High Toxicity

High Toxicity 💀

(Full image under the cut)

Keep reading

A young, horny Lambert sets his sights on an older hunk of Witcher beef. CW: age gap, flirtation.

"I'm going for it."

"Lambert, don't be a fucking idiot. They'll laugh at you."

"They might, but he won't. You miss all the chances you don't take, right?"

"Your funeral."

Lambert licked his lips and smoothed his hair back as he stood. He hadn't torn his eyes away from his mark for a single second since said man had swaggered into the hall a few hours before. This was the winter he'd do it. He was a man himself now, which meant he had every chance of bagging himself the hunk of good-lookin' he'd been coveting from the moment his dick had started getting hard at night and hair had appeared on his jaw.

Eskel.

It wasn't just that Eskel had two decades on Lambert or that he was becoming a seasoned witcher. No other Witcher in the keep compared. Sure, some tried. They might step toe to toe during drills or try to outflame Eskel's igni, but they never could. The only one that outmatched Eskel was his pale shadow, Geralt. They even looked a little similar. But cream puff was a fucking bean pole of a man, and that shitty headband...

N'aw, Lambert wanted big. He wanted heat, and honey eyes, and that thatch of dark hair he'd seen on Eskel's barrelled chest in the baths, and that huge fucking d--

"You lost, Lambert?"

Lambert blinked. Gweld, the ginger prick, was frowning at him, ale tankard halfway up to his mouth. The others had paused their card game; Clovis looked drunk, Geralt was slouched back trying to see Clovis' hand and Eskel was watching Lambert speculatively.

Watching, with those honey-coloured eyes that turned Lambert inside out. The words caught in Lambert's throat; shit, fuck, why was he so fuckin' stupid the moment Eskel looked at him?

He took a breath, conscious of Clovis elbowing Gweld with a chuckle, while Geralt looked over with a smirk.

Lambert found his words. He folded his arms, thrust his chest out, widened his stance and put on his best cocky smirk. "Was just wonderin' whether Eskel wanted some better company. You losers can't handle your beer at the best of times."

They laughed. Gweld elbowed Eskel who cocked a half smile, eyes rolling not at Lambert, but his friends, proving Lambert's point. Obviously.

"Is that right?" Geralt asked, amusement turning his narrow face bright with a toothy grin. Lambert had been told that as witchers matured they honed their sense of smell, could identify a man's emotions from his body language, the flush in his skin. Lambert knew Geralt had him sussed. "And what kinda company are you offering?"

"Geralt..." Eskel growled in warning, and it went straight to Lambert's groin. Fucking hells.

"Whatever he wants. I'm a man of many talents."

More laughter--"little man has game, shit; fuck, I'm chokin, too funny"--but Lambert wasn't put off. Eskel's eyes were on him, warming him like the sun. The lines around those eyes were wrinkled with mirth, and damn if that smile wasn't snatching the breath right out of Lambert's chest.

"Does your master know you're out?" Eskel asked, placing his cards face down. He leaned back in his chair and slung his elbow onto the back of it, knee turned out while a hand tapped at his drink.

Lambert tried to keep his eyes level and resist the urge to... look. Eskel's codpiece put on an absolutely fucking heroic effort, but it could only hide so much and that was when Eskel was soft. "What he don't know can't hurt him. No business of his who else is in my bed as long as I am."

Eskel pressed his lips together to smother his smile while the others guffawed. More was said but Lambert didn't really hear; he was too focused on keeping his heart from beating out his chest and appearing suave.

Eskel hummed. "Aren't you a little young to be lookin' for that kinda fun?"

"Worried you won't be able to keep up, old man?" Lambert felt momentum. He could do snark, he could meet Eskel on this well worn ground, toe to toe, and the way Eskel's head tilted to the side and his eyebrow rose. It wasn't a no, right? He looked interested. Amused, but he didn't dismiss Lambert outright.

Gweld slapped Eskel on the shoulder with a bark. "Eskel here's got stories that'd make your balls shrivel up into yer belly, lad. I don't think he's a good choice for yer first ride, best drop your ambitions."

"Fuck off, Gweld," Eskel said, but there was no heat to his words. Just wry amusement.

Geralt snorted into his drink and Clovis made a vulgar gesture with his hand, but before Lambert could respond a familiar voice barked through the hall and sucked all the building sexual tension into a vacuum. "Lambert, get your arse to bed, you missed roll call!"

Lambert clenched his teeth, shoulders lifting towards his ears. For fuck's sake...

Three of the witchers in front of him groaned in mock empathy. "Oof, tough break, Lambino. Cock blocked by Vesemir," Gweld said, shaking his head while Geralt and Clovis snickered. "Don't worry, we've all been there. Ain't that right, Gerbear?"

Geralt guffawed in protest and smacked Gweld on the shoulder. It quickly devolved into a wrestling match on the floor, one which Gweld was definitely going to lose. Eskel watched them briefly before he looked back at Lambert. "Another time perhaps," he said, toasting Lambert with his ale. "G'wan, before he decides the target dummies are a little light on straw."

Lambert grunted, frustrated, but stalked away. He'd made inroads, and the way Eskel's eyes had shone, and that crooked grin. Eskel hadn't outright rejected him, hells, he'd--well, that smile... Eskel didn't smile at everyone like that.

Lambert laid in bed with that smile behind his eyes and a hand under the sheets, determined that it would be Eskel's instead of his own by winter's end.

For Flowers May Fly If They Wish

I took a little break from my ongoing WIPs to write a silly ficlet, which uh. Wound up kind of eating up something like the last month. It's not a ficlet any more.

Anyway, I wrote a sex pollen fic, which contains the usual dubcon warnings that such a trope requires. It's Porn With Plot. This is the first part; I'm hoping to have the rest up in the next few days.

Into the Woods

Jaskier would be the first to admit that sometimes he does stupid things when he’s bored. It’s as though there’s some imp that seizes him, and then ... he does foolish things which perhaps he oughtn’t.

But this time he wasn’t even doing anything. He had followed Geralt into this glade in the mountains of Mahakam because there was some rare plant that he’d been asked to retrieve. No monster was even trying to eat either of them. Geralt was just fussing about in the bracken looking for whatever the plant was supposed to be, and Jaskier waiting near Roach, minding his own business.

Whatever Geralt was looking for was apparently small, because he was just about on hands and knees looking for it. Jaskier, having quite literally nothing better to do, used the toe of his boot to shift one of the large leaves of a nearby plant aside to see if there was anything interesting underneath. He’d been careful, but he must have bumped some kind of flower underneath, because a cloud of pollen, or spores, or something floated into the air and made him sneeze.

‘Don’t touch anything,’ Geralt said immediately from the other side of the glade, not even looking around from whatever undergrowth rummaging he was doing.

‘I’m not,’ Jaskier said. He hadn’t! He just nudged it with his foot, which he might have done walking along, and thus didn’t count at all.

Geralt made a huffy sort of noise, and dropped the leaf he was peering beneath, pushing a different large leaf from another, different plant aside just as carefully.

Jaskier gave up. This was clearly going to take all day. He fetched out his notebook and pencil from the saddlebags, then unbuckled his lute case and took his baby out. He found a suitable tree whose roots were largely free of plants and fungi (and thus meant he was unlikely to crush the very plant Geralt was looking for), and sat himself down, leaning his head back against the trunk and closing his eyes. It was a pleasant sort of afternoon, he thought idly. If he didn’t have the boredom of being trapped here while Geralt foraged, it would be quite pleasant. Although since Geralt didn’t seem to be likely to shift them along any time soon, Jaskier could spend his own time however he liked. There was admittedly a gnawing itch in his belly that was likely to bloom into hunger at some point, but it wasn’t yet quite so bad that he had to do anything about it.

For the last few days he’d been working on a song about a contract Geralt had taken to rid a village of a vampire, but this one was being more difficult than usual. He opened the notebook to the relevant page and stared down at it, chewing on his lip and tapping the paper idly with his pencil. It wasn’t the words themselves that were the problem. Was it the rhythm? Did it want a more driving rhythm? If he changed the way he plucked the notes, perhaps, or added in more ornamentation to the lute part? Something about it wasn’t quite right, and there seemed little point in working on the second verse until he worked out what it was about the first one that was wrong. Perhaps if he fiddled with the second line ...

