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Mating runs have never particularly interested Jaskier. They're a fun diversion, sure. Every year he gets to meander through his family's forests, strumming his lute as he goes. The accompaniment is the most varied he gets, from birdsong to the wails of a new-mated omega in the distance. It's good for his improvisation skills.
But the event itself? Not so much. Sure, the songs are full of fantastical retellings of runs long past, but to him it seems like a lot of mud and wailing. Neither of those things have ever been his idea of fun. And besides, you can only hear so many verses on the same topic before they become trite.
So. He goes to the runs, he goes home. Another year successfully unmated. And if his issue with the runs stems from somewhere deeper- if he'd rather be the one to be chased than do the chasing- well. Nobody needs to know. What are the chances of finding an omega willing to throw everything expected of them out the window?
Lower, he bets, than finding a grumpy witcher and then convincing him not to murder him for almost ten years. Geralt is an odd void of scent. Whenever the conversation steers towards sex, he always changes the subject. Which is fine- Jaskier has many other topics to discuss. He's an artist, after all. He's interested in complicated things like- like deep struggles. Pain. The heroic fights of a muscular -
Oh, who is he kidding? He wants Geralt to rail him like the omega he isn't. But he's a grown-up alpha. He can handle his feelings on his own. What he doesn't want to handle is outright rejection, and the awkwardness it would bring in its wake. So he finds even more topics, wide and varied and interesting, and talks non-stop. It's a useful trick; this way, he doesn't have to say anything important at all.
And then.
And then there’s another little town and another monster. So far, so normal. It's a succubus this time, and Jaskier can't quite keep his brain in check. All this talk of draining the local alphas dry and keeping them awake, making them delirious? It's unfair when the person Jaskier wants to do those things to him is not doing them.
Being a slut for anything masochistic, Jaskier is very willing to offer himself as bait. But Geralt says a firm no and leaves him pouting in the inn to rustle up some extra coin. Which, to be fair, he’s also very happy to do. The town’s betas and omegas seem delighted to have someone around who is both awake and attentive, and Jaskier gets to spend the evening with pretty boys and girls draped over him. So really, it works out rather well for him in the end.
But later, after he’s spent himself in the stablehand's lovely cunt, he wakes to the realisation that he’s alone. The stable hand’s absence he can excuse, but Geralt’s prickles at him. It should have been a straightforward contract. He should have been back by now. He’s not an alpha- or probably not, at least. But that, Jaskier realises with a sinking feeling in his gut, might not mean that he’s immune to succubi.
Fuck. He’d been very much looking forward to his breakfast. Maybe even a round two. He swings his legs out of bed and grasps at his clothes with a low whine; travelling with Geralt has made him better at getting up in the morning, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it . Once dressed, he takes the steps down to the bar at a jog that speeds up when he hits the ground floor.
Roach is still in the stables, so Geralt can’t have gone far, he tells himself. The stablehand gives him an odd look as he sprints off, but Jaskier hardly notices. Yesterday- what had Geralt done yesterday? Who had they visited? There’d been two dead victims in the heart of the town, another three suffering (or not, depending on who you asked). One had been on the outskirts, and given Geralt’s general aversion towards noise, that might be his best shot.
Only when he gets there, he’s told that the witcher had left late last night after dispatching the beast. Jaskier's heart sinks. Then he reminds himself that Roach is still at the inn, and Geralt would never leave his horse. That only makes his heart sink still further; it doesn't leave him with many possibilities.
Think. Think. If he were a surly, grumpy witcher, where would he go?
The other two houses yield nothing but relieved faces, one sleeping alpha, one disappointed-looking alpha, and the news that the creature had not visited the night before. Nor, apparently, had the witcher. So. Further out, maybe? Jaskier frowns, the gesture tracing furrows in his forehead as he doubles back. He’s watched Geralt track things often enough. He should know how this works, right?
There’s a lot of mud, but mostly dry- it’s not rained for a couple of days. Which means that the roads are furrowed still deeper than his forehead, but also means that on his third pass he spots a bigger, heavier pair of footsteps. “When I find you,” he murmurs, following them down the dirt road out of town, “I swear, I am going to put that bell on you at last. You can’t stop me.”
