Work Header


Chapter Text


The first time they fuck there is a bloody gash steadily congealing on Geralt’s forehead and a newly-penned song on the bard’s lips. They arrive back at the Posada tavern for a swift drink and afterwards the young bard turns to him, cocks his hip, and says, “I have a room upstairs if you are… amenable.”

This brazen statement is accompanied by a slow licking of lips and a bold dart of eyes to Geralt’s crotch; carnal intent unmistakable.

When the boy first approached Geralt with ‘bread in his pants’ some hours ago it was evident that he sought intimate relations but Geralt had not expected his interest to have lasted. Normally when potential bedfellows are exposed to his sharp swords and even sharper words they lose interest very quickly but a cautious scenting reveals that there is no trace of fear amidst the bard’s cloud of lust.

Geralt considers the offer with some gravity. He does not make a habit of bedding men but there have been very few intimate opportunities of any kind since he earned the moniker ‘Butcher of Blaviken’ some years ago. There are not many willing to service the Butcher without significant payment and coin is hard to come by given that he is often chased out of town before he can so much as view the contracts on notice boards. If this boy is offering his services for free then surely it would be unwise to refuse given the uncertainty of any future prospects.

“Hmm,” Geralt ponders, studying the man whose eager expression has not wavered throughout Geralt’s long introspection. He finds he is curious to see how deep the boy’s foolish bravado runs. “Fine.”


The bard falls to his knees in the privacy of his bedchambers and takes Geralt’s penis between his lips. Too wet, too loud, too sloppy. He is young. Inexperienced. Geralt pushes his fingers into his hair to direct him and makes the astonishing discovery that the bard, actually, quite likes that. The boy starts moaning around his girth like the whore he probably learned it from.

Geralt cannot deny its effectiveness though.

Afterwards, Geralt takes one look at the boy’s flushed face and puffy lips and simply has to kiss him. In retrospect, that was probably a mistake.


“Can I come with you?” he begs afterwards as Geralt readies Roach at the stables.


“Not even to the city? I’ve heard rumour of an excellent theatre production that I’d quite like to -”


“You are not a theatre man?”

He assumes that ‘theatre’ is an innuendo for ‘queer’ and the bard is clumsily trying to assess if Geralt was only interested in a warm mouth last night or if he might, despite his gruff appearances, be an invert such as himself. Geralt shares a look of revulsion with Roach. He has never been that way inclined and doesn’t intend to start now; the fact that the bard could even possibly interpret the act as something more is disconcerting.

The kiss, he concludes. It was the damn kiss.

Geralt turns to look at him with the coldest look he can muster. “I’m not any kind of man, Jaskier and I’m not interested in furthering our association. Go away.”

He intends to look away before he can catch a glimpse of the young man’s heartbroken expression but he catches it in the reflection of Roach’s eyes, distorted and nonetheless potent, and prepares for departure.

“Oh,” the bard says as Geralt mounts his steed. “Oh, okay.”

By the time Geralt has mounted, there is an extremely fake grin plastered on the boy’s face. “Until next time, then.”

“There’s not going to be a next time,” Geralt grouches as he steers his horse away.



The next time, it’s at the side of the road somewhere in Redania, several months later.

The bard had been daydreaming in the middle of the dust track when Roach nearly trampled him in her haste. They were following a scent on the breeze when Roach suddenly reared to a halt and Geralt heard an unmanly yelp sound from between her legs.

Jaskier was mostly unharmed and insisted upon accompanying Geralt as he tracked the witch to her house. Afterwards, when the sun was setting and the bard was still prattling beside him, Geralt realised he ought to have sent him away, but then Jaskier had made himself useful by cooking dinner over the campfire and Geralt reasoned it had been several days since he’d last had a warm meal.

When the bard crawls towards his bedroll that night, smelling of dirt, lavender, and cautious lust, Geralt halts him with a sturdy palm against his chest. “You got the wrong idea, last time,” Geralt grumbles but the boy knocks his hand away with a coy smile.

“I know better now,” he says but he clearly doesn’t because the first thing he does is kiss him.

Geralt grunts his disapproval and manhandles the annoying bard into the bedroll, turning the kiss filthier and his hands rougher. He is dismayed to hear a moan at every brutal tug he inflicts. When he’s finally got the human caged beneath him, he allows his full weight to press down until Jaskier’s chest struggles to expand and Geralt scents the first lick of fear sneaking past the man’s foolish bravado. Good. He should be afraid.

Geralt leans back just enough to hear the bard’s desperate inhale but he’s not expecting the spike of lust that emanates with it. The man’s eyes are blown dark and wide and his teeth are biting down on a sultry smile.


It was not his intention to encourage this injudicious behaviour but those lust-filled eyes cannot be denied and Geralt is not fool enough to refuse something given so willingly.

Geralt reaches down for his rapidly filling cock and frees it from its confines. He rucks up the bard’s loose shirt, intending to lick across the plains of his chest to ease the friction for what he intends to do when he startles at the thick carpet of hair he finds there. He had not expected someone with such an exuberant character to be so well endowed in that department. He finds his curious fingers tangling in it before he can control them and then, afraid the touch might be mistaken for a loving one, clenches his fist and tugs. The addictive scent of fear-and-lust surges and Geralt hides his wanton reaction under a growl as he tugs Jaskier none too kindly from his own breeches and brings their members together.

Jaskier makes an obscene sound and for once Geralt can give into his urge to smother the man as he presses the flat of his hand against his mouth with a raised eyebrow. It will be interesting to see if Jaskier can obey the silent command. He does. Jaskier’s eyes widen in understanding and starts licking the palm of his hand like he’s devouring the finest buffet. Geralt’s hips stutter at the unexpected enthusiasm but finds that his hand is successfully dripping with saliva by the time he takes them both in hand.

Jaskier is just about as loud as he remembers him being and when he approaches his climax Geralt stuffs his three fingers in his mouth just to quieten his whorish moans. Roach doesn’t need to listen to their depraved coupling when she’s doing her best to ignore them over the rise of the hill.

He does wonder briefly, though, as Jaskier spills between them, what that muffled noise might have sounded like.



The next time Geralt fucks Jaskier it’s because it’s been a shitty fucking day. A day dealing with nobles of all things. He’s in some shithole called Lettenhove and the Count is such a privileged and condescending dick that Geralt has to suppress the urge to punch him at least a dozen times during a ten minute discussion about the specter in their dungeon.

He disposes of the wraith - a mother, tortured to death, clearly harbouring the same resentment that Geralt does towards their revered leader - and is striding through the halls afterwards, coin clinking pleasantly at his side, when he smells the bard and his steps unconsciously falter.

He sniffs. Enhances his senses. Picks up shallow and uneven breathing. It certainly smells like Jaskier - lavender, lute strings, lust - but it is accompanied by the salty tang of distress. Something’s wrong.

He pushes open the nearby door to see Jaskier slouched against the wall of an antechamber, breathing fast and shallow with a bottle dangling loosely from his fingers. Pain. He smells pain now too.

The clues come together as soon as Jaskier’s eyes come to greet him - the usual bright blue of his irises turned hazy like the fog over the ocean - and Geralt observes the bard’s other hand clutching at his chest with white-knuckled fingers.

It must be an anxiety induced attack of some sort; signalled by the involuntary clenching of muscles in his chest, heart arrhythmia, and a notable difficulty to breathe. Interesting.

“Hmm,” Geralt says thoughtfully as he stands in the open doorway.

Jaskier’s glazed eyes roam over the tense lines of Geralt’s body and come to rest at his clenched fist. He raises an eyebrow, ever observant. “You met my father then.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, processing that unwelcome piece of information. Jaskier is a noble, that ought not to surprise him - the accent alone was enough to betray such lineage - yet the joyful young bard could not be any more different than the bullish man he had to negotiate with that morning.

“If it’s any consolation,” Jaskier says with a wince as another bolt of pain flares through him. “He spoke with me also.”

The immediate painful clench of his chest at the mention of his father confirms it; this physical manifestation of anxiety has stemmed from conversing with that vile man. Geralt feels his furled fist tighten further.

Jaskier shakily holds out the near-empty bottle as an offering. It’s a spirit of some kind. Geralt sniffs - earthy, distilled from potatoes; vodka.