It was no good. He was too restless. He couldn’t focus on it properly. Perhaps he’d have better luck if he started a new song, and then he could come back to this one when he didn’t feel as though he would die if he stayed sitting in one spot. He thrust his lute back into its canvas case, tossed his notebook and pencil beside it, and got back to his feet. There was no use fighting what his nanny used to call his ‘ant attacks’. Trying to push through them never worked. But going for a brisk walk often solved the problem, so if he paced out the length of the glade and back again, he ought to be able to sit and work again, whether he started something new or worked on the half-finished song again. If he was really lucky, the walk wouldn’t just ease his irritation, but would knock something loose in his head, and then he might have a flash of brilliance. It didn’t help that it was a warm day, and the sun on his skin was heating him up slightly more than he thought he could bear.

Walking the length of the glade and back once didn’t solve the problem. Neither did a second, or a third. It only felt as though it was getting worse for once, and an undirected want was coiling in his belly with no way to satisfy it – at least, not without Geralt making smart remarks. Worse was the fact that the heat beneath his skin was stronger for the brisk walk, so he was triply uncomfortable. He wanted to scream, but he tried to hold those kinds of urges in check when Geralt was nearby. Either it would annoy him beyond tolerance, or (possibly worse) he wouldn’t react at all, other than to raise an eyebrow, and then Jaskier would feel stupid.

‘What’s wrong,’ Geralt said, and actually paused his plant bothering long enough to turn around in his squat to look at him. Glare at him, possibly. It was hard to tell sometimes with Geralt when he was actually annoyed and when he was simply intent on whatever he was doing. And when he was annoyed because  he was intent on what he was doing and you’d interrupted him.

‘Nothing,’ Jaskier said. ‘I just—I’m not in the mood for sitting around and waiting, and there’s precious little else for me to do here, and I’m not exactly going to wander off somewhere without you and get myself stuck in a crevasse or fall into a cave or something.’

He folded his arms, although it didn’t really help that horrible niggling feeling that he ought to be doing something. The village they’d been staying in was too small for a mollyhouse, so he didn’t even have satisfaction to look forward to this evening. Fuck, but that roiling need was distracting.

‘You’re all pink in the face,’ Geralt said, frowning. He stood up, and his nostrils flared. ‘Jaskier, what did you do?’

‘Nothing, I told you,’ Jaskier snapped. 

Geralt strode towards him, and Jaskier took a half step back out of instinct, before stopping himself. It was just Geralt. Why was he feeling jumpy?

Geralt took his jaw in his hand and tilted his face up. He searched Jaskier’s face for something, although what he was looking for Jaskier hardly cared. That touch on his skin simultaneously settled him and made his heart race. A whimper escaped his lips before he could bite it back. That was embarrassing. Worse, he was half hard in his breeches, just from Geralt touching him. That hadn’t happened for a while, and he’d hoped that he’d put that behind him. It wasn’t fair for this need of his to get its hopes up with Geralt’s touch, since that was the one quarter where he would never gain satisfaction. At least these breeches were roomy – he hoped that meant that Geralt wouldn’t notice. It might be a faint hope, but although Geralt was horribly observant, those same observational skills seemed to always fail when it came to anyone’s interest in him. Jaskier might yet get away with this.

‘I wasn’t even looking for that one,’ Geralt said finally. ‘You would manage to find that and stick your nose right in it.’

‘One of what? I told you, I didn’t touch anything,’ Jaskier said, then, ‘Why are you letting go?’

‘Well, you’ve clearly got more than the dose you’d get if it was just releasing pollen on the breeze,’ Geralt said. ‘You bumped it, then. Or kicked it. I’m assuming you haven’t been eating strange flowers that you’ve found.’

‘Of course not,’ Jaskier said, although he felt vaguely guilty at the accuracy of Geralt’s guess. That guilt was overwhelmed by the strange urgency he felt now that Geralt wasn’t touching him any more. Geralt’s words finally penetrated the odd fog that seemed to be shrouding his mind, and one stuck out in particular.

‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Dose of what?’

‘Peasants call it deoval-stones, or bollockwort,’ Geralt said. ‘It’s a type of orchid, and supposed to be something of an aphrodisiac. Some of the mountain villages gather it to dry and send it to apothecaries in Tretogor or Vizima. One village has a festival to celebrate the first flower they find in a year.’

‘Pfft, that doesn’t even work,’ Jaskier said, relaxing. ‘I mean. So I’m told. From friends. Who tried it.’

‘It does,’ Geralt said, ‘but you’d need a much stronger dose than you’ll get just brewing a tea from dried flowers. It’s best if it’s fresh, before the potency goes out of it. A proper distillation can be quite strong, if you gather enough of the fresh flowers.’

‘I haven’t any brewing equipment, and I haven’t drunk any strange elixirs,’ Jaskier pointed out, folding his arms. Hugging his arms to himself felt good, so he did that. Not quite as good as Geralt touching him, but better than nothing. He waited for Geralt to get to the point. Geralt was usually keen on cutting to the meat of the matter, but now he seemed strangely hesitant to do so.

‘You haven’t breathed in any usual deoval-stones, either,’ Geralt said. ‘Not if the effect is this pronounced. Where were you standing when it happened?’

‘Right there,’ Jaskier said impatiently, pointing at his previous spot beside Roach.

Geralt knelt down, and used a stick to shift the leaf Jaskier had lifted before.

‘There it is,’ Geralt said heavily. ‘That little blue flower.’

‘Isn’t bollockwort white?’ Jaskier said. ‘Or do the flowers change colour when they’re dried?’

‘The usual kind is,’ Geralt said. ‘This is a ... stronger variety. It’s only found in a few places, usually near old mage towers. No one I’ve talked to has been sure whether it’s an escaped experiment, or if it’s the result of normal plants being too close to an area where a certain amount of magic has ... seeped into the soil.’

‘That doesn’t sound promising,’ Jaskier said. ‘Geralt, tell me that I’m not going to turn into a swallow or something.’

‘You’re not going to turn into a swallow,’ Geralt said obediently. 

He paused then, and Jaskier could just tell it was an ominous pause.

‘What,’ Jaskier said. ‘Geralt, what. Just tell me! What’s going to happen? Am I dying?’

Jaskier was trying very hard to stay calm, but Geralt’s constipated look was not making it easy. He could feel hysteria bubbling up inside him.

‘You’re not dying,’ Geralt said, which was something of a relief until he added, ‘Not if I have anything to do with it.’

He turned his back on Jaskier then, and took a sidestep to where Roach was browsing in a nosebag. That should have been the first sign that this was a dangerous place, Jaskier realised belatedly, the fact that Geralt didn’t want Roach eating anything here. When he’d seen Geralt fasten it onto her, Jaskier had just assumed that it was to prevent her from eating the plant Geralt was looking for. Now he wondered if it was for more reasons than that.

He trailed after Geralt, expecting that as soon as Geralt had her resaddled, they’d be riding somewhere to fetch help. Instead, Geralt was rummaging amongst their packs for ... his bed roll?

‘What—’ Jaskier managed.

Geralt turned around, bed roll in his hand and guilt in his eye.

‘The pollen you inhaled is still an aphrodisiac,’ Geralt said. ‘It’s just much, much stronger than the common form of the plant. It’s less of a bedroom aid than it is a bedroom imperative.’

‘What the fuck does that mean?’ Jaskier said. He felt he should be forgiven for the fact that his voice had gone rather shrill. His whole self felt shrill.

‘You have to ... work it out of your system,’ Geralt said.

Jaskier stared at him.

‘By fucking,’ Geralt added, helpfully.

Jaskier turned on his heel and walked away, his mind whirling. It didn’t—Surely Geralt was joking. In a moment he’d call out to him, and tell him that he was only kidding, that all Jaskier had to do was wait it out and drink a lot of water.

Geralt didn’t call out to him.

Jaskier strode back. Geralt was just waiting there, the bed roll in his arms.

‘Are you actually serious?’ Jaskier demanded. ‘Your solution for this is fucking? What’s the alternative?’

‘Well, if you don’t, you could get a fever so high that it cooks your brain,’ Geralt said. ‘I thought you’d rather avoid that.’

Jaskier’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly. The heat in his face was unignorable, which he would ordinarily put down to embarrassment, but there was also heat rising in the rest of his body. He’d been getting hot even before Geralt explained his predicament, hadn’t he? He could feel himself sweating into his linen shirt. He’d put it down to the heat of the day, but now that heat felt threatening. He shivered.

‘So, what, I just have a wank here while you go back to looking for your plant?’ 

