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Anal sex is no commonplace act in any part of the Continent and Geralt has never been with another man. Without anybody teaching him differently he can only believe what he overhears in taverns and casual conversation -which is that anal sex is uncomfortable at best, intensely painful at worst. The kind of thing you do when forced or to please your partner, but never for the pleasure of the act itself.

Now he's here, with Jaskier in their room at yet another shabby inn and the bard is clearly expecting something. You can't thirst after somebody for nearly 10 years and then be satisfied with a quick handjob.

Jaskier is lying under Geralt right now, sprawled out on the bed, because the Witcher hadn't known any way to go about this other than pushing his partner down and asserting some sort of dominance. The bard isn't spooked though, quite the opposite, if his scent and the pure excitement in his bright blue eyes are anything to go by. But Geralt doesn't want to hurt him. Not at any cost.

The idea of having Jaskier lie there and take it, clenching his teeth through the pain, just to please Geralt, is abhorrent. So instead, the Witcher offers himself up. Or rather, he drops down onto the bed next to where Jaskier is lying and resolutely gets onto his hands and knees. Jaskier looks questioning until Geralts’ stare cows him into submission ("Well, get on with it." "Uh, right.") and the confused bard goes to fetch some oil (which makes Geralt release a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding).


Geralts' sudden change in demeanour feels… off. But Jaskier can't quite put a finger on it and if Geralt is so insistent to be on the receiving end then… okay? The minstrels' head is still spinning from the fact that he has gotten the Witcher into his bed at all, so he is terribly eager to make a good impression and demonstrate his prowess. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth and all that.

Truth be told though, Jaskier does prefer getting fucked to doing the fucking. He has been dying to get the Witchers thick cock inside him since he first caught a glimpse of it, many, many years ago. Now he knows it grows even bigger than he dared imagine when fully aroused. And it's not only long but also thick, so girthy in fact, the bards' fingers couldn't quite reach all the way around it.

It's a shame. Jaskier looked forward to the challenge.

But well, hopefully, this is not a one-off happenstance and hopefully, at a later date, Geralt will be up for giving it to Jaskier good and proper. For now, he's happy to focus on his Witchers' pleasure.

Except that when he returns to the bed, a small jar of oil in hand, and starts to gently trace a path down to Geralts' hole, it quickly becomes apparent that enjoyment is far from the man's mind.

The White Wolf is tense and quiet. Unmoving even when Jaskier drapes himself across his back and peppers tender kisses over his neck and shoulders.

Maybe, Jaskier thinks, he's just shit at picking up on Geralts' more subtle body language but… no. Five minutes ago, when they were undressing and first discovering each others bodies, Geralt had been quite responsive, vocal even! He'd hummed into hungry kisses, growled as he pushed Jaskier down onto the bed and gasped softly whenever the bards' inquisitive fingers found a particularly sensitive spot.

It had been delightful.

Now there is only grave silence. Jaskier can see Geralts' hands clenched in the sheets.

"You know, if you'd rather-"

"Just keep going, it's fine."

Jaskier kinda doubts that. But if Geralt says to continue…? Maybe he's just a bit nervous.

Hoping some distraction would help the man relax, Jaskier slicks up both his hands and brings one down to play with Geralts length. It had softened a bit but jumps and fills at the touch, which Jaskier takes as a good sign. With the other hand, he continues to massage the skin around the tightly furled opening. Not pushing in, just trying to get it used to the touch.

After a few tense moments, the tactic seems to pay off.

With his body still draped over the Witcher, Jaskier can feel the other man relax in increments. First his arms and shoulders, then the spine dropping into a more natural curve. Finally his hips and thighs too, legs inching apart just a bit further to give the hand stroking his dick more leeway. Wetness gathers at the head of Geralts' cock.

Experimentally, Jaskier increases the pressure of his other hand, dipping a fingertip into the softening ring of muscle. He retracts it before Geralt has even the chance to tense back up.

"You're doing good. Just relax, yeah? I'll take care of you."

The Witcher only gives a huff in acknowledgement. The kind of sound he makes when he knows an answer is expected, but not what kind. Maybe he has never done this before?

It is probably crazy Jaskier hasn't considered that until this very moment but look, Geralt is old. Twice as old as Jaskier at least, and since he obviously is into men as well as women (Jaskier isn't vain enough to believe he is the first man to ever have caught the Witchers' attention), to think Geralt would be a virgin in this act… that doesn't sit right.

