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Toss A Salve To Your Witcher

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“This is a barn,” Jaskier says.

Geralt rides right up to the front door anyway.

“Uh, Geralt? This is a barn.”

“It’s an inn.”

“I can see hay in the windows. There are cows in the far room.”

“Those are the local whores.”

“Oh my g—Geralt! We can’t get a room in a brothel!”

Geralt gets a room in the brothel.

“I’m not sleeping on that,” Jaskier says as soon as he sees the so-called “room” and the lice-infested slab of rock that’s trying to pass itself off as a bed. The fact that rocks can’t even get lice infestations is a testament to the tenacity of the lice.

Geralt, in typical Geralt fashion, doesn’t reply. Just slouches into the washroom and begins to undress. Jaskier doesn’t avert his eyes because who is he to question the architectural choices of an innkeeper that hasn’t bothered to install doors? And also, of course… Geralt is not hard on the eyes.

“I think I’ve contracted syphilis just from breathing the air,” Jaskier says while Geralt gets out of his fifteenth layer. (Only six hundred more layers to go!)

“No, you probably got that from the whore in Redania,” Geralt tells him, unlacing his bracers.

“She was a lady, I think you’ll recall.”

“I recall her being married, that’s what I recall.”

Jaskier stalks into the washroom. “Okay, you know what, Rivia? I’ve had just about enough of your—Oh my gods! Geralt! What the hell is that!”

Geralt has finally freed himself of his millionth layer and he flops into the pre-filled tub. “What’s what?” he asks, reaching for a lump of clay which might have been soap in a former life.

“The, the, the gaping wound on your stomach!” Jaskier says, aghast.

Geralt looks down at himself. “It’s a scratch,” he passes off.

“It’s THE SIZE OF A HORSE! I can see your insides! Is that a, oh, Kreve preserve me, I think I can see your intestines.” He leans heavily against the doorframe, trying to hold down his dinner. “When did this even happen?”

“It’s just a warg bite, calm down.”

“A warg b—that was three days ago, have you been walking around with your insides coming out for three days?!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt warns, “leave it.” He starts soaping up his arms like his torso doesn’t resemble a butcher’s front window right now.

“Fuck, I knew you were going to die before me.” And then he remembers, “The salve!” He races into the other room, scrambling for Geralt’s bag. He tosses aside about a bazillion different herbs—who carries this much white myrtle, Geralt—before his fingers finally close on the little bottle. A gift from Yennefer for ailments, she’d said. Well this is a fucking ailment, Jaskier thinks to himself, uncorking the bottle and pouring some of the oily paste onto his hands. It tingles upon contact and absorbs almost immediately.


He rubs his hands together, but they don’t feel oily or anything. The paste is just… gone. Hm. Maybe it’s a rather weak sort of salve, and he needs to use quite a bit of it. He pours even more into his hands, and it takes a little longer to absorb.

Wow, he’s, wow, that’s, that’s something, alright. He’s feeling very warm indeed. And the warmth has spread just far enough south that he actually is wondering if the room’s given him syphilis. That feels… tingly. Was he supposed to be worried about something, just now? He doesn’t feel worried at all.

He doesn’t realise he’s making happy little noises until Geralt calls out to him. “What are you up to now, bard?”

“Hm?” he asks, and then laughs because, oh, that’s kind of funny. Geralt’s the one who usually says that. “Hm!” he says again, and giggles. His hands are all sensitive and warm and there are quite a few other places that are feeling sensitive and warm right now, and he thinks that maybe it would feel even better if he put his sensitive hands on his sensitive dick, just to see what happens.

“You better not be fucking around with my stuff,” Geralt says peevishly, and Jaskier looks down at the stuff that he is definitely fucking around with.

“Nope!” he calls. He squints at the little bottle in his hands. He was supposed to be doing something with it. Something to do with Geralt. He picks it up and takes it into the washroom and, oh wow, the water must be really hot because this room is all steamy and humid. Jaskier grins at Geralt.

“Hi,” he says.

“Fuck off,” Geralt replies without opening his eyes. He’s just lazing in the water, all naked and… naked. There’s a great big slice on his belly but it’s not really that big. Geralt’s had worse, right? Still, it’s Jaskier’s job to do something about it. Or, well. Maybe it isn’t his job. But it should be. Yes? No… No wait, definitely yes.

