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Chapter Text

The tavern was loud, stinking of sweat and old mead but Geralt only saw him.

Jaskier was all brightness and flutter, perched between two townsmen like he didn’t even notice the way they stared at him. Slender wrists, flushed cheeks, delicate fingers wrapping around a wine cup too big for his hands. He laughed and leaned forward, just slightly, that stupid perfect jawline catching the firelight.

Too pretty for this place. Too pretty for anyone but me.

Geralt sat in the dark with his back to the wall, watching like a beast in a corner, broad and soaked from the rain, thighs spread wide. His cloak still dripped on the stone. The bench creaked when he moved, and the men nearby pretended not to flinch.
Jaskier had no such fear. He never did. That was the worst part.

He flitted through this world with his soft voice and cinched little waist like nothing could touch him. Flirted with everyone. Let them touch his wrist, tuck his hair behind his ear, murmur things like they could ever satisfy him. Like their average, forgettable cocks could even compare.

Geralt knew what they saw, a fussy little noble brat with long lashes and a quick tongue. But Geralt saw more. He saw the curve of his hips in tight trousers. The soft line of his throat, always so vulnerable. The way he shuddered under praise, whined under pressure, melted when someone gripped his jaw just right.

He thought about pulling Jaskier onto his lap constantly. Thought about how easy it would be to break him, snap him in half with one hand, but he never would. He couldn’t. He’d never hurt the only soft thing in his life. The only good thing.

But gods, he’d fuck him stupid if the bard would just let him.

Instead, he watched Jaskier bat his lashes at some nobody with clean nails and a weak chin.

But Geralt could smell it from across the room. That sharp undercurrent of arousal. The subtle spike of need. Want. Jaskier’s body wanted something those men couldn’t give him.

Something only Geralt had. Size. Strength. Power.

Geralt was huge, always had been. Taller than any man in this town, broader than doorframes, cock thick enough to choke on before half of it even left his trousers. A wall of scarred muscle and tightly wound control. Most men stared at him like a weapon.

Jaskier stared at him like a prayer.

And still…he played with others. Still he flirted and teased.

Geralt’s jaw clenched. His glove creaked as his hand curled into a fist. He stood. The tavern quieted just a breath. Geralt always made rooms quieter just by moving.

He didn’t look back as he walked outside, rain hitting his shoulders like cold teeth. His boots hit stone, then mud. Behind him, laughter continued but softer now. Distant.

He heard the door creak behind him.

Soft footsteps. A splash in a puddle.

Of course.

Jaskier.

He came out without a cloak, sleeves rolled to the elbows, curls already sticking to his cheeks. The rain soaked through that stupid shirt in seconds, clinging to his narrow chest like parchment. He looked like a painting, lips red from wine, collarbone sharp, waist tiny, voice soft from too much singing and too many stolen kisses.

He smiled when he saw Geralt.

Like he hadn’t been writhing in the lap of a stranger half an hour ago. Like Geralt hadn’t just watched him dangle that delicate little throat in front of a dozen undeserving men.

“Geralt,” he said, beaming, “there you are. I was worried you’d wandered off and gotten moody. Again.”
Geralt didn’t answer.

He just looked at him. Let the silence stretch between them like a blade. Let the rain pour down both their faces until Jaskier blinked and shifted on his feet, suddenly unsure.

“I…did I do something?”

Yes.

Everything.

You flirted. You begged for attention. You offered that soft, perfect little body to men who could never handle it. You made me want you more than I can fucking bear.

Geralt’s voice came low. Rough.

“You’re mine.”

Jaskier’s mouth parted. “What?”

He didn’t mean to cast the sign. Didn’t mean to give in. But he was so tired of watching. So tired of holding back.

Geralt stopped under the black sky. Rain hit his face, slid down his throat. He raised his hand and whispered the word.

Axii.

A soft gold shimmer. Like lightning trapped in silence.

“Look at me.”

“Want only me.”

“Please only me.”

The spell left him like a growl.

The spell sank into Jaskier’s chest and he gasped, just once, like something had grabbed hold of his heart.

His lashes fluttered and then his body settled. His shoulders dropped. His mouth softened. And when he looked up at Geralt again, it wasn’t confusion in his eyes.

It was worship.

“…oh,” Jaskier whispered.

The rain kept falling, but he didn’t notice anymore.

Geralt stepped forward.

“You want me,” he said, low. “Only me.”

Jaskier nodded before he even realized he was doing it.

“I do,” he breathed, “I…fuck, Geralt, I always have…”

“Then act like it.”

“I…I will. I promise.”

Geralt towered over him now. One hand braced beside Jaskier’s head against the stable wall. The other, so much bigger than Jaskier’s, curled under his jaw, lifting his face.

“You flirt with anyone else again,” Geralt growled, “and I’ll bend you over in front of them. Let them watch what you really belong to.”
Jaskier whimpered, his lips parted and Geralt kissed him.

It was not gentle. Not slow nor sweet. It was claiming. Teeth and tongue and fingers curling tight in Jaskier’s wet shirt. The bard made a sound like a sob, high and broken, and Geralt only kissed him harder, pinning him to the wall like he could climb inside him.

Jaskier’s hands scrambled uselessly at Geralt’s chest. His knees buckled. His entire body went soft, like it had been waiting for this, aching for it, for years.

And then.

He came.

Right there. In his trousers.

No touch. No warning. No pressure beyond Geralt’s mouth and the weight of that enormous hand cupping the back of his neck.

His body shuddered. He gasped into Geralt’s mouth, eyes wide and glassy, and came like he’d been holding it back since the day they met.

Geralt pulled back, barely breathing.

“…you just came,” he said, voice low.

Jaskier nodded helplessly, panting. His soaked breeches clung to him. His cock, barely more than a handful to begin with, had twitched once and spilled. Pathetic. Humiliating.

But Jaskier didn’t look ashamed, he looked fucking ecstatic. “I…I couldn’t help it,” he whispered, voice shaking. “You kissed me and…I’ve waited so long, Geralt, I wanted it so badly, I…fuck…”

Geralt’s hand moved to his waist. His tiny and breakable waist. His fingers nearly met around it.

“Mine now,” he murmured. “You understand?”

Jaskier nodded like he’d beg for the words again.

“Yes. Yours. Please.”

Geralt leaned down, mouth brushing his ear.

“Then be good for me, little bard.” Geralt didn’t let go of him. Not even as they walked back toward the tavern, his palm firm on that delicate waist, so small his hand nearly wrapped around it. Jaskier stumbled a little beside him, breath still coming too fast, cock spent and trousers soaked through with his own mess. But he didn’t complain.

He just leaned into it. Leaned into him.

They were both soaked to the bone, hair dripping, boots squelching. The tavern door swung open and heat hit them like a slap, murmured voices, firelight, too many eyes.

And then Geralt stopped. Right in the threshold, didn’t even glance at the room. He turned his bard toward him with one huge hand on his jaw, angled that flushed, panting mouth up, and kissed him again.

Hard.

Public.

Undeniable.

A gasp rippled through the room.

Jaskier moaned into it. One knee lifted like he was about to climb Geralt like a fucking tree, fingers scrambling at his shoulders. His whole body arched, desperate, grinding into Geralt’s thigh like he didn’t even care who saw.

Geralt’s arm locked around his waist. Tight. Possessive.

Mine.

He pulled away only when Jaskier was shaking, dazed, panting like he’d run miles.

Then he glanced at the room. Daring anyone to say a fucking word.

No one did.

He carried him upstairs. Jaskier didn’t even ask. One arm behind his knees, the other around that trembling waist, held tight to the Witcher’s chest like he weighed nothing. Geralt’s broad strides were steady, measured ,despite the bard’s soaked breeches leaving wet stains across his armor.

They reached the room. Geralt kicked the door shut behind him.

Jaskier clung tighter. His voice, quiet “Geralt…”

Geralt lowered him to the bed, eyes dark, breathing slow.

“You made a mess,” he said roughly, and tugged the sodden breeches down those trembling thighs.

The smell hit instantly. Jaskier’s come, sticky and sweet, still leaking from that pretty little cock. It was barely hard anymore. Just a soft, red, twitching thing. Pitiful. Geralt could’ve covered it entirely with two fingers.

But it didn’t matter, because it had spilled for him. Geralt’s fingers brushed it, smearing the mess across his skin. He didn’t tease. Just watched it. Drank in the sight.

Then he stripped them both. They stepped into the bath, hot, quiet, steaming and Jaskier nearly melted on contact.

He sighed, dazed, back arching against Geralt’s chest. The White Wolf wrapped one arm around his middle, huge, protective, possessive and reached up with the other to draw a Sign in the air.

Axii. Again.

Jaskier’s breath caught.

“You only cum when I say so.”

The words sank deep.

Jaskier whimpered, his thighs clenching, whole body twitching where he sat between Geralt’s legs.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes…fuck, yes…anything.”

Geralt kissed the curve of his shoulder. Bit it, lightly.

“Good boy.”

He reached down, hand sliding between that slender body and his own heavy cock, and found Jaskier’s soft, ruined clitty again. He didn’t stroke. He commanded. “Cum”

The bard shuddered. Gasped. Came again.

Tiny spurts, just dribbling out of him. Useless and leaking. But Geralt didn’t care. He held him tighter. Let it wash between them in the water. Let the scent of his bard soak into his skin, finally. The scent he’d been chasing for months.

Geralt buried his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, and finally breathed.

Mine.

Chapter Text

Jaskier woke to pressure. Not discomfort, just an overwhelming inarguable sense of being held down.

Something hot and heavy rested along his lower back. Something thick and huge.

He blinked open his eyes, already flushed, and looked up blearily, only to find Geralt staring down at him, fully awake, expression unreadable and hungry as ever.

“Morning,” Jaskier whispered, breath catching.

“Don’t move,” Geralt murmured. Jaskier didn’t dare.

He could feel it now. Geralt’s cock, not even fully hard, lay across the full width of his ass. From the base of his spine to the middle of his back. Thicker than anything that had ever been inside him. Hot. Pliable. Waiting.

The bard whimpered softly. “Fuck, it’s so…”

“Big,” Geralt said flatly. “Say it.”

“…it’s so big, Geralt.”

The Witcher hummed low in approval and reached down, pressing the full weight of it down between Jaskier’s spread cheeks.

The bard whined.

“Lesson one,” Geralt said, voice a low rumble against his neck. “Before you ever take it, you learn its weight. You carry it. You worship it.”

Jaskier moaned, twisting under him, back arching into that massive cock like he was starving for it.

Geralt only smiled darkly and ground against him slowly ,bare hips dragging that beast of a cock between the bard’s cheeks, across the small of his back, until he was slick with pre.

Jaskier gasped. He didn’t have to look to know he was soaked in it ,Geralt’s scent heavy on his skin, hot fluid dribbling onto his tailbone, marking him.

“Gonna smell like me all day,” Geralt muttered. “Everyone’ll know what you’ve got inside you. What you’ll never go without again.”
Jaskier whined. “Please…”

Geralt shifted back, letting his cock drag up this time over Jaskier’s ass, across the curve of his spine, then slowly…onto his back.

He settled the full thing across his bard’s shoulder blades.

It didn’t even fit. Jaskier shuddered, Geralt just chuckled, bent down, and kissed the back of his neck and gently turned him around.

He gripped the base of his cock in one big hand, angled it up, and smudged it across Jaskier’s cheek. Not forcefully, just deliberately.

Precome dribbled against his skin.

Geralt rubbed it in with the tip, over his temple, his cheekbone, the corner of his lips. Jaskier didn’t resist. His eyes fluttered closed. He sighed like it was a blessing.

His Witcher’s scent. His Witcher’s cock. His Witcher’s claim.

“Open,” Geralt growled softly.

Jaskier opened his mouth instantly, breath hitching, tongue out. Geralt smeared the tip against it. Didn’t fuck his mouth yet. Didn’t even push in. Just painted his tongue with more precome, slow and cruel.

The bard moaned. Geralt leaned in close. His voice was filthy. “You’ll be licking my cock like this every morning, little bird. Whether you’re hard or not. Whether I use you or not. Whether I let you cum or not.”

Jaskier’s eyes rolled back. He nodded with Geralt’s cock against his tongue. “Yes, please, yes…”

Geralt sat back against the pillows, broad legs spread wide. His cock, already swelling to full length, lay heavy across his thigh. Long, thick, demanding. The tip already leaking again, veins raised along the shaft like ropes under skin. No man alive could’ve looked at it and thought, yes, I could take that.

But Jaskier didn’t hesitate, he slid off the bed, down to his knees like he was being called, hands braced against Geralt’s thighs. His mouth was already open. Eyes wide and adoring.

“Let me,” he whispered. “Please…please, I need to…”

Geralt growled low, hand sliding into his hair.

“Show me what that mouth is for.”

The moment the tip touched his tongue, Jaskier whimpered. His whole body shivered like it had missed this, like he’d been born for it.
His lips stretched wide, cheeks hollowing slightly as he tried to take him in. He got barely a few inches in before he started to choke.

Geralt didn’t move. Didn’t help. Just watched. Watched the bard struggle, desperate to please. His fingers clutched at Geralt’s thighs, nails digging in, hips rocking like he couldn’t help it.

Spit began to drip from the corners of his mouth. He kept trying.

Geralt grunted, pleased. “Greedy little thing.”

Jaskier moaned around the cock in his mouth. His throat tightened again as he shoved forward. Another inch…then anothen…then…

Gag.

Violent. Full body.

Geralt’s grip in his hair tightened instantly, pulling him up and off with a slick pop.

Jaskier gasped for breath, strings of spit and precome still clinging to his lips and chin. His eyes were glassy, wet, cheeks flushed. He looked up at Geralt like he’d just seen god.

Geralt raised a brow. “Breathe.”

Jaskier nodded, chest heaving and immediately lunged back down.

