hardkinkbadkink - Tumblr blog

hardkinkbadkink · 4 years

Note

Can’t remember if i sent this earlier but I loved the milking and overstimulation fic!!! What if Geralt accidentally(or rather purposely) overdosed Jaskier to a point where he produces sooo much come it’s painful and Geralt has to actually milk him properly in fear of his balls actually exploding or his cock just leaking constantly for the next days at it’s pushed out of his testicles slowly from the backed up spunk. It takes the entire night and he only discovers how genuinely backed up the (1)

the bard is when it actually starts dripping out of his urethra, Jaskier sobbing from humiliation through it all. Preferably in a verse where the original fic didn’t happen.

hnghh this was fucking Fun tbh i have nothing more to say other than i enjoyed this prompt immensely

***

Geralt would like to think he's a man of reason.

And while it would be unreasonable to pass on a contract so lucrative, it would be equally unreasonable to botch it, when all he has to do is--

Well, what is it, if not a cautionary experiment?

The baroness' coin would keep them fed for months, and all for a small vial of a virility potion only a little more powerful than the ones bought at the apothecary.

Well. Threefold as powerful, if prepared correctly.

It's a dangerous game, Geralt knows. Human bodies are fickle--and death from a sore cock or burst bollocks is not preferable in the nobler circles. Or so it had been explained to him.

Good thing, then, that Geralt has a noble of his own to aid in perfecting the recipe.

Perhaps he should be concerned by how easily Jaskier takes the bottle when it's handed to him, or by the trust in his eyes when he swallows it in one go, without bothering to inquire about its contents. Gods, how did the bard manage to keep himself alive for so long?

Geralt mumbles something about a deathwish, but he's in no position to complain, really. He casts Axii, just to be safe; just so Jaskier doesn't disrupt the trial needlessly.

The potion's effects are more or less immediate.

Pliant and quiet, Jaskier lets him undo his trousers--a surprisingly sensible pair, thick grey wool with only a faint pattern--and take out his stiffening cock. He gives it a measured stroke. Calm. Methodical. Collected.

It takes Jaskier a while to come, and Geralt watches in fascination as his balls swell, grow taut and heavy and tempting when he reaches to cup them in his palm. He keeps a firm grip on Jaskier's cock, strokes him hard and fast, captivated by the sheer, naked want on the bard's face, even if his eyes remain blissfully absent.

Jaskier's body bows as he spends all over himself for a long, pleasing moment.

Geralt deems the volume of his release satisfactory and tucks his twitching cock back into his breeches.

***

"Geralt--"

Jaskier stops abruptly, though Geralt fills in the rest of the question.

"Drink less water," he says off-handedly as he slows Roach to a halt.

"Uh-huh."

Geralt watches his bard sprint between the trees.

It's not an issue of hydration, Geralt knows. Jaskier's been sneaking off every half-hour, limping slightly but in a rush to find some seclusion. He comes back lighter on his feet; flushed and dishevelled and smelling of spend.

The potion, it seems, lasts longer than Geralt anticipated.

It's a strange temptation that overcomes him, to deny Jaskier the privacy. Cite some non-specified dangers and make him walk beside Roach without a chance to sort out his body. For no reason other than his burning curiosity.

A strange temptation indeed, and one Geralt finds himself succumbing to, just a half-hour later.

"Stay," he growls when Jaskier makes to retreat.

It stops him in his tracks, one palm already--unconsciously--cupped around his crotch. Jaskier turns a bright pink and slowly pulls his hand back, as though to pretend it never was there.

"W--what? Geralt, I--"

"If you need a piss, do it here. I don't want you wandering the woods alone."

And Jaskier huffs his outrage, stutters on an insult. Walks, resigned, slower and slower until he's dragging his feet more than lifting them. Sweat beads on his temple.

Geralt takes pity on the man, eventually, though not completely.

"Don't walk anywhere," Geralt says when he'd near-finished setting up their camp beneath a thick canopy of leaves.

"But I need--"

He cocks an eyebrow and revels in the desperation written all over Jaskier's cute little face.

Jaskier squirms and shifts, unable to find a comfortable position on the rock he's occupying. His frustrated whimpers make Geralt want to pull his dick out, truth be told, but he stays still and unbothered, setting about sharpening his silver dagger just to have something to do.

A sharp gasp from Jaskier makes him whip his head around lightning-fast. And then he catches the scent.

It's not overwhelming, not like it would be if Jaskier spent in his breeches, but it's--

Intriguing.

Jaskier sits, frozen, shaking hands gripping his thighs, and the look on his face is in equal parts that of confusion and terror.

Geralt walks to him, urging himself to go slow and not pounce on the man like he so furiously wants to. He kneels next to Jaskier and watches, hypnotised, as a wet spot grows so very slowly at the front of his trousers.

His hands are suddenly too big, too clunky as he tries to slip the delicate buttons open. Jaskier doesn't move to stop him when Geralt pushes the breeches down, along with his wet smallclothes, and--

"Fuck."

Geralt's mouth waters at the display before him; Jaskier's soft prick resting against his thigh, spend leaking steadily from the tip, because there's so much it can't fit inside his body, gods, fuck.

"How does it feel?" he breathes. A muscle jumps in Jaskier's thigh.

"Hurts," Jaskier chokes out, sounding close to tears. "It all hurts, Geralt, I'm so full, please--"

He can't help staring as Jaskier's cock drools sluggishly, dripping more and more. It's the most erotic thing Geralt's ever seen.

He aims for gentle, when he pulls Jaskier's knees apart and slides between them. When he lifts Jaskier's prick up and away to expose his beautifully swollen balls, reddened and so deliciously close to bursting. Geralt touches them cautiously and shivers at Jaskier's throaty moan. His cock spurts out more come.

"I can't take it, I'm--please, Geralt, f-feels like I'm gonna explode--"

Geralt groans and dives in to mouth hungrily at the taut skin of Jaskier's sack. It's feverishly hot against his lips, smooth and perfect and he reaches to tug at Jaskier's cock, too desperate, too sloppy.

"Come on," Geralt says, voice rough with need, muffled in Jaskier's taint. "Come for me, Jaskier."

It's a heady sensation, feeling Jaskier's balls throb and empty, his seed getting all over Geralt's hand, wetting it copiously.

"Fuck, Geralt, Geralt--"

He doesn't stop stroking, the glide eased by Jaskier's release. He tries to fit one of the swollen balls into his mouth, finding them too big and tender still, judging by the way Jaskier whines above him.

Geralt moves to suck instead at the head of his prick, soaked in thick, unnaturally sweet spend, sensitive and pulsing against Geralt's tongue.

"'s too much, gods, Geralt--"

Except for him it's not enough, and he swallows greedily around the cock in his mouth, taking it deeper until his nose is buried in the tidy-trimmed hair at the base. Deeper, until he can slither the tip of his tongue down to lap at Jaskier's balls.

Jaskier tears at his hair, his fingers frantically digging into Geralt's scalp, but it only makes Geralt want it more, bob his head faster, drool cooling sticky on his chin.

When Jaskier spasms and spills down his throat, Geralt thinks he could come just from that.

Jaskier sways and nearly falls. Geralt grabs a fistful of doublet, keeps the bard upright and his mouth firmly around Jaskier's twitching cock.

"Please--Geralt, please," Jaskier whines, and Geralt ruts his hips into the air, craving friction.

It takes another trembling, writhing release before Geralt pulls away, half-delirious, drunk on the taste and the raw, scraped feeling in his throat.

Jaskier sobs, a wretched thing, and bats weakly at Geralt's forehead. He looks--fuck, Geralt's never seen him like this, face a splotchy red, glistening with tears, chest heaving. His prick can't stay hard anymore, but Geralt knows he's not done yet, even as he tries to squeeze his legs together.

"Stop, stop, gods, I--I can't go anymore, I can't." He sucks in a wet breath, bringing a careful hand to cover his softening cock.

It'd be easy to put Jaskier under Axii, get him off over and over until the potion's burned through--

It's also easy to yank Jaskier's doublet open, off, away; unbutton the ridiculous lacey shirt underneath; tangle Jaskier's hands behind his back, secure them in place with his own garment. And maybe Jaskier is too weak to break free, or maybe he doesn't really want to.

But he lets Geralt put his mouth back on that twitching, wet cock.

Geralt feels like he'd had a full meal by the time Jaskier screams his final release, breath seemingly stuck in his heaving lungs.

"Ge-eralt, 's--enough, please."

It's the despair in Jaskier's bright eyes as he says it--whines it, more like--that has Geralt pulling away and tucking him lovingly back into his trousers.

Jaskier collapses onto the bedroll and drifts into a deep, calm sleep, and Geralt brings himself off quickly and brutally, thinking about how much of the potion he can slip into Jaskier's waterskin.

#cw non-con #i guess?#idk everything is non-con at this point #god i have so many good prompts i dont know what to do with myself

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hardkinkbadkink · 4 years

Note

I am once again sending you a prompt, which I think is like my third one? Sorry for the spam I guess. Eskel is the love of my life soo... Eskel meeting Jaskier after The Mountain, and quickly falling in love with the charming bard. He knows Jaskier’s heart belongs to Geralt, but his body belongs to Eskel. They get to Kaer Morhen, and ofc Geralt is there. Eskel having to deal with that- but it all ends happily with a big polyamorous fuck pile. Jaskier definitely has enough love for both witchers.

listen. i. Adore eskel. i fucking LOVE that bitch, i love him greatly and i love him fiercely, he is the light of my life & my forever favourite witcher character and not even sweet darling joey batey as jaskier can change that like?? eskel is It for me. i was maybe seven when i played the first game because it is a National Classic and you were legally obliged by law to play it and wee bairn me looked at this four pixels of a man on my screen and thought fuck guess i gotta be gay?? the fucking. quest. where he gets his face ripped open. when i tell you i cried. and then he got even hotter?? impossible. i'll never love a character like that again, it's been too long to change x

my mild obsession aside, did you mean for this to be so angsty? because it is, it's fucking Sad and has Feelings and also a soft threesome that feels firmly out of place on my noncon-bestiality-centric porn blog (so i posted in on ao3 too)

as always i look at canon and i pretend i do not see it lovelies x

send in more eskel prompts if you want him to get fucked in true hard kink fashion & also send in more eskel prompts in general i will never refuse

***

Eskel has no intention to stop in that tavern at all, until he hears the singing.

It's nothing, he tells himself.

It's nothing, and yet he pulls Scorpion to a reluctant halt, pays the stablehand a copper and no mind as he makes his way, ensorcelled, to hover near the entrance. He'd heard the one particular song in so many renditions his head spins with it. Most of them lousy, some of them bearable. This one—

Oh, but this one seems like it'd been torn from the bard's very soul.

Eskel waits until the final, unusually heart-wrenching notes of Toss a coin bleed into a brief silence.

He doesn't enjoy taverns much—the burning glances when he settles at a table, swords at his back and hood pulled low over his eyes. The quiet chorus of gasps when he slips the bastard cloak off and people get a good look at his monstrous, twisted face, averting their gaze quickly but drawn in by morbid curiosity again and again. Their reluctance to serve him, to approach him, to trust him with his own damn job.

Eskel's had decades to get used to it.

Maybe next century.

He pulls the door open with an unsteady hand, eyes falling immediately to the bard, centre stage as he can manage in a wayward tavern not designed for such performances. He's dressed finely, lavishly, with great care and taste and Eskel lets himself admire, just for a moment.

"Oh," the bard breathes on a sharp inhale, and his dazzling blue eyes glitter with a sort of recognition that punches Eskel right in the gut with its intensity.

It's entirely quiet for a few painful heartbeats.

"Oi!" a man hollers to his side, clearly too deep in his cups to try at decency. "Y'heard the bard, toss a fuckin' coin to the witcher."

