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Geralt Discovers His Prostate

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Geralt Discovers His Prostate


When it comes to sex, Geralt is slow to start and slower to finish, to the benefit of lovers and to the drawback of whores.

He’s given up trying to warn prostitutes that they’re going to be in for the long haul. They usually flutter their eyes indulgently and feign excitement when he tries, possibly seeing him as another man looking for an ego boost, boasting his own prowess.

By half an hour of Geralt’s missionary-style rutting—short, steady thrusts that show no sign of growth or wane—they seem to understand that he is serious. He at least offers them orgasms, should they ask.

Lovers, or those perplexingly eager to be fucked by a Witcher, seem to enjoy him quite well. But in exchange for keeping his coin from the whorehouse, Geralt is forced to apply suitable effort into their own pleasure. His repertoire of positions and his knowledge of the intricacies of a woman’s cunt built up over years of practice, until he could take a woman apart a hundred separate ways with the skill and strategy of a, well, Witcher.

Fucking was a need, a need that was currently making itself known tonight. Lack of sex brings arousal, which brings distraction which brings dead Witchers. That combined with the fact that if Roach had to spend one more day in this endless storm she may end up actually leaving him, meant he had to find a stop for the night.

Luckily he knows a settlement in the area, and he manages to get Roach under shelter and into a stable before she could kick him off and find one herself. He leaves her with an apologetic pat to her damp hair which she shakes off dismissively, and drops a coin in the hand of the waiting stable boy, pail shaking in his hand.

Geralt has enough money left over for three nights at the inn, or one night at the inn and an hour with a whore. He glares down at the gold in his hand, wishing for it to multiply beneath his eyes. It doesn’t.

When Geralt walks into the whorehouse, the man behind the desk gives his eyes and hair a look and hastily calls for Trisha, who seems to remember him, despite him not remembering her.

Geralt is just relieved he doesn’t have to deal with anyone’s fluttering eyelashes.

He strips as he enters the room, and he takes her mouth silently until he grows suitably hard. She falls to her back and opens her legs, and Geralt slides into her heat with a breath and begins to rut.

“Think you can, ah, only make me feel it at the end, Witcher?” She asks. “Been a long day and my insides are sore.”

Geralt grunts; it’s all the same to him. He falls back to sit on his knees where he can avoid hitting any spot inside of her that feels pleasurable.

“Ya know,” she starts after a while. “It’s a good thing you’re here.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, don’t know if it’s your kinda job, but the baron’s daughter’s betrothed has gone missing.”

Not likely a job. “How long has he been missing?”

“Three days.”

“He probably ran away,” Geralt says, shifting his hips slightly to gain better position.

“You think?”

“If it was ransom, they would take the daughter. A jealous female lover would likely poison him and leave him to die. A monster may have got to him, but it is much more likely he ran away of his own volition.

“Why’d he run away?”

Geralt snorts. “Men can run away from home for many reasons. A betrothed man usually only runs away for one.”

“A thousand crowns for his return, though,” she points out.

Geralt makes a considering face. “Worth a look, I suppose. Where can I find the baron?”

“He lives in the giant beast of a house on the top of the hill, but you can find his post at the tavern,” she says. “Are you close to finishing?”

“No.” Geralt says.

Trisha sighs.




Geralt walks back to the tavern with his hood up to avoid the rain, tension gone from his body after his release, getting the whore off twice for her trouble. He makes his way down the road, sun on it's way down, and ducks into the nearest tavern. The waters of the rain run down the dirt road, picking up mud and shit and who-knows-what else to wash down the slope of the street.

The tavern is alive with energy, the whole town seemingly present to escape the mulish rain. His sticks to the wall to avoid the crowd and buys himself a small meal, starkly aware of the lightness of his coin pouch.

He eats and drinks, and drinks, and drinks, until the night has well fallen and the music has stopped. As he polishes off the last mug, before he can peruse the contract wall, he’s approached by a group of men, all nervous except for the brave faced one in the front, who asks for help clearing a monster that’s been terrorizing the streets at night.

He negotiates a price that at least affords him breakfast in the morning, and sets off with the men for the location of the monster. When they arrive to the location of the killings, he waves them back to the tavern for their safety, and expands his senses to the surroundings.

He finds the problem soon enough. A lone drowner had made itself a home in a sinkhole in a clearing behind several of the homes, one that had filled with runoff of the rain. It was rare to find one on its own, but Geralt theorizes it had followed the streams caused by the rain down the mountain and into the city, perhaps on accident.

When the drowner emerges, disgusting and angry, it’s more brown and yellow than its usual green. As it approaches, it doesn’t take long to realize why.

As the rains had been pouring for nearly a week, causing minor floods along the downward-sloping roads, the pond in the clearing was filled to the brim with that runoff, runoff which contained the contents of every house’s chamber pot thrown out for the last week.

The drowner was literally covered in shit.






For the contract, the men had only offered him enough coin for another meal in the morning. But when he returned to the tavern later, reeking with the scent of a thousand men’s digested dinners, even the barmaid chipped in enough to afford him access to a bath.

They had better toss a fucking coin.

Geralt drops the pouch in the one hand of the innkeeper’s that wasn’t closing his nose, and he points him to his room, and then, the bath room.

It’s late enough that the shared bath is empty, though Geralt is sure the room would have been cleared out the second he entered. With jerky, furious movements, Geralt strips his clothes and tosses them into one of the two bathing tubs, ruining the clean water almost immediately.

Geralt inappropriately uses Igni to turn the water in the second tub from lukewarm to nearly boiling, then sits on the stool next to the bath, fills up a bucket, and dumps the water on this head.