He’s so busy coming up with a detailed plan of how he’s going to pin Geralt down and do it that it takes him a while to notice the scent in the air. Yes, the forest smells lovely this time of year, all those flowers finally starting to bloom- but this is different. Thick, rich. Leather and horse and something woodsy, like smoke. Jaskier blinks and finds himself stopping for a moment, thoroughly distracted.
He’d rather like to wrap himself up in that smell, he thinks. And though he’s still worried about Geralt, the heavy tracks lead that way too, so he must be going the right way.
Only one way to find out.
He pushes through the undergrowth. He doesn't even mind or particularly complain about all the mud and branches everywhere, the smell is so nice. He only stops in his tracks when he hears a low growl from up ahead.
Fuck. Could be the succubus. Do succubi growl? He ought to ask Geralt these things. But then there’s another growl, and this one sounds familiar. Like he can picture the exact look Geralt would be making when he made it.
Two things happen at the same time.
One, something launches out of the bushes and shoves him against a tree trunk.
Two, it occurs to him that that was in fact Geralt’s voice. Also, Geralt’s arm at his throat. Geralt’s scent in his nostrils.
Geralt in heat.
Jaskier’s eyes widen- and yep, he was right, Geralt is making that exact expression. All intense and focused, brows drawn and pupils catlike as he leans in to sniff at Jaskier and growl again.
In Jaskier’s defence, if he’d known Geralt was going to be in heat, he wouldn’t have shown up stinking of another omega. If Jaskier had known Geralt was an omega, period, he’d have-
Well, it doesn’t matter now. Geralt lets go of him and takes a shaky step back. Jaskier feels the sudden loss of heat and pressure like a physical blow; it’s all he can do not to whine. Though the angle does give him his first chance to get a good look at Geralt. The witcher is more dishevelled than Jaskier has ever seen him. His shirt is hanging half off his shoulders to reveal a fresh bite mark, and his trousers have vanished to Melitele-knows-where. Which is strange, considering he's still wearing his boots.
Jaskier has the option of looking at Geralt's (heaving) chest, his (gorgeous) cock, or his glowering face. He picks the face only because he still has half a survival instinct kicking around somewhere. Biggest surprise of the day, that.
“You should go,” Geralt rasps, but Jaskier shakes his head before the words are even out.
“What- no. No. Absolutely not. In case you hadn’t noticed, my dear- Geralt,” he adds, before he can say use a more incriminating endearment, “you are in heat. How long have you been out here?”
Geralt growls again and shoves at Jaskier’s chest, which does inappropriate things to him. “Go.”
“Or else what?” Jaskier asks, pulling himself up to his full height despite the urge to bare his neck instead. Geralt wants to be stubborn and self-sacrificing, leaving himself out in the forest to weather his heat alone and unsafe? Jaskier can be stubborner.
“Or else,” Geralt tells him, his voice a low rumble that’s as threatening as it is promising, “I’ll give chase.”
“Well, if you think I’m going to let you just - wait, what?” Jaskier’s mouth runs to a sudden stop as though against a wall. Or a tree.
“Succubus bit me,” Geralt tells him, indicating his exposed arm. “I’m in heat. Haven’t had one in a while. Stronger instincts than usual.”
“Okay, but- the chase is a formal thing, right?” Jaskier says slowly. “Nobody does them out of the blue unless they-” His eyes widen. So do Geralt’s, except that the witcher than immediately looks away, because of course he does. Well done, Jaskier. Reigning champion of foot-to-mouth introductions. He means to apologise, to assure Geralt he’s not offended or anything, but all that comes out of his mouth is a faint “o-oh.”
Geralt wants him. Geralt wants to mate with him.
“Like I said,” Geralt tells him. “You should go.”
Fuck. Okay. Deep breaths, Jaskier. He's salvaged worse situations with his silver tongue before. He wets his lips.
“What if I don’t want to?”
“Jaskier-”
“No, really. I want you to chase me. Is that what you want, too?”
He'd planned to say much more about this. Granted, he’d never expected Geralt to show an interest in him full stop, but that hadn't stopped his imagination running wild. Lots of romance, swooning, swords. Geralt might have saved him from a monster, or Jaskier might have been combing Geralt's hair out in the bathtub. Instead here they are- Jaskier rumpled from a one-night stand, Geralt muddy and sweaty and half naked, with a bite mark on his arm.
