It happens after a contract for a selkiemore.
Selkiemores are one of Jaskier's all time least favourite creatures, simply by virtue of being nigh indestructible except from the inside. They're not dangerous as such, he knows, but stupid enough to endanger people entirely by accident, and every once in a while someone will approach a Witcher to get rid of one.
Jaskier has seen and smelled a lot of unsavoury things during his time with Geralt, but selkiemore guts ranks right at the top of the list in terms of nausea inducing odours.
Which is why he has prepared a bath, lined up all of his soaps and oils, and is committed to cleaning his Witcher thoroughly before a hopefully good night's rest.
What he hasn't prepared himself for is for said Witcher to still be hopped up on potions when he returns, brimming with a restless energy that Jaskier knows makes his skin crawl. Geralt is absolutely covered in blood and ichor, and there is that look on his face that Jaskier has come to know only too well.
"Oh no," he says as Geralt throws the door closed behind himself, and he quickly puts the bed between the Witcher and himself. "No, no, no, Geralt, you are not touching me before you've washed all of that," he gestures at the man, "off of yourself."
Geralt growls. Then he unclasps his sword harness and drops it on the floor with uncharacteristic carelessness, followed by his belt and jerkin, and a moment later he has jumped straight over the bed and grabbed Jaskier by the front of his chemise.
Jaskier squeaks and tries to push him away. "Fuck, Geralt, no, please, let me wash you first-"
The Witcher growls again and then his other hand goes into the bard's hair, holding him still. "No," and then he kisses Jaskier.
Jaskier is torn between wanting to throw up at the scent and taste - oh gods, the taste - of selkiemore, and the thrill of being so overwhelmed by Geralt. He adores his Witcher when he gets like this, when his instincts rule his every move, when the simplicity of his desires is all that drives him.
He'd really prefer less selkiemore guts though.
"Geralt- ah, fuck, stop, please, you're disgusting-"
Geralt bites at his throat, and Jaskier whimpers. "Need you," he rasps, and all of Jaskier's defences go up in smoke.
"Alright," he breathes, and it's like his permission has cut through the last remnants of Geralt's self control. The Witcher spins him around and pretty much throws him onto the bed; Jaskier lands with an, "Oof!" He pushes himself up onto his knees, fumbling with his chemise, but Geralt is on him before he can get it off. He's not sure what he prefers, really: having his clothes ruined by monster guts, or getting said monster guts all over his skin.
The choice is taken from him either way when Geralt puts a hand on the back of his neck and shoves him forward onto all fours, then pulls his trousers down impatiently. It's warm in the room, with the bath steaming in front of the hearth, but he shivers anyway when Geralt grabs his arse with both hands and squeezes, then pulls the cheeks apart.
"Fuck, darling, please slow down, I'm not-"
"Can smell it," Geralt growls, and heat rushes through Jaskier.
"Smell what?" His voice isn't that high usually, is it?
The Witcher leans down, tugging at Jaskier's rim with both thumbs. Then he drags the flat of his tongue over Jaskier's hole with a pleased hum. "Me," he rasps, then pushes his tongue inside, and Jaskier's head drops onto the mattress.
They had fucked before Geralt left for this hunt, and he'd come inside Jaskier, "So you won't forget who this pretty arse belongs to."
As if he could ever forget that.
Geralt fucks his tongue into him for a minute or so, then spits on his hole as he straightens again. Fuck, this is going to be rough.
Jaskier tries to concentrate on breathing, on relaxing. Geralt won't actually harm him like this, he knows that from experience, but he can be short-tempered and more forceful than he'd usually be. It's only in the deep recesses of his mind and in the quiet whispered words in the dead of night that he would ever admit aloud to liking the way Geralt handles him when he gets like this, the utter disregard for Jaskier's wishes. Not that he needs to - Geralt knows either way, probably knew long before Jaskier himself actually did.
The Witcher unbuttons his trousers just far enough so that he can pull out his weeping cock, and then he's right there, the head nudging at Jaskier's entrance, and he breathes deeply and bears down.
Geralt grabs him by the hips and pulls him back, and Jaskier cries out, hands scrabbling for purchase on the bed.
The Witcher doesn't give him much time to get used to the sudden fullness. Instead he moves Jaskier with the bruising grip he has on his hips, and all Jaskier can do is hold on and try to get air into his lungs.
The pace Geralt sets is fast and punishing, every thrust forcing short punched out noises from Jaskier's throat. It's just on the edge of too much, too fast, too rough, Jaskier's arse little more than a tool for the Witcher to get off with, and the thought sends a bolt of humiliation down Jaskier's spine that makes his cock thicken and jump.