Reaching for the soap, Geralt begins to scrub his body vigorously.





“What do you mean the bath is in use?!” Jaskier whines to the innkeeper, hands crossed and clutching his own biceps as he shivers and drips like a wet pup. “It is a public bath!”

“Trust me son, I’m saving you a world of trouble. There’s a Witcher there with the vilest of scents; I’d be surprised if we had soap to spare after he is through.”

Jaskier pouts. At the celebration of the birthday of the baron’s daughter a few days prior he was invited to sing and to mingle, and those both he had done; though it could be argued that the latter he had done too well, as he had ended up being chased by the baron and his guards after he was caught in bed with his daughter’s betrothed, who had renounced his future title in favor of Jaskier’s cock and had ridden it during a three day long wine and cheese binge.

He at least had the wherewithal to realize he’d stepped in it big time, though he tried to explain to the baron as he was fleeing that the betrothed had an itch the daughter couldn’t scratch, but the bard, with his brightly colored clothes and musical background and flexibility, in every sense of the word, had the preference and parts to do the trick.

Yet they seemed unwilling to communicate, as so many men are these days, and had run him from the shed they’d holed up in at the corner of their property, his lover calling to him as he fled for his life, slipping and sliding down the hill the house was perched upon and into the forest. At least he had been paid for the party well in advance, well enough to afford a bath at the inn of one of the distant settlements at the base of the mountain, where he could reapply his perfumes and salvage some of his clothes, and perhaps regain some of his dignity as well.

But his plan had hinged on the inn having a bath he could use, and Jaskier curses whoever had so selfishly dared to take it for themselves, and if the innkeeper were to be believed, for nearly an hour so far, with no sign of being done. What kind of man is so selfish that he—

“Wait,” Jaskier says. “Did you say Witcher?”





Geralt sighs as he scrubs at the last spot on his shirt. His own body is clean enough, though at times he was tempted to cut off all his hair as he became worried it would never run white again.

Geralt’s scrubbing pauses for a moment at he hears steps leading to the bath room, rhythmic, as if the person was skipping with great energy.

Preemptively, a headache sprouts behind his eyes.

The door to the bath room opens, and in steps a familiar man, soaking wet and wearing a painfully bright orange outfit.

“Now, I heard there was a Witcher in here, and I’m hoping you’re the one I know—Melitele’s tits, what died in here?”

“You, in a minute,” Geralt growls, wringing the water from his only shirt.

“Oh Geralt! I should have known you’d be the one holding up the bath!” Jaskier, the relentless weed of Geralt’s life, offers him a wide, sweet grin from across the room that makes Geralt’s Witcher heart skip a beat. Geralt turns as Jaskier begins to strip. “It’s been much too long, my friend.”

“No, it hasn’t,” Geralt grumbles, but despite everything, he can’t help the twitch of his lips as he goes to collect his armor that’s scattered about the room.

“Hush, I know you missed me. Though when I suggested you added some better scents to your selection of oils and perfumes, this is not quite what I had in mind.”

Geralt turns just as Jaskier tosses his smallclothes onto a bench, and doesn’t hide his smirk this time as Jaskier walks with confident steps to the tub, then freezes as he catches sight of what’s in it.


Geralt cocks an eyebrow.

“…You know this is supposed to go into a latrine. Or chamber pot. Or, hell, you could have hoisted your ass out the window.”

“Is that so.”

Jaskier puts a hand on his hip and looks at him like he’s scolding a child. “Did you shit yourself in the tub? What in the name of the gods have you been eating?”

“Drowner living in a shithole,” Geralt explains as he gathers the last of his armor.

“And I suppose you dove in after it?”

It had actually attempted to drown him, which is one of his usual way of fighting the things, but Geralt has never, ever, regretted that strategy more. “I did what I had too.”

“Well you ruined the fucking bath, for sure,” Jaskier pouts.

“You can try the other one,” Geralt says, starting for the door.

“I would, but you seemed to have used all the soap up as we—don’t leave, wait!”

Geralt walks into the hall and down towards the rooms. Jaskier follows behind with his clothes in a wet ball in his hand, bare feet slapping against the ground. “Stop leaving me you ass—speaking of ass, is that thing below your back from all that horse riding?”

Geralt doesn’t deign that with a response as he twists the key in the lock.

“Perhaps I should ride a horse myself, hm? Though with the amount of times I’d ridden Nathaniel’s cock you’d think it’d be enough,” Jaskier mutters.

Geralt furrows his brow, unaware, but unsurprised, at Jaskier’s preference for male company. He gets the impression he was not meant to hear that muttered confession, spoken at a volume human ears may have missed, and decides to ignore it.

Geralt begins to set up his clothes around the fire to dry. When Jaskier starts to do the same, Geralt turns his glare on him.

“What are you doing, Jaskier.”

“Setting up my clothes to dry,” Jaskier says confidently.

“I don’t remember inviting you to stay,” Geralt says.

“At this point in our relationship you don’t need to invite me, I know you’d rather save half your coin by sharing a room with me, isn’t that right?” He stands up tall with his hands on his hips.

Reluctantly, annoyingly, Geralt realizes Jaskier’s read him like a book.

“Are humans all so small?” He asks, gesturing between Jaskier’s legs, deciding to go for a cheap shot instead of admitting Jaskier was right. He turns to his bag to pull out pants to sleep in as the bard sputters.

“It’s cold!" Jaskier squeaks indignantly. "Plus this magnificent beast requires stimulation to be unleashed!”


