“Geralt – ”
“Leave it, Jaskier.”
The bard huffs, crossing his arms across his chest. It has the effect of making him look even more bird-like; the puffs on his doublet’s shoulders shifting up higher, the pleats on the sleeves spreading and sticking out like feathers. Geralt squints at him, everything still overbright.
“Geralt,” Jaskier says again, that tone in his voice he gets when he thinks he should be listened to. Geralt sighs and rubs at his throbbing temples.
“Jaskier,” he says back, half-snarl. Cat is making his head hurt, Rook is making everything else hurt, and Blizzard means he can’t do much about either of those things except vibrate. Usually, Jaskier’s voice is soothing, but right now, when it’s higher than usual and has that edge of – of noble brat in it….
“There has got to be a better way to deal with the toxicity.”
“There is. It’s called White Honey, and I don’t have any.”
Jaskier heaves a sigh. “Obviously. I meant besides more of your Witchery things.”
Geralt grunts. “No.”
“Another fight,” Geralt concedes, reluctantly.
Jaskier tilts his head, a particular twinkle in his eye. “Well….”
“Whatever you’re thinking, Jaskier, no.”
“You don’t even know what I’m thinking!”
Geralt feels his nostrils flare as he breathes in. “Don’t I?” he asks, low and deadly and shit, the low-level smell of Jaskier’s arousal just gets stronger. It’s always there, to some extent – Jaskier really is exactly as horny as he acts, it’s almost impressive – but the longer Jaskier thinks about whatever harebrained plan he’s got going, the worse it gets. “Jaskier, no. I’m going to sit here and suffer through it, and you’re going to sit over there and write your stupid songs.”
“They’re not stupid,” Jaskier sniffs, haughty. “And don’t you even want to hear my idea?”
“No,” Geralt says, rubbing a hand across his face even though it hurts, the scrape of his rough fingertips and palms over his eyelids and the sensitive skin of his jaw too much with Cat intensifying everything. “I really – ”
Jaskier starts to tell him anyway, though, because of course he does. Geralt’s head throbs.
“You said another fight would help,” he says, all in a rush, “which means that physical exertion would help, and, well – ”
“You’re frighteningly predictable, bard,” Geralt growls.
Jaskier makes a short, indignant sound, putting his hands on his hips. He takes one strutting step toward Geralt, opening his mouth to argue, probably, and suddenly Geralt is done. He’s just…done.
At the absolute least Jaskier has the self-preservation instinct to squawk and stumble back when Geralt rushes him, but not enough to run, of course not. Instead, he stumbles backward until his back hits a tree, and then Geralt is on him, trapping him against the rough bark with a hand flattened against his torso, somewhere between his sternum and belly.
“Jaskier,” Geralt hisses, teeth bared. He knows what he looks like right now: pale and black-eyed, veins in throbbing relief all over his face, at the pulse points in his throat, his wrists; fangs, sharp and deadly, protruding out when he stretches his lips back to snarl; muscles straining the seams of his clothes. Monstrous.
He doesn’t really know what he expects. Not fear, not really – Jaskier has never been afraid of him, and at this point, he’s relatively convinced it won’t ever happen – but somehow, he’s not prepared for the way Jaskier moans, arousal spiking from slightly-higher-than-baseline to what he smells like after his performances, usually just before he tumbles into bed with the nearest willing body.
“Geralt,” Jaskier says, a parody of earlier, his voice breathy and weak. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, and Geralt doesn’t need to look down or press closer to know he’s hard already. “Geralt.”
“You don’t know what you’re getting into, bard,” Geralt hisses. His stomach twists at the way Jaskier’s lashes flutter, the shiver that rocks through his body and into Geralt’s. “You don’t.”
“Don’t I?” Jaskier retorts, voice gone lower and rougher but still just as breathy. He’s looking at Geralt with hooded eyes, mouth parted slightly as he licks at his lips, and Geralt can hear the rapid beat of his heart, smell the lust rising off of his skin like a particularly potent perfume.
