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Maybe Jaskier didn't think this through all the way.
It all still made perfect sense while he was making the trek into the forest to the ritual site of the old god. From what the locals said and the stories Jaskier researched, the fertility god was used to making pacts with mortals, though everyone really was very vague on exactly what sort of offering the god was known to accept in return for his blessing.
Still, unperturbed, Jaskier has made the twilit pilgrimage to the trio of standing stones in the forest clearing beside a deep cave said to house the embodiment of the fertility god, Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf. Unlike those that came before him, Jaskier has a different ask to make of Geralt, and he fervently hopes his request won’t insult the deity.
Jaskier follows every step carefully: he’s visited at the height of the full moon, freshly bathed and in his best clothes, he’s lit a red candle atop each of the three standing stones, and he goes to his knees in the center of the monoliths, letting his voice ring out clearly but reverently as he speaks the words of the rite exactly as they were told to him:
“Geralt, White Wolf,
come to me,
for your blessing
I do seek.
Humbly I kneel
to ask your boon,
and offer myself
beneath the full moon.”
No sooner has Jaskier spoken the spell, than an eerie wind gusts out from the cave, the noise almost like a drawn-out sigh, and it simultaneously thrills and terrifies the bard. He keeps his head down, his pack beside him stuffed with any manner of usual offerings one might give to an old god. Hopefully, the deity gives him the chance to make the offering once he knows whatever it is that Geralt wants, and he doesn’t just smite Jaskier right away, or something.
A quiet sound interrupts Jaskier’s spiraling, and he looks up to see an absolutely massive wolf standing at the entrance of the cave, easily three times the size of a normal one.
A white wolf.
Jaskier stops breathing, unable to quell his terror as the creature walks towards him slowly, an uncanny intelligence in the unnervingly slit-pupiled and catlike eyes of the wolf. Before Jaskier can truly panic, though, the wolf changes before his very eyes.
Between one step and the next, the white wolf has transformed into a man. The man has long waves of silvery-white hair cascading loose around his broad shoulders, and at least from Jaskier’s vantage point from the ground, he looks to be nearly seven feet tall.
He wears nothing save for a crude loincloth made of cloth blacker than the night itself, as if he’s garbed himself in shadows. Those same bright yellow eyes peering out from the handsome face are Jaskier’s clue that this is the White Wolf, the very one he just saw; this is Geralt.
Geralt says nothing as the bard and god regard one another, and Jaskier can’t help but think how beautiful the deity is.
Besides the certainly intimidating stature of him, Geralt is also simply the perfect specimen of masculinity; harsh angles and sculpted muscles all over that look too defined to be real. A tantalizing sprinkling of dark hair dusts his chest and the midline of his abdomen down towards his groin, and in the moonlight, Jaskier also sees a strange texture across all of the deity’s exposed skin, almost as if pale scars have been carved into his flesh in intricate patterns that aren’t meant to be understood by man.
“Why are you here?”
Jaskier startles noticeably at the deep and sensual voice rumbling from Geralt, and it takes him a scatterbrained moment to remember himself.
“Ah, ahem, right. I have come to ask your favor—”
“You don’t need it. You’re already virile,” Geralt interrupts, crossing his bulging arms over his massive chest.
He doesn’t sound annoyed or enraged, just confused, his head tilted in a similar way to an inquisitive dog. Or perhaps more accurately, a wolf.
“Yes, well, I’d like not to be,” Jaskier explains, still craning his head back to look up at Geralt.
“…you want me to take away your fertility?” Geralt questions incredulously, sinking down to one knee before him in a movement so graceful, that it temporarily renders Jaskier speechless before he can focus and nod quickly.
“Ahem, yes. Please. If you can. I have absolutely no wish to sire children. I’m a bard by trade, and I travel the Continent by my own two feet. I don’t linger in any one place, and I’m certainly no father figure. I've been known to take a great many lovers, and I don’t desire to leave any bastards behind, as it were,” Jaskier explains, shifting uncomfortably where he kneels, as he’s been doing so for a while now, and the hard-packed earth doesn’t feel great on his knees.
