bathe tomorrow.”
“And cost me coins by smearing your filth on the sheets,” Geralt commented blithely and Jaskier stood up, unlacing his britches by inserting his thumb in the haphazard knot and jerking it away from him. He dropped the pants and turned his back again, ears and chest flushing slightly as he felt Geralt’s eyes on him.
An arse admiring an arse, he thought with triumph as he wound the pants around his wrist and tossed them atop the pile by his bed.
“Jaskier,” Geralt called him and his voice was unusually gentle as he said, “get in the bath.”
“No, thank-you. I have no desire to be the aromatic in a three-man soup,” He commented as he ripped his thin blanket back and struggled with the damp socks that clung to his feet. The knowing silence that followed his statement did little to lessen his emotional state. Jaskier struggled to sort through what was going on – was he still embarrassed? From outside? From having to acknowledge to Geralt that he knew ? Or was he angry – angry for what exactly? He was angry, he just wasn’t sure why.
Geralt’s head was tilted back on the rim of the tub but he was looking blankly at the ceiling. It was only when Jaskier stilled in his movements to look at Geralt that the Witcher rolled his head to the side and pinned the bard with his lurid eyes. Then, he raised one large lazy hand out of the water and gestured at the other end of the tub.
“Only I’ve been in here and that’s not bothered you before,” He told him lazily and Jaskier fidgeted. There was nothing he loved more than emptying himself balls deep in a rich woman except perhaps a hot bath. The tub was overlarge and the water was darkened with the minerals and salves that the Witcher added for reasons only ever known to him. Steam lapped off the eddies churning on the surface from Geralt’s hand being dropped back in.
“Fine but only because I have standards to maintain. Not all of us enjoy smelling like guts.”
“Mmm,” Came Geralt’s answer as Jaskier approached the tub. The Witcher’s eyes closed in relaxation as things seemingly returned to normal but Jaskier spent too much time looking the situation over. Geralt’s chest was shiny with water and boasted a museum of scars and violence that Jaskier knew continued down his entire body. There was a particularly ugly knife wound that carved over the man’s hip, down the side of his lovely arse and then halfway down thighs harder than tree trunks. Now that he’d started to acknowledge it, simply looking over the other man’s stern form stirred something deep in him - a stirring that would surely be noticed in short order.
He clenched his jaw as he stuck his foot in the water and found it burning hot, not wanting to raise another issue or attract the eye to his slightly growing one. Instead, he got in as swiftly and gently as possible and then sat. Even though he tried, a man can only hiss when his balls are being roasted and hiss Jaskier did. He caught the small smirk that lifted the corner of Geralt’s mouth.
“It’s considered rude to try to slow roast your friends, you know that, right?” Jaskier asked him as he reached over and plucked up the thin goatmilk soap. His reach brought him closer to Geralt, who opened his eyes and turned his head to watch the songbird wash himself.
“Not friends,” Geralt commented with annoyance.
Jaskier nodded sarcastically, pulling a face as he stuck his arm out before him and scrubbed from his wrist all the way up to his neck.
“Yes, yes of course. Not friends who travel together. Not friends who bathe together. Not friends who save each other,” Jaskier listed petulantly as he ignored Geralt’s eyes following his hands. He washed his chest, doing his best not to touch his oddly sensitive nipples especially under Geralt’s unflinching and unwavering scrutiny. There wasn’t any hunger in the Witcher’s gaze but there wasn’t a lack of interest either. Jaskier ignored the insufferable hardening between his legs, parts of him enjoying knowing he was being watched so closely.
“If memory serves, I save you,” The Witcher reminded him dryly and Jaskier pointed the soap at him for a moment before switching arms.
“You save me from monsters and men and all manners of things pointy. I save you from the other things you suffer from – starvation, exile. Ill-repute! Annd,” Jaskier thought briefly for a moment before adding, “loneliness.”
“All things that are only important to you,” Geralt rebuked and Jaskier felt his temper flare slightly while he nonchalantly lifted a leg out of the water to scrub it as well. He dared the mutant to drop his gaze to glimpse him in the water and found the yellow eyes were very carefully focused on his hands moving over his skin.