Geralt laughed, actually laughed. “You’re insane.” But he didn’t stop him.

This time, Jaskier took him deeper. The bard was shaking, whining in his throat, jaw stretched wide around that obscene cock. His lashes fluttered as tears spilled freely now, but he didn’t stop.

Geralt watched the head of his cock disappear between those pretty lips, his tiny bard trying so hard to be good. Trying to fit more. Trying to vanish down his throat.

It was working too well. The Axii had sunk deep. This wasn’t just magic, it was desire that had roots now. Jaskier wasn’t just trying to please him. He was becoming nothing but need.

Geralt grunted as he hit the back of Jaskier’s throat again.

Another violent gag.

This time, the bard held. Refused to pull back.

Geralt had to haul him off again, fingers tight in soaked curls, dragging him up.

The bard gasped, spit trailing from his mouth to Geralt’s cock, chest heaving like he’d just surfaced from deep water.

But the moment Geralt loosened his grip, Jaskier dove again.

It went like that for a while.

Suck. Choke. Gag. Drag off. Gasp. Back on.

Geralt’s cock was soaked by the end of it, slick with spit, leaking steadily, tip flushed nearly purple. And Jaskier…Jaskier was a mess. His cock stood stiff and untouched between his thighs, ignored and leaking against his own belly. His focus was singular. His purpose, clear.
Worship.

Geralt finally held him down, fisted his hair, let him gag and whimper, let the tears spill until his cheeks were glowing and his throat twitched around the head of his cock.

“Good,” Geralt growled. “There you go. Take it. That’s it.”

Jaskier moaned around him like praise fed him more than air ever could. Geralt stared down at the mess between his legs. Jaskier’s throat bulged around his cock. Not deep ,he couldn’t even take half, but what he did have in his mouth was obscene. Six, Seven inches, easy, and thick, so thick his jaw visibly ached around it.

The bard had long since stopped trying to breathe.

Geralt had to drag him off again and again, fingers fisted in soaked curls, spit and precome trailing between his lips and cock like a leash ,just to make sure he didn’t pass out.

And every time he let go Jaskier dove back on. Eyes glassy. Lips

Geralt snapped.

He’d tried to go slow. Tried to let the bard adjust. But fuck, how could he?

Jaskier was begging for it. Throwing himself forward over and over again. Moaning around the head of a cock that dwarfed his throat like it was a god’s punishment. Every time Geralt pulled him off, the bard whimpered, sobbed, and tried to dive back in.

Like he needed it. Like he couldn’t breathe without it, not unless it was Geralt’s cock choking him first.

So Geralt gave in. He gripped the back of Jaskier’s head with both hands, wide palms curling through soaked curls, and said “You want to worship? Then fucking worship.”

And he fucked his bard’s throat. The first thrust made Jaskier gag hard, but he didn’t pull away. He shivered.

Geralt held his head and began to move. Not gentle or slow. Just possessed. He didn’t even get halfway in, maybe six, seven inches, if that, but it was more than enough to wreck his little bard.

Each thrust left Jaskier choking. Drooling. Sputtering with spit and precome spilling down his chin, dripping to his chest. His eyes were glassy, mouth stretched obscenely wide, throat working helplessly around the thickest cock he’d ever dreamed of and still he tried to take more.

Geralt growled, low and filthy. “Fucking look at you,” he rasped. “Stuffed full and drooling like you’re starving for it.”

Jaskier moaned around him. His own cock was hard and untouched, weeping helplessly between his thighs, ignored. All he cared about was Geralt’s pleasure. Geralt’s cock. Geralt’s cum.

The thrusts picked up. Harder. Rougher.

The head of Geralt’s cock slammed against the back of his throat again and again, Jaskier welcomed it. Spit flying. Nose running. He couldn’t breathe, and he didn’t want to.

Geralt had to force himself to grip tighter, to pull back once in a while, let him gasp, let him survive but every time he gave the bard air, he sank right back down.

The moment Geralt felt himself start to tip over the edge, he shoved Jaskier all the way down to the limit ,one final time, and held him there.
“Take it,” he snarled. “Take every fucking drop.” And then he came. It hit like a curse, hot and endless.

The first spurt nearly made Jaskier jerk off the cock, but Geralt held him there, his grip tight on his bard’s hair.

The second and third painted his throat.

By the fourth, it was too much. Cum spilled past the bard’s lips, down his chin, soaking his chest. Overflowed from the corners of his mouth. Witcher volume was feral and uncontainable.

Jaskier’s body shook with the effort to take it all. He moaned, desperate, swallowing as fast as he could but Geralt’s cock just kept twitching.
More. More. Jaskier tried. Gods, he tried, but he couldn’t drink it fast enough.

When Geralt finally pulled out, slowly, panting, cock still twitching, Jaskier collapsed back against the bed, cum struck, face painted in thick globs of seed, drooling with the rest of it still on his tongue.

He looked up at Geralt like he’d just been baptized.

“…did I do well?” he whispered, voice hoarse, eyes wet and shining.

Geralt leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“You were perfect.”

Jaskier didn’t ask for praise. He just leaned forward, tongue out, and began to clean. He licked a thick trail of cum from the base of Geralt’s cock, then circled the head, slow and reverent. His eyes were half-lidded, lashes damp, lips swollen and still glistening. He worked with patience, with devotion, with love.

Geralt just watched. A rare, soft smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You’re not allowed to cum today,” he said casually.

No reason. Just a fact.

Jaskier didn’t pause.

He just nodded, lips still wrapped around the underside of that massive cock.

“Yes, Geralt,” he whispered. “Of course.”

When he’d licked every drop he could find, Geralt reached for him, hauled him up, gentle but firm, and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Come here.” He pulled him into his lap and held him close.

One hand cradled the back of his head, the other stroked slow down that trembling back. Jaskier melted into it, quiet and pliant, his soft cock twitching between their bellies, denied, but not aching. Not really.

He didn’t need anything else. Geralt kissed his temple. “You did so well for me.”

Eventually, Geralt slipped from the bed as Jaskier whined softly in protest but Geralt just chuckled and bent to kiss his forehead. “Stay.” He dressed, loose linen, no armor and padded barefoot out of the room. When he came back, he carried a small clay cup, steam rising gently from the top.

“Drink,” he said, sitting beside him again.

It was hot water with honey. Nothing fancy. Just something to soothe a throat that had taken more than a man ever should.
Jaskier smiled.

He took the cup with both hands and drank. Geralt watched him like he was the most precious thing in the world.

Chapter Text

The forest was quiet. Cool, green, peaceful and entirely unaware that one of the two men riding through it was barely keeping from rutting against the saddle.

Jaskier whimpered softly, shifting for the third time in as many minutes.

“Problem?” the Witcher asked, voice low, unreadable.

“No,” Jaskier breathed. “No problem at all…just…riding position. A bit uncomfortable.”

Geralt grunted. “You’ve been squirming since dawn.”

Jaskier winced. He didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. His cock, trapped behind layers of soft leather, had been stiff and leaking since they left the inn. It was like his body had reset after being claimed. He wasn’t just horny, he was needy. Desperate.

He shifted again. The motion dragged his little cock along the saddle seam just enough friction to make him gasp.

Geralt heard it and slowed Roach.

Before Jaskier could register what was happening, a hand reached ahead. Large and gloved. It found the bulge in his trousers, small and twitching, and gave it a light, testing squeeze.

Jaskier gasped. Geralt hummed low. “Barely the size of my thumb,” he said flatly. “and you’re hard as a rock.”

Jaskier flushed deep red. “I…I can’t help it, I…”

Geralt squeezed again. Firmer this time. Then let go. “Trying to get off just from the horse shifting under you?” he asked, still not looking back. “Fucking pathetic.”

Jaskier whimpered but he didn’t deny it either.

“Off,” Geralt commanded, dismounting in one smooth motion.

Jaskier scrambled after him, aching and flushed, barely registering the tall trees around them or the small mossy clearing up ahead. His eyes were fixed on his Witcher’s broad back. His hands trembled with every step.

Geralt led him just far enough in that the trail vanished behind them. Then he turned, towered over him. Golden eyes narrowed and without another word he reached for his bard’s belt.

The moss was cool against Jaskier’s back, but Geralt’s hand on his chest was burning. He’d been stripped in moments, trousers yanked down, tunic shoved up, cocklet exposed and twitching in the open air like it was embarrassed to exist. It barely stood out from the soft curls at his base.

Geralt crouched between his legs, eyes locked on the wet little nub.

“Gods,” he muttered. “This is what you call a cock?”

Jaskier turned red. “Geralt…”

“Don’t,” he cut in. His tone was low, cruel. “You came in your pants just from kissing me. You choke on my cock like it’s the only air you want. And this,” he flicked the cocklet lightly with two fingers “this has the nerve to get hard?”

Jaskier gasped. His hips bucked shamefully upward. A single bead of precome welled at the tip.

Geralt huffed a laugh. Then, without warning, he spit into his palm and reached down between Jaskier’s thighs.

Two thick fingers found his hole and began to press inward. Jaskier cried out. Not in pain, in need. He was so tight, fluttering around nothing. Geralt worked him open slowly. “You’re soaking,” he murmured. “Clenching already. Gods, you want this so bad, don’t you?”

Jaskier nodded, panting, eyes wide and glassy.

Geralt grinned. “Then take it.” One finger slid in.

Jaskier shivered head to toe.

The second followed soon after. He squirmed. Moaned. Let out a broken little sob when Geralt curled both fingers and pressed just right.
His cocklet jerked. Still untouched but leaking.

Geralt watched it, watched the way it twitched every time he fucked those fingers deep, the way it begged uselessly for contact, for stimulation and release.

“Not even touching it,” Geralt said. “Not a single stroke. And you’re already there, aren’t you?”

Jaskier whined.

“Say it.”

“I’m…I’m gonna…fuck, Geralt, I’m gonna…”

“From fingers,” Geralt said, laughing. “You pathetic little clitty slut.”

And with one final press, he sent Jaskier over the edge. Jaskier came with a choked sob, his cocklet spurting weak little strings against his own belly, hips twitching, back arching. His eyes fluttered. His hole clenched around Geralt’s fingers like it didn’t want to let them go.

Geralt just smiled.

Still knuckle deep and spreading him open.

“Good boy.”

Geralt didn’t pull his fingers out. Not yet. Jaskier lay beneath him, trembling and loose, legs open around the Witcher’s broad hips. His belly was streaked with his own pathetic little orgasm, barely a handful of watery spurts from that humiliated little thing and his eyes were still glassy, mouth slack with aftershock.

Geralt was stroking himself. Slow and confident. His cock stood massive and flushed in his fist, twice as thick as Jaskier’s wrist, five times as long as the mess twitching against the bard’s belly.

He looked down at the cocklet. At the precome still clinging to it, the way it twitched, spent and shamed.

And he laughed. “Look at this,” he rasped, curling his fingers just enough to make Jaskier whimper again.

“This is what you came with? This soft little clitty? You leaked on yourself like a whore in heat the second I put fingers in your ass.”

Jaskier moaned. His hands curled in the moss. His cocklet, red and twitching, shrank further under the weight of the words.

Geralt leaned over him. Loomed. Stroked faster now. “You think anyone else is gonna want this?” he growled. “Anyone else gonna want a leaking, ruined little thing like you with this tiny fucking nub?”

Jaskier blinked up at him, desperate and glowing. “No,” he whispered. “Just you.”

Geralt grunted deep and feral. He braced one hand on Jaskier’s hip, the other still stroking himself, still thick and wet, until, with a low snarl, he came.

Hot, heavy ropes of Witcher cum landed right on Jaskier’s cocklet.

Some hit his belly. Some streaked his chest. But most of it, thick and possessive, coated the pathetic little nub Geralt had just mocked into submission.

It dripped down the sides. Clung in globs. By the time Geralt was done, Jaskier’s clitty was barely visible beneath the mess.

And still, still the Witcher was grinning. “Marked,” he said. “So every time you look down, you remember exactly what you are.”

Jaskier didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just lay there, wide eyed, chest heaving, cocklet twitching weakly in a puddle of Geralt’s cum, soaked and owned. And smiling.

Geralt slid his fingers free with slow care. Jaskier whimpered, tight and spent but didn’t complain. He just lay there panting, body limp in the moss, his cocklet twitching in a puddle of cum.

Geralt crouched beside him and ran one hand along his thigh. A touch of tenderness. Of reverence. “Get dressed,” he murmured.

Jaskier blinked up at him, dazed. “W…what about…”

Geralt smirked. “Leave it.”

Jaskier pulled his trousers back up, sticky and wet, the mess of Geralt’s cum smearing across his thighs, soaking into the soft fabric.
He gasped softly as it clung to him. Warm. Humid. Undeniable. By the time he’d fastened the belt, he could feel it with every step. Every shift. His Witcher’s claim, pressed tight against his pathetic little clitty.

Geralt helped him back into his coat, straightened the collar, and leaned in. A kiss, gentle and soft, lips brushing against Jaskier’s. Jaskier made a small sound in the back of his throat. He reached for him, fisted his hands in Geralt’s coat and deepened it, moaning into the kiss like it was everything he’d ever wanted.

Geralt held him steady. Let him have it. And when they pulled apart, Jaskier whispered, “Thank you.”

Geralt kissed his forehead. “Come on. We’ve got a contract.”

Chapter Text

The fire crackled. Geralt sat polishing his steel sword, slow circular motions along the glinting blade. His coat was off, his shirt unlaced.

The night air was cold, but Jaskier was sweating. He shifted near the fire, thighs pressed tight together under his trousers. The mess in his pants had dried days ago, and still he was hard. Still he ached. Still he couldn’t stop thinking about Geralt’s cock, the taste of it, the weight of it, the way he’d been used and left soaking in the forest.

His cocklet was twitching like it was trying to be useful. It wasn’t. Jaskier whimpered. Quiet. Pitiful. “…Please…”

Geralt didn’t look up.

