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"Hold still," Geralt growled at Jaskier. "I don't understand how you always manage to get yourself into these situations!" With a frustrated huff he once again started to pick at the tightly knotted rope that held the bard's hands together behind his back. He had been at it for almost two hours now. Yet whenever Geralt managed to undo one of the skillfully wrapped knots, the enchanted rope would twist and turn around Jaskier's bound wrists and create a new one. The only way to untie the bard, Geralt decided, was to untangle the knots quicker than they were created. Which sounded like a good plan in theory, if it weren't for Jaskier inability to sit still.
“How was I supposed to know what the witch meant, when she spoke of ‘tying the knot’?” Jaskier protested loudly. “You’re a fucking poet aren’t you? Aren’t words kind of your entire thing?”
“A poet, from Redania. Redania, Geralt. We don’t ‘tie knots’, we gift each other rings!”
Geralt huffed out in frustration as his fingers slipped on the rope once again. “For fuck’s sake, Jaskier, will you stop squirming so much?!”
Embarrassment flooded through Jaskier’s body almost instantly. He could feel the flush spread across his face, hot and burning, and he knew that it would be all too visible. Thankfully, he was still standing with his back to Geralt. “I’m not doing it on purpose,” Jaskier pouted, staring at the forest floor beneath his feet. He had done his best to ignore the feeling in his lower stomach until now, but Geralt’s words had made him acutely aware of the pressure between his legs.
“It’s just that I-,” he whined and squeezed his thighs together. “It’s stupid, okay, but I really need to piss.” Jaskier bit his lip, quietly wondering why he felt so embarrassed to admit it. Behind him, Geralt sighed, fingers falling from the rope around his wrists. He placed a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder instead, gently yet unmistakingly pushing him forward. “Come on then.”
Jaskier’s mind came to a screeching halt as he was led away from their makeshift camp and towards a group of bushes. Surely Geralt would just leave him there and stand guard, right? Jaskier could hardly defend himself with his arms tied behind his back, he reasoned. But to his complete shock, Geralt didn’t turn around to wait for him to awkwardly shimmy out of his pants. Instead, the Wicher sank to a crouch right in front of him and started to undo the laces of his trousers without any preamble.
Jaskier stood, completely frozen, and stared down at Geralt, wide-eyed and confused. Okay. That was fine. Totally fine. It made sense after all – getting out of his trousers with his hands bound like that would have been quite the struggle. Geralt was just helping. Just helping, Jaskier told himself, as he silently watched Geralt stand back up and... tug Jaskier’s pants wide open, exposing his cock to the air. Everything was fine, Jaskier repeated inside his head over and over again. His heart was thundering inside his chest; there was no way the Witcher didn’t hear it.
And yet Geralt went ahead entirely too unbothered, as he circled Jaskier to stand behind him and take hold of Jaskier’s cock to point it towards the bushes.
Jaskier couldn’t breathe.
His face was flushed red and burning. He could hear the rush of blood thrumming in his ears, and he could feel Geralt’s hands on his cock. Holding him in a firm and steady grip. He was strangely aware of the scars and callouses on Geralt’s hands. The way Geralt held onto him, Jaskier was pretty much trapped between the Witcher’s arms, and there was absolutely no way he could possibly take a piss while pressed snug against Geralt’s chest.
So, he just stood there. Dumbly staring down at his own limp dick in his best friend’s hand as he silently prayed for the mortifying situation to pass. After an agonizingly long moment of silence, Geralt seemed to become aware of the issue at hand. With a huff – one that Jaskier felt all too clearly on the back of his neck – Geralt shifted behind him. “Thought you had to piss. Weren’t you just squirming around a minute ago?”
“I- I am trying. You aren’t making this easier.”
Geralt hummed; the sound coming from deep within his throat. Jaskier’s dick twitched involuntarily at that, and the bard decided then and there that death seemed like a great mercy. There was absolutely no way Geralt hadn’t felt that. There just wasn’t. Yet again the Wolf didn’t point it out. Instead, his free hand sneaked around Jaskier’s stomach and under his shirt where it came to rest under Jaskier’s navel. “You need my help.”
It wasn’t a question. Geralt said it far too matter-of-factly to be a question. Goosebumps spread across Jaskier’s skin, from the very tip of his head all the way down to his legs. Jaskier couldn’t answer. He didn’t object either, which Geralt took as a sign to continue. The Witcher closed in on Jaskier until there was absolutely no space left between them. Jaskier’s bound hands dug into Geralt’s stomach, the Witcher’s groin perfectly aligned with his ass. The hand around his cock tightened just a bit more.
And then Geralt pressed down on his bladder. Hard.
Immediately, Jaskier’s upper body shot forward, trying to curl in on himself. But the motion was easily prevented by Geralt. The sound that left him was a pitiful thing. High-pitched and throaty, something between a shuddering gasp and a needy whine. He could feel it. Could feel the small burst of piss involuntarily dribbling out of him, right before his mind caught up and his muscles squeezed tightly together. “Oh, no, none of that now,” Geralt chided him, “You were doing so well for a moment.” The hand that pressed tightly against his bladder began to rub against him in a steady up and down movement that left Jaskier trembling as his body desperately fought for control. “Try to relax, Jask. You can do it. Just have to let go, that’s all.”
He felt almost hysterical at Geralt’s words. He wanted to scream, wanted to turn around and yell at the Witcher that he was trying but that it wasn't exactly easy to relax when you’re best friend was quite literally holding onto your cock and- and pressing his own dick against your ass as he grew hard. Jaskier gasped and felt himself go slack with the realization.
“That’s it,” the Witcher mumbled right next to his ear, “You’re almost there, Jask, doing so well. Let go.”
He did.
Jaskier’s mind went blank. He was vaguely aware of the steady stream of piss that left him under Geralt’s careful administration; the Witcher’s hand still kneading at the softness of his lower stomach. “There you go, absolutely perfect.”
The moment stretched on and on until it felt like a small forever. He felt almost drunk. Then suddenly, he was done and Geralt was shaking him off before tugging him back into his trousers and adjusting him with a practiced motion. Jaskier rabidly blinked as he slowly became aware of the sudden change in the air around them.
Geralt was tightening the laces of his trousers, a barely-there grin on his face as he gave Jaskier’s cock a final squeeze. “Now let’s see if you can hold still long enough to get these ropes off you, hm?”
Jaskier swallowed. That suddenly didn’t seem all that important anymore...