He's—fuck, so warm.
Like he'll sizzle out of his skin. Burst at the seams and set molten iron to spill in his stead.
The day is chilly, he remembers vaguely. Frost had caught in his hair and his fingers had gone numb, stiff around his sword, but a thrill had settled in his chest, kept him warm through the fight. The sun in his eyes, a faint crackle of magic on his skin, raising the hair at his nape. And then the gentle swish of his blade through the air—the steel one, for humans rotten beyond saving. The spray of arterial blood high towards the heavens. Silence.
Each chance he gets to kill a mage, Geralt enjoys it greatly.
Mages with their meaningless chanting and knowing grins, like they find the prospect of death enthralling. Mages that have more merit to them than the mindless beasts he's used to slaying, yet feel less human, more—deserving. Mages with their perverse spells, parting curses that he can never quite catch. Nor avoid, for that matter.
Geralt fucking hates mages.
It's the last coherent thought he remembers having.
He doesn't recall much after he'd pulled his sword free, slick and glistening red. Suddenly each breath was a gulp of scalding hot water in his lungs, flooding his insides from head to toe, to the very tips of his fingers.
Mounting Roach had been a feat bordering on impossible, achieved solely by force of habit. He rode hard and he rode fast, not entirely sure of what it is that he's chasing but unable to go another excruciating second without it.
It's not a tangible heat, not one easily done away with. He leans his cheek against a wall; the stone is cold, but brings him no relief. He shrugs his swords off, flinching as they clatter on the floor. His own desperate hands tug at the straps of the armour that's so oppressively tight, even though it'd served him time and time again without such issues.
Geralt presses the heel of his palm over his cock. Rubs it through the leather breeches. Fuck.
It helps, a bit, or maybe it makes everything worse.
He should've ridden straight for the brothel, he—
His clothes are stifling. The air sits too heavy on his skin, catches at the back of his throat. He gives his cock a desperate squeeze, and for a heartbeat he can breathe.
Fuck, but he's hot.
He's halfway through tearing out of his undershirt when footsteps sound in the corridor. They set his mind racing. The thought of being seen like this—no, gods, the very thought of another person, of a warm body, of—
"Geralt?" Jaskier calls as he shoulders the door open. He doesn't knock, of course he doesn't, when had the man ever done anything decent? "Everything taken care of?"
The linen shirt rips beneath his fingertips like it's nothing more than aged parchment.
He should've ridden for the brothel, and he didn't. Mistake, mistake, mistake.
Jaskier doesn't turn, doesn't leave. He lets the door fall shut behind him. He stares. He gawks. He—
"Don't," Geralt says when Jaskier crosses the room in quick strides. "Don't touch me," even as his body screams the opposite, screeches at him to take take take.
He feels Jaskier's gaze heavy on him. On the shirt clinging to his shoulders. On his cock hard and straining against the fastenings of his trousers.
"Are you—" Jaskier swallows anxiously, but his eyes stay calm. "Quite well? Shall I fetch a healer?"
The pink of Jaskier's slightly open mouth is enticing. Geralt wants to reach out and touch, trace his lips with gentle fingers, bite down and draw blood. He takes a breath to steady himself and fuck, he doesn't mean to groan out loud, but he'd never quite realised just how divine Jaskier smells. He wishes he could touch his cock, just to take the edge off, take it out and shove it between Jaskier's perfect lips—
"Don't know what's happening," he chokes out as he scrambles to move away, away from Jaskier, away from the deliciously sweet scent of him.
"Geralt," and he comes closer, the fool, closer and close until Geralt's head spins and his mouth waters, and maybe he can sneak a hand down between his legs, just for a second.
Jaskier touches his forehead, an innocent gesture that Geralt would scoff at on another day.
"Oh." Both of Jaskier's hands move to his cheeks. "You don't always run this hot, do you?"