“…Geralt, I…I need…”

Still polishing. Still calm. Then, without shifting his gaze, he lifted his boot.

And planted it in the dirt in front of Jaskier. “Go on.”

Jaskier crawled forward, breath shaking.

But before he could reach it, Geralt pulled the boot away.

“Strip.”

Jaskier froze, swallowed and nodded. He peeled off his coat. Then his shirt. Then boots, then trousers, then smalls. Every inch of him was bare. His cocklet stood flushed and leaking, smaller than ever in the cold.

Geralt didn’t even glance at it. He just held the sword up to the firelight, inspected the edge. Then put his boot out again.
“Now.”

Jaskier sank to his knees and started rutting.

The forest was silent except for the fire and the pathetic little gasps spilling from Jaskier’s mouth. He rubbed his cocklet against the worn leather, rutting like a bitch in heat. The friction was rough. Weak, almost nothing.

But for his overstimulated, unused cocklet, it was everything.

He moaned. Whimpered. Grinding himself harder, hips twitching and toes curling in the dirt. His chest heaved. His eyes watered. And still Geralt hadn’t looked up.

He’d moved to the second sword now, brushing oil down the edge with a cloth, listening to the sounds of his bard coming undone.

Jaskier shuddered. His thighs trembled. His cocklet jerked. He was right there. Right there.

He couldn’t cum.

Not without permission.

Geralt had told him.

“You only cum when I say.”

He whimpered again. Louder this time. Nearly sobbing. His cocklet twitched helplessly against the boot, no stimulation, no hand, no release, his whole body tight and locked and desperate.

Geralt let it stretch. Let him ride the edge until he was leaking, gasping, barely able to breathe. Then he pulled his boot away.

Jaskier sobbed.

And Geralt said, calm as anything “Cum.”

Jaskier collapsed.

His hips jerked once, twice, mindless, as his cocklet leaked its ruin across the dirt. No climax. No heat. Just a sad little drip, spent and useless.

He trembled in the leaves, panting. Geralt wiped the second sword clean. Didn’t say a word.

The next day they rode out again, the road was empty for miles. Just trees. A dirt path. The wind.

And the sound of a whimper, tiny and broken, from where Jaskier sat in front of Geralt on the saddle, squirming like a man possessed.

His cocklet hadn’t stopped aching since the night before. It had leaked through his trousers. Rubbed raw on the saddle. And now he was grinding his ass back against Geralt’s thigh, desperate for friction, for anything.

Geralt exhaled. “Off.”

They dismounted at the side of the road. No one was around. The wind rustled the trees. Geralt took two steps back, stood in the center of the path, and lifted his boot again. Just like before.

“You know what you need to do.”

Jaskier’s hands were shaking as he stripped bare. His trousers stuck to his thighs, damp with precome and dried ruin. He peeled them off. Then stood naked in the dirt road, cocklet twitching like it was trying to be big, like it even could.

He dropped to his knees in front of the Witcher’s boot and began rutting, moaning immediately, like his body was already too far gone to even pretend it was normal.

This time, Geralt looked. Really looked.

His eyes swept over the blush-pink curve of Jaskier’s waist, the tight trembling thighs, the mess between his legs, the way his cocklet barely poked out, pulsing uselessly as it humped leather.

Geralt watched him grind, watched him pant. Whimper. Leak.

The bard’s hair clung to his cheeks in the heat. His whole body shook. He was so fucking pretty. Ruining himself. For a boot.

For Geralt's boot.

The moment came again. Jaskier tensed, his cocklet weeping.

Geralt pulled the boot away as Jaskier sobbed. And said, just loud enough to pierce the heat of the moment “Cum.”

Jaskier came without question.

He collapsed forward, his hands catching on the ground, his hips stuttering as his cocklet gave its second ruined release in 24 hours.

Tiny spurts, nothing impressive. Just a pathetic, helpless leak, coating his own thighs.

He turned his face to the boot. Pressed a kiss to the leather. And another. And another.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you…thank you…thank you…”

Geralt said nothing.

He just watched him and smiled. He should’ve put his bard under Axii the moment they met.

Chapter Text

The campfire had burned low. The others, mercenaries, guards, a sorceress or two, were asleep in scattered tents on the far side of the clearing. No one slept near the Witcher. No one ever did.

Their tent was tucked back in the trees, barely lit from within, warm with quiet breath and bare skin.

Jaskier sat shirtless, half curled against Geralt’s chest, soft kisses trailing over his jaw. He’d been good all week, obedient, hungry, ruined when ordered and silent when denied.

And Geralt? Geralt had been watching. “I have something for you,” the Witcher murmured, reaching for his saddlebags.

Jaskier blinked up at him, flushed and blinking, his lips pink from kisses. “A gift?”

Geralt smirked. “Of sorts.”

He pulled out a small velvet pouch and untied it. Inside, nestled against soft cloth, was a modest black plug. Smooth. Curved. Just thick enough to make Jaskier’s legs twitch.

Nothing dramatic but still, Jaskier swallowed. “Oh.”

Geralt cupped it in one massive palm, a ridiculous contrast to his own cock, which was already half hard, pressing heavy and hot against the bard’s thigh.

“You want to take me, pretty thing?”

Jaskier nodded, dazed.

“You want to be mine? Really take all of me inside that sweet little hole?”

Jaskier whimpered. “Yes…yes, gods, I…”

Geralt leaned in. Ground his cock against Jaskier’s ass, slow and firm through the linen. “Then you’ll train. Properly. We do this right.”

Jaskier moaned, melting under him.

“I…I want to. Please.”

Geralt chuckled. “Good.”

He set the plug aside then reached for the oil. With care, tender even in his command, Geralt pressed Jaskier down on his side and slid a single finger in, slow and thick, oil slicked and patient.

Jaskier gasped. Bit his lip and spread his thighs wider. Then a second finger joined the first. Slowly and loving, just opening him.

By the time the plug was set before him, dark and waiting, Jaskier was panting, hard, twitching, untouched.

Geralt sat back on his knees. “Ride it.”

Jaskier blinked up at him and obeyed. He hovered over the plug, thighs shaking, breath caught. It looked small in Geralt’s palm, everything looked small in Geralt’s palm, but down here, bare and trembling with his legs spread wide, it felt like so much more.

Lined himself up and began to lower. The first stretch made him gasp. He felt a fullness that made his cocklet twitch and leak down his thigh. He whimpered as it pushed past the tight ring of muscle, his hands braced on his knees, forehead damp with sweat.

He could feel Geralt watching. He always could.

“Eyes on me.”

Jaskier looked up.

Geralt had stripped off his tunic, sat back on his haunches with his cock in hand, massive, thick veined, already hard. He stroked it lazily, eyes locked with the bard’s.

Jaskier sank a little further. His moan caught in his throat.

“Good boy,” Geralt murmured. “Take it. Let it open you.”

Jaskier obeyed.

The plug slipped deeper. His thighs trembled, chest rising and falling with ragged breath, clitty untouched and dripping against his own belly.

Geralt grunted softly, fist working his cock with practiced ease.

“Look at you. Ruining yourself on nothing.”

Jaskier whimpered.

“Think you’re ready for me? Think you could even take half?”

He shook his head. “I…I want to. I’ll try…please, Geralt…”

“Not yet.”

Jaskier began to rock his hips, grinding down and up on the plug, every shift making his clitty twitch in the air, untouched, leaking, desperate.

Geralt’s cock pulsed, head flushed, precum smearing across his fist. It didn’t take long. He’d been pent up, focused on training his bard, not letting himself indulge, until now. His hips jerked once, twice, and he came groaning low in his throat as thick, endless spurts painted across Jaskier’s chest and belly. Hot and heavy. Claiming.

“Enough,” Geralt said, breath steadying.

The bard froze in place, the plug still buried in his hole, his clitty twitching in ruined need.

Geralt reached forward, wiped him clean with a cloth from the saddlebag. Then kissed his temple. “Progress,” he said simply. And pulled him into the bedroll.

The second night was quieter.

Jaskier knew what was coming. He stripped without being asked. Folded his clothes. Laid back on the furs, thighs spread, already twitching in anticipation. The plug slid in easier this time. Geralt noticed.

“Getting better,” he murmured, smoothing oil along the bard’s entrance with thick fingers. “You like this now, don’t you?”

Jaskier blushed. Nodded.

“Say it.”

“I…I like it when…you stretch me, Geralt. I want…to be ready…for you.”

The plug pressed in with a soft pop. Jaskier whimpered.

Geralt sat beside him again, one leg bent, lazily stroking his cock as he watched the bard grind into the bedroll, working his hips like a good little whore. But this time, Geralt’s eyes drifted downward to Jaskier’s pathetic little cocklet. Hard, flushed, drooling. Barely more than a twitching button.

Geralt chuckled. “Look at it,” he muttered. “That’s what’s trying to fuck?”

Jaskier whimpered.

“It’s not,” Geralt went on. “That thing isn’t for fucking. It’s not even for cumming.”

“I…I know,” Jaskier whispered, grinding harder.

“What’s it for?”

Jaskier moaned. “For…for leaking.”

“And?”

“For being laughed at.”

Geralt grinned. “Good boy.”

He let the bard ride the plug for minutes longer, hips stuttering, his clitty bouncing uselessly in the air. “Still too soon,” Geralt said finally, voice calm.

Jaskier froze mid-motion. No command, no release, aching with need.

Geralt leaned down, kissed his forehead, then cleaned the sweat and precum from his belly with a warm cloth. “You’re learning fast,” he murmured, tugging the bard to his chest as the fire died.

The fire burned low on the final night.

Jaskier was already bare before Geralt returned to the tent. He’d unrolled their bedroll, lit the oil lamp, and folded his small clothes off to the side. He was on his back, thighs parted, plug in hand.

Waiting obediently.

Geralt knelt beside him. Kissed him softly then took the plug, slicked it with oil, and pressed it in without hesitation.

Jaskier gasped.

It slid in smooth, snug, like he was made for it. No resistance now. Just stretch, fullness, and that helpless little twitch in his untouched cocklet.

Geralt hovered above him now, massive, shadowed, knees straddling his waist. “Good boy,” he whispered.

Jaskier whimpered.

Then Geralt’s hands found his hips, firm and possessive, and pressed down.

Hard.

All the way down.

Jaskier moaned so loud Geralt had to slap a hand over his mouth. “Quiet,” he warned, eyes glowing in the low light.

Jaskier nodded, tears pricking in his lashes, his cocklet bouncing uselessly against his belly.

“Now,” Geralt said, voice low. “Cum.”

The effect was immediate. Jaskier screamed against his hand, body trembling, hips jerking, he came untouched, ruined, clenching around the plug, dripping from his cocklet in useless spurts.

His whole body shook. Geralt kissed his throat and held him through it.

After, the plug stayed in.

Geralt pulled him close, one arm under the bard’s shoulders, the other curled around his narrow waist.

The fire popped once.

“Geralt…” Jaskier whispered, grinding his ass gently back against the Witcher’s cock.

“Hmm?”

“…Soon?”

A soft chuckle. Rare. Real. Geralt’s lips brushed his temple. “Soon,” he murmured and pulled him tighter.

Chapter Text

Jaskier woke up with a quiet, contented whimper. The plug was already in him, somewhere between sleep and sunrise, Geralt had oiled him up, rolled him to his side, and slid it back inside with one thick, practiced hand.

A soft morning ritual. His thighs twitched around it now, not from pain but from fullness. From the gentle pressure that made his cocklet throb and leak before he even opened his eyes.

Geralt was by the fire, sharpening his blade. Jaskier stirred, he looked up. Said nothing. Just offered his hand. Jaskier took it and let himself be pulled to his feet, still naked and plugged.

“Good morning,” he said, a little breathless.

Geralt smirked, “It is now,” and gave him a kiss “get dressed.”

Riding Roach had become part of their rhythm again. This morning, like always, no one else joined them. Geralt’s reputation had a way of clearing the road. Jaskier sat in front, his narrow waist caged between two huge thighs, his back warm against the Witcher’s chest.

The plug moved with every step. He squirmed by the half hour mark.

The trotting rhythm of the horse was merciless, pressing the plug forward, then back, again and again until his hole clenched greedily and his cocklet throbbed beneath his trousers.

He bit his lip but didn’t dare ask. A small, helpless whimper escaped him anyway.

Geralt’s arms tightened around him slightly. The bard shivered.

“Gods,” Jaskier breathed, low and desperate, “Geralt…”

Geralt leaned in but didn’t say a word, just pressed his lips to the bard’s damp temple. He held the reins loosely and rode on. The saddle creaked beneath them. Jaskier’s moans had turned breathy now, barely held in, hot little gasps every time Roach’s gait jolted the plug deeper inside.

His thighs were trembling, he gripped the saddlehorn with white knuckles, body pressed back into Geralt’s chest like he was afraid he’d come apart if he wasn’t held down.

Geralt chuckled low in his throat. “You sound pretty like this,” he murmured, lips brushing the bard’s ear.

Jaskier whimpered. “Can’t help it,” he gasped. “You…this…every step, gods, Geralt…”

The Witcher didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. He just clicked his tongue once and snapped the reins.

Roach broke into a gallop as the plug slammed forward.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Jaskier cried out, sharp and gasping, his head thrown back against Geralt’s shoulder as his hips jerked, thighs splaying wider, cocklet twitching helplessly in his breeches.

It was too much. Too sudden. Too perfect.

“Cum.”

One word.

That’s all it took.

Jaskier screamed as his clitty twitched and spilled into his pants, no friction or touch. Just the brutal pounding of the plug with the gallop, and his White Wolf’s voice in his ear.

He sagged forward, panting and wrecked, but Geralt didn’t stop, the gallop slowed.