They don't, and Eskel would never ask that of them—but he's served a decent pint on the house as soon as he sits down in a darkened corner, and his cheeks can't exactly burn, but he feels like they would.

The bard gets through another song, a bawdy drinking tune. Eskel keeps his eyes on him the whole time, though he barely hears the words, mesmerised by the sway of the man's hips and the honey-warm timbre of his voice.

A faint panic rises up in his throat when the bard thanks his audience for their attention, bowing in a manner entirely too exaggerated for this place and time—and makes his way with a strange mix of confidence and reluctance to sit across from Eskel.

"My apologies for presuming," the bard begins, and Eskel watches with bated breath as his long, shapely fingers wrap around Eskel's own mug. He takes a deep drink, eyelashes casting lovely shadows on his cheeks. "Eskel?"

He nearly chokes on his own tongue, but manages to nod curtly.

"It seems that Destiny's playing tricks on me." The bard's lips twitch up in a sad smile. "I'm Jaskier. Pleased to make your acquaintance, after all these years."

Jaskier. Jaskier. Of course it's Geralt's fucking bard, his—

"I must say, I harboured my hopes that you wouldn't be quite as broody and silent as Geralt is."

Eskel manages to shake himself out of it, though only barely.

"Sorry." He clears his throat in an attempt to make his voice less gravely. Less threatening. "Sorry, fuck, just spent so many winters with Geralt talking my ear off about you, I'd half-expected the bastard to've made you up."

He tries for light-heartedness. A flash of poorly-disguised pain passes through Jaskier's face, and Eskel realises it was decidedly not the way to go.

"Ah, you won't have to worry about that anymore, darling. Geralt and I are no longer companionable, in any way."

Perhaps it's the darling that does him in. Perhaps it's the overwhelming desire to never see this brilliant man sad or hurt again. Perhaps it's Eskel's own harrowing loneliness.

It doesn't matter much, because he downs the rest of his ale in three gulps, and then there are warm fingers around his wrist, pulling him away and up the stairs, pushing him into a room and onto a bed with a lapful of bard.

"Goddess," Jaskier says quietly, almost privately, except that his lips hover temptingly close to Eskel's. "You do look just like him, if it wasn't for—"

"The disfigured maw?" Eskel adds helpfully, out of habit if nothing else.

Jaskier puts a gentle hand on his cheek—the scarred one, gods save his soul—and Eskel leans into the touch involuntarily, like a dog starved for affection.

"I was going to say the hair," Jaskier finishes with a hint of kind amusement, and winks.

Eskel knows, with that first hungry kiss, that he's absolutely and utterly gone for the bard.

"Beautiful, darling—gods, you're stunning," Jaskier whispers later, hands roaming Eskel's broad chest, and fuck, he hadn't been touched like this in months, so he hides against the smooth column of Jaskier's throat—sucks a vivid bruise there like he has any fucking right—and desperately ignores the praise that isn't meant for him.

He sucks Jaskier's cock to make him shut up, and gets called lovely and breathtaking and darling angel for his efforts. He opens Jaskier up—mouth latched to the pale insides of his thighs, littering them with bruises—on four fingers and so much chamomile oil the smell makes him lightheaded, and Jaskier tells him he's a treasure, fuck, so good to me. He gets pushed backwards onto the bed, his wrists guided above his head in a soft suggestion of restraint as Jaskier rides his cock with determined fervour, and he's divine, gorgeous, my sweet, darling witcher.

Jaskier arches beautifully when he comes, spills all over them both, his eyes heavy-lidded, still holding Eskel's gaze, and Eskel knows he's only looking for an echo of Geralt in his yellow irises—but he flips them over, takes his pleasure in Jaskier's body, and he can live with being a second choice when he's used to being no choice at all.

***

"I've been—fuck, awfully lonely on the road, gods, darling—"

Eskel's quickly found out Jaskier is quite keen on being held, suspended in the air with only Eskel's hands underneath his thighs and a cock driving into him with haste and despair.

Especially out in the open, on the side of a well-traversed road. Eskel licks absently at the raised imprint of his teeth above Jaskier's collar and yearns to deepen it, have it stay there forever.

Jaskier pulls at his hair, panting harshly, brings their lips together in a searing kiss. He whines at the back of his throat and his sinful hole flutters around Eskel's cock, milking him into completion faster than anyone ever could, whispering low into his ear, that's it, that's it, love, fill me up 'til I can't hold anymore, fuck, so good like nobody ever did.

And if they're never quite alone in their passions, if Jaskier still searches his eyes for a ghost of someone else—Eskel can pretend he doesn't see, because he's the one who gets to fall asleep with the bard pressed up against him, soft and warm and kind.

***

Inkeepers take him in more willingly, when he's got Jaskier at his side, flashing them a smile full of promise.

He doesn't need for brothels, when he wakes up to Jaskier lapping at the head of his cock like it's the sweetest treat. When Jaskier's unable to keep his hands to himself. When he stays nice and loose and ready for Eskel to pound him into the ground at any moment.

"I'm not a young man anymore," Jaskier always says after, struggling to catch his breath, even if he were the one palming Eskel's cock through his breeches.

"You don't look a day over seventy," Eskel offers in return, and Jaskier slaps him upside the head in mock offense.

Eskel's never been happier than he is with Jaskier trudging the Path with him.

Which is why the frost crunching under their boots fills him with a hollow aching. A single snowflake lands pointedly at the very tip of Jaskier's reddened nose, and Eskel glares at the sky.

He lets Jaskier fuck him, then. They get a room for the night, light the hearth and feed the flames. Share a bottle of wine, of which Eskel takes the brunt. Stretch out leisurely on the furs, and Eskel's insides tie in knots when he watches the silver hairs on Jaskier's dark head glimmer in the firelight.

Jaskier takes his time, as Eskel thought he would. Lavishes him with kisses and praise and adoration and Eskel still doesn't think it's all his to have, but he melts under Jaskier's touches anyway.

I love you, he aches to say, to scream at the top of his lungs when Jaskier pushes into him, jaw slack and eyes squeezed shut in rapture.

"Come away with me," he begs instead, on the verge of release and at mercy of the insistent snap of Jaskier's hips. "To Kaer Morhen."

Jaskier shushes him with a kiss and a gentle hand in his hair.

"I don't want to leave without you."

Don't leave me alone, I can't bear it again.

He tips Jaskier's chin up, the bard's pretty eyes brimming with unshed tears as he nods—and this time, just for a second, Eskel doesn't feel like a shoddy replacement.

***

They beat Lambert to the keep by three days.

Three days spent reacquainting with the concept of heat and the feeling in their fingers after weeks traversing increasingly higher snowcaps.

Three glorious, uninterrupted days of having Jaskier share his bed in the only place Eskel could ever call home.

When he gets there, Lambert asks when he's going to get a turn on the bard, and if Eskel beats his insufferable arse in training a little harder than he normally would on the first day—well. It's what brothers do.

He makes sure to keep the ever-present mark at Jaskier's throat a vibrant purple when it fades into yellow, and Jaskier begs him for it as sweetly as he begs for his cock, just within Lambert's earshot.

Geralt doesn't show for a full fortnight, and then some. The snow piles higher with each day. They all collectively agree that their last wolf won't show this year, like he did so many years before.

Perhaps it is because Eskel thanks his Lady Destiny too soon, that Geralt staggers into the hall in the midst of a snowstorm, his cloak frozen stiff, frost melting on his silver hair.

They fall into each other's arms, because they always do; because they're brothers, because they'd been through hell together, because they love each other fiercely even if Eskel can't think of a single person he'd rather avoid more than Geralt, right now. They stand there in the hall, the snow on Geralt's collar a shock of cold against Eskel's neck. And then Geralt stiffens, suddenly, rigid in Eskel's embrace in a way that has nothing to do with the chill.

"You smell—" Geralt begins, seemingly perplexed, and inhales deeply at the juncture of Eskel's shoulder.

They fall away from each other abruptly, Eskel's chest tight with a muffled pull of dread.

"Let's get you warmed up, yeah? I'll get Lambert to see to your mare. He might not be too happy to see you, though. You lost him a bet."

Geralt follows him, almost reluctantly, and Eskel wants just one more night before it all goes to shit. Just the one.

***

Jaskier is sleep-warm and perfect and doesn't appreciate the chill of Eskel's skin once he finally gets back into bed.

Eskel takes him too roughly for the time of night, bites at his freckled shoulders and sharp collarbones, has Jaskier trembling and begging for it twice before he lets the bard come.

He muffles his own release against Jaskier's lips, all too aware of Geralt in a room not a hallway away.

***

The door creaks when it's pushed open. Faintly, but enough to rouse Eskel awake. He tightens an arm reflexively around Jaskier's sleeping form, and the bard nuzzles up against the side of his chest.

Yellow eyes stare at them intently, Geralt's expression unreadable, though the nod he gives can mean only one thing.

Eskel is careful as he untangles their limbs, and his heart decidedly doesn't pound quicker for a beat when Jaskier reaches out after him and mumbles a sleepy Eskel.

Their footsteps are nearly soundless on the stone floor. Geralt is equally quiet, rigid as a bowstring. They walk for a long time, until they come to a place Jaskier didn't yet get a chance to explore. Neutral ground. As neutral as can be, with Eskel still drenched in Jaskier's scent.

"I'm not sorry," Eskel says finally, and Geralt flinches.

They don't look at each other.

"Why," Geralt forces out. Eskel can hear the bones in his jaw click. "Why bring him here."

Wind howls outside the walls, the storm unrelenting.

I didn't want to be alone, he almost says, but bites his tongue. Instead,

"You broke him, Geralt. You left and he—he used to call out for you at night, you know? He'd have nightmares and wake up shaking. And I couldn't help."

They rarely talk like this, heart to heart under the guise of night.

"Why?" Geralt asks, softer this time. Kinder.

It doesn't feel right, but it's what's going to make things right.

"I'm just a substitute. A lousy one at that. He still—he wants you. Loves you."

And it's the truth, when he finally admits it out loud. Eskel is more at peace with that than he thought he would.

"Please don't take it from me," he whispers, overwhelmed in a way that he was assured the mutagens were supposed to eliminate. "It's all I have."

Geralt doesn't respond, though he does place a hand on Eskel's shoulder, in comfort or understanding, he couldn't know.

***

Jaskier keeps his head high.

"Geralt," the bard greets him, in a manner far too cold and collected.

He doesn't flinch under Geralt's gaze, doesn't look away before Geralt, but when he does—Eskel catches his expression shatter, fall into a million pieces that he desperately wants to collect and put back together. They slip through his fingers.

At night, Jaskier jolts awake clawing at his own throat, crying that he can't breathe, asking Geralt to help him, please help him. Eskel holds him until the tremors subside. Neither of them sleeps well.

All the good evaporates from Eskel's life.

The silly marks of faux ownership fade from Jaskier's skin, eventually, and Eskel's heart aches.

He kisses Jaskier deeply, puts all his horrible feelings behind it, and then just holds the bard close. For the last time. Eskel knows he isn't meant to cry—but the trials merely took away his ability to shed tears, not this overpowering fucking desire to do so.

"Eskel?" Jaskier says, gently, the question of what's wrong implied.

Eskel shakes his head and holds Jaskier tighter.

***

"You. Apologise."

Geralt seems startled by the development. As does Jaskier, to be fair, shifting nervously where he's gripping Eskel's arm.

"I don't want his apology," Jaskier says weakly. "We've had our words, and they were very—pointed. Very definite. Eskel—"

Jaskier looks to him with wide, terrified eyes.