Without breaking his gaze, Geralt closes and locks the door behind him. He senses the first tentative unclenching of muscles in Jaskier’s chest as they lock eyes. Geralt steps forward and takes the proffered spirit from his hands; their fingers brushing in a way that sets Jaskier’s heart skittering in another direction entirely as they maintain eye contact and Geralt puts his lips around the mouth of the bottle. This flirtation is unwittingly going to lead the boy to make certain incorrect conclusions but it’s been a shitty fucking day and maybe a good fuck wouldn’t be the worst way to end it. If the bard reads more into the gesture then so be it.

Jaskier swallows at the sight. Another lick of pain surges through him. Geralt decides he doesn’t care for the sour stench it produces as he tosses the empty bottle aside and braces his hands against the wall either side of the bard’s head.

He waits for Jaskier to meet his eyes and then upon seeing his wordless consent drops to his knees. He decides to demonstrate exactly how he ought to have been serviced that first time round in Posada. Jaskier’s gasps turn from pain to pleasure, the aches in his chest subsiding but the aftereffects are still evidenced in his weak fingers as they curl into Geralt’s hair. He wouldn’t normally allow such behaviour; he wouldn’t normally be on his knees at all.

He lets Jaskier moan and shout and then scream as he comes and Geralt doesn’t protest; suspecting that he does it in protest for all the times that he’s no doubt been made to be silent in these halls.

Fuck does he hate nobles.

Jaskier’s breathing is ragged for an altogether different reason by the time Geralt is done with him. He’s mumbling praise, his fingers still running through his hair in a way that is altogether distracting, as Geralt moves his lips from his softening cock to his balls and the inside of his thighs.

Jaskier doesn’t seem to understand at first and accepts Geralt’s ministrations between his legs with polite confusion but Geralt knows that after the day they’ve both had Jaskier needs a second orgasm and Geralt needs to rut his anger out like a depraved animal. They have no oil, so…

Oh,” Jaskier whispers when he finally fucking gets it; when his skin is moist with saliva and sweat and Geralt has turned Jaskier until his face is pressed into the wall. Then finally, finally, he grips Jaskier’s thighs together and slides his heavy, desperate manhood between the flesh.

His cock is large enough that every stroke drags against Jaskier’s swollen scrotum and nudges at the base of Jaskier’s own rapidly hardening member.

“Oh,” Jaskier says again as he presses back into the sensation and wordlessly adjusts his position for the maximum effect.

Geralt ruts mindlessly until his rage begins to dissipate and his mind begins to clear; his eager movements spurred on by Jaskier’s loud rhythmic moans.

“Please,” Jaskier begs and Geralt’s already reaching for his manhood, prepared to carry out the expected request, when he asks for something else entirely. “Be loud.”

Geralt’s hips stutter in their movements, momentarily confused.

Jaskier whines at the delay and pants his explanation, “They hate it. Disapprove of…” he waves his hand back between them, “My dalliances. With men.”

Geralt’s jaw has unconsciously clenched; his teeth grinding together almost painfully. He won’t analyse why he has such a visceral reaction to this declaration, although it’s almost definitely something to do with these narrow-minded country estates and their disdainful habit of othering. Nothing to do with himself, or the bard, or their current circumstances.

“Be loud,” he requests again. “Please. As loud as you can. I want them to hear.”

Fuck. Geralt’s forehead rests against the back of Jaskier’s sweat-slick neck as he processes this request. He isn’t usually very vocal; it’s not within his nature, especially when he is partaking in perverted acts that ought not to see the light of day, but Jaskier isn’t asking for honesty; he’s asking for a show.

His instinct is to refuse - to hide this filthy desire of his and bury it deep where it belongs - but then he remembers the Count’s smug little face and Jaskier’s panicked little breaths and before he knows it, he’s letting out a filthy moan as his cock slides back between Jaskier’s thighs.

Yes,” Jaskier moans, louder than necessary as he thunks his head forward against the wall. “Like that,” he moans, even louder, “Oh, Geralt,” he preens, “exactly like that.”

The act can’t possibly be bringing him as much pleasure as he vocalises but he supposes that’s the idea. Geralt responds in turn until both of them are making more noise than a whorehouse at the weekend. He won’t deign to admit that the verneral sounds inspire him but if his ministrations become a little more attentive at the sound of his name dragged out so sublimely in Jaskier’s sultry songlike voice then it is a secret no one need know.

Geralt has reached around to strip the bard’s cock and Jaskier is screaming his name when an idea occurs to Geralt; one that ought to piss the nobles off something fierce. “Can I mark you?” he growls.

Jaskier continues his exaggerated screaming but looks back at Geralt with a confused expression.

“My teeth. Your neck. Somewhere they will see.”

“Oh fuck,” Jaskier says; the first whispered word in all this time. And then, “Yes,” louder, but still not part of the performance. “Fuck. Yes, please.”

Geralt digs his teeth into Jaskier’s shoulder and the bard howls at the vicious bite, loud enough to echo even in the most distant of hallways. Geralt doesn’t know how much of the sound is playacting and how much is actual pleasure but he finds that the two of them are climaxing together not moments later.

It takes Geralt a moment to come to his senses afterwards. He stands there, breathing in the scent of semen and sweat for longer than he cares to admit before he pries himself away from the trembling bard.

“Well,” Jaskier says smoothly, lacing his breeches; a strong purpling bruise standing out on his neck, “that will certainly make tonight’s dinner more entertaining, thank you.”

Geralt tends to his own breeches but feels Jaskier’s studious gaze upon him as he does so. He infers from this cautious examination that the bard wishes to ask if he will stay but knows better than to ask. Geralt is not staying; he has completed the contract and should be on his way out the door.

“Are you…?” Geralt finds himself asking. “That is, are you sure that’s wise?” He doesn’t relish the idea of Jaskier willingly entering the situation that rendered him in such a dire state.

Jaskier frowns, as if also confused by Geralt’s uncharacteristic concern, before shrugging and straightening his shirt. “Dinner, you mean?” he asks. “I’ve little choice. I’m here for two more days.”

“Then where?”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow with a teasing smile on his lips. “What concern of that is yours, Witcher?”

Geralt growls and grabs his discarded weapons from the floor, dismayed that he asked such a thing, and even worse, expected an honest answer.

“Kerack,” Jaskier breathes as Geralt is heading out the door.

Geralt pauses and looks back to the bard.

“I’m going to Kerack.”

Geralt does not go to Kerack; he goes in the opposite fucking direction.



They cross paths a few more times in the coming years but it happens to be briefly, or in company, or Jaskier is simply given a better offer from passing maidens. This new arrangement suits Geralt just fine. Sex only made to confuse their acquantianceship after all and he finds that Jaskier is just as annoying without this added complication. In any case, the bard doesn’t have the attention span for a single lover, and Geralt doesn’t have the patience span for the bard, so it works out fine.

That is until Jaskier comes crawling back to their room one night, smelling of sex and alcohol, and attempts to slide into bed with Geralt.

Geralt grunts, too tired to deal with this shit. “You’ve got your own bunk,” he protests.

“I’m cold.”

“You’re not cold.”

“Oh, did I say cold? I meant horny.”

Geralt cracks open an eye and looks at him with disdain. “You’ve just gotten laid, Jaskier. For most men that would suffice.”

Jaskier sighs forlornly. “Once upon a time, perhaps, but now I expect two rounds, you see, after a rather charming fellow in Lettenhove -”

“Those were extenuating circumstances.”

“Were they?” he flirts, and leans down for Geralt’s mouth.

Geralt grimaces at the stale smell protruding off his lips and turns his head away. “I’m not kissing you when you smell like that.”

Jaskier pouts and then rolls over onto his front instead. “Then fuck me.”

Geralt tiredly rubs his hands over his eyes. “I’m not taking you when you’re drunk.”

Jaskier sighs dramatically, thoroughly put out, and rises to his elbows to glare down at Geralt. “You won’t kiss me, you won’t fuck me, so what exactly will you do?”

“Kick you out of bed,” Geralt gripes, throwing an arm over his eyes, and realises too late that if he actually meant it, he probably should have actioned it.

Instead, Jaskier is leaning over him again with a sultry smile. “You don’t like me smelling like someone else,” he flirts. “You know there’s a way to fix that.”

“By brushing your teeth?”

“By claiming me as your own,” he whispers darkly, his eyes wide.

Geralt’s erection hardens, as does his heart. He turns away; his back to the bard. “You’re not mine, and trust me, you don’t want to be. Go to sleep.”