He crouches next to the tub. “You need a healing salve,” he tells Geralt’s nipples, because that’s what’s level with his eyes. And oh, what luck. He’s holding a salve in his hand. It’s the ailment thingy from Yennefer. How convenient. He upends the little bottle over the mean-looking wound. Geralt’s eyes slit open a little.

“What,” he says, completely unimpressed.

Jaskier drops the empty bottle next to the tub and leans over so he can use both hands to rub the salve in. Witchers are immune to most potions but this one’s going straight into his bloodstream. Isn’t that nice? Jaskier thinks that’s nice. Everything is feeling rather nice, actually.

Well, everything is nice right up to the moment when Geralt suddenly sits bolt upright in the tub, curses in about fifteen different languages, and then grabs Jaskier and hauls him bodily into the water.

“I’m still dressed,” Jaskier feels the need to point out, while water goes absolutely everywhere. And then he decides that he needn’t bother pointing anything else out because Geralt shoves him up against the back of the tub and presses their faces together and then everything is even nicer until Jaskier realises that Geralt is kissing him, and then it’s even nicer-er.

“Bard,” Geralt growls. Oh, he’s pretty when he growls. “What the fuck was that?” He’s kissing Jaskier again, so Jaskier doesn’t quite get the whole answer out.

“Yen’s thingy,” he manages, trying to tell his lungs that they don’t need oxygen and that kissing Geralt is much more important than breathing.

“How much did you use?” Geralt asks darkly, teeth finding a new home in Jaskier’s neck.

Jaskier hums happily and tips his head to the other side so Geralt can peruse the real estate over there, too.

“Concentrate, Jaskier! How much did you use?” Water sloshes over the sides of the tub as Geralt hoists him halfway out, then pulls him back down so they’re sitting flush, Jaskier’s thighs thrown wide over Geralt’s.

“Hm,” Jaskier says, a little dreamily. He gestures at the empty bottle on the floor. “How much was in there?”

Geralt swears in what sounds like Elder tongue.

Speaking of tongues…

He paws at Geralt’s face, trying to reroute his attentions back to Jaskier’s mouth. His mouth is feeling lonely, all of a sudden. And Geralt feels like a cool balm against his skin.

“Why do I take you anywhere?” Geralt growls, but he mustn’t be too angry because he plants his lips on Jaskier’s and his tongue is—yay!—right inside Jaskier’s mouth and his hand is—double yay!—round the back of Jaskier’s neck, holding him tight against him, and his hips start to move beneath Jaskier’s hips and his tongue fucks into Jaskier’s mouth in time with his thrusts, and Jaskier should really be helping with this, wasn’t he just thinking about how he should help Geralt? Except, well, Geralt is very competent, and he seems to have everything under control, and the warm tingly feeling is centred at all the places that Geralt is touching, isn’t that nice? There’s a song in there, somewhere. Geralt’s tongue is a freshly minted knight of the realm and Jaskier’s mouth is unclaimed enemy territory, ripe for the plundering. He tilts his head to the side to give Geralt a better angle to work with.

Jaskier dips his hands beneath the water and it feels very, very, right to wrap his fingers around his cock. And it feels even more right when he starts jerking himself off. And it takes him a few moments to remember that he’s still fully dressed, and this cock is quite a bit larger than what he’s used to holding. And then Geralt groans and bites Jaskier’s lip and Jaskier thumbs the head of the cock and Geralt stutters up into his grip, because of course it’s Geralt that he’s holding. Jaskier is helping.

He slides his whole hand along the shaft and uses the palm of his other hand to rub circles into the head of Geralt’s cock, and Geralt clenches up and surges into him, crushing him against the wall of the tub and holding him suspended there, the head of his cock just peeking out of the water so Jaskier can watch as it jerks and spills, Geralt cursing the whole time.

“Thank you, Jaskier,” he prompts Geralt, because Geralt looks a little wild right now and maybe he’s forgotten his manners. He really hopes Geralt hasn’t forgotten all his manners because Jaskier’s feeling pretty damn warm, verging on hot, and getting Geralt to return the favour would probably be the greatest thing to ever happen to him in the history of ever.