And it wouldn't be enough that he has to give up the one good thing in his life, would it? It wouldn't be enough that every time they fucked Jaskier looked beyond him and for someone else. It wouldn't be fucking enough that he was madly, unreasonably in love with a man whose affections laid firmly elsewhere.

No, it wouldn't, because now he has to—

He takes a deep breath and listens to the staccato of Jaskier's quickened heartbeat.

"I wouldn't make you do this, except you do want his fucking apology, and Geralt wants to give it to you, because you love him and he loves you and I'm—" useless, disposable, unwanted, "I'm done. I'm done. Figure it out. Please."

Jaskier's hands fall away from around his arm, and Eskel takes off.

He doesn't really have anywhere to go, when every place he'd grown to love in the keep knows Jaskier's presence, wears his mark and his scent.

The corridors are still and silent. Grey and imposing. Cold is seeping through the thick stone—cold from this winter and the hundreds before it, and Eskel thinks the walls had never truly known warmth. It's all terribly dull, Jaskier had said when they'd walked the halls that first time, hand in hand with not a worry between them.

He'd been stupid to grow so attached when Jaskier was never his to keep. He'd been stupid to bring him here and expect everything to stay the same in blissful ignorance. He'd been stupid, and he didn't want to be lonely again, even for just a few months—and now he's going to be lonely until some merciful beast cuts his suffering short like it was always meant to.

It is, perhaps, too early in the day to drink, but Lambert's eyes light up when Eskel goes to him with the offer.

Later, out of habit, he almost stumbles into his room before his drunken brain screams at him to keep going. Eskel falls asleep in an abandoned bedroom that smells of dust and time instead of his bard.

***

"You didn't come to bed."

Eskel hears Jaskier approaching, of course he does—but he doesn't turn to face him, eyes firmly fixed on the window, even if it is just snow there. He does feel quite dramatic, sat in a windowsill like a maiden awaiting her beloved to come and whisk her away. Eskel awaits only peace and for his heart to feel whole again.

"Smells like you," he says, too honest.

Jaskier shuffles closer.

"I waited up for you."

A hand falls gently to his shoulder, and Eskel shivers at the touch.

"Thought you'd be staying with Geralt. You—you can keep the room, if you want." Eskel couldn't ever be comfortable there, anyway, not after everything.

"Darling—"

The hand moves from his shoulder to his cheek, soft and tender and Eskel meets the incredible blue of Jaskier's eyes easily.

"I never meant to make you feel unwanted," Jaskier begins. Eskel wishes only to shrink under his gaze. "I want you so, so much."

Jaskier settles next to him, their thighs pressed together, the black of his trousers startling against wine-red silk. Eskel feels fucking dumb.

"I know it wasn't about me, I—you should go be with your wolf. I'll be fine."

The scars pull tightly when he smiles, aiming for reassuring; it comes out tired and helpless.

Jaskier leans in impossibly close, the ghost of his breath on Eskel's lips.

"You're my wolf, too."

They kiss before he knows it—desperately, hungrily, until Eskel's head spins and Jaskier's hands tug at the collar of his shirt.

Eskel pulls away with a deep, burning hatred of himself.

"Just go, Jaskier." When did his voice grow so cold? He never wants to speak to Jaskier like this, never, and yet— "I don't need your pity."

He expects Jaskier to do just that. Go, and avoid him for the rest of winter, and walk around with Geralt's scent all over him and a mark to the side of his neck and—

"No. Nuh-uh. Not happening. Eskel, gods, I—I'm sorry, yeah? That you couldn't trust my affection was all for you, and perhaps it wasn't, not always—"

Fuck, but it does hurt to hear it, just a bit.

"—but then you had to go and be the most splendid creature under the sun and I, well."

The gold of Jaskier's rings glitters enticingly in the sparse sunlight when he reaches for Eskel's hand.

"I do love Geralt, but Eskel, darling. I love you just as much."

Eskel could fall to his knees if he were the praying sort.

Fuck, he might anyway.

Jaskier kisses him, and Eskel carries the bard all the way to bed to show his worship in a different way.

***

It's easy to kiss Geralt.

It's not the first time he'd kissed Geralt.

"Fuck, look at you," Jaskier moans, somewhere to their side.

Geralt arches his neck beautifully when Eskel grabs a fistful of silver hair and tugs his head backwards.

It is, possibly, the first time he'd kissed Geralt without the hushed secrecy of darkness and a hard scrubbing to get the scent of release off each other.

Jaskier leans over his shoulder to capture Geralt's lips for himself, chest pressed tightly to Eskel's back.

He'd thought the jealousy would smother him, when Jaskier first brought it up. He'd thought he would choke on the image of Jaskier laid bare before anyone else. He'd thought—

But it's Geralt, isn't it? It's Geralt, and they'd already shared so much with each other, their joys and their pain and their lives, and—

"Eskel," Geralt breathes like he used to so many lifetimes ago, except he doesn't bite his tongue, now, and Eskel leans in to bite instead at the soft skin below his jaw, to leave his mark there, twin to the one he'd left on Jaskier.

They fall softly to the mattress, him and Geralt, with Jaskier crawling over them swiftly, a sun-warm smile on his pretty face.

"Gods. Gods, you're stunning."

Eskel turns his head slowly, lazily, and finds Geralt's eyes heavy and sparkling. Not just yellow, anymore, no longer the colour of a beast's—rather, the exact shade of sunlight caught in honey. Of morning dew on dandelions.

Fuck, he'd grown mellow.

Jaskier comes to straddle him, all pale skin and gorgeous hair and bruises from his hips to his throat. He settles heavily over Eskel's cock, the bastard tease.

"Jaskier," Eskel near-hisses, because suddenly the head of his cock dips inside Jaskier's oil-slick hole. "Fuck, you—"

"Of course I got ready for my wolves, darling," Jaskier breathes, and laughs, and seats himself completely in Eskel's lap like it's nothing. "In fact, you might be partial to know—I had to employ the use of my other hand, to prepare for what I have planned."

Eskel's head spins, thick with the promise that he doesn't dare dwell on. His eyes slip shut; Jaskier coaxes them open with nought but a soft word.

He can feel Geralt stir next to him, watching with a tight grip on himself as Jaskier moves easily, like he'd been made only for this, his one divine purpose.

"Geralt," Eskel hears himself call out weakly. "Geralt, Geralt—"

Words seem only a silly hindrance, so he doesn't bother, grabbing instead at the thick muscle of Geralt's thighs, guiding him to sit astride Eskel's chest, crush him with all that glorious weight—stuff his cock in Eskel's greedy mouth, fuck.

Eskel thinks he might combust, go up in flames as he's caught between the agonising pleasure of being buried to the hilt in Jaskier's slack hole and the heavy satisfaction of having Geralt's cock glide wetly on his tongue, further and further as Geralt stares at him, bewildered.

It's a wonder he doesn't come as soon as the length of it slides seamlessly down his throat, so deep he can feel it when he wraps a hand around his own neck. He squeezes, just to make sure Geralt feels it, too, and the rumble of a groan from above him makes Eskel thrust wildly into the clutch of Jaskier's maddeningly hot body.

"O-oh, you were made for each other, weren't you?" Jaskier's hand is petting gentle circles up Eskel's heaving stomach. "Fuck, darling, next time I'll watch you bounce on Geralt's cock till you sob with it."

He reaches blindly to grab Jaskier's hand, entwine their fingers together. With heavy-lidded eyes, he watches Geralt's head get pulled back for a messy kiss. The bruise on the elegant column of his throat stands dark and proud and Eskel's chest swells with it, even if it'll fade in hours. He'll just have to try very hard to keep it vivid.

Geralt rolls his hips, knees tightening around Eskel's shoulders, ragged moans filling the air, mingling with the sinful noises dripping from Jaskier's lips. Eskel's vision spots, air suddenly hard to come by, and yet it doesn't cause him distress; fuck, of all the ways to die, being smothered between Geralt's thighs with Jaskier tight and lovely around his cock is Eskel's preferred demise, if given a choice. His heartbeat quickens, though, and Geralt stops his delicious rutting, moves away with a tender look and a touch to his swollen lip. He leans down to steal another kiss, but Eskel's too floaty, too hazy to do anything more than open his sloppy mouth--for Geralt, and then for Jaskier, when he collapses on Eskel's chest.

"Desperation really is becoming on you, darling."

Feeling Geralt's tongue lapping at his cock when it's still moving in and out of Jaskier—

Feeling a finger press in alongside him, joined quickly by another and another, until the fit is so tight it seems like he's suffocating—

Feeling the torturously slow drag of Geralt's cock against his, contained so closely in the heaven of Jaskier's body—

"Fuck," Eskel and Geralt groan in perfect harmony, Jaskier trembling wildly in their arms.

"Gods, gods, fuck, I love you, love you both so much—"

Eskel can't speak, can't move, can't do anything but suck in desperate breaths and look as Jaskier's face morphs from pain into rapture, his brow smoothing out, his bitten-red lips coming apart in a perfect o.

Geralt roars, withdraws his hips just a little, and it jostles Eskel's very soul.

Fuck, he can't imagine what it's like for Jaskier.

He wonders if—

"Move," Jaskier says in a broken voice. "You can move, you can fuck me, a-ah."

Eskel wishes he could Axii himself into not coming. He wishes—gods, but he can't, he can't, and when Geralt starts moving with purpose, Eskel feels the crackle of release at the base of his spine, coiling tighter and tighter until—

"Fuck, Eskel—" Geralt moans, and it's torture, when Eskel can feel his cock throbbing against Geralt's, and then he's coming and coming and coming, a shockwave of sensation.

His ears feel like they're stuffed with thick wool.

Jaskier kisses him, quick and filthy and needy.

"You're perfect, perfect, my darling—" he says against Eskel's lips.

Eskel whines at the back of his throat, his hands trembling where they grab Geralt's hair and tug him to lean down.

The raw, painful pleasure of his oversensitive cock still trapped within the suffocating heat of Jaskier's body threatens to undo him completely. He claws blindly at any skin he can reach, to ground himself, to settle against the unrelenting drag of Geralt against him. He can feel his seed dripping out of Jaskier and down his balls. It's fucking filthy.

He kisses Jaskier and he kisses Geralt and his lips go numb before Jaskier finally tips into a shaking release that rips a hoarse scream from his throat.

The bed is barely big enough for two people, but they make it work. They'll make it all work, somehow.

Before sleep takes him, Eskel hears Lambert yell, I'm moving the fuck out from down the hall.

#cw SOFT #honestly that's it #god i'm tender for eskel i'm sorry #on another note #to the anon that sent me a leshen prompt yesterday #how fucking dare you?? fit all my biggest kinks??? in a two sentence ask?????#criminal

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hardkinkbadkink · 4 years

Note

*chef’s kiss* I love it. So very sexy! Also if you’re wary of losing things, maybe post your stories on AO3 as backup? So if things get deleted you’re not losing everything?-🐼

thanks love, glad you liked it even with me butchering the prompt lmao <3

i do all my writing off-tumblr so i have files of everything i posted & take screenshots of the asks i get, so don't worry about that! i might still make a backup blog one of these days, but i do feel foolishly secure currently, so we'll see

#very icarus-esque i know #i also got an anon saying they keep reading my url as hard kink bard kink and that's a great backup username tbh

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hardkinkbadkink · 4 years

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Darling you’re allowed to ask for things. But! I shall try to provide! I have another one coming after this- Jaskier is some childhood genius who ends up going to college when he’s like 14. And Professor Geralt is very protective over his prized student, scaring off any would be creeps,,, just so he can have the boy all to himself (and maybe even share him with a few of his more like-minded coworkers, like Lambert and Eskel)-🐼

i’m back from my itty bitty vacation and am here to conclude that the sea does not, in fact, do shit for inspiration

anyway this is,,, Not This Prompt At All, except that it does feature child prodigy jaskier at university and geralt absolutely smitten by him

inspired by all my art student friends who Absolutely would fuck a broody mysterious witcher man & i refuse to believe canon art students would be any different

***

Geralt will never understand, in all his tediously long decades of life, why the liberal arts students seem to find him so fascinating.

