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It's an eerie place, long since abandoned by living things. The stones are covered in a slimy residue of dubious origin. It looks like it might once have been lived in, but whether it was just a simple farm house, or a luxurious villa it's hard to say. Nothing stands upright anymore and there are holes where there should be floors. It's quiet. The only visitors are wind and rain. There have been stories about people disappearing from this place and strange noises in the night— Jaskier has heard them, rewritten them, and told them again. Geralt isn't intimidated at all, because of course he isn't.
“Let's see what lurks here, but I doubt it's worse than some creature wanting a quiet place. So be silent.”
Jaskier follows him closely, because of course he does, trying to ignore the nervous jitters which he usually controls with chatter. It's been a long time since he’s been this scared, but how can he leave his Witcher to face the threat alone? The thought doesn’t even cross his mind. Well, that's a lie because he's thinking about it right now. He could be safe, in a cosy inn, playing his lute for the innkeeper's voluptuous daughter or her dumb but handsome boyfriend. He could be ordering ale and luring a pretty bedfellow with a promising wink.
The truth is that he doesn't really want that. He's here because he wants to be where Geralt is. So he swallows the bile in his throat and wills his body to keep moving. They trudge on, careful to avoid the decrepit floorboards, Jaskier hot on Geralt's heels. When the latter suddenly halts, Jaskier is just quick enough to not bump into him. Not much, anyway.. It's just a little touch, really. Geralt looks over his shoulder and studies Jaskier's face.
“Hmm,” he mutters, softly. Then he steps aside and points down. There, beneath the rotting wood lies one of the ugliest beasts Jaskier has ever seen. It sort of looks like a giant rock with hair and fangs, except it has a face covered in warts and its skin moves enough so that Jaskier gets the impression of breathing stone. Eww.
He knows what this is: a troll. Troll. His brain hisses urgently at him to get away. Right now. But a glance at Geralt tells him to stay put, and calm the fuck down. Just trust his Witcher.
With a smirk that does impossible things to Jaskier's insides, Geralt puts a finger to his lips, grabs Jaskier's wrist, and drags him to somewhat firmer ground behind a piece of crumbling wall. They crouch down, Jaskier more or less in Geralt's lap.
"Quiet now, we don't want to wake the troll,” Geralt whispers in Jaskier's ear, sending shivers down the bard's spine. What on earth is he planning now? Jaskier wonders, but merely for a second because it's rather obvious when Geralt licks his neck and Jaskier has to suppress a yelp.
Oh Gods.
Geralt's tongue traces his nape and Jaskier is both incredibly turned on and unbelievably nervous. What on earth has gotten into Geralt's head? He's usually not one to take unnecessary risks. Maybe Jaskier shouldn't have worn this pair of trousers — he’d picked them because they fit so nicely around his bottom, and he'd caught Geralt staring at him throughout the day. They had been a generous gift from a grateful noble, and Jaskier liked nothing more than parading in them.
He can't resist the sensations Geralt is giving him; his proximity and unsubtle touches making it more than clear what the Witcher is planning. Geralt's hands are on the waistband of his tight, expensive trousers, tugging at them impatiently.
“You'll break the buttons,” Jaskier hisses, but he quickly works them open so Geralt has the access he wants. His right hand is on Jaskier's cock instantly, and the bard bites his lip, willing himself not to moan. Geralt curls his hand around his length, pulling his foreskin down and pushing it back in short, sure pumps. Jaskier gulps and bucks into his hand, eager and thirsty for more.
They've done this before, of course they have, but never like this. Never practically in front of a monster that could easily kill them if it wanted to. It only adds to the thrill of the moment and it isn't long before Jaskier loses himself in it, and he pushes back against Geralt, rubbing his now bare arse over the Witcher's clothed crotch.
"So eager,” Geralt whispers in his ear, as if he isn't the one who initiated this terribly bad idea. Jaskier elbows him, and Geralt chuckles softly. At this point, Jaskier can only hope the troll is a deep sleeper because there's no way they can keep completely quiet.
“Shut up,” Jaskier breathes, “and open me. I want you.” Their breath comes in rhythmic huffs and gasps as they move frantically against each other, the leather of Geralt's trousers smooth and hot against Jaskier's crack. Geralt fumbles into one of his pouches, dips his fingers into a jar and then starts working Jaskier open, his fingers slick with the oily salve they purchased specifically for this purpose.
Jaskier sucks on his tongue, trying to relax on Geralt's fingers. It's easier than it should be; perhaps because of routine; perhaps because the presence of the sleeping troll is as exciting as it is terrifying.
Once he's satisfied with the progress he's made, Geralt withdraws his fingers and pauses, kissing the back of Jaskier's neck.
“How do you want it?” he asks, so soft Jaskier can barely hear him. Jaskier smiles and turns around, pushing Geralt into a sitting position against the crumbling stones.
He works his fingers over the front of Geralt’s trousers, making his Witcher close his eyes in delight. With a few expert moves, he unlaces Geralt's fly and releases his impressive cock.
He gives it a few firm pumps, his hand rubbing in some of the same salve Geralt used on his arse. Then he sinks himself down on it, his legs on either side of Geralt's lap.
“Yes,” hisses Geralt. “Good bard.”
“Now you praise me,” Jaskier teases as he starts riding him. He leans forward to catch the Witcher's lips with his own, and they kiss, almost tenderly.
He's rocking his hips slowly, gyrating in Geralt's lap, but they're both already so fucking horny he knows they won't last long. Which is probably for the best, considering the sleeping troll and all that.
“Will you go faster,” Geralt grunts, and Jaskier almost has a heart attack because that wasn't quiet.
He speeds up nonetheless. It's delicious. Geralt's cock is the best he's ever ridden, and he knows he will never have enough of it. He doesn't know whether it's the urgency of their situation or the fact that Geralt has opened his eyes and fixes him with his steady, yellow gaze, but he is coming before he knows it, a stream of moans he can't hold down escaping him.
WIth another grunt, Geralt flips him down and starts thrusting into him relentlessly, his hands on either side of Jaskier's face.
“Yes, come for me, you impossible idiot,” Jaskier urges him on, barely recovered from his own climax just now.
And Geralt does, his own moan guttural and fucking loud, and joined by an undeniable growl from the depths below them.
As they flee the scene, holding up their britches as they run, Jaskier can't help the delighted laughter escaping him.
Oh, what a song this will make.