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Geralt couldn't say he was particularly fond of the summer. The sun was too bright, the days so long that people were out and about for even longer throughout the day, and were always constantly chattering, selling their wares or carousing in the streets, making all sorts of noise. He was grateful that he had a contract that would take him to the relative quiet of the swamps, where the deeper he went, the more the light was blocked by the tall, vine strangled trees, and the only sounds were that of the various and sundry creatures that called the place home.
The place reeked though.
He’d spent the bulk of the summer in and around the swamps, taking advantage of the unprecedented wealth of contracts in the area. His coin purse was swollen, his boots caked in the muck and mud, untold amounts of monster bits in his hair, and excitement coursing through his veins as he left the alderman’s, headed for the tavern.
The establishment was bustling, full of townsfolk trying to beat the heat with cold ale or take their minds off of it with good company and rousing music. But that's not what Geralt was after. Sure, the music was fine - clear notes played by nimble fingers dancing along strings, coupled with a sweet, sonorous voice - and he was a little on the parched side after a grueling hunt. But what he wants is a quick meal, a hot meal, and the source of that alluring scent he'd caught, even through the haze and stench of the roaring crowd.
Jaskier.
The bard's familiar scent had long since been something of a comfort, but of late it was more than that. It also served as a promise.
It wasn't a daily occurrence. Sometimes they'd even go weeks without so much as a whisper of what they've been up to. But something had changed between them. Like a constant charge in the air. It was only a matter of time before it happened again. And while that wasn't something his enhanced senses could predict, he was relatively certain they were coming to a head once again.
He approached the barkeep to inquire about a bath to be sent up to their room, only to find Jaskier had beaten him to the punch. He quickly downed an ale, taking a moment to watch Jaskier in his element.
Comments about fillingless pie aside, Jaskier was a sight to behold as he performed. His body moved with the music as though it was in his very bones - perhaps his soul. There was a light in his eyes that Geralt only saw there when he was doing something he truly loved. The same light he'd seen while running through dark streets with Jaskier as he fled from vengeful cuckolds, night air whipping at his hair, grin splitting his face. The same light he'd seen while Jaskier taught his students - not in the stuffy lecture halls of Oxenfurt, but when he'd come to collect him in spring and find him in a courtyard with a gaggle of children guiding them through finger placements and scales and just generally imparting a love of music to a new generation.
The same light he'd see as they wrestled one another's clothes off, hardly able to resist the allure of skin on skin.
He couldn't begrudge the people of this tavern getting to see a light he so enjoyed seeing directed at himself. If the bard was lit up from within like that, the world was a better place for it.
Of course while they could all bask in his light, as far as Geralt knew, he was the only one that could make out the scent of Jaskier's joy and excitement. He'd become so trained at sussing out the bard's unique musk, and was well-versed in how it changed with his moods. This was, by far, one of his favorite iterations.
No fear, no anxiety, no despair. Just soap and sweat and exhilaration.
The way that Jaskier brightened and that scent spiked when he finally spotted Geralt amidst the crowd was enough to make even a Witcher's heart skip a beat.
Geralt hid his smile behind his tankard as he drained the last dregs of his ale. With a single nod of greeting, he left his tankard on the bartop before heading upstairs to where his bath was waiting.
He warmed it up with a quick Igni, rummaging through the saddlebags to find the mild scented oils and salts Jaskier had gotten him so accustomed to. He could never get the same ratio as Jaskier had perfected over the years, but he erred on the side of too little before stripping and climbing into the tub.
As he sank into the heat, he dared to think he did quite a delightful job. He didn't need Jaskier to prepare his baths for him. But gods was it a treat when he did.
He got as much of the guts and blood and ichor out of his hair and off his skin as he could, by which point the water had grown cold and murky. By all accounts, he thought, he should get out of the tub and dry off. Climb into bed, perhaps head downstairs to join Jaskier and have a large meal. But his muscles ached and he was hardly feeling like spending his evening surrounded by the raucous, sweaty patrons below.
So he fired off another quick Igni and sank further into the water. Murkiness be damned, he was going to enjoy his bath.
He let the heat soak into him, steam curling the ends of his hair. He was relaxed and safe and alone, so could he really be blamed for letting his mind wander?
And wander it did, his hands following his mind’s lead, as he thought about that night in the cave. His memories were foggy, the elixirs coursing through his blood having robbed him of his focus on some of the finer details at the time. But he remembered the feeling of Jaskier lips and tongue, remembered the fingertips digging into him, grasping him like a lifeline.