He tries to stray from Oxenfurt when he can, the place too big, too loud, too annoyingly overcrowded--but the Path is his mistress, and the mistress demands a vacation in the city, apparently.

The witcher's in town, come hushed whispers from giddy youths that know not of self-preservation. Every tavern he begrudgingly visits spills over with actors, minstrels, bards-in-training who'd grown bored of the stagnant university lifestyle and turn to him in hopes of finding a thrill of adventure.

And Geralt indulges them every time, climbs underneath full skirts and between sheets at dormitories, leaves them all--quite literally--singing his praises, so the next time he comes through town another batch of students ask without much subtlety if his dick is as good as they say.

Geralt doesn't understand, but he saves coin on whores for a fortnight, so he can live with it.

He sits at a small tavern on the edge of campus, and doesn't even have the decency to pretend before himself that he's not half-hoping for a quick fuck.

Students come up to him in various stages of inebriation, fresh-faced boys and girls with reddened cheeks and a spark in their eyes. Geralt's cock gives a weak twitch at the thought of taking a maidenhead, but he stays seated. Orders another drink. Can't put his finger on what it is he's looking for.

He scans the tavern carefully, with purpose, though his eyes don't linger on anyone in particular, and when exactly did Geralt get picky? He scoffs to himself--internally, because on the outside he keeps his expression carefully cold and still--and almost makes to leave.

A boy catches his attention, then.

He'd been left alone at a table, his friends going off to the bar or the privy or wherever else they might; the boy stays, anxious hands clasped around his wine cup as he steals glances Geralt's way.

Their eyes meet for a heartbeat. Geralt knows what he wants.

He keeps his posture immaculate, vaguely threatening; the boy doesn't flinch when Geralt approaches him, but his gaze drops suggestively to Geralt's groin.

They don't talk, when Geralt grabs him by a skinny wrist and drags him out of the tavern and towards the inn, the boy's short legs and the wine he'd had making him slow to follow, stumbling over uneven cobblestone. Geralt grabs him around the waist--so tiny his hands encircle it entirely--and hitches him over a shoulder with no effort at all. The boy squeals, his drink-hazy mind trying to keep up.

Geralt hadn't been this desperate to have someone in years. Decades. His whole life. He doesn't know why, and maybe he doesn't care.

He growls involuntarily at the inkeeper when the man gives him an unkind look, and shoulders his way to his room.

The boy barely stands as tall as Geralt's chest. Geralt spares it no thought when he slams his tiny body into the door, forces a thigh between his legs and has to hold the boy up to kiss him. No thought at all, other than how scathingly hot it makes him. The kiss is sloppy, filthy. Geralt pushes his tongue possessively into the boy's slack mouth, tasting the wine behind his teeth.

"Witcher," the boy whispers when Geralt moves to mouth at his neck, voice creaking around the word. "Witcher," he repeats, as if in awe.

Geralt claims his lips roughly and tears at the boy's fine clothes.

He gets the doublet open, the chemise underneath--touches smooth, soft skin, pale and unblemished; a stark contrast to Geralt's rough, scarred hands.

"I'm--I'm Jaskier," the boy pants, grabbing blindly at Geralt's pauldrons.

"Jaskier," Geralt repeats in a low hum.

The boy trembles, and grinds his cock against Geralt's thigh, and suddenly the air is thick with the scent of release.

He'd--

"Fuck."

Jaskier's already heated cheeks go even more flushed.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he chants, claws at Geralt's shoulders, and Geralt sees red.

He gets two hands underneath the boy's thighs, brings him away from the door and onto the raggedy bed.

"Strip."

Jaskier does, reluctantly, curling in on himself under the weight of Geralt's gaze. The shirt slips from his shoulders, and Geralt kneels by the bed to tug off his boots. When Jaskier pushes his trousers down, Geralt gets an eyeful of his half-hard, come-soaked prick.

"How old are you?"

He has to ask, he has to know, when Jaskier's body is so soft and pretty and not a hair graces his chest.

"Eighteen," the boy says quickly, and his voice cracks.

"Jaskier."

"Sixteen."

"Jaskier."

"… thirteen."

Geralt inhales sharply, lets his palms sneak up the insides of the boy's plump thighs.

"It's--it's my birthday today."

There's more words, more frantic explanations, but Geralt's stopped listening, blood rushing in his ears, rushing to his cock, and he leans in between Jaskier's parted legs to taste the sticky-wet head of his prick.

"Will you, will you still--" Jaskier's voice goes all high and breathy, and Geralt knows the rest of that question.

"I'll fuck you through this mattress, little bird," he breathes, spreading Jaskier's legs further apart. "You'll scream so loud you won't sing for days."

Geralt mouths at Jaskier's smooth, tight balls, and then down, until he can press his tongue flat against his perfect little hole.

The boy whimpers like a kicked pup, cages Geralt's head between shaking thighs while Geralt drives his tongue into him.

"I've never--neverdonethisbefore, fuck--" Jaskier manages, though he sounds like he's a dying man, trying to suck air into his lungs desperately, slim fingers digging into Geralt's scalp. "Never got--never got fu--ah, ah!"

Never got fucked. Fuck, gods, Geralt is taking a maidenhead after all. He shoves his tongue harshly inside Jaskier, saliva running down his chin, dripping onto his chest--but it's worth it, when Jaskier pulses around his tongue and cries out, overcome with another release.

Geralt's cock could burst through a pair of less sturdy breeches, he's sure of it. He pulls back, gets a good look at the pink, spit-slick hole before him. Considers whether he could press Jaskier's face into the pillows and enter him right away, split him open on cock with no preparation, make him take it, take all of it--

No. No.

Gods, the kid is thirteen.

And Geralt's going to ruin him.

"Please, witcher," Jaskier says softly, tongue flicking out to wet his kiss-swollen lips, and Geralt is weak.

He sucks a mark to the silky inside of Jaskier's thigh; to ground himself, so he doesn't ravish the boy completely while he tries to collect his scattered thoughts.

Geralt is a man of practicality. He doesn't keep anything that isn't essential to his survival.

--except the one, solitary bottle of chamomile oil that sits wrapped in rags at the bottom of his pack, the fragrance of which Geralt doesn't find comforting in the slightest. Not at all.

"Smells nice," Jaskier tells him, slurred and quiet, when Geralt pulls the stopper out.

Getting one finger inside the boy is a struggle. Getting the second one in borders on impossible, but Jaskier moans and begs and his eyelashes grow temptingly wet,

(please, please, I don't want to be empty, I can't be empty, please let me have your cock)

and Geralt makes it fit, eventually.

"How big are your gods-damned hands, witcher, fuck."

When Geralt has the boy stretched on three fingers, he's fucking rabid with the thought of that too tight, suffocating heat around his cock. He grows impatient. Dangerous.

His usually sure hands stumble, struggle as he goes to finally undo his breeches, the leather unforgiving. Jaskier whines when he gets a look at Geralt's achingly hard cock, red at the tip and glistening, betraying his desperation.

Geralt gets the boy to straddle him, legs spread far too wide, tears glittering in his eyes and sinful pleas spilling from his lips,

(it's so big, so big, you'll tear me apart, please, I, I want you to, want you inside me so bad, make me yours)

and Geralt growls when he grabs Jaskier's hips and guides him too-quickly, too-harshly onto his cock.

"Fuck," Geralt says, and all thought evaporates from his head, just as he watches Jaskier's eyes roll back.

His teeth ache from being clenched so hard, his fingers dug decidedly too forcefully into the boy's slim hips--but they're Geralt's only anchor to reality, when his razor-sharp control dulls down to nothing.

"That's--that's di--ifferent," Jaskier breathes on a quiet laugh.

Different. Different. It is different for Geralt, too, feeling like life is being choked out of him through his fucking cock.

Geralt lifts Jaskier up with two unsteady hands on his tiny waist before he knows he's moved at all. And then he definitely knows, because Jaskier goes even tighter, so tight Geralt can barely breathe, and Jaskier scratches fruitlessly at his armoured chest, and it's--

"Gods, fuck, you--go faster, you can go faster, give it to me, witcher--" Jaskier babbles when Geralt starts bouncing him up and down, but--

"Geralt," he whispers nearly inaudibly, still half-hoping Jaskier hears, because he wants it to be real, this time, and--

"Geralt," Jaskier repeats in his songbird voice before he leans in to press their hungry lips together.

It's the quickest, most electrifying orgasm of Geralt's life. He'd been on the edge since he'd entered the boy, fuck, since he saw him, and he can't keep his release at bay when Jaskier moans so beautifully, clenches so tightly, wants it so much,

(wants him so much)

and when he comes, he sucks a possessive mark high on the side of Jaskier's pale throat.

"Fuck."

Geralt wraps his arms around the boy. Holds him too firmly, too close. Breathes in his scent and revels in the moment, just this once.

Jaskier's fingers slip over his neck and beneath his collar.

He keeps the boy on his cock when he takes the armour off. Jaskier's quick to ruck up the shirt underneath, get his small hands all over Geralt's chest.

"Gods. Gods. You are a god, aren't you?" Jaskier mumbles, breathless.

Geralt wants to laugh at the words. Stupid, hollow words, spoken by a kid who doesn't know any better.

He wants to laugh, and yet he can't, halted by a distant ache trying to burst through his ribcage.

"And all mine for a night."

Jaskier is so small, so fragile and delicate, but Geralt can't help it if he shoves him a little too roughly, if he slaps his smooth, unblemished bottom with a little more force than he should. If he yearns to leave his mark on the boy's lithe body, anywhere and everywhere.

The sheer, unwavering lust in Jaskier's watery eyes makes Geralt delirious, so he urges him onto hands and knees, to escape his gaze even for a short while. In exchange--as divine punishment, perhaps--he gets a sublime view of Jaskier's fucked-out hole, open and dripping spend down his thighs.

Pushing back in feels like coming home.

Like Geralt's had the world, and doesn't ever want to give it up again.

After getting that first desperate release out of his system he can fuck Jaskier like he'd wanted from the beginning; quick, brutal snaps of his hips that have Jaskier moans climbing in volume until his voice gives.

"Geralt, Geralt, ah, Geralt--harder, I can take it, promise, I--wanna feel you when you're gone, fuckfuckfuck, I'll touch myself and think of you--"

Geralt can see how the boy's mouth got him a scholarship.

He watches the drag of his cock in and out of Jaskier, how impossibly wide it stretches him. His cockhead slips out and Geralt relishes the way Jaskier's body stays open and ready for him before thrusting in again, fast and faster until he's nearly driven Jaskier off the bed. Jaskier's skin is stark white under the grip of Geralt's fingers. He presses in harder, just so. Just to make sure it bruises, and Jaskier thinks of this whenever he undresses. Jaskier only whimpers, reaching to tug at his prick.

Geralt keeps fucking him through his release, even as Jaskier's thighs tremble and attempt to draw together. Geralt keeps fucking him long after that, when Jaskier's moans die down into punched-out puffs of air and he bites down on a mouthful of sheets,

(don't stop, please, don't, never stop, fuck, I'm yours, all yours)

but he still tries to push his hips back.

Geralt keeps fucking him until he can't remember what it was like not to, until Jaskier's loose and sloppy and his hole gapes even when Geralt leaves it empty.

