"I don't require a whore."
Funny thing is, Jaskier wasn't about to offer. He means to convey words to that effect to settle the matter and dispel any potential future misunderstandings, but finds himself saying instead, "Why not?" His mouth curls around the words as if he's genuinely offended, though he hasn't a clue what about exactly.
The fact of the matter is, he is very clearly facing a witcher, that much is obvious once his brain joins the conversation, thus he most certainly should not be starting an argument, much less one he has no desire to actually win. But. Well. Jaskier could be a, ahem, lady of the night, if he so desired. A rather good one, in fact. He's pretty sure.
And, furthermore, being dismissed by someone in such an uncouth manner doesn't usually happen to him, unless he's recently escaped the wrath of some allegedly cuckolded spouse or other, in which case he would be graciously thankful his nether regions are still within working order and make his hasty exit forthwith. Only this time he feels compelled to sit opposite the stranger and extol his own skills in the pleasure arts.
In hindsight, perhaps he should not have changed his routine to a degree where his intentions in approaching might have been misconstrued. Entering the inn by a side door, a tad swaggering purely for effect, his lute left with the innkeeper until he would get a better read on the crowd and his chances of not getting his instrument broken over his teeth and its strings used as an impromptu toothbrush, he can now understand how perhaps his general bearing might have led to some confusion. Confusion he should now be dispelling in a reasonable fashion.
Then again, his pockets have been feeling rather empty as of late. He glances at his unintentional companion, who is currently completely focused on drinking his ale rather than answering Jaskier's very pertinent query, or further acknowledging his presence in any way whatsoever. The leather jerkin has certainly seen better days. But the coin pouch is not without merit.
Not that he's seriously considering anything of the sort, but, if he were, in order to turn anything even vaguely resembling a profit which could last him for more than one night's stay at a rundown inn, Jaskier should find himself a way into this particular witcher's confidences, or at least score a tag-along for an indeterminate amount of time. He feels a heroic ballad coming on.
With that in mind, he makes himself at home in the seat across from him, and proceeds to adopt what, to his mind, is a most alluring countenance. It consists mostly of preening, with a wink thrown in there somewhere when he notices he is finally receiving some measure of attention. Having lived an existence mostly consisting of strained tolerance from people unavoidably (by virtue of his refusing to leave quietly upon initial resistance) entranced by his finer musical stylings, he is used to single-mindedly persevering towards a goal, regardless of what that might be and how out of his depth he actually is.
"You seem like a fine fellow in need of some, er, distraction. I could certainly be of service." His winning smile does not, sadly, seal the deal.
But he does receive a verbal reply, which is progress, of a sort, even if it sounds as if the words may have been pulled out of his stomach with a fishhook. "What sort?" Jaskier will go ahead and ignore the bored tone, thank you.
"I do it all!" he declares with a bit of a flourish. An underrated flourish entirely appropriate for the occasion, and not at all one which attracts clearly envious glares from the nearest tables. "Jaskier's the name. What's your poison? Unless it's actual poison. Like you'd be poisoning me for your depraved amusement. Because then... no. But thank you! Thanks for the... opportunity, um." He sort of stops talking more because his vocal chords seem to have shrunk under the witcher's truly inscrutable gaze than because he's completed his sentence. He had more to say on the topic of his not getting poisoned, but he feels maybe the subject has already been exhausted.
Recovering valiantly under that frankly unnerving stare, he asks what's been on his mind since about the time he first approached the table. "Geralt of Rivia, correct? You have the, uh, swords. Two of 'em. Very mighty, I'm sure."
"Hmm." That sounded like assent. Then again, it could also be a particular brand of witcher dismissal, which, as the seconds tick by, seems more and more likely.
Well, how lovely. Jaskier's about to cut his losses and leave with whatever dignity he still retains intact, is in fact already half-risen from his seat, when he hears, "I have a room."
"Upstairs?" Geralt gives him a, in this case, deservedly scornful look before he finishes the last of his ale and rises to collect his possessions. Jaskier has so many questions, all of the questions, but he gets the feeling keeping quiet will get him further than allowing his mouth to run free.