Geralt leans against him for barely half a minute, panting against Jaskier’s throat. He remains noticeably hard against Jaskier’s hip. Interesting.

He groans and wraps arms around Jaskier’s waist. “One down,” he says. And then he hauls Jaskier right out of the tub and carries him soaked and dripping into the other room, where he gets dumped on the rock-bed like he’s a sack of potatoes.

“Rude,” Jaskier says, and starts wrestling with his clothes, which have become so waterlogged that they feel more like getting a hug from a kikimore than actual clothing. The longer it takes the hotter he gets, until he’s so tangled and overheated that he might as well be a trussed pig at market.

Geralt doesn’t help, the useless sod. He’s rummaging in his bags for gods-knows-what. Jaskier moans loudly to remind him that he—and more importantly, his cock—are still wanting.

“Settle the fuck down,” Geralt tells him. “You want the innkeeper to come check on us?” He finds what he’s looking for and vaults onto the bed, fisting his free hand in Jaskier’s clothing and tugging the whole lot free. There’s the unmistakeable sound of fabric ripping which is going to be extremely worrisome when Jaskier finds the energy to be worried about anything other than how hot he is, and how he’s so hard it’s actually starting to hurt.

“Geralt,” he says, pitched way up high, and Geralt says his name, “Jaskier,” pitched way down low, and he should really find a pen to scribble this down because that’s a lovely thought, something something harmonisation something.

And then Geralt’s hand slithers between their bodies and it’s wet but not with water. Something that’s much slipperier and it’s cool, which is a godsdamn blessing right now, makes him want to fuck up into Geralt’s fist and work some of this heat out using Geralt’s body. But Geralt’s settled right on top of him and Jaskier can’t do anything except arch weakly into his slick hold.

“Remind me to buy Roach a whole field of daisies,” he gasps, “as an apology for having to carry around such a heavy fucking witcher.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Geralt growls, expanding his grip so he’s holding both of them, and Jaskier drops his head down onto the pillow with an audible thunk because the pillow is filled with marbles instead of feathers, apparently. And then Geralt’s other hand is in his hair, gripping tight and pulling him back up so Geralt can kiss him again, fierce and possessive.

“Geralt,” he moans when he finally has room to breathe. “Fuck, it’s… you’re so, I, I’m, gods I’m hot.”

“Mmh,” Geralt grunts. Then, “It’s not going to get better any time soon. Could you, aah, can you do something?” He grabs Jaskier’s hand and puts it on his chest. “Touch me,” he orders. “We have to fuck this thing out.”

Everything hurts. Thinking hurts. But still. “Are we…” he manages. “Did we get cursed?”

Geralt just tucks his face into Jaskier’s neck and licks a wet stripe up to his jaw. Oh, Huldra, that feels good. Geralt’s thumb rubs insistently at the sensitive spot beneath his cockhead. Jaskier’s whole body feels like it’s thrumming with the intensity of just how fucking good it is. “I think I wrote a song about this, once,” he says. “There was a pirate’s daughter, or, no, she was the daughter of a sea captain, and she was, ahh, bespelled by an evil… seawitch, maybe. And her lover… She had a lover, I think, and the lover was, oh why can’t I remember, the lover had to free her from the spell, so he had to fuck her under the moon, yes right there Geralt, I was quite young when I wrote the song, okay, and he took her from the seawitch and he—”

“Jaskier!” Geralt snaps.

Belatedly, he remembers that he’s supposed to be helping this along. He rubs his hand over the—bloody hell those are rock solid—muscles of Geralt’s chest, avoiding the wound that actually is looking much better, no thanks to Yennefer’s salve. Then he manages to get one of his legs free and he slings it around Geralt’s waist, using it to drag their hips even closer together.

“That’s it,” Geralt rumbles in his ear. Jaskier thumbs over one of his nipples and Geralt’s dick twitches. Jaskier can actually feel it twitch against his own cock.