He should step back from Jaskier and hold his ground, insist that Jaskier drop the subject. Perhaps go out and hunt something – if it can’t be a monster, certainly here are deer around, something he can stalk and let his instincts ravage.
He…doesn’t do that.
“Please, Geralt,” Jaskier pants, and Geralt snarls again. The arousal spikes higher.
“Jaskier,” he growls, and presses closer. Jaskier keens, head dropping back against the tree to bare his throat while his hips jerk mindlessly into the pressure. Geralt growls again, low and animal, nothing like his usual mostly human growling, nothing like Jaskier has ever heard before, he knows.
Any yet, Jaskier’s hands come up to his chest, those long, nimble fingers curling around the straps of his armor and pulling, as if he has the kind of strength it would take to move Geralt anywhere.
He follows the pull, anyway.
“You’ll regret it,” Geralt hisses, pressing his nose against Jaskier’s throat and breathing in, in, until his lungs hurt.
Jaskier laughs weakly. “Will I really,” he says, not a question at all, and those clever hands slide from Geralt’s chest to his waist, nimbly plucking the buttons open until he can shove one hand in. “Oh, fuck.”
“Having second thoughts?” Geralt asks, licking a long stripe up the side of Jaskier’s neck. If the smell of his lust is overwhelming, the taste of it is ten times worse; Geralt knows he’s making a sound, something low and almost subverbal, but he can’t stop it, doesn’t really care to.
For a moment, all he gets in reply is Jaskier whimpering as he wraps his hand around Geralt’s cock. His fingers meet around its girth but only just, and the realization of that sends the both of them to shuddering. Geralt’s hips jerk, shoving his cock through Jaskier’s fist, and the bard makes a short, sharp noise, grip tightening on instinct. Geralt keeps making that rumbling sound.
“Not even a little bit,” Jaskier finally gasps out, and when Geralt leaves his shelter against the bard’s throat to look at him, he looks wrecked already. His lips are swollen and his face is pink and his eyes are dark, a little hazy where the bard blinks innocently at him.
“Fuck, Jaskier,” Geralt groans.
His fangs catch at Jaskier’s kip when he dives in for a kiss, but even the sting of it and the taste of copper don’t deter Jaskier. He throws his thin, deceptively strong arms around Geralt’s neck and holds on for dear life, mouth slack and willing beneath the violence of Geralt’s.
It’s heady. It’s fucking dangerous. Geralt snarls and just kisses him harder, wrapping rough hands around Jaskier’s waist. His hands almost span the whole of it, fingers nearly meeting at his spine, and squeezing just makes Jaskier whimper into his mouth.
With Jaskier clinging to his shoulders and a tight, encompassing grip on the bard’s waist, it’s easy to lift him, to turn and take the three halting steps it takes to reach their bedrolls. Jaskier shouts indignantly when Geralt practically throws him down, but Geralt is bearing down on him before he can piece together any sort of protest. He falls to his knees and grabs Jaskier’s thighs, uses that grip to flip him onto his belly, and then he’s on top of the bard, pressing him down, down, trying to stay Jaskier’s squirming.
Jaskier whines, panting, and finally stills beneath his weight. Geralt purrs, loud and pleased, and Jaskier shudders beneath him with another whine.
“You reek like lust,” he murmurs, voice like the scrape of a rockslide. Jaskier shudders some more. “You really want this that badly, hm? Want me that badly?”
“Yes, yes, fuck – Geralt, please.”
Geralt snatches Jaskier’s wrists, gathers them in one hand and pulls them up, until Jaskier is truly trapped beneath him, not even enough leverage to grind his cock into the bedroll beneath. “Slut,” he hisses, licking over the nape of Jaskier’s neck to gather the sweat there. It tastes like salt and dirt and arousal and Jaskier, metallic and sweet all at once. A contradiction to match the sweet little body he has pinned.
“Yeah, yes, Geralt, gods, please.”
“Please what, hm? Tell me what you want, little bard – you’re so fond of poetry, of words. Use them.”
