Chapter Text
“You don't have to seduce me to fuck me, you know.” Geralt said, daring the bard to meet his eyes.
“I wasn't-” The furious blush spreading across high cheekbones revealed the lie that the bard couldn't even finish.
“Hm.” Geralt said, raising an eyebrow in challenge.
“Um.” The bard was spooked by his direct approach, looking like a shy horse that contemplated whether to risk being caught or take the food offered, smelling a trap in the air.
Perhaps Geralt had misjudged the stranger.
Geralt didn't act like a whore already paid for for just anyone and he is usually very good at judging people's proclivities from afar. But even though he hesitated, the bard didn't smell scared of the Witcher and that was a clear indication that Geralt's suspicions about him were right.
“What if I like the seduction-part?” The bard put on a brilliant smile as he made his decision, taking a seat on the table right in front of Geralt rather than on the bench across.
If that's what you're into. “Hm.” He grunted and did not stab the man for presuming to sit so close, though instinct made his fingers twitch. But the need for something else was more important to him right than then the instinct to push everyone away.
“Sooo-” The bard said.
Geralt only looked at him in a way that clearly communicated what he thought about the whole seduction-thing.
“Why me? Surely a guy like you can stare the pants off every patron in here.”
Because I could smell your arousal the second you laid eyes on me. You're not scared of me because you imagine you can put me in my place.
Because you are small and I could throw you off if I wanted to. I won't, no matter what you want to do to me, but I like the illusion of control.
Because you're beautiful and I want you to smile like that at me.
“You're here.” He shrugged.
“Ah, so the Butcher of Blaviken does speak!”
Geralt flinched at the title.
“Though your seduction needs a bit of work if that's the best you can do.” The bard thought he was a comedian as well apparently. He was very different to the people Geralt usually picked to scratch this particular itch, but he wasn't scared and Geralt's intuition had never been wrong before.
He raised an eyebrow at the bard. “Do you need to be seduced?”
He couldn't tell if the bard's contemplating look was for real or for show as a joke but in the end it didn't matter because he jumped up as if someone had light a fire under his ass, holding a hand out to Geralt.
“Not by you.” He said and Geralt tried hard not to let the sour taste in the back of his throat distract him. Of course it was a fucking ridiculous notion that anyone would actually want to be seduced by a Witcher.
He stared at the hand that the bard was offering him and then quickly scanned the room to see if any of the other patrons were paying attention. No doubt that was what the bard hoped by the gesture, to claim the Witcher in public and earn his bragging rights later. To have Geralt who was at least twice his size and two hundred times more deadly follow him like a well-trained dog.
Geralt took it. Let the patrons whisper. Humiliation churned in his belly and another man might have blushed. He ducked his head as if his cheeks were going pink and tried to put the mess of emotions rolling around in his stomach aside. It was a terribly ironic thing that he actually enjoyed the humiliation he sought as punishment.
The Bard looked surprised at having the Witcher's hand in his, as if he hadn't actually thought Geralt would obey. His fingers burn warm like an active fire against Geralt's skin, the feel of flesh that wasn't about to try and murder him so foreign and intoxicating.
“Well then.” The bard said, mostly to himself, but he pulled Geralt along with a shrug and an easy smile as if he handled everything life threw his way like that. Easy, charming, with a smile.
Geralt wonders what desires he is really hiding, that he needs to go with a Witcher of all things to get them met. Witchers who are known to be more… durable, than normal people. Who stands outside the realm of law, who are less likely to complain about abuse than a whore.
The bard moves to kiss him as soon as the door is closed and Geralt ducks his head to the side without even thinking about it. He will kiss if the bard insists on it, but it's too close to the real thing for his liking. It makes it to easy for his stupid starving heart to believe that he has found someone who cares, who thinks of him as a human.
The bard doesn't miss a beat despite the rejection though, instead attaching his lips to the Witcher's throat. The kisses burn with desire and Geralt is torn between anger at being treated like some maid who needs to be coaxed into becoming wet and the desperation to prolong the moment of softness for as long as possible. Before the bard can show his true intent.
An unauthorized whimper escapes Geralt as the bard scrapes his teeth against the column of his throat, skin pulled taught from the way he has arched his neck to give the other man as much room as possible to work with. He can practically feel the satisfied smile against his skin at the reaction and his cock tries to jump in its tight confines when the bard nips at his skin.
It's a lot, the press of bodies and the raw pleasure and intimate attention, to have what he aches for. He puts a stop to it before can start fantasizing about asking for more of the tender treatment. That's not why people take Witcher's to bed and he isn't in the mood to get laughed at.
He gets his armor off before the bard can even catch his breath and chucks his undershirt at the same time, leaving himself bare and exposed. It gives most people a false sense of security to have him naked quickly.
“You. Are. An absolute beast of a man.” The bard drink him in hungrily and Geralt could can feel his eyes burn as they rake over his naked skin. He ground his teeth so as not to squirm, he was a Witcher, not some blushing maid.
“See something you like?” Geralt had meant for it to come out teasing, seductive, whatever. It came out pathetic instead, needy, desperate for approval.
The bard didn't seem to mind, quite the opposite. “Makes me want to see more.” He says, licking his lips.
Geralt does not fumble with the laces of his trousers. Pushing them down past his hip-bones but not more, just enough for him to pull his cock out of the V in his trousers. It's embarrassing how hard he is already but he's long since come over the humiliation of that, it goes well to compliment the egos of his partners to look at him and see a slut.
The bard is different from any other person Geralt has gone to bed with. Different, but he has to be the same because he doesn't smell of fear. Normal people are scared of Witchers, wouldn't dream of touching one, and those who aren't scared wants to hurt.