“Not friends who share a bedroll when it’s very cold, not friends who shared a whore Temeria,” Jaskier continued and watched Geralt’s brow crinkle to a frown that he gave him.
“Hired her on different nights. Sharing is not the same,” He said plainly and it was the poet’s turn to smirk.
“Not friends who trade whores, then. Not friends who rub scars with oil as part of a mysterious and vague Witcher thing that only one of the not friends is really part of,” He continued boldly as he splashed Geralt with water dropping his leg back in the tub.
“Jaskier,” Geralt said warningly as he lifted his opposite leg out and hung it on the edge, toes dangerously close to an annoyed looking monster-hunter.
“Really, truly, well and wholly off in different parts of the world, you see. Different men, different ilk. Definitely not friends. Not friends, no, not at all,” Jaskier was muttering irritably, finding his erection wasn’t flagging with the temper coursing through him. Geralt lifted a hand to the air in exasperation before dropping it back onto his sternum just under the water. He grouchily waited while he watched Jaskier finish scrubbing his leg and conclude his ranting.
“I've offended you,” Geralt interjected finally as soon as the bard paused for air.
Jaskier stopped and stared at him, finding the ochre eyes meeting his gaze and his brain floundered for a moment. He wanted to deny it – offended? No. Angry? Yes. Angry about what? Not quite sure. How Geralt had found someone to fuck? Surely not, that had happened plenty. That it had been a man also wasn’t an issue because something about sauce, geese and ganders.
It occurred to him that it wasn’t simply Geralt’s proclivity for men, but which men.
As in, men that weren’t Jaskier.
It hurt as he figured it out and he realized that’s what had been hurting all along.
“No, no. What’s the word for it...?”
“...can’t possibly be miffed that’s far too easy...”
“Jaskier,” Geralt growled.
“Overlooked! That’s it! Geralt, my dear not friend, you overlooked me,” Jaskier finally concluded as he finished cleaning himself and dropped his foot back into the bath. The Witcher regarded him, face drawn into something closed and speculative. He found himself nearly winded, out of breath from finally parsing the root of the problem. It was all tying together into a nice bow, like a ballad he was almost done writing. An angry ballad he wrote before giving himself a brutal release.
“As you say, Geralt. We’re not friends. Never have been – but by Malleorean standards, you owe me a pearl ring, a farm and a spring wedding. Instead, I got ditched to sing your praises while you played swordsman with someone far less dedicated and, might I add, far less attractive,” He declared as he bitterly tossed the soap back into the small dish provided. With that, he sat back in the tub and mirrored the Witcher’s position of casual relaxation, pointedly threading his legs overtop of Geralt’s under the water.
Geralt was watching him with the same contemplative expression, completely unmoved by his display of temper.
“You’re upset that about him, when you never made yourself an option. Interesting,” He finally said and Jaskier’s mouth dropped open as he sputtered.
“INTEREST - you know? I – never mind. No, you know what? Actually, no, never mind. Soak yourself,” Jaskier announced and pulled his legs back, tucking them underneath him to get out of the tub. He stood to his full height in a show of nerve, knowing his stiff member would be on full display to humiliate him further but he was beyond trying to explain the workings of emotions to someone so terrible at placing them.
He got out of the bath, half-hoping a strong hand would wrap around his forearm but it did not. He snatched up a drying cloth and wrapped it around his hips quickly before using a smaller one to dry his hair. He stomped back to his bed with his back to the tub. The sounds of the water splashing and dripping on the floor indicated that Geralt had gotten out of the tub as well – probably annoyed his bath was ruined by a tantrum – and he dared not turn around and look at him. Geralt post bath was a different type of visual glory that Jaskier at all times did his best not to bask in. When he was already worked up and for some fucking reason still unnervingly hard, he knew it was not the time to start.