The prospect felt a lot less tempting than it might have in other circumstances. It wasn’t as though he’d never wanked near Geralt before, but that had always been under the cover of darkness, and they both pretended afterwards that it hadn’t happened. It was an entirely different thing to be doing this in dappled afternoon sunlight, even if Geralt was kind enough not to watch him.

‘Actually, I was offering to help,’ Geralt said.

‘You what,’ Jaskier managed, although every fibre of his body was saying yes, please, anything you want.

‘It doesn’t have to mean anything,’ Geralt said. ‘I’ve lent a hand to other witchers before when someone had a need. This sort of thing usually goes faster with another person, and I don’t know how long the onset to anything critical happening is.’

He said it perfectly easily, as though Jaskier wasn’t going to have fantasies until the end of his days of naked and oiled witchers fucking each other.

‘Um,’ Jaskier managed.

‘Look, we’re friends, aren’t we?’ Geralt said. ‘I don’t mind helping you out. But you need skin contact. It helps counteract the poison. I think it would be more effective if I helped, but I can just strip off and hold you while you do it, if you’d rather. Or we could sit back to back, I think, so long as our shirts were off. That might work too, even if I suspect it might be less effective.’

That sounded somehow worse than fucking his best friend and the love of his life and having it not mean anything. The embarrassment of having Geralt so close but not participating, the humiliation of it all ... no.

This is your one chance, a little voice in his head told him. Wouldn’t you rather have had him even once? Even if you’ll never have him again?

‘No, that’s fine,’ Jaskier said. His mouth was dry. ‘You can help.’

Geralt’s expression cleared, and he looked relieved. He started unfastening the buckles on the bed roll.

‘You should probably undress,’ Geralt said.

He didn’t watch as Jaskier started to fumble with his buttons. Instead, he focused on getting the bed roll laid out. Jaskier would have watched Geralt’s arse at any other time, but he did the sensible thing and looked away while he unbuttoned his doublet, feeling very virtuous about it. Admittedly, part of reason he was holding himself back from catching an eyeful was he didn’t think he could manage buttons if he combusted from lust at the sight of Geralt’s behind. He shrugged out of his doublet, folded it haphazardly and dropped it on top of their packs, then did the same with his shirt. The buttons on his breeches were next, and he couldn’t quite make his fingers work right. Why couldn’t he unbutton them?

‘Here, let me help,’ Geralt said, and he was suddenly by Jaskier’s side. ‘Once you work through the poison, you’ll feel better. Less shaky.’

Geralt made short work of the buttons. For a moment, Jaskier could almost believe that they really were going to fuck because they both needed it, that this tension between them (lopsided though it had always been) was finally breaking like a storm front. But Geralt’s hands dropped away after the buttons were all free of their confines, and the way he smiled at Jaskier was like an indulgent friend helping his drunk friend home, not a lover consumed with lust.

‘There,’ Geralt said kindly. ‘That should be easier.’

‘Thanks,’ Jaskier muttered, and turned away to try to hide his heated face as he stripped off his breeches and braies. He knew that there was little point, but it made him feel a little better if he could pretend for a minute that Geralt wasn’t privy to his humiliation.

When he turned back, Geralt had already taken off his own arming jacket and shirt and was seated cross-legged on the bedroll as though he was about to meditate. He looked up at Jaskier and smiled.

‘I thought you could sit in front of me, and then I could—Well. You know,’ Geralt said.

He made an obscene gesture with an apologetic face, as though offering to give him a quick wank was an imposition he was asking Jaskier to suffer through. Jaskier felt the laughter bubbling up inside him. He had lost his mind. That was the only explanation for all of this. Whatever rare flower pollen he’d breathed in had actually just caused him to hallucinate, and it was only in those fevered imaginings that Geralt was apologising for fulfilling one of his guiltier fantasies.

‘Yeah, sure,’ Jaskier said. 

The laughter escaped him in a thin kind of giggle, and he froze. Surely Geralt would take offence, would think he was laughing at him—

‘It’s all right, Jaskier,’ Geralt said, impossibly kind. ‘Look, just come sit down.’

He spread his legs into a wide V, and Jaskier forced himself not to look at Geralt’s crotch. He wasn’t sure if it would be worse if Geralt was hard but still not attracted to him, or if Geralt was soft because this was really just another witchery task to him, as unarousing as brushing down Roach or slaughtering a kikimora.

Besides, Geralt was doing this as his friend. He wouldn’t want Jaskier eyeing him with appreciation or lust.

He settled himself down between Geralt’s legs, his own legs splayed, trying to keep a little space between his arse and Geralt’s prick while still putting himself in touching distance. Geralt gave a little huff of breath and shuffled himself closer. He tugged Jaskier’s torso back a little until it was resting against his own chest, andwrapped an arm around him.

Oh, thought Jaskier, as soon as their skin touched. Yes, that’s much better.

Geralt's skin was beautifully cool, and with the contact the heat in his own skin seemed to ebb into something more tolerable. Some of the giddiness and hysteria that had been building in him also eased. He gave a sighing breath, and the next breath he took felt much easier, as though some band tightening his lungs had been removed. He softened into Geralt’s embrace and let his eyes flutter closed in bliss.

‘Don’t fall asleep on me,’ Geralt rumbled right in his ear.

‘I won’t,’ Jaskier said, then, ‘Oh! Ohhhhh.’

Geralt had taken advantage of his distraction to wrap his hand around Jaskier’s cock and to stroke it just once, in an firm, even pressure. Any minimal softening from his embarrassment and confusion at this situation was gone. He was harder than he thought he’d ever been, his prick just this side of painful.

The pace Geralt set was slow at first, and a touch too loose. It was a delicious agony. In all of his fantasies, Jaskier would never have guessed that Geralt was a fucking tease.

He forbore it for as long as he could before grabbing at Geralt’s thigh in those sinfully tight leather breeches that he wore – so tight that they were almost leather hose.

‘Geralt, please, you’re killing me.’

Geralt immediately loosened his grip and slowed down further, ignoring Jaskier’s howl of anguish.

‘Too much?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Jaskier growled. ‘Not enough.’

Geralt huffed a laugh, but at least he tightened his grip a little and started stroking again.

‘Good?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Jaskier groaned. ‘Fuck, just like that.’

Geralt hummed, and did something with his wrist on the upstroke that had Jaskier’s eyes rolling back in his head. He tipped his head back onto Geralt’s shoulder, hissing out a breath. Geralt didn’t pause in his stroking, but his other hand spread itself wide across Jaskier’s chest. It was a point of stability, and the feeling of their skin touching there was so intense that he felt as though when this was done, he would still wear the outline of Geralt’s hand, branded in silver-pink scar tissue. He was pinned in place by both of Geralt’s hands: one on his chest, and one on his cock. He was strung between them like a lute string, thrumming to the rhythm Geralt set. He was making little keening noises as he was brought closer and closer to the edge, shuddering against the cool solidity of Geralt behind him.

‘Easy,’ Geralt murmured. ‘You’re nearly there. Just let go.’

That reminder of who was touching him was nearly enough to do it, and then Geralt did that little twist again, and Jaskier was lost.

‘There, perfect,’ Geralt said. ‘Well done.’

The warmth in his voice sent another shocky wave through Jaskier’s body. Geralt slowed his movement, then his hand was a warm tunnel that Jaskier fucked into another couple of times, chasing the last moments of pleasure, before he subsided against Geralt’s stony solidity. His eyes closed and he lounged there, panting and enjoying the moment, even the pleasant kind of ache that still remained.

‘You’re still hard,’ Geralt said.

Brought back to his body, Jaskier realised he was right. His prick was still hard, and it still ached.

‘What? No,’ he said, gazing down at himself in dismay.

‘It might take more than one to work it out of your system,’ Geralt said. ‘We can give it another try.’

‘It hurts,’ Jaskier said, too tired to put a brave face on it. ‘It’s too soon.’

Geralt put a hand on his forehead.

‘You’re still too hot. I don’t know how long we can wait. How much does it hurt?’

‘Well, not hurt as such,’ Jaskier admitted. ‘But I’m too sensitive. It’ll hurt to go again so soon. It’ll be too much.’

His past partners were always happy to be distracted from the fact that Jaskier was too sensitive to be touched immediately afterwards by his skilful mouth and hands, but he knew that this time that was out of the question.

‘Sometimes too much can feel good,’ Geralt said. ‘I’ll show you. Wait here and I’ll get the oil.’