He draws out his orgasm as long as he can, because he doesn't want this to end, not now, not ever, but Jaskier's begging so sweetly,

(come in me, fuck, gods, wanna sit in class tomorrow and have your spend leak out of me, I--fuck, I'll leave and finger myself and wish it was you)

and when Geralt finally spills, he presses in as deep as he can, in a ridiculous attempt for Jaskier to keep it there.

Later, instead of getting dressed and leaving, Jaskier crawls under the covers and demands to be held, and Geralt falls asleep wondering how long he can excuse staying in the city.

#cw underage #i see you anon that warned me about keeping underage stuff off tumblr #i see you and i respect you #however only judy can judge me

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hardkinkbadkink · 4 years

Note

Don't know if you care about Yennefer being added to the mix but basically Jaskier, Geralt and Yennefer except Yennefer is actually mind controlling the other two. I don't mind if you go for the full works a.k.a making them do humiliating stuff or if you prefer it more for the softer possibilities. I'm just in it for the mind control

very sorry to you + the anon that sent in a lambert/ciri ask!! they're both good prompts but i have been gay my whole life & i dont really know how + dont really feel comfortable writing explicit content about women in fear that i severely mess it up

i'll have to pass on those sorry babes x

#i dont have many limits but this is one of them sorry #i just respect women greatly & dont want to do them a disservice #even if it's just smut on tumblr #also!! ive been away these past few days and hope to finally finish a prompt today #stay tuned

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hardkinkbadkink · 4 years

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I second the you are absolutely amazing sentiment ❤️ and tbh, I would absolutely live for extreme underage content if you find the time and motivation 😍

i got some 👀👀very nice prompts ngl, i am excited & tentatively abandoned my other asks to work on underage jaskier getting fucking railed like he deserves

#hey 🐼 anon i started on your first prompt but changed it quite a lot in a fit of divine intervention #fingers crossed it turns out alright

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hardkinkbadkink · 4 years

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I had this dream where Jaskier was taking dog cock publicly in a tavern and all the other patrons were getting horny but like also acting as if nothing was happening and so I've brought this to you in hopes of you making it better and into a fic please. I don't know what would cause it to be accepted but maybe like axii or a mage using mass mind control or something

your dream is my command dear x

***

"A succubus!" Jaskier exclaims, and Geralt already regrets telling him. "Gods, Geralt, get excited for once. At last, something that you don't have to crawl inside of to kill."

Geralt cocks a brow in Jaskier's general direction.

"Well. Unless you want to, that is."

A dog barks downstairs, and Geralt can already tell it's going to be a nuisance when they try to get to sleep. He reaches to check the edge of the silver dagger at his belt.

"Succubi don't need killing. Just negotiating."

Jaskier sighs with a dramatic flourish. Or maybe that's how he always does it.

"You suck the fun out of everything, witcher."

The corner of Geralt's mouth twitches involuntarily.

***

The whole thing goes tits-up quicker than Geralt would ever predict.

His medallion doesn't start vibrating when the succubus walks in, her glamour unexpectedly powerful.

(Not that Geralt is distracted in any way by watching Jaskier prancing around in his indecently tight trousers. He is not.)

Which means Geralt doesn't notice she's arrived until he feels her thrall nudging at his mind, and by then she's already at Jaskier's side, the tavern gone eerily quiet. Geralt's hand flies to the blade at his hip, fingers flexing around the handle.

"Come on, little bard, show me your greatest desire." Her whisper carries over to where Geralt sits, watching carefully as she caresses Jaskier's cheek. "Show it to me, and it's yours."

Geralt sees Jaskier blush a dark, splotchy pink.

He doesn't--Geralt doesn't know why he can't get himself to get up and talk to the creature, use his words or his blade. Why he lets it have her way with Jaskier. He just--he does, and he watches Jaskier hastily tug his clothes off in the middle of the room, and he doesn't move to stop him.

The succubus leaves for a minute, then returns with a leash in her slender hand and a big, imposing dog trotting behind her.

Geralt is indescribably confused.

Jaskier's shed all his clothing, sitting on top of a table with not a stitch on him, flushed from nipples to cheekbones, his eyes hazy and absent. His cock is very much hard between his legs, and Geralt is starting to smell the quickly overwhelming scent of arousal coming in waves off of the other patrons, though they don't seem to notice anything amiss. The tavern is packed, tonight.

"Get yourself ready, dear," Geralt hears the succubus' soft voice. She presses a small bottle into Jaskier's palm.

Geralt moves closer almost unconsciously, hypnotised and dizzy, and soon he finds himself sat on a chair at Jaskier's table, eye-level with his wet, hard cock. Jaskier doesn't even look at him, just tips some oil onto his fingers and goes to quickly, messily stretch himself, moaning shamelessly, his eyes fixed on--

The dog.

Geralt's heart pounds for a few dizzying moments when he follows Jaskier's gaze.

It's a--a big dog, distinctly wolf-like, with corded muscles that shift beneath its stark white fur, with permanently narrowed hazel eyes that seem entirely too sentient. The succubus pets behind its ear and down its sides, before she reaches between its legs.

And Jaskier looks at it with so much raw desire, Geralt feels like he's going to combust.

Everything happens in a blur.

Jaskier turns over on his hands and knees, spreads his legs to expose himself, and Geralt hears his breath stutter. The succubus urges the dog up on the table, the wood creaking beneath the weight of a creature so powerful. So powerful, it has no issue mounting up behind Jaskier, its paws tightly gripping his sides. It snaps its hips a few times, whines in frustration; the succubus reaches to guide its--very big, angrily red--cock inside Jaskier swiftly.

Geralt can tell when it enters him because Jaskier gasps, and shakes, and comes right on the spot, his release dripping steadily onto the polished table in front of Geralt.

Fuck.

Geralt's cock throbs against his leathers, just as the succubus wants. She gives him a mischievous smile, though he only barely sees it out of the corner of his eye--focused instead on the frantic moans that hang obscenely in the musty air and the slap of the dog's balls against Jaskier's skin as it ruts into him.

Nobody else is looking, but Geralt's head spins with the thick scent of lust still. Succubus magic, he thinks, and quickly thanks the gods that nobody can see this, nobody will remember Jaskier undone by--

"Fuck."

Jaskier's thighs shake. He bangs his forehead on the table so hard it rattles.

The dog is growling softly, and Geralt leans back just a bit, just so he can watch Jaskier's greedy hole get filled over and over at bruising speed, the dog's swollen knot bumping against Jaskier's entrance with each thrust.

It's as if his hand is its independent being, when it stretches forward and up and up and up, and grabs the base of the knot gently.

It's hot beneath his fingertips, hard and throbbing and Geralt has to use some force to get it to pop in past the rim.

But then it does.

Jaskier screams.

The sound doesn't alert any of the other guests. Geralt can only look, transfixed, as Jaskier spills again, panting harshly and spasming around the knot buried in him.

When it finally softens, and the dog jumps happily to the ground, who is to say Geralt can't climb up on the table in its stead, claim the bard's sloppy, come-soaked hole for himself?

#cw bestiality #cw non-con #cw mind control #don't know if id made it better and it's barely a fic #hope u like it still anon x

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hardkinkbadkink · 4 years

Note

That is a lie, you are in fact amazing and incredible, and taking as long as you need to write does not diminish that in any way. Anyway are there any types of prompts you particularly would like to write right now?-🐼

thanks love, i just don't wanna bore you all lmao x

... not gonna lie i've been Dreaming about underage/extremely underage stuff for a hot minute, but i already asked so much of you oop

#despite my dramatic ass posts i might still get a prompt up tonight #as in in the course of the night as it is very much 11pm

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hardkinkbadkink · 4 years

Text

hey babes, turns out i am not Amazing and Invincible as i previously thought & posting two prompt fills a day is not a viable plan, who'd have thot

uploads might be slower and i hope you can forgive me, but i'm very much still taking prompts!! don't hesitate to send them in, perhaps they'll be just the thing to jog my inspiration x

#i care a lot about putting out Good Content and it i my downfall #working on three asks currently and i just got one that's got me 👀👀 intrigued #love yous hens

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hardkinkbadkink · 4 years

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So there’s this AU where Jaskier’s Geralt’s son, and I had a prompt for that? So like, what if a Geralt catches Jaskier jerking off to him and decides he needs to be “taught a lesson” 😳😳😳

oh i loved being able to contribute to this verse <3

so here's the tea, this probably isn't exactly what u wanted because--and it's very silly--incest fics hold a Special Tender Place in my heart from when i read them at the very beginning of my fanfic journey very many years ago lmao. this is therefore quite soft, but absolutely shoot me another ask if you'd like something else babes x

***

Geralt can't quite get used to travelling with another person.

A child, at that.

"I'm not a child," would come an outraged scoff each time the fact was implied.

But the thing is, Geralt is a hundred years old--at fifteen, Jaskier could be an infant, for all he cares.

An exceptionally tall infant. With a warm, soothing voice, and limbs so long he outgrows his clothes in mere months. He's not so sickly-pale anymore; spring's brought freckles to his sun-kissed cheeks, the ends of his dark hair turning lighter with streaks of auburn.

The boy doesn't look even remotely like Geralt, if it weren't for his blasted yellow eyes.

Geralt despises those eyes.

They simply--

The don't have the right to be.

And Geralt's had a decade and a half to get used to this particular situation--except all the thinking that he's done revolved around how to best avoid the boy when he was still holed up at the keep.

He can't exactly do that anymore, when they're treading the Path side by side, sharing meals and rooms and beds.

Your son. Your responsibility.

"I call the bed!" Jaskier exclaims each time they cross the threshold of a ratty inn.

The boy is plagued by nightmares. Screaming terrors, tremors that shake his lithe body so violently the bed rattles. He dreams of the trials, Geralt knows, some part of Jaskier retaining Geralt's own memories of the excruciating pain that came with having his insides molten and set anew.

He can't do anything but climb under the covers as well, wrap a steadying arm around this boy who's never done anything to deserve it, his only sin being born of Geralt's seed, in Destiny's sick attempt at a joke.

Jaskier calms, and Geralt doesn't have it in him to let go. He stays pressed close, Jaskier's delicate hands coming to rest between them on Geralt's chest, and soon Geralt feels the claws of slumber seize him as well. He falls asleep with his nose buried in Jaskier's hair, pointedly not thinking about how much the boy smells like his.

***

It's only natural, that Jaskier wears his constant arousal like a perfume.

That Geralt comes back from his hunt and the air is thick with the scent of release, the sheets splattered with spend even after a clear attempt to get it off.

That on the nights Jaskier isn't tormented by visions of agony, he ruts mindlessly against the mattress until he shudders and stills and in the morning, Geralt pretends not to see the stain at the front of his smallclothes, or the blush across the bridge of his nose.

It is, perhaps, less natural, for Geralt's own dick to go half-hard every time he gets a lungful of the boy's cloyingly sweet scent.

He's just a bit pent up, is all.

He'd gone fifteen whole years in near-celibacy, paralysed by an irrational fear of bringing another child into the world. He's allowed some frustration.

And it's--he doesn't feel strong paternal ties to Jaskier, still stunned by the boy's existence all those years later. Perhaps he'll never quite grow into the role. Perhaps it's not so horribly wrong, that he catches himself admiring Jaskier's slim form as if he weren't of Geralt's own flesh and blood.

Fuck.

He's fucking vile.

One day, Geralt catches Jaskier sat in a man's lap in the darkest corner of a tavern, squirming and sighing contentedly as big hands move up the insides of his thighs.

The blood stays annoyingly long on his knuckles; Geralt can't really wash it off properly after they get thrown out into the night.

On another occasion, he nearly decapitates a blacksmith who'd mended his sword only hours before, when he finds him behind the stables with Jaskier on his knees, unlacing the man's trousers.

It's driving Geralt to madness.

