The Witcher, Geralt of Rivia, sat brooding in the pub’s dimmest corner, chewing his food methodically and keeping his sight lines open. He knew he was a cliche but he didn’t care, and it wasn’t because Witchers don’t have feelings. It was just because he’d ridden and walked too far on roads too nasty, killed too many monsters for precious little coin, and lived on nothing but what he could kill and hastily roast in the past handful of weeks, stretching into months, sleeping in piles of leaves spread thin over roots and rocks. This back end of civilization could offer little more than a tankard of weak ale, a bowl of stew a little too heavy on turnips, but he would take it. A warm room, filled with the reek of living humans, none of whom were currently bent on stabbing him in the back? He’d take it.
In the opposite corner of the room, a bard dressed in ridiculously impractical silks was tuning up his lute, stretching his throat with soft, gliding sighs. Geralt twitched, his hackles rising, and he wasn’t quite sure why. Sure, it was annoying to hear him twist and fiddle with the strings, trying to get them all into accord… but on the other hand, his voice was rich and mellow, even as he quietly exercised it into life. His chest expanded and fell, strong and calm, and Geralt sighed in sympathy. So few humans in this age knew the benefits of opening the trunk with a good deep breath.
Lute in tune at last, the bard lifted his head, took a breath, and strummed madly full across the strings.
“Oh fishmonger, oh fishmonger!” the bard began.
Geralt picked up his bowl, tipped it into his mouth, and finished off the stew, then drained his tankard to wash the stew down and stood.
“To pull on my horn, As it rises in the morn, For it’s naught but bad luck, To fuck with a puck!” the bard continued.
Worse than the song itself, the wilted, hardworking peasant crowd had come to life, and were stomping and singing along. It was the worst ballad, absolutely the worst, that he’d ever encountered over his long life. And, it got stuck in his head.
“Bleating and braying all day, The fishmonger's daughter, baa baa!” the bard yelled, grinning ear to ear, as several of the peasants actually stood and began to swing each other violently around the narrow spaces between tables. Oh, hells…. Geralt was trapped, with no way to get out without pushing past the peasants!
“Fishmonger's daughter, baa baa! Fishmonger's daughter, baa baa!”
The song went on like that for minutes on end. There wasn’t any more to it. Just that.
Apparently the bard was keen to play for as long as the peasants cared to dance. So he kept playing, and braying, and the Witcher just wanted out of there. The bard’s voice, which should have been soothing, had tipped over into a hateful shout.
“Let me out!” Geralt yelled, banging his tankard down on the table.
The bard choked and his lute twanged into silence. The peasants took a bit longer to subside, glaring at the Witcher for interrupting their fun.
“Excuse me,” he growled, and hurried out of the room as well as his dignity would allow, the bard’s blue eyes following him reproachfully.
He found the stairs and made his way up to his room, hoping the bath would be prepared as he had requested, but it hadn’t. The tub was present, towels laid out, but no water.
Damn it all to the lowest hells!
More than anything else about staying at the inn, more than a bed, more than beer, and a fair sight more than bland, boring stew, Geralt wanted that bath. He wanted out of his armor, and out of his clothes, and he wanted his hair combed out and clean. He wanted that bath!
To give himself some time to calm down (and give the bard a chance to go on break), he stripped off his armor and loosened his hair, combing it out a little with his fingers.
Then he stomped back down the stairs, and caught the eye of the thin-lipped barmaid.
“I ordered a bath,” he growled. If he had to carry his own buckets and deplete his energies by casting Igni, at this point he was willing.
“Well, y’see, we’re a bit short staffed,” she began.
Geralt widened his yellow eyes, losing his battle with patience.
“Give me my bath, or I take back my coin,” the Witcher purred dangerously.
The barmaid drew herself up as her brows lowered angrily. “There’s no need to be rude!”
Just as Geralt was about to retort, the bard stepped in with a soothing tone. Thank fuck he’d left off playing that song for a minute.
“Can I be of any assistance, good madame, kind sir?” he offered.
“Hot water,” Geralt demanded of the barmaid, “and plenty of it.”