Jaskier slumped in Geralt’s arms, body spent, chest rising and falling like he’d run miles. His trousers were soaked. His clitty had pulsed dry, leaking now into the soft linen, pathetic little thing, twitching without purpose.

But the plug stayed deep. Stretching him just right. Geralt leaned in breath hot at his throat, his arms wrapped fully around the bard now, one across his chest, the other low across his belly, locking him in place.

He felt enormous behind him. Impossibly big and solid.

Jaskier whimpered, curling in against the hold. Geralt’s musk surrounded him, earthy and dark, tinged with leather and steel and something wilder. He smelled like a man and he felt like a mountain.

“Such a good boy,” Geralt whispered into the bard’s neck, voice low, rough, and impossibly warm.

Jaskier moaned again, his entire body melting.

“Could ride with you like this all day,” Geralt rumbled. “But you’re already shaking.”

“I…I can take it,” Jaskier breathed.

“I know,” Geralt said. Then paused. Kissed the soft curve of his shoulder.

And said “Cum.”

It hit him like lightning.

Jaskier cried out, louder this time, his whole body convulsing in Geralt’s arms. His cocklet spasmed again, leaking only the barest dribble as his hole clenched and fluttered around the plug.

Geralt just held him through it. Strong arms around his trembling body. Steady breath against his neck. A rare, quiet smile pressed to the bard’s flushed skin.

Jaskier sagged fully now, back to chest, limp and panting.

“You feel it, don’t you?” Geralt murmured, barely more than a breath.

Jaskier nodded weakly.

“What?”

“How small I am,” Jaskier replied in a whisper. “How safe I am with you.”

Geralt’s grip tightened slightly.

“Good.”

Night had settled quietly over the forest. Geralt had rolled out a shared bedroll beside the fire, too lazy or too possessive, to let Jaskier sleep alone.

The bard lay in front of him now, curled up, back to his Witcher’s chest. Warm, content and leaking.

Geralt noticed it first as a wet patch spreading slowly against his thigh. Sticky. Warm. Damp through the linen. He shifted slightly.
Jaskier whimpered.

The plug still sat snug in his ass, routine by now, but his cocklet, useless as it was, had apparently decided to dribble like an unmilked teat.
Geralt leaned forward, lips brushing the shell of Jaskier’s ear.

“…Are you leaking again?” he murmured.

Jaskier squirmed, face flushing in the firelight.

“I…maybe…just a little…”

The Witcher pressed his thigh forward harder into the bard’s groin, smearing the mess deeper.

Squish.

“Gods, that’s pathetic.”

He chuckled, then laughed. Full bodied. Cruel.

“What the fuck is that thing even for?” Geralt asked, absolutely grinning now. “It’s not big enough to fuck. Barely even a mouthful. Might as well be a damn nipple with how it leaks.”

Jaskier whimpered. Hard.

Geralt’s voice dropped into a growl as his fingers moved and glowed yet again.

Axii.

“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”

“Y…yes,” Jaskier gasped, breath catching. “It…it leaks when I’m happy.”

Geralt dragged his hand down to palm the sodden little bulge.

“Tiny fuckin’ clitty… look at this mess. Soak my thigh again, bard, I dare you.”

But he wasn’t done. He cupped Jaskier through the linen lightly, like it didn’t even warrant pressure and tilted his head with mock curiosity.
“Gods. It’s not even twitching properly.” His thumb brushed the outline of it.

“A grown man walking around with this pathetic little nub between his legs. No wonder you’re always whining, this isn’t a cock. This is an apology.”

Jaskier gasped like he’d been kissed, not humiliated.

Geralt smirked knowingly.

“It’s a good thing you’re mine, pretty thing. You’d get laughed out of every brothel in the North with this wet little button trying to pass as a cock.”

Jaskier whimpered, already grinding into Geralt’s thigh without thinking and leaking more. Geralt shifted onto his back, his thick arm still slung over the bard’s tiny waist. He expected Jaskier to settle again, maybe squirm and whimper into sleep.

Instead the bard climbed on top of him, pressed his leaking little clitty right against Geralt’s thick, bare thigh and ground into it.
Slow and shameless.

“I’ll show you what it’s for,” Jaskier whispered, cheeks flushed, lips curled in a grin. “It’s to mark you.”

Geralt blinked, then he laughed. Deep and warm and disbelieving, as the bard’s feeble little cocklet smeared more slick across his leg. “You’re serious,” he said, voice full of fond mockery.

Jaskier nodded, eyes bright with giddy need. “To mark what’s mine,” he said with a giggle.

Geralt grabbed him by the hips and turned them around, pressing just a bit of his weight on his pretty bard.

Then kissed him.

Hard.

“You’re Incredible,” he murmured, breathing hot against Jaskier’s lips. “And you’re mine.” He paused and smiled, a real smile that hadn’t found its way to Geralt’s lips in a long time. “And yes…I’m yours, my bard.”

Jaskier shuddered, eyes rolling back, clitty jerking uselessly as more slick spilled out of him.

He didn’t even try to cum, didn’t beg. Just clung to the Witcher’s chest and kept leaking, trembling in the arms of the man who adored him enough to laugh at him and kiss him in the same breath.

And Geralt let him, held him, rubbed circles into his back and whispered, “Sleep. I’ll ruin you more in the morning.”

Chapter Text

The shop was discreet, tucked between a candle maker’s and a teahouse, the weather worn sign above the door read simply “Curiosities & Delights.”

Jaskier knew exactly what kind of delights Geralt was after the moment the Witcher took his hand and dragged him inside.

A single woman stood behind the counter. Older. Sharp eyed. Leather corset cinched tight. She didn’t blink when she looked up at the towering Witcher, and then at the flushed, twitching bard behind him.

“Well,” she said dryly, “you’re not here for scented oils.”

Jaskier’s knees were already weak.

“We’ll need to measure him,” the shopkeeper said with a smirk, pulling out a velvet tray lined with cages of increasing sizes.

Jaskier flushed.

Geralt was silent behind him. Watching. “Clothes off,” the Witcher said gently. “All of them.”

Jaskier obeyed. Shaking hands. Cheeks aflame. He stripped, slowly, until he stood bare in the candlelight, cocklet already stiff and twitching pathetically.

The shopkeeper stepped forward then let out a sudden, unexpected laugh. “Oh my. I didn’t think he’d have something that small.” She tried to gain composure and look apologetic as she straightened up her posture.

Jaskier whimpered, but the way his cock jerked, how he leaked, said it all.

“Sweet thing,” the woman said, crouching to eye level with the useless nub. “I think we’ve got rings thicker than this.”

She glanced at Geralt. “Are you sure this is the one you want locked up?”

Geralt stepped forward. Pressed himself up behind Jaskier. Let his massive, clothed cock grind hard against his soft skin. “He’s mine,” the Witcher growled. “And he’s perfect.” He bent down. Kissed Jaskier’s neck.

“Isn’t that right, pretty thing?”

Jaskier moaned, trembling, nearly sagging into his Witcher.

The shopkeeper returned a moment later with the cage, slim, beautifully forged, glinting faintly in the candlelight.

She handed it to Geralt. “I assume you know how to put it on,” she said.

He did, but he took his time. Lubed the shaft. Stroked him slowly. Let the clitty twitch, humiliated, as the bars were slid into place and locked with a soft, final click.

She handed the key to Jaskier.

He stared at it in his palm then sank to his knees on the shop floor, lifted it up to Geralt with both hands, reverent as a priest.
“…Please,” he whispered. “Please, Geralt...”

Jaskier knelt, offering the key like an offering. “Keep it.”

Geralt took the key with trembling fingers. Then his gaze dropped, to the tiny, twitching cage. To the locked clitty trying so hard to leak for him and he snapped. He growled, tore open the front of his trousers, already rock hard and leaking, cock so thick and veined it looked carved from stone.

The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow, but didn’t move.

“Oh, don’t let me stop you,” she said, voice thick with amusement. “It’s not the first time someone’s painted my floor.”

Geralt’s cock was already hard by the time he tore open his trousers. Thick. Veined. Leaking. So massive it made the cage wrapped around Jaskier’s pathetic nub look like a cruel joke. Fifteen inches of Witcher cock, angry and red, dripping with the kind of hunger only he could feel.

His eyes landed on that little cage, glinting around the twitching nub of his trembling bard, he lost what little restraint he had. Geralt snarled.

He grabbed Jaskier by the hair and tilted his face up, forcing the bard to stare as he gripped his cock and started stroking.

Slow at first. But not for long. Each pass over his shaft made his body shake. The more he looked at the cage, how perfectly it trapped that useless, twitching clitty, the harder he jerked.

“You look pathetic,” he growled, voice hoarse. “So fucking perfect.”

Jaskier moaned. He was leaking, untouched, visibly desperate, but he didn’t beg. He couldn’t. He was locked. And this was for Geralt. Only Geralt.

A broken groan tore from the Witcher’s chest as he jerked forward, cum splashing across Jaskier’s bare chest, hot and heavy. Long viscous ropes, claimed his bard.

Jaskier gasped at the heat, but Geralt wasn’t done. Not even close.

“Look at you,” Geralt rasped. “Locked. Owned. Mine.”

He stroked again, faster this time. Rougher. Sloppier.

Jaskier was still kneeling, panting, his pretty pink lips parted as the second orgasm hit, across his face, his stomach, falling down to his thighs and dripping onto the cage itself. It ran in slow streaks down the bars, pooling beneath that trembling nub.

Geralt stood there, chest heaving, cock twitching, watching his cum drip off the boy he’d finally, fully made his.

Jaskier knelt in silence. Covered. Marked. The little cage dripped with Geralt’s cum, shining in the candlelight, humiliating and beautiful all at once. His lips were parted. His whole body trembled. But he didn’t beg. Not even a whisper.

But Geralt saw it. Felt the need vibrating under that pretty skin, the way Jaskier shook with the desire to be good, to obey.

Geralt dropped to his knees. He cupped Jaskier’s flushed face in one massive, calloused hand and leaned in close, kissed the mess he made.
First his cheeks.

Then the bridge of his nose. His trembling lips.
Then down across his cum slick chest, his neck, the corners of his collarbones where his skin was the softest. He worshipped him with his mouth.

Slow. Thorough. Devoted.

Jaskier’s hands shook where they clung to Geralt’s shoulders. The cage pressed hard against his thigh, leaking still, like it couldn’t keep his desperation in.

Geralt pressed his lips to Jaskier’s jaw and whispered, soft, commanding, final “Cum.”

The bard moaned, full bodied and helpless. He leaned forward, grabbed fistfuls of Geralt’s hair, and kissed him desperately. He came without touching himself, locked and dripping and utterly overwhelmed, hips twitching, breath stuttering against Geralt’s mouth as a useless, ruined orgasm emptied whatever was left inside him.

Geralt held him through it, one hand cradling the back of his head.

He let him tremble. Let him shake. Let the kiss break slowly, still panting against his lips. Jaskier didn’t stop smiling.

They returned to the inn under cover of night. Geralt held Jaskier close the whole way, arms wrapped around his bard’s smaller frame like a shield. He could feel him breathing, slow, shallow, exhausted. But safe.

Upstairs, their room was warm and dim. Geralt didn’t speak. He led Jaskier inside, helped him undress, then took a damp cloth and wiped him clean, careful and slow.

Every smudge of cum. Every sticky trail. Gone. But not the cage. Never the cage. That stayed on, shining like a jewel between his legs, nestled above the soft curve of his thighs.

Jaskier sat quietly through it all, watching him until Geralt finally climbed into bed beside him, laid back against the pillows, and opened his arms.

The bard crawled into him like he belonged there. Curled up against the mountain of muscle, warm and trembling, pressing his cheek into the Witcher’s chest where his heart beat like thunder. Geralt ran his fingers through the bard’s hair. Kissed the top of his head.

And still, Jaskier didn’t speak. Not for a long moment.

A whisper. So quiet. “Thank you.”

Geralt blinked. “Hmm?”

Jaskier squeezed tighter around him, fingers twisting in the loose laces of his shirt. “Thank you,” he said again, voice thick with something too big to name. “For trusting me with this. For making me yours.”

Geralt’s arms tightened. He bent his head, pressed a kiss to Jaskier’s temple, then the center of his forehead, then his nose. “You gave me the key,” he said softly. “You’re the one who chose.”

Jaskier nodded. Nuzzled deeper. His voice cracked. “I know. And I’d choose you again.”

He buried his face in Geralt’s chest and whispered it over and over between soft, giddy breaths.

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you…”

Geralt just held him, let the little lock press against his thigh, let the bard fall asleep in his arms, glowing with love and possession.

Chapter Text

The plug was bigger now. Thicker. Heavier. Every time Roach shifted beneath them, Jaskier moaned. Not a performance this time ,not a song. Just breathy little whimpers slipping past parted lips as he sat perched in front of Geralt, plugged and trembling.

“You’ll get used to it.” Geralt muttered against his ear, his hand stayed on the bard’s hip, firm and possessive.

Jaskier shuddered. “I want more.”

“I know you do.”

Camp came at dusk, hidden in a glade just off the Path. Quiet. Private.

Geralt laid out the bedrolls. Jaskier stripped without being told.

His cocklet was locked. Still locked. The cage now gleamed with polish and wear, tugging, shifting, leaking with every twitch of need.
Geralt sat back against his pack, hard already. He watched. “Show me,” he said simply.

Jaskier whimpered.

He straddled the plug where it rested between the bedrolls. Pressed down onto it, inch by inch, his soft thighs shaking as it stretched him open.

“More,” Geralt growled. “Take it.”

Jaskier obeyed.

He pushed lower, until it bottomed out inside him. Then began to grind, slow, desperate little circles, hips rocking against the pressure.
“Tell me what you're doing,” Geralt ordered, fisting his cock.

Jaskier moaned, eyes fluttering. “T…training…nngh…training for your cock…”

“Say it prettier.”