It was the surprising heat that blazed off his skin that alerted Jaskier to the fact that Geralt was suddenly directly behind him, shortly before fingers and then a palm smoothed over his lower spine. He stiffened and didn’t move, his chest tightening in shock as Geralt’s warm hand sailed up the left side of his back. A second hand replaced the first, cutting a hard right and circling over his hip. Once there, the hand gripped the bone and pulled him backwards against the pale, scarred chest.
“I don’t do this with...,” Geralt said quietly into the back of his neck and his breath tickled down over Jaskier’s shoulders, causing painfully delicious goosebumps to erupt all over his skin. His breathing shortened as the iron heat in his crotch solidified further. Geralt’s hand slid over the pane of his lower belly, dangerously close to a tenting in the cloth around his hips.
“Friends? Not to worry, I’m nothing of the sort,” Jaskier joked in a strained voice as he resisted the helpless urge to rock his hips, desperate for the impossibly gentle hand wandering up to his sternum to return below and wrap around his cock.
“I can be intimidating and... fear stinks. Men are adventurous but easy to scare,” The Witcher said and his voice dropped dangerously as he muttered the last part, “You never smell afraid. Even now.”
Jaskier was feeling a lot of things and fear was the last thing on the list. A shocked type of frantic arousal, a smugness akin to a cat who received milk, an uncomfortable contrast between his wet skin and the air wicking moisture off of it, a raging burning desire to grab his own cock – or Geralt’s, really – mixed with a delirious desire to do anything the warrior asked of him, yes.
“I guess it’s finally time to tell you danger is a bit of a drug for me,” Jaskier told him breathlessly as Geralt’s fingers glided roughly over his nipples and he jerked just so. His eyebrows raised themselves while his eyes slid shut as the feeling of hot lips touched the top of his left shoulder, followed by a barely audible growl.
“Fuck,” Jaskier whispered out loud as his body heaved with overstimulation. He could feel every drag of every finger, his nipples were pinched tight in the humid air, the hot skin of Geralt’s chest against his back, the cool metal of his Witcher’s medallion and shockingly the stiff press of a rousing cock against his rear. The knowledge that he was physically reacting to Jaskier himself seared through the bard’s memory and his breaths became shaky and whooshed out on the exhale, panting. His single epithet then turned into a string of whispered curses, “Fuck fuck fuck fuck.”
“That is what you wanted,” Geralt rumbled from behind him and Jaskier tried not to jump as somehow the material around his waist unknotted and fell free, puddling on the floor around his ankles. He gave a normally charming but now shaky chuckle and spoke to the wall when he asked, “Oh, just me?”
“Mmmm,” Was Geralt’s reply and his hand slid down the inside of Jaskier’s forearm, wrapping gently around the appendage to turn him around. He was moved in a small circle to face the other bed and a small jab made him stumble. He turned to look at the rogue with one eyebrow raised in a show of false bravado.
“Grabby. Bossy. Like usual. I like it,” He said as he slowly backed up, watching how the other man’s feral gaze finally climbed down his body. He cocked his head, seizing the opportunity to behold what was prowling up on him – massively wide shoulders, faintly pink nipples, a tapering torso that led to thick hips and muscled thighs. All his body hair faintly gleamed as he passed through the firelight. His normally bright eyes had gone darker, an ethereal gold that seemed to glow with a predatory interest.
“My bed is bigger,” Geralt observed with a calmness not felt by Jaskier. He felt like he was thrumming with a strange alertness and his brain was avidly recording every moment for prose later – this body being the most scarred, mutated and yet godly creation he’d ever seen. He was all moving muscle and battle wounds, feline grace and a heavy, demanding erection that made Jaskier swallow quickly. The only fantasy he’d ever allowed himself of the Witcher before tonight was servicing him – guiding him to hardness because of his reluctance to yield to himself.
Geralt was the opposite of everything he’d anticipated; there was a terrifying focus and fire of arousal on his face instead of chagrined acceptance. He emitted an intoxicating, suffocating intensity that made Jaskier want to be a leaf on his wave, be swept away by the sudden and plain want that came out of nowhere. Normally, admittedly, Jaskier was often the aggressor in his relations with men. Now, he wanted nothing more than to let Geralt do whatever he wanted. He surprisingly found he hungered for it.