“Geralt,” he says, even higher-pitched than before. He’s running out of octaves, here. He’s breathing too fast but he can’t make himself slow down. And Geralt is still working them, squeezing tighter and trying to wrap his fingers all around the both of them, so Jaskier is pretty sure he can feel the individual veins in Geralt’s cock where they’re pressed up against the underside of his own. He shoves his hand down to help, reaching past their combined hardness to underneath, where Geralt’s balls are sitting heavy and full on top of his own. It’s an awful angle and he doesn’t have much to work with but he uses his fingertips to stroke whatever he can reach, and Geralt hisses and his hips shove down so hard that for a moment Jaskier’s scared his wrist is going to crack, and then Geralt’s other hand is back in his hair, fisting it harshly so Jaskier is left staring at the cracked and mouldy ceiling, completely incapable of moving his head in any direction while Geralt holds him exactly where he wants him.

“Oh,” he squeaks, his other hand digging into the muscle behind Geralt’s shoulder blade as his legs go obscenely wide. “Just, oh fuck, Geralt, I—”

Geralt jams his tongue into Jaskier’s ear and his whole body seizes, his skin going tight and painfully hot and he’s so close, he’s right there, if Geralt would just, ugh!

“More!” he begs. “Do it, fuck! I need to—”

And Geralt, for once in his gods-darned life, actually obliges. He slides his fist up, up, all the way up, until his fingers are pressing the head of Jaskier’s cock into the underside of his own cock, and he rubs right there so it feels like he’s fucking a dick instead of a hand, which shouldn’t be as hot as it is but right now it’s the hottest thing Jaskier has ever envisioned. Geralt bites softhard on the sensitive lobe of Jaskier’s ear and thrusts his hips down sharply and Jaskier comes with a gasp, his whole body going wildfire-hot before finally, finally, releasing in a wave of cool relief.

Geralt’s body heaves with every breath and he garbles something blasphemous into Jaskier’s ear. He clenches fitfully and adds his own sticky mess to the puddle on Jaskier’s stomach.

“Gross,” Jaskier tells him, but fondly. This is going to be one of those things that he’ll worry about later, but he decides that it’s the kind of repercussion that can be ignored for a little longer.

He eyes his lute from across the room. If he hurries, he can still get this into a song before his looming oh-my-gods-a witcher-just-made-me-come panic attack makes landfall.

“What rhymes with enormous cock?” he wonders out loud. He shoves at Geralt’s arm, but the strangest thing happens. Instead of rolling off him, Geralt’s hips start to move again. “Geralt?” he checks.

And then he feels it.

Oh, oh no.

Geralt’s still hard.

Oh, cockatrice on a cowpat, he’s still hard, too.

“Geralt!” he squeaks, and, well, what do you know, his voice actually can go an extra octave. “What the hell?”

“I hope we’ve all learned a lesson about playing with witcher potions,” Geralt says darkly, rutting into him again. Jaskier feels the heat creeping back into his skin.

“Oh,” is all Jaskier manages, and then Geralt’s rolling them over so Jaskier’s on top, sitting upright on his thighs with both of their cocks bobbing obscenely between them. “Are we going to fuck to death?” he asks. He honestly doesn’t know how he feels about the possibility. The death part isn’t really his cup of tea, but the sex with Geralt part is something he’s at least considered before. Still… “I’m scared,” he says, and in no way does his fear seem to have an impact on the outrageously hard hard-on he’s still got.

“You’re not the one who needs to be worried right now,” Geralt tells him, eyes squeezing shut.

“I think I’ll be the one to decide what I am and aren’t afraid of, and death by dick exsanguination is right at the top of my list of fears, I’ll have you know.”

“That’s not, do you even, oh for fuck’s sake!” Geralt scoops his fingers back into place around his cock and starts to jerk himself off. Rather furiously, in Jaskier’s opinion. Jaskier tries to sneak his own cock into Geralt’s grip again and Geralt smacks him away.

“Well we’re in this together,” Jaskier points out, unable to stop himself from humping desperately down against Geralt’s hip.

“No the fuck we’re not,” Geralt growls. “You’re human, you’ll be done after one or two more.”

For the first time, Jaskier notices that Geralt’s hands are shaking. And the skin under his eyes is looking awfully bruised.

“Um,” he says, tactfully. “Are you going to die?”

Geralt grunts, and that’s not really a yes, but it certainly isn’t a no.

“You know,” Jaskier thinks out loud, “I’m not sure this Yennefer person is very good for your health.”