Jaskier felt the loss of his touch as soon as Geralt left. He was too tired to sit up on his own, he decided, and let himself lie back against the bed roll. He stared up at the blue sky. A fluffy white cloud meandered above him on its own path, completely uncaring of Jaskier’s suffering beneath.

‘Up you get,’ said a pair of leather trousers, standing over him.

‘Too tired,’ he told them.

A huff of laughter, and then strong hands lifted him up and Geralt settled himself behind him again.

‘I missed you,’ Jaskier said, letting his cheek rest on the smooth plane of Geralt’s chest. He was aware in a distant sort of way that there was a reason he wasn’t supposed to tell Geralt how he felt, but he was too fuzzy-headed for that reason to mean anything, or for him to even remember what it was.

Geralt seemed not to mind. He pressed his hand against Jaskier’s forehead, and it was a cool balm against Jaskier’s heated skin. All that heat was leaching away now that Geralt was touching him again. All too soon, though, that hand was taken away. Jaskier made a protesting little whine.

‘This might take a moment to feel good,’ Geralt said, tipping oil into his hand and putting the bottle down. ‘But it shouldn’t hurt. Tell me if it hurts.’

His hand closed around Jaskier again and started to stroke, slowly and gently, the way he’d begun last time. It was a different feeling with his hand slicked by oil, less heated. But it was still far too soon for it to feel good.

‘Too much,’ Jaskier complained.

Geralt ignored him, and kept his touch feather light and slow, and suddenly it wasn’t too much. Or it still was, but Jaskier didn’t care any more.

‘Gods, oh fuck,’ he breathed, arching in Geralt’s arms.

Geralt hummed, and Jaskier could feel it all the way along his back. Fuck. He was being taken apart, and it was Geralt who was doing it. It was a very different kind of slow torture, because he wouldn’t have borne it if Geralt touched him as firmly he usually liked it. That would have been pain, but this was intense sensation, hovering between pain and pleasure, until it tipped over into just being pleasure. He was writhing as though he didn’t have control of his body. Everything was subsumed into the intensity of the sensation, white hot along the whole of his cock, and radiating out from there.

‘Geralt, Geralt, Geralt,’ he whimpered, but Geralt held him fast, an arm across Jaskier’s chest like a harness holding him in place.

Geralt shushed and coaxed him towards his peak, his hand on Jaskier’s chest moving in small circles. His grip around Jaskier’s cock tightened just fractionally, and then Jaskier’s body was seizing up and he was coming again. It was a smaller amount of spend this time. That made sense considering how short a time it had been since the last. It hurt a little, although not as much as his cock did. He sucked in air through his teeth and smacked Geralt’s hand away.

Geralt held him while he caught his breath, which was uncommonly kind of him.

Jaskier was still hard. He still wanted. No, that wasn’t quite true. His body still wanted for pleasure. Jaskier wanted for sleep, despite the fact that it was barely afternoon. He let out a sob of despair, and turned his head to rest his cheek on Geralt’s cool chest again.

‘You’re still too warm,’ Geralt said.

His voice soft and gentle, as though Jaskier were some lost child he was coaxing out of a monster’s lair. He never spoke to him this way, not even when Jaskier had been sick for a week and they’d had to hole up in an old barn. It was a bad sign that Geralt wasn’t teasing him as he usually would.

‘I can’t,’ he sobbed. ‘Geralt, I can’t. It hurts too much. I can’t do it again.’ He sucked in a hitching breath. ‘I’m going to die, aren’t I?’

‘You’re not,’ Geralt said fiercely. ‘We can lie you down, get a cool cloth on your forehead. That might help. And then we could …’

‘What?’ Jaskier asked hoarsely. He wanted Geralt to save him, the way he always did. Geralt always knew what to do. But Jaskier just couldn’t see how Geralt could fix this.

‘Wait here,’ Geralt said.

He didn’t leave Jaskier sitting this time, but helped him lie down. The loss of Geralt’s touch again felt as though his own heart and lungs were missing. Jaskier stared up at the sky again, at the gathering clouds. They were still white, but as one crossed the sun, a shadow fell across him. He barely felt the coolness of the shadow with the fire roaring inside him.

Geralt was kneeling beside him pouring water onto a folded piece of cloth. Jaskier reached out a desperate hand, but all he could manage was to land it on Geralt’s lap. That wasn’t at all satisfying with the leather in the way. He needed Geralt to touch him again.

‘Just sit up and drink a little,’ Geralt said. 

He helped Jaskier up onto one elbow. Jaskier wanted to make some kind of joke about being treated like an invalid, but he found he needed the help. All of his limbs felt heavy, as though someone had poured lead in them when he wasn’t looking. Geralt pressed the mouth of the waterskin to his lips, and he managed a couple of mouthfuls of water before he couldn’t sit up any longer. The lukewarm water tasted so good that he knew he was thirstier than he ought to be.

‘It hasn’t helped,’ Jaskier said. He was worse than he’d been when they started this. It felt as though he would burn away in layers, like a book hurled into a hearth.

Geralt laid his hand on Jaskier’s forehead. ‘You’re a little cooler than you were. You just haven’t worked it all out of your system yet.’

He replaced his hand with the wet cloth, and that helped the fever a little. Jaskier had just had the same water in his mouth, so he knew that the cloth wasn’t icy cold, but it felt as though it were. He really was cooking from the inside out, like parsnips or turnips laid in the coals of a fire. 

Even if it hadn’t saved him, he couldn’t regret having had Geralt’s hands on him. That was a nice way to end his life, he thought. It was several of his most fervent wishes come true, aside from the one with Valdo Marx and the swarm of vicious man-eating rats. And Geralt actually confessing to some kind of feelings, but that was even less likely than the rats.

‘How are you feeling now?’ Geralt asked.

‘Hot,’ Jaskier said. ‘Chafed. Sore.’

‘Still too sensitive to be touched?’

‘Mm.’

‘I could—’ 

Geralt looked uncertain. Jaskier didn’t like that expression. Was it going to be I could take your body home to your family? He might be resigned to the probability of his own death, but if Geralt was, then there really was no hope.

‘You could what,’ Jaskier said, around a fearful lump in his throat.

At the same time, Geralt said, ‘I could suck you off, if you like.’

Jaskier’s mouth dropped open. He wanted that, fuck, of course he wanted it, but he wasn’t sure he’d even heard it correctly.

‘I thought it would be worth a try,’ Geralt said. ‘And it might hurt less.’

‘We can try,’ Jaskier agreed hastily, his heart pounding with need. ‘It won’t … hurt you?’

Geralt stared at him. ‘What?’

‘The poison. Aren’t we getting it out of me through my spend?’

A slow smile. ‘It takes a lot to poison witchers. I’ll be fine.’

‘All right, then.’ Jaskier wasn’t sure Geralt was right about that, but he was too greedy to disagree.

Geralt shifted, nudging Jaskier’s legs apart and settling himself between them.

‘I haven’t done this a lot,’ Geralt apologised.

Jaskier didn’t care, couldn’t care. He opened his mouth to tell Geralt so, just before a cool mouth enveloped his heated cock.

‘Oh, fuck,’ Jaskier said, his hips jerking up off the ground. Geralt pinned his hips down with his hands, and bobbed his head, taking more of Jaskier’s shaft inside. He was still sensitive, but thankfully this wasn’t as intense as the last time, and Jaskier was thankful of that. Geralt could only get half his cock in his mouth, although even that felt like bliss. 

One of Geralt’s hands left his hips, and Jaskier bit his lip in anticipation of a hand along his raw-feeling cock. It would probably be worth it, considering the intensity of his last orgasm, but Jaskier had never particularly enjoyed pain.

The hand on his cock never came. Instead, Geralt cupped his balls in his oiled fingers, gently rolling them and softly stroking his sac. Jaskier was nearly mindless with the force of so much pleasure in such a short time. Just one of Geralt’s hands was apparently enough to keep his hips pinned, and that casual reminder of Geralt’s strength sent sparks up and down Jaskier’s spine. He bit down on the meat of his thumb to keep himself quiet, but even that couldn’t completely muffle the little wanton noises that leaked out around the seal of his lips.

Geralt pulled off his prick, and Jaskier felt a breeze caress his cockhead, cooling the drying spittle.

‘You can make noise,’ Geralt said gruffly. Was Jaskier imagining it, or was his voice rougher than usual? ‘There’s no one to hear us, and I want to know if you’re enjoying yourself.’