He turns his face slightly, presses his nose against Jaskier's wrist. Inhales. It's intoxicating. It's overwhelming. He wants and he needs and—
Jaskier jerks away with a startled noise before Geralt realises his teeth had sunk into the thin skin.
"Sorry, sorry, I didn't—"
He stumbles back in a daze. The backs of his knees hit the bed and he collapses onto it without much grace. Geralt frantically gathers the sheets in dire fists, hoping to regain the control that's escaped him. Hoping to rid his mind of Jaskier's scent.
It's absolutely beyond him why Jaskier stays so close. Why he takes a tentative step toward the bed. Why he swipes his tongue over his lower lip, like he's tasting Geralt's desperation.
"Can I help?" The words are barely out of his mouth before Geralt barks a sharp no.
The bed dips, creaks under Jaskier's weight.
"Why do you never listen?" It comes out a breathy thing. He turns his head away from Jaskier as his nostrils flare. There's not much fight left in him, but he clings to the shreds of it all the same.
A hand on his knee nearly burns a hole straight through him.
"Geralt." Jaskier leans in, his breath hot in Geralt's ear, sending an electric current through his spine. "I hope you realise that there isn't much I wouldn't do for you." The hand moves up, up, up his thigh, dangerously high—
"Whatever you need."
Vesemir would strike him, had he known how little self-control Geralt would grow to display. How easily he'd succumb to the temptation laid in the curve of Jaskier's jaw, or the timbre of his voice, or the warmth of his hands.
Grabbing a fistful of Jaskier's hair, Geralt hurls him backwards, crawls over him driven by instinct more than purpose.
"You smell so good," he groans, face tucked behind Jaskier's ear. His scent is so much stronger there, so much more alluring.
When his lips claim Jaskier's in a kiss, it's like breaking the surface at last after being underwater for too long. The air in his lungs had turned lead-heavy, but the swipe of Jaskier's tongue forces a new life into them and he can breathe again, and it's everything he'd ever wanted, and he craves more.
He's kissed plenty of people before. Fucked plenty of people. More than he can count, more than he cares to recall. But it was—never like this. Never this real.
Never Jaskier's hands on his bare shoulders, pawing at his back, never the heated whisper of anything, anything you want.
And Geralt does, he does want, he wants so incredibly much when Jaskier reaches down to unlace his breeches and the mere brush of his fingers is enough to set Geralt rutting, grinding his hips into the pressure and fuck, fuck.
He growls when his seed spurts from between the laces, onto the embroidered silk of Jaskier's doublet, and he wishes, he needs it to be on Jaskier's skin instead, so he snatches Jaskier's hand and presses it against the head of his twitching cock and he comes, he comes on his palm and his wrist and it—
"Fuck, gods, fuck—" because it brings him no relief, only makes him ache for more, so much more and he has to take it, he'll take it from Jaskier, he will.
He'll wreck him, he thinks, and the concept leaves him ravenous.
And Jaskier doesn't say anything, when Geralt continues to helplessly thrust his still hard cock against him. Jaskier lies under him, quiet and trusting, his eyes wide, his chest rising in quick pants as he accepts whatever Geralt gives him, and it sends Geralt's head reeling.
But then Jaskier takes him in hand, strokes him like he doesn't mind, and Geralt's arms shake, struggling to support him.
He keeps his eyes on Jaskier's face in a bout of unadulterated adoration, so he sees the shift when Jaskier looks between them, when his eyes widen even more and his hand falters.
Geralt glances down as well. He's—he's had this body for nearly a century, now, he's fairly certain he knows what he looks like, and this—surely he's just delirious, burning with an improbable fever, surely—
But Jaskier sees it, too, and his breath hitches as he studies Geralt's face, and,
"It's a—a knot," he says before he can think about it, the words popping into his mind, rolling off his tongue like he'd been born knowing them.
