It’s late when Jaskier finally makes it up to the room and Geralt can smell the mix of wine and proud satisfaction that usually follows him post-performance as soon as he opens the door. He doesn’t really need to smell Jaskier to know that he’d been well-received, he’d spent the evening listening closely for any suggestion of trouble from the tavern below and heard nothing but praise and increasingly inebriated attempts to sing along, but it’s a smell he enjoys nevertheless.
The room would be near pitch black to a human but Geralt can see Jaskier clearly as he carefully feels out his way to the bed and makes a valiant attempt at being quiet as he sheds his doublet and kicks off his boots. He sways a little as he walks and Geralt wonders if he’d underestimated just how much of the drunken singing had been Jaskier’s own.
Jaskier pauses by the side of the bed for a brief moment and tilts his head in consideration but whatever had entered his thoughts proves no match for the temptation of getting into bed as quickly as possible. He shrugs to himself and crawls under the covers, tucking himself up against Geralt’s side.
“You’re a terrible actor, my very awake witcher,” he whispers cheerfully, unapologetically slipping his cold hands under Geralt’s shirt and chuckling when he twitches in response, “you know you don’t have to wait up for me every time.”
Freed of the expectation of any further pretence but reluctant to explain that, yes, he would in fact be staying up until Jaskier returned to the room every time, he adjusts his position so he’s wrapped tightly around Jaskier and lets himself drift into sleep.
When Geralt wakes he’s greeted by early morning sunlight and the sound of faraway roosters crowing. Unsurprisingly, Jaskier is still sleeping soundly, his face half pressed into his pillow and one arm flung proprietarily over Geralt’s chest. His hair is sleep mussed, his chemise is slipping haphazardly off one shoulder and he’s snoring lightly. He certainly doesn’t look, to Geralt’s irrational irritation, like he’s going to wake up anytime soon.
It’s a rare occasion that they’re able to simply relax, without having to set out early to track a monster or follow up on a contract but Geralt’s last two hunts had proved especially lucrative and Jaskier’s scheduled to perform next month in a city close enough that they’re free to meander their way to it. They can definitely afford to sleep in late, even if Geralt has yet to develop an aptitude for it.
So there’s really no reason to wake Jaskier up yet. Other than that Geralt wants to.
He wants to fuck him, of course he does with Jaskier already looking halfway undone, but also just to relax into the comforting familiarity of Jaskier’s background noise again, his talking accompanied by the faster thud of his waking heartbeat. The desire rests in the back of his mind with a palpable foreignness, a stretch of a muscle he hasn’t previously had much cause to use. He hadn’t realised he would be able to feel it, this hunger simply to exist in another’s company.
He’s pulled from his thoughts when Jaskier squirms uncomfortably in his sleep and lets out a soft whine. Geralt frowns. A nightmare? Jaskier isn’t typically prone to them and even less so, Geralt thinks, with no small amount of smugness, when he falls asleep next to his witcher. Still, restless nights are an inevitable by-product of life on the Path and Jaskier’s seen far more monsters far more closely than the average human. Geralt runs what he hopes is a comforting hand through Jaskier’s hair and wonders whether waking him might be the altruistic choice after all.
His internal debate is interrupted when Jaskier shifts position again and Geralt feels the firm line of the bard’s cock pressing into his thigh. Jaskier makes a barely audible breathy noise and jerks his hips, once, twice, desperately seeking more friction now he’s in a position for it and Geralt smiles to himself. Not a nightmare then.
It’s hardly the first time he’s witnessed Jaskier in the throes of a libidinous dream and it’s certainly not the first time he’s lain awake with Jaskier asleep and rutting desperately against him. Even before they’d started doing it deliberately they’d often had little choice but to share beds when inns were especially full or their coin pouches especially empty and Geralt had lost count of the number of times they’d woken up hard and entangled in one another’s arms. Of course, in those days such an awakening normally preceded nothing more than an awkward morning and a somewhat guilty wank as soon Geralt had a moment’s privacy.
Things are different between them now.