It makes it terribly easy to imagine that the bard is treating him like a lover more than a curiosity and that is dangerous, so dangerous for the treacherously weak part of him that still hasn't abandoned all hope of being accepted.
His cock aches and he allows himself a few strokes that brings his pulse up to almost a normal human's before he let's it stand against his stomach. The bard likes to feel desired, he likes to see the Witcher debase himself, to see the mighty brought low.
It only stands to reason he will like Geralt on his knees.
“Some god spent extra time creating you, huh.” The bard muses. Geralt wants to roll his eyes but some stupid needy part of him thrills at the compliment.
Geralt hit his knees with a heavy thump, the unpolished floorboards biting into his knees, hoping to distract the bard with actions rather than give him time to let his imagination run wild as he watched the scarred canvas of Geralt's body.
He had become quite skilled at finding out what his partners want before they tell him, it makes it easier to keep them. The only way someone will touch a Witcher is if they get something out of it, if they get their money's worth.
He pulls the bard close with a firm grip on his hips and presses his face into the ridiculously colored trousers, mouth already filled with saliva to trail along the bard's length. Eager. Easy. Sloppy. Desperate. He hears the words like an echo from the past and knows what the bard must think but he is past being bothered by such things. The need for some kind of human connection is much stronger than any kind of humiliation.
“Wow, alright. You weren't kidding about not needing any seduction huh. Just, yeah, um-”
He ignores the babble since none of it is the bard asking him to stop. His fingers are big and brutal at most times but he has become quite apt at undoing laces by practice and he gets the bard's cock out in no time.
“I, um. I'm Jaskier, by the way.” Geralt hums in acknowledgement and takes the head of the bard's cock between his lips.
“Ah, hah, ah, oh-” He should probably have expected a man who makes a living from using his voice to be vocal. It's not bad per say, it's just very unusual. Most people would have started taunting him by now, the big bad Witcher, made to be on his knees rather than fight monsters. Or tell him their plans of how to put new scars on his body.
Jaskier only makes these exclamations of pleasure as if he is surprised by it, hips stuttering as he tries to keep himself from thrusting into the warm, wet heat.
“Wow, you are so, ah, oh , beautiful-”
Hit me , he wants to ask.
He doesn't enjoy that but he sure could do with some clarity. The way the bard is staring at him with an intensity that he does recognize and it makes him uncomfortable.
He can't bring himself to ask for violence though so he redoubles his efforts to bring pleasure to the bard, slowly pushing forward until Jaskier's cock has slid way beyond the bounds of what normal men can tolerate for more than a few seconds, until his nose is buried in the curly hair at the base and the gaze of those blue eyes can't reach his.
Jaskier shakes with it, makes some sounds of wonder and protest and awe that makes waves of pleasure swell in Geralt's gut. The bard hesitate to use him though, despite the obvious invitation, despite the tremors Geralt can feel in his muscles as he holds himself back. He doesn't know how to be more clear so he pulls off.
“Do you need a written invitation, bard?” He grunts, his voice already a bit rougher than usual but the bard hasn't known him long enough to know that yet.
Jaskier starts at the question, looking spooked. Fuck. Maybe he isn't quite used to his conquests being so easily conquered. Maybe he prefers them innocent, to coax them into humiliation and debauchery. Well, if he was looking for a virgin he shouldn't have gone with a Witcher.
Jaskier swallows to hard that his throat bobs almost painfully and looks like he is going to bolt and Geralt scramble to think of ways to make him stay.
“Use me.” He begs, making his tone that humble pleading thing that he barely recognize as his own but usually convince people of his enthusiasm, real or faked. In this instance it's pretty sincere. God he wants the bard to give him all of that intense attention, he sounds even better like this than he did performing.
“Please.” He adds.
Jaskier's eyes flit to where Geralt's cock is still exposed. It started leaking fluids at some point when the bard looked at him like he'd never seen anything so precious (ridiculous dangerous notion, ignore it, stomp it down, it was just unbridled lust for a whore he didn't have to pay for, that's it) . That seems to be the thing that convinces him and Geralt commits it to memory. Whatever the bard does to him, he'll act like he likes it, the Witcher knows how to please his partners just as well has he knows how to kill his monsters.
“Alright, yes, shit. Just, tell me if I hurt you, yes?”
Geralt nods. He won't, but again, the bard doesn't know that about him so it's fine. He wants to hurt. That's the whole point of this, he doesn't understand why the bard can't see that. It's the only way he can safely have this.
He doesn't go back deep instantly, instead sucking and kissing and teasing until he sees that the bard's fingers are trembling with the effort not to just grab his head and yank him all the way down on his cock. Only then does he take him fully into his throat again, and while he sinks down slowly he reaches for the Bard's hand to put it on top of his head.
“Fuck, Melitele's tit s, you feel so good.” Jaskier cries, fingers curling against a fistful of white hair and nails scraping just the right side of teasing pain against his scalp. The touch surprises him with a wave of pleasure and he fights the urge to swallow that makes him gag around the cock in his throat. Only stubbornness and several lifetimes of fighting against the urges of his body keep him on Jaskier's cock.
The bard is surprisingly attentive, Geralt would have picked him for self-centered and shallow from the way he enjoyed the crowd’s attention and his constant yapping of meaningless words, artists often were. But he noticed the way Geralt reacted to his touch instantly and only seconds later Geralt is rewarded by nails scraping against his scalp once more. He rarely let people touch his hair, the one real limit he set and actually enforced. But the pleasant shiver that light up the nerves along his spine made him forget why he shouldn't allow such an intimate touch.