"A knot," Jaskier echoes breathlessly, like the concept isn't wholly, utterly mad. His fingers tighten around Geralt's cock, around the—
"Like hounds have," Geralt adds between desperately ragged pants.
And he hangs his head in shame, his skin burning in an entirely different way, with embarrassment instead of need, until Jaskier, the cunning bastard, says,
"Like wolves have."
Geralt moans at that. He does so again, when he sees Jaskier's eyes glaze over, his lips part. He smells—gods, indescribable. Geralt feels half-feral with it. Why do curses have to be so carnal in nature?
Jaskier squeezes the—the knot, and it's a punch to the gut like he'd just downed a potion, like he's seeing colour for the first time in his life, everything sharp and vivid and he collapses heavily on top of Jaskier as his arms finally give out.
"Does it feel good?" Jaskier asks as if it isn't apparent in the way Geralt groans right into his ear.
He remembers, through a thick haze, remembers a night, months, years ago, when he'd stepped through the door, found Jaskier on his knees and elbows and the inkeeper's son balls-deep in him. Remembers the arch of Jaskier's back before he scrambled to cover himself. Remembers pretending before him and before himself that he didn't enter the room on purpose, that he couldn't hear Jaskier's moans from downstairs. Remembers coming into his own fist behind the stables thinking about exactly what Jaskier would let Geralt do to him.
He needs that now, he realises. Nothing will quench the dreadful heat except the tight clutch of Jaskier's body. Geralt trembles at the thought.
So he rolls off of Jaskier, laying flat on his back, chest heaving unnaturally, cock throbbing. He throws an arm across his face, shielding his eyes from the sun that steals into the room.
"Jaskier," he says to the air, to the ceiling above them, to the gods who'd abandoned him and the ones who still listen.
Jaskier shifts next to him, sits up. Geralt can hear him undressing, the sound of fingernails on ivory buttons and the rustle of cotton that follows.
"Anything," is spoken, softly, and the fever spikes so suddenly he nearly chokes on it.
Incredibly, blessedly, Geralt feels the weight of him when Jaskier settles astride his thighs. Warm hands guide his wrists to press into the mattress above his head, timid, doubtful, and Geralt thinks, this isn't right, but his eyes snap open and he can't think at all, anymore.
"Like it, do you?" and there's a teasing lilt to his voice even though his chest heaves still. "You got me pretty damn well."
And he had, he very clearly had, because there's a bruise, dark and swollen, spilling up the side of Jaskier's ribcage from when Geralt jammed the hilt of his sword there to get Jaskier to run, to get away, and suddenly Geralt can't shake the thought of mine mine mine from his clouded head, and it's hard to breathe again.
Jaskier's grip on his wrists isn't hard, is far from unbreakable. It makes it so deliciously easy to snatch his hands free, to push at Jaskier until he tumbles back on the bed, underneath Geralt, where he belongs. So easy to press his famished mouth over where Jaskier's skin is purpled and tender. So easy to dig his fingertips into the flesh, listening to Jaskier's hiss of pain and,
"Careful there, wolf," his voice quiet, breathless.
But there's no careful, not anymore, only need and hunger and undoing Jaskier's wretched trousers in a frenzy to get at his cock, so he can bury his face between his legs and smell him, scent him, fuck.
And he smells so, so good, like the most decadent feast, and Geralt has to taste him, he has to or he'll perish, surely, so he fits his mouth over the head of Jaskier's leaking cock, hears Jaskier whine above him—
"No, no, don't, Geralt, too close, I'll come, I'll come," and there are fingers twisted in his hair, pulling him away, except Geralt has never wanted anything as much as he wants to make Jaskier come, right now, to wring this pleasure out of him like he never had before, and then to do it again and again until Jaskier can't give him any more, until he has to take more, has to pry it from between his trembling thighs.
He will. He has to.
"Geralt—" Jaskier sounds distressed, he sounds panicked as he tugs roughly at Geralt's hair.