“I’m…I’m stretching myself open…for you,” the bard breathed. “So I can take it. So I can…unnngghhh…finally…be filled…”

“Better.” Geralt spat into his palm and stroked faster. His eyes locked on the pathetic little cage between the bard’s thighs, already glistening with pre leak, twitching helplessly. He came with a grunt, cum streaking across Jaskier’s thighs, splattering the cage, dripping down the bars.

Jaskier collapsed forward, panting, still grinding into the plug. Needing. Geralt let him squirm for a minute longer, then yanked him into his arms and kissed his temple.

“You’ll get it soon,” he whispered. “But not all of it. Not yet.”

The fire had long burned down to embers.

Jaskier lay curled against Geralt’s side beneath the bedroll, warm skin pressed to hard muscle. He still trembled faintly from the earlier plug session, the soreness, the stretch, the cum drying across his locked cocklet.

Geralt wasn’t asleep. He never was. His breathing was steady, but his arm was wrapped tight around Jaskier’s waist, holding him close.

Possessive even in rest.

Jaskier squirmed just a little. Just enough for the plug to shift, pressing right against the spot that made his knees weak.

He whimpered. Then again, louder this time. “Please…”

Geralt didn’t open his eyes. “Use your words.”

“I need you,” Jaskier whispered, pressing back against the body behind him. “I need your cock. Just a little. Please, Geralt…I’ll be good…”

Geralt’s cock was already hard. The plug, the moaning, the scent of his needy bard pressed so close. But he didn’t give in. “You’re not ready,” he muttered, his voice low and rough. “You want to get split open? You’d scream yourself hoarse before I got halfway.”

“I…don’t care,” Jaskier said, a little bratty now. A little reckless. “I want to feel you. Just the tip. Please.”

Geralt sighed, slow and heavy. His cock throbbed against the bard’s lower back, aching.

“You’d beg me to stop.”

“Please.”

Geralt’s hand slid down Jaskier’s stomach, resting just above the cage. He pressed the bard flat into the bedroll and whispered darkly against his neck “You want my cock pretty thing? You’ll fucking get it.”

Geralt pulled the plug out slowly. Jaskier whimpered, the empty stretch making his muscles twitch. He rolled the bard onto his back and climbed over him, settling between his legs. His hands were huge on Jaskier’s slender thighs, holding them open like they weighed nothing.

The difference in their size was obscene. Jaskier’s locked little cocklet, already leaking like a faucet, his whole body trembling beneath the looming weight of the White Wolf.

Geralt was panting through his nose now, trying to hold himself back. His cock was so hard, so swollen, so fucking thick, the head alone as wide as Jaskier’s wrist. He stroked it once, twice, lined it up with trembling hands.

“I’ll say it again,” he growled. “You. Don’t. Move.”

Jaskier nodded, eyes wide, mouth open.

Geralt pressed in.

Just the tip.

Just the massive, glistening, unyielding head of his cock.

Jaskier gasped. Arched. Clawed at the bedroll. His eyes rolled to the back of his head.

Geralt made a sound. A soft, broken, animalistic whimper. His cock throbbed inside that perfect heat. Jaskier’s body clamped down so tight, so wet, so fucking good, and it hit him like a blade between the ribs.

He couldn’t stop it. He came. Snarled and shook as he came, cock jerking deep inside the bard, flooding him with the kind of load only a Witcher could give. It spilled out around the tip, wet and obscene.

He collapsed forward, shaking, forehead resting against Jaskier’s chest.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “Fuck…I wasn’t…I wasn’t ready either…”

Jaskier held him. He didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare lose the stretch, the weight, the heat of being claimed.

His cock was still buried just barely inside Jaskier, the thick, swollen head stretching him open wide. He was still hard. Still pulsing.

Jaskier hadn’t blinked. He was breathing in shallow gasps, eyes glazed, lips parted. “Geralt…” he whispered. “I can feel your heart.”

The Witcher stirred. Pulled out just a bit and let it sink back in, just enough to make Jaskier clench. Geralt growled low, deep in his throat. Then he said it.

“Cum.”

Jaskier shattered.

His whole body jerked, back arching hard as he screamed into the night, voice muffled against Geralt’s chest. His caged cocklet twitched, leaking in spurts, the ruined orgasm more intense than anything he’d ever felt.

But he wasn’t the only one. The way Jaskier clamped down. The heat. The squeeze. The sound.

Geralt groaned, loud and helpless, as he came again, barely a minute after the last. His body convulsed, hips twitching, flooding the bard a second time.

He trembled from head to toe. He couldn’t stop. Geralt stayed inside him, arms wrapped tight, forehead pressed to the soft curve of Jaskier’s throat. The bard panted, dazed, tears in his lashes, a dizzy smile on his lips.

He kissed the crown of Geralt’s head, voice hoarse. “I think I broke you.”

Chapter Text

It was early. The forest around them was still veiled in pale light and birdsong. Geralt sat on a fallen log, his shirt open, legs spread, cock already heavy between his thighs.

Jaskier knelt at his feet, still caged, still leaking, lips bitten raw with need.

“I’m unlocking you,” Geralt said. “But not for your sake.” He reached down, pulled the key from his pouch, and bent forward to unfasten the tiny lock.

The second the cage came off, Jaskier moaned, not even from pleasure, but from sensation. Blood rushed back to his cocklet, which swelled to a pitiful, trembling three and a half inches. It twitched helplessly against his thigh, already leaking before he could even react.

He reached instinctively.

Geralt’s boot pinned his hand to the ground. “I said not for you.”

Jaskier whimpered, panting, head bowed. “Yes, Geralt.”

“Now show me how much you missed it.” Geralt leaned back on the log, cock thick and long, already rising to its full, absurd length.
Jaskier obeyed.

He started at the base, worshipful, lips pressed to the heavy root like he was kissing holy ground. He licked along the thick vein, nuzzled the dense hair at the base. Geralt’s scent was everywhere, leather and sweat and masculine musk, and it broke something in Jaskier.

He whimpered as he kissed the shaft again, tongue fluttering helplessly.

“You dreamed of it,” Geralt said, voice dark. “Say it.”

“I dreamed of it,” Jaskier gasped between licks. “I missed it so much, I just want to serve, to please.” He mouthed at the head now, swallowing as much of it as he could.

Seven inches deep and he was gagging. His mouth wrapped around the impossible girth, his jaw aching, but he didn’t stop. Not even when his eyes watered. Not even when he choked.

Geralt growled, low and pleased. “Good. You’re remembering your place.”

Jaskier’s lips were red and swollen already, spit trailing from the corners of his mouth as he tried again and again to take Geralt deeper.
But it was impossible. Geralt was just too big. The thick head alone filled him to the edge. Every inch after that was a stretch, painful, intoxicating, addictive.

Geralt pulled him back for air, panting, drooling. “I can…please, I can…” His voice broke, soaked with desperation and reverence.

Geralt cupped his jaw. “You will.” He tapped the head of his cock against the bard’s lips. “Again.”

Jaskier opened wide and took him in, inch by inch. He gagged. His throat fluttered. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

Geralt’s voice was low and calm. Almost gentle. “You’ll learn. I’m going to shape this throat by winter. You’ll take me down in one motion like a good little songbird. We’ll see how high you can sing with my cock in your throat.”

Jaskier moaned around him, dizzy and drooling.

Geralt let him choke for a moment, let the tears fall, before gripping his hair and yanking him off.

Air. Gasp. Sputter. Then. Back down.

Again.

Again.

Over and over until his throat was raw, his mouth ruined, his jaw aching and spit covered his chest like a collar.

Still, he begged for more. Geralt smiled, darkly pleased. “You’re mine.”

He let Jaskier try one more time, deeper than ever before. Just past halfway now. Jaskier’s hands were trembling. His cocklet untouched, but twitching against his thigh, dripping like a leaking faucet.

Jaskier was struggling now, gagging, drooling, desperate to serve but trapped by his body’s limits. His jaw trembled. His throat pulsed with resistance.

Geralt stroked his cheek. “Look at me.”

Glass blue eyes flicked upward, wide and teary.

“You trust me?”

A whimper. A nod.

Geralt’s fingers came to his temple, glowing faintly blue.

Axii.

The bard’s body stilled, not slack, just guided. His jaw unhinged slightly, muscles loosening beneath the spell’s weight. The resistance in his throat gave, not fully, but enough.

“Breathe through your nose,” Geralt said softly. Then he pushed forward.

Nine inches.

Nine thick, veiny, inhuman inches sank past Jaskier’s lips, down his throat, stretching him open in ways no bard had ever known.

He choked and twitched. But he took it.

Geralt grunted, head thrown back. “Fuck. Look at you.”

He began to thrust, slow at first, then deeper, then hard. The bard’s hands clawed at his thighs.

The sound was obscene. Wet. Messy. Sloppy.

Geralt looked down at him, gaze wild with lust but tempered by care. “Can’t even fit me all the way,” he growled, breath hitching as Jaskier twitched and sucked around the base. “My beautiful little slut…and you’re not even halfway trained yet.”

He held the last six inches back, knowing it would break the bard if he tried. Instead, he took what his perfect bard could give and fucked it hard.

“You’re made for this,” Geralt growled. “Look at you, on your knees, gagging on my cock like it’s your calling.”

Jaskier’s throat fluttered. His whole body trembled. His cocklet leaked steadily onto the ground, untouched. Geralt snarled. His grip tightened in the bard’s hair.

Then, deep, with one last sharp thrust he came.

Hot, thick pulses of cum flooded Jaskier’s throat. He tried to swallow, tried to keep up, but there was too much. It spilled from his lips, coated his chin, dripped down from his lips.

Geralt let the spell fade, pulling out slowly, cock slick and twitching.

Jaskier knelt in a daze. Cum dripped from his mouth, breath ragged, eyes blissed out and glowing with purpose.

Geralt stroked his hair back, panting. “You took what you could,” he said softly. “That’s enough, my bard.”

He leaned down and kissed the crown of his head.

“Good boy,” Geralt murmured.

Chapter Text

It started with the scent. Earth and steel. A spark of oil and frostgrass. Similar to Geralt's, but sharper, like a blade that hadn’t dulled at the edges of compassion.

Jaskier looked up as the man approached through the tree line, leading his horse with one hand, the other resting easy on a silver hilt.

He was massive, of course. All the Witchers were. But not like Geralt. Geralt was a mountain, dense and brutal, his presence like a weight across the chest. This one, this Eskel, moved like smoke and shadow. Still towering, still thick with muscle, but quieter. More precise.

Dangerous in a different way.

Jaskier felt his cocklet twitch in the cage.

Geralt gave a low grunt of greeting, the two clasping forearms with a thump that made Jaskier jolt where he stood. He knew, logically, that Witchers were comrades. But there was something intimate about the way they looked at each other, an unspoken language crackling between their glances.

Geralt’s eyes flicked to him. Then back to Eskel. “He’s mine.”

Eskel chuckled softly. “So I see.”

Jaskier flushed. Gods, why was that hot?

They made camp not far from the path. A quiet glade, ringed with trees. No contracts tonight, no pressing danger. Just the silence of the forest and the pressure of another towering Witcher standing close enough for Jaskier to smell.

And that pressure was unbearable. He fidgeted. Squirmed. Kneeling near Geralt’s bedroll, hands folded in his lap, thighs pressed tight. His cage throbbed with need.

Geralt noticed. Of course he did. He smirked. “You’re staring.”

“I…” Jaskier floundered. “It’s just…he’s also…he’s…are all of you..?”

Geralt raised a brow.

Jaskier gave a breathless, defeated little sigh. “Gosh… are all of you just better than men?”

Eskel laughed. Warm. Quiet. Almost gentle. “I think he’s sweet,” he said, crouching beside Geralt. “Mind if I…take a look?”

Geralt’s hand settled on Jaskier’s head. “You want to show Eskel what a good boy you’ve been?”

Jaskier nodded immediately. Eyes wide. Mouth already parting. Jaskier trembled between them.

Geralt at his back, hulking, sharp jawed, eyes half lidded with possession. Eskel in front, bulkier, broader across the middle, with hips like a warhorse and a gaze like a warm blade sliding in.

He wasn’t lean like Geralt. He was thick. Built like the fortress walls of Kaer Morhen itself, wide and weathered and unshakable. His thighs strained the leather of his trousers. His belt creaked when he moved. His fingers were rougher than Geralt’s and just as confident.

“Stand up,” Geralt said. “Let him see.”

Jaskier obeyed, cheeks pink and clitty already straining against the tiny steel cage. He didn’t even need Axii, not right now, he was so pathetically eager to please that even being looked at had him gasping.

Eskel’s eyes raked him slowly. He hummed. “He’s precious.”

“Mm,” Geralt agreed, arms crossed as he leaned against a tree. “Softest thing I’ve ever touched.”

Jaskier let out a quiet, desperate whine.

Geralt crouched and unlocked the cage, sliding it off with practiced fingers. Jaskier’s cocklet twitched, barely a rise, a soft, leaking thing, flushed and helpless.

Eskel made a noise low in his throat.

“Oh…oh gods,” Jaskier gasped, humiliated, exposed, standing bare and small between the two most powerful men he’d ever seen.

“That’s it?” Eskel said. He didn’t even sound cruel, just genuinely baffled.

Geralt barked a short laugh. “That’s it.”

Eskel shook his head in wonder. “And it leaks like that?”

Jaskier whimpered. It was leaking. Dripping helplessly onto his thigh.

“He’s always leaking,” Geralt said, casually stroking his arm. “You just look at him funny and he gets all wet.”

“Gods,” Eskel murmured again. “What a thing.”

“Down,” Geralt said, snapping his fingers. Jaskier dropped to his knees. He winked at Eskel.

There was no rush. Eskel stepped forward slowly, towering over Jaksier. He undid his belt, lazily, like a man unbothered by time. Let the tension stretch. When he pulled his cock free, Jaskier gasped.