It's good, to be touched like a lover rather than an experiment. Like something precious rather than a challenge to be broken. So good. He starts moving on Jaskier's dick so that the bard will assume the reason for the wetness that gather at the corners of his eye.
If needs be a Witcher can go without drawing breath for just about ten minutes. Geralt has practiced more than more than his fellows. Especially these kinds of situations.
Eventually Jaskier's legs won't hold him steady anymore and he reaches with his free hand to prop himself up against the wall behind Geralt's head. It pushes his hips forward and Geralt rewards the motion with a satisfied hum around the length in his throat. It seems to make the bard finally snap and lose that control he's been gripping so tightly, so unnecessarily.
“ Fuuuck.” He swears, almost musically. And then he starts moving his hips with purpose, finally fucking into Geralt's throat to make him feel it, make him actually struggle. Gives him an opportunity to show that he deserves what he asks for so greedily.
Jaskier's cock isn't much compared to a Witcher's but he is long and definitely not something than humans would laugh about and while Geralt usually doesn't enjoy this part so much as he endures it from his partners there is something about the bard that makes his cock stay achingly hard during the whole thing.
The hand in his hair is firm and every so often a tug or a scrape of nails make his rhythm stutter and just when he has almost forgotten why he shouldn't let himself enjoy it.
“Yes, gods, you take me so well-” The bard sings over him.
“So good, fuck , how , oh wow-”
“ Wait, shit-”
At that he pulls back just a little, eyes finally daring to meet the bard's again. The bard groans deeply and Geralt can feel the vibrations of it in all of his body as Jaskier struggles right on the precipice of pleasure and control.
For a moment Geralt is tempted take the choice away from the bard, to make him spill down his throat in that very instant and leave with this experience as a treasured memory. The time when someone didn't take him to bed to carve their mark into his skin or use him to avenge old wrongs.
But he knows that if he allows himself that small thing he'll never forget it and he'll be desperate for kindness the way he is now desperate for roughness. A rough treatment he can have, and handle. Chasing a kind one he could never have again? That would kill him more surely than the monsters from Vesemir’s old tales to scare children into wanting to become witchers.
Jaskier's fingers clench and unclench around his hair as he manages to stave off his orgasm, and his laugh is rough and unrecognizable as he chuckles to himself.
“Ah, is, is this all you want to do?” The bard asked, his voice still shaking with pleasure as Geralt swallowed around the hard shaft in his throat.
He pulled off the bard's cock, deliberately not swallowing any of the mix of saliva and precome in his mouth so that a trail of it connected his lips to the bard's cock for a few moments.
“Gods.” The bard swore, swiping at the trail so that the mess stuck to his fingers. Then he took those fingers and rubbed them over Geralt's chin, his cheeks, his lips, making him all sticky.
Geralt raised his head to look up at the bard. He rarely did, he was fine keeping his head down and most of his partners liked the rush of power that that gave them. But the bard seemed like he might enjoy it if Geralt pretend at some humanity.
Jaskier gestures for him to rise so he does.
“That was um, intense, are you alright?” He brings his fingers up to stroke the side of Geralt's throat. He hums in response, he is fine, doesn't really understand what the bard is asking.
“I've gathered that you are a man of few words but I'm really going to need some verbal affirmation please.” The bard says softly, long eyelashes stroking his skin as he blinks slowly. Like he cares about his ill-chosen partner.
“I'm fine.” Geralt answers, aiming for firm but it comes out strangled and not because of the rough treatment of his throat. “I'm a Witcher.” He adds, because it doesn't quite seem like the bard realizes that, even though he obviously knows.
“Are Witchers immune to pain?”
“Hm.” He says. Jaskier pulls away and he aches to chase his touch. “Witcher's don't feel as humans do.” He grunts, hoping that words will bring the bard's warm body back to his, he feels cold to the point of shaking without it. It's true - because humans don't feel this way, they aren't this desperate in their need. They feel pride.
“Bullshit.” The bard says and it makes something twist horribly inside of him. People don't care about Witchers. He isn't in the mood for anything complicated tonight, he doesn't want mindgames or having to figure out what the bard actually wants if he doesn't want to use someone who can't break. He can't handle being treated like this, its been too long since he let himself have the luxury of skin against skin.
“I fight monsters who can swallow a horse whole. Monsters with the strength of ten men.” He growls, and yes his voice is raw but he relishes in the feel of it. It's proof that his body brought someone pleasure rather than death for once.
“Do you want to fight me?” The bard asks, raising an eyebrow.
It takes him completely by surprise. Finally he manage an emphatic “No.”
“Then you can put your swords down.” The bard whispers, coming back to crowd him against the wall again. His body is so slight that Geralt could probably break him in two with little effort but suddenly he almost wishes to hold said swords in his hands.
The full weight of the bard's attention is too much, he sees to much and Geralt wants to to what he asks. He wants to put down his swords, tear down his walls and trust. But that is too dangerous. The last time he let someone treat him like a man, like an equal, he earned the nickname Butcher to protect that connection.
He needs to put distance between himself and feeling like that. He can have the touch he craves only with the sharp bite of pain lest he forget that he is a monster again. And he needs to convince the bard to treat him the way he deserves to be treated.
“I mean-” he struggles for a bit, he's not good with words on a normal day and he rarely has to ask for this . Most people just assume and take. “You can be as rough as you like.” Geralt grunts.
“You look like you've had enough rough treatment for a while.” The bard says softly, his fingers hovering just over a particularly raised scar below his collarbone. It's new, and from a monster, and it will fade.