“I do not like the way you hummed there,” Jaskier threatens as Geralt makes his way to the bed. “And I will have you know that many a woman have written sonnets about what I can do with my manhood! Songs have be sung from every hall in Oxenfurt—”

Geralt groans. It is going to be a long night.





Jaskier finally runs out of steam when Geralt’s glare goes from I’m-tolerating-you annoyed to I’m-going-to-kill-you annoyed, which is a fine line to walk given how close the two expressions are on the Witcher’s face. The key is to look between the eyebrows and judge the depth of the omnipresent agitated furrow.

Jaskier escapes to grab his bag from where the innkeeper was keeping it as he took his bath, and dances back to the room in nothing but his smallclothes, pulling out something to sleep in.

Geralt had already fallen asleep by the time Jaskier finishes his nightly routine, and Jaskier takes a selfish moment to observe the man’s face, unfettered by the weight of too many years of life on his shoulders. His white hair is fanned across the pillow, loose.

Jaskier has always wondered, as he climbs into bed behind the sleeping Witcher, why he keeps it so long. For a man who cares little about vanity, it seems an odd choice to not keep it trim and bare like he does his face. Perhaps it’s easier to cut his own hair if he keeps it around his shoulders, though Jaskier likes to think more romantically than that, likes to think that maybe it serves as something he can control in his chaotic life, or perhaps it serves as a bit of vanity he can call his own.

Jaskier hopes he never cuts it. So far it’s always been a little bit longer every time he sees it. One of these days, he is sure he will be able to wear Geralt down into allowing him to twist it into a braid or two.

Jaskier falls asleep with his fingertips still clutching the ends.




Geralt wakes with Jaskier’s hand in his hair, fast asleep, moaning into his neck. He gets out of the bed, passing the man’s reactions off as the remnants of good dream.

A dream that could theoretically be about a man.

Which Geralt knows, objectively, is not a big deal. And yet, for some reason, he can’t seem to get that little fact about Jaskier out of his head.

There’s nothing wrong with it. He’s done enough odd things with enough woman to understand that no sex is technically ‘normal’. But what is the appeal? It must hurt if they penetrate one another, men’s bodies not designed as well to take intrusions.

A woman’s body is soft and fertile, and, as a male, he feels the biological urge to get them pregnant. That makes sense to him. His body doesn’t know he’s sterile, just that instincts shouldn’t be denied.

Admittedly, some women are nicer to look at then others, and Geralt can’t really explain that. Perhaps the search for a suitable mate is an explanation to the draw of the same sex. When he’s approached in a tavern, or given eyes by a grateful would-be victim, he does find that some expressions and features make him faster to stir and to finish than others, though fast in the context of Geralt still isn’t very fast.

Unbidden, Geralt tries to think of a man whose face has stirred that feeling in him, who his biology has considered ‘nice to look at’.

He blinks, then looks to his left at Jaskier, who has turned onto his stomach in sleep. His hair is a mess, he’s snoring, and his open mouth is drooling into the pillow.

And he looks nice.

“Hm,” Geralt says.





“So, what’s the plan?” Jaskier says between bites of egg. Geralt has returned to his usual beautiful, brooding self, armor spotless and hair tied back behind his head. “Another day galivanting into the woods?”

“Not yet. Have to wait for the rain to clear,” Geralt says. “But the baron is offering a thousand crowns for the return of his daughter’s betrothed, which is big enough to investigate while I’m here.”

Jaskier freezes on the spot. Geralt notices immediately.

Geralt heaves a heavy, weary breath. “What did you do.”

“Who’s to say I did anything!” Jaskier proclaims, though he realizes, with a visible wince, that he put emphasis on the wrong word.

“Jaskier. What did you do.

Shit—he needs to phrase this right, less he reveals himself as being not as strictly dedicated to women as he proclaims. “I… may… have convinced the lovely Nathaniel with my, uh, words, that it is important for him to be himself, or, at least, be with someone who will allow him to be himself.” Jaskier is certainly sure there would be many a woman that would be happy with a man that had no need of sex with her outside of a child, but Nathaniel's fiancée has been demanding it of him. Nathaniel was handsome and rich enough to swing another baroness somewhere, and Jaskier, in all his heart, had tried to convince him to leave.

Geralt stares at him.

“Either way, he is no longer missing, as we were found in a building at the edge of their property. While he was ‘rescued,’ I was chased through the rain and the forest until I came across you last night,” Jaskier says, rubbing his shoulder. “But worry not! Now that he’s been returned, I am sure the search for me has been called off, and, though I may never be invited back again, at least until the baron and his wife pass on, I still managed to get my name to be known by this town! And that's the goal, really.”

Geralt looks as exasperated as Jaskier expected, and he supposes he’d be mad as well if he’d lost out on a thousand crowns. But Jaskier’s gotten very good at reading the Witcher after the past decade or so of on-and-off appearances in his life, lately more on than off, and is surprised to detect a bit of sorrow in his expression as well. For a second Jaskier imagines that Geralt was aware of the truth, that for a moment in time Jaskier existed in a world where a viscount and a baron could have more than three days together. That he could understand that, though their time together was brief, he’d given Nathanial a piece of that fantasy world where he could be with someone he prefers to be with, not limited by the expectations of nobility.

“Fine,” Geralt says gruffly, and he stands. “I’ll check the wall instead.”

When he returns, Geralt’s face is murderous, and he sits down and immediately chugs his ale, a bold decision for breakfast time.

“Use your words, Geralt,” Jaskier goads.

Geralt drops the empty mug on the table with a clatter, gritting his teeth. “The only contract in the whole fucking town is more fucking drowners,” Geralt seethes. “I’m not fighting more fucking shit-soaked drowners. I’m not.”