“Oh, oh fuck, Geralt – I – anything, anything, please, I want you. Want you to fuck me until I can fucking taste you, please.”
Geralt snarls, fangs scraping down the side of Jaskier’s neck when his lip pulls back. Jaskier just moans, trying his best to thrash and getting absolutely nowhere. Jaskier’s heart trips and then speeds up, a sharp, needy whine tumbling from his lips. It’s easy to shove his free hand down the back of the bard’s pants, ignoring the threatening creak of seams, to slide two rough fingers into his cleft, searching.
He expects to find sweat and soft, sensitive skin, expects to feel heat and the resisting clench. He doesn’t expect to find the slick of oil and friction-puffy rim. One of his fingers sinks inside with no resistance at all, and he can’t help the way he bites down against Jaskier’s neck, blood welling up around the points of his fangs. “Jaskier,” he snarls.
He doesn’t even give the bard a chance to respond, to react to the sensation of Geralt’s finger inside him, his teeth inside him, too. He pulls back with force, Jaskier’s pants tearing with the motion. He just rips them further open, baring Jaskier’s ass and pale thighs to the cooling spring air, then leaves the tatters hanging from Jaskier’s shivering form.
The sword, he doesn’t really even think about. It’s close by, and so he grabs it, slides the blade under Jaskier’s doublet, under his shirt, the flat of it sliding along Jaskier’s spine, and then yanks. The linen and silk tear easily on its edge with a rasping sound, and then he’s tossing the sword back down and covering Jaskier’s body again.
“Slut,” he repeats, right up against Jaskier’s ear.
Jaskier just moans, needy, and tries to roll his hips. Geralt reaches back down, tracing where he’s already open, and shoves two fingers inside. Jaskier chokes, entire body jerking, but his ass clings tightly to Geralt’s fingers when he pulls them back, practically sucking them back in. He’s still wet inside – not enough to take Geralt’s cock, not right now, but enough for this.
“What were you doing, hm?” Geralt asks, spreading his fingers apart with his knuckles pressed cruelly tight against the swollen rim of him. Jaskier makes a broken sound, something that could almost be Geralt’s name, and clenches down hard enough to press those fingers back together. “Were you thinking about me? Did you finger yourself and say my name?”
“Yes,” Jaskier whines. “Geralt, please.”
“So fucking needy for it, Jaskier,” Geralt continues, thrusting his fingers. Jaskier jolts with each press, whimpering and gasping out his pleasure – or maybe it’s pain, but it certainly doesn’t smell like Jaskier wants to go anywhere, and each time Geralt lifts just enough to let him move his hips, he’s shoving back, into Geralt’s hand. “Gods, you’d let anything fuck you, wouldn’t you? Could tie you up and use you as monster bait – you smell enough like a bitch in heat.”
“You want it, don’t you, want me to fuck you senseless – want me just like this, black-eyed and so strong you don’t have a chance of getting away from me. Want me to split you open on my cock and ruin you, fill you with my cum until even something as mindless as a drowner could smell that you’re mine. Am I right, Jaskier? Is that what you want?”
“Yes.” Jaskier practically sobs it.
Geralt is never going to let him off his knees again, fuck.
“Tell me where your oil is, little bard.”
“The – the little pack, with my lute strings – please, Geralt.”
Geralt hums and licks over Jaskier’s ear before turning his head and biting hard at the nape of his neck. Jaskier cries out, loud and shattered, but presses into the contact. “Stay,” he orders, and Jaskier sobs out a vaguely assenting sound. He figures it’s probably the best he’s going to get, and levers himself up to go get the oil, his cock out of his pants as he goes.
He doesn’t bother with removing anything else.
When he turns back, Jaskier has managed to wriggle out of his ruined doublet and shirt and has gotten his knees underneath himself. His cock hangs down between his legs, red and drooling, and his hole is bared by the wide spread of his legs. With the Cat still poisoning his blood, he can see everything in vivid detail, and the sound he makes – animal, low and threatening – makes Jaskier jump and whine.