“Jaskier! Are you going to help or not!”

“Right, right, right…” He fumbles around the covers for the bottle of slick Geralt must have left behind, and when he finds it he gives himself a liberal dollop and gets his hands around Geralt’s cock. Geralt goes limp everywhere except where Jaskier’s holding him. Like his whole body can’t sustain the amount of energy being poured into his dick right now.

“Jaskier,” he groans.

Jaskier didn’t really get an opportunity to admire Geralt’s dick before, and he takes the opportunity now. It’s fucking enormous, which could be a witcher thing but he suspects it’s probably a Geralt thing. And it arcs beautifully up Geralt’s stomach, springing back into position whenever Jaskier lets it go. Pearly drops of fluid bead at the tip, and without really thinking about what he’s doing Jaskier scoots down to get the head into his mouth. He pauses for a moment because, hello, this is a cock. In his mouth. There is a cock in his mouth. A fully erect human(ish) penis in his mouth.

And then Geralt makes a heartfelt broken sound and Jaskier kind of… stops thinking about it. And instead he snakes a hand down to his own cock (he’s still fucking horny, after all), and tongues curiously at the slit of Geralt’s.

Geralt swears and jerks, and a little drop of precome hits Jaskier’s tongue. He pulls off immediately, coughing.

“Oh,” he says. “Oh, no, thank you.” And then he thinks about it for a second, and it could be the heat under his skin or it could be the way Geralt’s saying just the first syllable of his name, choked off into a groan, but he thinks, Well, actually. Maybe a little bit. And he ducks back down and tries again and it’s salty and warm and definitely the grossest thing he’s ever done in his life, except for all the ways it’s not gross at all and who is he kidding, this is glorious.

He pulls off for a moment, spits onto the tip of Geralt’s cock and uses his thumb to smear it around.

“Well,” he says, “who’d have thunk it. Turns out I’m a cocksucker.”

“JASKIER!” Geralt bellows, and Jaskier gets back to work.

Geralt comes.

Jaskier comes.

Geralt comes three more times before Jaskier manages another.

“Should it be wearing off by now?” Jaskier asks, unable to stop his fingers from winding through Geralt’s hair. He’s pretty sure the salve has made its way through his system and he’s running purely on fumes right now. Fumes and Geralt’s tongue, that is. A tongue that makes its way down the centre of his navel before disappearing between his legs. It bypasses his cock (mercifully flaccid at last) and comes to rest at his asshole.

“Jas,” Geralt rumbles, kissing the insides of his thighs. He’s long since given up attempting Jaskier’s full name. His tongue presses insistently at Jaskier’s asshole, and is then replaced by a slick, persistent finger.

“Oh,” Jaskier manages, completely exhausted but wishing fervently that he wasn’t because this is something he wants to be a part of. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Geralt’s slick finger slides in, and it turns out that Jaskier actually can get hard four times in one night. Geralt manages to restrain himself long enough to let one finger turn into two, and then his (already tenuous) link to sanity appears to snap and his fingers get replaced by the blunt head of his cock.

Jaskier has spent years concocting poetic lyrics for all manner of events, and he uses every ounce of his linguistic skill to impart his thoughts on the sweet agony of Geralt’s dick pressed up against him.

“Gah,” he says, cleverly. “Gnnngk.” He probably needed a few more minutes becoming acquainted with Geralt’s dexterous fingers before attempting this, but his body’s so over-exhausted that it barely resists at all as Geralt begins to push in. Geralt sucks one of Jaskier’s nipples into his mouth and bites down, stretching it out with his teeth as he pushes in slowly, so slowly. Jaskier’s full of him before he’s even halfway, and then he just gets fuller, until he’s pretty sure Geralt’s trying to fuck right up into the back of his throat with the draft horse he’s apparently got for a dick.

“Hold on, little bard,” Geralt pants, and Jaskier should probably tell him that there’s nothing to hold on to, but instead he just twines fingers through Geralt’s hair and tries to maintain gravitational awareness as the room goes topsy-turvy around him and Geralt begins to fuck him properly.

His last coherent thought before Geralt roars to a(nother) shuddering climax is that if he ever sees Yennefer again he’s not going to know whether to thank her or kill her.