He wouldn't mind if Jaskier wanted to bed a girl once in a while--it's only natural. Fuck, he wouldn't mind if it were a boy his age. But not--not old, sleazy men putting their filthy hands all over what doesn't belong to them.

Which is, perhaps, what drives him to be so unreasonable. Temperamental.

Because it's only natural that he can hear Jaskier touching himself from down the corridor, breath hitched on a moan. And, naturally, he turns around, to leave Jaskier a shred of privacy, except--

His ears must deceive him. They never had, in his whole life, fine-tuned so he picks up on every minute detail. But now, surely--

"Fuck, daddy, ah, harder, fuck me harder, have me, have me--"

And Geralt's certain his boy is in there alone, but what if he isn't? What if Geralt's grown old and slow and he can't even recognise another person's presence? What if Jaskier's in their bed, getting fucked by a stranger, a wretched old man, calling him--

"Please, daddy, please."

His legs seem to be creatures of their own volition, carrying him against his will until he comes to stand at the entrance of their room. It's his hands that betray him, then, and he's got the door pushed open in a haze, the throb of his own pulse loud in his ears.

Jaskier's reflexes are quick, but not quick enough. Geralt gets a perfect, mouthwatering view of where the boy's clumsily stuffed three fingers inside of himself, his thighs spread, prick resting on his soft belly. It's just a second before he clamps his legs shut, but Geralt's eyes still stay fixed on his smooth, pink balls.

"Da--Geralt, I--"

Was the boy's mother secretly a siren? A succubus, glamoured to look like a common whore? Geralt's medallion stays still, but his heart races like it never should outside of combat.

"Did you--did you hear--" Jaskier stutters, and tries to cover himself haphazardly. "Of course you did. Of course you did. Listen, Geralt, it's--"

It's nothing, Geralt tells himself, walk out. Leave. Leave.

The cheap bed is soft and giving under his knees when he crawls across it, over Jaskier, like a predator circling its prey. His mind is cloudy with desire--Jaskier's or his own, Geralt can't tell when they're mingled this completely.

Jaskier stares up at him, his chest heaving, lips parted, pupils blown so wide Geralt can barely see the gold in his eyes.

"You think about me. When you--"

Geralt's fingers come to touch gently at Jaskier's exposed collarbones. The boy inhales sharply.

"I'm sorry."

"And when--with the men? To make me jealous?"

Jaskier nods slowly, and his bottom lip trembles.

"Fuck."

Fuck. He should leave. This is--

"Geralt, I'm sorry, it's--"

But Jaskier, too, can't seem to finish the sentence.

It's not natural, when Geralt leans down and presses his lips softly against Jaskier's, and his boy kisses him so hungrily Geralt's heart aches--it's not natural, but it's right, it fills the horrible, gaping emptiness within him, and Jaskier's moan is so pretty Geralt can't help himself. He lets a hand explore over smooth, warm skin, down Jaskier's chest and his belly to where he's still got his hands clasped over his prick in an attempt at modesty.

"I really don't like you whoring out--" Geralt whispers into Jaskier's ear and feels him shiver, "--just to get my attention."

It's easy to lift Jaskier's hands away.

"I've never--I don't actually fuck them. They're not you, daddy."

Geralt bares his teeth at the word. They find the delicate skin of Jaskier's throat unconsciously, clamped so tightly Geralt can feel the boy's fluttering heartbeat.

"Do you know what you do to me? Always smelling like a needy whore, spreading your legs for anyone who asks--begging for me to fuck you when you touch yourself, knowing that I'll hear. Fuck, Jaskier."

There are fingers idly picking at the ties of his armour, though Jaskier's eyes stay tightly shut, like he's scared to open them and have this disappear.

"I'm sorry, daddy. I won't do it again."

Jaskier's cock fits very nicely in Geralt's hand.

"No, you won't."

He drags Jaskier down the bed by the hips, spreads the boy's legs to look at his slick, open hole.

"After I'm done with you, no other touch will satisfy you. Not your own, certainly not some town drunk's. Just mine."

Jaskier's eyes finally pop open when Geralt dips a fingertip into him.

"Just yours, daddy. Please, I've waited so long."

There's a vial of translucent oil on the bed that Geralt nearly empties onto Jaskier's entrance before pushing three of his fingers in at once.

"How long?"

Jaskier writhes under the touch, a breathy moan escaping him each time Geralt sinks into him.

"You could've had me when I was six."

Red spills into Geralt's vision. He drives his fingers into Jaskier faster, until his wrist hurts and Jaskier tries to slither away, whining, whispering,

"Too close, too close, daddy--"

over and over. Geralt doesn't stop until Jaskier's hole pulses deliciously and his prick twitches as it spends, untouched, all over his stomach.

Geralt hums, contented, and doesn't even wipe his hand off before he goes to undo his breeches.

Jaskier isn't done coming when Geralt sinks into him all at once with a groan of satisfaction, and isn't it poetic, that he's the first person Geralt's fucking after all those years?

"Daddy," Jaskier breathes, scrambling to hold onto Geralt's arms against the burn of the stretch. He leans up for a filthy kiss either way, mouth slack and begging for Geralt to ruin him.

He's the tightest hole Geralt's ever had. Like he was made for him, made just for this. Perhaps Destiny sent Geralt his boy exactly for this reason; to be his perfect little slut.

"Please, daddy, oh, you feel so good, so--"

Jaskier nearly sobs when Geralt snaps his hips back, starts thrusting into him, and Geralt has to tuck his face in against the side of the boy's neck to keep quiet. It's never been this intense, never made him want to scream his pleasure to the world. Jaskier tugs on his hair, kisses him messily, drools all over his own face, like the overeager kid he is.

"Did you ever let them kiss you?" Geralt asks in a fit of seething jealousy, because suddenly he has to know.

Jaskier whimpers.

"Only you, daddy."

Geralt looks into Jaskier's eyes, his own eyes, glazed over in pleasure, full of unspeakable, unreasonable love, and he's hopelessly lost.

Filling Jaskier with his seed is a holy experience.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck--"

His cock keeps throbbing, shooting more and more of his spend, until he's sure, against all reason, that Jaskier's round with it.

Geralt doesn't think he'd come so hard in decades.

"Thank you, thank you, daddy, thank you," Jaskier's babbling, like it's the most precious gift he's ever got.

He keeps moving his little hips, keeps fucking himself on Geralt's still-hard cock mindlessly until Geralt reaches down to tug at his boy's cute prick.

Jaskier thanks him all the way over the edge, even when his thighs shake and tears spill down his temples after coming again too soon.

Geralt thinks of giving Jaskier a break, but then remembers he needs to teach his boy a lesson. He pulls out carefully and makes his way down Jaskier's sweat-slick body, sucking a mark to his throat and the side of his ribcage, over his sharp hipbone and the insides of his thighs.

"Daddy?" Jaskier asks unsteadily when Geralt slips the boy's legs over his shoulders.

It's a treat, looking at Jaskier's perfectly pink hole weakly trying to keep Geralt's seed inside his body. It's even better, when Geralt presses the flat of his tongue there to taste it, and Jaskier shouts, his thighs tightening around Geralt's ears. He closes his eyes and makes a feast of his boy, fucking him with his tongue, lapping at the come leaking out of him. He hears Jaskier's voice as though he's underwater, but the words aren't difficult to decipher.

"Daddy, daddy, it's--gods, I'm--"

Geralt shifts slightly, so he can suck the head of Jaskier's stiff cock into his mouth instead, taste the remnants of his release there, until it pulses and spills right down Geralt's throat.

Jaskier tears at his hair and keens, long and beautiful.

"You'll never touch another man," Geralt says, when Jaskier's head seems less foggy.

"Yes, daddy." He's spectacularly out of breath.

"You'll never touch yourself."

"I--"

"You'll always come to me, whenever you want to get off. You'll ask daddy."

Jaskier nods, and his eyes sparkle.

"I will, daddy. Thank you. Thank you."

#cw underage #cw incest #cw daddy kink #i used to read like.... wincest & thorki smut at twelve u feel me

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hardkinkbadkink · 4 years

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Incubus!Jask at Kaer Morhen, having enthralled the witcher boys (+Ves? Your call.) wanting to watch them fuck only to be surprised they’re all... small? Maybe it’s the mutations fault. No matter. Jask makes them get off with each other by making them lap at each others’ cocks like they’re cunts, fingering one another until they’re squirming like pups begging for Jaskier’s cock to breed their needy holes because no other cocks will do. Bonus for puppy play, and forced orgasms (1/2)

(2/2) because I could see someone like Eskel or Lambert snapping out of it for a moment while Geralt is humping their thigh and being horrified until Jaskier talks him down, asking “don’t you like being my pup? Doesn’t it feel good to have your little cunny touched?” Until they’re re-enthralled for Jaskier’s sole amusement.

so this is,,, my favourite prompt i’d ever got? truly? and that’s not to say that the other asks i get aren’t fucking amazing cos they very much are but this just hit all the points for me. all of them. lord have mercy.

this is filthy overstim tiny cock mind-controlled porn thru & thru oof i’m a bit hot under the collar not gonna lie to you babes

now also on the ao3 near you

***

At first Jaskier'd thought it was a joke. How could he not? The concept of a witcher letting him tag along for the monster-slaying ride was rich enough. The idea--the very idea of being invited to the place that was basically Geralt's home, and home to his brothers, to other witchers--

It was, very much, not a joke, if the cold ache that's seeped through his joints and the monolithic, run-down keep standing stark against the grey sky are anything to go by.

"This seems like a needlessly intricate plot just to kill me, you do realise. You could easily have done it at any moment and I wouldn't even notice you draw the blade."

Geralt never appreciates this particular vein of his humour.

"I won't--"

"Yes, yes, you won't kill me, I know, you boring old man."

The heavy oaken door squeaks horribly when Jaskier pushes it open with some considerable effort. Geralt doesn't move to help him, the great brute that he is, resigning instead to stewing in his insufferable self-righteousness.

The inside of the keep is no less cold than the outside, though there are at least three lit hearths in the big, open hall alone. At least there's no snow. Jaskier looks around, overwhelmed by how awfully bland and devoid of style everything is. A long table with two equally long benches on either side seems to be the hall's biggest attraction, and Jaskier nearly weeps at the thought of the sad, sad souls that have come through here. No wonder Geralt is the way he is.

"Witchers--" Geralt continues suddenly when Jaskier's already long moved on from the subject.

"--are immune to incubus magic, yes, Geralt, you told me. I do listen sometimes, you know."

"He never listens, though, so he assumes nobody else does either," comes a beautiful voice speaking the whole truth and the truth only.

Jaskier turns as quickly as his stiff limbs will allow him.

"Eskel," Geralt growls in--what, a threat? Even in his own home, the man resorts to threats?

"Eskel!" Jaskier repeats with the cheer it deserves. He's heard only great things about Eskel. He extends a hand in greeting, and shivers when Eskel takes it in his own, gloveless in this awful chill. "Pleasure."

"The pleasure's all mine."

Eskel's smile, Jaskier thinks, is quite striking, just as the rest of him. Broad shoulders and thick thighs, dark hair peeking out from under the collar of his shirt, a playful glint in his golden eyes, the exact copies of Geralt's--

He shivers again, and not from the temperature.

Another set of footsteps echoes through the hall, obnoxiously loud. Geralt walks silently, like a cat slinking in the shadows. Eskel seems about the same way. Whoever this is must just enjoy being a right pompous prick for the sake of it.

Jaskier gets introduced to Lambert and grows a little bit warmer when all three witchers gather around him, tower above him, really, walking, talking mountains of muscle and strength and gods, fuck, Jaskier's so hungry.

He shouldn't have agreed to come, but Geralt's assured him they'll figure it out.

They are yet to figure it out.