Jaskier gives him what he hopes is a comforting smile. They both know that is not true.





“Toss a coin to your Witcher! He’s swims through your sew-age, he’s covered in horse shit.”

The tavern roars with laughter.

As Geralt had spent most of the day clearing out drowners that had invaded the town in the rain, though this time avoiding being drowned in the septic pools they had taken residence in, Jaskier had decide to change the lyrics to various Witcher-centric songs to literally represent that shit Geralt had been going through.

At first, Geralt assumed the bard was making fun of him. Already he was annoyed as hell having to sit in the tavern in his wet-yet-clean clothes. Now, having Jaskier and the whole tavern laugh in his face, he was ready to leave the Jaskier in the proverbial dust.

But Jaskier’s plan soon became known, and Geralt had to admit it was rather brilliant. The lyric changes meant the crowd was even more involved than usual, as the stories had become personal to the town. And despite them laughing at his misfortune, they piteously dropped more money than ever before on his table with sympathetic expressions on their faces, a far cry from the fearful, hateful ones of before.

Jaskier jumps into his seat at the table after begging the patrons for a short break. He counts his money with eager fingers, then, without hesitation, he hands it all to Geralt.

Geralt can’t hide his confusion. “What is this for?”

“For missing out on your thousand crown opportunity,” Jaskier says. “Besides, we’re traveling together all the time and I’m rolling in riches from your stories, least I can do is share the load.”

Geralt had never in his life felt hesitation to take coin when offered. Trust Jaskier to change that.

Geralt sighs. “Jaskier, I do not blame you for Nathaniel.”

“Really? It is definitely my fault he left in the first place; had I held on a day longer in the shed you could have found me, returned him, and been able to eat something with actual substance for once.”

Truthfully, Geralt’s unsure if he’d have returned Nathaniel. Knowing what he knows now about Nathaniel and Jaskier, it's not something that would sit right with him.

“It’s nothing to worry about, bard,” he says.

“Still. Take the money, I’m doing alright on my own,” Jaskier grins.

Geralt takes it quietly, and adds it to his own meager pile, then pours both into the suddenly full pouch at his side.

Geralt looks back at Jaskier’s smile. It’s nice to look at. Fuck.

He avoids looking at it for the rest of the night, and instead drinks, and drinks, and drinks, until he feels a little fuzzy around the edges and Jaskier had gone up for an encore.

When Jaskier’s eyes leave his face, Geralt abandons his table and exits the tavern.





“You’re back quite soon,” Trisha attempts a smile.

“I’ll still pay, but I’m only here for a few questions.”

Trisha shrugs and pulls her dress back on. “Shoot, Witcher.”

“If you feel discomfort speaking about this at all, I’ll leave at once, but I wonder… Why would a man have sex with another man?” Geralt has accepted the fact that he likes the way Jaskier looks, that he likes Jaskier as he is, but there’s one part of everything he can’t put his finger on.

Trisha raises an eyebrow. “What an interesting question for you to ask. I suppose it’s the same reason why a woman may want to have sex with a man. It feels nice.”

“Do they… penetrate one another? I cannot imagine that feels good.” And yet Geralt can’t stop thinking about it, about the logistics involved. He supposes for one of them it must be the tightest feeling on the Continent, but the other must be in such pain. Geralt wonders how much. He could handle it, for Jaskier. But the idea of subjecting Jaskier to his long sessions is nearly unbearable for him to think about.

Geralt’s getting ahead of himself. He has no idea if Jaskier has any of that kind of interest in him. Just because Geralt’s suddenly realized he’s in one of Jaskier’s gender preferences, doesn’t mean he is his preference.

Trisha gives him a searching look, then beckons to him to lean closer. “There is a spot inside of a man, just as there is inside of a woman,” she quietly.

Geralt furrows his brow in confusion. “I think that is something I would know.”

“How many men have you had sex with?”

Geralt stares at her.

“And how many have I?”

Geralt glares at her.

“Some men have grown curious and tried on themselves, some whisper to each other in the back of bathhouses. Some have wives that fear no God. All I know, is that I can put the smallest finger of my left hand inside your body, and you will be singing like a bird.”

“I doubt that,” Geralt says.

“A crown says I can,” she grins.

A crown is a crown, Geralt supposes, so he strips off his clothes and lies on his back, extremely skeptical but willing to try.

“Who knows, perhaps this is the solution to your extended release problem,” she says. She’s still in her dress, and has a bottle of lubricating oil in her hand, which she pours out onto her hand.

He settles himself back down on the bed, and, after a hesitation, spread his legs. It feels rather vulnerable, but there’s nothing she can do to him that can hurt him, so he forces himself to keep them wide.

Geralt grunts when her fingertip presses against the skin of his hole. The tip slips in, and Geralt can’t help but clamp down on it.

Relax, Witcher,” she says, and he attempts to stop clenching down so hard, taking a few meditative breaths, which allows her to slide it in further. It feels incredibly uncomfortable, his body fighting valiantly to push the finger out.

She pushes far enough in that the palm of her hand meet Geralt’s ass. It feels like an intrusion on his person, something making space where there isn’t any. Geralt fights the urge to squirm.

She moves it back and forth, and the feeling of something being wrong doesn’t quite abate, and he’s ready to tell her to remove her hand and pay up before she moves her finger upwards, and suddenly it feels… good.

“How’s that feel?”