Jaskier sighs and lies down beside him and for a minute Geralt thinks he’s won the argument until he feels the unmistakable hard line of a cock pressed against his naked back, and then, moments later, slow and deliberate rutting.

“Have you ever been fucked, Geralt?” he asks unashamedly. His member slides against his back, low enough that he could, at the right angle, find his opening if he wanted.

Geralt resents the breath that gets caught in his throat at the question and his restless fingers that twitch at his side. Disgust and desire tangle sickeningly in his chest.

“I’ve thought about it,” Jaskier continues, ever bold. “I’ve thought about fucking you. About if you’d let me. About the kinds of sounds that you’d make-”

Fuck. Geralt is never letting Jaskier drink again; he was cocky enough without the added liquid courage. The bard has never been so brazen about his perverted desires before. Geralt briefly wonders who has been in Jaskier’s bed recently to warrant such confidence. Has he taken a man to bed? Was he a waif of a thing or did he have muscle? Was he reluctant to be taken or did he beg for it? Did he scream Jaskier’s name when he came? Clawed his fingernails into his back? Did Jaskier take his time or did he lose any resolve he had the moment he -?

“I think you’d let me,” Jaskier murmurs against his ear. “I’d think you’d want it.”

Geralt’s hips jerk at their own volition, rubbing the sore head of his cock into the rough linen beneath him. A gasp unwittingly leaves his mouth at the sensation. He wants it. Fuck, he wants it, at the same time it makes him feel sick. He shouldn’t want it. Only queers want it and he’s not -

“See,” Jaskier says teasingly, having noticed the unconscious movement, “You want it.”

Geralt grinds his teeth together. “You’re not fucking me, Jaskier. You’re drunk.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier says, his hand snaking round Geralt’s broad waist to take him in hand and stroke him tantalisingly. “And that’s the only reason, is it?”

“It’s reason enough,” Geralt bites.

That’s quite enough of this, Geralt thinks, before he turns over and pins Jaskier’s wrists above him in the bed with a single hand. His circular wolf medallion falls between them, lying atop the bard’s chest; the only touch between them that isn’t a restraint. Jaskier just grins again, his lust spiking and his lips moistened by his wandering tongue. “You are,” Geralt states, “a menace.”

“You like it,” Jaskier says confidently.

Geralt glares at the accusation - he’s rather determined not to like a single thing about the man - before he remembers something else the bard said and leans back on his haunches, pinning Jaskier with his strong thighs so he can start stripping his cock with his free hand. Jaskier was right about one thing: he doesn’t like him smelling like someone else while in his bed.

Jaskier watches with rapt attention as Geralt pleasures himself before him. Geralt pretends he doesn’t notice the scrutiny but his pulse picks up under the intensive gaze nonetheless. His seed splatters all over the bard’s chest - on his skin, tangled in his chest hair, even a drop on his collarbone - and Jaskier has nearly bitten through his lip by the time he’s done.

“Let me touch myself. Please,” he begs. Geralt doesn’t have the energy to argue, just releases his wrists and watches as Jaskier’s seed soon joins Geralt’s - messy and undignified - across his chest.

It’s going to be a bitch to clear up but that’s not Geralt’s concern as he rolls over without a word and goes to sleep.


The next morning, Geralt wakes to the feeling of inquisitive fingers at his opening and rolls out of bed before it can be mistaken for anything other than the accidental brushing of fingers.



In some bizarre twist of fate, it’s two years before they cross paths again. Novigrad theatre. Geralt is following a lead, a favour for a favour kind of deal (or he saw a poster of the bard and accepted an errand in this direction; the reasoning is irrelevant) when he approaches the gate to the outdoor theatre one evening and hears a very familiar voice.

He takes a deep breath, inhales the smell of exhilaration coming from the stage intermingled with the bard’s usual scent, and prepares himself for the sight of him. He was not, in retrospect, prepared in the slightest.

Jaskier is prancing around the stage in no more than hosiery and an extravagant doublet. There is blusher on his cheeks and a dark smear across his eyelids and red paint on his lips, just as dolled up as the female performers around him.

They lock eyes across the audience. Geralt smells lust emanate from him and without the use of a codpiece, it is all too easy to see the hardening of his member through the obscenely thin hose. Geralt has been on the path for three months now with nothing but his own hand for company and the sight of a cock is very tempting indeed.


He corners Jaskier backstage afterwards. He’s babbling a greeting and then explaining the play and his role in all this and Geralt isn’t listening one lick, just drags him away from prying eyes and pushes him into the cramped storage room and, amongst dresses and crates and nonsensical theatrical props, pushes him against the wall and takes his lips forcefully between his own.

Jaskier gasps, his words falling short and his lipstick smearing across Geralt’s mouth as he returns the messy kiss.

Jaskier groans and breaks away from the assault with a palm against Geralt’s chest. “Not that I’m not immensely glad to see you, my friend,” he starts before Geralt grows impatient and dives back for another brutal kiss, rocking against Jaskier’s barely-clad member the whole time just to feel it expand against its confines.

Jaskier breaks away again with a groan. “But I am… I’m afraid currently entangled with another -”

“You’re seeing someone?” Geralt asks, bewildered. Jaskier doesn’t normally have the attention span for an affair longer than a week - two, at most - but if he’s being loyal while Geralt’s tongue is down his throat then it must be fairly significant.

“Beatrice,” the bard cites. “The rather lovely soprano I was attempting to tell you about when you -”

Geralt grunts and Jaskier falls blissfully silent. Their bodies are still pressed together; Jaskier’s hard cock still making itself very evident and his artful make-up now smeared messily between them.

“Didn’t think you were the type to -”

“Not normally, no.”

Geralt rolls his hips, testing, and receives his answer when Jaskier groans and his eyes flutter closed. “I was going to fuck you against this wall,” Geralt states. “Are you going to stop me?”

Jaskier searches his eyes. He could say no. He could maintain that he’s being loyal and Geralt would take his sexual frustration to the whorehouse instead (seeing as Jaskier’s infamous song has now actually earned him enough coin to afford the indulgence) but he has a feeling that Jaskier’s loyalty does not extend that far. Jaskier licks his lips and asks, “When you say ‘fuck?’”

Geralt growls and takes his lips again; the bard’s question and eager moans the only answer that he needs.

He doesn’t waste time opening him with fingers. He knows Jaskier’s preferences - he has heard his preferences being declared strangled and desperate through tavern walls - and thus knows that even if he has been entangled with this Beatrice recently, he would not have stopped pleasuring himself so. Jaskier is also vocal enough, in everything he does, that he assumes the bard would correct him if his assumptions were wrong. He does not.

Geralt unlaces his breeches and reaches for the vial of oil he snagged from the dressing room table, coating his cock liberally under Jaskier’s eager gaze. He hasn’t done this in years. Sharing hands and mouths and flesh with men is one thing but sodding them is entirely another. It’s too intimate. Too close to the fire. The act unsettles him for days, sometimes weeks, afterwards; the thought that he could enjoy such a thing, that he could actively seek out such sordid acts… it is shameful, and he doesn’t often indulge. But with the taste of lipstick on his tongue and the sight of ravaged feminine clothing before him it is easier to justify this desire.

He yanks himself from his thoughts before they can spiral and pushes his slick hand beneath the bard’s ridiculously thin trousers to take his cock in his hand. Jaskier moans at the touch and Geralt has to muffle his own reaction at the glorious conflicting sensation of the hot hard manhood and the soft feminine fabric surrounding it.

He drips more oil on his fingers and then pushes the hose further down until his slick hand can rub against his back entrance. This is even better, somehow; the same intoxicating contrast, the smeared lipstick on his cheeks, Jaskier pliant and begging beneath him… It’s overwhelming and too close to the fire but he’s too mesmerised to stop.

“Oh. Oh, fuck,” Jaskier swears as Geralt’s thumb tests the resistance.

He’ll be fine. He’ll be just fine.

Geralt feels oddly reluctant at the idea of stripping the hose off the bard so instead he pushes them down to just below his knees and steps into the ring of stretched cotton until he’s standing between Jaskier’s thighs. The bound legs press behind his back and Jaskier’s aching cock curves towards their stomachs; the head brushing against the thin fabric of Geralt’s shirt.

“Oh,” Jaskier says again, his entire scent changing to one of lust as Geralt grips his hips and raises him against the wall until his bound legs are lifted around his waist and Geralt can spear him with the breadth of his cock.