It wasn’t just long. It was wide. Thick like a bottle, heavy like a club, and still not fully hard.

Jaskier moaned, instinctively reaching, mouth already open.

Geralt smirked. “Go on. Show him what you can do.”

And gods, he tried. He struggled to get it past his lips. Even with Eskel guiding gently, praising softly, Jaskier choked. His eyes watered. His clitty twitched, forgotten between his thighs.

“Breathe through your nose,” Eskel murmured. “There you go. Good boy.”

With Axii, it got easier. Jaskier’s body obeyed, not relaxed, just too focused to gag. He drooled. He sucked. He shook with effort and pride as he took ten inches.

“Already better than yesterday,” Geralt noted. “You’re a quick learner.”

Jaskier moaned around the cock in his throat. That earned him a reward. Eskel didn’t grunt. Didn’t growl. He just sighed, warm and low and came. Thick spurts down the bard’s throat, his hands tightening just once in Jaskier’s hair. The bard didn’t flinch. He drank as much as he could as the rest overflowed and dripped down his lips.

Barely a breath later, Geralt stepped forward, already hard. “You’re still leaking, pretty thing.”

Jaskier turned with a glow in his eyes, mouth open, throat already stretched.

He didn’t get to cum. Of course not. But by the time he was locked again, spit slick and shining between two wolves, he felt like the most adored creature in the world.

They started again at dusk.

Campfire low, forest still, and Jaskier kneeling between them, bare and blushing, leaking onto his own thigh.

Eskel sat back on a thick log, legs spread. Geralt behind the bard again, hand resting lightly on the back of his neck.

“Let’s see how much you remember,” Geralt said. Jaskier nodded, already breathless.

Eskel’s cock was already hard. Gods, it was massive. Thick, flushed, twitching with weight. But this time, Jaskier didn’t hesitate. Didn’t flinch. He opened his mouth like it was meant for this.

The first few inches were easy. His body had learned. But around inch eight, his throat fluttered. He started gagging, eyes watering.

“Shh,” Geralt murmured. “You can take more. You want to be good for us, don’t you?” Standing behind him as he pushed the bard deeper onto Eskel’s cock. Jaskier whined around the cock. Axii flared warm behind his eyes. A calm focus descended, and he pushed down further.

Nine inches.

Ten.

Eleven.

Eskel groaned.

“Fuck…Geralt. He’s really…”

“All of it,” Geralt said. “Let him.”

Twelve. And then…

Thirteen.

Jaskier’s nose pressed into thick, musky hair. His eyes rolled back in pleasure as he took in the scent. His throat bulged obscenely. His hands were shaking, but he held himself there. Held, and leaked. Gods, did he leak.

Eskel looked down, amazed. “Fuck, look at him.”

Geralt chuckled. “He likes it. Likes being stuffed so full he can’t even breathe.”

Jaskier moaned around the cock buried deep in his throat. Eskel reached for the bard’s cocklet with his boot and pressed down, gently. “You call this a cock?” Jaskier moaned helplessly around his length.

“It’s like…a little wet bean,” Eskel muttered, squeezing it lightly. “You ever done anything with this? Ever satisfied anyone in your life?”
Geralt snorted. “That’s what I said the first time. The thing barely even moves.”

Jaskier shuddered. He was grinding his thighs together now, dripping steadily.

“Pathetic little thing,” Eskel said. “No wonder you’d rather have a real man’s cock down your throat.”

Geralt leaned close, breath hot in his ear. “Cum.”

Jaskier convulsed.

He couldn’t even make a sound, Eskel was all the way in his throat when he came. His cocklet twitched once, twice, then just leaked. A sad little dribble on the forest floor. A ruin. A surrender.

Eskel moaned deep, and wrapped his hands around the bard's head and pulled impossible close and came. Heavy spurts right down his bard’s throat, filling him so deeply, not a single drop spilled out.

Jaskier sagged. Geralt caught him. He pulled him close, still panting. “Still won’t fit all of me,” Geralt said casually, brushing hair from Jaskier’s slick, wet forehead.

Eskel snorted. “Fuck off.”

Jaskier slumped in Geralt’s lap, throat full, face glazed with tears and spit and so much cum. His body was trembling, but his expression was bliss. Leaking down his thighs, caged again but still twitching from the sheer ecstasy.

Eskel sat nearby, tucking himself away, looking stunned. “Didn’t think he’d take it,” he muttered.

“He’ll do anything I ask,” Geralt said darkly, stroking the bard’s flushed cheek. “Won’t you, songbird?”

Jaskier nodded weakly, then shifted, pulling back just enough to meet Geralt’s eyes. “Please…”

Geralt raised a brow. “Let me try again. I’ve gotten better…I promise...please, let me…let me try you.”

Geralt looked down at him, a bit surprised but amused. Pleased. “You think you can take it?”

“I…I want to,” Jaskier whispered. “Please, I need to.”

Geralt didn’t need more convincing. He stood, pulling his trousers down just enough to let that monster of a cock drop free.

And gods, Jaskier moaned.

Fifteen inches. Heavy. Thick. Impossible. It still made his knees weak just to see it.

But he wanted it. Gods, he needed it.

He shuffled forward, eyes wide, tongue already out like a devoted pet and kissed the head.

Geralt hissed. “Fuck…”

“Please…” Jaskier whispered again. “Let me make you feel good, too.”

He took the first few inches slowly, careful.

Four. Five. Six.

He gagged a bit on the seventh.

Geralt’s hand settled in his hair. “There you go…slow. That's a good boy.”

But Jaskier was greedy. He needed this praise. Needed to make Geralt proud. He pushed himself deeper.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

Geralt groaned. His hips twitched. “You’re fucking perfect for this.”

And gods, that did it.

Jaskier moaned around him, and Geralt couldn’t hold back.

He grunted once grinding his hips and came. Hot, heavy, endless.

Jaskier tried to swallow. Desperately. But Geralt’s load was absurd, more than Eskel’s, more than any man could even dream of making. It overflowed. Dripping down his chin, his chest, everywhere.

And he kept sucking. Held him in. Worshiped.

Geralt finally had to pull him off by the hair.

“You want to choke, don’t you?” he murmured.

“Yes,” Jaskier gasped, blinking up at him. “Please do it again.”

Geralt just laughed, giddy and fierce. “You’re fucking perfect.”

Jaskier was panting when Geralt pulled him off, spit and cum clinging to his lips like gloss. His hands were still trembling, but his eyes burned with need.

“Again,” he whispered. “Please…Geralt…please, I can take more…I know I can…”

Geralt blinked. “You sure?”

The bard nodded frantically. Geralt chuckled and leaned back, spreading his legs wider. “Then show me.”

Jaskier dove forward like a man possessed. The head popped past his lips. Then inch after inch, he pushed through the gag, through the tremble in his throat.

Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven.

The outline of Geralt’s cock was visible through the bard’s throat, clearly bulging. It was indecent. Obscene.

Twelve.

Thirteen.

Geralt growled. “Fuck…look at that. You’re made for this.”

He held Jaskier’s head there. Not forcing him, just savoring, grinding, pulling out and sinking back into his bard's perfect heat.

“You’re almost there,” he murmured. “…you’ve only got two more inches left to be perfect.” He was trying his best not to fuck his face hard, tried to be as gentle as possible.

Jaskier shuddered. His cocklet was leaking again, untouched, dripping to the ground.

Geralt stroked the back of his neck. “Almost mine in every way.” And with that, he came again. Right down Jaskier’s stretched throat. The bard swallowed as best he could, face flushed with humiliation and pride. He didn’t pull away. He held. Worshipped.

And when Geralt finally eased him back, he was smiling. Soft. Proud. “You’re doing so well, little thing,” he whispered. “My good, perfect bard.”

Geralt reached down and lifted the bard into his arms. Not because he had to. Because he wanted to.

Jaskier went boneless against him, flushed, leaking, used, but blissful. His legs twitched with every step as Geralt carried him to the bedroll like a doll too delicate to be bruised.

“Fuck,” Geralt whispered, brushing damp hair back from his temple. “You did so good.”

Jaskier blinked slowly. Glowing. He was still dazed, throat sore, cage sticky with the evidence of Geralt’s affection.

“Did I…really get close?”

“You did.” Geralt kissed the tip of his nose. “Almost all of me.”

Jaskier’s eyes fluttered shut with pride. A little smile touched his lips. “Next time…”

“You’ll take the rest.” Geralt’s voice was low, reverent. “But not tonight. Tonight you rest.” He gently dabbed at Jaskier’s face with a warm cloth, cleaning spit and tears and cum from his skin. Every wipe was slow. Thoughtful. Loving.

He murmured nonsense under his breath, low, gravel soft things like my bard and so good for me and mine.

When Jaskier shivered, Geralt pulled him tighter. His broad chest swallowed him whole, warm and safe.

“Throat sore?”

Jaskier nodded faintly. Geralt reached into his pack and pulled out a small flask of herbal tea. Warmed earlier over the fire. He brought it to Jaskier’s lips, and the bard sipped obediently.

“That’s my good boy.” Geralt said quietly, voice filled with tenderness.

Jaskier smiled against the flask. His cage pressed lightly against Geralt’s thigh, leaking but content.

“Thank you,” he whispered, already curling into him. “Thank you…”

Geralt laid a kiss into his hair, wrapped his arms tighter around that slim, sweet frame.

“You’re mine,” he whispered.

And Jaskier slept like something treasured.

Chapter Text

Kaer Morhen loomed above them like a relic out of time, worn and wind bitten but stubbornly standing, just like the Witchers who called it home. Jaskier clung to Geralt’s back as they rode up the winding path, plug tucked in snug, cage warm against his skin, already damp with a new sheen of slick. He was practically vibrating with anticipation.

Geralt dismounted in one fluid motion, then helped Jaskier down by the waist, like he always did now, like the bard was something delicate.
Vesemir met them at the doors. His brow lifted slightly as his gaze passed over the two of them, settling just a moment too long on the slight curve of Jaskier’s waist and the subtle, telling shimmer of lace that peeked from under his tunic.

“You bring home strays now?”

“Not a stray.” Geralt’s arm wrapped around Jaskier’s waist. “Mine.”

Vesemir huffed, unimpressed. He led them in without another word, but Jaskier could feel his face burning from pride. The way Geralt said mine had settled into his bones. He couldn’t stop smiling.

Down in the apothecary wing, the shelves were lined with old flasks and labeled vials, dust like a second skin on everything. Vesemir handed over a small lockbox to Geralt, who opened it with the same reverence he gave to swords.

Three potions sat inside, unmistakably designed for someone not of Witcher breed.

Geralt looked over at his bard. “These are for you. Experimental, but tailored.”

Jaskier lit up, tail wagging near enough. “What do they do?”

“First, this one boosts your slick. You’ll be leaking more.”

“Second, heightens nipple and prostate sensitivity. You’ll feel...everything.” he said with a smirk.

“Third, this one helps your body take Witcher seed deeper. Longer. Encourages absorption.”

Jaskier practically whimpered. He was already leaking in his cage, the little clitty twitching like it knew it was being talked about.

Vesemir raised a brow again. “And he’s just...excited about this?”

Jaskier beamed. “Will it make my clitty even more useless?”

Vesemir raised an eyebrow knowingly, questioning him almost. Geralt didn't even blink, he just popped the first cork and held the vial out for his bard. “Drink. All three, in the order I told you.”

Jaskier downed them eagerly, shivering at the sharp tang, eyes fluttering closed as warmth bloomed in his belly. Already, he felt it, a trickle between his legs, the cage glistening.

Vesemir coughed. “Right. I’m getting out of here before you start fucking him on the floor.”

“We’ll wait till we reach the springs,” replied Geralt.

“You won’t,” Vesemir muttered, already walking away. “But gods help you if you drown him. Or if he asks me for lotion.”

Jaskier leaned into Geralt’s side, giggling. “I think he likes me.”

“He hasn’t killed you. That’s close.”

The hot springs at Kaer Morhen were carved into the mountain rock, steam curling up like ghost breath, the pool glowing soft gold under the firelight Geralt had kindled earlier. The place was secluded, ancient, quiet enough to make Jaskier feel like the whole world had narrowed to just them.

Geralt sat on a submerged stone, arms splayed across the ledge behind him like he owned it, long legs spread with his cock thick and heavy against one muscled thigh. Jaskier knelt in the shallow water before him, glowing and soft skinned, flushed and already slick with the effects of the potion. His cage glistened faintly under the surface around his twitching clit.

“You look like a nymph,” Geralt muttered, voice low and gravel rich, “if nymphs came dripping and begging to get filled.”

Jaskier smiled lazily, high on potion and praise and proximity.

Geralt reached down and plucked the cage lightly, making the bard shudder. “This isn’t even a cock. It’s a spark of regret.”

Jaskier moaned, openly, shamelessly, cocklet jerking uselessly against the steel. “Fuck, say it again…”

“It’s a decoration. You don’t fuck with this. You adorn it. And even then, barely.”

He cupped Jaskier’s cheek with one massive hand, stroking over the flushed pink skin with a rough thumb. “You leak like a bitch in heat, and all from being told your clit’s worthless. Gods, I’ve ruined you.” His eyes darkened.

Jaskier squirmed, hands gripping Geralt’s thighs under the water, panting softly. The slick from the potion had made its way down his thighs already, warm and runny and pooling at the base of his cage. “I love it,” he whispered, breath hot against Geralt’s skin. “Love how useless you’ve made me.”

Geralt pulled him forward suddenly, until the bard was straddling his lap, tiny waist pressed flush to his mountainous torso. The sheer contrast between them made Jaskier dizzy, Geralt’s sheer size, his scar crossed muscles, the thick hair matting his chest, it all swallowed Jaskier whole.

Geralt bent down, mouth closing around one of Jaskier’s nipples.