“You already have three children, Julian Pankratz,” Geralt says.
He speaks easy as anything, as if he were commenting on something mundane like the weather. Not Jaskier’s apparently well-established bloodline!
Jaskier blanches and sits back, his ass hitting the dirt with a thump. “…I…I didn’t want to know that, I think. And please, call me Jaskier. I don’t…fuck, I don’t suppose you could tell me where or…who…?” Jaskier splutters, guilt and shame curling in his gut at this newfound knowledge.
“Five-year old twins: a boy and a girl, by a woman named Maida in Caingorn. She thinks they were sired by her husband that she never told you about, and he is none the wiser, as well. The third is another boy. He was born in Beauclair on the summer Solstice just this year to a woman named Kiya, who had always thought herself barren. She doesn’t know exactly who sired the lad, as you were not her only lover, and she doesn’t rightly care. She’s happy to raise him on her own so she doesn’t have to share him,” Geralt recites, and Jaskier flinches when he recognizes both women as indeed being former bedpartners of his, and in the right timeframes for the uncanny revelation to have to be accurate.
“Well, fuck,” Jaskier says lamely, gripping his hands tightly together to keep them from shaking at having his whole world upended by a god who apparently knows him(and his lineage) better than he knows himself.
“You still wish me to take your virility?” Geralt asks hesitantly, seeming almost comically concerned by how Jaskier is clearly panicking right now.
“Please. Fuck, I don’t want to be the sort of cad who leaves behind children in want of a father. I’ve always tried to take every reasonable precaution to not sire bastards, but evidently, I have not been thorough enough. I…I would be forever grateful if you could make sure that those three are all that I have,” Jaskier says, running his trembling fingers through his unruly hair, cursing himself internally for having let it grow down to his jaw.
“My blessings aren’t permanent. They wane with the changing of the seasons, and in one year’s time, you would have to return to secure another such blessing to ensure you remained sterile. And so it would repeat, year after year, as long as you wished to not father children,” Geralt explains reluctantly, and Jaskier nods quickly.
“That’s fine, I can do that. Whatever you need me to do,” Jaskier rushes to say, and Geralt raises his eyebrows.
“Are you aware of how a fertility blessing is imparted upon a mortal?”
Jaskier hums noncommittally and crosses his legs to sit more comfortably. “No clue. No one would say exactly, but it’s my understanding that an appropriate offering is given from the mortal to the god, and thus a pact made.”
“An offering…or a sacrifice, depending on one’s views of the matter,” Geralt says grimly, watching as Jaskier pales again.
“A sacrifice? What sort of sacrifice?” Jaskier sputters, his body tensing as he considers the odds of him being able to outrun a god.
They aren’t good.
“You’ve offered yourself to me, so the sacrifice must come from your own body. Usually, it’s women that come to seek fertility, so they can bear their husband’s child. Sometimes, it’s men who know themselves to be the partner at fault for being sterile. To imbue fertility on either sex, I require they give to me that which they would offer to their lover,” Geralt explains, his tone almost regretful.
Jaskier frowns as he considers that, his long, lute-calloused fingers picking at the hem of his sleeve as he tries to parse out Geralt’s meaning. “So…you fuck the women, and let the men fuck you?”
Geralt nods, seeming unaffected by Jaskier’s choice of crass language. “For a blessing of sterility, instead, it would have to be the opposite.”
“…you need to fuck me?” Jaskier asks flatly, starting to wonder what exactly it is that he’s gotten himself into.
“Just so. Perhaps you understand now, why some might consider it a sacrifice,” Geralt says with a sigh, impatiently tossing back his mane of silvery hair off his shoulder.