He lowers him with as much patience as he can muster, which is to say not much at all. Geralt grips his hips hard enough to bruise, trying to grasp some modicum of control as he is suddenly enveloped in a tight all-encompassing heat. Jaskier fairs similarly; his gasps short and surprised, his fingernails scrambling at his back for some purchase, his eyes rolled to the ceiling as he rests his head back against the wall. There’s a spike of pain in his scent but not enough to override the immense cloud of lust that surrounds them.

“Geralt,” he whispers in awe, his eyes still glazed and affixed somewhere above them. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted -?”

“No,” he bites, “and I don’t care to.” He punctuates this sentiment with a punishing thrust that the man was no way ready for and Jaskier barely suppresses the scream of pain-pleasure that rips through him. His teeth are biting down on those tantalisingly painted lips that Geralt still has not rid him of. By the time they’re done, he promises himself, the bard will look so utterly debauched that no one will question what transpired between them.

He realises he’s being possessive and doesn’t give a damn. He wants the bard covered in his scent, dripping his come, screaming his name… He has no right to these things but he’s a monster and sometimes monsters take.

He hooks Jaskier’s legs over his arms until the bard is bent almost in half against the wall and Geralt can feel the soft slip of the bunched hose now fallen around Jaskier’s feet, pressed delightfully against his back. Jaskier groans at the intensity of the new angle. His arms wrap enthusiastically around his neck as his head falls back against the wall once more. Geralt’s broad hands cup his shoulder blades at the point where Jaskier’s back curves away from the wall but it brings them so close together that Jaskier’s ridiculously extravagant doublet presses unwelcomely against his own shirt. There’s too much between them. He growls and spares a moment to tear the damn thing apart until there are only two thin barriers of cotton between them.

Jaskier swears and before Geralt can interpret if it’s voiced with desire or anger, Geralt flexes his hips to move his cock deep and methodically inside him until he finds the spot that renders the bard incoherent. His breathy moan and fluttering eyes, and, gods, the natural blush on his cheeks blooming beneath that disgustingly fake one is enough to make him loiter for a moment. He circles his hips minutely, pressing against that spot very deliberately, until one of Jaskier’s hands have broken from their embrace around his shoulders to push purposeful fingers into his hair; the lute-hardened calloused pads of his fingers scrape against his scalp so pleasurably that he feels a matching tingling sensation at the base of his spine.

For some fucking reason, that’s the thing that undoes him. He takes one last look at the bard’s glistening blue eyes, pupils blown wide with desire, before shielding his face in his companion’s shoulder and fucking him in earnest.

For endless minutes that’s all it is - Geralt ploughing him, hard and relentless, grunting with the exertion, and the bard mewling desperately as he clings on, his reddened cock caught helplessly between them - until the bard’s breath starts hitching and Geralt digs his head out of the dark safety of his shoulder to study him.

He’s close. He’s so very close, but Geralt isn’t done with him just yet.

He presses the bard further into the wall so that he can free a hand and use the pad of his thumb to smear dark eyeshadow across the man’s sweat-slick temples. Jaskier makes a strangled sound at the gesture that Geralt takes as further encouragement as he dips his head and licks the powdered blush from his cheek. Jaskier, by this point, is nonsensical in his noises. The make-up tastes utterly revolting in his mouth but it’s worth it to see the way the glistening saliva marks his skin and witness the real flush of his cheeks underneath.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he growls.

Jaskier’s wide lust-filled eyes lock onto his and Geralt feels immediate regret; embarrassment creeping up his spine. He hadn’t meant to say that - had only meant to think it and even then was ashamed by it - but Jaskier moans louder than he has all this time; his fingers clenching in Geralt’s hair like it’s the best thing he’s ever heard.

Geralt can’t take it. He hides his face once more in the crook of Jaskier’s neck where all he can smell is sex and lust and the floral perfume that lingers on his skin. And then he fucks Jaskier harder than he ever thought he would, harder than most people can take, but Jaskier doesn’t just take it - he begs for it - loud enough that he’s certain his beloved Beatrice has heard and fled. He can’t find it within himself to feel an ounce of guilt for the act as he ruts and grunts mindlessly into him and Jaskier’s mouth falls open, looking at once both gormless and utterly contented by the animalistic pounding.

The bard comes. Geralt can smell the seed in the air and feel the warm wetness splatter against his chest.

Geralt daren’t move to witness his release but the pad of his thumb smears the remaining lipstick from the bard’s open mouth, and then, when Jaskier’s tongue peeks out to lick at his thumb, Geralt is overtaken by his own sudden release and spills deep inside him.

Mine, he thinks. Unbidden. Unwanted. Mine.


When they are immediately chased out of Novigrad by angry stage managers and girlfriends alike, Geralt realises the full impact of his spontaneous actions.

The bard had been fortunate enough to have a regular paying job and a regular lay and was now back on the road with only a lute and a handful of clothes on his back. Geralt doesn’t feel guilty as such, but he does feel responsible, and he recognises that he’s stuck with the young poet until he can find him other employment. It won’t take long - with his newfound fame Jaskier receives requests for banquets and weddings and courtly entertainment everywhere they go - but until they reach Oxenfurt...

“Share my bedroll,” Geralt grumbles. The bard has been tossing and turning for a while now; a constant undercurrent of pain rolling off him. It’s not particularly cold this time of year but the forest floor is uncomfortable without a bedroll and with the brutal fucking Jaskier endured only hours ago he must be experiencing a notable amount of tenderness. Not that he’s complained though. He hasn’t complained about any of it.

Jaskier looks across at him with a frown. “Huh? he asks, as if he might have misheard.

Geralt grits his teeth. He doesn’t like repeating himself. “You’re uncomfortable and being loud about it,” he gripes. “Come here.”

“Right,” Jaskier mutters but takes a moment to blink upwards at the stars before actioning the request.

He slides into the sleeping bag beside him and there’s barely enough room for them as it is but it doesn’t help that the man tries to sleep as far away as possible, straining the already taut fabric. Geralt grunts and reaches his hand around the bard, yanking him closer until his back is pressing against Geralt’s front.

“Sleep,” Geralt orders.

After a moment, Jaskier calms and does what he’s told, a light snore sounding; musical even in slumber. His dark hair is splayed across the pillow between them and the scent of lavender soap exudes with Geralt’s every exhale as it causes the perfumed hair to skitter before him, time and time again.

Geralt lies awake; his senses overwhelmed by the scent of flowers and all the numerous complex nuances of a human’s body, and realises that he is now the one cursed with sleeplessness.


Geralt doesn’t even wait for Jaskier to find work in Oxenfurt. He leaves him at the city gates and makes his way east, the thought of their perverted act lingering like the sour taste of ale in his mouth.



Some months later, they cross paths at a nobleman’s estate. Jaskier is staying here for the winter, providing ‘services’ that Geralt knows better to assume is just the musical kind. He still smells of sex when Jaskier drags him into an empty hallway and takes Geralt’s member skillfully between his lips. He is no longer the inexperienced youth he was. Geralt is brought to the edge sooner than he would like to admit, the man somehow managing to fit his entire length down his throat, and eagerly at that. He watches with curiosity as the bard swallows the seed instead of spitting it in distaste as he did the first time, and once again the sight of his spit-slick lips afterwards is enough to entice him into a kiss. It is rushed and secretive and leaves no time for them to discuss what happened in Novigrad. The scales are reset; balance restored.

Jaskier soon involves himself in the Witcher’s contract and wriggles out of his own and the two of them are on the road again, acting as if nothing had ever transpired.



Geralt is barely conscious. He feels the bruxa’s poison in his veins, making him sluggish and slow, and although he knows the potion he consumed afterwards is attempting to neutralise the toxins it’s taking its goddamn time. He feels the slick black blood of the vampire on his skin and the stinging teeth marks on his forearm. He can smell the bruxa’s deceased body and the metallic tang of silver that he struck through her. He can see the faint outline of the barn’s beams above him, barely visible in the darkness of the new moon. He doesn’t know how long he lies there, exhausted and healing, until he smells lavender on the breeze and rolls his head to see a familiar figure in the darkness.