Geralt approached him and gave him another short shove that sent him back onto the wider bed. Jaskier found himself giving a loud chuckle even as the larger man crawled up the bed and effectively covered his body.
“Scary and arousing – scarousing,” He joked suggestively.
“Shut up,” Geralt told him plainly as he loomed over him and seized Jaskier’s mouth with his own, locking them into a fiendishly hot kiss. Whatever Jaskier had to offer by way of lip and tongue, Geralt took, explored and searched for more. Every kiss was returned with a suck, every nip returned with a bite, every gasp returned with a mouth being invaded. Geralt’s hand slid up the side of his jaw and fisted into his somewhat too-long hair, pinning his head to the bed while the demon plundered his mouth. Jaskier’s hands went on separate journeys, his left down the man’s side feeling every groove and ridge to finally grasp the devilishly hard muscle of his pale ass and listlessly tug his hips downwards while his right snuck between them and frantically feathered between trying to grab his own and Geralt’s hardness as they pressed tightly together. He wasn’t sure whose hips were undulating so – or if it was both of them, but he struggled with any real grip or grasp to produce any grunt or groan.
“Wait, wait, wait. We can’t just do this like stable boys -,” Jaskier protested weakly, arching with a sharp grunt as Geralt’s hand wrapped around his cock and his teeth sunk into the bard’s shoulder.
“Stable boy would be on his front already,” Geralt muttered, eliciting an affronted scoff from the man beneath him. Their tongues battled through another scorching kiss before Jaskier bucked and wiggled, squirming out from underneath him to shove the Witcher onto his side. He panted slightly before he reminded cheekily, “Stable boys are rude.”
Now that he was free, had mobility and before he could lose his nerve, Jaskier dove face-first towards his lap. He wasn’t generally the person diving for the cock when he was with men either, but he found himself face-to-face with it and suggestion became action. He didn’t bother looking up to try to figure out what was rolling across Geralt’s face like an inky snake, this was for him.
Geralt was larger than usual, a grossly unsurprising perk for someone with so many other things stacked for him in the body department, with a decent girth. It jutted heavily against the flat muscle of the Witcher’s lower stomach and rose out of a darker thatch of hair. There was something surprisingly foreign as well as hauntingly familiar about having a cock in his hand and as he stroked it and leaned forwards to take it into his mouth, excruciatingly easy.
The best part of stooping to this particular level of salacious depravity was the harsh groan and delectable curse in Elder tongue that sang over his head. He felt more than saw Geralt’s head fall back as his hips rolled and barely restrained themselves from thrusting him down Jaskier’s throat. To his credit, the bard had guessed this reaction and bobbed back before swallowing him whole. A male whore he’d had in Redenia had told him that the thickest spit that makes the longest lasting lube was at the back of your throat – pair that with going deep in the first strokes, you do less work for more reaction. He covered his teeth with his lips and took Geralt as deeply as he could, relaxing his throat and letting the salty head mingle past his tonsils before dragging him back up.
Geralt’s groans and curses and twitching and – finally – his panting moans were a symphony to Jaskier’s ears. He sounded similar to when he was in battle, rough and ragged and breathless. The only thing that was lacking was the anger – it was replaced with a grunt similar to a rattle that sounded at the back of his throat, keening and helpless. His thighs and their beautiful bunches of muscles tightened and twitched while his breathing hitched and struggled. Jaskier watched as he did everything he could remember from every time he’d been cross eyed and weak. Balls? Massaging in gentle circles. Occasionally gently tugging which the mutant seemed to like by the sharp gasp that faded into a strangled purr. Suction? Constant check. Tongue always swirling, wagging, ducking and flicking? Check. Hand following his mouth? Always.
Jaskier himself was harder than he thought possible for how much he was concentrating and felt a beaded drop of precum drip and then roll down the thigh he had tucked under him, leaving a cold trail as it went. It contrasted with the other quickly cooling drops of water on both of their bodies.