Geralt kneels back down behind him and pours oil down over his hole, heedless of the mess it will make. More of the slick goes over his fingers, and then he’s shoving them back inside Jaskier’s body. There’s so much of it that it squelches, and Jaskier clenches down at the sound, making a soft, shy little noise.
“Going to ruin you, little bard,” Geralt babbles, two fingers turning into three. Jaskier keens and pounds a fist against the ground, cock jerking. “You’ll never want anyone else again after this.”
I’ll never let you have anyone else after this.
That’s the potions talking, he thinks, but he can’t deny the sick little thrill even just thinking it gives him, his cock twitching against his thigh.
“Won’t, fuck, please fuck me, Geralt,” Jaskier pants, squirming, hips jerking back to take Geralt’s fingers deeper. Geralt snarls and gives him what he wants, sneaking in a fourth finger while he’s at it, cock throbbing at the way Jaskier whimpers for it, body clamping down around his knuckles. “Geralt.”
“Do you want it to hurt?” Geralt snaps. He’s – yeah, he’s out of it, but not quite that far yet, and –
“Yes, please,” Jaskier breathes, leaning up on his arms just enough to look over his shoulder. His eyes are dark and glassy, lips swollen red and indented from his teeth, tears drying on his cheeks.
He’s not gentle as he pulls his fingers back, and Jaskier just whimpers, head dropping back to the bedroll. His shoulders shift, his whole body rolling to lift his hips just a little higher. Like he’s fucking presenting, and Geralt practically goes cross-eyed as he wraps rough hands around the bard’s hips and yanks him closer, his cock slotting neatly between Jaskier’s cheeks, grinding over the swollen heat of his hole.
He gives one thrust like that, enthralled by the desperate noise Jaskier makes, but his patience is thin. The next thrust is pointed, the head of his cock sinking into Jaskier’s body with a little pop.
Jaskier screams. Geralt doesn’t know what kind of noise he makes, but whatever it is, it makes Jaskier clench down on him like a vice, and he jerks forward, sinking in to the hilt with that one vicious movement.
“Ger – Geralt, fuck, fuck,” Jaskier whines, body shuddering violently. “It – you’re – fuck.”
Geralt doesn’t bother to ask. He growls softly and slides his hands up from Jaskier’s hips to his waist, squeezing hard enough that his fingers do meet around him, thumbs notched against one of his vertebrae, and moves.
He doesn’t know if it’s the potions or just Jaskier, but he’s never felt this fucking good. “Jaskier,” he snarls, using his bruising grip to yank Jaskier back against his thrusts.
Jaskier just sobs, fingers tearing at the bedroll, and comes. The growl that knocks out of Geralt is possessive but pleased, and he takes one hand off of Jaskier’s waist to lean forward, pressing them tighter together.
“Look so good like this,” he rumbles, nosing against the dried blood on the back of Jaskier’s neck. “So sweet caught on my cock, Jaskier. Does it feel good? Do you like it?”
“Ye – ye – yes,” Jaskier gasps, breath hitching each time Geralt grinds his cock as deep inside him as he can get. “Yes.”
“Good. Good little bard.”
“Geralt.” Jaskier makes a strange, high little noise at the tail end of Geralt’s name. “Geralt, I – oh, oh, oh – what…what is…fuck.”
Geralt chuckles and nips at Jaskier’s shoulder, the skin pale and unmarred. That’ll be fixed by the end of the night, he knows.
“What do you think it is, Jaskier?” He grinds in deep, then pulls a bare few inches out just to do it all over again. Jaskier hiccups and moans.
“It – it feels – oh, Geralt, fuck, you’re – ”
“Getting bigger, hm? Is that what it feels like?”
“’S because I am, little bard,” Geralt purrs. “I don’t, usually, but fuck, you just feel too good to resist. I said I’d ruin you.”
“Geralt, Geralt, I – what – fuck.”