Geralt, for his part, had never been this desperate to suck dick. The pain of having his hair nearly pulled out serves only to make him go faster, to rut against the bed and take Jaskier's cock so very deep he'll feel it when it's gone. He'd choke, if he could, but as is he merely lets the head pop into his throat and out with a satisfying shift. He thinks he moans, maybe, but it's difficult to hear over the rush of blood in his ears.
"Geralt, Geralt, Geralt—" Jaskier's got such a pretty voice. Even prettier when it climbs up high, breaks around Geralt's name. He burns with a scathing desire still, but the noises Jaskier makes when he's coming, the feel of it on his own tongue—it makes something release in his tight chest, drives a horribly possessive part of him to satisfaction, if for a moment.
He doesn't want to move. Jaskier struggles underneath him, twists his hips and claws at his forehead, but Geralt relishes the taste, the weight of him. It makes the heat almost bearable.
"Mercy, mercy," Jaskier breathes, and regretfully, Geralt releases him.
He's so hot.
It's worse, somehow, than before.
Geralt doesn't remember the last time he'd been dizzy, but he thinks he is now. The bed spins and the room spins and fuck, he needs to come again, so he rests his cheek against Jaskier's thigh, gets a too-tight fist on his cock, and he'd cry if he could. Maybe he can. He feels like he might.
Jaskier touches his other cheek, and it almost sizzles. He feels Jaskier's gaze on him as he fucks his own hand.
"Gods, will you—breed me? Fill me with your pups?" Jaskier's voice rings clear through the fog in his head, makes him snap up to look at him.
"Jaskier," Geralt growls in response. His own voice sounds foreign, too deep, too threatening. Jaskier squirms against him, eyes wide.
"I want it." And he tips his head like he's inviting. "Want your knot. Want your pups. Want you."
Geralt marvels for a second—that Jaskier is so eager against all odds, that Jaskier wants him even with this bizarre curse (he doesn't dare wonder if he'd be wanted on another day, on a normal day)—but takes the invitation. He leaps up the bed, puts his lips to Jaskier's bared throat, to the place where his pulse rushes loud and hot. An angry red mark remains in the wake of his mouth, and he knows, he knows it'll bloom into a purple matching the splotches on his side, except higher, where everyone will see.
Everyone will know.
They'll look at Jaskier, prancing around, draping himself on fair maidens, rugged blacksmiths and distinguished lords—and none of them will want him, because they'll know Jaskier is his. They'll see him marked and bruised and they'll know Jaskier belongs to the scary witcher they all cower before.
"Mine," he rumbles into the skin of Jaskier's neck, just to be certain, and follows it with a scrape of teeth.
Fuck. Is it hotter, now that he's so close to having?
"Jaskier." Please, he almost adds, but that would be too much. Too dangerous.
He helps Jaskier kick his trousers off and to the side, before he gets his hands under his thighs, pushes them blindly apart far as they'll go. Settles between them, and his dick drags against Jaskier's, and Geralt doesn't whine, not consciously, but he wants to.
"Ge—eralt," Jaskier does whine, voice cracking around the name just as his legs tighten around Geralt. "I've—I've done something indecent. Naughty."
Geralt can only look, mesmerised, as Jaskier's mouth moves, his pink, wet tongue peeking out, threatening to drive Geralt wild. He traces two fingers along his lower lip—thinks, fuck it, and pushes them in.
Jaskier's eyes widen but he seems to fall calm, sucking on the fingers, licking between them. Geralt moves his hips in little aborted moves, thrusts his heavy cock against Jaskier's abdomen as he watches, listens to the contented moans Jaskier gives. Fuck.
Geralt doesn't often dream, not good things, not pleasant things. He dreams of death and suffering and loss, because that's what he knows. But now, now—Geralt thinks this could be a dream, the way Jaskier sucks his fingers as if they are a cock, the way he lets himself be kissed breathless when Geralt takes his hand away.