So he follows him across the floor to the stairs and up them to the last room on the corridor. Silently. Jaskier can do silent, even though it physically pains him to bite his tongue on question after question, unlikely to get a better opportunity to curry some favour but knowing his tongue could just as likely land him into utterly undeserved trouble, if past experience has taught him anything other than run when guards are approaching.
Seeing as he only barely achieves it by holding his breath about three quarters of the way there, once he enters the room he takes his time gulping air in, though rather unflatteringly. Geralt only looks mildly regretful at having assented to his company and inviting him in, but he flips the lock on the door after a moment's pause and turns to Jaskier, who is now shuffling his feet in the space between door and bed. It's not the worst room he's had the dubious pleasure of occupying, not by a mile. There's an actual bed, which doesn't occur quite as often as people may assume when it comes to inns and the such.
Things are certainly progressing swiftly, what with the room and the bed and Geralt putting away his things in quick order, his pouch left within view near the water basin as proof of payment. Swifter than previously indicated, in fact. Which is kind of the point, though Jaskier feels suddenly wrong-footed for no apparent reason. So he does what he usually does in such situations, only with a bit more of a harlot twist to try to break the tension, and ends up leaning in, lips first, only to be stonewalled by the man doing a great impression of a stone wall.
Ah. All right then.
He may be flushing at the inadvertent faux pas, but swallows down his jitters in quick order. "No kissing." How did it not occur to him? "Right. Yes! Because whores don't— Right."
"Problem?" He asks it as if the only problem here is Jaskier himself.
He jumps to reply, "No, no, no. No. Of course not. Not at all."
Geralt gives him another look, this time one of clear annoyance mixed in with something else Jaskier can't quite parse. He finds it encouraging he hasn't been kicked out just yet, however, as it seems this whole whoring business involves more artfulness than he had initially anticipated.
Something about Jaskier's eager expression must overshadow his manic energy, because Geralt grunts once more and his shoulders relax minutely.
"Witchers don't carry diseases, nor do they spread them," he states plainly. The eye contact is pretty aggressive, but that might just be the usual level of intensity he exhibits in such situations.
"That's wonderful information to have," Jaskier smiles. If there's anything like confusion in his tone, it must not bother Geralt enough to have him ask about it. He does the opposite of asking questions, which is to push Jaskier farther into the room with a purposeful palm at the centre of his chest.
Finally, things seem to be progressing. Honestly, Jaskier would have been amenable to less back and forth, but there was bound to be some measure of floundering. Now they seem to be on the same page, in a manner of speaking. That is, Geralt is breaching the distance between them and his palm moves to the side of Jaskier's shoulder to steady him. And then Geralt dips his head, expression still stony, to the crook of Jaskier's neck, and—
Lips. Neck. Oh. Oh.
Jaskier's calves tense, he can't help it, and his body is further overwhelmed as both of Geralt's arms go to his shoulders and then down to his elbows and hips in a fluid movement Jaskier can't quite keep track of while his brain scrambles at what his body is supposed to be doing in its turn.
Lifting his arms to hold on seems like the start of a plan, and it turns out to be an excellent choice when, without much in the way of communicating his intent, he's being lifted, his feet clear off the ground. Geralt is lifting him up into him and turning them around to sit himself on the bed in an efficient series of movements which one might confuse with a particular type of dance on someone else. As it is, Jaskier has to grip at his shoulders for balance, and thus cannot properly appreciate it. Not that he himself could ever achieve such a feat. Lifting people seems terribly exhausting.
He scrambles around a bit trying to find some sort of balance, finally his legs ending up either side of Geralt's massive thighs, knees digging into the bedding for purchase. Muscles twitching from the strain, his legs spread as wide as he can spread them and perhaps wider still, his groin aches oddly with the stretch. Not quite uncomfortable, though undeniably new. Geralt's palms at his hip bones steady his twitching movements to prop him where he's least likely to topple over and injure himself. While he appreciates the intent, nothing can quire comfort him given how he's unused to this particular position. His dalliances with men have chiefly involved taking the other in hand, although he has a solid understanding of what their time together will entail, and is scarcely a stranger to being on the receiving end of a good buggering. There was that one time the Countess of—
"Fuck!" Geralt's tongue in his ear feels better than it sounds, and, coupled with one of his palms creeping across the underside of his arse to cop a feel, has him once more feeling interested in the trousers region.