If he is, why would he be so insistent on receiving yet not say anything to make sure his partner knows to be careful? It wasn't like Jaskier would judge him for his inexperience, Geralt had to know that.

A shudder running through the body below him pulls Jaskier from his musings. On autopilot, he had continued working a finger inside the hot clutch of Geralts' body, pulling it back and then pushing in again a little bit deeper on every turn until the muscles learned to accept the intrusion.

It was fully inside now, which shouldn't be a terribly impressive feat when their aim is to put the whole of Jaskiers cock in there soon, but the Witchers' body tells a different story.

As Jaskier pushes in just a bit further, making him feel the thickest part of his finger, Geralt whimpers quietly and twitches, panting slightly and shifting his hips as though he doesn't know what to do with this sensation, like he can't decide if he wants more of it or less. His lower back, which had previously dropped into an almost submissive bent, now bows again, shifting his whole body forward to evade the intimate incursion. An instinctive motion.

Definitely a virgin.

Which. Makes the bard feel even more conflicted as to how to proceed. Geralt obviously doesn't want to talk. Jaskier is certain if he tries to ask again if he is sure, if he really wants this, he would only get snapped at again and no real answers. The Witcher has away of getting quite huffy when pestered for words he doesn’t want to (or can’t) say and the bard is loathe to risk the nights proceedings because he’s being a worrywart. But… he doesn't want to hurt Geralt. Or frighten him.

If there is any chance the other man had only claimed the receiving role because he felt like he had to for some reason (maybe he thought Jaskier would be intimidated by his size? Who knew.) then surely they must talk about that before going any further.


It feels like all of Geralts' senses have narrowed down to his own body. Which is a novel experience in and of itself.

The prep isn't as bad as he'd expected. Just… foreign and distressingly intense. A single finger isn't much, objectively he knows that even with the blood rushing around his brain drowning out every other rational thought, but it feels like a lot. The stretch of it burns, not painful but definitely strange, maybe, possibly… pleasant? In a way?

Perhaps if he had more time to experience and get used to it, to examine the feeling without the simultaneous stimulation of his cock bathing every other sensation into a more favourable light, he could decide if he likes it and if he maybe even wants more. But all Geralt can think about, as Jaskier pulls out and pushes in again, wrenching another confused whine from his throat as the curious feeling of fullness ebbs and flows, is that soon there'll be more, much more, whether he wants it or not.

If a single finger already feels like this, Geralt is suddenly certain Jaskiers cock would be unbearable. There is no way they'd be able to coax his body into taking a much larger intrusion unless Jaskier is willing to keep up with this snails-pace for another hour or two. Yes, Geralt had been resigned to bearing the pain when he'd got on his hands and knees but this, it turned out, is not like being beaten or bitten.

Already he feels exposed in a raw, intimate way he has never experienced before, neither in bed with another person nor during any other circumstance of his life. On his knees with his legs spread, naked and vulnerable, another person at his back and their fingers inside him, opening him up and putting him at their mercy -Geralt had not considered how placing himself into such a position went against every instinct and reflex drilled into him. How it would grate on every fibre of his being.

The fact that it's Jaskier makes it marginally better. Geralt knows he can trust the bard with his life. But that rational thought is not strong enough to quell the stressed reaction of his body.

I don't want this.

The thought forms with searing clarity, humiliation bubbling up his throat like swamp water.

Geralt wishes suddenly he hadn't given in to the bards' incessant flirting. That he'd just left well enough alone. Their friendship had been stable and unmoving for years. But if he pulls back now the bards' feelings would undoubtedly be hurt. He'd be disappointed (who wouldn't be) and thus go back to seeking pleasure in other people's beds.

A less experienced partner might be satisfied with a mouth or hands or thighs to fuck instead and under other circumstance, Geralt would have offered just that. But not to someone who'd already slept his way through all the courts of the continent. Someone who knew how this was supposed to go and wouldn’t, shouldn’t settle for less.

And Geralt had hoped to keep him. A ridiculous dream.

Noticing that he's started to tense again, Geralt forces his body back into relaxation. Tries to focus his attention on the soothing lull of the bards' voice, the hand still fondling his cock, and not the fingers threatening to split him wide open.

"Is this okay? Do you want another?"



"You sure? You know you can-"


Silence. Then the sound of the oil jar opening and closing and some nonsensical whispers about how Geralt should just keep breathing. Jaskiers’ hand is back, two fingers pushing inside.