Geralt makes a sound that is supposed to mean that he disagrees with that. He pushes his body into the bard's hovering hand, takes the touch that he craves because he is selfish. If he wasn't, he wouldn't burden anyone with his presence.
The bard doesn't pull back and his palm feels like a brand, burning hot against his marred skin. “Shit.” The bard swears, dragging his palm down his chest, pinky brushing against his nipple and at the slight touch the Witcher is helpless to do anything but buck into it, his whole body arching with want.
Jaskier notice that reaction too of course, letting his hand travel back up his torso slowly, intent on torturing apparently. His knuckles brush the nipple with intent this time and Geralt inhales sharply despite knowing that the touch is coming.
“Please.” He begs, as the bard's knuckles attach themselves to the painfully hard nub and pull, just a little bit but it's enough to bring the mighty warrior down low. “Please, please.”
“Please what, dear Witcher?” The bard asks cruelly, though his voice is soft.
“Take me.” He pants.
“Hurt me.” He chokes on the words when the bard squeeze his knuckles together around his nipple.
“Make me-” He hardly knows what he asks for with that, he is just desperate convince the bard that he is worth the trouble, that he will be so good, that he wants.
“Do you want me to be rough with you?” The bard asks.
No. Yes. What does it matter what he wants? “Hgn.”
“Verbal answers please.”
“Yes.” He grits out between his teeth.
“That's all I needed to hear, sweet thing.” Who the hell is this bard that he will call a Witcher sweet thing?
“Is there anything in particular you don't like?” Geralt wants to scream at the incessant barrage of stupid questions and curses himself for staying in the tavern long enough to hear the end of the bard's set.
“You can do anything you'd like.” He says.
“Yes, I heard you the first time. But that wasn't what I asked now was it.”
Expect a bard to run his mouth like this.
“Just-” He starts, stops himself.
“Yes?” One could drown in those blue eyes.
“Let me come.” He manages in a barely whisper that human ears should be able to detect. But it's also soft enough the bard could ask him to repeat himself if he doesn't like the request, and then Geralt will ask for something else. Something that isn't so repulsive for normal people.
Jaskier looks so fucking pleased by his request that Geralt's heart does a stupid little stutter. He would truly let the bard to anything, just to have him keep that look on him for the rest of the night.
“I am not particularly inclined to hurt my partners.” The bard says, teeth scraping across Geralt's collarbones in a way that makes it hard for him to focus on words right then. “But I once had the pleasure of meeting a certain concubine who said that the reason for why she was the King’s favorite was because she brought him pleasure again and again, until that in itself became torture.”
With one last pull on Geralt's nipple he lets his hand continue its original journey south, curling his fingers around the swollen aching flesh of Geralt's cock.
“How does that sound?”
Geralt forgets that he is supposed to answer until Jaskier gives a little squeeze around his shaft. He nods frantically. It sounds like a wonderfully horrible idea. Kind of like flinging himself off a cliff to land on the back of a Griffin that one time. It's not at all what he is used to and it sounds dangerously close to the edge of something he shouldn't allow himself but fuck. He'll take whatever horrible plans the bard has for him if can find some pleasure along the way.
“Come then, whenever you are ready. You feel close enough.” The bard uses the fluid that's been dribbling from the head of his cock to slick the way and wraps his hand around the length. He can't fit his fingers all around the girth but Geralt hardly needs more than a strong wind to get him off at that point.
He shudders as he spends all over the bard's fingers, thick jets landing all across the muscles of his abdomen. He half expects the bard to jerk away in disgust like so many others have, like sane people would. But the bard only moans in appreciation and keeps at it.
“Too much?” He asks after a while and Geralt shakes his head with fervor.
“How many times can you come in one night?”
There are plenty of jokes concerning Witcher stamina out there and obviously the bard has heard them. He notices the clear distinction though when Jaskier asks you instead of a Witcher. Is the bard even aware of how that it makes his heart beat like he is in a fight?
“I'm, not sure.” He says honestly.
It has never really been a subject of anyone's curiosity before. Once his partners are long sated that stamina quickly turns into something inconvenient, something alien, something monstrous.
“Want to find out?” The bard teases, his eyes shining brilliantly with the challenge.
A groan that is more animal than man rips from Geralt's throat and the bard's smile is more brilliant than the sun. His hand is still on Geralt's cock and while his grip has lessened somewhat he is still stroking with intent. Slick sounds mingle with their pants and for a moment Geralt is lost in it until Jaskier brings his free hand back to find the nipple that hadn't yet received any attention.
“Gods, I want to ruin you.” The bard whispers, his face suddenly close enough to Geralt's that their noses will brush with just a fraction of movement.
Please don't. I'm ruined enough as it is.
“Please.” He said hoarsely.
The bard laughs breathily. “I'm not usually like this.” He says, pulling on the nipple between his fingers until Geralt squirms between his hands. “You just, make me crazy.”
Ah, that explains it. The bard is hesitant to hurt him, to take what he really wants, because he hasn't had an opportunity to explore those kinds of desires. He's used to fragile maidens, beautiful breakable lads, soft hands and lovely words. He chose Geralt because he wants something different but he doesn't know how to ask because he was raised right.
It's cruel, the reminder that no matter how sweet people seem they always look at a Witcher the same way, deep down. But Geralt will give the bard anything, he knows how to fuel even the most pitiful embers into a warming fire in the dead of winter. He'll give the bard an opportunity to truly craves in return for these precious, soft touches.
“Fuck me.” He growls. He knows it's a gamble and that he might scare the bard away if he is too assertive but suddenly he feels like that might be a good thing. He is becoming dangerous, with his pretty words and easy smile and charming confidence. Much more dangerous than anything with claws that could tear him to shreds.