"Not a very experienced whore, are you?" There's a mocking smile in there somewhere, he's pretty sure. Mostly, it's shocking to hear him speak unprompted, and his breath makes Jaskier shiver where it's touching his neck in the places left wet by Geralt's lingering kisses.
He doesn't know what makes him say it, though the words utter stupidity come to mind.
"As it happens, I'm a—oh—bard."
Without quite removing his mouth from Jaskier's neck, Geralt mutters, "You're a bard who fucks witchers?"
"Er, actually, I'm a bard who doesn't fuck at all. For coin! For coin!" Almost jumps to explain himself, eyes big and round, his words catching up with him all at once.
That does the trick. Geralt's arms stiffen around him and he puts as much space between them as physically possible given how Jaskier is still in his lap. "What is this?" he grunts out in a stony voice, looking decidedly unamused and death-affirmingly dangerous.
Granted, Jaskier could conceivably see how his words may require a bit more elaboration in the form of some additional, um, clarification. "This is sort of a one-time kind of deal." Geralt's expression does not change in any way, shape or form, therefore it is possible Jaskier's explanation may not have been, strictly speaking, up to par. "Whoring pays better in this town than presenting the general populace with a legitimate form of entertainment for the musically-inclined." If he sounds a tad defensive it's only because some people truly do not have good taste.
He holds up his hands, acquiescent. "In my defence, not technically a lie. It's not my fault you're my first, uh, client, nor that I will be shortly abandoning this particular career path."
Much more is... not forthcoming.
In fact, there's a chance Jaskier is digging himself a bigger and decidedly deeper hole, but he figures his options are either leave it as is and be on the receiving end of a very grouchy witcher, or try to explain himself further and potentially be deprived of what is turning out to be a rather lovely roll in the hay, never mind the monetary gain.
It seems Geralt has chosen option three, which looks to be him stopping everything to stare wordlessly at a point above Jaskier's shoulder. After several long moments, Jaskier starts considering skipping asking if he's all right and instead making a speedy retreat for his own bodily integrity.
"Um," his mouth says. That snaps Geralt's attention back to Jaskier, eyes narrowing into a concentrated focus. Jaskier should not be speaking, but his mouth often has other ideas, which he at times wishes his brain would have some input on. "Should I make myself scarce?" At this stage, it might not be the worst thing.
After an uncomfortably long stare, Geralt asks, "Do you want to?"
Well now. That's hardly playing fair. The fact of the matter is, Geralt's money is as good as anyone's and a far sight better than anything he's about to get anywhere near here on his lute-playing alone, and Jaskier's cock was making a delicious pass at getting hard, and Geralt has lovely cheekbones for someone who could snap him in two in the blink of an eye, so.
"I'm rather taken with my current position, thank you." He sounds only a little breathless, mostly from the way Geralt's arms are moving back to far more interesting parts of his person, such as his lower back and arse.
"Hmm." Hardly a glowing endorsement, but Jaskier not flying across the room, so there's that.
He might as well offer the proverbial olive branch here.
"I'm not entirely opposed to continuing as we were. Very not opposed," he adds when, underneath him, Geralt seems to be rearing to move away, which, Jaskier swiftly decides, would decidedly be the worst scenario yet now that his afternoon is looking up.
Bravado newly reinstated, he tries his luck, if only to see how far he can push it now the truth's out. "Would kissing be a—"
Geralt kisses him. He tastes of ale and spit and heat, if heat were to have a taste at all. His tongue is heavy in Jaskier's mouth, but only for an instant before it draws Jaskier's tongue out to suck on it like a summer maiden would suck on a ripe piece of fruit. He finishes the kiss with a lick to the corner of Jaskier's lips, leaving his mouth strangely empty once Geralt's tongue is nowhere near it.
"Shut up," he breathes, his bottom lip still grazing Jaskier's. It's not a whisper, and Jaskier can't fathom why his own body should shiver at the feel of it.
"Uh huh." He can feel their skin brushing together when he speaks. When he licks his suddenly dry lips, his tongue catches on Geralt's. A shivery moan catches in his throat.