It feels far more fitting this way.
Geralt is staring at him. He keeps staring, as though he might make Jaskier break if he does it for long enough. Or maybe he just doesn’t want himself to break. Maybe the eerie, predatory stillness in the grove is all that’s holding him back from taking Jaskier on the spot.
Jaskier can’t quite stop a whimper at the thought. His cock throbs. Geralt’s eyes flick over him, and his nostrils flare again as he nods.
“Okay,” Jaskier breathes. He feels dizzy, light. He can barely walk through a forest, how is he going to manage running? “Gonna need a head start, though. You know what I’m like.”
“Slow. Yes.” Geralt bares his teeth. “Go.”
Fuck. “Fuck,” Jaskier says, and scrambles back the way he came. He takes a hard left at the path, away from the town - he definitely does not need the nice lady whose husband Geralt had saved seeing this, thank you.
But where the fuck else does he go? Where do people even hide during these? His sister had climbed a tree. Their cousin had bedded down and made a nest in a little cave. But that was their forest - Jaskier is a stranger in this one.
Somewhere in the distance a twig snaps. It’s probably not Geralt - he’d never be so loud - but the sound has Jaskier running nonetheless. He scrambles between trees and bushes and thick bunches of wildflowers. There’s an intangible weight on his back, a heavy gaze that pushes him further and faster than he’d ever thought he could go.
The forest is quiet, beyond the sound of his own feet and arms and breaths. Or that’s Jaskier’s own mind, tuning everything out except for the presence of his potential mate. The idea is almost distracting enough to trip him: Geralt, the consummate hunter, moving soundlessly between the trees as he stalks Jaskier.
Sunlight up ahead; an open clearing. If he gets to the long grass before Geralt does, he might be able to sprint. Put some distance between them. He puts on a burst of speed, gulping down air and tearing at the foliage until-
He almost makes it. The weight on his back becomes physical a beat before he hits the grass. Rather than running, he lands in the midst of it, his face full of green and his whole body aching with the impact.
Geralt growls in his ear and any hope of flight vanishes. His limbs still and finally, finally, he lets himself give in to the urge to tip his head to the side. Geralt presses up against the skin, breathing in deep and growling again at the mix of scents there. Jaskier knows it’s not his own, and he should probably be sorrier, only Geralt’s instinctive possessiveness is hot.
Instead he finds himself bucking back up against Geralt’s naked body with a low, plaintive whine. It’s okay. He can be good, he promises, if Geralt will give him a chance.
Geralt’s weight lifts off him and Jaskier finds himself wrestled onto his back, all four limbs pinned neatly by Geralt’s own. The omega- his omega- looms over him, and he’s hands down the most gorgeous thing Jaskier’s ever seen.
“Poor baby,” he breathes, looking down at the mud and slick coating his mate’s legs. “You’ve been out here all alone, huh? All empty?”
Geralt grinds down against him, making him arch up off the ground. “Ah!" Jaskier yelps. "I’ll- oh, fuck- I’ll take that as a yes. My poor sweet thing, and there I was thinking you didn’t want me. You were out here all cold and empty, and I-” oh, this is dreadful, could go so very wrong. It’s a risk Jaskier is willing to take. “Well, there I was in our lovely room fucking the stablehand. If only I’d known.”
He should have expected the swift destruction of his shirt. Geralt rips it open with ease before shoving his trousers down and exposing Jaskier’s throbbing cock to the cool morning air. It’s still a little sticky. He’d feel worse about it, except that a moment later he’s seeing stars because it’s inside Geralt. The witcher- as quick to act here as everywhere else- is sinking down atop him like he was born to ride alpha cock. Or tweaked to, in the trials. Jaskier knows he shouldn’t ask, so he moans instead. His hips buck up in an attempt to meet Geralt’s, but his omega holds him down without breaking a sweat.
Very very hot, yes. But not half as hot as when Geralt shifts his weight back onto his legs and starts to move, bouncing on Jaskier’s cock as though it isn’t already half-knotted. As though his cunt could stretch to take anything Jaskier gave it, and isn’t that an idea to explore later on?