Jaskier made one more whimper around his hand at the thought of Geralt wanting to hear him. At the fact that Geralt was watching him unwind even now. He managed to get a sufficient hold of himself to remove his teeth from his palm and lay his hand back at his side, and Geralt bent his head again.

‘Gods, fuck,’ Jaskier breathed, as his prick was licked and caressed and sucked. He made embarrassingly desperate noises as he slowly climbed towards another peak. His very bones ached, and yet there was pleasure there too, suffusing him from the tip of his cock outwards, like ink dropped in water. There was a different feeling of something like satisfaction too, centred on all the spots where Geralt’s skin touched his: his hand on Jaskier’s hip, his other hand still caressing his balls, the line along Jaskier’s inner thigh where Geralt’s forearm rested. 

Fuck, he was nearly there, he was giddy with it, and his whole being was chasing that peak. He just needed a little more, and he thought he might have been asking Geralt for it. Might have been begging. Geralt’s hand slipped along his balls until they were cradled in his palm, and his fingertips were pressing into a spot just behind them and—

Geralt didn’t pull off, even though he’d surely done his part, and Jaskier wouldn’t have begrudged him such a move. Most of Jaskier’s partners who’d been willing to use their mouths didn’t want to taste his seed, and they’d been doing it for much less selfless reasons than Geralt was. Besides, with Jaskier poisoned, wouldn’t it be safer not to? But no, Geralt kept swallowing and working his mouth around Jaskier’s cock until his peak faded and Jaskier pushed him away again.

At least there was less spend for him to swallow than there usually would have been, Jaskier thought wryly with the lucidity that had returned in this moment between waves of need. 

Now that the pleasure had faded, the ache in his bones was back, and he could feel how hot and sweaty he was. He didn’t think he could sit up, not yet. He pulled the cloth off his forehead. It was far too warm now, and barely felt damp at all.

‘Let me,’ Geralt said, and came to take the cloth. He uncorked the discarded waterskin, and tipped it over the cloth until it was soaked again.

‘Put it on my chest?’ Jaskier said.

He groaned as Geralt patted his forehead and cheeks with the cloth. He could feel a slight breeze caressing his freshly damp skin, and was blissful to feel even a tiny bit cooler. The cloth dragged down his left arm, along the outside, and then Geralt lifted his wrist and dragged it up the sensitive inner skin towards his pit. Then he repeated it along Jaskier’s right arm. As the breeze caught the crooks of his elbows, Jaskier groaned in pleasure.

Geralt dampened the cloth again before wiping down Jaskier’s chest. The rough linen caught on Jaskier’s pebbled nipples, and he bit back a moan, even though they were surely past any sense of propriety by now. Geralt had got him off three times, and was wiping him down as though he were a child in bed with a fever. Jaskier wouldn’t have had the breath to complain even if he wanted to, and besides, it felt so good to have even a brief cool breeze touch his heated body.

His legs were wiped down next, with a freshly dampened cloth. When he got to Jaskier’s feet, Geralt wiped down the tops and the bottoms, and Jaskier cried out with how much cooler he felt.

‘I’d take you to the river, if it wasn’t so far,’ Geralt said. ‘If I could get you into the river, that ought to cool you down.’

Jaskier tried to remember when they’d passed the river. There had been a bridge this morning, hadn’t there? Soon after they left the town, before they walked several hours here. Jaskier would burn up into cinders before they made it back, he was sure of it. Even if Geralt threw him on Roach’s back.

Geralt wetted the cloth one final time before folding it again and placing it back on Jaskier’s forehead. The cool was blissful, and Jaskier sighed with relief.

‘You’re still hard,’ Geralt said, a small furrow between his brows. ‘How do you feel?’

‘All right,’ Jaskier said, hoping it was true, and that he wasn’t imagining it. ‘Perhaps we can wait it out? It might go away on its own.’

‘Perhaps,’ Geralt said, although his tone of voice said It’s doubtful. ‘You should drink more. You’re losing fluid.’

‘I didn’t lose that much,’ Jaskier said, for contrariness’s sake. ‘You should know that.’

‘You’re sweating,’ Geralt said. ‘That counts.’

Jaskier deigned to let Geralt help him up to a semi-recumbant position again, although he didn’t really have a lot of choice about the matter. Geralt’s hand under his back still felt good. In fact, it felt almost too good, and he realised that the need was building in him again. He tried to ignore it, tried to pretend it wasn’t happening, but it was difficult to pretend not to be affected with Geralt touching him, and with his being so near. His face was just above Jaskier’s as he offered the waterskin, and if Jaskier just reached up a little higher, he could pull him into a kiss. If only the waterskin were Geralt’s prick, he could be drinking down something entirely different, something thicker and a little bitter, with the slight saltiness of skin. Jaskier could almost feel the weight of a cock on his tongue as Geralt pulled the waterskin away and corked it.

Distantly, Jaskier heard him say I’ll get the other one, but it felt unimportant when Geralt’s cock was right there, imprisoned in his too-tight breeches. Didn’t it hurt? Jaskier’s hurt. He could fix that for him, pay Geralt back. He scrabbled at the buttons of Geralt’s fly.

‘Jaskier, what are you doing?’ Geralt said, gripping Jaskier’s wrists.

‘Making you feel good,’ Jaskier said. ‘Let me, I need to, I need this—’

‘It’s not about me,’ Geralt said gently. ‘If you need, let me help you.’

Jaskier tried to reach the buttons on Geralt’s breeches, but those hands holding his wrists were too strong. Geralt was immoveable when he wanted to be.

‘It hurts, Geralt,’ Jaskier said plaintively. He lay his cheek down on Geralt’s thigh. Geralt’s leather breeches were cooler than his own skin, but they didn’t give him the relief that touching Geralt’s skin did.

‘I know,’ Geralt said. He rubbed circles on Jaskier’s naked back, and Jaskier wished he were a cat so he could purr. ‘But if you let me help, it’ll hurt less. At least the poison seems to be ebbing.’

‘No, my prick hurts,’ Jaskier said. ‘I don’t want to even touch it, and you know how odd that is for me.’

Geralt huffed another of his little laughs, and Jaskier tried not to preen about it. Making Geralt laugh always made him feel as though he’d won a prize.

‘We could try something else,’ Geralt said. ‘There are other parts of the body that—’

‘You could fuck me,’ Jaskier said. The lethargy clinging to his limbs almost seemed to fall away with the excitement of that idea, and he sat up. ‘Then you could enjoy yourself and it won’t hurt.’

‘I told you, I don’t mind—’

‘I do,’ Jaskier said. ‘Please, Geralt. I need it. I want it. I want you to fuck me. Please? Say you will. It’s all I’ve ever wanted from you. It’s all I dream of at night.’

He was horrified at the truth spilling from his mouth, but the admission was out there before he could stop himself. A cold feeling closed around his heart. Geralt had been so understanding up until now, but the rest of what had happened today could be blamed on poor luck and circumstance. This was a secret Jaskier had been keeping from him for years, and Jaskier knew all too well how poorly such a secret was usually received by a friend who wasn’t expecting it from you. He didn’t want this to be the end of this friendship the way it had been before. But his head was foggy with need, and his prick was still hard, and he couldn’t think what to say to try to make the situation better.

But Geralt just rolled his eyes. ‘There’s no need to be dramatic.’

Relief stole Jaskier’s breath from him, but he managed, ‘Please. Please, Geralt. Please fuck me.’

‘Are you sure you want this?’ Geralt said. ‘I don’t want to—’

‘It’s just a fuck,’ Jaskier forced himself to say. ’Besides, if you touch my prick I will die, which seems as though it will undo the rest of your careful pains.’

‘I’ve not,’ Geralt said, the words abrupt. ‘Fucked someone. Like that. Not for a while.’

‘Oh. You don’t … have to,’ Jaskier said, trying to ignore his dismay at Geralt’s obvious discomfort. He always pushed too hard. Why did he always push people too hard? Geralt was probably revolted by the request, by him—

‘I don’t mind. It won’t be a hardship,’ Geralt said. ‘Just don’t expect any particular skill. I’m out of practice.’ His hands went to the fly of his breeches and started to unbutton them.

‘So long as you fill me, I promise that’s all I require,’ Jaskier said primly, his expression carefully calculated to make Geralt laugh. When it did, he felt his shoulders relax a little and he let himself recline on the bedroll with relief. ‘I could always ride you.’