Gentle hands appeared on his shoulders. Geralt shuddered and applied more pressure, suddenly forcing him off as he murmured, “Don’t make this where it ends, as nice as it is.”
Jaskier sat back, feeling suddenly bold and triumphant. There were spots of colour in Geralt’s normally pale cheeks and his hair was a wild silvery mess from tossing his head against the mattress. The moisture from the bath looked to have been replaced by sweat and the expression he wore was piercing and savage and he once again looked the troubadour up and down, only more blatant hunger bled into his features.
“Well then – now you fuck me,” Jaskier declared.
Geralt’s eyebrows bobbed upwards in time with a mask of false surprise.
“Is that where this is going?” He challenged and Jaskier gave a false laugh.
“Oh-ho-HO! Look, someone made a joke,” He said sarcastically as Geralt rolled his eyes and grabbed his shoulders to push him down on his side in front of him. Jaskier’s back was once again to Geralt’s chest, a move he found he wasn’t against.
“Better than a mess,” Geralt said into his ear, causing Jaskier to shudder and reach a hand up over his hip to search behind him, finding the still-sticky hardness that pulsed with an unnaturally slow beat. His moving hand was grabbed and removed to his fleeting dismay before the firm grip guided his hand to his own weeping phallus and placed it firmly around it.
Obediently, he did as he was bid. The sharp intake of breath in his ear followed by a hiss of enjoyment as his hand began to pump himself was more than enough reward. He could practically feel Geralt’s hungry gaze watching his pink tip disappear in and out of his fist. The sure application of pleasure was also there – he knew exactly what he wanted and he pursued it immediately. Geralt’s hips thrust against his arse, dragging the hot organ between the cleft of his cheeks before they were squeezed tightly with kneading hands. Jaskier set his jaw, pushing his rear backwards and fisting himself tighter as he sought something more.
Geralt provided it – fingers massaged his balls between his legs and then caressed the tingly tissue behind them before coursing up and tracing through Jaskier’s ass. Beyond normal sensory reserve, Jaskier found himself moaning as the fingers stroked his hole, circled it. A thick finger pad would press against it just so, enough pressure to make him want to give a little but never enough to enter. The dryness of the stimulation was both a blessing and a curse.
Jaskier lifted his head in between panting moans and said, “There’s oil...overrrrrr, ah, in my pack.”
Unfairly, Geralt’s hand disappeared from its scintillating activity so he could sit up, propping himself on one arm as he reached over the top of the bed and grunted, “I’ve some here.”
“Oh, we both have oil. Not so rare, am I?”
“Some women take oil,” Geralt replied as he opened a small purple pot.
“That,” Jaskier said smartly, “is because some of the women you sleep with are centuries old. Literal ancients, if you think on it -”
“Don’t worry who I need it for when I currently need it for you,” The Witcher replied shortly as Jaskier reached behind him again to grab at his lovely prick. It didn’t need the constant attention, he just found he liked giving it. Geralt grunted at the contact, music to Jaskier’s ears, and he had half a second of glimpsing Geralt’s thick fingers now coated liberally with the oil, which would only become less viscous with heat and friction. It was a sight he’d almost driven himself mad with earlier and he couldn’t help the groan that slipped out as Geralt’s fingers returned to their mission and he felt his entrance liberally smeared with it. Then, the tantalizing pattern of stroke, circle, poke started again. Geralt pressed close against his back again and placed an absent kiss to his shoulder blade as he looked over into Jaskier’s lap.
The hand that trailed below Jaskier floundered for the hardness it had earlier stroked. When Geralt arched his hips forward and returned it to his grasp Jaskier found himself lining it up with his rear and gasping, “Oh, yes please.”
“One thing at a time,”Geralt admonished as he finally pushed a finger through and probed him deeply, curving slightly it slightly and making Jaskier’s mouth fall open. The sensation yanked a long, desperate groan from the bard. Geralt was uneven for a moment before listening to Jaskier’s moans and finding a rocking, rhythmic motion that caused ripples of pleasure to surge up his spine.