"Fuck, Geralt, please, please slow down, it hurts." It doesn't really, and Geralt probably knows that. It's uncomfortable, yes, but so, so good at the same time.
"Shut up," is all the answer he gets, more of a growl than actual words, and the Witcher digs his fingers into his hips harder.
Jaskier is sweating, panting harshly with every merciless stroke, he's covered in monster blood and parts and Geralt's sweat and spit, and it's everything he could ever wish for. He lets himself fall to his elbows, face pushed into the sheets and his arse in the air, and Geralt makes a low, appreciative noise in the back of his throat.
"Fucking desperate for my cock," he grits, and Jaskier moans. The potions must be wearing off if full sentences are returning to Geralt's repertoire.
"You're desperate for my arse," he mutters, and a second later there's a resounding smack to Jaskier's rump that makes him jerk and yelp. "Fuck!"
"Gonna get mouthy? Bit rich when you're moaning like a two copper whore," and he picks up the pace, somehow. Jaskier goes a bit cross-eyed.
"Gods, Geralt, mercy, please, you'll break me," he whimpers. It feels like the Witcher will, a bit, his thrusts deep and fast and bruising.
"You won't break," Geralt gasps out, "you were made to take my cock, Jask," and fuck, Jaskier's dick jumps and drools against his stomach.
"Yes," he gasps, hands curling into the sheets as his toes curl inside his boots, "you've ruined me for everyone else, darling, need your cock even when you're like this."
Geralt snorts a laugh. "Especially when I'm like this," he groans, and then he nudges Jaskier further up the bed and climbs up after him, and then he's mounting the bard, like a dog, like a bitch in heat, pressing his goo-covered body to Jaskier's. "There's a reason why people call you the Witcher's whore," he says roughly, and Jaskier bucks and squirms beneath him.
"Fuck, you stink, how can you stand this," he moans even as he pushes back into each hard thrust, and Geralt bites at his shoulder, his neck.
"Can only smell you," he grunts, and fucking cock, that shouldn't be as romantic as it is. Jaskier whimpers and tilts his hips back.
"Make me come, love, please." He's so close already, he can feel it rising in his veins, and Geralt rises up onto his knees again. He slides one sticky, bloody hand back into Jaskier's hair and tugs, until Jaskier has to bend so far backwards his hands hardly even touch the bed any more.
"Gonna mark you," he groans, "come inside you so deep you'll taste me," and then he reaches below Jaskier with his other hand and presses it to his stomach. Jaskier jolts as the pressure makes him feel the cock moving inside him even more intensely.
"Geralt," and he's whining, he knows he is, and the Witcher lets go of the thin veneer of control he'd been holding onto. The pace he sets pushes Jaskier further up the bed, and usually he'd shove a pillow into his mouth to muffle his screams, but he can't, not with the way Geralt is still pulling at his hair. He doesn't care, let everyone in this sorry excuse for a village hear just how good he's getting it.
Geralt fucks bruises into him, Jaskier knows he is. Tomorrow, his bum and pelvis will be tender, his arse even more so, and sitting will be hell. Walking will be a chore, and he will curse and whine all day. But that is a problem for future Jaskier.
Present day Jaskier is losing his mind as Geralt proceeds to thoroughly destroy him, pushing him up against the headboard at some point where Jaskier does his best to hold on, to push back even a little.
"Don't stop," he gasps, "don't stop, don't stop-," and on and on as Geralt hammers into him, and the Witcher winds his arm around him, holding him steady.
"Such a perfect bitch," he groans against Jaskier's throat, bites at the long line of it again. "No one else can take me the way you do, they all whine and cry and stink of fear, but not you."
"Never," and it's true, this might be disgusting and filthy and he'll certainly regret this later when the bed is covered in monster fluids, when he aches with how thoroughly Geralt has fucked him, but right now he can't get enough. He has never been afraid of Geralt, not when he yells at him, not when he's angry, not when his eyes are bottomless black pits when he's full to the gills with toxicity. No, not Jaskier. He had taken one look at the Witcher's pale face, crawling with black veins, and he had shrugged and accepted it as another of the man's quirks.
A short while later, when Geralt had first behaved this way, so desperate to burn off the energy, when he had pinned Jaskier against a tree and proceeded to expertly fuck his brains out, the bard had come to the conclusion that something must be wrong with him somehow. Given his reaction to the unfolding events - by which he means a cock hard enough to cut glass with, and an orgasm that left him insensible for a good five minutes - that thought was not all that farfetched.