He leans up, settling back onto his heels so he can watch Jaskier’s hole stretch around his knot, starting to swell at the base of his cock. It’s been so long, and the fire spreading up his spine feels transcendent. “Going to lock you tight and fill you full of me, little bard. And then I’m going to do it again, and again, and again, and…again.” He punctuates each again by pulling his nearly-caught knot out of Jaskier’s ass just to thrust it back in.
“Oh, oh, fuck,” Jaskier babbles, squirming wildly in Geralt’s hold. Geralt chuckles again, sliding his hand up from Jaskier’s waist to his chest so he can pull him up and back, until he’s sitting in Geralt’s lap.
His cock sinks just that little bit deeper, and his knot finally catches, making Jaskier jerk and cry out. Geralt wraps one staying arm around his waist, petting his other hand over the bards belly, where there’s the tiniest little swell from the press of his cock.
That’ll change soon enough. He groans as he starts to come, hips jerking and grinding his knot against Jaskier’s insides, the velvet clutch of him better than anything else Geralt has ever felt.
Jaskier chokes on air and comes again himself, cock jerking wildly as Geralt’s grinding forces it out of him. “Oh, fuck, Geralt, I’m – you’re – Geralt.”
“I told you that you didn’t know what you were getting into, bard,” Geralt says. It’s more of a threat than anything else, but Jaskier just whimpers and turns his head, mouth searching wildly, sloppy until Geralt catches it and kisses him. The angle is fucked, Jaskier’s lips too swollen and clumsy for more than what basically amounts to Geralt tongue-fucking him.
“Geralt.” Jaskier seems to have lost all of his vocabulary at this point. That’s fine.
Even when his knot goes down, his cock doesn’t soften, and Geralt doesn’t even bother to move them, just sliding his hands back to Jaskier’s hips so he can lift and drop him. Jaskier is all but totally limp in his hands, moaning and sobbing shamelessly as his cock bounces against his thigh and starts to harden again.
Geralt wonders how many times he can come in one night.
Less than Geralt can, that’s almost guaranteed. He grins, wide and feral, and bites into the crook of Jaskier’s neck at the thought, fingers spreading out and up to pet over the lowest part of his belly. He’s tight and sloppy-wet with oil and Geralt’s cum, and Geralt just wants to fuck him until he can’t even clench up anymore.
The second go round, his knot swells up even faster, and when he starts to fuck Jaskier with it again, Jaskier wails. Geralt slips one hand up to wrap around his cock, jerking it fast and tight as he shoves his knot in for a final time this round, and Jaskier comes screeching his name, garbled and broken as his voice cracks with the volume.
“So good, Jaskier, so fucking good,” Geralt soothes, barely even cognizant of what he’s saying as he adds to the mess of cum in Jaskier’s belly. “Such a good little fucktoy, perfect for me, going to fill you until you want to burst.”
“Please, Geralt,” Jaskier mumbles, but he doesn’t clarify what he’s asking for, and when Geralt squeezes gently at his cock and grinds his knot forward, he seizes with another orgasm, tears streaking down his face.
All Geralt can smell is Jaskier, the musk of his sweat and his lust, his cum, his tears. The potions are loosening their grip on him but he doesn’t want to stop, wants to keep going until Jaskier can’t, until he can’t. It’s a wild, impossible desire, but even just thinking it stokes the heat in his belly, and he grinds deeper into Jaskier’s body.
“Geralt,” Jaskier hisses, hole spasming as his thighs twitch. “Fuck, Geralt….”
“Regret it yet, little bard?”
Jaskier makes a low, breathless sound that might have been a laugh in another life. “No,” he insists, even as more tears streak down his face when Geralt gives a sharp thrust. Geralt turns his head to lick them up, and Jaskier sucks in a wet, shaky gasp at the sensation.
When the second knot goes down, Geralt lifts Jaskier off of his cock and sets him back on the bedrolls, still belly-down. Jaskier just mumbles something entirely nonsensical and buries his face into the ruined fabric, putting up no protest when Geralt yanks his hips up so his knees are under him.
He has no strength to hold the position himself, but that’s fine. Geralt is plenty strong enough to hold him up, after all.