Jaskier squealed. It was like lightning. The potion had done its job, the sensitivity had tripled. Geralt sucked gently, then harder, then bit, and the bard was shaking, leaking, rutting air.

“They taste even sweeter now,” Geralt muttered around him. He moved to the other nipple, lapping lazily as Jaskier choked on his own moans, gripping Geralt’s shoulders like a lifeline. “More?” Geralt asked, voice dark. “You want me to show Vesemir how well you respond to a real man’s mouth?”

Jaskier’s eyes rolled back. “Please…fuck…please.”

Geralt reached between them, with just a finger on the cage, pressed lightly on the clit. Jaskier howled from sheer overwhelmed pleasure. “Still not allowed to cum,” Geralt said. “But you can beg all you want, my pretty little nymph.”

The steam clung to Jaskier’s flushed skin like silk, softening every curve, turning his trembling into something delicate, beautiful. He was curled on Geralt’s lap now, body pliant and willing, thighs parted as the Witcher stroked him gently over the cage, again and again, not even touching the clit itself. He didn’t have to.

The potion had worked too well. “Fuck, look at you,” Geralt murmured. “You’re dripping.”

And he was, not just a little arousal, not a simple bead at the tip. This was leaking, thick and steady and constant, seeping from the little caged nub and trailing down over his balls, along the seam of his ass, into the water and along Geralt’s thigh like some sort of obscene spring.

“M’not cumming,” Jaskier whimpered. “I’m not…Geralt, it’s just…just dripping out…of my…”

“You wish it was a cock,” Geralt breathed in his ear, voice low and reverent. “But look at what it’s good for. You don’t fuck anyone with that pathetic little thing. You don’t even get hard. You just drip. Like my perfect boy.”

Jaskier shuddered and clutched Geralt’s chest like a prayer. “It won’t stop,” he moaned. “I don’t want it to stop…fuck, it feels so good…”

Geralt chuckled, deep in his throat. He tilted the bard’s chin up and kissed him slowly, tongue sweeping into his mouth as he palmed his chest with both hands now, rubbing his thumbs over the flushed, erect nipples. “I’ll have to bottle you,” Geralt growled, voice thick with lust. “Make a fucking potion from you next. You could slick my cock for days with how much you leak, and still want more.”

The bard sobbed. “Yes…yes…please use it…want…need you…”

Geralt looked down between them, cock rock hard, glistening under the water, the head smeared with slick where Jaskier’s leaking clit had rubbed against it in little helpless motions. “You’re going to stain everything you wear from now on,” he said. “Gonna leave wet spots on my shirts, puddles in your fucking underwear. Marked you from the inside out.”

And Jaskier, leaking like a ruined thing in his arms, smiled.

The door to the outer bathing chamber creaked open.

Geralt didn’t startle. He knew that scent, knew those heavy footsteps. The oldest wolf had come to check in and perhaps to see.

Jaskier froze for just a moment where he sat, curled in Geralt’s lap like the pretty, leaking thing he was, thighs spread, hips lazily rolling as if he could grind out friction on a cock he wasn’t allowed to touch.

“Evening, boys.” Vesemir’s voice rumbled like old stone. Calm. Familiar. His silhouette took shape in the mist, tall, broad, weathered by time but unmistakably powerful, carrying a large cloth bound bundle under one arm.

“Hmm…” Geralt said. The bard relaxed into his Witcher’s chest again, still flushed, still leaking, but now safe under the weight of that grounding voice.

Vesemir’s gaze swept over the two of them. He didn’t leer. He assessed.

“He’s dripping,” the old Witcher noted. “More than I expected.”

“Potion took fast,” Geralt replied, arms wrapped around his bard’s waist. “He’s always been responsive.”

“And obedient,” Vesemir added, raising a brow. “You were always good at picking out promising students.”

Jaskier let out a tiny moan, involuntary, humiliated and proud.

Vesemir’s eyes flicked down. The cage was still locked tight, Jaskier’s clit wasn’t even trying to get hard under there, utterly useless, just as it should be.

“Still no touch, I assume?”

“None.” Geralt said, brushing Jaskier’s hair back. “He leaks like this constantly now. No release. Just...need.”

Vesemir set the bundle down near the warm stone tiles. Unwrapped it slowly, vials, parchment and a few herbs. “I brought some notes on sensitivity thresholds. There’s another tincture that might enhance the nipple effect further, might trigger leakage even from chest play alone. It’ll build well with the base you’ve already administered.” His voice was darkening.

Jaskier whimpered again. “He likes being studied,” Geralt murmured with a soft, knowing smirk. “don’t you, bard?”

“Mhm,” came the breathy reply. “Like when you talk about me like I’m just some project. Some... thing.”

Vesemir chuckled, low and warm.

“Well, you’re certainly not like any student we’ve had before,” he said. “But I’ve never seen Geralt so invested either. Or so...happy.”

The words hit something deep. Geralt kissed Jaskier’s shoulder, slowly, reverently, and held him tighter.

Vesemir didn’t intrude further. He simply placed the tinctures down, gave a nod, and turned. “I’ll be in the east wing if you need anything. Rest well, both of you.”

“We will,” Geralt said. “Thank you.”

As the door shut behind him, Jaskier sagged against his Witcher’s chest again, breath shaking, thighs still trembling with constant ache and need.

Chapter Text

The city they rode into glittered unnaturally, lanterns strung between spires, torchlight in unnatural hues, shimmering fabrics flashing under mage light. Everything shimmered with decadent indulgence. A celebration of magical excess.

Geralt, looming beside his bard, kept a possessive hand on the small of his back as they walked the cobbled street toward the high square.

Jaskier had dressed specifically for the occasion, translucent silks in wine red and black, draped to leave little to the imagination. And beneath it, gleaming between his thighs, nestled in tight straps of enchanted leather holding it up firmly, was the two inch cage Geralt had locked onto him. The bard wore it like a badge of honor.

And gods, was he glowing. In public, he kept stealing glances at Geralt’s towering frame beside him, nearly vibrating with excitement every time the Witcher’s broad shadow passed over him. He barely noticed the murmurs or lingering stares, he was too focused on the feeling of the cage snug around his clitty, too focused on the heat curling inside him from being displayed like this.

They were halfway up the steps to the banquet hall when a familiar voice called down to them.

“Well, well. The White Wolf in silk? And the bard in…that. Now I’ve seen everything.”

Yennefer stood near the tall, rune carved entrance. Midnight purple velvet swept off her shoulder. Her eyes, lined in kohl, narrowed with amusement at the pair.

Jaskier flushed with delight. “Yen!” he chirped, standing straighter. “We didn’t expect you here!”

Yennefer’s gaze dipped to his hips ,where the cage bulged, proud and minuscule. She arched her brow. “I see you’ve downsized.”

Geralt snorted quietly.

Jaskier, to his credit, preened. “It’s all part of the training,” he said, fingers gently brushing over the cage’s outline. “Real pleasure doesn’t come from a clit like mine anyway.”

Yennefer’s brows shot up.

“Oh, you call it a clit now?”

Jaskier flushed and squirmed in place. “Well, I mean…it is kind of pointless. Just leaks all the time. Doesn’t even get hard anymore.’ Geralt said proudly. “And it’s not like…” Jaskier said, glancing sideways at Geralt “...it could ever compare to his.”

Geralt let out a low, approving rumble and placed a hand on Jaskier’s hip.

Yennefer was smirking now, eyes gleaming with intrigue. “Interesting.”

She stepped forward, finger tapping her lips thoughtfully. “I might have something you’d enjoy,” she murmured. “Something even smaller. A one inch cage. Enchanted for comfort, magically sealed. Impossible to remove, except by your Witcher here.”

Jaskier let out an indecent moan. “You’d…you’d really do that?” he asked, voice breathless.

She tilted her head. “Of course. On one condition.”

He blinked.

“You let me showcase you at the banquet tonight. Just a little performance. A touch of public praise for my enchanting handiwork.” She smiled. “A win-win. You get your smaller cage, and I get a very pretty showpiece.”

He didn’t even hesitate.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Please. Gods, please. I’ll be perfect for you. I’ll…I’ll show everyone.”

Yennefer laughed and turned to Geralt. “Still letting him say yes to strangers, hmm?”

Geralt’s hand gripped tighter on Jaskier’s waist. “He’s my bard,” he said, voice dark and proud. “I’ll show him off as I please.”

“Mm,” Yennefer purred. “Then let’s make sure he shines.”

She handed Geralt a small pouch. “Tonight. Just before the unveiling. Tell him to kneel.”

The banquet was opulent.

Gold and sapphire-glass chandeliers floated midair, pouring light over velvet draped tables. Courtiers in embroidered robes clustered in corners, their laughter tinged with arousal and awe as illusions danced in the air, fire made of music, wine that poured itself into spirals.

Everything about the night screamed indulgence.

The cage sat tight and perfect over what little remained.

Two inches, metal polished to a mirror shine, snug against skin flushed from arousal and humiliation. Geralt had made sure it was visible, nothing hidden tonight. No modesty, no shame. Just thin layers of sheer fabric draped over a body that belonged to his Witcher, and a cocklet so small the cage might as well have been jewelry.

And people noticed.

It started small, someone commenting on the outfit, their gaze drifting downward, lips parting when they noticed what was truly on display.

“There he is,” someone whispered. “The White Wolf’s prize.”

Geralt leaned closer to a noblewoman admiring the shine of the silver. “Two inches,” he whispered like it was the punchline of a dirty joke. “Can’t even twitch in there. Not that it was much to begin with.”

She laughed behind her fan, and Jaskier preened.

A lady in a high cut emerald robe let out a delighted gasp. “Surely that’s not it?” she asked, eyes glittering. “Oh, I assure you it is,” Jaskier said cheerfully. “There’s nothing else. Just a little clit now. Witcher training will do that to you.”

Then an eager ripple of conversation. Comments flowed in like warm wine.

“It’s so dainty.”

“Like a jewelry piece.”

“He’s so proud of it, how precious.”

Geralt watched from his corner, arms crossed over his massive chest, amused. Every time someone commented, every time Jaskier got called “precious” or “delicate,” he swelled with silent satisfaction. His bard wanted this. His bard glowed in it.

A tall mage leaned down. “And he allows this?”

Jaskier giggled. “He encourages it. Gods, he picked this cage. Said I didn’t need anything more. Not when I’ve got his cock to worship.”
“Don’t need something you can’t use.” Geralt said as his voice got low and dark.

The group shivered. So did Jaskier.

“Don’t need to fuck,” Geralt continued, one hand curling around the small of Jaskier’s back. “Don’t need to breed. It leaks more than it stiffens now,” Geralt added, dragging a finger down the inside of Jaskier's thigh where a faint wet spot showed through the fabric. “Pathetic, really. Just a little clitty.”

Jaskier giggled helplessly. “It really is. He’s right. I leak through my silks sometimes if he even looks at me for too long.”

Even Yennefer was laughing across the room, wine in hand, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe how shameless the bard had become.
Jaskier basked in it, he said with a wink, “You’ll all get to watch it get smaller.” He announced to the crowd.

Yennefer waited across the hall, black eyes sharp, smirk playful. The next cage. One inch. Smaller. Tighter. Perfect.

Jaskier turned to Geralt, almost trembling with excitement.

“Please,” he whispered. “Can I?”

Geralt didn’t hesitate. One hand tangled in his hair, tugged just enough to make Jaskier gasp.

“Go show them what you really are,” Geralt murmured. “Go show them mine.”

Jaskier kissed him once, reverently, and turned toward the dais, cocklet leaking already, trembling from the thrill. The performance was next. The spell. The reduction.

And everyone would see just how far gone he was.

“Ready, pet?”

His breath caught. He nodded once, then knelt, eyes huge and shimmering. “Please,” he whispered.

Applause rippled through the watching crowd, a few guests moaning outright at the sight.

Geralt stood at the foot of the dais, arms folded, smirking like the proudest bastard alive.

Yennefer’s magic sparked violet at her fingertips. “We’ve measured you. Two inches in steel. But that’s too generous, isn’t it?”

A delighted moan left Jaskier’s throat. “Far too much. It gets in the way. It’s…useless.”

“Say it louder.”

He looked right at Geralt, trembling as he spoke. “My cocklet’s useless. Just a leaking little clitty now. I want it caged. I want it tiny. I want to be beautiful for him.”

The audience gasped, then cheered.

Yennefer stepped aside and held out the new cage, enchanted gold and pearl, elegant and gleaming, far shorter than the last. Just one inch. A snug little cage for his permanently soft nub.

Jaskier reached for it with reverence.

But Geralt stepped up behind him first. “Let me,” he said, taking it from her hand.

He knelt with his bard. Everyone was watching, but neither of them cared. Jaskier’s cocklet, already pink and slick, was unfastened from the two inch cage as he was leaking precum down his thighs. Gasps and praise rippled through the crowd.

“So precious.”

“So helpless.”

“It’s perfect. He’s perfect.”

Jaskier was moaning already, overwhelmed.

Geralt leaned in, pressing a kiss to his slick cocklet.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispered. “My perfect little cocksleeve.”

And then, gently, ceremoniously, he slid the new one inch cage over the weeping clit.

Magic flared around the locking ring. It clicked into place, sealing him in again. Even tighter. Even smaller. It shimmered with Yennefer’s rune, unpickable, unbreakable, keyed only to Geralt.

The bard’s thighs trembled. His whole body shook. Jaskier whispered to himself. “Please let me…please…”

“Cum.” said Geralt as he pulled him close.

He let out a sob as his tiny clit spasmed in the cage, leaking helplessly across the dais. It was barely a ruin, barely even any release. But it felt like glory.

The chamber was dim and still when they returned. A flickering candle on the nightstand, the fire barely embers. But it was warm, warmer than anything Jaskier had ever known. Geralt shut the door behind them, locking the noise of the court out. Just the two of them now. Jaskier let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and suddenly he was moving, falling into Geralt’s arms, burying his face in that broad, scarred chest. His cage pressed against the Witcher’s thigh, warm, snug…perfect.

