Summary: Jaskier gets his cock slapped under a tavern table
“Geralt! Have you seen my -”
Geralt pushes the long-since discarded doublet into Jaskier’s hands, rolling his eyes at Jaskier’s noise of triumph.
“Ah, there she is!” Jaskier cries.
As usual, Jaskier seems to have no inclination to put the garment back on, seemingly happy to drag his fingers across the threads, cooing at its return.
“The barmaid is a pretty thing,” Geralt says, looking pointedly at Jaskier’s unlaced chemise as the bard slides into a seat at the corner table.
“She is that,” Jaskier agrees easily, casting a wistful glance back at the girl. Jaskier’s flushed and alight from his earlier performance, the glint in his eye promising every passing stranger that he might love them, if only they would love him back.
Granted, the flush might also have something to do with the five pints Jaskier had post-performance; whittling away the late hours by charming the local lasses as the crowd slowly trickled home. They’re all but alone now, the few lingering patrons all deep in their cups.
Geralt dodges when Jaskier leans in for a kiss. The bard’s breath reeks with the smell of stale spirits and dried sweat coats his chest, the byproducts of a long performance and longer evening. Geralt crinkles his nose but doesn’t pull away when Jaskier leans into his side. Jaskier sucked him off last week with kikimore guts still in his hair, there’s no high ground in sight.
Jaskier, unabashed, and nips at Geralt’s ear before saying, “Not as pretty as you, of course.”
He’s flirting without intent, flitting from one pretty face to another - enjoying the attention itself more than the person it comes from.
That’s what seals his fate. Geralt can tolerate another catching the bard’s eye for a time; he’s always been attracted to life’s finer pleasures. But he doesn’t get to ignore Geralt all evening, leaving Geralt to mind his things while paying Geralt no mind himself, only to now demand that Geralt give Jaskier his full attention and to say thank you for the scraps.
Geralt snarls, catching Jaskier by the hair and pulling, demanding the focus that wasn’t given freely. Jaskier whimpers as his head is dragged back, forcing him to arch his back, attention now firmly planted on his lover. Geralt runs a fingernail across Jasker’s lower lip, purposefully catching the soft skin on its edge.
Geralt’s given him a long rope, and Jaskier wandered off and hung himself with it. The rest of the evening will be on Geralt’s terms.
“Tell me, Julian. Have I lost your faith?” Geralt asks.
“What?” Jaskier says, the alcohol slowing his usual quick wit.
“Speak plainly, do you lie to me like you lie to them?” Geralt presses, nodding his head towards the now largely empty room.
“I don’t know what you’re -”
“You deny it?” Geralt says, baring his teeth in an approximation of a smile, “Then if not a liar, you’re a fool, coming to me peddling tales of beauty, as if you see no difference between me and any fair maiden you bed.”
Geralt emphasizes his words by slipping his spare hand down the deep cut of Jaskier’s chemise, squeezing Jasker’s tit as he would a woman’s. Jaskier moans deep and low, closing his eyes to the sensation. Ale always made him somehow - impossibly - louder.
“Maybe I should invite the maid to join us,” Geralt pretends to muse, continuing to knead the hard muscle under his hand. “It hardly seems fair that you got to choose whoever you wish but I’m left with only this.” He pulled tightly on Jaskier’s nipple for emphasis. “Her bosom was lovely, maybe I should compare your breasts before making my decision.” He lets his hand fall flat against Jaskier’s chest, tapping his finger in feigned consideration.
Jaskier bites his lip and pushes his chest hard into Geralt’s hand, dragging his nipple down Geralt’s calloused palm. Geralt keeps the heel of his hand pushed firmly against Jaskier’s chest, leaving the bard to squirm against it, making him seek his own pleasure. Jaskier had come to him already half-hard - it didn’t take much to turn his easy need to desperation.
Jaskier thrusts up into empty air, desperately searching for friction. He whimpers when Geralt doesn’t relax his grip. The bitch hasn’t earned it.
“Gods be good, Geralt,” Jaskier says, coming back to himself. “Take me to bed.”
“Don’t tease,” Jaskier whines. “I have eyes only for you, my love. I know not of what other beauty you speak, she is stricken from my mind! I promise to never stray again, even for a moment, if only you take me to our room this instant.”
Geralt grins, slow and easy. “Why would I do that, when I could take you right here?”
Jaskier freezes. “You can’t - Geralt,” he objects, but then his breath catches, giving him away. “Someone will see.”