Geralt gave him an ironic look before pushing the last button through its buttonhole. ‘It seems to me as though I’ll need to do all the work,’ he teased. ‘You hardly seem capable of riding anything. Where did I put the oil?’

He wriggled out of his breeches and kicked them off. It was far more alluring than it should be, Jaskier reflected. Despite his good intentions, his eyes were drawn to Geralt’s half-hard cock. Not revolted by him, then. That delicious cock drew closer, and then Geralt was looming over him. Jaskier blinked, but Geralt just reached past him to seize the small bottle of oil. Sitting back on his heels, he uncorked it and put the cork carefully aside.

‘It’s possibly you may have to do the – hah, the wolf’s share – of the work,’ Jaskier said, heroically addressing Geralt’s face instead of his prick. ‘I would like to point out that this is scarcely my usual bed manner. I’m not used to being so …’ He waved a vague hand.

Geralt swapped the hand holding the oil bottle so he could lay a non-oiled hand on Jaskier’s thigh. ‘I don’t mind, Jask. You’ve been poisoned. It’s not as though we’d be likely to do this otherwise, would we?’

‘Right,’ Jaskier said weakly.

That was a harsh reminder of the situation. If he wasn’t under the compulsion of a fucking plant, his prick would soften at that. But he could still feel his pulse in his too-hard cock, which was as eager for Geralt’s touch as ever.

You fucking traitor, he thought bitterly.

At least Geralt wasn’t completely soft, which was some small measure of comfort. Geralt might not be interested in him, but at least he wasn’t forcing himself to do something he found abhorrent.

Geralt took his hand away again to attend to his preparations. Before he could bite his tongue, Jaskier said, ‘Please don’t stop touching me.’

‘I need both of my hands,’ Geralt said, looking down at him. ‘But here, if I shuffle forward, can you shift your leg around me?’

Jaskier managed to move both of his legs so that his calves rested against Geralt’s sides.

‘Better?’ Geralt asked, corking the oil again.

‘A little,’ Jaskier admitted. His face was hot, and he couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment or just the fucking fever that would not abate.

He watched the breeze ripple the edges of the trees on the far side of the glade to distract himself.

‘May I …?’ Geralt asked. 

Jaskier dragged his attention back to what they were doing. Geralt’s hand hovered near Jaskier’s hole, waiting for permission.

‘Yes?’ Jaskier said, then ‘Ngh,’ as Geralt pushed a finger inside.

It had been a little while for him too, truthfully. It was harder to find interested men in smaller villages, since everyone there needed to be much more circumspect, and he didn’t know any of them, which made it harder to judge who to approach. It was easier in the cities. He knew the places to go to find others of like mind in Novigrad and Oxenfurt and Vizima. But he and Geralt had mostly been travelling though smaller backwaters lately, and this act was more comfortably done somewhere where you wouldn’t be disturbed. Better to stick to hands and mouths and thighs if you were sneaking a fuck in a stables somewhere. Not all villages were comfortable with men taking their pleasure together, and you never knew when getting caught would be dangerous.

Geralt’s fingers were thick, and it took a moment for Jaskier to relax around him and for the pain to ease into pressure and fullness. He knew Geralt was watching his face for his reactions, but he couldn’t meet that gaze. He felt open and vulnerable in more than one way with the reminder that Geralt was simply doing this to save a friend, and wouldn’t welcome Jaskier’s messy feelings about him. It was making it harder to relax and let Geralt in, as though keeping his body rigid would stop his mouth from spilling his secrets.

‘Come on, relax,’ Geralt said, rubbing Jaskier’s hip with his other hand.

‘I’m trying,’ Jaskier said. ‘This isn’t exactly the ideal situation.’

‘I know,’ Geralt said. ‘We don’t have to do this, you know. You don’t have to force yourself. We can try something else.’

That sounded worse, Jaskier thought. What was the point in this afternoon breaking his heart if he couldn’t at least have had the experience of Geralt filling him up?

‘No, I want it,’ Jaskier admitted. ‘I’m just feeling a little tense.’

If they were lovers, Jaskier thought, he could probably coax a kiss from Geralt, and that would help him relax. He couldn’t ask for that, though. It wasn’t what was being offered, and Geralt was already being more than generous by offering his body.

He wished Geralt would kiss him, though. He had two of Geralt’s fingers inside him, he had Geralt’s flanks pressing along the inside of his own legs, and yet he still felt starved for touch, as though he might die from that instead of the poison coursing through his system. He pressed his cheek into the bed roll beneath him, but it didn’t help.

‘Normally I’d give you a stroke or two,’ Geralt said. ‘But I’m guessing that might be a little unwelcome at the moment.’

‘Please don’t,’ Jaskier said with alarm.

‘We’ll try other things,’ Geralt agreed.

His free hand swept over Jaskier’s hip, towards his cock, but diverted away and stroked softly over his inner thigh instead. It left a tingle in its wake as Geralt repeated the motion with Jaskier’s other thigh. Seemingly pleased with the little noises he’d coaxed out, Geralt did it again, this time lengthening the movement until it ended on the soft skin beneath Jaskier’s knee, before brushing his fingers towards his cock again. Jaskier hadn’t known that the backs of his knees were so sensitive. He imagined what it would be like if it wasn’t just Geralt’s fingers, but if it was his lips nuzzling into the soft skin there and leaving kisses. If Geralt did that while fucking him, holding Jaskier’s legs up above him so that he could torment him with licks and kisses to that tender skin.

‘There you go,’ Geralt said with satisfaction, twisting his fingers inside Jaskier and working them deeper.

He managed a complicated bit of slight of hand, thumbing the cork out one-handed so that he could drizzle a little more over his fingers and Jaskier’s stretched hole. Jaskier made a little whimper at the cool liquid touching him, but Geralt was kind enough not to comment.

Jaskier quickly realised that the reason Geralt did it that way was so that he could prepare for a third finger without leaving Jaskier open and bereft. He didn’t even quite remove the two fingers holding Jaskier open while he slipped the third finger in beside them, and Jaskier groaned in satisfaction at the stretch. Geralt’s free hand returned to stroking along Jaskier’s hip as he moved his other fingers inside him so very gently and slowly.

Slowly, the pleasure of the stretch waned and his need to be filled more waxed, until it was buzzing under his skin again, like an entire hive of bees.

‘I’m ready,’ Jaskier said, tucking his heels behind Geralt’s arse and trying to urge him forward. ‘Please, I’m ready. Fuck me. Please.’

Geralt’s fingers slipped out of him then, and although Jaskier knew it was necessary, the loss still made him feel as though he were dying. Geralt wiped his fingers on a rag, then poured more oil into his palm and stroked it along the length of his cock. Jaskier watched greedily. Geralt’s prick was long and thick because of course it was. Was there anything about him that wasn’t the pinnacle of human perfection? Soon that thickness would be inside Jaskier. He licked his lips.

There was a brief pressure at his fluttering hole, and then the head of Geralt’s cock slipped inside, pushing Jaskier’s air out of his lungs with it. It was definitely thicker than three of Geralt’s fingers.

‘Fuck,’ Jaskier wheezed.

Geralt paused, concern on his face.

‘I’m fine,’ Jaskier said. ‘I just need a minute.’

‘I can wait,’ Geralt said.

How? Jaskier wanted to ask. How can you possibly wait? He felt so desperate. Some small part of him knew that this was not how he normally felt during sex, that there were plenty of times when he and his partner had taken their time. When their fucks had been leisurely, drawing out their pleasure until they were both almost crying with it. He’d spent a full day in bed with the countess that one time when her husband was in Tretogor for business, and the two of them had spent that day trying to suspend each moment of pleasure indefinitely. That was still one of his fonder memories. But the concept of drawing out anything for the joy of it was completely foreign to him now. More foreign than Nilfgaard – perhaps as alien as the dryads of Brokilon, or those merfolk that he’d met with Geralt that time with the duke. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to wait at all were he in Geralt’s position, so it was probably for the best that their roles weren’t reversed.

‘In, in me, now, please,’ Jaskier chanted, when his desperation for more overwhelmed the discomfort of the stretch.

Geralt obeyed, but of course he was slow and gentle about it. He ignored Jaskier’s pleas and took his time pushing in as slowly as the arrival of summer in the northernmost states. Jaskier’s breath hitched in his chest and he only realised he was crying when a tear slipped out and rolled down his cheek. Geralt stopped moving, which was intolerable.

‘Are you all right?’ Geralt asked.