“That seems a reasonable request,” the bard assented. “Perhaps the gentleman and I could help ourselves?”
The barmaid narrowed her eyes, wondering if the bard were trying to put one over on her, but not seeing his angle, she waved her hand.
“Hot water’s through there, the tank’s behind the kitchen hearth,” the barmaid said, pointing. “Six buckets per bath, more is extra.”
“Hmm,” Geralt muttered. Six buckets was a little lean, but it was better than nothing. He shot a suspicious glance at the bard. What was his scheme?
“Make it eight,” the bard smiled, “and I’ll throw in another encore!”
The barmaid smiled, but Geralt said, “That won’t be necessary,” and went to grab the first two buckets, the bard following close behind.
The barmaid’s direction led to a small room set up primarily for laundry, where a large hot water tank had been built into the wall behind the massive kitchen hearth, so that the water was kept hot by the kitchen fire.
As Geralt filled the first bucket, the bard said, “I’m Jaskier, at your service.”
“Hmm,” Geralt replied, doing his best to exude menace. All he wanted was one night of peace.
“I thought, we could split the cost of the bath and room. If you like,” he quickly added.
Geralt glared as hard as he could. “I have coin. I don’t need…”
The bard leaned in. He was very unusual really. His blue eyes were so gentle, so full of light.
“I certainly don’t mean to suggest that the illustrious Witcher,” he paused, glancing down at Geralt’s medallion, “Geralt of Rivia, would have needs of any kind.”
“Hmm,” Geralt half growled.
“But myself? a humble bard? Sharing expenses is commonplace in my way of life.”
Jaskier was clean, small, he didn’t reek of fear, Geralt’s medallion declared him free of enchantments, and he seemed trustworthy enough, if Witchers were ever inclined to trust.
“Hm,” he assented, as he finished filling his second bucket.
“Terrific!” Jaskier said, clapping his hands together. Geralt wasted no more time, taking a bucket in each hand and carrying them up toward the room.
The two buckets covered the bottom of the tub about a hand’s breadth. It was not a very large tub, but it would be sufficient for Geralt if he kept his knees in close.
Geralt went down to get more of the hot water, and told Jaskier where to find the room. The bard was not strongly built but he managed the buckets well enough.
By the time Geralt returned to the room, the bard had already taken off his clothes, and was in the tub, soaping himself with lavender scented soap. Geralt sniffed, but the scent wasn’t too strong for his nose.
“I’ll be done in one shake of a dragon’s horn,” Jaskier said.
“Dragons don’t have horns,” Geralt grumbled.
“But they should! Are you certain? Fanciful, decorative horns, just above their illustrious eyebrows?”
“Grr,” Geralt growled. It was definitely a growl. The bard never stopped talking, and three quarters of what he uttered was trifling nonsense.
He was true to his word, though, wiping down with a hand cloth and skipping out of the tub in a trice, to slip on a loose shirt and trousers by the fireplace.
Geralt added his final two buckets to the tub, and once he stepped in, the hot water rose midway up his ribcage. It felt amazing, even though the tub was too small for him to stretch out much.
“You look like you are enjoying that,” the bard said. “You sure you don’t want two more buckets?”
Geralt shook his head no with a negligent rumble.
“Would you like any help with your hair?”
At that, Geralt turned to stare at the bard. Lesser men had run from the look on Geralt’s face, but not this man.
“The tub’s a little small for you. I thought I might assist in your ablutions. Not if it’s any discomfort!”
The hot water sloshing around him must have relaxed Geralt more than he realized already.
“Fine,” he said.
Jaskier paused his incessant talking while he soaped up a hand cloth and scrubbed the Witcher’s back. It reminded Geralt of his early days in Kaer Morhen, helping his brothers scrub down after training.
“Do you have shampoo?”
Geralt rolled his eyes. He used the same strong, plain soap for everything.
“Hm, well, maybe a beer rinse,” Jaskier muttered. The musician’s hands were strong and very pleasant as he began to work a lather through Geralt’s locks, which had gone untended for many days.
Geralt let out a little moan of pleasure as Jaskier massaged the base of his skull with his talented fingers.