But he gets as many cups of mulled wine as his little heart desires, and Geralt soon brightens up around his brothers, cracking jokes as they all shove at each other playfully like they're still wolf pups instead of hundred-year-old men.

The evening, all in all, ends up pleasant. Jaskier falls asleep calm and safe, ignoring the sucking emptiness inside him.

***

So here's the thing.

Sometimes, he thinks Geralt makes himself forget about Jaskier's inhuman heritage.

Sometimes, he thinks maybe Geralt really believes he doesn't need to feed on energy because he scarfs down half a loaf of bread at breakfast.

Sometimes, he wishes someone would strike him down, so he doesn't have to be so achingly hungry anymore.

And everyone's being so nice to him, so accommodating--he's embarrassed to ask them for anything more when they already give him so much.

And, here's another thing.

Witchers are not actually immune to incubus magic.

Jaskier's never had the heart to tell Geralt.

The poor dear once told him no when Jaskier half-jokingly asked to suck his cock and really thought his mighty witcher-brain is immune to Jaskier's power.

It is decidedly not the truth.

Jaskier makes it a whole week, waiting for Geralt to offer himself or anyone else up--Jaskier would even take a sacrificial virgin in a pinch--but he stays famished and weakening by the day.

He means to only take a little, at first. He finds Eskel and Lambert in the courtyard. Compelling them to drop their swords and follow him inside is child's play.

Jaskier walks them up to his bedroom--the only chamber in this whole blasted keep that's even remotely warm--and thrums with anticipation as he practically skips up the steps.

He means to only take a little, so he gets Lambert on his knees and makes for Eskel to shove his undoubtedly glorious cock down his throat, except--

Except that he doesn't think Eskel's cock could reach Lambert's throat in any capacity.

Oh.

When Lambert peels away his own leathers, and his dick turns out similarly sized, Jaskier burns with curiosity.

He motions for his boys to come forward, half-tangled in their clothes still, and they come to sit on the bed with him. He pets their precious tiny pricks and they squirm deliciously.

Oh, he's got to find Geralt.

He leaves them to undress and sprints through the keep at inhuman speed, dipping his head into various rooms until he spots the shock of white hair. Geralt's defences are so embarrassingly low, Jaskier doesn't even have to try particularly hard to catch him under a spell.

Eskel and Lambert are knelt dutifully in front of the bed, their clothes strewn all about, their expressions blissed-out like Jaskier's never seen them before. He helps Geralt undress--gods, and Geralt's prick is even smaller, somehow--before directing him to his knees between his brothers.

Jaskier practically vibrates with eagerness.

He meant only to take a little, but now he thinks he'll have all of it, and then some for dessert, until he's bursting with it.

Gods, the possibilities are endless.

Jaskier makes himself comfortable, leaning back on the cushions, facing his obedient pups.

"My good boys. My darling, perfect pups. You're even more breathtaking than I could ever imagine."

Someone whines pitifully at the words.

"Oh, it's high time someone took care of you, isn't it? Look how wet your gorgeous cocks are getting, and I barely even touched you."

He wants to touch, but even more he wants to watch.

"Eskel, my lovely, why don't you lay down for me? That's it, heart. Open your mouth nice and wide--"

Jaskier looks on, transfixed, as his pups shuffle to accommodate his wants; Eskel on his back on the furs, Lambert straddling his face, cute prick hovering just above his parted lips. He's got Geralt on his belly, face buried between Eskel's legs.

"My, look at you. Go on, dears, you must be ravenous."

He can't settle on where to look--to watch clumsy tongues lap desperately at each other's cocks, or their faces twist in unadulterated pleasure. Just as he fixes his wandering gaze on where Lambert's got his lip between his teeth, he catches a glimpse of Geralt rutting his tiny prick against the edge of the fur.

He waits until he can just feel the static of release cloying the air, all his pups whimpering as they approach the precipice--and orders them apart. They kneel again, their chests heaving and cocks throbbing, clad only in their medallions.

"What would my pups want? Do you want to fingerfuck your needy holes, since none of you have a cock to do it? I'll give you something bigger, when you're all nice and loose."

"Please," Geralt says quietly and crawls up the bed. He comes to straddle one of Jaskier's thighs, his prick flushed a delightful pink, deliciously wet at the head, and Jaskier's sure greater men would have succumbed.

"Oh, is my puppy desperate?"

Geralt nods frantically as he rides Jaskier's thigh, spreading sticky precome all over the fabric of his trousers.

"You'll have to wait your turn to get bred full, then, heart, since your brothers are so patient."

He brushes Geralt's hair to the side and shivers when Geralt comes with a series of lovely, high-pitched moans, feeling the shadow of his pup's release at the base of his spine.

"Good boy. But you're so greedy, darling, you've left your brothers waiting. Better make it up to them, yeah?"

Geralt nods again and scrambles off the bed to push at Eskel's chest and get him to lay back down again. This time Geralt throws Eskel's legs over his shoulders and laps hungrily at his hole. Jaskier makes Lambert return to sit on Eskel's face, turned the other way as he rides Eskel's tongue and moans wantonly.

They both take a finger beautifully, even before Jaskier hands them the oil.

Gods, Jaskier has to palm his own cock when he thinks about his pups, made-over and trained to be killing machines--helpless as he forces them to take their pleasure, squirming on each other's fingers and tongues, moaning and whimpering and begging in broken, breathy whispers to be taken and bred and filled.

He watches Eskel stretched on three fingers, his powerful thighs quivering. Jaskier feels the frantic crescendo of his pup's orgasm, can taste the panic that rises in him because he didn't get the permission to come yet.

"Do you like Geralt's fingers, darling? Want to come on them? Go on, Eskel, my lovely, let go for me."

Eskel's little cock twitches before he comes with a sob, draining his heavy balls all over his belly, but he never stops driving his fingers relentlessly into Lambert's slack hole.

"You too, Lambert, baby, come for me whenever you feel like it. Look how good it was for your brothers."

Lambert only takes a few more harsh thrusts before he nearly collapses forward, seizing up and shooting his load over Eskel's chest with a full-bodied tremor.

"Good. Gods, you're all so good, so lovely, you make my heart ache."

They make other parts of him ache, too.

When Geralt moves up to dutifully clean Eskel's skin of seed, from his flushed chest all the way to his sensitive cock, Jaskier's resolve breaks.

He divests himself quickly of his clothes, and his pups stare adoringly, hungrily, at the sticky-wet tip of his cock.

And Jaskier immediately knows that he loves all of them equally--but he needs Geralt to have the last turn, and he's wanted Eskel ever since he'd first laid eyes on him that first day.

"You can all come up on the bed now, loves."

His pups drool all over themselves, watching his prick bob between his legs, and Jaskier can't believe they were to deprive themselves all winter, when they so fiercely want for a big fat cock to stuff them silly. His heart breaks for them, just a little.

He kisses Lambert deeply, his darling too out of it to do it properly, licking into Jaskier's mouth with a sloppy tongue like the desperate puppy he is. They all try to get comfortable around him, even with the aching emptiness between their legs, but Jaskier's quick to remedy that.

"Lambert, my sweet, be a dear and open Geralt up while I breed Eskel's tight little hole."

Jaskier reclines with his back against the wall, so he can see Geralt open his legs wantonly and Lambert quickly get between them.

But most importantly, he can urge Eskel onto his lap, his pup's glorious thighs spreading wide over his own as he looks at Jaskier with blind adoration.

"You want my cock, darling? Want to finally be so very full?" Jaskier asks in a whisper, giving Eskel his full attention, like his baby deserves.

"Please, please." Eskel's soothing, deep voice trembles a bit as he tries to speak. "Want you so bad, it hurts."

Jaskier shushes him before pressing his lips gently to Eskel's. The kiss is more cohesive than his last, Eskel groaning quietly when Jaskier sucks on his tongue.

"I know, you just want to get fucked, nice and proper, huh? I bet you get no relief on the path, with that pitiful little excuse for a cock--want me to breed you like the good little fuckhole you are, darling? I'll leave you dripping."

He smooths his hands over Eskel's thighs to urge him up, so he can press his throbbing cockhead against Eskel's greedy hole. It swallows him all at once, steals the breath from his lungs when Eskel's bottom presses against the tops of his legs.

"Oh, Eskel, my love--" Jaskier rambles, because the feel of his pup, coupled with the sight he makes--wide open eyes, glazed-over in elation, his lips swollen and pink, his tiny prick hard again and bobbing against his belly when Eskel begins bouncing on Jaskier's cock--

Gods, how did he ever think he could have just a little?

"Take what you need, whatever you need, darling, oh, you're divine, you're perfect."

Eskel whimpers and leans in to bury his face in Jaskier's neck, overwhelmed, but Jaskier doesn't mind. He rubs his puppy's back, and keeps fucking him, as slowly and as quickly as Eskel needs from him, sinking into his sinful hole again and again until Eskel shakes with it, until he can't go anymore.

Jaskier pushes him gently onto his back and keeps driving into him, faster now, and Eskel sobs beautifully with each thrust. They share a feverish kiss and Jaskier finally gets his hands on that alluring chest, squeezing Eskel's pecks and rubbing his nipples gently. Eskel arches into his touch and moans raggedly.

"Such a good boy, such a good pup--do you want me to touch your cute prick, love? Want me to rub your little clit?"

Eskel nods, his voice climbing frantically around a string of yes yes yes. It barely takes a full touch to his swollen, ruddy prick before Eskel pulses around Jaskier's cock, thrashes on the bed with his head thrown back.

"Stunning, oh, that's perfect--"

Jaskier pumps his darling pup full of hot seed and marvels when Eskel immediately quakes through another orgasm, before the first even subsides. Jaskier peppers his face with tiny kisses, wants to drown Eskel in affection. When he makes to pull out, Eskel whines and claws at his shoulders.

"I know, I know, pup, but I need to see to your brothers. Gods, I wish I had something to plug you up with, so you're always nice and full."

He does manage to pull out, and gets to watch Eskel's puffy hole leak out his spend copiously. He leans down to lap it up, because how can he not? Eskel's legs grip vice-tight around his head for a moment.

Eskel's still convulsing periodically when Jaskier arranges him on his knees, straddling one of Geralt's thighs, so they can hump each other like the needy pups they are.

"Lambert, love, would you like to suck a real cock, finally? I can shove it down your throat before I breed your lovely hole."

And Lambert scrambles to get his mouth on Jaskier's come-streaked cock so fast he nearly falls backwards and off the edge of the bed.

"Careful, dear, so you don't choke. Gods, you are just my perfect cock-hungry sluts, aren't you? How will I ever let you go?"

Geralt whimpers beautifully next to him, and Jaskier looks over to his other boys while he cards gentle fingers through Lambert's hair.

Eskel's too sensitive, Jaskier knows, and yet he still ruts his prick against Geralt like he'll die without it. Their foreheads rest together. It only takes the smallest nudge to have them kiss, tentatively at first, then increasingly more hotly, until they're both moaning with the intensity of it.

"Is this how my pups spend the winters? Rutting against each other desperately, lapping at your pathetic little pricks like they're cunts? Writhing on fingers because there isn't a cock in sight to fill you like you so very crave?"

Geralt shakes violently and grabs fistfuls of Eskel's hair when he spills, yet the rhythm of his hips never falters. Jaskier smiles at them warmly, tugs Lambert's head up and down, relishing the tight clutch of his throat.

Except there's something threatening to ruin his perfect evening, and he can feel one of his pups slipping from his thrall.

Eskel jerks away slightly, as much as he can with Geralt still straddling his leg. His eyes aren't filled with bliss and lust, but wide with confusion and, inexplicably, terror.

"You--" Eskel begins, trying to wrestle out of Geralt's hold.