There's not much speaking after that, but the number of items of clothing leaving their bodies increases until they're both kicking off the last of them, Geralt having moved them farther onto the bed and up it, his back leaning to the wall and Jaskier still straddling his hips, naked cocks brushing. Jaskier tries not to stare, but there's a whole lot of Geralt's prick, enough to have his hole twitching with some sort of thrilling fear, if that's even a thing. It's... a lot. A challenge, some might say, and Jaskier would say if not for the possibility of Geralt not taking it as the compliment it so clearly is.
He must have been patently obvious about it anyway, because Geralt scoffs at him, rather rudely he might add, before muttering, "Oil."
Of course. Only Jaskier isn't an actual whore, thus he finds himself at present lacking that particular item.
"My trousers," Geralt offers. Or, more accurately, directs.
He shifts around to search for them, and finds quickly enough what he's looking for. He goes to turn around, bottle in hand, but Geralt halts him with a heavy hand at his hip and reaches to retrieve the oil from his hand. Jaskier makes a noise of confusion, balanced nakedly as he is on his knees with his back turned, but Geralt shushes him and rearranges his limbs to better position him to hover over Geralt's cock. He uses his legs to tip himself forward, and it occurs to him at about that time what it is they're doing, how Geralt is going to prepare him, maybe even take him like this, and his cock dribbles out a tiny spurt of pre-come. Seems his body is all in on this plan, and his brain is about to explode from the tension, which only leaves Geralt to get on board with everything and bloody get to it.
Which he does right as Jaskier's about to make a fuss about it, perhaps sensing his odds at keeping him quiet are better should he give him what he wants.
The first finger is too thick but coated generously in oil, and it breaches him before he has the chance to tense up. It's a rush of blood to the head, leaving him dizzy and overwhelmed and trembly all down his spine.
It only stops at the first knuckle, during which time his body catches up and his hole squirms and twitches and only manages to draw it farther in. Within moments it breaches him to the second knuckle, after which is rests inside of him, unmoving, for several long frustrating moments during which Jaskier makes the most embarrassing noises known to man and beast. His sweating palms threaten to slip and have him fall over, but Geralt's other hand is steady at his hip, not allowing him to move an inch without its permission. It's oddly comforting to know it's there. Then the finger retracts, only to plunge back in, swift and rough. Jaskier keens, a wounded noise. It goes on and on as Geralt's finger fucks him slowly and methodically, calluses catching at the tender places inside of him, before being joined by a second after several minutes.
The second one is too much. Jaskier will never be able to take it. His fingers are too blunt, too thick, too much altogether. Geralt must feel it, too, the swelling panic, for he quiets Jaskier down with a palm at his flank almost as if he were an unruly horse needing to be tamed. It must achieve something, because the second finger pops in, both of them now in Jaskier's hole poking at his insides, and he squirms around at the sensation out of instinct, without much idea of what he's doing, body mindlessly seeking something.
He finds it.
The fingers brush against that sweet little spot, the one he's had the pleasure to be acquainted with before. It's a thrill up and down his spine the more they tease and rub at it. When they part to scissor within him, he moans shamelessly, entirely whorishly at long last. Geralt should be glad to be getting what he's paying for, he thinks hysterically.
It must be something to do with that thought which has his hips shifting around all on their own, as if finally able to move how they want and where they want. He starts fucking himself on Geralt's fingers, slowly at first, then swifter, as much as his position permits, as much as his body allows as he becomes used to the girth of it. He moves until his thighs ache from it, until his muscles protest. Then, seemingly listening in to Jaskier's thoughts, or reading his quivering body, Geralt stills him to extract his fingers. He's slow and careful and even gentle, but it's still a heady drag out, and Jaskier almost collapses in a trembly heap from the intensity of it.
He leans almost his full weight on his arms resting on Geralt's legs. In quick order, and due in part to Geralt's palms caressing at his hips and legs with regular, hypnotising movements, he relaxes enough to allow his body to move once more. Taking one hand off him, Geralt moves and shifts behind him. When Jaskier's arse connects to his cock, he can feel he's added more oil, has greased himself already for what comes next. He can then hardly resist the feeling of it against his hole, can only shift and grind and let that fat cock rub itself against him. Greater men would succumb.