“Ohhh, no, two things at a time. Please,” Jaskier begged as he panted and wiggled under the noticeably calloused hand that held his hip tightly.
“Use your hands on you. Show me,” Geralt directed raggedly and Jaskier hurriedly returned to his task, the sound of the normally unaffected mutant becoming desperate and hoarse only adding to the mountain of sensation he was feeling. Jaskier was rewarded when the single finger pulled out, two knuckles were rubbed through the excess oil melting between his cheeks and then the single digit was replaced by the scandalous press and drag of two.
He pulled pleasure from himself with his hands, half distracted and half spurred on by the constant ministrations to his arse and the tantalizing pop and fizz of his nerves as it felt like his skin lit up. He felt it where he was pressed to Geralt, where his hand gripped and pulled over the tip of his cock, the heinous and raunchy pleasure of Geralt’s fingers as he probed, pulled, curled, thrusted and scissored his fingers inside the bard’s body all the while listening to his gasps and cries. Jaskier could occasionally feel the brush of the blunt head of Geralt’s cock on his ass, nearby and waiting. It drove him near insane with anticipation. Now that he’d tossed the rock, it was forming a landslide and he wanted with a fathomless, frantic desire. The small little croaks and groans Geralt was making were what Jaskier want to hear moaned into his back and all but sobbed into his mouth.
He was dangerously close and cast his hand away suddenly, trying not to let himself fall over the edge. Not when he hadn’t gotten what he wanted.
“I can’t, I can’t. Not enough -,” He choked and Geralt gave a soft grunt when he arched his rear again to drag along the man’s cock. A large hand clamped down on his hip and he heard a growl that was muffled behind closed lips. Jaskier sighed as the fingers were pulled from him and he felt Geralt reach, heard the lid of the oil pot scuff. He heard the fighter’s sharp exhale and felt the movement when the oil was applied to his erection before his presence against his back returned, molding flesh to flesh as they both huffed with anticipation.
One finger, Jaskier gasped.
Two, he pressed his face harder into the straw mattress and moaned.
Three, rotated and plunged in and out of him almost dispassionately made him whimper and grunt.
Then there was a slight stillness and he felt a massive press against the ring of muscle. It was hot, large and blunt and Jaskier exhaled shakily as he forced himself to relax and accept the intrusion. Instead, he found himself baring down and with a small thrust, the head of Geralt’s cock slid through. It demanded sharp, ragged groans from the both of them. There was a brief, seized pause before Jaskier breathed heavily and relaxed around him. Geralt’s hand was warm and reassuring on his hip, gripping him gently as he slowly pressed deeper.
It was the Witcher’s salacious, chuckling moan into the back of his neck once his hips were flush with the bard’s ass that made Jaskier begin to move. The oil was thick and almost unpleasantly greasy until he ground down with it – then the taut fullness threatening to break him into two became a saw of pleasure as he rocked and produced exquisite friction. It was agonizing perfection, curling up his spine and singing through his cock and all localized through the same place where they joined. Finally, Geralt responded gently to his thrusts, deepening it by moving up when Jaskier moved down. They were awkward for a few moments, finding hand placements and the right motion before Geralt let out a sharp groan and Jaskier sighed, a grin creeping across his face.
“There he is,” He gulped breathlessly and Geralt’s answering murmur turned to a growl that had the bigger man shifting his body weight onto one arm and his hip, centering the poet parallel to him to fuck him with purpose. Jaskier’s fingers clenched on the bedsheets and his mouth formed a small choir ‘o’, head thrown back along the Witcher’s clavicle and shoulder joint. Geralt’s hand left his hip briefly to knock Jaskier’s forgotten hand back towards his crotch in reminder.
“Not a lot of time,” Geralt muttered raggedly into his ears and Jaskier nodded dumbly, taking himself into hand and cursing the deliriousness he was entertaining, adding jerking himself to the confusing mix of touch assaulting him.