“I mean, I wasn’t really expecting that to be the bargain. But, I’m also certainly no stranger to lying with men, myself, so there are definitely worse sacrifices you could ask of me,” Jaskier says dismissively, and Geralt raises his eyebrows.
“We both have to finish,” Geralt says bluntly, and Jaskier rolls his eyes.
“That’s not a problem. I’m somewhat known for my prowess as a lover, I assure you,” Jaskier declares with a cheeky wink, utterly unable to not flirt with someone he is sincerely considering sleeping with.
Geralt sighs and stands to his feet, unfastening his loincloth with a deft tug of the tie holding it together. Whatever saucy remark Jaskier might’ve thought to make instead dies on his lips when he gets a look at Geralt fully naked, his eyes right at crotch level of the deity.
The fertility god is hung like a fucking horse, and unless Jaskier’s mistaken, Geralt isn’t even hard yet.
“Ah, well…I can see why you might think I’d be…reluctant,” Jaskier says diplomatically, and Geralt snorts out a laugh.
“I’ve had mortals run screaming from the sight. ‘Reluctance’ doesn’t quite cover it,” Geralt says wryly, crossing his arms over his bare chest, seeming fully unashamed at his nudity.
“I mean, I don’t believe I have quite experienced anything like…all that,” Jaskier says, gesturing vaguely to all of Geralt. “But, with thorough preparation and plenty of oil, it shouldn’t be impossible.”
The fertility god chuckles wryly, gripping himself in hand as he starts to stroke himself slowly.
It turns out that Jaskier was right about Geralt not being hard yet, and the difference once he’s worked himself up is…slightly concerning.
“You take women with that thing?! And you’re sure that you’re not the one knocking them up?” Jaskier asks shrilly.
“I’m a fertility god. If I can’t even control who I impregnate, I’d be a fairly shitty one,” Geralt teases, releasing his stiff prick and favor of turning back towards his cave.
When Jaskier doesn’t immediately stand to follow, Geralt glances over his shoulder back at him, an eyebrow arched in question of whether or not Jaskier really wants his blessing.
Jaskier scrambles to his feet and clears his throat, feeling a blush coloring his face as he tries to tease, “Are you sure you won’t make me fall pregnant?”
Geralt raises both eyebrows and turns fully back to face Jaskier, his slitted pupils expanding slightly as he tilts his head to the side, his expression contemplative. “Hmm. I’ve never gotten a man pregnant. I’m not certain if I could or not. Would you like me to try?”
Lust and fear in equal measures spike through Jaskier, and he takes an involuntary step backwards, shaking his head quickly.
“No, fuck! It was just a joke, Geralt! I, ah, I’d rather not give up fatherhood in exchange for motherhood,” Jaskier says, blushing even darker, and Geralt’s neutral expression cracks into a shit-eating grin.
“Are all mortals this gullible?” Geralt teases, and Jaskier scowls, realizing he has been made a fool of over the prospect of Geralt breeding him.
“How am I supposed to know what a random deity in the forest can or can’t actually do?!”
A smug chuckle rumbles from Geralt’s chest, and he turns back to head into his cave. Lacking any other option at the moment, Jaskier follows, squinting as the light of the full moon and the candles fade the deeper he follows Geralt.
A sudden flame flaring to life makes Jaskier jump, and he relaxes when he realizes it is only Geralt, having conjured a small flame in his palm to light a fire pit in the middle of the cave. Jaskier looks up to see that there is a hole in the cave’s roof for the smoke to disappear out of, and he waits for his eyes to adjust so he can look around.
The space is sparsely decorated with furs and greenery, the stone of the cave covered over by all manner of growing things, while the fine furs help to combat the chill of the night and the rock around them. Jaskier walks over to what is clearly Geralt’s bed, if one could call it that.