Arms encircle his waist, grip steadying and strangely gratifying in itself. They pull him into that massive chest, not that everything about Geralt of Rivia isn't satisfyingly massive. Jaskier grips at his forearms to feel their bulk beneath his fingers, his hips never stopping their subtle little movements all along the length of his prick.
"Are you going to ride, little bird?"
"I'm not a, oh, bird. Ah! I don't—" His words devolve into ragged moans and slip right out of his head. His hole keeps dragging over Geralt's cock from root to tip, where it catches deliciously each and every time, over his balls where it spreads the oil around until Jaskier can feel it dripping, clinging, wetting the insides of his thighs.
On the next slide he must tip his hips just so, at the best angle for Geralt's cockhead to slip right in. More accurately, only about half of the swollen head does, but their combined movements, whether intentionally on Geralt's part or pure coincidence, do the rest of the work and he's suddenly halfway down Geralt's gorgeous cock. For an instant, his mind protests this truly is too much, but he's come this far, can feel there's something better yet on the horizon if only he were to hang on.
The stretch is a wicked thing all on its own. "Quiet now." He must have been making noises, but his head is already in an uproar. Everything stops. They both stop while his body adjusts. Then he lets nature do the rest, his body's weight pulling him down down down until arse meets groin, and Jaskier screams.
A beastly sound, ripped from his chest, ragged as it exits his throat, quickly followed by a deep moan, as his body wriggles and twists to rearrange itself around the length inside of him. His breathing in tatters, he struggles to get words out, before finally he comes out with, "Move."
Massive forearms slither from around his waist to the backs of his thighs, and palms splay at the undersides of his knees to lift him where he wants him. His arms lift and shift their grip back to Geralt's shoulders, hardly adequate as far as bodily stability goes but the only counterpoint to his twitching hole, something he can focus on as he tries to hold on.
It can't possibly last long. Not any more than it already has. His cock has been leaking steadily since he first started moving on Geralt's cock. Now it swells further, and his balls contract, and next thing he knows his hole clamps down achingly tight and he spills across his own chest almost to his chin, untouched, incoherent with the fierce pleasure of it. His nails dig into Geralt's shoulders, a false measure of control knowing he can inflict a mark or two, though finger-shaped bruises are sure to grace his hips and legs and lower back for days after this.
As it is, Geralt allows him a few moments to regain his breath before asking, "May I?" It's oddly sweet, though it belies filthy intentions, to which Jaskier eagerly assents, though he makes only the thinnest of sounds in response.
It's enough confirmation of his continued interest and enthusiasm for the proceedings, it seems, because he gets well and truly fucked then. Geralt is ruthless. Unrelenting, his cock pistons in and out of Jaskier's bruised little hole without mercy. The sounds of flesh slapping against flesh fill the room, and Jaskier moans with the bittersweet hurt of it. It's too much, and then it moves beyond that to a place where something deeply dirty within himself starts craving it while he still has it.
"Come on. Where's that witcher— Fuck." He was stupid to think he wouldn't get it. That Geralt wouldn't give it to him.
For an unlikely amount of time, he's merely a ragdoll, moved up and down Geralt's cock, his own half-hard once again from the delectable friction. But he doesn't get the chance to fill back up. Geralt grunts in his ear and mouths at his neck, and Jaskier can feel his cock stilling deep inside, their bodies pressed tightly together to allow for that final inch to thrust its way inside, almost too much finally, before Geralt spills inside, dirtying him up deliciously.
As if his strings were suddenly cut, Jaskier falls backwards into him then.
"Was that what you wanted, little bard?" For once, Geralt himself sounds vaguely breathless, which is some sort of win, surely.
Jaskier wants to dignify that with an answer. And he most certainly will. Just as soon as his heart stops beating quite so wildly in his throat.
It doesn't seem likely to happen for a long time, however.
Oh, well. He's sure he'll get kicked out of bed soon enough, so he might as well make himself comfortable, even though he is, essentially, a sticky mess, inside and out, barely able to hold himself upright without assistance and still impaled on a rather large prick even as it is softening gradually.
Turns out, the best bed by far is the solid and sweaty chest of a surprisingly accommodating witcher. Huh.