‘No,’ Jaskier said. ‘I’m fucking poisoned, and my best friend promised he’d h-help, but all he’s doing is torturing me and not fucking me.’

‘All right,’ Geralt said with a little smile. He tipped his head forward so that his forehead and Jaskier’s rested together for a moment and they shared breaths. ‘Just making sure.’

‘Fucking – move,’ Jaskier hissed, but Geralt was already straightening his back and finishing the push deeper inside in one slow, smooth movement.

Geralt paused again once he was fully sheathed. Somehow that made Jaskier feel more overwhelmed than if he’d started pounding into him. Geralt was bigger than anything he’d taken in a while, and he felt so full. He gripped Geralt’s forearm as he held himself over Jaskier, and tried to breathe through the feeling of being thoroughly impaled.

‘Ready?’ Geralt panted.

‘Please,’ Jaskier said, and another tear slipped from his eye.

He was thankful when Geralt grunted and started to move, and didn’t acknowledge the fact that Jaskier was falling apart beneath him. It wasn’t even the fact that it was Geralt that was destroying him, not entirely. It was the overwhelming feeling of all of it, the pain and the pleasure and the artificial desperation that the pollen had induced in him. The love he had for Geralt was just one more candle lit in a temple glowing with a thousand candles on its altar. Even without the physicality of the accompanying fever, Jaskier felt as though he might burn up from need alone.

Geralt was finally fucking him. It wasn’t as hard as Jaskier would normally like it, but with a kind of methodical attention to it. It reminded Jaskier of watching Geralt grinding herbs in preparation for potion making – or poultice making, if Jaskier had done something ill advised and needed tending. It wasn’t as though Jaskier felt like an object, or as though Geralt saw him as a chore. That wasn’t it at all. Geralt had such a care for everything he did, whether it was making something or planning a hunt or looking after Roach, and now all of that care and concern was turned directly on Jaskier. Geralt was watching him as he fucked him, examining his face for every reaction. Jaskier didn’t think he’d ever had the full focus of Geralt’s attention before, not like this, and the force of it felt as all consuming as the effects of the pollen. The care and concern in Geralt’s eyes almost took his breath away. He knew Geralt cared for him; he’d felt comfortable in this friendship for years now, but he felt anew just how precious that trust and care was coming from Geralt, and it was like falling in love with him all over again. He felt another hot tear slip down his cheek as he gave a hiccupy sob.

He could feel himself climbing towards another peak, but the build was slower than all of the previous ones. Even with Geralt filling him so perfectly, and stroking that spot inside which always drove him out of his mind (even when he wasn’t at the mercy of a stupid plant). He ached to touch his cock, but he knew that wouldn’t help, not with the abuse he’d given it so far today. He clung to Geralt’s forearm instead, and wished that they could kiss. He wished that there was something a little more romantic about this, or at the very least deliberately erotic. That Geralt had been harbouring some secret lust for him that he was finally giving way to, and the reason they were fucking in this glade was because they couldn’t bear to wait any longer to consummate their passion. The desperation Jaskier felt might then feel thrilling, instead of torturous.

Kiss me, he willed Geralt, not brave enough to ask him directly. Please. Just kiss me. He could feel more tears welling in his eyes, and he hated it.

‘I’ve got you, Jask,’ Geralt said. 

‘I know,’ Jaskier said wetly, because he did. Geralt might not return his affections in the way Jaskier wished, but he was the best of friends that anyone could ask for, and loyal to a fault. Jaskier knew that Geralt would walk through fire to save him if he had to. He’d had any doubt of that.

‘Nearly there?’ Geralt asked. His voice was a low rasp. ‘Think you can come for me?’

That isn’t fair, Jaskier thought, as his body seized and he came. It was a pitiful amount that seemed unfair for how much it hurt. Geralt slowed and stopped, but was kind enough not to pull out immediately. Jaskier closed his eyes, knowing that Geralt was still watching him, still monitoring his body and its reactions. If Jaskier didn’t open his eyes, he wouldn’t see what expression was on Geralt’s face. Then it wouldn’t hurt so much that it was concern and not lust.

Once his breathing was largely returned to normal, he had the unpleasant sensation of Geralt pulling out. He must have made a face, because Geralt huffed a quiet apology as he settled down beside Jaskier on the narrow mat. The fever felt as though it had finally receded, but Jaskier was still thankful to feel Geralt’s soothing bulk all along his side where his body touched Jaskier’s.

‘How are you feeling?’ Geralt asked.

‘Better,’ Jaskier said, relieved that it was true. Some of the ache in his bones had receded. Although he wasn’t exactly soft yet, he was finally softening. His cock might still feel chafed, but at least he wasn’t so hard it hurt any more. It was still uncomfortable enough that he wished he could somehow take it off and leave it in a drawer, which was never a feeling he’d had about his own prick before. Well, not since that awkward part of his youth when it seemed to have a mind of its own, anyway.

‘You look a little better,’ Geralt said. ‘Although it’d be easier to be sure if I could see your eyes.’

Jaskier opened them, partly out of surprise at the request. ‘My eyes? What about them?’

‘Your pupils were enlarged,’ Geralt said. ‘It happens sometimes if people are drugged.’

‘Huh,’ Jaskier said. ‘They didn’t feel any different.’

‘It’s not something humans can feel,’ Geralt smiled. ‘Or so I’m told.’

‘But you can?’ Jaskier asked.

Geralt hummed.

‘Huh.’ Jaskier digested this new small puzzle that was witchers. ‘So are my eyes better now?’

Geralt was silent for a little too long.

‘Not quite yet,’ he admitted. ‘But it might just take a little longer for the last of the pollen to make its way out of your system, even once the fever has definitely broken. Not all effects last the exact same time – I learnt that long ago, when I took my first potion.’

Jaskier hummed an acknowledgement and let his eyes fall shut again. On any other day he’d ask Geralt for details, try to prise the whole story from him. But his whole body was so tired. Perhaps he could just have a little nap here, while Geralt fetched his plant.

Geralt seemed willing to let him lie there, thankfully, and even better, didn’t seem about to abandon him in favour of herbcraft just yet. The two of them lay together in comfortable silence for a while, then Jaskier felt him move against his side as a prelude to sitting up. A moment later, his hand just glanced over Jaskier’s chest as he reached across him for something. Jaskier, shamefully, moaned.

He opened his eyes. Geralt was looking down at him with a worried frown.

‘It’s never going to stop, is it?’ Jaskier asked, misery swirling through him.

‘It took longer this time,’ Geralt said gently. He was still trying to be comforting, Jaskier thought. He wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse. ‘Perhaps this is the last one, and then you’ll be done.’

‘I thought it was supposed to be one,’ Jaskier said. ‘When you said it had to be fucked out of my system. I thought one good fuck and we would be done.’

‘I’ve never had direct experience. That’s what the accounts I’d read suggested, but none of them were very precise in the details.’

‘Geralt, I don’t think I can.’ Jaskier said, despair filling him. ‘Perhaps if you have some magical way of making me come without touching me—’

‘Sadly, that wasn’t one of the Signs I was taught,’ Geralt said. ‘You had to be a witcher for a solid hundred years before they taught you that one.’

Jaskier didn’t laugh. Geralt grimaced apologetically.

‘I’m going to die, aren’t I?’ Jaskier asked.

‘You won’t,’ Geralt said. ‘We might just have to wait a little longer. We might have worked enough of it of you – you’re not as hot as you were. Your fever might slowly drop until you’re back to normal, and you might just be uncomfortable for a little while while you wait for that to happen. Or ...’

He had a thoughtful expression on his face, and Jaskier had a moment of sudden hope. 

‘Or what?’ he asked. 

‘Or we could try something else,’ Geralt said. ‘See if we can’t work the last out. It might feel a little strange, but it shouldn’t hurt.’

‘Anything,’ Jaskier said. ‘You know me, willing to try anything.’

Geralt smiled at him. ‘Yeah. All right, let me get the oil.’

He reached over Jaskier again and grabbed the little bottle, and then settled himself between Jaskier’s legs again. ‘So what are you actually planning?’ Jaskier asked, trepidation starting to build as Geralt poured out a little pool of oil into one cupped palm and oiled up his fingers.

‘I’m going to finger you,’ Geralt said. ‘There’s a spot inside you which will help you ... produce emissions.’

‘What?’ Jaskier said faintly.

‘It should get the last of the poison out, which I think might reduce your symptoms.’