A pile of soft-looking furs in a number of colors makes up something similar to a bird’s nest on the floor, the space large enough that Geralt could lay out quite comfortably in any direction in either his human form or in his wolf form. Momentarily distracted by his observations, Jaskier doesn’t notice Geralt walk up beside him until the old god clears his throat.
Jumping about a foot in the air, Jaskier looks up quickly, his face flushing at having been caught unaware in the wolf’s den. “Ah, yes?” Jaskier asks, clasping his hands behind his back so Geralt won’t see how badly they’re shaking.
“We don’t have to do this, you know. You’re free to go, if you wish,” Geralt says with a slight frown, very gently tucking a lock of Jaskier’s hair behind his ear.
The scent of Geralt washes over Jaskier, and his eyes nearly roll back in his head.
Pine and leather and woodsmoke and musk. Geralt smells like everything manly that Jaskier can’t get enough of when it is a man he’s taken to bed. Idly, part of Jaskier wonders if it is, in fact, some sort of pheromone that the fertility god gives off, because the bard is finding himself more than a bit hot under the collar just by Geralt’s proximity to him. It doesn’t do much for his nerves, but at least his body is enjoying whatever this is that he’s gotten himself into.
Jaskier clears his throat and gives what he hopes is an encouraging smile. “I’m fine. Just trying to get ‘in the mood’, as it were,” he explains, trying to keep his eyes on Geralt’s face, because the White Wolf is still without a single stitch of clothing, and the more Jaskier thinks about the size of him, the more he wants to chicken out.
“May I kiss you?” Geralt asks softly, his slitted pupils expanding slightly as he regards Jaskier.
All Jaskier can manage is a semi-frantic nod, and Geralt captures his mouth in a deep kiss that focuses all of Jaskier’s attention down to the heat between them. His hands end up in Geralt’s hair, and the silvery strands are even softer to the touch than they look. Geralt licks into Jaskier’s mouth, and Jaskier can’t hold back the moan growing at the back of his throat.
Geralt even tastes exquisite, and Jaskier feels overwhelmed at how fast he gets fully hard, himself. As discussed, he’s always been quite virile, but this is something else.
A hand at his hip has Jaskier startling lightly, and he breaks the kiss to look at Geralt, feeling dazed and just a little bit drunk.
“Would you like to undress yourself, or shall I?” Geralt asks in a husky murmur that makes Jaskier’s cock throb, and the bard shudders as he tries to reorient himself.
“I’ll do it,” Jaskier says, hoping he doesn’t sound as wrecked as he already feels.
Only a little gracelessly, Jaskier pulls off his various articles of clothes, carefully setting them aside as he goes. It would feel oddly disrespectful to just drop everything in a heap on the floor of a god’s home, but Geralt doesn’t seem to be worried about things like propriety.
The fertility god is looking over Jaskier’s body with a very obvious hunger that sends a thrill through Jaskier.
“See something you like?” Jaskier can’t help but tease, and he flushes when Geralt steps closer, a soft near-growl of want rumbling up from his chest.
“You’re beautiful, Jaskier. Surely you already know this?” Geralt murmurs, brushing the backs of his knuckles along Jaskier’s jawline.
A full body shudder rolls through Jaskier, and he loses his entire train of thought when Geralt picks him up and carries him to the nest of furs. He looks up at the absolutely gorgeous deity over him, and Jaskier is struck yet again by the uncannily perfect looks that Geralt possesses.
Before Jaskier can recover enough to respond to Geralt’s compliment, the fertility god has leaned in to kiss him again. Jaskier’s thoughts drift as Geralt captures his lips with a hungry little growl that has Jaskier shuddering and panting with his own growing need. He’s only vaguely aware of Geralt making some sort of sign with his hand, and suddenly-slick fingers are pressing between Jaskier’s cheeks.