Jaskier forgets how to breathe. To speak, even, which is arguably a more central skill for him. Geralt is hot and wet and tight around his cock, almost burning with heat, and it’s all he can do not to cum right then and there. Instead he holds his hands up to grasp at Geralt’s hips. He tries to focus on them, on the way the skin moves over muscle and bone. The finely crafted machine that is Geralt’s body is focused on riding him into the ground. Thinking about the anatomy involved might stop him coming on the spot; thinking about the reality will give him no chance.
It’s fast, rough, hard. Jaskier barely knows what to do with himself. He babbles, because that’s his response to most scenarios. “Gods, Geralt, you-” and “your cunt, so fucking gorgeous, I could-” and “ah, fuck!”
It’s not his most poetic work. But his brain has gone elsewhere for now. Geralt rides him so hard he swears he’ll bruise from it- and rides him, and rides him. Jaskier is only a mortal; he tips over the edge in an embarrassingly short time. His voice is loud in the forest quiet, gasping and groaning Geralt’s name as his cock spurts deep inside that perfect cunt.
Finally, Geralt begins to slow. They’re both panting, almost in unison, as his hips shift to more of a steady grind. Jaskier’s knot is still growing, but it’s large enough now that they both wince when it tugs at Geralt’s hole. And he’s not complaining- this is far too good, far too perfect, for him to ask for or want anything else.
Then Geralt leans in closer, nuzzling at Jaskier’s neck, and he realises that maybe he does want more. Wants this to go beyond just a quick ride in a clearing, wants to be marked up and claimed so thoroughly the whole continent hears about it. He presses his head further back against the ground with a whimper, and Geralt purrs back-
-then growls again. Whoops. The stablehand. Jaskier probably still smells of him there, even with his lower body now muddied and with slick dripping out around his knot. Before he can act on the instinctual urge to apologise, he feels a sudden roughness against his neck; Geralt’s face, unshaven, pressing his own scent against Jaskier’s skin. Jaskier moans all the louder at that, running his hands up from Geralt’s hips and across his back. It’s the least messy part of him, so he doesn’t have to worry as much about breaking the skin as he rakes his nails down it desperately.
“Please,” he moans, arching up against Geralt’s gorgeous- gorgeous everything. Honestly, this all feels like a particularly good dream. Maybe he just hasn’t woken up yet and he’s going to have an awkward boner to explain when Geralt gets back from the hunt, but for now, he’s going to enjoy himself. “Oh, gods, Geralt, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted you to mark me. Please?”
Geralt goes still. Jaskier whines. “Why’d you-?”
“You don’t want that,” Geralt says softly. Jaskier frowns.
“How would you know? I’ve wanted you for- nnh- years, you big oaf. In me. On me. Any way you’ll have me.”
Geralt blinks at him. Jaskier is going to hazard a guess that words are particularly hard for him in heat. He brings a hand round from Geralt’s back to cup his face instead. Maybe actions will get through where words won't. “Do you want me, gorgeous?”
He’s not sure what he’s expecting- a denial, or some self-recrimination about how he’s using Jaskier for his own needs. Instead, Geralt nods.
The one tiny gesture is enough to set fireworks off in Jaskier’s chest, to ignite the beginning of a thousand songs. And then he tugs his mind back to the real Geralt, heavy and sweaty and gorgeous. So much better in real life than he could ever hope to paint him in verse. “Good,” he breathes. “That’s- that’s far more than good, darling. Better than I could ever have hoped. I’d let you have me, you know. Mark me up for everyone to see.”
Geralt groans, and Jaskier echoes the sound when the witcher’s hips rock atop his. “Don’t just - say that.”
“Why not?” Jaskier asks, giving wide-eyed innocence his best shot. “Now seems like a good time to ask.”
“You’d let me-”
“Yes. So long as you want it, too. Do you?”
Another nod. Jaskier might just melt, right here on the ground. Instead he nudges Geralt’s head back to his neck. “Go on, then,” he murmurs. “Have me. Make me yours, Geralt. Not that I wasn’t already, but- ahhhn!”
Geralt’s teeth are already sinking into his neck, the bright pain broadening as Geralt sucks his mark into Jaskier’s skin . Jaskier cries out, his hands tangling in Geralt’s hair and digging still harder into his back when he cums again. His hips are barely thrusting, even as they move with all the strength he has.