“Oh, there you are,” Jaskier says jovially, but Geralt can smell his fear on the draught from the open door. “It’s been hours, I thought -”

He rambles. Geralt is too tired to listen. They’ve been travelling together for a couple of months now and have shared no more than that initial coupling in the nobleman’s hallway and a helping hand between the sheets a week ago. He scared him, he thinks, with the savage fucking in Novigrad. He scared himself too. He can admit as much when his mind is too exhausted to maintain its defences.

“I’m okay,” he grunts when Jaskier’s rambling does not cease and his hands begin to wander across his prone body. “Just… tired.”

“Ah,” Jaskier says, inspecting the empty bottles beside him. “You’re still fighting the poison.”

Geralt grunts his assent. Somewhere along the lines, Jaskier has actually become a semi-competent travel companion. He knows the potions and can even make some of them himself. He’ll pick herbs when Geralt’s on hunts, humming to himself and ‘meditating over rhyme’ as he does so, and Geralt is reluctant to admit that he actually has some skill in the matter. Jaskier actively learns about beasts and tactics and history and has now amassed enough survival skills that he is capable of setting up camp alone. Even Roach has accepted him somewhat. It’s been a few years now since they met. Five or six, perhaps. It ought not to surprise him then, that Jaskier understands his exhaustion for what it is and knows the measures to take. It still does though. It surprises him every day that Jaskier has not yet tired of this life. (He will one day, Geralt knows. His departure is as inevitable as the setting sun.)


Jaskier carries him to the nearby lake. He strips him and leads him into the cold water. The temperature doesn’t bother Geralt but he knows it affects the bard. The human starts shivering against him and Geralt wonders why he stays when he could easily leave him. Instead, Jaskier holds him and uses a rag to clean him, attentive and thorough, and then carries Geralt to the shore before bestowing the same meticulous treatment to his armour.

Geralt watches with glazed eyes as he works by the light of the single torch outside the fisherman’s hut. He shivers but he does not complain and his work does not stop.


Afterwards, Jaskier takes the bundle of wet clothing in one arm and Geralt in the other and leads them back to their camp on the outskirts of the village.

“We could find a tavern,” Geralt offers. There is not one in this village but perhaps the next.

“We can scarcely afford it,” Jaskier reminds him as he settles him onto his bedroll. “It is too late to travel, and besides, you are far too tired to face the journey.”

Geralt opens his mouth to protest but is cut off before he can -

“Don’t deny it,” Jaskier chides, and throws Geralt a bundle of dry clothing.

“Then we could return to the barn -”

“And sleep alongside the beheaded bruxa? I think not.”

Geralt pulls on the clean clothes, surprised to find them warm to the touch. Jaskier must have warmed them by the fire.

“Why the change of heart?” Jaskier asks as he changes into a loose shirt and shorts himself. Geralt’s eyes skim over the familiar chest hair, flaccid penis, and toned thighs. He has seen him naked countless times but on nights like this, it curls something hot and unpleasant in his gut. “You were happy to sleep under the stars this morning.”

Geralt grunts, not sure how to phrase his concern over the bard as something that will not be mistaken for actual concern. “No reason,” he murmurs, as he lies back on the bedroll. It’s warm. Safe. Clean. Without Jaskier, he would still be lying in bruxa blood in the cold empty barn.

He turns his head to watch Jaskier as he returns from petting Roach goodnight (a needless, irritating habit that he insists on every night) and begins to lay their wet clothing on rocks around the dwindling fire.

“Join me.”

Jaskier raises his head and looks at him with a question in his eyes. Geralt hopes he doesn’t make him repeat himself. He’s not sure if he could ask again. Jaskier holds his gaze for a moment and then nods. “Sure,” he says, turning back to the laundry. “I’ll just finish up here.”


Geralt could easily disguise the request as one for warmth but when Jaskier approaches he makes his desire apparent by opening the bedroll and his thighs in the very same movement. He watches as the bard catches sight of his growing hardness and once he has his attention he moves his hand over the thin fabric of his breeches to grasp it.

Jaskier visibly swallows. He looks away, tongue pressed to his lips in thought, before looking back down at Geralt. “My friend,” he says, because he likes to remind Geralt of his affection at every opportunity, “you know I would never normally refuse any such offers from you -” Is that true? Geralt can’t help but wonder. Would he give me anything I asked for? “- but I wager that you are much too tired for the majority of carnal activities at present. Not to mention full of poison.”

Geralt doesn’t have the energy to argue back, just keeps languidly stroking his penis until Jaskier gets the hint that this is proceeding with or without his involvement.

After a moment, Jaskier’s face twists in agony and settles into resigned acceptance, as he falls to his knees and joins Geralt in his bedroll. He smells like lust, he always does to some extent, but his manhood remains unstirred. When Geralt reaches for him, he understands why; the man is still cold to the touch and his mind still full of worries if the furrow in his brow is any indication.

“What do you want?” Jaskier whispers above him before his teeth pinch a nipple through the thin fabric of his shirt and Geralt jerks unconsciously towards the sensation. Jaskier smirks as he rises but then sobers when he studies Geralt’s face. “I can’t tell what you need.”

Geralt thinks that is because he, himself, doesn’t know what he needs. He is ashamed for not knowing. He is ashamed to think that he would accept almost anything. He just wants to feel, to touch, to be surrounded by the comforting smell of lavender. “I don’t know,” he murmurs.

Jaskier’s lips press against his temple; warm and grounding; he should not lean into it as much as he does. “Okay,” he comforts with a hand stroking his bare arm. “Then allow me to hazard a guess.”

Jaskier moulds his front to Geralt’s back, reaching around to push his loose breeches aside and grasp his penis in his hand. Once again, the bard shows his unlikely intelligence; while there is poison in Geralt’s body it could affect his semen too; it was best not to risk such a thing against Jaskier’s sensitive human skin.

Geralt allows his head to fall back on Jaskier’s shoulder, closer to that all-encompassing scent of lavender, as Jaskier strokes him just as languidly from base to tip.

Geralt closes his eyes and falls into the comforting, sleepy, rhythm of it. He feels the tickle of Jaskier’s breath against his ear, his half-hard cock against the small of his back, his heartbeat thrumming through his spine. Then, a pressure at his entrance.

Geralt instinctively tenses. No... that’s not quite right; he thinks he tenses. He intends to. A few muscles certainly stage a protest but he must be too exhausted to successfully rally enough force to reject the touch. Jaskier is murmuring sweet things into his skin, his hand is still moving with dedicated purpose over his cock, and the finger at his entrance is inquisitive, not demanding.

This is what Jaskier thought he would protest. This is the sordid act he is asking permission for as the pad of his finger moves gently, ever so gently, against his entrance, giving him the chance to say no.

Geralt’s breaths come ragged and his heartbeat pounds almost as fast as a human’s. He shouldn’t want this. He shouldn’t want any of this. But the poison is still in his veins, slowing his thoughts, lowering his defences… and a haze of pleasure smothers the anxieties beneath. It’s Jaskier, he reminds himself. Jaskier knows him. Jaskier is an invert himself; he won’t think any less of him for wanting such depraved things…

He rocks his hips back minutely into the touch, testing, and finds that a tingle of desire sparks at the base of his spine. Jaskier groans obscenely at the movement and the huff of pleasure it produces and digs his teeth into Geralt’s bare shoulder as if needing to censor his own reaction.

Fuck,” Jaskier says emphathically. “I have to, I have to…” he’s murmuring and before Geralt can translate his mumblings, he is being turned onto his front and there are hands prying his cheeks apart and fear grips his chest for the singular moment it takes before a tongue presses against his entrance and he is shuddering for an altogether different reason.

He feels himself bite out a curse of his own, his fingers clenching against the bedroll, desperate for something sane, something normal, to hold onto as Jaskier fucks his tongue against his entrance. The act is so disgusting - so utterly depraved - that he ought to be horrified but the foreign touch feels so unbelievably good that his thoughts have derailed entirely. He can barely breathe. He wants to protest. He wants to scream. He wants to fuck himself back against this strange and addictive sensation until he comes on the devilish tongue moving against him. He didn’t even know this was something you could do. How does Jaskier know? Who did this to him? It’s too intimate, too overwhelming; he can’t imagine walking into a brothel and asking for such a thing.

He’s scrambling at the bedroll, a litany of curses falling from his mouth. Jaskier is relentless in his enthusiasm. He feels the saliva drip from his mouth. His entrance is so sensitive. More than he ever thought. He bucks into it, ashamed and eager, and the way that Jaskier grips his hips, tight and unrelenting, reassures him more than it ought.