Jaskier had also long, long ago come to the conclusion that he didn't much care about what others thought about his preferences in the bedroom, or forest, as it were. As long as both partners were willing - and he was certainly, one hundred percent willing - who gave people the right to judge? No one, that's who.
Geralt bites at his throat again, sucks a bruise into the spot where neck meets shoulder. "Do you need help," he asks, and that is the clearest indicator that the potions have all but worn off, this concern, and Jaskier mewls and tilts his hips as much as he can.
"No, just- ah, fuck, yes, right there!" He braces himself against the headboard, and Geralt rumbles against his back, pleased.
Jaskier has no idea how long it goes on after that. He's been on the precipice for what feels like hours already, and now Geralt nails his sweet spot unerringly with every thrust. The bard is screaming, fingernails digging into the soft wood of the headboard, and he knows his voice will be shot tomorrow, but fuck if it isn't worth it.
"Geralt, love, yes, fuck, fuck, I'm gonna-"
The Witcher presses against his stomach again, and Jaskier's vision goes dark around the edges. "Come, Jaskier, be a good whore for me," he growls, and Jaskier screams as his orgasm sweeps him away. Geralt fucks him through it, thrusts vicious, and then his teeth are in Jaskier's shoulder. He grinds himself so deeply into the bard that Jaskier is, in his current state of mind, sure the man's seed will spill out of his mouth.
For a brief, lust-crazed second, Jaskier wants.
Then everything goes dark.
When he comes to again, he's still squashed between the headboard and Geralt's body, so it can't have been that long. Geralt is panting against his back, forehead pressed into Jaskier's shoulder, and he's all that is keeping Jaskier upright. The thought that it's the Witcher's cock holding him up flits through his come drunk brain, and he giggles.
"What's so funny?" Geralt lifts his head, presses a kiss to Jaskier's neck. Jaskier giggles again.
"I was just thinking," he says, and fuck, his voice sounds like someone made him gargle with gravel, "that I don't need a spine when I have your cock holding me up."
The Witcher snorts. "You're ridiculous, bard," he says, but he kisses Jaskier's neck again, his hands stroking his sides gently.
"Oh, it took you this long to realise that?" He grins, and clenches around Geralt, drawing a moan from them both. "Entirely your fault, I used to be perfectly sensible and respectable," he chooses to ignore the huff of laughter against his back here, "and then you came along with your stupid, sexy scowl and proceeded to fuck all sense out of me. You really have no one to blame but yourself."
Geralt shakes his head and laughs fondly, and Jaskier grins.
Clean up is a bitch and a half. While Geralt peels off his sticky clothes, Jaskier strips the bed and tosses the sheets into a corner. Then he hops out of his own clothes.
"New rule for the future: no more selkiemores. I almost threw up on you when you kissed me."
Geralt huffs from where he's crouched beside the tub. "Probably wouldn't have stopped me."
The bard shudders. "Revolting."
"Hm. Come here, water's warm again."
"Thank the gods for signs," Jaskier murmurs, then sighs happily as he sinks into the really rather scorching water. "Ah, fuck, I'll feel this tomorrow," he groans when his bum settles on the floor of the tub.
Geralt's shoulders curl forward, the slightest bit. He can only see it because the Witcher is naked, otherwise the motion would be masked by clothes and armour.
"Oh no, you're not doing that," he says, and Geralt cocks an eyebrow at him. Jaskier scowls. "I know you still feel guilty for being this way with me, but I'm not having it. You know I like it, and I like having the reminder. It'll be annoying and uncomfortable and I'll whine and moan about it," here Geralt rolls his eyes, "but you know I want it." He beckons the Witcher over, and when Geralt kneels beside the tub, he cups his cheek, strokes his thumb over the soft skin under his eye. "I want you, with all your oddities. And honestly, the fact that watching you scarf down a raw bird a mere two months after meeting you didn't send me screaming in the opposite direction should've told you that I'm a bit peculiar."
Geralt's mouth tips up on one side. "Just a bit," he rumbles, and Jaskier laughs.
"A tiny bit, barely worth mentioning. Now, let me finish, please, then you can wash all of that gunk out of your hair, and after that I'd appreciate it if you'd eat me until my legs don't support me any more."
A muscle jumps in Geralt's jaw, and he wraps a hand around Jaskier's wrist. "Or," he says in a low voice, "I could do that right now."
Ah well. There are worse ways to go.
"If you insist. But then you go down and deal with the laundry," Jaskier quips, and for a second Geralt looks like he might reconsider.
Then he says, "On your knees."