The bard shudders in response, the fingers toying with his nipple tightening considerably more than anything before it and the hand around his cock faltering in its rhythm.
He wants to make a quipp about making the bard speechless but he isn't here trying to make friends. People don't want to make friends with Witchers. He learned that the hard way.
“You want me to fuck you?” The bard all but stammers, though the smell of arousal intensifies in the room until it's almost intoxicating, heavy and sickly sweet.
“I want you to fuck me hard, until I forget my own name. Or until we get thrown out of this Inn, whichever comes first.” It's a lot of words for him at once and he isn't used to being with someone who needs convincing to use him for their desires. He just hopes that they are the right ones.
Jaskier pulled back, looking like he was about to have a heart attack or a spontaneous orgasm or both at the same time. “How very. Um. Direct.” He managed to choke out.
“Any of that sound good?” Geralt grunts.
“Fuck yes.”
“How do you want me?” He asks, because the bard looks disinclined to change anything about their current positions.
There is a frantic struggle in which the bard can't decide if ridding himself of his clothing or pulling Geralt towards the bed is his top priority. His fingers are slick with the Witcher's come and that doesn't really aid in undoing dozens of little silky buttons. A mad wish to rip the bards clothes off strikes him with a foreign intensity but he clenches his fingers into fists so as to not act on it, his hands are far to rough to touch something as precious and fragile as Jaskier.
The bed is terribly appealing but equally dangerous, too intimate, too much of a reminder that while people might not object to fucking a Witcher they certainly don't want them in their beds. And he doesn't feel like getting kicked out of it when the bard is done with him, or worse maybe Jaskier with his gentle touches and notions about seduction won't have the heart to tell him to leave and will suffer his presence in a misguided attempt to be nice to the abomination.
So while Jaskier is occupied with not tangling himself in his small-clothes Geralt bends over the small writing table in anticipation.
Jaskier pauses at that and the Witcher can practically hear his surprise, but it's not like the bard can physically move him even if he tried.
“Come on.” He barks, harsher than he was planning to but he can feel the bard stare at him and it makes him feel all kinds of feelings.
“Eager, huh?” The bard sounds like he's testing out how the words sound on his tongue as he comes to stand behind the witcher, draping his now naked body over him. It sends pleasant shivers all the way up and down his back and he nods with far more enthusiasm than what he can usually muster at such a prompt. The bard doesn't mean it to humiliate, there is marvel of all things in the sound of his voice, like he can't believe his luck.
He lets his hands glide over the muscles of Geralt's back, his touch trailing blazing hot fire in it's wake and the Witcher can't help but to push into the touch that isn't trying to kill him or scorn him. It's entirely too soon and too long when the bard finally hooks his fingers in Geralt's leather pants and pulls them down to expose him fully.
“You know, the first thing I thought about when I saw you downstairs was that I wanted to get to my knees for you.” The bard confesses against the skin of his back, lips trailing kisses down and down until they are at the top of his ass.
The bard's words doesn't really make any sense until the kisses continue south and he feels the shift of weight as Jaskier settles on his knees behind him. His fingers are delicate and strong at the same time as he pulls Geralt's cheeks apart, exposing him.
“Gorgeous.” The bard whispers into the flesh of his ass as he just holds him like that, open until he has looked his fill. It does terrible and wonderful things for Geralt's insides.
“I can't believe you'll let me fuck you-”
Geralt growls impatiently, he can't fucking handle any more sweet words that aren't meant for the likes of him.
“Yeah yeah, get on with it huh? I get the point, you are an impatient man.”
His grunt of protest that he isn't a man nor made out of glass is turned into a horrifyingly needy moan as the bard licks a wet stripe right between his cheeks, right over his hole and then starts to push in.
Given the contextual clues Geralt should probably have seen that coming but he can't fucking imagine why anyone would want to do something like that to him. He knows the mechanics of rimming of course, he's done it himself quite a few times to people who get off on it as being the absolute act of utter humiliation for someone as big and strong and dangerous as a Witcher.
But to be on the receiving end? He would wonder what the hell is wrong with the bard if it wasn't for how thought became absolutely impossible as that clever tongue was made into a weapon, thrusting in and out with purpose and surprising strength for such a small muscle.
He brings his hand down to his neglected cock and feels the beat of blood against his palm, clamps his fingers down hard against the base because if he doesn't he'll fucking come again and that it just embarrassing and too soon and too much and freakish and he desperately doesn't want the bard to think of him like that.
It only barely works and he grunts through gritted teeth as he works to stave off the orgasm.
“Let me hear you, gorgeous.” The bard says, dipping his tongue right back in in the same breath, and Geralt slams his fist into the table hard enough to make it shake but thankfully it holds under the force of it. He usually don't let his partners have that piece of him, they want the fantasy of the strong Witcher who doesn't feel anything anyway and it's dangerous give let them know how much they affect him.
But he told the bard anything, and he meant it. A Witcher is only as good as their word after all.
His moan is a ragged thing as he lets it out this time, testing the water just to see if the bard will actually like hearing him or if he was just saying things that his previous pretty and delicate partners would like to hear.
“That's it. You sound so beautiful. So good for me, letting me hear you.” The bard lets up only long enough to praise him and then he pushes right back into Geralt's hole like he belongs there.
Then the bard slips his thumb in beside his tongue and Geralt comes . Nothing should be able to surprise a Witcher, but the orgasm comes like a punch to the gut out of nowhere and make his knees shake and his hands tremble, reinforcing just how dangerous the bard is proving to be.