He rubs his aching cock against the bedroll, needing the friction, as Jaskier’s tongue breeches his hole and he bites a scream down onto the pillow. They shouldn’t be doing this. Fuck, they shouldn’t be doing this. His bastard rebellious hand doesn’t heed his doubts; it reaches down and curls into Jaskier’s hair, at once both pushing his tongue deeper and giving Geralt a much needed anchor. Jaskier moans into his ministrations at the touch and with one last desperate buck, Geralt is spilling onto the bedroll, swearing loud and broken, one hand still tangled in Jaskier’s hair and the other clutching helplessly at the fabric beside him.

Jaskier is breathing hot and heavily as he rises from his position and rolls Geralt’s sleep-heavy body back into his arms. Geralt is still shaking from the sensation. He can feel the hard line of Jaskier’s cock against his back but the bard doesn’t make a move to tend to it. Instead, his hands stroke underneath his shirt and through his hair, petting him like one might reassure a spooked horse.

There are soft kisses at his throat and an earthy smell on the bard’s breath and Geralt feels sick with it. He ought to push the bard away. But he is tired, and sated, and the smell of lavender beckons him.

“Sleep,” he murmurs against his ear, and Geralt does.


Geralt leaves at dawn to collect his payment. He returns sometime later to find that Jaskier is awake and clearing camp. He is merrily whistling a tune under his breath as if nothing transpired between them last night; a signal to Geralt that they could continue travelling together, if he wishes, with no mention of his evident enjoyment of the most depraved act last night.

Jaskier may be able to forget such a thing but Geralt cannot.

Geralt clears his throat as he mounts Roach. “I have a contract on the coast,” he says (he doesn’t), “you have that festival south of here,” (he does, but in three days time).

Jaskier twists his lips as if he recognises the avoidance in his words. He’s smart though; he’s learned to let it be. “Be safe,” he says. “I’ll see you soon.”

Geralt nods and turns towards the horizon, knowing that what transpired last night will haunt him the entire way to the coast.



Something’s different. Geralt can’t puzzle out the answer until they’re readying for bed that night and Jaskier’s discarded shirt ruffles his hair. The breeze from the open window convects the sickly scent across the tavern room and straight into Geralt’s flaring nostrils.

Honey. Not lavender.

Geralt is striding across the room before he can get a hold of himself; grasping Jaskier’s head in his hands, inhaling his hair, and gagging on the potent odour it elicits.

Jaskier has frozen beneath him and Geralt realises that his behaviour is probably at the very least strange and to most people (but not Jaskier, never Jaskier) probably quite intimidating. “You smell different,” he explains, and drops Jaskier’s head in disgust.

“Uh...? Do I?”

“Lavender,” Geralt states. “You always smell like lavender.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, and is Geralt imagining his flustered expression? Shuffling feet, hand on the back of his neck, a flush to his cheeks… flustered. “Yes, the lavender soap. I make it. Have since I was young. My maid’s recipe. Unfortunately I ran out of supplies while in the delightful company of the exquisite Countess de Stael last month and seeing as the flower does not grow on her vast estate, my ever generous hostess kindly allowed me use of her own grooming supplies -”

“Honey,” Geralt grunts.

“Yes, indeed! Sourced from her own myriad of apiaries. Honey and -”


Jaskier chuckles in embarrassment; hand rubbing his neck again. “Right, sorry, I forgot you have a keen sense of smell. In my defense, I did not realise that those scents were so abhorrent to you.”

Geralt grunts and folds his arms defensively. “They are.”

Jaskier still looks flustered as he looks at Geralt and then away again. “Okay, well, next time I’ll -”


“What?” he squeaks.

Geralt closes his eyes in frustration as another waft of that vile odour hits him. Jaskier has been with this Countess for months and was planning on returning after a week on the road with Geralt. He seems to be very much in love with her. Her and her fucking honey and chamomile soap. “Now,” he repeats. “Wash it out now.”

Jaskier looks across at him with a scrutiny so intense that Geralt is cowed into looking away. He does not wish to be transparent but he has the distinct impression that he is, at least to Jaskier, always somewhat transparent.

“I only have oil,” Jaskier protests weakly. “I don’t have the lavender or the lye necessary to make soap.”

Geralt frowns then strides over to his pack by the door and extracts the lavender pouch that he keeps there. A herbal remedy for sleeping. The wise women say to keep it under the pillow; that it will keep away bad dreams. It is crock, as everything these peddlers preach, but he has it nonetheless. (It helps him sleep, nonetheless.) “Here,” he says, holding it out to him with a pot of bear fat he can use as lye. “Make it.”

Jaskier warily accepts the supplies, sparing a bemused expression at the archaic sleeping remedy, before getting to work and penetrating the room with the comforting smell of lavender. Geralt can feel his muscles relax even before he sends Jaskier down to the baths - “Be thorough. I don’t want to smell a single drop of honey on you when you come back” - and Jaskier smiles coyly, like he knows what this is about, before leaving with a bar of familiar soap in his hands.


“I was thorough,” Jaskier says when he returns nearly a full hour later. His hair is still damp, errant strands stuck to his forehead, and he smells gloriously like lavender even from across the room. Jaskier begins stripping, slow and purposeful, and Geralt can only watch, curious and enchanted, as he does so. Jaskier starts walking towards him, fully naked and half-hard, and Geralt feels himself mirroring his approaching footsteps. “I was very thorough,” Jaskier says with a sultry smile. His hand comes out to grip Geralt’s wrist; softly, an invitation. “Let me show you.”

Geralt grits his teeth, already feeling out of his depth, but Jaskier’s sky blue eyes are earnest and pleading and Geralt finds himself nodding curtly, as intrigued by the seduction as he is terrified.

Jaskier takes his hand, presses a teasing kiss to his fingertips, and then leads it to his opening.

Geralt realises his meaning as soon as he feels the unnatural slick against the gaping entrance; the way it flutters greedily against his fingertips. “Fuck,” he swears, and is so overcome that his forehead falls to Jaskier’s shoulder. “Fuck,” he swears again, because the first time did not seem to be enough to emphasise his distress.

He hears Jaskier’s breathy chuckle against his ear and feels his broad hand stroke down his back in a soothing motion much like that time after the bruxa… he feels just as overwhelmed now as he did then.

He’s out at sea. Drowning. Clawed by harpies. Being dragged down into the depths.

Geralt’s exhale is stuttered as he dips a finger inside, crooks it just the once, enough to hear Jaskier’s own hitched exhale against his ear, and then retrieves his hand to inspect the slick. He pulls away and locks eyes with Jaskier as he makes a show of scenting it.


He used the soap to prepare himself. No, not the soap, he realises with another curious sniff. Another compound. Jaskier once again demonstrating his intelligence. He made his own lavender scented lubricant. Why? Because he knew Geralt would have the very reaction that he is having now.


He doesn’t want to think about what that reaction is or why it is happening or why Jaskier cares enough to make it so. He doesn’t care. All he wants right now is to fuck the last vestiages of honey out of him.

“Bed,” Geralt orders, voice deep and cracking on the singular word.

Jaskier’s eyes light up like that very first time and Geralt has a brief moment of sanity where he wonders what the fuck he’s doing but before the anxiety can grow into something insurmountable he follows Jaskier and strips his own remaining pieces of clothing. It is too late to turn back now. The monster inside him will not be satisfied until he has taken the bard for his own.

“Kneel,” Geralt says, and watches in fascination as Jaskier does exactly that.

Geralt needs only a stroke or two to reach full hardness before he kneels behind Jaskier on the centre of the bed. They’ve never been so purposeful, so honest, about their desires before. Their intimate acts are spontaneous fumblings for the most part; a fellow lending a helping hand to his comrade on the path. This is… different. He cannot pretend that this is some spur of the moment release. Jaskier prepared for this and Geralt was presented it like a gift; a gift that he chose to accept.

It’s terrifying. Too intimate. His hands shake as they reach for a hold on Jaskier’s hips.

Jaskier lets out a strangled moan and reaches back to secure the grip with his own hands, as if he can sense Geralt’s hesitation; as if he’s afraid Geralt is going to run away.

(Gods, how desperately he wants to run away.)

“Please,” Jaskier begs, and rests his head back on Geralt’s shoulder until the wet hair spreads across his bare skin and the scent of lavender penetrates his senses.