He rubs spit-slick fingertips over the head of Jaskier's half-hard cock, just to make his bard writhe in sweet agony.
Geralt doesn't whine, but when he manages to slip two fingers inside Jaskier without any resistance he thinks he might scream.
He needs to touch, and he needs to be close, and he leans back all the same to watch Jaskier's greedy hole open and eager for him.
"I've, ah—I had a bath, while you were gone," Jaskier breathes.
Geralt can't tear his eyes away from where his digits dissappear into the intoxicating heat of Jaskier's body.
"Just my fingers, and I—I thought about you. I usually do."
His skin is prickling, itching to touch, to have, to claim, his blood threatening to boil over in his veins, and still he just looks. Jaskier is moving his hips, up and down and up, fucking himself on Geralt's fingers, moaning like he can't get enough.
Jaskier—fuck, Jaskier touches himself waiting for Geralt to get back, thinking about him. He leans in close. Lets his fingers slip free. Red-hot sparks of static crowd his vision, multiply until he's blinded. He thrusts against the crease of Jaskier's thigh. Presses Jaskier's leg closer to his chest, makes it tighter for himself. He goes faster. Jaskier is looking up at him with clouded-over eyes. Faster.
Geralt's second orgasm proves more satisfying, only because it paints Jaskier white from his hip all the way to the hollow of his throat.
"Fuck." It shudders out of him. He shudders all over.
His come glistens on Jaskier's skin, caught in his chest hair. It rolls off the side of his ribcage, over the bruise that's bloomed there. Geralt wants to lick it up. He wants to rub it in, brand Jaskier with it. Make it stay. Fuck.
The knot's filled again. Geralt doesn't feel it, not really, not until Jaskier's fingers come to squeeze around it. Then he feels like he's dying, like he'll never breathe again. Like he doesn't ever want to.
"It's so big."
And Jaskier sounds—amazed. Awestruck. Geralt sees how the tips of his long, shapely fingers don't quite touch. Fuck, it is big. Every time Jaskier's hand tightens around it, Geralt feels like he's coming all over again. Maybe he is. It pulses out more of his spend. Gods. And Jaskier said—
Want your knot.
He'd said—he'd asked Geralt to put it in him. Fuck, Geralt wants that. He needs that. He'll stuff Jaskier full of his cock—his knot—and he'll keep him round with seed and he'll never let him up. Maybe it'll take.
He thinks he's about handled it, even if each insistent touch leaves him breathless, weak with a dizzying surge of pleasure. He thinks he's about handled it, but then Jaskier looks him in the eye, his pupils blown entirely black as he says,
"You're such a good pup, aren't you?"
And he looks confused, is the thing—like the words crawled up his throat, forced themselves on his tongue. The perfect words, the exact words that send Geralt into a frenzy, that make it seem as if the whole thing hadn't been frenzied already. He whimpers, whimpers and lets his teeth nibble on the corner of Jaskier's jaw. The skin there is rough, like Jaskier hadn't shaved in a few days, and that makes Geralt even more mad, somehow, more desperate.
"Jaskier," he says, and it sounds like a plea. Maybe it is. His hands shake. They—they never shake. He slides them over Jaskier's sides and they come away sticky. "Jaskier."
"You can—fuck me, Geralt. Have me."
Have the bitch, a voice calls from the darkest corner of his mind, a voice that sounds too much like his own. Take him, take what's yours.
Geralt groans as the last dam holding him back creaks, splinters, shatters in front of him.
He should've ridden for the brothel, and he didn't, because he knew Jaskier would be here, waiting and willing.
His eyes slip shut for a moment against the realisation. Geralt takes a steadying breath, drowning in desire that belongs as much to him as to the beast that claws at his skull and cries for him to breed, to own.