A gasp and groan each fall from Jaskier’s lips, and he reaches up to grasp at Geralt’s hard-muscled shoulders, his fingers absently tracing the strange scarred texture of the deity’s skin. Geralt watches Jaskier’s face closely as he slips a finger inside him, and Jaskier huffs a soft sound of desire. There is no pain as Geralt prepares Jaskier on his fingers, and the absence of even a small amount of sting has Jaskier frowning in curiosity.
“Is this alright?” Geralt asks, a touching measure of concern on his lovely face.
“It’s–ahh!–fine, I just…you’re very…thorough? Careful?” Jaskier muses, fully aware that he sounds half-drunk with arousal.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Jaskier. If a simple bit of Chaos laced through the slick can keep you comfortable, it’s well worth the effort,” Geralt explains.
Jaskier inhales sharply at the sensation of Geralt slipping a fourth finger inside him, the stretch seeming odd with no burn to accompany it. Feeling slightly bereft of the familiar ache, Jaskier finds himself blushing, and he chews his lower lip as he considers how best to explain his conundrum.
“I am sure you would make every reasonable effort not to actually injure me, but…I don’t mind a bit of pain,” Jaskier says hesitantly, feeling oddly mortified at how he knows his whole face must be flushed dark red.
A shudder rolls through Geralt, and the intensely hungry look to his strange golden eyes sharpens further.
“Is that so? Would you like me to end the numbing spell, then? You want to feel how loose I’m going to get you before I stretch you out on my cock?” Geralt rumbles in a voice thick with desire, and Jaskier barely stifles a moan at the filthy words.
“Fucking gods, yes!” Jaskier pants out, wincing in chagrin as he realizes his blasphemy.
Geralt only chuckles low, and he leans down to start kissing over Jaskier’s neck, working his fingers inside the other man a bit faster. The odd sensation of nothingness lifts slowly, and Jaskier groans as he starts to properly feel the sting of Geralt working him open. The light hint of pain has Jaskier’s cock weeping precum onto his belly, and Geralt looks fascinated at his reaction.
“You’re going to take me so well, aren’t you? It’s been a long time since I had such a lovely mortal like you, bard,” Geralt growls, twisting his fingers just so.
Jaskier nearly screams in pleasure as Geralt rubs unerringly into that spot inside him, throwing into sharp contrast how he was obviously avoiding it prior to now. Belatedly, Jaskier realizes he has dug his fingernails into Geralt’s shoulders nearly enough to draw blood, but the deity only smirks down at him.
When Geralt withdraws his fingers, Jaskier has to stifle a whine at the loss, but he’s quickly distracted by watching Geralt stroke his slick hand over his massive cock until it glistens wetly. Jaskier whimpers and spreads his legs even further, trying his best not to writhe against the furs, but he wants, dear gods, does he want!
The first touch of Geralt’s blunt cockhead against Jaskier’s entrance has him shuddering, and Jaskier does his best to relax his muscles as Geralt presses himself in slowly. The pressure is intense, and Jaskier bears down slightly to aid in taking Geralt, a nuance that isn’t lost on the fertility god, if his nearly snarling groan is anything to go by. The burn of being stretched intensifies, and Jaskier gasps when it becomes nearly too much, right as Geralt manages to pop through Jaskier’s tight hole.
For a single moment that seems to last an eternity, Jaskier feels completely overwhelmed, and like he might’ve bitten off more than he can chew, as it were. But as Geralt slowly rolls his hips into Jaskier, he slips a few inches deeper inside him ‘til he’s rutting against Jaskier’s prostate with shallow thrusts, and all coherent thought leaves the bard. Objectively, Jaskier can feel the inexorable pressure of Geralt’s massive size nearly rearranging his guts from the inside, but all Jaskier can really focus on is the near-blinding pleasure he feels thrumming through him.
A litany of broken-off oaths and breathless moans escape Jaskier as Geralt starts to fuck him in earnest with long, languid strokes that have Jaskier’s climax hurtling towards him with startling efficiency.
“Geralt! I-I’m close!” Jaskier almost sobs, his cock throbbing where it lies untouched against his stomach.