“Good?” The bard says just as the blood stops roaring in his ears. The finger is still in him and Geralt clenches around it without thinking. Two orgasms have made him sensitive but he wants more. He wants every bit of the torture that the bard teased, he wants to to be too much because maybe that can sate his need for this for longer than usual.
“Can you take more, or is it too much?” The bard prompts when he doesn't get a reply immediately and Geralt's tongue is thick in his mouth and he doesn't quite know if he even remembers words, but then the bard starts pulling out and he'd rather fight a Drowner wearing steel armor than have him leave.
“More.” He gasps, way beyond caring that he sounds desperate for it now. He doesn't even finish the word before the bard pulls out and on the next push the first finger is joined by the second. The man had looked so small and fragile in the tavern, surrounded by angry villagers and compared to Geralt's own bulk. But his fingers feel impossibly long inside of him, like they can claw his secrets right out from his chest and strong enough to take everything .
It feels like time has stopped mattering before he feels a third finger teasing at the outside of his hole, pressing slightly and testing the give of his muscle.
“Fuck me.” He rasps before it can push in because he needs it to sting. He needs the pain like a man dying of thirst needs water, he needs it to ground himself back in the harsh reality of being a Witcher, needs it as a shield from the way the bard is making him forget himself.
The bard hesitates.
“Now, I'm not one to brag, but I know that you know that my cock is considerably bigger than two fingers-”
I'll heal , he'd usually say and that would be enough for most people but he thinks that might scare the bard off or have him get all philosophical again.
“I like it.” He lies instead. He can smell how desperate Jaskier is to get inside of him and he doesn't want to keep the bard waiting a minute longer for his pleasure, lest he decide that the Witcher is too much work.
He flinches in surprise as thick liquid lands on the top of his cheeks and curses himself for his carelessness. It wouldn't be the first time he ended up in a dangerous situation because lost himself in the wonderful feeling of another person's touch. His stupid, lonely brain forgets that men too can be monsters whenever he is given an ounce of attention and a soft touch. It's just oil this time but it has been so many worse things.
Jaskier must have warmed it up at some point because it's room temperature as he spreads a frankly ridiculous amount of it over his hole, letting it drip between his cheeks until Geralt feels as wet and desperate as he probably looks.
“Spread your legs for me.” The bard asks and Geralt's stomach roils with delight and horror and humiliation and pleasure all at the same time and he hurries to obey. He still has his pants on and he shivers at the way he must look as the leather traps him around his knees.
The feel of the bard's cock as it nudges right up against his hole makes him forget how to breathe for a second.
“Are you sure you don't need more-”
Geralt’s growl is something feral. It shuts the bard up and then he starts pushing in. It's torture how slow he goes because of course he won't just shove in like Geralt needs him to.
With all of the oil it's still an easy slide though and the bard moans raggedly in relief as he finally gets his cock into that warm, waiting hole. It hardly even stings, nowhere near what Geralt is used to but fuck if it doesn't feel just as good anyway. The bard keeps pushing, feet shuffling to get leverage, until their bodies are flush.
The Witcher can't stop the way his body starts trembling as hands come up to stroke his sweat-slicked sides. They don't stop to inquire about his scars with morbid curiosity or grope at him greedily, they only trail that liquid fire that he is so desperate from all over his body, touching him just to touch, to bring comfort. He grits his teeth to stop the needy noises that try to escape, bows his head and clenches around the cock inside of him to urge the bard to fucking move.
“Ah, don't, shit, I need a moment-” the bard laughs against his back at the feel of powerful muscles squeezing him. “You gotta give me a moment beautiful or this will be over very quickly.” He says and a stupid pathetic part of him gets all giddy with the satisfaction that his body can bring pleasure to someone rather than death and destruction.
“Yeah alright, fuck.” Of course the bard is still talking.
Geralt considers flipping their positions around and just take what he needs for a moment, it would be easy for him to push the bard onto the bed and ride the man until he could feel his cock in his throat and just fuck the way he fights. But that would involve looking at Jaskier, and the bard already sees too much as it is, already looks at him with those intense eyes as if he sees a man worth treating right behind the horrid white hair and unnatural yellow eyes.
Then the bard finally starts to move, hips rolling like he is trying to get impossibly further into him and Geralt grips the table until splinters catch in his fingers. He is big.
“You feel so good, sweetheart.” The bard moans and Geralt doesn't shake him off for how absolutely silly it is to call him of all people something like that. Dangerous , a deep part of his mind tries to remind him but he ignores it and shoves back to meet Jaskier's next little thrust with his own hips. That seems to finally remind the bard that fucking was promised, not just penetration.
Jaskier pulls out until only the head remains before pushing back in, it's still a slow thrust but it makes Geralt feel every bit of it. He does it a few more times, changing the angle a bit on every time until-
The table creeks in protest and a normal man might have cracked a tooth from how hard the Witcher grits his teeth as the bard's cock drags over that spot.
The bard chuckles at the shiver that can't be hidden like his desperate noises. He leans in, one hand reaching for Geralt's face. He has to stretch to his very limit to reach but that also pushes his cock as far into Geralt as it can possibly go and it's wonderful to feel so full, to be connected to another person all over.
It is very thoughtful of him to not use the hand that had just been inside of Geralt as he slips his tongue into the Witcher's mouth because of course the bard is a considerate lover with all of his words and need for reassurance.
But he is cruel too, in the most delicious kind of way.
“I want to hear you.” He says, putting pressure with his thumb until Geralt relents and opens wide. “Good.” The bard practically purrs, slipping his thumb in further like he isn't asking to have it bitten clean off. Like Geralt is just another lover and not some feral beast with the ability to kill him in two seconds or less.