“Pretty little slut,” Geralt murmurs, palming at Jaskier’s ass cheeks and spreading them until Jaskier squeaks in discomfort. His hole is loose and red and gaping already, despite how tight he’d felt around Geralt’s knot, the muscle flexing weakly. Geralt watches hungrily as his cum starts to leak out, black as pitch and stark against Jaskier’s pale, milky skin.
He rubs a thumb through the slowly dripping mess, smearing it over Jaskier’s skin. Jaskier whines and shivers, thighs tensing and relaxing in turns as Geralt rubs the mess into his skin, thumbing at the swollen-hot rim of his hole as it flutters.
Eventually, though, he can’t ignore how hard he still is, how good Jaskier still smells, and he sits up to pull the bard back onto his cock. He moves slower this time, but still thrusts deep, sheathing his entire cock into Jaskier’s pliant body with each jerk of his hips. Every time he glances off of Jaskier’s prostate the bard jolts, making soft, shocked little noises, and when Geralt reaches down between his legs he’s hardening again.
Rubbing a thumb over the spongy, slick head of his cock makes Jaskier squeal and try to squirm away; tightening his grip to the point of bruising to stop him from moving makes him whine and jerk his hips back into Geralt’s steady thrusts.
“Needy,” Geralt says, half-praise and half-admonishment. He shifts, pulls out just long enough to yank Jaskier’s knees out from under him, then traps the bard’s legs with his own and spreads his ass to sink back inside. He’s somehow even tighter like this, despite the fact that he shouldn’t be tight at all, not after being fucked for so long, after being knotted twice. He catches Jaskier’s wrists and drags them up, pins them to the bedroll too, so his hold body blankets Jaskier’s, cock sunk deep inside his guts the whole time.
Jaskier whines, breathless and still clearly wanting. Fuck.
“Geralt,” he gasps, turning his head so he can breathe a little easier. One hazy blue eye cracks open, and Geralt bares his teeth just to feel the way Jaskier shudders and clenches around him, pathetically weak but still so good. “Geralt.”
“Say my name so pretty, little bard,” Geralt purrs, bending his neck to bite at Jaskier’s neck, his shoulders. “Gonna make you forget everything but it. No more songs, no more lyrics or poetry, no more Jaskier – just me, and my cock, and my knot, filling up your belly. Hm?”
Jaskier makes a greedy little sound, clenching again. “Geralt.”
“Good boy,” Geralt rumbles, and starts to move. The friction in this position is incredible, and it’s easy to adjust the angle until he’s grinding over Jaskier’s prostate with each push, Jaskier practically yelping each time.
“Geralt, Geralt, Geralt,” he pleads, wet and shaky. His thighs are twitching and trembling, and so are his shoulders, and his fingers clench and relax at random. “Gonna – Geralt.”
“Go on, Jaskier, come for me,” Geralt encourages, knot starting to swell again. He sinks as deep into Jaskier’s body as he can and grinds, eyes rolling as the pleasure sparks up his spine. Jaskier is sobbing again, tears puddling under his face as he tries to squirm. “Just like this, little bard. Want to feel you fall apart on my cock again, feel you spasming around my knot like a good little bitch. I know you want that too, don’t you? Want to come, want to milk me til I fill you up again?”
“Yes, Geralt, fuck!” Jaskier screams, turning to muffle the sound into the bedroll and only kind of succeeding. His entire body jerks, nothing against Geralt’s strength and weight, and he keeps making high-pitched, broken little sounds as his body clenches rhythmically and Geralt knots him again.
“Ah, fuck, just like that,” Geralt growls, biting into the nape of Jaskier’s neck again. “Feel so fucking good around my cock, around my knot – want to just keep you like this, keep you on your knees so I can use you. Plug you up so I can just take you whenever I want, bend you over tables in taverns and make you keep my cock warm in your sleep.”
Jaskier shudders and keens and clenches down again, entire body tensing so hard his teeth grind together audibly before all of it just melts away. He goes entirely boneless beneath Geralt, loose everywhere except where his hole still milks Geralt’s knot. He’s not unconscious – Geralt can tell by his heartbeat, his breathing – but it seems like he’s just surrendered, laying limp for Geralt to fuck and fill.