She’s rubbing her fingertip against the top of his passage, back and forth against a spot inside of him, each movement better than the last. The uncomfortable feeling of being intruded still remains, and he sort of feels like he needs to relieve himself, but that sensation feels less and less important in comparison to the warmth growing in his groin.

“I may need to press a little harder,” she says, and she doubles the upwards pressure.

Geralt lets out a noise he’s never made before in his entire life. Like a gasp that had been strangled halfway out of his throat.

She pauses. “Are you alright, Witcher?”

Geralt nods, eyes wide.

“Do you want me to put in another?” She asks after a few moments.

Her ideas have yet to be wrong, so Geralt nods again. She pulls her fingers out with a slick sounding noise that make Geralt wince.

She pushes back in with two fingers, and the discomforting feeling returns, but this time, it’s accompanied by a steady burn. He grunts as she finds the spot again with practiced ease, and begins to move against it, an inch each way. The sensation of that burn and that pressure against his sweet spot blend together harmoniously, blend so well that a shiver breaks out across his body.

“Faster,” he says before he can stop himself.

He ignores her self-satisfied smirk in favor of the sparks dancing in the pit of his stomach. His legs more or less fall open, and his cock miraculously begins to harden, faster than ever before.

He’s never felt anything quite like this.

Trisha grabs his cock in her free hand and locks her lips around the tip, suckling the head and dipping her tongue into a bit of the leftover skin around the edge, and Geralt feels a moan rip its way from his throat. The sensation rapidly begins to overwhelm as she increases the speed of her fingers, sucking him with skill and depth. He tosses his head back, spine cracking as he stretches his chest upwards. He’s panting now, his normally slow heart pounding in his neck.


She picks up speed again and he closes his eyes, suddenly aware that the unfamiliar sensations inside his body are rapidly hurtling him towards an orgasm that usually takes ages to reach. His fingers claw at the sheets as the pressure expands, overpowering every bit of control he’s ever put in place at once, the burning, and sparks, and the sharp, glorious heat of her tongue—

Fuck!” The pressure doesn’t release so much as it explodes. His voice is somehow harsher than usual, moans punching their way out of his chest as he spends with such strength his hips jerk upwards with his release.

This is what it means to come hard, he thinks, dazed. He sinks into the thin duvet, his muscles relaxed like he’s spent three hours in meditation, ripples of phantom sensation echoing across his body.

“How was that, Witcher?” Trisha grins, leaning back on her heels and wiping her fingers on the sheets.

Geralt moves to the bag beside the bed, digs out a crown, and tosses it to her. She giggles in delight.





When Jaskier stops playing for the second time that night, he is starkly aware that Geralt had left. While that isn’t as surprise, he is slightly worried he’s upset the man with his joke songs, even though they were twice as successful as his usual ones. He knows enough to make sure these particular changes to his lyrics don’t become regularly sung. Songs personalized like this never become popular, but Geralt may not know that, may think Jaskier plans to tease him about this for the rest of his life.

He’s not surprised to find Geralt in the room, already changed and pulling his hair from its tie. Jaskier likes him like that, likes the way his hair falls straight around his head, likes it even more when it grows wet and waves wildly around his face. Yes, likes Geralt's hair an awful lot. He’s also desperately in love with him. A common occurrence for someone as capable of emotion as Jaskier.

“You know I mean nothing by those songs, Geralt.” Jaskier says. “As fun as it is to poke fun, it was mostly to remind the village members of how extra-hard your job was both yesterday and today.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, sitting on the bed.

Jaskier supposes that’s the best he’s going to get. He prepares himself for bed, humming a tune he’s been working on, when, so quietly he thinks he imagines the words, Geralt says, “Thank you.”

“Do not mention it, dear Witcher,” Jaskier says. “Though. There is something that you could do for me in return.”

He turns to see Geralt giving him a surprised, anticipatory look.

Jaskier steels himself for the request. “Let me braid your hair?”

“Oh,” Geralt says. “Why?”

“It’ll be easier to deal with when you wake up in the morning,” Jaskier says, deciding to give a reason that Geralt may actually accept.

“Okay,” Geralt says.

“It’ll only take a second,” Jaskier whines automatically.

“I said yes.”

“That.” Jaskier blinks several times. “That you did. Huh, okay, hold on.”

Jaskier drops to his knees on the bed behind Geralt, and grasps the surprisingly soft strands in his fingertips, combing through them with his fingers. He separates the hair into three at the base of his head, and begins to cross them over each other, braiding the hair down his back, and ending it with a small tie the he knots at the base.

“There,” Jaskier says.

Geralt’s hand comes to trace the braid down the back of his own head. He hums non-committedly, then slips under the covers with no fanfare.

Jaskier falls asleep staring at the braid on Geralt’s head.





Geralt wakes up with Jaskier’s nose against the back of his neck and an arm tossed over his chest.

He carefully untangles himself and sits up in the bed. The sun is finally shining through the windows, and it’s time to move on.

His hair is still tied up in the braid. He undos the knot at the base and it begins to unravel, and he helps it along until it falls around his face. The braid had caused the hair to wave slightly, and when he pulls it back to tie it away from his face like he usually does, he can see the ends of the wave as it falls back over his shoulder.

He likes it, not because he thinks it looks nicer than it usually does, but because Jaskier did it.

Geralt finishes packing, then lifts the heavy bag containing his sword, and drops it against the hardwood floor with a loud thump.

Jaskier wakes with a start, pushing himself to halfway seated, hair mussed and drool at the corner of his mouth. He looks really nice.

“Hey. Hey! No, no, no, do not leave me, Witcher,” Jaskier warns, scrambling out of the bed.