Fuck. His omega could overpower him. His omega has overpowered him, has Jaskier entirely at his mercy. And yet somehow he’s still here, still wanting more. Jaskier feels something prickle at the corner of his eye but he blinks it back. “There we go,” he murmurs, stroking a gentle, steady hand through Geralt’s hair. “So good for me. So eager. Thank you.”
A few moments later Geralt pulls back, leaving Jaskier mourning the loss of the gorgeous sharp ache as it subsides to a dull throb. “For what?”
“For taking such good care of me,” he purrs. “For making me feel so good. For making me yours.”
Geralt stares at him for a long moment. Then he surges forward, grasping at Jaskier’s hair in turn as he kisses him hard. Jaskier can move nothing but his arms, can do little more than moan against Geralt’s chapped lips. He’ll have to fix that later, he thinks, but now-
Now, he takes the hand at Geralt’s back and moves it back down between them. Geralt’s cock is big for an omega, thick and heavy between their bellies. He makes the most gorgeous half-muffled groan when Jaskier takes it in hand. The sound is all the hotter for the way it rolls into Jaskier’s mouth, even before Geralt lifts his hips and grinds down again.
“That’s it,” Jaskier murmurs between kisses. “Take what you need. You’re doing so well, you’re so beautiful. I could write endless sonnets about you, you know.”
Geralt pulls away from the kiss with an expression that can only be described as a pout. “Don’t.”
“Oh, I’m not going to,” Jaskier assures him. “Okay, I am- but only for a private audience. Just you and me, hm? I could sing to you of the beauty of those thighs while you ride me.”
“Or I could make you shut up,” Geralt tells him. He seems to have taken the thigh thing as a hint, because suddenly he’s back to riding Jaskier in earnest. It’s hard enough that Jaskier is now certain he’s going to have bruises on his hips. The idea only serves to make him stroke Geralt’s cock harder. If he’s going to be feeling this tomorrow, he wants it to be a good memory for his- for Geralt, too.
“Is that- nnh.” Jaskier pants, bucking up as Geralt clenches around his knot. “Is that supposed to make me… be quiet? Because I have to say, it’s not working. If anything, there’s- fuck- even more poetry up here now. ‘Oh, who would have thought, that of a witcher there was aught to be-’ mmn!”
It seems Geralt has decided to switch tactics. Jaskier will admit, the thumb sliding into his mouth is a good move. Very effective, especially the way it presses down on his tongue to hold his mouth open. Fuck, but Geralt is strong- he can barely move his face around the tight grip of his hand. All he can do is moan, the sounds ringing out across the clearing with the morning birdsong.
Above him, Geralt is smirking. “There,” he murmurs, not even breaking his stride. “There’s my little lark.”
Jaskier whines around his thumb. The hand he’s got around Geralt’s cock is getting dry. Instead of continuing to stroke at it, he clutches at his omega, trying to pull him down far enough that his cock drags between them . It takes a moment, but Geralt catches on, and Melitele, the moan he lets out in that moment is art in its purest form.
And then he’s coming, clenching around Jaskier over and over, and all thoughts flee from Jaskier’s head. For a moment he can’t even see past the stars in his vision. The thumb in his mouth slips deeper, almost enough to make him gag, but that only makes his cock spurt again to paint his pretty mate’s insides.
But Geralt still isn’t done. His hips are twitching atop Jaskier’s, still moving with the frantic need for satiety. Jaskier's own cock is starting to feel sore, but that’s okay. That’s good. His mate needs him. Jaskier can- Jaskier will provide. He closes his mouth around the finger and sucks on it with a low moan. Go on, love. He can take it.
Geralt makes an oddly high-pitched noise at that, almost a whine. He sits up again, and now that Jaskier isn’t trying to do much of anything, he can let his gaze wander. There are the perfect, chiseled abs, the flat planes of his belly- too chiseled and too flat, he thinks. He should feed his omega up, once they get back to their nest. But for now, the way they move when Geralt rides him is captivating. Every muscle in that well-honed body is working in tandem to drag as much pleasure as they can from Jaskier’s cock.
He's not sure words could do it justice. He's certain that he's going to try.