He felt no shame as his hand dipped below the surface of the water. He teased a finger around his rim, his other hand idly fondling his cock.
He basked in the sound of Jaskier’s music flooding up from below as he slowly pressed his finger past the ring of muscle, relishing in the feeling of something inside of him after what felt like far too long. He lazily pumped his finger in and out, in no rush, no danger.
This time when he imagined Jaskier walking in on him like this, it was different. With a soft sound, he pushed another finger in alongside the first, fucking himself on them at a leisurely pace. Jaskier would walk in, flushed from his performance, and this time there was no doubt in his mind that, where last time he could picture disgust or discomfort as an option, this time he would have that unbearably smug look on his face. He'd tease him, maybe about not being able to wait for him to come upstairs before having his pretty little hole stuffed.
He'd taunt him about it, perhaps. Call him a needy little slut- and oh does that thought cause his body to flare with heat and need. His teeth (they'd need to be filed down again soon, they were growing too sharp, but it had slipped his mind lately) caught on his bottom lip. Not to muffle any sound - he moaned free and unabashed - but rather to give him something to focus on as a counterpoint to where his fingers were starting to tease over that delicious bundle of nerves deep inside him.
In that moment, having Jaskier walk in wasn’t a mere fantasy, it was a need. Sharp and desperate and undeniable.
Geralt added a third finger. It wasn't enough, but suddenly two seemed pathetic and laughable and he felt like he'd die if he couldn't have more than that.
He could practically taste Jaskier, feel the weight and heft of him on his tongue, and the way his girth stretched at Geralt's lips told him Jaskier would keep him nice and full were he to take him. And Lilit's voluptuous arse, he wanted Jaskier to take him. Wished he could have him in his mouth and his arse simultaneously, but at the moment his arse took precedence. He fucked himself more eagerly on those thick fingers, imagining his bard bursting in and sliding into his loose and waiting hole like he belongs there. He does belong there. Geralt's been good - so good - he deserved it, didn't he?
He panted, practically shaking, about to wrap a hand around his cock, choke it until he spilled into the murky water, imagining being stuffed full of more than his fingers, fucking in and out of him rapidly, when the door swung open.
His breath caught in his throat, afraid, for a moment, of who'd caught him, until Jaskier poked his head in, letting out a choked noise at the sight of Geralt before he scrambled inside, shutting the door and slamming the lock home.
When he turned back around, he'd regained most of his composure - all cocky and boisterous, like he was ready to claim a prize that was rightly his. And Geralt dearly hoped that Jaskier was about to do just that.
"So." Jaskier gently returned his lute to its case. "This is what, in your mind, takes precedence over watching the rest of my performance?"
Geralt grunted, his fingers slowing but not stopping as his eyes tracked Jaskier's movements through the rented room.
"You just couldn't wait, could you? Needed something inside of you that badly? Better your own fingers than hopping on the nearest cock?"
Geralt thought, briefly, about what Jaskier may have done, had he 'hopped on the nearest cock.' Punish him, maybe. Pull him off whoever it was, take him upstairs, and…perhaps lash his behind with Geralt's own belt.
That was something he'd file away to think about later. But in reality, he had trouble picturing himself choosing some other random cock with Jaskier as an option.
"Though I suppose…" Jaskier removed his doublet, methodically rolling up the sleeves of his chemise. "If I had the skilled, thick, deadly hands of a Witcher always within arms reach, I would have trouble not stuffing myself full of them every time I had a solitary moment."
Geralt wasn't sure if he was meant to respond, wasn't sure he'd be able to keep the tremor out of his voice anyway. He merely kept his eyes glued to Jaskier as he made his way about the room, pausing to snatch bottle of oil from where Geralt left it after preparing his bath.
"How many have you managed so far, hmm? Based on the flush on your face and how hard you're breathing…I'd venture you've been at this for a little while. Tell me." Jaskier ceased his prowl around the room, standing at the edge of the tub, eyes meeting Geralt's. "Had I walked in but a few moments later, would I have found you like this? Or would I have found you sated and covered in your own spend?"
Probably the latter, he thought. He had been close enough to spilling that all he'd really needed would've been a few strokes of his cock. Even with his fingers all but stilled inside of him, he couldn't say his need had abated at all.