The stretch is worse. Geralt manages to restrain himself from twisting away but cannot keep from tensing up near convulsively. A sharp bolt of pain races up his spine.


It's pure animal instinct to turn his head and let his teeth sink into the skin of his arm. The fresh, familiar ache washes over him, momentarily drowning out all other sensations and the hot, confusing ball of emotions expanding in his chest.


Jaskier knew the moment he brought his newly slicked fingers back to Geralts' opening that he should have listened to his gut feeling. Fuck what Geralt said.

The reaction to the new, bigger intrusion was instantaneous. Geralts' whole body seized up and he'd snapped his head to the side, to hide his face, was Jaskiers first guess, until a terrible wounded sound, muffled and nearly inaudible had reached his ears. If he hadn't been pressed so closely to the Witchers back, he'd not have heard it at all.

He knows that sound and the coping strategy it accompanies.

"Fucking hell-"

Horrified Jaskier removes his hands from the other man's body, both from his now tightly clenched hole and his rapidly softening prick. Forcing himself to act calmly, Jaskier first wipes his hands on the sheets, then coaxes Geralt out of his tense kneeling position with careful pressure on his shoulder.

"Shit, I'm sorry Geralt. It's over now, okay? You don't have to take anymore."

The Witcher rolls over willingly enough, lying back into the bed. Blood smears on the sheets. Jaskier makes himself take a deep breath and not freak out.

Geralt being prone to doing stupid, self-sacrificing shit is not news. (And Jaskier can't even be too mad about it, in general, because sometimes Geralts' stupid, self-sacrificing decisions are what ensure the squishy bards’ continued survival.) It is also not news that Geralt sucks at the whole communication... thing.

For monster facts, he is a veritable encyclopedia and, under the right circumstances, quite happy to share his knowledge at length. But to get him to talk about anything else? Hard. Make him talk about his emotions, his wants and needs -hell, make him admit that he has any of those? Impossible.

Guilt sweeps Jaskier like a tidal wave.

Like with any of his partners, he'd trusted Geralt to voice his needs. He'd trusted that when Geralt told him to continue, it really was okay. He'd trusted Geralt would tell him, verbally, when something was wrong or too much or not enough.

But Geralt is nothing like any of Jaskiers' usual partners and this trust was clearly misplaced. A critical oversight.

"Did I hurt you?"

The Witcher is trembling faintly. His face no longer hidden but those beautiful amber eyes stubbornly closed. Great...

"Geralt. You have to talk to me -or use your body language. Or, if telepathy is one of your Witcher skills after all, now would be a really good moment to show it."

The attempt at levity falls flat. But it was worth a try. Geralt got overwhelmed sometimes, stuck in his own head. Therefore, unresponsive and practically nonverbal was something Jakier mostly knew how to deal with. He could only hope their little stunt here hadn't triggered something worse.

Searching for anything that might help, Jaskier pulled a blanket from the bottom of the bed and draped it over Geralts naked form up to his hips. Then he laid down beside him.

"Is it okay if I touch you above the waist?"

Nothing. If Geralt hopes Jaskier will simply forget him and go away he is sorely mistaken.

"Hum once for yes, hum twice for no?"

Nothing. Then a hum.

The relief that little sound causes is staggering.

"Very good, thank you. So, touching? Up here?"

Another single hum.


He reaches for Geralts' arm first, trying to make out the injury in the mounting darkness. Blood is welling up from a few points but he'd not taken a chunk out of his arm, small mercies. Then Jaskier let his hands roam, soothing touches over the Witchers' shoulders and arms, fingers carding gently through messy white hair.

"Did I hurt you? With my fingers?"

Hesitation. Then a hum.

"Fuck. I knew it, I shouldn't have kept going. Why didn't-"

Jaskier stops. Takes a breath. Starts again. Accusations would get them nowhere.

"Does it still hurt right now?"

Two hums in quick succession.

"Good, I'm glad. I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if I'd-"

"Why did you stop?"

Amber eyes snap open, pinning Jaskier with their gaze.

The fuck?!

"Uhm- because you were clearly distressed? And in possibly in pain? And because if I'd continued it would have only gotten worse??"

"I didn't tell you to stop. You should have kept going."

"I- what?"

Frustration and anger crawl up his throat.

"I should have kept going? You just told me I was hurting you."