If past experience is any indicator Jaskier will want to tell Geralt all about this dream later, maybe while they’re fucking or maybe, if he’s feeling particularly bold, he’ll whisper the details while they’re in public, quietly enough that no one without a witcher’s hearing would be any the wiser. So Geralt might as well help make it a dream worth talking about.
He lets himself start slowly, tracing the lines of Jaskier’s body, and enjoying how responsive he is to the touch, even in his sleep. Maybe especially in his sleep. He leans into Geralt’s touches without any of his typical playful recalcitrance and he seems even more sensitive than usual. A brush of Geralt’s fingers along his thigh makes him groan softly in his sleep, a long, trailing caress from his collar bone to his hip makes him twitch and fidget in place. Geralt shifts his hips away from Jaskier’s erection and lets the bard thrust desperately against the empty air for a moment before he finally gives in and palms him through his pants.
The heat coiling in his gut is pleasurable without urgency and he allows himself to take his time touching Jaskier teasingly through the fabric and enjoying the way he squirms and mumbles in his sleep in response. When his own erection becomes too insistent to ignore entirely he pushes himself upright until he’s sitting on the bed, lifts Jaskier carefully onto his lap, one steadying hand at his back, the other still at his crotch, and lets himself rock his hips gently and indulgently against Jaskier’s arse.
Whether it’s the movement, the position, the new feeling of Geralt’s arousal pressing into him or a combination of the three, Jaskier wriggles into Geralt’s hold and his heartbeat speeds up in wakefulness.
“Hrnnf,” he mumbles without opening his eyes, “...G’ralt?”
Jaskier makes a happy little noise at the confirmation and buries his face into Geralt’s neck. His movements are dozily sluggish and he still seems more asleep than not but he grinds languidly against Geralt’s hand with a contented sigh as he repositions himself more comfortably on the witcher’s lap.
“Need a few more minutes,” Geralt barely manages to make out Jaskier’s words through his yawn, “don’t stop though, I’ll be….” he trails off with a small, muffled snore.
Geralt stifles a snort of laughter. Jaskier’s always sleepier when he’s drunk and it seems that he’s still feeling the effects of all the wine he’d had the night before. If he keeps going like this Geralt might even be able to make him come before he’s woken up properly.
His hips jolt involuntarily at the thought and Jaskier tenses at the movement, mumbling unintelligibly under his breath and shifting his thighs restlessly against Geralt’s. Geralt stills, holding himself as steady as he can, and rubs his hand slowly up and down Jaskier’s back until the bard is practically melting into the touch, loose and pliant with no trace of the tension he’d been carrying. A soft hissing sound fills the room.
For a moment Geralt thinks it’s just another of Jaskier’s sleep noises. Then, with an entirely unexpected flare of heat, he registers the distinctive scent of fresh urine in the air. Belatedly, Geralt remembers that Jaskier also always wakes up needing to pee when he’s had too much to drink the previous night. He reflects back on Jaskier’s sleepy squirms and whimpers and realises, half guilty, half impossibly aroused, that he’d been desperate for a pee all morning.
Jaskier jerks against him with a horrified gasp, suddenly wide awake. He swears helplessly under his breath and tenses in Geralt’s hold, managing to slow his stream to a stop but not before a small patch of wet warmth has started to spread under Geralt’s palm. He pulls it back from Jaskier’s crotch just enough to see the small dark patch staining the front of his breeches and Jaskier chokes out a humiliated keen, letting himself fall limply forward until his head is resting on Geralt’s shoulder. His hands twitch in place against Geralt’s waist as if it’s taking all his strength not to jam them both between his thighs. Maybe it is.
Geralt should probably help him. The thought comes to him detached and absent, like distant birdsong when he’s deep in meditation, but he acknowledges it all the same. There’s a chamber pot under the bed, he could help Jaskier up and retrieve it for him. He could do that. He should do that. At the very least he should look away from the wet patch that Jaskier’s clearly so embarrassed by but he can’t quite force himself to do it. He can feel the heat of Jaskier’s face where it’s pressed against his neck and hear the uncomfortable sounds he’s making, he can smell the faint trace of fresh urine and he can see the way Jaskier’s shifting and squirming on his lap with new intensity, clearly dying to finish his pee now he’s let a little go.