Geralt closes his eyes and allows the scent to calm him. He flexes his fingers against Jaskier’s hips and exhales measured and slow as he pushes into him steadily and deliberately. Jaskier sighs with every inch. He is just as tight and hot as he was in Novigrad but the motion is slick and easy and the smell of him is overwhelming; fresh out of the baths with nothing but lavender on him. Not a single scent of anyone else. It allows a fog of sensation to fall over him, the sharp edges of the world disappearing - he can no longer hear the clatter of crockery in the kitchen below, or the laughs of the patrons, or the smell of the stew - everything has narrowed to this singular sensation.

Jaskier keeps one hand against his and the other snakes into his hair, massaging the base of his scalp with those delightfully rough fingers, and it has the same dual effect as last time - grounding and lustful.

Geralt grinds into him before he is fully conscious of it and Jaskier lets out a little squeak of surprise. Geralt feels a growl leave his lips; he is unable to stop it from sounding and even less able to restrict the small instinctive thrusts that follow.

Jaskier reaches up to grip his hair. The way his arm is bent beside his face allows Geralt to dig his nose into the crook of his elbow and inhale the potent scent there. Jaskier moans and leans back against his chest, eyes rolled toward the ceiling, as Geralt’s thrusts increase in depth and expediency until he is grunting with the exertion of every movement.

Geralt’s embarrassingly close already and tries to reach for the outside world - to reclaim the smell of spilt ale and the sounds of the distant stables - but he can’t; his entire world has narrowed to Jaskier. The hitched breaths, the wet perfumed hair on his shoulder, the shape of his ribs beneath Geralt’s hand, the rapid heartbeat he can hear below, the agonising slide of their bodies together, everything about him, even down to the curved little arch of his feet.

Geralt swears, overwhelmed by it all, and that’s when Jaskier’s face turns towards his; his hand moving from his hair to his jaw, turning him inwards… for a kiss.

Geralt reacts faster than he means to - fast enough to scare anyone not Jaskier - as he tears away from the hold and grasps the bard by the scruff of his neck to push him firmly into the mattress.

Jaskier lets out a distressed yelp but there’s only a lick of fear emanating from him before the lust returns. He can barely breathe like this but Geralt doesn’t care; too busy trying to reclaim his own breath as he continues pounding into him.

The angle is better like this, he tells himself, and it is - face down, arse up; able to thrust into him deeper than ever before and Jaskier unable to babble his nonsense - it’s good. Jaskier heartily agrees if his muffled moans are anything to go by. Each thrust is so strong that it pushes him a little further up the bed. Jaskier’s hands are clenching at the sheets. His face is tilted to the side, inhaling what scant air he can and looking so beautifully flushed with his mouth agape in pleasure.

Geralt squeezes the back of his neck and it appeases him greatly when Jaskier groans at the possessive gesture. They’re fucking as brutally and mindlessly as animals in heat and this, at least, Geralt doesn’t need to twist himself into knots to justify. It is simple animalistic release.

But then the bard breaks the illusion. He comes unexpectedly; his legs shaking with the effort to remain upright and when Geralt glances down at his sideways flushed face, there is an impossibly soft, blissed out, smile on his lips.

Geralt’s hips stutter at the sight; derailed like his thoughts, palpitating like his heart. He finds the sight helplessly, inexplicably beautiful. Something clenches behind his ribs; something that yearns to be named, to be set free.


Geralt collapses on top of him with a grunt and Jaskier’s weak post-orgasmic legs hold no resistance. They go tumbling down into the mattress and a rush of lavender hits his senses. He feels suddenly just as weak as the human; just as done for. He buries his nose in Jaskier’s hair, takes a bite of it in his mouth, clutches it in his hands, needing all that he can get as he continues to rut into him; desperate and irregular.

Jaskier groans, whispers of pain slipping through his scent, but his hand slips into Geralt’s hair as if to keep him in place and Geralt obediently keeps grinding into him, until, eventually, he spills inside.


Exhausted, they fall asleep still naked and entwined. Geralt ought to have left. He ought to have gathered some distance. But, he doesn’t. He wakes with morning wood and decides the only appropriate course of action is to come all over the bard’s chest. Jaskier watches with wide unblinking eyes as he does so but he doesn’t make a sound, not until Geralt takes to smearing it across the curled chest hair and into his skin, and Jaskier releases a high-pitched whine associated more with wraiths than humans.

Jaskier’s own hardness presses into his side but Geralt doesn’t want to stay and give the bard the wrong idea.

“Don’t bathe,” Geralt instructs him as he leaves the bed and readies for the market. “I want it on you when you return to her.”

Jaskier makes a strangled, frustrated, noise but Geralt can smell the lust beneath. “Three days is a long time to be covered in your seed, Witcher. Tell me…” he flirts dangerously, “if I disobey you, will you claim me again?”

Geralt pauses, his back to the bard and his hand on his pack. He knows if he expressed interest, Jaskier would offer the entirety of the next three days in his bed. He would allow Geralt to mark him over and over again until his very skin was a tapestry of Geralt’s desire.


He cannot project their affair - their boyish fumblings, rather - onto the rest of the world.

He wants the Countess to know that she cannot put her vile honied perfume all over his bard but he doesn’t want her to think that… that they’re... that they’re anything more than they are.

“No,” Geralt growls firmly, and heads for the door. “But I will destroy every fucking apiary in her estate.”



They engage in mutual masturbation as soon as they ride away from the Countess’s estate six months later with a new death threat on Jaskier’s head. The act is insignificant other than the small fact that Geralt does not detect even a hint of honey on his skin while they fuck.

“What did you do this time to earn her wrath?” Geralt asks afterwards as they lie naked, looking up at the stars.

Jaskier shrugs. “Wrote a song she didn’t approve of.”

“What was the song?”

Jaskier shakes his head with a laugh and a blush high on his cheeks. “Nothing you’d want to hear, I assure you.”



It’s some shitty tavern in Velen. It’s always some shitty tavern in Velen, Geralt thinks wryly, as he watches Jaskier flirt with another eager maiden. This time it’s different though. They both keep looking his way, often enough that he soon abandons his game of gwent with the innkeeper and attempts to hide himself away. They keep looking though, even as Jaskier’s hands slip under her petticoat and his lips move to whisper filthy things into her ear, too quiet for even Geralt to hear across the boisterous tavern.

Jaskier soon untangles himself and strides towards Geralt with a tent in his pants and the smell of her cunt clinging to the tips of his fingers. “Lesa likes Witchers,” he says in a dark, conspiratory whisper. “She would like it if you joined us.”

For the first time, Geralt allows his gaze to slip past Jaskier and onto the woman he had been wooing. Curvy. Red hair. A smattering of freckles. Flushed cheeks. She is rather attractive and it has been a long time since a woman was willing to bed him without the allure of coin. “What did you have in mind?” he murmurs, and flicks his eyes over to Jaskier to see a mischievous smile on his lips.

“Her between us. You take front. I take back.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “She’d be willing?”

“Oh yes,” Jaskier says with a flirtatious wink. “Lesa spent the best part of the last ten minutes convincing me that she’d be very, very, willing.”

Geralt grunts and eyes her again. Lesa flushes deeply upon noticing his gaze. A wave of lust and fear rolls towards him; the usual combination for those with a Witcher fetish. He doesn’t normally indulge in fetishisers. They expect him to be rough but they never actually want him to hurt them… it’s a fine line to walk, and he’s been thrown out of villages before for failing to walk it correctly. Jaskier can read people though. He would be able to mediate if necessary.

Geralt nods and Jaskier grins and before he knows it, they’re upstairs and he’s watching Jaskier lick into her wet cunt, giggling and call her pet names, and it’s so utterly different from their own encounters that Geralt experiences a peculiar sense of dissonance watching them. The bard is smiling as he pleasures her. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen him smile so much in bed before.

The flirting he witnesses in taverns isn’t just flirting, then - it’s foreplay. Jaskier is genuinely this cocky and fun and joyful in bed, just... not with Geralt.

He frowns, trying to puzzle out what that means, when Jaskier reaches out his hand in an invitation. Geralt steps closer and threads his fingers through Jaskier’s hair to feel the motion as he pleasures her. It’s oddly captivating.

“As talented as I’m sure your mouth is, she will need more preparation than your quick tongue to take me,” Geralt gripes. Lesa glances at his manhood during this statement and lets out an anticipatory moan which does help boost his ego somewhat.