Jaskier sits up, runs a hand through his hair and then, when the Witcher only frowns as if Jaskier is the one not making sense, he pokes the mans' chest accusingly.

"Why didn't you tell me you've never done this before?"

"I didn't think it would matter."

"You didn't think it-"

"I wouldn't have agreed to it if I wasn't fine with it. There was no need for you to stop on my account."

"What the fuck does that mean, Geralt."

Gods save him from idiot Witchers. What was the man talking about? Jaskier rubbed his face hard enough there were spots of colours dancing behind his eyes.

"Witchers have high pain tolerance."

"So? Does that mean you enjoy pain now? Cause if you do you have an odd way of showing it."

A short silence. Their eyes meet, hold. Geralt is the first to break the contact. He shifts as if to turn away.

"Sorry I could not give you what you wanted."

"What I wanted? Oh no, no, no - don't you dare roll over and pretend none of this is happening. Geralt, just… hey, I'm sorry, just help me understand. Please?"

Perhaps it's the naked pleading in his voice that stops Geralt. Doesn't matter. Jaskier has pined too fucking long for this man to let their first and possibly only night together end like this. He’s not above begging to stop Geralt from curling back into his damn shell.


Geralt is rapidly feeling very tired. They'd tried. It hadn't worked out. Geralt had been stupid to believe he could keep someone like Jaskier. He knows better now.

All he wants now is to roll over and sleep. Forget this mess. Pretend he hadn't felt dizzy with relief when Jaskier finally stopped touching him.

What’s more, the point of it all had been to avoid causing Jaskier distress and that, too, had failed spectacularly. The bard looks kind of wild right now and Geralt can't tell if he is about to start shouting or crying. Maybe both. Jaskier does nothing halfway. Perhaps the worst thing is that Geralt still genuinely doesn’t understand where all of this went wrong. He could have pushed through it. He would have. If only Jaskier had given him the chance.

"I flirted with you. Down in the tavern as I do every damn night but this time you reciprocated -you went to go upstairs and motioned for me to follow you. Why?"

Here we go.

"Because I want you."

"Present tense?"

A shrug.

"Only… only right now, like, this week or do you mean like. In general? For how long?"

"Some time."

"Some time? What does that mean? I've been trailing like a lovesick puppy for years and now- urgh,"


"Nevermind! Nevermind, we'll talk about that later -and yes, that is a threat. Okay so, uhm. We kissed, undressed and got into bed."

A pause that stretches. Jaskiers' raised eyebrow tells Geralt an answer is expected. So he hums again, unsure where this is going. His experience with sex-gone-wrong is limited to enraged screaming, doubled fees and being thrown bodily out onto the street. Not this whole act of talking-it-out.

"Then you decided we needed to move on and that I should fuck you. Why?"

"What kind of stupid question is that?"

"It's not a stupid question! We could have done literally anything else!! You didn't even ask me if I'd prefer to be on the receiving end."

Geralts' chest tightens painfully at the thought of Jaskier under him, tense and unhappy. He gives a derisive snort and rolls over demonstratively. No way.

"I won't take pleasure in hurting you."


Had Geralt looked, he'd have seen Jaskiers expressive face slack with incredulity, followed by the shock of realization.

"Geralt. Geralt you wouldn't have hurt me. No- no, don't look at me like that. You wouldn't have. Have you never considered that I might enjoy being taken?"

"Nobody enjoys that."

"That's not true."

Jaskiers' voice is quiet but laced with urgency, insisting Geralt take his words to heart.

"Plenty of people do, men and women alike. It doesn't have to be painful. Those muscles can be trained to stretch quite far without hurt or injury. It just takes patience, a lot of oil and a bit of practice."

That doesn’t match anything he’d ever heard. But the bard is clearly convinced of his words and maybe that counts for more than random wisps of conversation snatched up from drunken tavern patrons.

Jaskier scoots closer again, presses up against Geralts back. The touch of their warm, bare skin is like a balm to the Witchers still slightly frayed nerves. Jaskier is upset but not angry at him. Not truly. The hand running down his arm, seeking to link their fingers is conciliatory, a peace-offering. Geralt relaxes his hand and Jaskier squeezes it gently. Hesitantly, Geralt returns the gesture.

"Did you think if you didn't get on your belly first, I would unhappily force myself to bottom for you instead?"