“Do you ever use herbs, for soreness? Comfrey, for example?”
“Witchers have their own cures for ailments,” Geralt grumbled.
“I’ve heard that Witcher potions are little more than poison,” Jaskier muttered.
“Y’might hear a lot of things,” Geralt answered.
Jaskier ceased with his questions, and Geralt gripped his arm just in time to stop him from pouring half a cup of perfectly good ale over his hair.
“Honestly!” the bard laughed. “I do know a thing or two about proper grooming, essential knowledge in my trade.”
“Not mine,” Geralt rumbled.
“Besides, the hops are supposed to be good for sore muscles — a little bit like chamomile— for relaxation,” Jaskier explained, but at least he had put down the beer. “Don’t you use herbs? I thought Witchers carried bags full of, I don’t know, decoctions.”
“I have a salve for aches,” Geralt said, and then winced as the bard snapped up the information.
“That implies you have aches….” Jaskier said, his expression fervent and a little greedy.
“Why do you care?” Geralt said.
The bard met his eyes. “Okay, well, I’ll answer you. One, I care because you’re willing to split expenses with me, and that means I like to sweeten the pot. Two, I’m a very giving person, taking care of someone else makes me feel good. Three, you’re very attractive, which surely you must know. Four, I’m lonely, and bored, and I’d love to get off with you, if you don’t mind. Five, you’re mysterious, and exciting, and you’re Geralt of Bloody Rivia, the most legendary Witcher currently walking the Continent, and I want to sing of your glorious deeds!”
Geralt wasn’t struck dumb by the bard’s list of reasons, as silence was more his customary mode.
“I hope that, um, I hope that wasn’t too much. I’m aware that at times I overshare, and maybe I come on a little too strong?” It was the first moment that Geralt could sense any nervousness in the man.
“No,” Geralt said.
“Oh. Right then. I’ll just, shall I, um…”
The bard looked so crestfallen that Geralt had to clear up his intention.
“No— you didn’t come on too strong. I like that you’re not afraid of me.”
Jaskier looked at him again. His blue eyes really were something, so open and clear. “I’m not afraid. I just, I see the people, like downstairs, and they’re so stupid and small sometimes, and it just makes me want to be bigger, and better…. you kill monsters to keep us safe, and that’s so amazing.”
“Hm,” Geralt allowed.
“I like you,” the bard said with a smile. He had a kind smile and not as stupid as most humans often seemed to Geralt.
“You don’t know me,” Geralt argued with a frown.
“I’d like to,” Jaskier said.
“Hmm,” Geralt replied, not wanting to encourage the bard.
The bard paused. “I’m not getting one hundred percent enthusiasm out of you, tonight,” he said. “So. I’ll just restate my position: I like you, I find you attractive, I’d love to spend the evening however pleases you best. It’s up to you.”
Geralt grumbled, but finally met the bard’s open gaze. “Are you sure you don’t have an ulterior motive?”
“What motive could I have that I haven’t listed for you already?” Jaskier laughed.
“Get under my guard, try to assassinate me, plant a curse, steal something you think I might have that you might want…” Geralt listed all the ways that people had attempted to betray him in the past.
“Sir! I beg your pardon!” Jaskier began haughtily, but it was an act. “No, I’m not going to turn on you. Of course that’s what I would say if I were going to turn on you. Hmm. Let’s work this through. Trust comes hard to a witcher, eh? So, don’t ask a witcher to give trust easily. Okay, then. How about I tell you what I’m thinking of doing, and you will not have to guess?”
Geralt shook his head, bemused, finally nodding briefly in assent.
“Excellent!” Jaskier said. “Then, when you are finished with your bath, please show me your collection of salves, herbs, and unguents, so that I can help you with your wounds, aches and pains.”
“Hm,” Geralt agreed.
He didn’t intend to leave the bath so quickly, but it was an excellent offer, and as the water cooled, being taken care of by the bard became more and more appealing.
He rose from the water, intending to towel off, but the bard had one of the towels heating for him on a chair near the fire, and began to pat and rub him dry efficiently. Not even whores had ever been so assiduous.