‘How do you know this?’ Jaskier demanded. ‘About producing emissions, I mean.’

‘Experimentation,’ Geralt said vaguely, which was an annoyingly coy response.  ‘Breathe and relax.’

The instruction was not particularly helpful, all things considered, but when Jaskier felt Geralt’s fingers pressing against him, he did his best to follow it.

At least he was still loose from being thoroughly fucked earlier, so it wasn’t much of a stretch at all. And it didn't hurt as he’d feared it might. It felt a little strange, Geralt’s fingers shifting around inside him while he watched Jaskier with that hawk-like gaze of his. It made Jaskier feel more than naked, as though every part of him and all his secrets were laid bare to Geralt’s relentless measuring stare. It made him feel more vulnerable than the fucking did. He knew his body and soul were safe with Geralt – he just wasn’t as sure of his heart. 

He made a noise as Geralt’s questing fingers found that spot inside him again. Geralt’s focused expression shifted into satisfaction.

‘There we are,’ he murmured, seemingly to himself.

He was unrelenting after that, with all of his attentions focused on that same sensitive spot. He didn’t hit it bruisingly hard, as some of Jaskier’s lovers had done, but his strokes were remorseless, and Jaskier was already oversensitive. It took Geralt almost no time at all to sweep Jaskier up in a flood of sensation, but as overwhelming as it was, it never seemed to get close to cresting. He was surprised, therefore, when the first weak spatter landed on his belly.

‘What—?’ he said.

‘I’m wringing you out,’ Geralt said. ‘Should get the last of it out, but you won’t come.’

‘Oh,’ Jaskier said.

That was a little hot, he thought. In another situation, with someone who lusted to see what heights they could bring him to, it definitely would be: a lover taking such control over both his body and his pleasure that they could bring him to the brink like this, and then just provide him with release without a peak. Even reminding himself why it was happening now wasn’t quite enough to take the thrill away from the thought. He suspected he was going to have a new guilty fantasy the next time that Geralt was off on some expedition, leaving Jaskier behind to entertain himself.

Geralt continued his assault. Jaskier felt as though he was suspended in midair, held between one moment and the next. Geralt had been right: he couldn’t peak, but with the ongoing attentions, he couldn’t come down either. He was distantly aware that he was making desperate little noises, but any shame over them was too distant to be felt.

Finally, Geralt’s slow movements slowed further, then stopped.

‘That’s it, that’s the last of it,’ he said. He withdrew his fingers carefully, and wiped them on a cloth.

‘Mnyeh,’ Jaskier managed through a dry mouth.

‘I think we should finally have worked through the worst of the poison. You should feel a little better now.’

Jaskier hummed an acknowledgement and tried to gather the tattered fragments of himself again. He felt as though he’d been spread out over the entire glade, the way a gust of wind might scatter an unattended pile of grain. He lifted his head to look around himself, but that felt like far too much work, and he let it fall back onto the mat again.

‘Rest,’ Geralt suggested. ‘We’ll stay here tonight. I won’t make you walk back to the village this evening.’

Jaskier made a noise of acknowledgement. Geralt patted Jaskier’s thigh soothingly, much as he might pat Roach’s flank, and helped him sit up enough to drink the last of the waterskin. Then he let Jaskier lie back down while he gathered up the cloth and the little bottle of oil (now much depleted), and stood up, presumably to put them away again. Jaskier missed him immediately that Geralt moved away from him, but it was the usual feelings of longing for a lover who was just out of reach, not the recent frenzied desperation where every time they’d not been touching had felt like a little death. That was something of a relief. Perhaps Geralt was right, and it really was over. He felt strangely hollowed out at the thought, as though all of the worry and fear that had filled him had carved out a home for themselves his centre, and now that they had trickled away, there was nothing left to fill it.

Geralt finished rummaging in the pack and buckled it closed again. Jaskier watched lazily as Geralt picked up their discarded clothing. He seemed just as he always did, as though whatever they’d just done together hadn’t touched him at all. Perhaps it hadn’t.

‘I have your clothes,’ Geralt said, coming nearer. He’d folded them into a little pile, too. ‘You’ll probably want to put them back on before you get cold.’

‘Right, yeah,’ Jaskier said.

Geralt bent down and put the pile by Jaskier’s hip, then moved away and turned his back to give Jaskier an extremely belated measure of privacy. Geralt had his own shirt slung over his shoulder, and was shaking out his breeches.

Jaskier pushed himself up to sitting. Geralt was right: it was starting to feel chilly, especially now that another cloud was passing before the sun, throwing the glade into shadow. He pulled his shirt over his head, and fumbled his arms into the sleeves. His whole body felt as though it was slightly the wrong size, like last year’s breeches after a solid week of midwinter festival feasting at a duke’s palace. He’d have to stand up to put his breeches on, he thought with discontent. Ugh.

Geralt turned around and saw him sitting on the bed roll with a scowl on his face and a pair of breeches across his sprawled knees.

‘Want a hand up?’ Geralt asked with an amused twist to his lips.

‘No,’ Jaskier said, but put out his hand out for Geralt to take.

Geralt laughed, and took Jaskier’s hand, pulling him to his feet. He held him steady and didn’t let go immediately, which Jaskier was very grateful for when he realised that his legs were shaking beneath him.

‘The feeling will pass,’ Geralt said, clapping him on the shoulder.

Jaskier had a long horrified moment where he thought that Geralt hadn’t been as ignorant of Jaskier’s feelings as he’d always assumed, and was letting him down gently.

‘The aches and your hands shaking, I mean,’ Geralt added. ‘They should lessen soon. By tomorrow at the latest.’

‘Oh good,’ Jaskier said weakly. ‘By tomorrow. That’s ... that’s great news.’

‘Next time perhaps you’ll remember not to mess with odd-looking plants,’ Geralt said, a teasing smile on his lips.

‘I told you I didn’t,’ Jaskier said automatically, and then realised they were back to their usual selves – or rather Geralt was back to his usual teasing. The moment had truly passed.

‘Rest,’ Geralt said again. ‘Perhaps you should fiddle with your lute instead of sticking your nose into things and maybe you’ll manage to avoid a second dose.’

Although he wanted to argue with Geralt about being left on the bedroll like a fractious child sent to the nursery, the thought of a second dose of pollen was a sobering thought. Jaskier didn’t think he’d survive a second round. He gathered his lute and notebook, and plopped himself down on the bedroll as he’d been directed, where he’d be safe from any further magically augmented plants.

An hour or so later, Jaskier heard a noise of quiet satisfaction, and watched Geralt bring out a tiny plant with equally tiny white flowers in clusters. This was presumably the plant which had caused the whole mess of today, if admittedly rather indirectly. It was strange to think that such a small thing had tipped Jaskier’s whole life on its head.

Later that night, Geralt set up the fire in the centre of the glade, where there was little other than stubbly grass, and roughly where the bedroll had lain. It was as far away from any further suspicious plants as they were likely to be in this glade. They sat around the remains of the fire laughing together as they usually did. Jaskier was sure that he was a little giddier than usual, due to the sheer relief that things between them would settle back into their usual patterns. But when they retired, Geralt set his own bedroll up on the far side of the fire, instead of next to Jaskier as he usually did. When Jaskier had pressed him in the past, he’d muttered something about being a bulwark against monsters, but Jaskier found it a comfort to have him near, not to mention his big witchery shoulders being an excellent windbreak.

But now Geralt was sleeping about as far away from him as he could be and still be in the same glade. He hadn’t slept that far away from Jaskier in years, not since the first week or so that Jaskier had been trailing after him. With a sinking feeling, Jaskier realised that perhaps Geralt had been more uncomfortable with what Jaskier had made him do than he’d shown. Jaskier lay awake for a long time, his back to the fire, staring out into the darkness and wondering if they’d still be able to remain friends after this.

[Part two! (of four)]

Not Eskel and not even Regis but this is truly one of my favourite images ever. It's just so beautiful, I love their pose, how they look and how they are looking at each other.

My personal headcanon is that Aiden is older than Lambert and initially takes him under his wing, only to fall for the fiery young wolf.

I love them so much! (Now I need to go find all the Aiden/Lambert fics, especially the "fix it" ones)

We'll always be together, right? by Sayuri527art

Found on Twitter, originally seen on Patreon. HIGHLY recommend their Patreon.

@alllthequeenshorses​ yeah no I actually had to draw something with that because it’s too fun a situation to imagine

cant stop wont stop ●v●