Jaskier shushes him calmly. "Oh, darling is something the matter? You do like being my lovely pup, don't you?" He can see Eskel pause when he no doubt notices his sopping wet hole drooling all over the sheets. "Don't you like your little boy parts touched, love? Doesn't it feel good to be stuffed with my seed?"

Eskel's sharp, golden eyes quickly lose their focus. Geralt whines and leans in for a kiss. Eskel opens his mouth somewhat reluctantly, still.

"That's it, pup, just let yourself be cared for, isn't that better? If you're good I'll have you warm my cock all night."

Jaskier still has some tricks up his sleeve, so he snaps his fingers and has Eskel crashing through a sudden, dry orgasm, his lovely prick throbbing visibly.

"Maybe it's for the better you don't have real cocks. I can have your little boy pricks coming again and again, just as a woman would."

Lambert gives a strangled groan around Jaskier's cock, his release thick and heavy in the air without anyone even glancing at his dick. Amazing.

Jaskier urges his lovely pup up, gives him a chaste kiss before asking,

"How do you want it, darling?"

"Hard," Lambert replies without hesitation, and settles on his hands and knees, his pink, sloppy hole perfectly on display.

Jaskier urges Eskel and Geralt to lay down, grind their oversensitive, aching pricks against each other. Their whimpers are a beautiful background for the slow, dizzying push of his cock into Lambert's tight body.

"Oh, love, you've got such a nice, tight cunt, fuck--"

Lambert chokes on a breath, forces his hips back, overeager and hungry for every bit of cock he can get. Jaskier couldn't deny him, wouldn't want to anyway.

"That's it, that's right, I'll fuck you until you can't stand it anymore, darling, you'll be feeling it for days."

His hips hasten, until he's snapping into Lambert with brutal force, jostling the whole bed, spurred on by the constant babble of more, harder, yes, yes.

"Will you finger your sore hole, thinking about my cock? Will you try to get Eskel's tiny prick into you, to satisfy the ache?"

Lambert keens, and shakes his head vigorously.

"Just you, need your cock, need a real cock--"

The slap of Jaskier's balls against Lambert's is indecently satisfying. Jaskier brings his hand down with a crack on Lambert's magnificent arse, and then a few more times, when Lambert hollers and the sharp scent of his intensifying arousal makes Jaskier half-rabid.

"Like that, darling? Want to be abused? Want me to bruise your little cunt until you sob with it?"

"Please, please, oh--"

Sobbing is not far off, it seems. Jaskier feels the tingle of power in every part of his body, in the air around them, everywhere, everywhere, raw carnal energy for him to devour.

Jaskier comes before Lambert does, but his pup isn't far behind, milking the last of Jaskier's release as he spills onto the sheets with a broken whimper.

"Don't stop, don't stop," Lambert whispers and tries to impale himself on Jaskier's cock further.

"Greedy. Greedy, slutty pups, you've been neglected for so long, you can't get enough, can you?"

He thrusts languidly, because if there's one thing he doesn't lack, it's stamina.

They fuck for long minutes, Lambert steadily growing louder in his pleas and his moans, Jaskier sweaty and out of breath trying to keep his darling satisfied. Each thrust fucks his seed deeper into Lambert with a wet squelching sound that makes Jaskier dizzy in its obscenity. Which is perhaps why he pulls out of Lambert entirely and rolls his pup to lay belly-up before him.

"How would you like to come inside a nice, warm body, love?"

Lambert whines, his golden eyes blown entirely black.

"Geralt, my darling," Jaskier calls softly, and Geralt looks up at him with red-rimmed, shining eyes. "You'll be a good pup and ride Lambert, won't you?"

"Want a real cock," Geralt says faintly, voice cracking, but he's already climbing to sit astride Lambert's belly, facing Jaskier. "Want your cock."

"You'll get it, heart, you'll get it as much as you want--if you're a good boy for me."

Jaskier doesn't think Lambert's cock is longer than his fingers, but it's nice and thick and just big enough to fit inside Geralt without slipping out, at least until Geralt tries to fuck himself on it.

"Jaskier, Jaskier, please--" his pups call out to him, all three in a beautiful symphony.

He's suddenly obsessed with the thought of Lambert coming inside Geralt, so when Jaskier gets in him his hole is nice and sloppy with spend.

Lambert's cute little prick is not big enough for Geralt to bounce on it like he so clearly wants.

Easily remedied, that.

"Geralt. Geralt, my darling, the light of my life, my perfect little puppy--" he prattles on in a soft voice before he gives a measured slap to the very tip of Geralt's cock.

The effect is immediate. Geralt sobs, just the tiniest bit, tightens around Lambert like the most amazing little boy, until Lambert writhes and comes with a scorching hot shout of someone getting to breed a warm hole for the first time in a long time.

Jaskier is dizzy with all this power, lust-drunk and floaty. He can barely contain it. He has to be careful, usually, when it gets this intense, but his perfect pups can take it, were made to take it, gods, gods--

A sharp burst of energy makes his witchers all shudder with release, squirming as it takes them by surprise, their little cocks come-soaked and oversensitive.

"Geralt," Jaskier says, and he slurs a bit in his haste. His composure is slipping. But his boys are so delicious, so eager and obedient and Geralt spreads his legs so very wide just to show Jaskier his loose, fucked-out hole, and what is he meant to do if not give in to the temptation laid out before him?

Geralt feels so intoxicatingly, unreasonably good, the spell nearly snaps. Jaskier has to keep himself firmly in check, even when everything around him becomes an impossible blur. He fucks Geralt on his back and his stomach, on all fours and against the wall. Vaguely, he registers the small tingle in his abdomen when his other pups come, too, again and again on each other's fingers and tongues, wailing and screaming as Jaskier unconsciously wrings pleasure out of them long after it'd crossed the line of overstimulated pain.

"Geralt, my lovely, my darling little whore, fuck--you're all so good, so, so good, ah--"

His pup's tiny fucking prick twitches when Jaskier closes a palm around it, finds it deliciously soaked and so very sensitive. He licks the single tear that spills down Geralt's cheek and rubs the heel of his palm over Geralt’s cockhead.

Jaskier blacks out when he finally breeds Geralt full of come.

***

He wakes up wrapped up in his beloved pups, keeping his hold tightly on their minds.

The room had grown cold, but he's feverishly hot between three strong bodies. Curious, he touches a finger to the swollen head of Lambert's soft prick, watches him twitch his hips away even asleep. Jaskier pillows his head on a burly chest and closes his eyes.

He'll let them rest for the day, but by nightfall, Jaskier would very much like to be treated to an extravagant feast again.

#cw non-con #cw mind control #indulgent overuse of the word 'pup'#i rarely enjoy my own writing but bitch i'd read this again

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hardkinkbadkink · 4 years

Note

Re: humiliation - how about Geralt making Jaskier come on his boots & then lick them clean of his cum and the dust from the road?? Maybe Jaskier has to hump his leg/boot bcs his tiny cock doesn't deserve to be touched by a hand

so here’s the tea, i fucking Despise anything to do with f*et even remotely but this prompt,, this prompt had been calling to me ever since i first got it in my inbox. it’s. so good?? how. why. it’s a two sentence prompt and i barely even filled it cos i was like right, it’s all there innit?? scrumptious. amazing. thank u anon.

just a short little snack so you won’t go hungry babes x

***

"Need something?"

It's a cruel thing to ask, but the humour of it doesn't escape Jaskier, even as his joints ache and his thighs strain from kneeling on the hard wooden floor for so long, his legs spread too wide for comfort.

He whines, because that's all he can do with his mouth full.

Gods, his prick is so hard, he's near-delirious with it.

Geralt's cock is also very much hard and hot on his tongue, and his witcher won't let him do anything to get him off.

"Just hold it there," he'd said, unbuckling his belt and taking his soft cock out. "Need to meditate for a few hours."

And Jaskier knows that meditation aids Geralt's healing, and he knows that wounds the size of the one on Geralt's back take hours. And he enjoys this, usually, enjoys keeping Geralt's cock warm for him, slipping into a trance of his own until Geralt jolts him out of it, taking his mouth roughly and fucking Jaskier every which way.

Except that it doesn't happen for him tonight.

They'd been on the road for so terribly long, and Geralt doesn't let him come unless they're at an inn, and Jaskier's so desperate for it he could cry.

So he's restless, and twitchy, and his prick stays maddeningly hard and dripping even against the frigid air of their room. And Geralt doesn't like it when he moves too much while they do this, when he sucks and massages the cock in his mouth and makes it swell to stiffness before Geralt gives him permission.

"Do you really think you'll get what you want by misbehaving?"

He whines again, does his best to shake his head, but oh, how he aches for anything his witcher would give him.

Geralt's expression softens, somewhat, and he winds a gentle hand in Jaskier's hair. He moans at the touch, can't help it.

"You've been very good lately."

And now he's ruined it, and Geralt's disappointed in him, and--

"Just this once."

And then Geralt pulls his head up and brings it down again, pushes until his cock fills Jaskier's throat seamlessly, like it always does, and Jaskier wants to weep from the overwhelming joy.

He doesn't gag anymore, the reflex long trained out of him, but the slick sound of his spit and Geralt's cock forcing itself into the clutch of his throat still echo obscenely in the room. The grip on his hair remains too-tight and amazingly good, the act of being used only for Geralt's pleasure making his hips twitch toward, but finding only thin air.

That is, until Geralt--his perfect, considerate witcher, who always takes care of him, even when he doesn't deserve it--shifts his leg slightly and presses the cool, filthy tip of his leather boot up against Jaskier's prick. Jaskier nearly comes from that little bit of stimulation alone.

"Come on, then. It's all your tiny cock's good for anyway."

He does his best to hum an affirmation, frantically rutting his useless, barely-there prick against Geralt's travelling boot. He loses track of time and space, focused only on the raw bursts of pleasure that threaten to undo him in mere moments. Jaskier barely notices when Geralt drags him off his cock, but he draws in desperate lungfuls of air still. His tongue won't quite fit in his mouth, and he pants with it limply out like a dog.

Geralt yanks him forward to have him lap at his balls briefly, and that returns Jaskier to reality, somewhat. He loves doing it, loves sucking Geralt's constantly-full balls into his mouth one by one, simply because it drives Geralt crazy. He focuses on the task until his release isn't so frighteningly imminent.

"Is this what you wanted so badly?" Geralt asks, and Jaskier moans in response.

Geralt presses his boot closer, just a bit, enough that it's crushing Jaskier's little, worthless balls, and there's drool sticky on his chin, and he trembles all over when he comes and comes and comes.

"Thank you," Jaskier chokes out before the last of the aftershocks subside. His voice is rough from hours of disuse, fucked out and scratchy.

"Good, pup. Is that better? Can you behave now?"

Jaskier nods. He leans forward to lick at the sticky head of Geralt's cock, but is halted by the tightening of fingers in his hair.

"It seems that your pathetic cock's made a mess." Geralt looks pointedly down, where pearly white beads on the black leather of his boot. "Better clean it up."

He doesn't hesitate before he shuffles backwards on his knees, leans down until he's level with Geralt's boots.

They're filthy, dusty from the road, and yet he doesn't hesitate to stick his tongue out and dutifully lick up every trace of his seed, bitter with dirt. He moans as he does it, out of habit.

Geralt laughs when Jaskier straightens back up, cheeks smeared with grime, and yet he still yanks Jaskier forward to brutalise his throat, like he deserves.

Geralt doesn't take the boots off when he fucks Jaskier ruthlessly into the floor, one foot heavy against the back of Jaskier's neck as his sore hole gets filled over and over again.

#cw d/s #the incubus prompt is coming possibly later today #it's sittin pretty at 3k & about two thirds done #i do have shit to do but i desperately want the bastard finished so idk

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