“Not to offend,” Geralt said, “but… do you ever do this for money?”
Jaskier blushed. “Money. Hmph. Money is cheap.” He raised his bright eyes to Geralt’s as he continued to dry off the Witcher with firm, pleasing strokes of the towel. “Why would I want money, when I could have — friendship, inspiration, a lasting memory of human connection, insight into the life and emotions and experiences of another sentient creature?”
Geralt raised his eyebrows, trying not to look so shocked at the bard’s philosophy.
“Don’t look so surprised!” Jaskier said, reading his expression. “I know, I know, you didn’t much care for the Fishmonger’s Daughter. Not my most sophisticated work, but an apt song for a simple crowd. It’s a good beat for stomping and a simple tune for belting.”
“It is simple,” Geralt said.
Jaskier laughed. “Aye! it is.”
As Geralt was now dry, the toweling slowed, and Jaskier cleared his throat.
“Tell me what you like best,” he said. “I’m a man of few inhibitions.”
“I usually pay,” Geralt said.
“I understand,” the bard said, not as nervously as many a whore had. “Just tell me. If it’s something I don’t like, I’ll tell you no.”
“I like to have my hair combed out,” Geralt said. “My back and feet thoroughly rubbed. My scars treated with salve. And … “
There was one more thing that Geralt usually needed, that he hated asking for, even with the most well paid whore. It was embarrassing. It was personal. And yet, this bard— he seemed so willing.
“I need my balls emptied.”
“Oh!” Jaskier jumped a little, but his smile broadened. “You know I was afraid you were going to say something like, I usually need a good caning, or, I have to eat raw lamb’s eyes or I can’t get off.”
Geralt rolled his eyes at the bard, realizing that the young man was joking to lessen the tension in the room.
“Toxins,” he explained. “Witcher potions keep us alive, but leave the body full of toxins, they come out in the seed. Not safe for humans. Need it out.”
“Got it. The usual way?” Jaskier mimed a hand job. “Or?” he said after a moment?
“I have… an instrument,” Geralt said. A witcher’s phallus, he’d carved it himself. He straightened his spine and broadened his shoulders and stance, but still, looking Jaskier in the eye he couldn’t do. He stared somewhere behind the bard’s left ear. The towel still hung, a thin barrier between them.
“This is fantastic!” Jaskier breathed, eyes wide.
“Breathe a word and i’lI ruin you, bard,” Geralt growled, as dangerous as he knew how.
“No, no! I swear, by Melitele’s rapturous embrace!” Jaskier made the sign of three with his left hand over his heart.
“Hm,” Geralt said. “But in return. What of you. What do you … enjoy.” It wasn’t something he was used to asking, dealing primarily with sex workers he paid in good coin.
“I will enjoy feeling you relax, seeing you laid out like a feast before me. Feeling the muscles of your back and buttocks lose their tension. Hearing your moans as I rub the hurts of miles out of your feet. I’m not unskilled at this, Witcher. A bard has a certain reputation to uphold.”
“Fucking goats?” Geralt jested drily.
Jaskier laughed, a merry sound. “No, darling. I’m an entertainer. In any great house or lowly inn, I’m called to lighten the load, ease the mind, and delight and relax the body. I’m a university man, but, I’ll have you know, I studied the arts of intimate conversation alongside the licensed companions of Oxenfurt, in the salons of the great Countess de Stael herself. You, my dear fellow, are in for a treat.”
Geralt hummed. He wasn’t about to volunteer that he had known Corinne de Stael thirty years ago, when she was a young Lady in Waiting in the court of Aurora Henrietta. In those days, Geralt had been a good deal more free in his dealing with humans. Times had changed since then.
“I await your pleasure,” Geralt said, slipping for a moment into the court diction he remembered.
Jaskier didn’t miss it; his blue eyes flashed at Geralt’s, then he batted his long lashes fetchingly.
“I sincerely intend our pleasure to be mutual. Now, darling, show me your oils, your unguents, and this enticing instrument you speak of.”