Jaskier tells him something—unimportant, Geralt wagers, because it's accompanied by the press of an ornate glass bottle into his trembling palm, and then he's got a slick hand on his cock, and Jaskier is holding his legs wide open in the filthiest invitation, and Geralt blacks out for a second when he pushes in.
It's a different heat entirely, the sweetest fever he wouldn't mind succumbing to.
He'd go slow, normally. He'd pause to let Jaskier get used to the stretch. He can't. He can't. The last of his fragile composure slips as he thrusts forward, quick and rough.
He barely feels Jaskier's nails rake down his arms, the sting secondary, irrelevant against this pleasure. "Geralt—"
Geralt knows what Jaskier wants to tell him, he knows—but he can't give that to him, can't stop, can't slow down, can't hold back or he'll die, fuck, fuck.
"I'm sorry, sorry, Jaskier, sorry—" he mumbles against Jaskier's temple when he tastes tears. They burn on his tongue, pierce his soul with an ugly guilt. He licks them up all the same, drives his cock deeper without meaning to. Faster. Fuck.
"It's fine, it's good, you—" Jaskier sobs, a horrible, shuddering thing, but his palm comes to rest on Geralt's cheek. It's—grounding, somehow. "Don't hold back."
Claim the whore. Yours. Yours.
Geralt prays for strength, then. For clarity and restraint.
He finds neither.
Instead he finds a bottomless, insatiable hunger—so overwhelming it steals his thought altogether, leaves him mindless and weak and craving to scratch an impossible itch.
Jaskier feels so good around his cock. There are tears of his own threatening to brand his skin. It's—
Jaskier's so tight, oh, so tight and warm and—
Heat had been the thing that drove him to madness, before, but now, now—
It's a cure, a blessing, it's—
"Do it," Jaskier whispers as he surges up to press his parted lips against Geralt's. "Put it in me, knot me, Geralt."
"You want it? You want it?"
"Fuck, I want it—"
"Beg for it," he manages before he has to start kissing his bard again. Yours. "Beg for it."
Jaskier nods, his teeth pinched around Geralt's lip until it nearly splits. "Please, please, I want it, I need it, give me—your knot, put it in me, oh, oh—"
The knot swells, and Geralt thinks he might go crazy. The knot swells, and he thinks it might tear Jaskier to pieces. The knot swells, and it presses close close close against Jaskier's rim, and it pops in, and then he doesn't think at all.
Can't—can't think even if he wanted to. He'll never hold a thought again. Not a single thought other than how blindingly good it is to have Jaskier tight on his knot, to be locked together as he fills his bard with come. His teeth ache, so he clamps them down on Jaskier's shoulder. It doesn't help much. It's almost like—like there's another place he should mark. A place he could sink his canines into that would bind them, somehow.
His head spins. He's vaguely aware that the knot expands inconceivably more as it pulses. He grinds desperately forward. It feels so good. He whines. Maybe this'll never stop. Maybe he'll float in this impossible ecstasy until the end of time.
The flutter of his heart is the first thing that filters through his dazed mind. It's not meant to flutter.
As though across a dream, he hears Jaskier calling his name. He laps at the dents his teeth had made. Yours.
He doesn't expect Jaskier to get even tighter around him. It knocks the breath straight out of his lungs, and that's not meant to happen either.
"Gods," Jaskier whispers somewhere next to him. Geralt agrees.
The air is thick around them, but not with the curse; it's heavy with sweat, with unwavering arousal. The smell of Jaskier's spend. Fuck.
"You—" he says, voice hoarse.
Jaskier laughs, breathless, and Geralt can—he can feel it around his cock. "Sorry."
A look down the length of Jaskier's body, the sight of his bard still covered with seed—Geralt's, his own—sends him rutting forward without much say in the matter.