He doesn’t want to help Jaskier to a chamber pot and he doesn’t want to look away. He wants, with a desperate ferocity that burns under his skin, to hold Jaskier in place as he squirms and whines and, finally, loses control and wets himself properly.
Right onto Geralt’s lap.
“Damned Est Est,” Jaskier mumbles sheepishly, mostly to himself, “always goes straight through me.”
Geralt’s never given much thought to Est Est before but he feels a sudden rush of dizzying gratitude towards the vineyards of Toussaint and all the fans who’d spent the previous night trying to buy their way into Jaskier’s favour with wine. He lets his palm fall back over Jaskier’s crotch, rubbing the damp fabric against Jaskier’s still hard cock and enjoying the way the bard moans softly in response to the touch despite himself.
“Geralt I…” Jaskier’s still grinding restlessly and absently against Geralt’s hand as he attempts to wriggle his way out of the witcher’s hold, “I really need to get up.” He doesn’t make eye contact when he says it, looking intently past Geralt’s shoulder and studying the wall of the room.
He just won’t stop moving.
“Why?” Geralt doesn’t know why he asks, really. He knows why, they both do. The incredulous look Jaskier’s overcome his embarrassment to direct at him only serves to reinforce that. It’s obvious. But he wants to hear Jaskier say it.
“Wh- why?” Jaskier stares at him for long enough to decide he’s not joking and blushes an even deeper red when he replies, “I have to pee, Geralt! Rather badly, in fact!” He’s squirming frantically, as if saying it out loud has made the urge even more intolerable, and Geralt’s sure he’d be dancing on the spot by now if he was standing. ‘Rather badly’ is an understatement, he thinks, hungrily. Jaskier’s unmistakeably desperate for it.
With Jaskier awake and sitting up of his own volition Geralt’s steadying hand between his shoulder blades is largely superfluous. He trails it down Jaskier’s side, his touch ticklishly light, and Jaskier shivers with a desperate whimper. The wet spot at his crotch spreads a little further under Geralt’s hand and the bard swears again, anxiously, tensing his whole body to stop the flow and making a hurried, ungainly attempt to manoeuvre himself off of Geralt’s lap. Without consciously deciding to, Geralt grips his thigh and holds him still. Jaskier groans.
“You’re going to make me wet the bed,” he protests with a nervous, self-deprecating giggle and another shift of his hips. Geralt tightens his grip with a growl and Jaskier swallows, his eyes widening in realisation.
“…you’re going to make me wet the bed.” He says it differently this time, with a mix of finality, trepidation and excitement. He’s still embarrassed by the idea, undoubtedly, but Geralt can smell a new thread of spicy lust curling through his still sleep-heavy natural scent. Whether he’s enjoying his desperation for its own sake or simply enticed by the effect it’s having on Geralt, Jaskier wants this. Geralt pulls him closer and inhales the scent of Jaskier’s desperation mingling with the urine he’s not quite been able to keep in and groans, helplessly. Jaskier shakes his head slowly in amazement.
“Melitele, you really like this, don’t you?” Jaskier’s always quick to intuit Geralt’s desires and, often, even quicker to play along with them. This is no exception. He’s still flushed with embarrassment when he tilts his head towards Geralt’s ear and whispers, “do you want to see me piss my pants?”
“No.” Geralt takes a deep breath and focuses on the unwavering scent of Jaskier’s arousal. “I want to make you piss your pants.”
Jaskier shudders and his cock twitches against Geralt’s hand.
“You’d better hurry up and make me then,” his face reddens even further but he keeps his eyes fixed firmly on Geralt’s, “because I really can’t hold it much longer.”
The effect his words have on Geralt is so intense that he could almost believe that Jaskier was exaggerating how close he was to losing control purely for Geralt’s pleasure. But he’s not. Geralt can smell the sheer desperation behind his words and his squirms and whimpers lack any of the intentionality and refinement that Jaskier wouldn’t have been able to resist if he were performing. He’s not feigning it and he’s not embellishing his need. He’s authentically, helplessly, perfectly desperate.