And then Geralt’s cock- oh. Jaskier wants it in him. His mouth, his ass, he’s not picky. For now it hangs limp between them, bouncing a little when Geralt does. When Geralt moves the hand that isn’t holding Jaskier’s mouth open, he expects him to stroke it, but no. Instead, he splays it over Jaskier’s own stomach to rub his cum in where it’s splattered over his skin and hair.
Jaskier groans and bucks up against him. Yes. Perfect. He’s going to so marked up that strangers will assume he’s the omega of the pair, bred up and in need of saving by his big strong alpha companion. They’d never expect an alpha to be used so willingly, to act as little more than a toy for their mate. Jaskier does so love subverting expectations.
He rocks his hips again, trying to time it with Geralt’s, and is rewarded with a breathless moan. He does it again, and again. Geralt’s weight on his hips has lifted a little, enough for Jaskier to move them- but only just. Not enough to give him any ideas about trying to reverse their positions. But that’s quite alright, he knows his place. He knows where his omega needs him, and why would he want to be anywhere else?
Geralt’s thrusts are starting to become erratic again, his cock twitching between them. Jaskier moans up at him by way of encouragement and thrusts up harder, still roughly in time. His experience of improvising to the sound of couples having sex has finally found a use. Keeping up with the rhythm of a desperate, needy omega who’s otherwise overpowered him is a worthy skill to have. Jaskier drives his hips up, feeling his knot drag against Geralt’s tight walls until his mate comes again.
Geralt’s voice is cracking now, fracturing around the desperate motion of his own hips. He keeps on riding Jaskier right through his orgasm, not letting up for a moment. Even when Jaskier’s own knot starts to let up, he only clenches tighter, whining somewhere high in his throat.
Finally, Jaskier tugs the hand out of his mouth- Geralt is boneless enough that he can just about manage it- and reaches up to tangle his hands in Geralt’s hair. “Come on, love,” he murmurs. “Think you can come on my cock one more time for me?”
It’s definitely not for him. His cock feels almost raw at this point, throbbing and oversensitive from a marathon stretch of frantic sex. Geralt looks down at him, wide-eyed, but nods and clenches hard around him again. Each grinding thrust of his hips nudges Jaskier’s softening cock in deeper, coaxes a moment more of hardness out of it. And once Jaskier uses the mess of slick and cum dripping out between them to lubricate his hand and wrap it around Geralt’s cock again, that’s all it takes. His mate tips over the edge with a full-body shudder and a series of gorgeous, punched-out little “oh”s.
Jaskier could watch him come for the rest of his life, he thinks, and be satisfied with the experience. For now though, he croons his praise- “so good, so perfect, so gorgeous, Geralt”- as he tugs the witcher down against his chest. Geralt is still twitching through the aftershocks, his skin still blazingly hot, but he gentles a little as Jaskier rubs a hand across his back.
“You did so well for me, darling,” Jaskier murmurs. “You took my cock beautifully. Whoever knew you’d be as good a rider in the bedroom as you are of horses, hm?”
Geralt groans low in his throat. Jaskier hums back at him and, on an impulse, presses a kiss to the top of Geralt’s head. His omega goes stiff for a moment, then seems to relax atop him, fingers curling and uncurling at their sides. It's the closest they've ever come to cuddling, and Jaskier is delighted.
They’re not done yet, he knows. Geralt's heat has barely started, and Jaskier will need to find ways to fill him while his cock recovers. At some point they’ll have to find their way back to the inn for some food and a proper rest, too. But here, now, the sun is picking its way across the tops of the trees, filtering down to where they lie together. And there’s no way he couldn’t be warm with Geralt as a living blanket on top of him.
For now, he’s content to nuzzle at his mate’s hair. That, and plan what he’s going to do until he can get it up again. It’s a good thing he’s such a cunning linguist, he muses, nudging a thigh up between Geralt’s to let his omega rut against it.
“Whatever you need,” Jaskier murmurs. “Whatever you want. You have me.”
Geralt groans and presses his face into Jaskier’s neck again. Jaskier smiles. "And I, you?"
A nod, scritching against the bite mark on his neck. Jaskier grins and presses his face into Geralt's hair. Maybe mating runs aren't so bad after all. He's even starting to think they should do this again.