“Come for me, Jaskier,” Geralt commands, not even sounding out of breath as he fucks the life out of Jaskier.
A keening sob rips from Jaskier as his orgasm hits him, his cock jerking untouched between their bodies as he spills over his belly and chest in long pulses that feel so fucking good.
He maybe loses time for a few seconds from the intensity of his peak, but when Jaskier comes back around, he feels just a touch of overstimulation as Geralt keeps thrusting into him with a single-minded determination. A soft gasp escapes Jaskier, and he inhales harshly when the feeling of ‘too much’ immediately kicks over into feeling too good, all over again, his usual refractory period completely absent in Geralt’s presence. His face must betray his shock, because Geralt chuckles, leaning down to kiss Jaskier’s neck as he fucks into him brutally.
“Fertility god, remember? I could bless you to never need time to recover again, if I wished. But, that’s not the blessing you asked of me, is it, little bard? So, maybe I’ll save this just for us,” Geralt murmurs salaciously, punctuating his words with savage thrusts of his cock.
Jaskier feels overwhelmed tears prick the corners of his eyes as he finds himself coming again, Geralt’s name on his lips in a near-sob. Time itself loses all meaning for Jaskier as he rides out his pleasure, and he can’t tell for certain how many peaks Geralt drags from him. It’s too much, and it’s everything, all at once, and Jaskier babbles incoherent praises to Geralt that have the deity preening smugly.
Finally, though, Geralt’s cool facade begins to crack, and the building pleasure on his face becomes apparent to Jaskier, who is little more than a lax puddle among the furs as Geralt uses his body in all the best ways.
“‘m gonna come. Need to fill you up,” Geralt grunts, and Jaskier shudders.
A needy whine of assent passes Jaskier’s lips, and he clings to Geralt as best he can despite the leaden quality of his limbs. The fierce look of pleasure on Geralt’s face has Jaskier’s gut tightening as yet another climax builds for him, teetering on the edge as Geralt’s thrusts begin to lose their steady rhythm.
The fertility god lets out a guttural moan, pressing as deep into Jaskier as he can, and Jaskier feels Geralt’s cock pulsing inside him with his orgasm. The throbbing right against Jaskier’s prostate has him coming one last time, as well. A broken sob is pulled from the depths of Jaskier’s chest as his cock jerks against his stomach and nothing even spills out this time, as it seems he’s truly been wrung dry.
Ragged breaths and the crackle of the dying fire are all that can be heard in the cave for a time, the lack of sound jarring after so much slapping of skin for so long. Jaskier tries to get his trembling limbs to move, but they won’t quite cooperate with him. Geralt pulls out slowly, and Jaskier shudders when he feels the absolute deluge of Geralt’s cum spilling from his gaping hole. Jaskier shivers and tries to sit up, but Geralt holds him down gently, pulling the furs up over them both to fend off the growing chill in the air now that all the sweat and spend is cooling on their bodies.
“Did it work? 'm I sterile?” Jaskier mumbles, even though speaking at all feels like a monumental effort.
Geralt nods once, his breathing only slightly labored as he pulls Jaskier back to spoon against him. “You are. Until the full moon directly after the next summer solstice, your seed will give no new life.”
Jaskier hums his thanks, trying to keep his eyes open as he mentally sorts through how the hell he’s going to be able to stand long enough to dress and leave the cave.
Either sensing his struggle or reading his mind, Geralt tightens his grip on Jaskier rather possessively, and the fertility god presses a surprisingly chaste kiss to Jaskier’s cheek. “Stay ‘til morning. You’ll have your energy back by then,” Geralt says, his tone conveying that Jaskier is free to leave if he truly wishes to, but that Geralt would prefer him to stay.
Unable to put up even the most cursory of protests, Jaskier instead lets his eyes slip shut as he burrows into the warm comfort of Geralt’s arms.