Jaskier breaks away to give Geralt an amused and disbelieving look, which makes Geralt realise that Jaskier has taken his girth in a much narrower channel with much less preparation. He flushes with embarrassment, expecting Jaskier to tease him for it - in front of a guest no less - but the bard has seemingly learned something after all and just winks before dutifully sliding two fingers into her folds. “Very well, dear Witcher.”

She sighs, holding onto him and releasing all sorts of unrealistic noises. Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind it though as he murmurs equally nonsensical things back to her like, “there we go, sweetheart,” and “patience, darling,” as he kisses her and thumbs her clit until she is wracked with an orgasm.

Jaskier looks back at him with a cocksure grin as the girl screams out his name. Geralt realises, with dread, that Jaskier almost certainly had ulterior motives into inviting him to join them. It’s a tease. He wants Geralt to see how good he is in bed if only he would let him take the reins.

Geralt scowls and Jaskier grins. “Think she’s ready for you now, Witcher.”

The girl moans at the word alone; lust rolling off her in waves. Geralt grunts and tosses Jaskier the bottle of oil in his hands before he does what’s requested of him and tackles Lesa to the bed, thrusting into her in one smooth slide. She screams; fingernails clawing his shoulders and her head thrown back in ecstasy.

Jaskier isn’t the only one who can show off.

He pounds into her relentlessly with guttural groans escaping his throat until she is screaming through her second orgasm and then Jaskier is tutting, seemingly amused by his display, and rolls them over until his deft fingers can take to her back entrance instead.

By this point, Lesa is no more than a rag doll between them and allows the intrusion easily. Geralt is still hard as a rock though, rutting lacidasically into her as he watches Jaskier prepare her second entrance.

Jaskier catches his gaze and smirks. He keeps eye contact as he presses a kiss onto her bared neck. “Tell him,” he murmurs, and Lesa sighs beneath his ministrations. “Tell him how good it feels, me opening you up like this.”

Geralt’s hips stutter. His breath gets caught in his throat. So, this is Jaskier’s game. He should have known. He ought to be angry but he finds that too he’s captivated by Jaskier’s crystal blue eyes to stage a protest. Geralt’s hips keep thrusting and his companion’s fingers keep moving and their eyes are locked together in a battle of wills.

Lesa sighs, breaking the delicate spell between them and sending their gaze skittering. “So good,” she murmurs. “I can feel you… I can feel you… so full...”

Geralt grits his teeth. He doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t want to imagine what it would be like; the pressure of his tongue from that night under the stars - but deeper, fuller - reaching places that he has kept hidden; finding that place inside him that makes Jaskier whimper so brokenly… He doesn’t want to think about it.

Geralt fucks Lesa’s cunt deep and hard, pushing her back onto the bard’s fingers - three of them now - and she moans beautifully. Yes. This is why he’s here, he reminds himself, Lesa’s slick wet heat, her whorish moans, her pale skin rubbed raw by his stubble…

She smells like mead and dye and roses; even the blandest roses are sweeter than lavender.

“Tell him,” Jaskier murmurs and Lesa is grasping Geralt’s shoulders for purchase and moaning obscenely and Geralt doesn’t need to look down to know that Jaskier is finally breeching her. “Tell him how good my cock feels inside you.”

She does. The same filthy phrases, remixed and repeated. Geralt is barely listening, his gaze fixed on Jaskier’s blue eyes. He’s looking back at him, so intently, as he sheathes himself, inch by excruciating inch, inside the girl.

He’s imagining it’s him, Geralt realises with sudden unwelcome clarity.

“Fuck,” Geralt growls, and pushes his cock deeper into Lesa. Both can play at that game.

He fucks into her so hard and so deep that Jaskier has no choice to push back just as brutally. He grunts and Jaskier moans and the poor girl is trapped between them, nailed from both sides. He would be concerned if not for the constant cloud of lust and her constant shrieking in his ears; she is enjoying this pounding, which is good because Geralt’s eyes are still locked onto Jaskier’s; the world narrowed.

Darling,” Jaskier growls, sex-scratched and delightful, and he knows he must be talking to her - he must be - but his eyes don’t leave Geralt’s. He can’t breathe. He suddenly can’t breathe and there’s a tingle at the base of his spine that thrusts his hips deeper and a tangle of emotion in his chest that is pounding against his ribcage. “Darling, you feel so good speared on my cock, splitting you apart like this, you’re so good for me, my love -”

Geralt chokes out a groan but his distress is hidden by Lesa’s loud and demanding third orgasm that surges between them.

Jaskier’s eyes finally close, pressing his head against Lesa’s shoulder as he pounds into her, arrhythmic now with desperation.

Jaskier’s close but Lesa has collapsed between them, unable to give Jaskier what he needs. Geralt reaches over, uncertain what he intends to do, until Jaskier looks up and opens his mouth in an invitation. Yes, good, Geralt thinks, as he pushes his fingers inside. Jaskier moans around them, sucking just as enthusiastically as he would a cock before he makes a gargled noise and thrusts his hips inside her one last time.

Geralt lets out an anguished cry at the sight; wondering what it would feel like to have his bard’s seed shoot inside him, to feel claimed by him, to feel it drip out the next morning, as depraved and unnatural as it is. He wants it. He digs his face into her shoulder, unable to bear the thought.

He shudders, in disgust or pleasure he doesn’t know, until Jaskier’s hand sneaks under his hair again, holding him there and enveloping him in the scent of lavender, and at last he comes.


Jaskier bades Lesa farewell with yet more redundant pet names and lingering kisses and then the two of them are lying side by side in the ruined bed, looking at the cobwebbed ceiling above.

“You were different with her,” Geralt states.

“What do you mean?”

He waves his hand, attempting to describe. “The pet names… the kisses… the giggling,” he says with disgust.

Jaskier huffs a laugh. “It’s what she wanted from me, just as what she wanted from you was to be fucked soundly into the mattress. Which you gave her, might I add.”

Geralt grunts. “You always give your partner what they want,” he says. It had intended to be a question but halfway through he realised that he already knew the truth of it and the sentence unwittingly altered its tone.


“How do you… know?” Geralt says, curious, as he tilts his head to look across at him.

Jaskier shrugs. “I’m perceptive, I guess.” He looks back across at Geralt with an amused smirk. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t do those things to you, if that’s what you’re thinking; I know it’s not what you want.” But then, curiously, his brow furrows and he adds tentatively, “Unless I… overlooked something?”

Geralt turns away, trying not to remember the sound of ‘darling’ in his ears. The thought of it now, and how much he desired it, is like acid in his veins. “You didn’t,” he states.

“Right,” Jaskier says. He sounds disappointed.

Geralt turns away again until his back is to the bard. It’s the only way he can ask this question. “You know… what I want?”

Jaskier huffs, whether affronted or amused Geralt can’t tell, but he is too afraid to look at his expression to ascertain the answer. “Yes,” he says, “I know. Enough of it, at least.”

Geralt swallows. “Tell me?”

There’s a sharp inhale behind him and for a minute he doesn’t think Jaskier will answer him, and then, for a further minute, he considers retracting his question entirely, but then Jaskier licks his lips and says, “You like to be in control.” And when he meets no protest he continues, “You like it when I’m bratty. I have to keep things playful because you won’t allow sincerity. You need distance. You want intimacy but it has to be on your terms. You like to play possessive without keeping me. You say you have no earthly desires but I’ve seen your face when we walk past a bakery in the early morning so I know you have a weakness for baked goods. You demonstrate your affection not through words but through actions.... like, fucking me through my anxiety, or offering to share your bedroll, or taking my shoes to the cobbler at dawn because you noticed they needed new soles…”

Geralt feels heat overwhelm him, originating inside his chest and spreading outward as he listens to Jaskier list all these filthy things, and then, worse, the things outside that. “Enough,” he whispers, because he cannot take the onslaught any longer. He ought not to have asked. He feels the heat inside him and does not know if it is shame or embarrassment or something else besides but it’s burning him alive.

“And you would like being taken, Geralt,” he adds softly. “If you let me. You’d love it so much you wouldn’t let me do anything else for years.”

Geralt grits his teeth and kicks at the sheets tangling his feet to escape this suffocating conversation. “I said enough,” he bites, as he throws on enough clothes to leave the room that still smells of roses and lavender.

Bollocks,” he hears in an agonised whisper as he closes the door behind him. “Shitty, fucking, bollocks -”