Geralt shrugs, starting to be a bit embarrassed by his presumption. Jaskier knows how to interpret his meaning.

"You know, if that wasn't so noble I'd be really angry with you. Now I'm just somewhat angry. You should realize that just like you don't want to hurt me, I am not comfortable with hurting you either."

An aggravated sigh ruffles the hair on the back of Geralts neck. He fixes his gaze on the swords leaning by the door. Thinks back to how Jaskiers finger had felt inside, overwhelming but not like he couldn't get used to them at all.

"Do you enjoy it?"

"Being fucked, you mean?"

A hum.

"Oh yes, I very emphatically do. Hmmm, sadly finding male partners is not so easy, nor are… sculptures of the right size, shape and quality cheap to commission. So overall I can't say I've been getting the, uh, regular exercise I desire... But! Yes, yes I do really like it. And if you must know, I've been looking forward to climbing your particular pole for ages. Even more so now that I know how big you really get."

The expression on Geralts face is probably one of dumb shock... he's glad Jaskier can't see it.

"Prostitutes have run from the room without a word when they saw me. Why would you look forward to it."

"Hm. For one, that was really rude of them. And two, there's a lot more room inside someone's ass than in a woman's vagina. I've once spent a rather glorious week with a young prince who trained himself to take a whole fist plus the arm up to the elbow!"

At that Geralt nearly chokes on his own spit, twists around see if the bard is having him on.

"Oh no, it's really quite true,"

The grin on Jaskiers' face is wide, pleased as punch to have found something to shock such a wide-eyed look onto his Witchers' face. Then he grows serious again.

"Still though. If you only offered because you thought I shouldn't or wouldn't want to, why did you insist we fuck at all? We could have come up with something else to entertain us."

"Would you have been satisfied with that?"

"Uh, yes? Of course?"

Pushing Geralt fully into his back, Jaskier leans over him and pins the Witcher. Holding him down with both his body and his gaze, forcing Geralt to see the utter sincerity in the bards' words.

"Sex is sex. You know I'm not picky."

Geralt snorts, unamused.

"Do I? You've been with many people. My experience is limited to what the whores would let me try."

"Whew. Who knew even Witchers' could fall to a common man's insecurities? Yes, I've been with many people. Enough to know that sex is not made good by how fast or hard or deep you can stick your dick into your partner."

The bards' gaze turns searching now, a slight frown marring his face.

"Also, and I'm sorry if that was presumptuous, I had hoped this would not be a one-night kinda deal. As I said, I've been pining for you, my dear Witcher, for years and would loathe to let you go, now that you’re here."

"If tonight works out and you are amenable, I am quite looking forward to trying out all sorts of exciting things over the next, well, years. Regular, vigorous exercise has many health benefits... and I have to keep myself fit to keep up with you and Roach."

Geralt steadfastly ignores the cheeky wink sent to lighten the mood. He's had too many things he'd wished for turn to shit in his hands to be overly optimistic now.

"If it worked out. But it didn't."

"Ah, let's not throw the baby out with the bathwater! Yeah, communication wasn't good tonight, that's definitely something we will have to work on, but if you're willing to give it another try, so am I."

Warmth blossoms in the Witchers' chest against all reason, tentative but unstoppable. The earnest hope on his pretty bards' face will be his downfall.

After a moments consideration, he hums his assent. He’s not quite prepared for his lovers enthusiastic reaction but very pleased.

A soft gasp, hands cradling his face, stroking away wayward wisps of hair. Geralt can't resist returning the affectionate touch just as greedily, lets his arms come up around Jaskiers lithe body and pulls him ever closer. The energy from earlier is rekindling, giddy and light and exciting.

"I don't know if I can be what you want."


The pet name, spoken as a warm purr, sends shivers all through Geralts' body. His love is so close, practically lying on top of him now and his blue eyes are dancing with pure delight.

"All I want is you."


Yeah, they will give it another try. There will have to be a lot more talking and negotiation, both about their relationship in general and about limits and appropriate communication in bed. It’s a bit nerve-wrecking, especially since Geralt keeps expecting to hit the limits of Jaskiers patience. But through everything, his bard is as kind and understanding as ever.

Nobody has ever asked Geralt to set and enforce his own boundaries. It's something he has to learn and often be reminded of. But it's also unexpectedly empowering, gives him tools to navigate even unfamiliar situations with confidence.

They are better together. Geralt will not let this precious thing slip from his grasp.