“I’ll be at the tavern for breakfast,” Geralt says. “Join me there when you are through.”




“Where to next, oh Witcher of mine?” Jaskier sings as Geralt walks Roach into the sunshine.

Geralt likes the way he feels when Jaskier call him ‘his’.



“That’s the way the road goes.”

“Cannot find fault in your logic, dear Witcher!”

Geralt likes the way he feels when Jaskier calls him ‘dear’.





And just like that, Jaskier is back on the road with Geralt of Rivia, headed on his next adventure. He is so excited he can’t stop from singing and strumming his lute long the way, making up stanzas about sunshine and rainbows and puddles on the road.

On this new journey, there are a few changes that Jaskier has noticed over time. For one, the Witcher seems to be slightly more introspective than usual, though given Geralt’s usual tendency to never share a single feeling with anyone, he’s unsure why he finds this so surprising.

For two, Geralt takes a new interest in his education of outdoors living, showing him how to start a fire and skin a hare (never again), and search for berries that aren’t poisoned. Geralt even hands him a dagger about a week in, the wooden handle chipped but the blade sharp and dangerous, and makes to teach him how to use it. Jaskier then proves that he already knows how to use one, at least as much as any other man, but the rare look of pride on Geralt’s face when Jaskier demonstrates a simple slash-and-stab fills Jaskier with so much elation he spends the rest of the day singing his heart out, likely to Geralt’s chagrin.

In the mornings, Geralt wakes much earlier than usual, presumably to meditate, though Jaskier finds he takes much longer than he usually does, and has decided to utilize the practice in private, instead of falling to his knees with his eyes shut tight at the corner of their campground like their previous travels.

And, likely Jaskier’s favorite change, and also the most objectively perplexing, is that every night Geralt allows him to braid his hair. While Jaskier may find the process intimate, may dig his nails into Geralt’s scalp just to enough to hear the happy little huff Geralt makes at the feeling, he knows that at the end of the day it’s as utilitarian as any other one of Geralt’s practices, protecting his hair from the harshness of his pillow and the dryness of the air.

Though Jaskier, for the life of him, cannot understand why Geralt does not learn to do the process himself, a question he would never pose to Geralt. Nevertheless, Jaskier spend too much time stroking his fingertips through the strands under the guise of detangling, convincing Geralt that stroking and massaging his scalp every night is necessary before beginning to twist the strands. What does Geralt know of proper haircare?

Jaskier is happy with this new normal. It’s the most of the Witcher he’s ever received.

They stop in a clearing after a long day of travel and set up camp at a small campground that must have been left from many a traveler before, given that logs were positioned around a well-used fire pit.

Jaskier sets up their tent, another useful skill, as Geralt goes digging around the area for a particular flower that makes good use in potions. After he collects enough, he hunts as Jaskier starts a fire while the sun begins to set, and they eat hare cooked over the flame and Jaskier feels the most at home he’s ever felt in his entire life.

And then Geralt breaks the silence in the most absurd way possible.

“You’ve fucked men before.”

Jaskier chokes on his bite of hare, legitimately chokes. Geralt watches him with an eyebrow raised as Jaskier falls off the log hacks up a lung into the grass, finally getting the piece of bone he swallowed dislodged from his throat.

“You horse’s ass,” Jaskier inhales heavily. “I could have choked to death, and you just watch?”

“You were coughing. You were fine.”

Jaskier moans as stands back up, spotting the two grass stains on the knees of his pants. “These are expensive, Geralt.”

“Answer my question.”

Jaskier swallows. “That was a question? You do know questions are usually followed by a change in pitch of the voice, correct? You can’t just issue a statement and assume the listener has any understanding of your words.”

“You seem to have no understanding at all given that you’re not answering the question,” Geralt says, doing the thing with his lip that Jaskier, for his sanity, has to assume is a smile.

“I beg your pardon—”

“Answer the question, Jaskier.”

“Yes.” Jaskier blurts. “I have fucked men. And what is it to you?” Jaskier crosses his arms.

Geralt stares at him, then turns to look into the fire and asks, carefully, “What was it like?”

He intonates his voice properly for a question this time, Jaskier has to give him that. But then he swallows again, because Geralt really just asked—is he about to have the conversation?

“It. Well, it is utterly fantastic, from either end of it, really,” Jaskier says.

“Hm.” Geralt continues to stare into the fire, elbows on his knees, hand warming themselves over the flame.

“Why do you ask, Geralt?”

Geralt doesn’t respond, nor does he look like he’s going to respond, but that has never, ever, stopped Jaskier.

“Are you curious?” Jaskier says slowly, moving himself so that he sits next to the Witcher. “Is that why you ask?”

Geralt stares into the fire.

“It’s okay to be curious, Geralt,” Jaskier feels like a father consoling a son. “In fact, this is something many an Oxenfurt student was curious about at some point in his time. Indeed, an awful lot of the students there had such a fondness for the similar sex it was almost commonplace. Actually, a lot more than I have found in other places,” Jaskier muses. “Though what drives such a man to art and music? Perhaps there is something to that correlation?”


Jaskier eyes the larger man. “Or perhaps not, given your question and your clear preference for brooding silence and black clothing,” Jaskier says. “But now we return to my question: Why did you ask me this, Geralt?”


How someone manages to speak nothing but silence, Jaskier is unsure, but if anyone were to manage it, it would be Geralt, wouldn’t it?

“Is it just a passing thought? I suppose men who don’t feel stirrings in the chest from the sight of other men may have this thought before, but who am I to know, I am not one of those men.”

“A prostitute put a finger up my ass,” Geralt says.