Geralt doesn't allow himself pleasure often. Only if its lack proves distracting. This, now—he doesn't know how he's ever done without it. He doesn't know how he'll manage to let Jaskier off of his cock, his knot. Perhaps Geralt just needs to keep him like this. Always open, always ready. Always dripping with come. Always—
His head feels clearer, maybe. Clear enough to keep his eyes focused, to see the wince twisting Jaskier's features. Dread grips his heart in a vice, his throat growing too tight to breathe.
The only thing more frightening than the thought of hurting Jaskier is the sudden, cold shiver of realisation that Geralt couldn't get himself to stop. Not now, not if Jaskier cried and begged him to. Not at all, not ever.
Gods, Jaskier's big blue eyes, rimmed-red and gleaming even more as he chokes on tears, chokes on pleas and protests, but Geralt keeps taking his pleasure in spite of it all, keeps—
"Geralt?" He snaps back to a feverish reality and finds his fingertips resting against the wet skin of Jaskier's cheek. "Oh, don't worry about it. Four orgasms in one day will do that to a man."
Fuck. Geralt has to grit his teeth to keep still.
The smile Jaskier gives him is almost bashful.
"You were gone a long time."
Geralt bows his head to mouth absent-mindedly at the soft, bruised skin of Jaskier's neck.
"Not—not that I'm not enjoying myself, but—why now? What brought this on?"
Don't ask, Geralt thinks miserably. Don't ask lest I slip.
"Curse," he manages to say. It's the truth. Part of it. Should've ridden for the brothel.
"O—oh. All of it?"
"The, uh. The kn—"
Pity, Jaskier says, because he's not really interested in Geralt, only the horrid, monstrous part of him. A part that's not even his own.
Geralt knew this isn't real, and he—he'd still—
"I'll—" It chokes him, but he's already come this far. He'll see it through. He'll see it through, because he'll die otherwise. Just for survival, this. "I'll need you. Again. In a minute."
Jaskier mutters something at that. Geralt sees his lips move, but he can't hear the words. His vision swims, like a heatwave, melting Jaskier's expression into a soft, malleable thing. Could be anything. A burning want, not unlike Geralt's own. Fascination, maybe.
He pulls out too harshly, too quickly. The knot is still half-swollen, the drag of it the sweetest torture. The only thing sweeter being the sight of his seed gushing onto the sheets in his wake. Gods. Gods.
"Take whatever," is what Jaskier tells him as Geralt plugs his stretched hole with two shaking fingers. "Just don't—don't make me come. Please. I am but a mere mortal."
He sounds eager, still, if tired. Geralt is tired, too.
And so, so very hungry for more.
Rolling Jaskier onto his front is the easiest of tasks. Geralt grips knuckle-white at his hips and his hair and drags him up onto unsteady knees. A growl rises in his chest as he watches his spend drip down Jaskier's thighs, his pert balls. He'd never been quite so interested in—in breeding someone like this, planting his seed, marking Jaskier up inside and out, and now, now—
He pushes back in and it feels like coming home.
Like it's meant to be.
Like Destiny, in her infinite wisdom—
The snap of his hips knocks the air out of Jaskier, a little hitch of breath that slips into moans and whimpers. Time ceases to exist. Geralt isn't even certain that the inn still stands where it'd been—they might be floating in a bottomless void and Geralt wouldn't know. He wouldn't care.
Maybe it's that, that he doesn't care. Maybe it's because this isn't real, beyond the raw carnal need, because it doesn't matter, that he asks through clenched teeth,
"… talk to me."
Jaskier's got his fist shoved halfway in his mouth, Geralt sees now, so all he gives in response is a confused hum. Damn him.
"Say you—say you want this." Say you want me. Lie to me.
The bed's frame creaks dangerously, yet Geralt can't get himself to slow.
"I want it so much, gods, my wolf, have mercy, I—" a gasp, a whimper, the slap of their skin, "Your knot feels so good, so—" a tremor in Jaskier's shoulder, twitching muscle and wet moans, "I want it in me forever, please, I'll stay on it and you—you—"
He lasts longer, this time, the pleasure cresting slowly, but Jaskier's words make his hips snap forward brutally, his knuckles white around Jaskier's hips.