“Just as I had to watch you slip your hand up the barmaid’s skirt?” Geralt asks mildly, gauging Jaskier’s response. “Not in front of each other, Jaskier. Remember? That was your rule.”
Jaskier gasps and jerks forward, Geralt’s grip unrelenting in his hair. “I wasn’t, you can’t, it was just flirting, witcher.”
“And this is just me claiming what’s mine, bard,” Geralt growls, his breath hot on Jaskier’s neck. He releases Jaskier from his grip, pushing him back gracelessly. “Get yourself out.”
Jaskier flushes, stunned into inaction, like he’s hoping if he waits long enough Geralt will break and admit he’s been joking all along. Geralt meets his gaze steadily - challenging.
Ever so slowly, Jaskier lowers his hands down to his laces. His fingers hold none of their usual grace as he fumbles with the laces, muttering something about grommets. His hands tremble and he glances furtively around the tavern before taking a deep breath and pulling himself out under the table.
Jaskier’s cock is rather less conflicted about the sudden turn of events and he glares down, judging its poor taste.
“Good,” Geralt praises, reaching out and grasping Jaskier’s wrists. “Now hold yourself for me.” He guides Jaskier’s hands under his cock, directing them so that the bard’s hands are laid flat, presenting himself for Geralt to do as he likes.
“Geralt...what?” Jaskier asks, even as he allows himself to be moved.
Geralt raises an eyebrow. “You broke the rules. That has consequences.” Jaskier whines but doesn’t move from position and Geralt savors how easily he’s brought to heel. “Count for me. Quietly.”
He doesn’t give any other warning before he lands a sharp slap on Jaskier’s cock. Jaskier crumples forward. A sharp cry escapes before he clearly remembers where they were and chokes the rest of the noise down.
“Geralt,” Jaskier gasps, not quite managing quiet but doing a passable enough imitation of it. The game of Gwent across the room had transformed into thunderous accusations of cheating, bribery, and possible adultery, and it provided enough cover that no one noticed the bard’s suffering.
“Are you using your word?” Geralt asks mildly, straightening Jaskier’s shirt where a nipple had nearly made an escape.
“...no,” Jaskier replies, and ah, now that was quiet.
“Then get back as I had you,” Geralt says, “and count.”
Jaskier moves back into place, arranging his hands so that his cock is laid out. It’s pink and leaking and vulnerable and even with such willing prey Geralt can’t turn off his killer’s instinct. No sooner has Jaskier whispered, “one” than Geralt hits again, punching the breath out of Jaskier’s lungs. Jaskier takes a couple ragged breaths, visibly steeling himself before he recovers enough to whisper, “two.”
After that, Geralt keeps striking, steady and unrelenting. He is careful not to strike hard enough to damage, but he doesn’t spare Jaskier pain either. He works his way from base to tip and then back again, three up, three down, three up again. Jaskier will remember who he comes back to.
Tears are leaking out of Jaskier’s eyes by the time Geralt reaches nine.
“Just one more, then you’re done,” Geralt says, taking Jaskier’s cock out of his palms and holding the shaft firmly below the tip. It pulses in his grip, still hard despite the rough treatment. Geralt waits until Jaskier gives a small nod before bringing his hand down hard on Jaskier’s slit.
As soon as the stoke lands, Geralt throws his hand up over the bard’s mouth, witcher quick, muffling Jaskier’s shout. Geralt wraps his other arm around Jaskier’s shoulder, pulling the bard close to his chest and wiping away tears with his thumb.
“Hush, Jaskier. It’s done. You’re done. You did well,” Geralt mumbles, resting his forehead against the bard’s.
After Jaskier’s breathing has evened, Geralt reaches down, intending to tuck the bard away and take them both to bed. He’s surprised when Jaskier reaches out, always somehow stronger than Geralt expects, stopping him.
“If… if I was good, then don’t I deserve a reward? To make the lesson stick,” Jaskier asks coyly.
Geralt barely refrains from rolling his eyes at the obvious ploy; not Jaskier’s finest work by far. But then Jaskier’s tongue darts across his lip and Geralt has no choice but to notice how red and full the bard’s lips are from biting down to keep quiet. Well. Jaskier did ask to be taken to their room.
In one smooth motion Geralt stands and hoists Jaskier over his shoulder, hoping that Jaskier’s cock is hidden pressed against Geralt’s chest. He strides across the tavern towards the stairs, ignoring Jaskier’s squeaks of protest. Geralt can think of better uses for his mouth, and after that they’d see about a reward.
turnnoffyourmind
annaxmalina
germansingergirl
ellievsbear
jacobvanloon