And Geralt’s going to make him wet himself.
The thought prompts an acute rush of arousal and affection in equal measure, that he’s going to make Jaskier wet himself and that Jaskier, his vain, hedonistic bard, is going to let him. It won’t take much now. Jaskier’s fidgeting constantly, his thighs trembling with the effort he’s expending to keep it in, and he’s whining low in his throat, quiet and unceasing.
Geralt grips Jaskier’s cock a little more firmly, and allows him a moment to sigh in relief at the increased pressure before he moves his other hand over Jaskier’s bladder and presses.
“Fuck!” Jaskier yelps and Geralt feels him lose a little more into his smallclothes. Seemingly acting on instinct he jams a hand between his thighs, right over Geralt’s, and clenches hard. It’s almost painfully intimate, both of their hands on Jaskier’s cock as he struggles to hold it in, and Geralt feels himself twitching frantically against Jaskier’s arse in response.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying this,” Jaskier pants, sweat beading on his brow, “because I- oh!”
It’s the last warning Geralt gets before he feels another long spurt of Jaskier’s urine gush into his hand and, somehow, he knows the bard’s not going to be able to fully stop it again this time. At first it’s just a few small leaks and dribbles that seem to offer little relief and Jaskier squirms uncomfortably, his expression strained and frantic. Taking pity on him, Geralt slackens his grip on Jaskier’s crotch and pushes into his bladder again, gentle but insistent. Jaskier jerks his hand away from his crotch and fists it in the bedsheets, gasping helplessly under his breath as his stream builds in intensity until he’s well and truly wetting himself.
The hissing sound is unmistakable this time as the dark stain spreads under Geralt’s hand, a warm, heavy wetness that he’s sure he should find unappealing but can’t quite manage to. It saturates Jaskier’s breeches, soaking through to the bed and through to Geralt. Jaskier barely seems to notice, tilting his head towards the ceiling and moaning in sheer, ecstatic relief.
The sight of the bard so utterly lost in his relief is distracting enough that it takes a moment for Geralt to realise that Jaskier is still desperately aroused, still grinding against him before he’s even finished peeing his pants.
He’s going to come in the pants he’s pissing in. The thought hits Geralt mere seconds before his orgasm does and then he’s coming, jerking his hips arrhythmically against Jaskier with a groan. A few moments later, with a final moan of relief Jaskier, finishes his pee and kisses Geralt hungrily.
“Make me come, witcher,” he pants when he pulls back for a breath, “don’t you want to make a proper mess of me?”
And, oh fuck, Geralt does.
He can smell just how close Jaskier is, even past the near-overwhelming scent of his urine, and he’s fucked him enough times to know how to bring him over the edge in a hurry. He curls his fingers through the bard’s hair and pulls, enjoying the way Jaskier shudders eagerly at the sensation. He pushes his thigh between Jaskier’s and lets him rut against it, waiting until his rhythm is starting to slip and the moans he’s choking out are ratcheting up in intensity before he leans into the exposed line of Jaskier’s neck and bites.
With a desperate cry of Geralt’s name, Jaskier makes a proper mess of them both.
Aside from a few suggestive looks and unsubtle eyebrow waggles when he stops to relieve himself, Jaskier waits until they’ve reached the next town to actually talk about it. He seats himself at the tavern table with a decisiveness that so concretely suggests conversation that Geralt nearly stands up and leaves immediately. He resists the urge and waits for the bard to speak his thoughts.
He doesn’t have to wait for long.
“So,” Jaskier’s tone is level, but Geralt knows him well enough to hear the fond mirth behind his words, “piss.”
“Oh don’t be like that, I’m certainly not complaining, just… percolating, I suppose,” Jaskier smiles sharply and spreads his hands on the table, “I think we’re going to have some fun with this, actually. What do you say to hearing a few of my ideas?”
Fuck. Just the thought of being able to have Jaskier like that again sends a stab of heat through Geralt and, from the look on the bard’s face, he knows it.
With a grin and a wink, Jaskier turns to the bar and calls out for a bottle of Est Est.