“Now, I'll give you what you need but I want to hear all those beautiful noises.” He repeats, probably because he likes the sound of his voice so much that he can't stop talking. It just so happens to be a fortunate coincidence that Geralt likes the sound of his voice a lot too, so that just works out.
It's impossible to keep his moans in when Jaskier starts thrusting and they mingle with the slick sounds of fucking that the oil produces. The humiliation of liking it so much makes his cock throb and he wants to reach for it but he is pretty sure the table will fall apart over him if he distributes his weight unevenly. And Jaskier promised that he would take care of that for him. He doesn't trust people, will never again let himself, but he wants to and just for tonight he can let himself pretend at it.
He needs more, and on cue as if the bard can read his mind the other man speaks, his voice sultry and silky with the promise.
“If I remove this” The bad of his thumb strokes Geralt's tongue again and it makes him fucking stupid with the mixture of pleasure-humiliation that runs through him at the touch. “So I can touch you cock, will you be good and keep your mouth open for me?”
Geralt nods, panting like a dog in anticipation. He feels like a fever has gripped him, his skin burning all over where Jaskier is touching him or has touched him and on the inside too.
The bard fucks with an impressive strength for his slight frame and musical voice, better than any enhanced mage or brutish blacksmith, pulling his cock out completely on some thrusts without rhythm so Geralt breaths these ah-sounds like they've been punched out of him each time.
He drools a bit, doesn't want to close his mouth even to swallow because the bard told him to keep it open and when clever fingers wrap around what they can reach of his girth he moans loud enough that they actually might be kicked out off the room before either of them finish.
“Beautiful.” The bard keeps showering him with praises meant for someone who actually is any of those things but Geralt will take the head of anyone who tries to break them up right now, too far gone to forget why he shouldn't let himself believe the words for just a little while.
“Harder.” Geralt grunts, begs, whatever.
“I'll need both hands for that sweetheart.” The bard muses and Geralt doesn't know how he is able to still string together a coherent sentence, he sure isn't.
“Can you come on my cock?” Humiliation roils in his stomach because he most definitely can, especially if the bard wants him to. His need for approval is pathetic he knows.
“Yes.” He says, because the bard wants to hear him.
It doesn't take long at all once Jaskier grabs him by the hips and starts thrusting the way one only do to someone who is being paid to take it or someone who is ruined enough to need it. It is wonderfully perfect, especially when he feels the bard's cock pulse inside of him as his insides clench together through his orgasm. Surprisingly he is the loud one through his orgasm, moaning hoarsely while the bard shakes silently behind him, buried to the hilt.
“Wow.” The bard breathes. It's been long enough that the man's heartbeat has slowed but not long enough for Geralt's mind to feel sharp with the instincts of a fighter again. It's entirely too soon as he starts to shift to pull his cock out and this time Geralt does grit his teeth together, lest he start begging for Jaskier to stay inside of him, to do it all again and again and never stop.
But he can't help the moan that escapes him as the bard's cock drags across his prostate on the way out, minutes of conditioning to let the other man hear him overriding decades of Witcher training to do the exact opposite.
“Can I-” The bard starts.
“Yes.” He says hoarsely. Because the bard deserves anything he wants, if this is what it took for him to gather up the courage to ask for what he actually hoped for when he approached Geralt.
The last thing he expects is to feel two of the bard's fingers entering him in the same breath as the cock slips out of him. He grunts in surprise but not displeasure. Any human would be way too sensitive for such a treatment but a Witcher is used to everything being too much, sounds, smells, sensations - it's how they survive in the face of monsters. And his cock hasn't gone soft at all, if the bard wants to keep playing Geralt sure as shit won't question why he'd still want to touch a Witcher after finding his own pleasure.
Geralt's muscles strain to hold his weight and the attentive bard notice of course - the hand that isn't otherwise occupied coming up to stroke and squeeze at his bulging bicep. He pushes into the touch without meaning too.
“Relax.” The bard whispers, nudging Geralt's elbow with a suggestion but not pushing to demand. Geralt goes as if Jaskier is the one who is ten times stronger and he just used all of that strength at once. The table is small and definitely not made to fit a grown man’s upper body and he feels awkward laying on it but moving pushes Jaskier's other hand deeper into him and he soon forgets everything that isn't those two fingers.
He buries his face in his arms folded in front of him and does what the bard tells him - relaxes. For a while Jaskier is content to just feel his insides, fingers playing with the mixture of come and oil and wringing noises of protest from Geralt as he threatens to pull them out completely. He's never been handled quite like this before by anyone and it's… he'll regret letting his guard down tomorrow, can't bring himself to do anything now but shake from the way the bard is almost giving him what he needs.
“ Jaskier .” He breaths, his untouched cock aching again but the fingers in his ass aren't doing enough and his thighs tremble and every time he tries to chase the bard's fingers the man adjusts his angle to prolong the torture.
“Yes dear?” The bastard sounds smug and Geralt's stomach does something funny. The bard says he is new to this kind of intimacy but he sure has a gift for torture. He makes a keening sound and starts shifting his body to get an arm free to reach his own damn cock if the bard won't do anything with it.
A hand on his shoulder stops him and he falls back on the table with a groan. Some of the bard's come has slipped out of his hole and is cooling on the insides of his thighs and it makes him feel utterly marked and claimed and desperate and that makes him realize it.
“You want me to beg?” It's a genuine question but something in his delivery must confuse the bard because he chuckles, the sound vibrating along Geralt's back.