Jaskier’s brain stutters to a stop, the swiftly begins anew. “That is… quite the mental image. How was, uh, that?”

“It felt good.”

“It tends to,” Jaskier says. “The feeling alone isn’t indicative of an attraction to males, though.”

“What is?”

Jaskier feels as if his heart was going to beat so hard it would stop.

“Well. They’re men. They are nice because they are… manly.”

“The wordsmith speaks.” Geralt snorts. “Men are manly.”

Jaskier puffs up his chest. “Well if you don’t want my help—"

Jaskier’s voice peters off into a squeak as Geralt meets his eyes again, his stare as deep as it always is. “Tell me, Jaskier. What is it about men that you like?”

Is this flirting? This is flirting. This is flirting? Mentally, Jaskier thinks ‘fuck it,’ and takes a leap of an edge.

“That they are strong.” He says lowly. “Rough. That they can dig their fingers in hard enough to bruise. How you can feel the remnants of their cocks inside of you for days. Do you think about that, Geralt?”

“No,” Geralt says. “I think about you.”


Well, fuck.

Jaskier goes to slam his lips into Geralt’s but Geralt is faster, and their lips collide with a force that nearly unseats Jaskier from the log. Geralt steadies him with his hands then rolls him onto his back, and he lets himself be led, barely able to believe that this is—

“Wait,” Jaskier says. “Did you just imply I am not strong? Or manly?”





“I didn’t imply it,” Geralt says between hurried kisses. “I said it.”

“You… ass… mmm.”

Leave it to the bard to try to talk his way through kissing too. Geralt manages instead to shut him up with his tongue.

Ten days of giving the bard enough survival skills to not be completely useless as he travels with the Witcher, ten mornings with fingers up his own ass attempting to find that spot without any of the skill of the whore, ten nights of Jaskier’s fingers making love to his hair and not, in fact, to him, and Geralt snaps.

Geralt’s hands wander across the bards body greedily, loosening his garish blue doublet and scratching under his shirt to feel his skin. He’s wiry, not thin, hairy, not smooth, and somehow exactly everything that Geralt wants, despite his unfamiliarity. He is reactive as well, moaning into Geralt’s mouth, his legs coming to wrap around his waist, positioning Geralt’s clothed cock against his ass, probably assuming that that’s what Geralt wants.

Geralt breaks the kiss. “I want you to fuck me,” he says.

All of the air leaves Jaskier’s chest in what sounds like a wheeze. Geralt smirks and kicks off his boots. “Can you?” He goads.

“Can I? Yes! Yes I can! Of course, I’m surprised that—well I guess not,” Jaskier babbles and Geralt pulls down his pants and smallclothes and works them over his ankles. “Given that we started this conversation with you asking me about my feelings on the manner, then telling me about how you had a finger up your ass—.”

“Shut up and take your cock out.”

“I can do one of those things,” Jaskier says, unlacing his breeches and pulling down everything below it enough to reveal his cock, throbbing and red and wet and… nice looking. Geralt needs more adjectives.

Geralt is fairly surprised that the small thing he once saw hanging between Jaskier’s legs, the thing so small it made him question every story told about the bards prowess, did actually grow to a decent size once aroused. Part of him that had never done this before is worried we hen sees it, but another, primal part of him was pleased. It would burn, and it would hit that spot, and Geralt could get off whenever he pleased.

Geralt, clad in only his black shirt, swings a leg over the log Jaskier is resting on, massive, milky white thighs gleaming in the setting sun.

Jaskier looks dumbstruck, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, chest heaving and heart pounding. Geralt can hear his blood rushing in his neck, smell the dirty-dark scent of his arousal beading at the tip of his cock.

“G-Geralt,” he stutters when he meets his eyes. “We should probably, ah, prepare, before you…”

Geralt ignores Jaskier’s babbling, and positions his ass over Jaskier’s cock.

“Geralt, wait!”

Geralt pauses, then stands back up from his crouch. His brow furrows, because he believed he had read this right. Does Jaskier not want this?

“I want this!” Jaskier almost shouts.

Well then. Geralt grunts, and crouches back down.

“Stop, stop, stop, you imbecile,” Jaskier smacks his thigh, and Geralt stands up again, furious.

What, bard?”

“If you enter me like that, it’s gonna hurt,” Jaskier says. “In my bag, grab the chamomile oil if you please. A favorite of mine, given its relationship to that delicious ass of yours. Speaking of…”

Geralt growls and steps over the log again to walk to Roach, stripping off his shirt as he does. Roach gives him her most judgmental look as he rummages through Jaskier’s bag for the bottle, and turns herself away from the two of them with a huff when he digs it out.

When he returns, Jaskier is in the same position, mouth open wide.

“You’re drooling,” Geralt says, and he lets the oil drip into his hands.

“Your body is—you are a God, Geralt. The way the sun hits your skin, the shape of your ass, tight and yet still so massive—"

Geralt reaches down and strokes Jaskier’s cock to full hardness, and Jaskier’s monologue about the size of his biceps stutters off into a moan. And Geralt, once again, straddles the log, and lines himself up.

“Wait, you need fingers—”

“I have had fucking fingers every fucking morning, I need your cock.”

“You—wait, every morning? That’s—ffff… ohhhhh gods above that’s tight.”

Never will Geralt admit to the sound he made when he begins to sink down on Jaskier’s erection. The head stretches him just as wide as three of his own fingers, but as he slips downwards, it goes so much deeper. The burn follows the intrusion inside his hole, forcing his insides so wide he’s sure for a moment he will burst.