Geralt walked away from the towel the young man was still holding, and knelt to retrieve said objects from his satchel. Jaskier’s gaze fell across him in open appreciation. He showed no distaste for the cruel scars scoring the Witcher’s body.
He brought out the witcher’s phallus in its wrapping cloth, and tossed it on the bed. Jaskier noted it without comment.
He went on, pulling out lotions. “This is for scars, wear these kid gloves and don’t get any on you. This is for muscle relaxation. This is simple oil, with a gentle counteragent to keep you safe from the scar treatment. This is the instrument.”
Geralt laid out two little jars, and a small stoppered bottle. Jaskier opened the bottle and cautiously sniffed it. “Ah, chamomile! That is very nice,” he said.
The room had a modest double bed, not very wide, but long enough for Geralt to stretch out. He pulled back the covers and lay face up, unwilling to turn his back on Jaskier so easily — even though his trust in the man was rising with alarming speed.
“Do you mind…” Geralt fumbled.
“Relax,” Jaskier said. “Let me do your feet first. You’ll see.”
“Hmm,” Geralt said. Jaskier moved to the end of the bed and picked up a soft blanket quilted out of rags.
“Cover up with this, so you don’t get too cold,” Jaskier said.
It wasn’t at all cold in the room, but Geralt appreciated Jaskier’s tact as the man took his right foot into his warm, strong hands, already slick with oil from the bottle.
Jaskier manipulated his foot like a pro, loosening each toe and massaging the arch until Geralt moaned.
“That’s what I want to hear,” Jaskier said with a smile. He scrubbed the tension out of Geralt’s calves after he finished with his feet.
“Would you like me to do your face?”
“The back of my neck, please,” Geralt asked politely, and turned over. He couldn’t bear the thought of Jaskier touching his face as gently and intimately as he had been doing down at his feet.
Geralt had no fear of the bard as he lay on his stomach, face turned to the side. It wasn’t that Geralt had never been betrayed by anyone seemingly harmless. It was just that he felt, in some instinctual way, that Jaskier meant everything he said. He found Geralt attractive, he wanted to give him a good time. There was no more reason for Geralt to second guess him. If he made a move, Geralt would defend himself with force. If he didn’t, Geralt might as well relax.
Jaskier poured some more oil and spent some time working Geralt’s neck. It was tight and sore, but responded well to Jaskier’s touch.
“Shall I get my comb?” Jaskier said.
“My comb is in the pack,” Geralt said. “I forgot.”
“Lie still,” Jaskier said. Instead of rooting around in the pack where Geralt couldn’t see, Jaskier moved the pack to the bedside, within Geralt’s sightline, and found Geralt’s comb with relative ease. The comb was hand carved, made of bone.
“Did you carve this?” Jaskier asked.
“No,” Geralt said. Jaskier didn’t press, but Geralt went on, as Jaskier carefully worked from the bottoms of his knotted locks up toward his scalp. “In winter, we rest, repair our gear, restock. Make gifts to share with one another. Witcher customs of old.”
“Sounds peaceful,” Jaskier said.
“Hm,” Geralt agreed.
Jaskier held Geralt’s hair in his hand, picking at it carefully with the comb. His careful work pulled very little.
“You’re very good,” Geralt murmured, unthinking. It was something he might have said to a whore.
“Thank you,” Jaskier responded warmly.
The peaceful combing went on for a long time. Geralt felt into a light meditation, only surfacing briefly when Jaskier put down the comb and picked up the gloves, put them on, and began applying the salves to Geralt’s scars. He was gentle, didn’t press too hard — but Geralt couldn’t feel the scars much anyway, only where they itched and pulled at the healthier skin around them.
“Is there anywhere else — on your front?” Jaskier asked in a soft voice.
“Hmm,” Geralt said. “Don’t want to turn over.”
“That’s fine, lie still,” Jaskier said. His voice was so low and even, so soft and gentle, like nothing the Witcher had encountered in many a long season.
He felt the young man close the jar of scar cream, remove the kid gloves, and pick up the muscle relaxant. It was not very strong; safe for the human to handle.
“This tingles,” Jaskier said. “And it smells amazing.”