“Never had someone who wanted to see so bad,” Jaskier tried to joke weakly as he himself followed Geralt’s gaze and watched himself pumping frantically. He paused briefly to reach behind him and steal some oil, returning it to his cock and whining as it enhanced the feeling further. Pleasure was threatening to take over, seize all his nerves and swallow his brain. He was barely aware of the harsher movements that would leave him sore, the loud grunts and gasps emitting from both of them as they rocked and arched together. Every drag of Geralt’s cock inside him was driving him closer and close.
“Not want – need,” Geralt replied and the actual desire forced into the word caused Jaskier to choke on his moan and grit his teeth. It was all too much, he felt like he was about to be torn apart in the best of ways, fragmenting into the void.
“Good fuck, Geralt!” He cried out once by way of warning before the pleasure eclipsed him and his brain went white. He seized, letting out a loud shuddering moan as he gently pumped himself through the orgasm. He could feel what of his release that didn’t spurt onto the bed ooze out over his fingers as he shuddered around the Witcher moving in and out of him with increasing speed.
“Fuck,” Geralt answered suddenly before dissolving into a long, drawn out groan as he stiffened once more. Jaskier could feel the somehow violent yet slow pulsing of his orgasm as Geralt emptied himself inside him, shuddering violently before easing into a limp silence.
A few seconds later, he felt Geralt shift and made a soft noise as the quickly deflating organ left him. Despite knowing he was a sticky mess of semen and oil, he found he couldn’t be bothered to be upset by it or move away. A heavy glow of satisfaction settled in his chest as he gingerly rolled onto his back beside Geralt, who had flopped onto his own back and had let out a large, contented sigh.
“Shall I go back to my own bed?” He asked, half joking, half worried.
Geralt’s eyes had closed and his normally tense face was utterly relaxed and unlined in the firelight, framed by a halo of sweaty white hair as he muttered, “Don’t play coy. Sleep here – you’re going to have to ride a horse tomorrow.”
His breathing was starting to slow and a lightheaded giddiness was trying to nurse him to an immediate sleep but Jaskier roused with confusion, “Hm? Ride? Where? We’ve only been here a night.”
They only ever stayed in one place for two days.
“I’ve a contract. Nightwraith, half a day’s ride away.”
Jaskier’s eyes opened incredulously and he gawked at his bedmate, who was pointedly unaffected and still had his eyes closed. He’d even shifted slightly onto his side and had an impossibly muscular arm carelessly laid over Jaskier’s sternum.
“If you had a contract, why was I putting on a show for everyone downstairs?”
“Got it after your show. From the lad,” Geralt told him, referencing the dark-haired young man on a mission. Jaskier bristled slightly.
“You managed a fuck and get a contract in such a short period of time? Stable boys are ruder than I remember,” Jaskier told him tightly, doing his best not to get angry.
“Only you said we fucked. Boy’s mother can’t let go of her husband, snared a wraith. Would never forgive the boy for hiring me,” Geralt explained gently. Understanding flooded Jaskier and it was so sudden and complete he couldn’t even find it within himself to be perplexed. He stared at the Witcher accusingly and got no response. Manipulative mutant freak.
“He wanted privacy, so you brought him here.”
“Mmmm,” Geralt hummed his confirmation. Jaskier finally felt himself blush and found he was grateful the Witcher had his eyes closed.
“So, you just let me...embarrass myself. Ranting and naked and...and saying all that.”
“Seemed like it needed saying.”
“Oh,” Jaskier echoed faintly as he stared at the ceiling in surprise. He finally decided that Geralt wasn’t wrong . If it hadn’t turned into an issue that came out now, it probably would have at some point. Or he’d have to have kept having very private, hopefully invaded, solo sessions in the woods where he was very firmly not thinking of his road companion.
“At the very least, there’s a very catchy song in all this,” He attempted to goad him one last time.
Geralt’s sudden deep sigh and long, low breaths indicated he’d fallen asleep.
Well that settled it, Jaskier decided dazedly as he shifted to openly gaze into the Witcher’s sleeping face.
They were definitely not friends.