"What, pray tell, would you have had me do then? Having taken care of your own need, making me wholly unnecessary?"
"Fuck me." It came out far more urgent than he intended, but he supposed that wasn't such a bad thing, when he took in the startled but fiery look in Jaskier's eyes. "I'd have you fuck me."
"And now? With you still hard and needy, leaking all over yourself?"
"My answer remains the same."
The smirk on Jaskier's lips, to anyone else, may have seemed harmless. A barely there thing, amused at the neediness in his friend's voice. But Geralt knew better. Geralt saw the danger there. That smirk foretold either a very good or a very bad time for the person on the receiving end, and Geralt felt his heart beat faster at the sight of it.
"Well who am I to refuse a request like that?" Jaskier undid those obnoxious bows at the back of his trousers, pulling them down far enough for Geralt to glimpse that gorgeous cock before he caught Geralt's eyes, steel in his gaze. "Turn around, grip the sides of the tub."
Geralt rushed to comply, water sloshing onto the floor in his haste to remove his fingers and get in position. The angle wasn't the most comfortable, but if he'd wanted comfortable, then Jaskier would have found him on the bed. All that mattered to him now was that his arse was in a good position to be breached by Jaskier's cock.
He could hear behind him the slick sounds of Jaskier oiling up his cock, finding himself disappointed he couldn't watch, but all the more eager. He found himself wiggling his hips a little, which earned a chuckle from behind him.
"Look at you, my dear Witcher. Presenting yourself like a bitch in heat, eager to be bred. Is that what you want, Geralt? You want me to breed you?"
Geralt moaned, nodding, and his breath caught as Jaskier teased the head of his cock over his hole. "Yes...Yes, Jask…" He couldn't deny how his voice came out as a whine. "Fill me up…"
It sounded like the breath was punched out of Jaskier, but Geralt quickly forgot about that as Jaskier gripped his hip tight and started slowly pushing into him.
Jaskier's cock wasn't as unbearably massive as a Witcher's, but that didn't matter. Geralt felt each every inch stretching him open, felt like Jaskier was pressing against him from every angle. He wanted so badly to have all of him, to be stuffed full all at once, but the ache of Jaskier's teasing pace had his toes curling against the tub.
He must have let out some sort of noise - a moan, a whine, a whimper, he didn't care - because Jaskier started stroking his side, making soft sounds like he was calming a startled animal.
"It's okay, Geralt, I've got you. You're doing so good…Taking me so well…"
He felt lips press between his shoulder blades as the hand petting up his side slid around to his chest, cupping his pec, thumb brushing his nipple.
He wanted to shout at Jaskier to move faster, that he could take it, but his voice wouldn't cooperate. He let out another pathetic whine, arching his back and Jaskier slid deeper, still muttering little praises against Geralt's skin.
After what felt like an eternity, Jaskier was fully seated inside him, his hips flush against Geralt's backside. Geralt felt so perfectly full, he didn't know how he managed to make it through life so empty. He thought, briefly, that he was meant for this. Meant to take Jaskier's cock, be at his mercy. He could hardly breathe, it felt so right, but he needed more.
"Please, Jaskier…" His voice was barely a breath, his hips grinding in little circles back against Jaskier.
"Shhh, Geralt. You're alright." The hand on his chest stroked gently down, down, down, until he could feel it cupping his own painfully hard, leaking cock. "You're doing perfect. My beautiful Witcher. Like you were made for this, to be filled to the brim with a nice hard cock…"
The hand slipped down to palm his balls and Geralt moaned before shaking his head. "No…"
Jaskier seemed to still behind him, as if afraid he'd gone too far with his rambling, and that just wouldn't do. Geralt would have to reassure him.
"Just you…Your cock." Geralt would've been amused by the strangled noise that came out of Jaskier under other circumstances, but there were much more important things at hand. "So please…Please move. I need…I need you to fuck me."
"As you wish, darling." Jaskier sounded just as breathless and affected as Geralt, which sent a little thrill up Geralt's spine. But he forgot about that quickly as both of Jaskier's hands gripped his hips tight before he pulled back and thrust back in roughly, punching a moan out of Geralt and causing him to skid forward an inch or so on the slick bottom of the tub.
He gripped the edge of the tub tighter, trying to prepare himself as Jaskier repeated the action. Then again. And again and again. Geralt did his best to thrust back against him, to give as good as he got. But he wanted so badly to just lay back and take it. Be little more than a warm, willing hole for Jaskier to use and spend inside of. A toy.