“Camphor tree,” Geralt murmured. “Zerrikanian.”
“Have you been there?”
“No…” Geralt said. “They have their own ways with monsters.”
“Can’t you just go? Not to fight monsters?”
“Witchers stick to the Path,” Geralt stated.
“Hey now, don’t tense up after all this work,” Jaskier jested. He redoubled the pressure of his long strokes up and down the muscles of Geralt’s back.
“You are very beautiful to look upon,” he murmured. “Your back is a work of art.”
“Slashed,” Geralt grumbled.
“You’ve stood the tests of survival,” Jaskier said. “Very beautiful to my eyes, delightful to my hands.“
The musician’s strong hands hadn’t tired, even though Geralt had nearly lost track of the time he’d spent lying face down. The bard had soothed the tired muscles of his arms, neck, back and legs, and was now working on his buttocks, lower back and upper thighs.
“Your ass is amazing,” Jaskier said, with evident appreciation.
“Thanks,” Geralt managed, not a complete barbarian.
“Care to explain the instrument?”
“Oh,” Geralt mumbled. “Yes, I should. Just let me….”
“Don’t roll over,” Jaskier said. “Lie still. Let me do all the work.”
“You are a wonder,” Geralt mumbled, then blushed. As he felt the heat roll through his face, he realized he hadn’t blushed in years.
“This is a privilege, to touch you like this, to help you like this. I love it,” Jaskier said. His words were so careless and so sincere, a strange and heady combination to the witcher. He reached out and unwrapped the witcher’s phallus and pondered it.
It was always a little bit strange, to see the thing he’d carved to fit inside his own body so intimately, held in another person’s hands.
“One more thing,” Geralt said, something he hardly ever felt the courage to ask.
“Yes?” Jaskier responded.
“If you find an empty bottle in my pack? I want to catch my spend in it? It's something we use in our potions.”
“My word,” Jaskier said, under his breath. “Of course,” he added, retrieving a small bottle with a wide mouth and handing it to Geralt.
“Thanks,” Geralt mumbled.
“So, this… this part goes inside you….”
“Oil the long bit very well, then slip it inside me, and angle one of the prongs behind my balls …”
“I’m aware of the technique, but I’ve never had the pleasure of exploring it firsthand. Please let me know if I cause you any discomfort. Just say slow, or stop, or go on.”
Geralt was accustomed to explaining to his bedmates — not the other way around.
“Thank you,” he said more clearly.
“You’re welcome,” Jaskier said.
“I want — I want to return the favor,” Geralt said. He wasn’t used to asking for anything. He never admitted to wanting anything. It was something a Witcher should forbid himself. But Geralt was never a stickler for the rules.
“Let’s see how this goes,” Jaskier said. “I’m certainly amenable to anything you want, especially involving sharing pleasure with you. But right now, I’m focused on you, all right?”
“Hm,” Geralt nodded.
Jaskier poured some more oil onto his fingers, and rubbed it carefully around his opening, dipping his littlest finger lightly inside as Geralt relaxed. It felt good. He hadn’t wanted to turn over, because his prick was already hard and he didn’t want Jaskier to be burned if he came on him by mistake. He held the small jar tight in his right hand, marveling at the way his evening was turning out.
Jaskier already had one finger inside him, slowly moving it in and out, getting him ready for the phallus.
“Go on, I can take more,” Geralt said.
“You’re so good, you’re doing so well,” Jaskier praised, and Geralt couldn’t help the sigh of relaxation that spread through his body at Jaskier’s words.
“Darling, how wonderfully you relax for me,” Jaskier said, and Geralt moaned, just under his breath. He parted his legs a little more, letting Jaskier in.
“Yes, that’s good, so good, dearheart,” Jaskier intoned. He didn’t mean it, of course, but any fool could see how quickly Geralt responded to the sweet, gentle words.
“Please, let me slip another finger in you, sweetness, yes, there, a little more oil, oh, how wonderfully well you are doing,” Jaskier murmured.
Geralt couldn’t help it. His prick had a life of its own, underneath him, trapped against the coarse bed linens. He twitched, just a little, just to give himself a little comfort, the small jar fiercely gripped in his right hand, his left hand insistently relaxed.