He is surprised that it took him so long to realize that the bard was one of them . One of those who wanted him to enjoy his debasement and humiliation. There were signs of course but he must have been to wrapped up in his pleasure to notice them. The way Jaskier asked for permission, relished in wringing humiliating sounds from him.
“You don't have to. But I sure would like to hear it.” The bard says, like he'll continue even if he doesn't get his way. Geralt doesn't believe that for a second of course, because people don't go to bed with a Witcher if they don't get something out of it.
Geralt has been begging he thinks, but not enough apparently. And even by the bard's own admission he is new to craving things beyond a simple roll between the sheets. But Geralt shivers at the thought of how his appetite must grow with someone like him at the bard's mercy.
“Please, don't stop.” He sounds breathless because he is, the fingers inside of him hasn't stopped moving at all, still rubbing his insides in a maddening way.
“I'm nowhere near finished with you.” The bard promises, placing a few much too tender kisses along his spine.
“Please touch me.” He tries instead.
“Mmm, I am touching you though.” A warm palm stroking his side, coming around to tease the ridges of his abdomen and making his nipples stiffen desperately against the hard surface of the table, wishing for touch too.
“Touch my cock, please, fuck, Jaskier-” The words have absolutely no bite to them. He'll beg on his fucking knees, in any way the bard wants him.
“Please, please-” He loses himself to it, doesn't know which parts of him that trembles and which aren't and then finally Jaskier touches him. It's just a graze of fingers along his length but he is so hard and neglected that it makes him sob.
“Please let me come.” He begs, fully aware of how dangerous such desperation is because there is a very real possibility that Jaskier likes him like this and will decide to not let him - it's happened quite a few times before. People love to see the mighty brought low, the powerful brought to tears.
But Jaskier's fingers close around the head of his cock and he starts moving his fingers with intent, mirroring the act of shoving a cock into him and proving that he has considerable muscles in his arms even though they aren't as defined as Geralt's own.
He comes within a few breaths, once again spilling all over the bard's fingers and his body shaking like it's about to come apart at the seams.
“Do you ever shut up?” He grunts, trying to distract from the feelings that roil around in his stomach as the bard keeps calling him things that are absolutely ridiculous to call a grown man, even more so for a Witcher. Not that he succeeds in trying to regain some measure of respect, all things considering.
“I’m impressed by the fact that you can still speak.” The bard grins, doesn’t even look surprised when Geralt shoves himself out from in between him and the table with a look of mild annoyance on his face. “I must not have been as thorough as I should have been.” He just wiggles his eyebrows as if either would be alright, like Geralt is welcome to go or stay and he won’t be upset either way.
Geralt needs to leave. The offer to stay is so very tempting but the bard is becoming too dangerous. If he hears enough of those pretty lies he might become addicted to them. “No.” He mutters, ignoring the way his body is still vibrating with pleasure from his last orgasm and the feeling of come and oil leaking from his hole as he shoves his pants back up to lace them before the bard can notice that he hasn’t really softened all that much.
“What are you doing?”
He doesn't bother answering because obviously he is looking for one of the shoulder-pads for his armor that isn't in the heap of things next to the door where he took it off.
“Damn that is a view. Are you sure you are not some kind of succubus?” The bard lounges unhelpfully on the bed, running one hand through his hair and making absolutely no attempt to cover himself up with a sheet. He looks beautiful and oh so tempting. The smell of arousal still drips from him like sweat and Geralt considers climbing onto the bed to see if he can make the man hard again and go another round.
“Incubus.” He growls instead because while Jaskier seemed curious to test his stamina Geralt isn’t in the mood to be called freaky, or to be made to feel like a burden. That’s how it always ends and one of the pros about long life is that you have time to learn from your mistakes.
“What?” The bard sounds distracted.
“Succubus are female sex-demons. The male ones are called Incubus. If you're going to insult me do it right.”
“I wasn't trying to insult you.” He says, voice pitched.
Geralt grunts in reply. The shoulder pad is nowhere to be found in the gloom even with his enhanced eye-sight but it isn't under the bed.
“I should come with you when you leave tomorrow.” The bard says, like it’s easy.
“You definitely won't.” Geralt decides.
“I bet there are tons of songs just begging to be written about the adventures of a Witcher.” The bard insists.
“The Path is not something you sing about.” He tries to find the shoulder pad in the heap of the rest of his clothes.
“Oooh the Path, is that what you guys call your mission? What rhymes with path? I bet I can think of something once you haven't fucked my brains out.”
“You won't come with me.”
“If you don't let me come with you I'll have to write my next song about this adventure instead.” The bard says in a light tone and then he starts humming.
“ Come, come, come, Witcher, come… Ah yes, there is definitely something there.”
Geralt doesn’t know how to give a more murderous stare but the bard just blinks his eyelashes innocently at him.
“Geralt, don't be like that. Don't you have a sense of adventure?”
“Don't you have a sense?” He growls because the bard must be mad.
“Oh he thinks he is funny!” The bard proclaims to the empty room as if they have an audience.
Maybe it’s the bard who has the powers of a sex-demon because somehow Geralt ends up with his ass in the air and fingers fisted into the sheets of the bed not a quarter of an hour later, all sense leaving him as the bard reached for him.
And when he wakes up the bard is dressed and packed and ready for the road. Or as ready as someone with manicured nails and silk clothes could be for the road.
His shoulder-pad sits neatly on the pile of his clothes as if it had been there the whole night.
Jaskier was pretty and charming enough that he shouldn't have to follow a Witcher of all things into the wilderness to get a good fuck. Geralt was so confused his head hurt and it was easier to allow it than to question it.
But he had a contract and he would see it through, whether the bard followed or not.