Geralt snarls and thrusts the best he can while knotted, pleasure flaring white-hot at the pull. He keeps going, until he can pull the knot just out of Jaskier’s hole before it gets sucked back in, Jaskier making a sweet little noise, garbled and still greedy, somehow still wanting.
Maybe Geralt underestimated what Jaskier could take.
He fucks his knot in and out of Jaskier’s hole until it finally deflates entirely, and then he doesn’t stop, just keeps fucking Jaskier steadily. In, out, in out, like a metronome, as sure as the tide. Jaskier clenches occasionally and sobs and whines and whimpers out his name with varying tones of pleasure, pain, and desperation, but he doesn’t squirm, doesn’t try to pull away, doesn’t do anything but take it.
The potions are fading quickly, now, his senses dulling.
He wants to feel Jaskier come around his knot again. At least once more.
Jaskier is all but deadweight when Geralt lifts him, but he moans softly when Geralt’s cock pulls out of him, fingers grasping weakly at Geralt’s hand. Geralt snorts and shifts them so Jaskier is in his lap again, sinks him down onto his cock, shuddering pleasantly at the squelch of cum. Jaskier pants and twists when he gets a hand around his cock, tears still streaming down his face, but when Geralt tips his head to kiss him, the bard kisses back.
He’s clumsy and fuck-drunk and probably exhausted, sensitive to the point of pain at this point, Geralt’s sure. But he doesn’t say anything except a weak, breathy prayer of Geralt’s name, and when Geralt rocks his hips and strokes his soft cock, he keens and jerks into the stimulation.
“One more time, little bard, one more,” Geralt murmurs. “Want to feel you fall apart on my knot one more time, and then I’ll clean you up, hm?” He slides his palm over the little pouch of Jaskier’s belly. “You’ll be leaking for days.”
“Geralt,” Jaskier whimpers, voice cracked straight through. Geralt slides his hand down, fondles Jaskier’s nearly empty balls, presses further down until he can press his fingers against Jaskier’s rim and grind his palm into his taint.
Jaskier wails and jolts. Geralt starts to move, using nothing but the quick, vicious motion of his hips to bounce Jaskier on his lap as he strokes him, tormenting his prostate from the outside and tugging at his rim with his fingertips alongside.
This time, when his knot starts to swell, Jaskier jerks down onto it, making a shattered sound before he seems to find his words again. Or, almost finds his words again. “Geralt, Geralt, please – kn – ah, ah, fuck, Geralt, please! Please!”
“You want it that bad, Jaskier?”
“So good for me, little bard.” Geralt thrusts harder, tightens his grip on Jaskier’s cock. Jaskier just sobs, head tipped back against Geralt’s shoulder.
It’s like lava pouring down his spine when he knots Jaskier this time, and Jaskier must be feeling something similar as he keens, cock dribbling, a new, watery little spurt with each of Geralt’s grinding thrusts into his body.
“Geralt,” he keens, voice nearly giving out at the end. “Geralt, Geralt.”
When Jaskier wakes he’s horrifically sore, throat dry as the desert.
“Geralt?” Fuck, his voice is barely even a croak, more of a whistling breath. “Geralt.”
There are hands at his waist, at his jaw. “Shh,” Geralt soothes. “Shh, bard, you’re alright. Open your mouth.”
Jaskier does as he’s told, and there’s a cool, slow trickle of water into his mouth. He grunts and swallows greedily.
“There you go,” Geralt says after a long moment, and takes the water away. Jaskier smacks his lips and considers properly opening his eyes, but decides against it when Geralt pets gently over his face. “You’re a fool, Jaskier.”
Jaskier just hums, mostly toneless, unsure if he’s agreeing or not, or maybe neither. Geralt chuckles.
“Rest some more, bard. I’ll be here whenever you wake.”
“Promise?” Still just a breath, high and pitchy, and Geralt chuckles again.