“If you want to move, that’s fine, sweetheart, you can thrust back against my hand, I’d love it,” Jaskier whispered.
“Oh,” Geralt moaned, and he just couldn’t help it. Cleaned, petted, softened, coddled, gentled by Jaskier’s strong hands, the Witcher responded, needing it, wanting it— wanting so much more of that strong, certain touch, that careful invasion, the breaking of his boundaries.
He thrust back, just the tiniest bit, just to show Jaskier that he heard him.
“Yes, good, that’s good, you’re so strong, so beautiful, by Melitele,” Jaskier breathed. “I think you can take it now, yes?”
“Oh, yes,” Geralt said. He bit down against the begging that rose up in his throat. A Witcher does not beg, no matter what the cost.
“All right, just a moment, here, I’m lining it up,” Jaskier said.
The fingers up his arse went away and Geralt closed his throat on the whine that wanted to escape him. Then he felt the cold smooth wood of the slender Witcher’s phallus, the thing he’d been taught how to carve and fit inside his own body, to release his own seed, to be preserved and used for healing when all else failed. Seed was full of life essence after all, and transformed by each Witcher’s own wild magic into something that might help in time of greatest need.
Geralt groaned as he felt the phallus slip inside him, the smooth give of his body letting it in, the press of the head in just the right place, the place that would make him spill.
Jaskier moaned, right along with him. “Gods, that looks good, Geralt. Look at you take it. Melitele’s loving cunt, look at you swallow it in, ng, so good.”
Jaskier never stopped talking, but right then, Geralt didn’t mind. His words were weaving together inside of Geralt’s brain, with the feeling of the phallus, of his body adjusting to the painful/sweet intrusion, the way the hard wood of the instrument pressed implacably against his most vulnerable spot, forcing him to yield…
“Now, rock it, slow,” Geralt muttered through his clenched teeth.
“Yes, darling, yes, that’s it, dear gods,” Jaskier rambled.
Geralt got his prick’s head into the little jar just in time, as the first gob slid out of him, searing hot. He felt a little of it sting his thumb. He didn’t know what would happen if he let go inside a human and he didn’t want to know. He’d only had sex like that with other Witchers, and once or twice with a wise and willing Sorceress.
“Are you spending, Geralt? That is so hot, dear gods, your body, so beautiful, look at the way it milks you, Melitele’s ample ass!”
Jaskier gave a sweet cry, and Geralt felt something hot and wet land on his thigh. The bard had come just watching him, but he couldn’t pay much attention, too busy spurting his own hot seed into the jar he held.
“Please, don’t stop,” he manage to grit out between his teeth.
“I won’t, I won’t, not until you say,” Jaskier promised.
It seemed to go on forever, the strange hot ecstasy cresting as he clenched around the thing in his ass, the tightness of his body, the release, and the rolling waves of pleasure that surged through his body, like the powerful waves of the sea to the North of Kaer Morhen pounding relentless against the granite cliffs of the coast.
At last it was over, Jaskier's voice in loops of wordless crooning, “good so good, mhmm, so good….”
“Take it out,” Geralt said.
Jaskier slowly withdrew the witcher’s phallus. Geralt gave a mighty shudder and a deep sigh.
“Let me help you with that,” he said, finding the lid to the small jar now containing a respectable amount of Geralt's seed.
“It’s powerful, don’t spill,” Geralt mumbled.
“I’ll be careful,” Jaskier said, and Geralt believed him.
“That was good,” Geralt said.
“It was for me too,” Jaskier said. “Do you mind if I sleep, here beside you?”
“I don’t mind,” Gerald said, surprised to find that he didn’t. “I’d like it,” he added, more surprised to find that it was true.
“Sweet dreams, darling Witcher,” Jaskier murmured, laying his head on the pillow, turning, and pressing his back to the Witcher’s front.
Warm, relaxed, more sated than he’d felt in forever, the Witcher Geralt of Rivia, adjusted the bedclothes more closely around the tender bard, and followed the kindhearted man into pleasant dreams.