He could scarcely tell what sounds were coming from him and which from Jaskier, the lot of them accompanied by the splashing of the bath and the occasional creak of the tub.
Jaskier’s deft fingers curled around his cock, stroking him in counterpoint to his thrusts. It was heavenly, practically perfect. Jaskier seemed to have no qualms about Geralt steadily putting forth less and less effort. No, instead he just used his grip on Geralt's hip to pull him back onto his cock as he fucked into him. This was it. This was what he wanted
Jaskier fucked into him with a practiced precision that had him lighting up from the inside and each thrust, each stroke of his hand pushed him and pulled him closer and closer to the brink of orgasm, Jaskier’s name falling from his lips like a prayer as Jaskier muttered soft praises, until finally he teetered over the edge, crying out as he spilled into the lukewarm water below him. Jaskier fucked him through it, milked every last drop from his cock until it was too much, pulling away when Geralt whimpered softly at the overstimulation.
He felt a warm, pleasant buzz throughout his limbs and could easily doze off right where he was, content and well-fucked. But as good as he felt, something was amiss. Jaskier had successfully and expertly brought him off, but Jaskier himself hadn’t come. Rather than keep fucking Geralt past the point of oversensitivity until he was dripping with the bard’s spend - and that thought certainly sent a frission of excitement to shoot up Geralt’s spine - or fuck into his fist until he shot across Geralt’s back, Jaskier was still hard. Merely lazily stroking his cock as he looked over Geralt with half-lidded eyes.
And what a glorious cock it was.
Thick and hard and covered in a sheen of oil from where it had just fucked Geralt to orgasm. Geralt thought - fondly, longingly - back to his first close encounter with Jaskier’s cock, to dropping to his knees, out in the open, and letting the bard fuck his face. Geralt turned around properly, mouth watering at the memory and grabbed Jaskier by the wrist, stilling the hand on his cock as he pulled him closer.
“Geralt, wh–” Whatever Jaskier was going to say was cut off by a groan as Geralt wrapped his lips around the head and sucked him down as far as he could before pulling back, looking up at Jaskier through his lashes as he pressed his tongue against the slit, and marveled at the overwhelmed look on Jaskier’s face.
He bobbed up and down on Jaskier’s cock a few times, hand wrapped firmly around the base and stroking in counter to his lips, before he grabbed Jaskier’s hand once again, moving it to his damp hair.
“Take your pleasure, Jaskier.” He laved his tongue around the head once again. “Use me.”
Jaskier let out a desperate, choked off moan, but tightened his hand in Geralt’s hair nonetheless, muttering something that sounded oddly like you’re going to be the death of me before pushing past Geralt’s lips once again.
He wasn’t as hesitant as he’d been that first time; Jaskier had seen how easily Geralt could take his cock and wasted no time in setting a rough pace, burying himself in Geralt’s throat as he chased his own pleasure. With the hand tight in his hair, and his mouth being thoroughly used, Geralt felt a peculiar sense of bliss. There was nothing for him to worry about, in this moment. There was nothing else in the world besides Jaskier’s cock, and the heady, delicious scent of sweat and arousal, the scent of Geralt’s own spend lingering in the background. He thought, distantly, that had he not already been so thoroughly fucked just moments before, this would be enough to have him hard and aching. But even with Witcher stamina, his recovery time wasn’t quite that quick, and his own cock mattered little to him right now. This was what he wanted. What he needed. What he craved.
Time seemed immaterial as Geralt floated through the high. He couldn’t say how long it took - could have been mere seconds, could have been hours - but eventually Jaskier’s cock slipped free of his lips, and Geralt couldn’t help the bereft whine that followed it. He wanted Jaskier to spill down his throat, wanted to be full of him, be nothing more than a vessel for him. But as the first splash of come hit his face, it felt like a blessing. A benediction.
Jaskier’s overwhelmed groans were like a siren song, and Geralt would gladly crash his ship upon the rocks to hear them again.
Geralt watched, transfixed, as Jaskier caught his breath, drank up the wounded noise Jaskier made as soon as his eyes landed on his own come splattered across Geralt’s face.
With a muttered curse, Jaskier cradled Geralt’s face, leaning down to lay a sweet kiss upon his abused lips.
“Let’s get you cleaned up…”