“Great gods you’re so fucking t-tight and, and somehow burning hot, and—Geralt, as this is y-your first time, you should be moving up and down in small movements, n-not just sinking straight down—"

Geralt ignores him, as usual, sinking in further and further until his hips fall flush with the bard hips. He makes a noise heavy with strain, gasping when he’s able to sit astride Jaskier fully.

Jaskier looks wrecked. He’s gazing at him with wide eyes, hands holding onto Geralt’s hips for dear life.

“G-Geralt,” Jaskier pants. “Are you hurt? How do you feel?”

“Full,” Geralt grunts. “Burns.”

“It would not have burned as bad if we stretched you open first,” Jaskier gripes.

“Good thing we did not,” Geralt says. He clenches and releases around Jaskier, and takes no small pride in the way Jaskier’s eyes roll into the back of his head.

There’s many ways he can go with this, Geralt thinks as Jaskier attempts to stave off his own orgasm. He could lift himself up and down, he could move his hips forward and back, or rotate them around.

Lifting seems like too much for now, so he decides to sit tall and move forward and back, like he does when he rides Roach at speed.

He starts, very slowly, and lets the moans building in the back of his throat fall from his lips. It’s just him and Jaskier and a thousand woodland creatures, he can let go.

“Okay, you know what? I am just going to accept the fact that you are a Witcher and maybe that means you can handle more than the usual man, and try really hard to ignore how hot it is that you like the way it burns, and, fuck, you’re going faster, hooooo baby, okay let’s just, ah, let’s just breathe, together—”

Between his legs it burns and sparks, and feels fucking fantastic, and Geralt chases that feeling, picking up the pace further, arching his back to try to get a better range of motion.

“Geralt! You are killing me, hah, how can you keep this pace—why do I even ask, oh fuck! Geralt, fuck, I am not going to last—”

Geralt slows to a stop and growls. “No. I am not done with you.” He leans forward, hair falling over his shoulders, and begins to properly lift up and down off Jaskier’s cock.

“How the fuck is this your first time?”

Geralt lets out a strangled moan in return. The head of Jaskier’s cock was sliding against his insides as he moved up and down, more slowly this time. He wonders if… He arches his back again, then rests his hands on Jaskier’s chest to sit up a little straighter, and—there.

Jaskier’s cock rocks against the sweet spot inside of him, and he howls and rides him faster. It burns hotter than it ever has before, the sparks fly so high they burst behind his eyes, and the only thing that would make the experience tip from amazing into overwhelming would be—

Geralt lets out a raucous cry as Jaskier wraps his fingers around his dripping cock between their bodies. Jaskier jacks him off with determination, babbling and stuttering something Geralt can’t hear because his senses are overwhelmed with sensation. And Geralt meets Jaskier eyes, and for a second everything catches, everything goes still, and all he can see is baby blue and red cheeks and pink lips in a perfect ‘O’, before the levee breaks and time rushes back and he comes with a thunderous shout.

His knees buckle as he spills all over Jaskier’s doublet and fist, raspy gasps following behind as his thighs shake.

“Holy shit,” Jaskier breathes. “Ho-ly shit. How, that is. That was. Geralt, I am out of words. I don’t run out of words, Geralt! And I have!”

“It certainly doesn’t sound like it,” Geralt can’t help but tease. His eyes are shut as he rests his body on Jaskier for a moment.

“Oh do shut up and dismount me, beast.”

Geralt snorts, but obediently stands up, Jaskier’s cock sliding out of him and hitting his doublet with a thwap. He’s not prepared for Jaskier to stand up as well, wrap his fingers into Geralt’s hair, and pull him into another kiss.

Geralt lets him, and snakes a hand between their two bodies, one clothed and one not, to wrap around Jaskier’s prick, warm and wet. Jaskier breaks the kiss to whine when Geralt grasps him, and Geralt carefully watches his eyes as he grips him.

He’s never done this to anyone but himself, and the differences, though few, are there. He grips firmly like he prefers, but Jaskier winces, so Geralt lightens his touch. He tries to twist his hand at the base but nothing changes. He twists at the head instead, and Jaskier moans, so he continues that motion, watching as Jaskier’s eyes go soft around the edges, as the flush rushes up his neck and to his cheeks, enjoys, perhaps too much, the way Jaskier’s fingertips dig into his scalp and pull at his hair until finally he jerks in Geralt’s hand, spend striping up Geralt’s chest.

Jaskier slumps forward and Geralt catches him, rubbing his back gently. The moment is… sweet, Geralt thinks.

“You ruined. All of my clothes.”

Never mind.  “This is what you worry about, bard?”

“And you’ve likely ruined me for other men as we—”


The strength of Geralt’s voice surprises the both of them.

Jaskier smiles then, too sweet and too knowing. Geralt grunts and turns away. “I suppose another person falling victim to the charm of Jaskier is inevitable—”

“I did most of the work,” Geralt points out, leaving Jaskier to sway on his feet as Geralt goes searching for his clothes.

“But you could not have done it without me, Witcher! Could you.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, hiding his smile as he pulls on his pants and checks on Roach, who is staring pointedly at the forest away from them.

“And next time, and there is no way there is not going to be a next time, we’re doing this in a bed at an inn. Or at least a bedroll. And I plan to be naked! I have standards, Witcher—”

Geralt snorts as he pulls on his shirt. Not if he’s with him.

“And I demand to be wooed, especially if you decide to stake your claim! The finest dinner, and wine, I miss wine. I will not put out for anything less than that.”

“I’ll buy you an ale at the next town and let you ride Roach,” Geralt says.

Jaskier crosses arms. “Deal.”