"—you can breed me full and keep me tied to the bed and I'll thank you for it, gods, just let me have it, let me sit on your knot until I can't remember what it's like not to be full—"
It's too late, when his release hits him like a punch to the chest; the knot's already full, fuck, it'll never fit, except, except Jaskier's asked for it so sweetly, so beautifully, and Geralt squeezes his eyes shut and throws his leg over Jaskier's hip and forces the bloody thing in with a roar.
Jaskier screams. Geralt can barely hear it through the buzzing in his ears. He watches Jaskier's thighs shake, his fingers twist tightly around rumpled sheets.
They pant together for a moment, desperate gulps of air. Then, when Geralt's cock finally stops pulsing come, when thinks he's picked up all the pieces of his shattered composure,
"Can you fuck me with it?" Jaskier asks in a small voice, sounding drunk, fucked-out.
Geralt's head spins. Surely Jaskier doesn't mean—
"It's—so much when it pops in. But—" He shudders. Geralt can see it in the curved line of his spine. "Please. I'm sorry. Please."
Red bleeds into his vision. Jaskier arches his back more, shakes his hips and makes Geralt near-delirious.
He tries to pull out. The knot won't budge and it's—so fucking good. His hands shake, again, and he braces them at the base of Jaskier's spine and pulls out with considerable effort. He watches Jaskier's hole stretch so incredibly wide around the knot, watches it pulse and flutter around the thickest part of it. He keeps still. Just looking.
"Fuck," Jaskier whines feebly. "Fuck, that's—"
Geralt pulls his hips back, slipping out of Jaskier's body completely. Jaskier stays open, gaping, leaking spend. He shivers violently.
Pushing his swollen, oversensitive knot back in is a feeling so intense Geralt nearly doubles over.
Jaskier says something, his voice hoarse, but Geralt can't hear it, can't hear anything but the pounding of his own heartbeat. He puts his thumbs against where their bodies connect and pulls out again, slowly. The muscles in Jaskier's thighs spasm.
"Geralt, Geralt, Geralt—fuck, that's so good, so—please make me come again, please, oh—"
The echo of Jaskier's words sounds in his head, asking him precisely not to do that, and when he reaches to touch Jaskier's cock he finds it only half-hard. Jaskier squirms away.
Geralt squeezes the head of Jaskier's prick harshly and shoves the knot it again and Jaskier goes so very still before he spills over into Geralt's palm.
The vice-tight grip of his body makes Geralt lose his bearings and he collapses forward, forces Jaskier to splay flat on his belly with Geralt plastered to his back.
"Gods," Jaskier wheezes, and Geralt's so horribly hot all over again.
He grinds the knot forward, tries to get it deeper, deeper, deeper, feeling like he might come again even before the knot's gone down. Jaskier still contracts around his cock, and Geralt's—so close, so close, and he ruts frantically forward, and he sinks his teeth in the back of Jaskier's neck and spills again so violently that tears roll down his cheeks, the smell of ozone heavy in his nostrils, a faint crackle of Chaos against his skin.
It takes a long moment for his heart rate to trickle back to its usual sluggish thud, but when it does, when Geralt releases the skin between his teeth—
The fever recedes so suddenly, it's like he put his head in ice-cold water. Frigid air rushes to his lungs, cools the sweat on his skin. At last he can think clearly.
He tries to roll off of Jaskier, but finds them bound together still, Jaskier's ruined hole clinging to him weakly. Seems like the knot is a permanent feature, then.
"Leave it there," Jaskier mumbles, sounding on the edge of consciousness when Geralt goes to pull out as gently as he can manage.
An overwhelming exhaustion seeps into his bones at once. Geralt settles on his side, still inside his bard, pulls him close to his chest and drifts off into a calm, dreamless sleep.