“You were…” Geralt began, then paused, tilting Jaskier’s chin up to look at him. His voice, when it came, was low. Honest. “You were everything tonight.”

The bard flushed. “You really think so?”

Geralt smirked just a little, then leaned in and kissed him, slow and deep. His hands were firm on Jaskier’s waist, cradling him like he might drift away if not held tight.

“You were my pride on display,” he murmured against his lips. “My jewel.”

Jaskier let out a soft whimper, overwhelmed, body still buzzing from the banquet. “It felt…good. They liked it. You liked it.”

“I loved it.” Geralt corrected gently. “But more than that, I love you. All of you. My pretty little bard with his perfect clitty and bigger heart.”

He led Jaskier to the bed and helped him down, stripping off the sheer fabrics, kissing each wrist as he tugged the sleeves past them. Then he grabbed a warm cloth and wiped the last of the banquet’s glitter from his thighs and chest, kissing a clean line up the middle.

Jaskier’s breath hitched. Not from arousal but from how deeply seen he felt. “I can’t believe you made me smaller,” he whispered. “And I…I liked it. I want it even smaller someday.”

Geralt laughed softly, climbing in beside him, pulling the bard to his chest.

“Someday,” he said, tracing his thumb over the tiny golden cage. “But tonight, you sleep in my arms. You earned it.”

Jaskier nuzzled into him, sighing contentedly. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Geralt asked, brushing a hand through his curls.

“For making me feel like the most wanted, most loved man in the world.”

Geralt didn’t answer right away. He just held him tighter. Kissed the top of his head. Let their breath fall into sync. In this bed, under his Witcher’s protection, with nothing but the cage between his thighs and the hand wrapped around his waist, Jaskier had never felt more safe.

Chapter Text

The banquet had ended hours ago, but the thrill of it still pulsed in Jaskier’s veins like wine. Or perhaps that was just the cage, the weight of it, the impossible tightness, the cool gleam of polished metal pressing against his skin, keeping his poor clitty snug, contained, displayed.
Every time he moved, it shifted against him, a reminder. A promise.

They were making their way through the torchlit courtyard when the voice called out.

"Ser Geralt. Bard Jaskier."

They turned. A noblewoman in embroidered violet silks stood with a small group of finely dressed men and women, all loose at the collar now, some flushed with drink, all eyes fixed on him.

“Your performance tonight,” she said, voice sweet and sharp, “was the most delightful of the evening.”

Jaskier flushed. Another man leaned forward, smiling slyly. “That cage is a masterpiece. Is it real?” Geralt didn’t answer, he just slid a possessive hand around Jaskier’s waist. The bard let out a small sound, already hard, already leaking at the attention.

“Oh, it’s real,” the noblewoman said, her eyes drinking him in. “We’re hosting a little...celebration, for those who appreciate such artistry. We'd be honored if you’d join us.”

Jaskier looked up at Geralt. He didn’t even have to say it.

Geralt’s hand tightened on his hip. “Lead the way.”

The room they were led to wasn’t just a bedroom, it was a gallery, of sorts. Velvet cushions piled around a low dais, chandeliers casting amber light over flushed skin and flushed faces. A mix of nobles and mages, loose limbed and already half drunk on lust, turned when they entered.

And then Jaskier stepped forward. He was still fully dressed but only for a moment. He tugged at his belt with delicate fingers, then slowly peeled back his layers, one by one, until he was down to lace trimmed stockings, the cage catching the light like a jewel between his thighs.

There were gasps. A few low whistles. One man stood up to get a better look.

“Is that…”

“One inch, yes,” Jaskier said sweetly. “Just for me. Or rather…” He turned, beaming at Geralt, “...just for him.”

Geralt said nothing at first, just leaned back, arms crossed, hulking frame gleaming in the firelight. His cock, already half hard, rested along one thigh like some kind of obscene challenge.

Jaskier stepped onto the dais. “You may look,” he said brightly. “Or touch. With permission, of course. I adore comments.” He twirled, just once, showing off the cage from every angle. And then a woman stepped forward, crouched low. “I didn’t believe it was that small.”

“Oh, believe it,” Geralt rumbled. “I trained him down myself.”

There were moans. And then the floodgates opened.

“It’s like a little pearl.”

“Gods, it’s leaking already.”

“Look how red his cheeks get when you say that.”

“How does it even work?”

“It doesn’t,” Jaskier giggled, hips twitching. “That’s the point.”

One man dared to place a finger under the cage and lift it just slightly. It dribbled.

“A pretty little decoration,” he murmured. “Like a trinket you wear to show you're owned.”

“I am owned.” Jaskier whispered, glowing.

Geralt finally stood. The room stilled. He stepped behind Jaskier, rested both massive hands on his waist, the size difference alone made some of the crowd audibly whimper, and said, loud enough for the room. “He begged for this. Every night. Said he wanted to be small enough to make me look even bigger. Said he wanted to be laughed at.”

“Go on,” Geralt said, voice low. “Tell them what you told me.”

Jaskier shuddered, barely able to breathe. “I want to be smaller,” he gasped. “I want to be useless. I want to be your jewel, your toy, your thing. Compared to you I’m…I’m…”

“Say it,” Geralt ordered.

“I’m nothing. Just a leaking…caged, silly little thing…to show off while you…” his eyes fluttered shut as Geralt’s hand drifted to his throat, “...while you show them…what a real man looks like.”

The room had settled, just slightly, the kind of lull that fell between performances. People lounged back into silken cushions, wine flowed, touches became casual, indulgent.

And Jaskier stayed up on the dais, naked save for stockings and his obscenely small cage. He loved the way they eyed him. He needed it. He did a slow turn, hips tilted just so, letting the flickering candlelight catch the polished metal. It looked ridiculous. Tucked and useless and soaked through already, the cage between his legs glistening like it had been freshly oiled. But it hadn't, no, that was just him. Leaking.
A woman with silver rings in her braids let out a loud, delighted laugh.

“Oh gods above, it really is that small.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

Someone snorted, "That's not a cock. That's a punctuation mark."

Another voice chimed in, "How does it even fit inside? That cage still has room."

Jaskier whimpered and moaned. Geralt, still behind him, leaned in close. “You like that, don’t you?” He nodded, trembling. "You want them to laugh."

“Yes…yes, I…”

Geralt smirked and spoke to the crowd. “Go on. He asked for it. He gets off on it.”

Someone leaned forward. “What even is that size called? A micro cocklet?”

That earned another round of laughter, sharper this time. And Jaskier was shaking with pleasure, thighs trembling from the force of his arousal, breath shallow.

Someone clapped. “It’s like a little bell. All shiny and dripping.”

Another leaned closer: “I’ve seen thumbs with more girth.”

Jaskier moaned outright. Geralt held him steady.

“Look at him,” someone else chuckled. “He’s going to come from laughter alone.”

“Not yet.” Geralt said smoothly. “Not until I say.”

That sobered Jaskier, barely. His hips still twitched, leaking like a tap, the humiliation only making him harder, if that was even possible inside the steel confinement.

He looked over his shoulder at Geralt, eyes wide and glassy. “Please don’t stop them,” he whispered. “Please don’t stop laughing.”

They didn’t stop laughing. Not when Jaskier wriggled his hips to show off the new 1 inch cage. Not when he twirled, caged clitty glinting, already slick and leaking down one trembling thigh. The crowd howled. One woman wiped tears from her eyes. “Gods, it’s like a dewdrop on a grapevine.”

Jaskier twitched. Moaned. He was leaking so much now. His thighs were shimmering now, damp from the leak that wouldn’t stop. The potion was working. The cage was tight. And he was deliriously happy.

Geralt stepped up in front of him. The room hushed. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. Everyone could see what he was. He was huge.
Fifteen inches of veined, twitching, furious cock, already wet at the tip, already pulsing as he looked down at his giddy little mess of a bard. There was no cage in the world that could hide how much Jaskier belonged to him.

Geralt stepped closer. His voice was low, rough. “How many inches are you, bard?”

Jaskier didn’t hesitate. “One,” he whispered.

“And how many am I?”

“Fifteen.” He shivered. “You’re a real man.”

Another ripple of laughter from the onlookers. But Geralt’s face was deadly serious. Possessive. His hand wrapped around the base of his cock.

“You’re going to count for me,” he growled. “One inch at a time. Every time I cum.”

Jaskier blinked up at him. Swallowed. Then nodded, so eagerly he nearly stumbled.

Geralt leaned back, gave one long, slow stroke and it was instant. He came with a snarl, thick rope after thick rope splattering across Jaskier’s chest.

Jaskier gasped.

“One,” he whispered.

Geralt growled again. “Louder.”

“One!”

Another stroke. Another shudder. Another load.

“Two!”

He didn’t stop, didn’t even need to slow.

Cum smeared across Jaskier’s belly. Across his thighs. Across the glinting cage that did absolutely nothing to hide how tiny he was. People around them were clapping now. Cheering. Laughing as the bard’s body was covered by his Witcher’s release.

“Five!”

By the time he hit ten, Jaskier was drenched. His curls were sticky, his skin shiny, his cage absolutely soaked and utterly useless beneath the weight of his Master’s load. He could barely see through the mess.

And Geralt wasn’t done.

“Keep going,” he said darkly, voice ragged.

Jaskier’s legs buckled. “Eleven”

He didn’t even realize he was crying until the laughter stopped and Geralt leaned down to kiss the tears off his cheeks, still stroking.
“Thirteen.”

“Fourteen!”

The crowd had gone breathless now, aroused and reverent. Jaskier was nothing short of holy, mumbling between each number like he was reciting a prayer.

By fifteen, Geralt let out a final snarl, jerking the last thick burst right across Jaskier’s cage.

The room exploded in applause.

Jaskier collapsed to his knees, slick and marked, eyes dazed, soaked in Geralt’s claim. And he smiled. Glowing. Dripping. “Do you like me like this?” he whispered.

Geralt knelt in front of him, pulled him close, pressed his forehead to Jaskier’s. “I like you mine.”

He was still trembling when the first hand touched his hip.

Someone murmured, “May I?” polite, reverent, and Jaskier, radiant in his humiliation, nodded with a gasp.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Please.”

The guests didn’t waste time.

Hands guided him to the velvet ottoman. He was laid out gently, still glistening in the absurd volume of Geralt’s cum. A few licked it from his skin. A few smeared it deeper, like oil into leather. Everyone stared at the tiny, dripping cage between his legs, one inch, barely twitching, visibly leaking.

“Oh, gods,” someone said, breathlessly. “It’s impossibly small.”

He moaned. The cage pulsed.

“Look at it. And he’s proud of it.”

Jaskier giggled. He arched his back as someone sucked on his nipples, still sensitive from the potions. Every grope, every grab, every mock pitying comment about his clitty sent fresh trails of slick down his inner thighs.

They loved him. They worshipped his tiny, ruined cock. And every one of them wanted to fuck him.

He was passed from lap to lap.

A noblewoman with a strap first, slow and reverent. Then a younger man, eager and stunned. Then another, and another. They all fed off the contrast, Geralt’s giant mark still wet on his skin while his own cocklet stayed laughably caged and untouched.

He came twice untouched, the potion making every second a sweet torment. But only when Geralt’s voice rang out from the other side of the room, “Cum.”

He was being fucked. He was leaking. He was gasping. And every eye in the room was on him.

“Whose are you?” someone asked, breath ragged as they pushed deeper into him.

“His,” Jaskier sobbed. “Geralt’s. Always.”

He was wrecked, barely able to speak. His hair was plastered to his temples with sweat and slick, thighs trembling, lips puffy from begging. He’d been used by a dozen hands, a dozen bodies, praised and degraded and praised again. His tiny caged cocklet leaked like a faucet the whole time.

But now…now the room was quiet.

And Jaskier lifted his head. “Geralt…” he gasped, eyes wide and wild. “Please.”

The crowd parted as if by instinct.

The White Wolf moved slowly. Every inch of him oozed dominance, thick, glistening inches, veined and hard, swinging heavy between his legs. He’d spent himself already, fifteen times by some count but his cock didn’t care. It was still ready.

Jaskier was ruined and open, but when he saw Geralt, his clit gave a hopeless twitch in its cage.

“Please, Witcher,” he whimpered. “I want you. Only you. Fill me. Ruin me.”

Geralt stepped between his bard’s legs and growled, “Open for me.” And he did. Gods, he did.

Geralt ran his hands along his bard’s thighs, smearing his own cum deeper into his skin. He bent, kissed Jaskier’s stomach, and murmured, “You did so well, little one. Look at you.”

He lined up his cock, massive, throbbing, terrifying, and slowly pressed in. Just the tip.

Even after all the stretching, the plug training, the nights at Kaer Morhen, the orgy…it still took effort. But Jaskier took it, lips parted in a silent moan, body arching, clutching at the sheets as Geralt pushed in.

“Fuck,” Geralt hissed, holding himself still. “You feel…fuck…perfect”

He thrust, Jaskier's eyes rolled back into his skull and he let out a loud desperate moan. His body swallowed another inch. Then another. He could barely breathe, could barely think. But Geralt was making a deep, low sound, and it vibrated in his chest like a purr.

“Good boy,” Geralt rasped. “You’re taking me. You’re really…fuck, you’re taking me.”

Jaskier moaned, “More. Please. Please, Geralt.”

He was so loose, so slick, so desperate, that Geralt couldn’t stop.

He pushed in halfway now and that was when it hit. The stretch. The fullness. The sense of being claimed. Jaskier sobbed, overwhelmed, and his little cocklet leaked against its cage like a broken faucet.

Then Geralt thrust again, slamming the tip against that sweet spot inside him. “Cum.” And Jaskier did.

So hard his body locked up. So hard he blacked out for a second. So hard it triggered Geralt’s own orgasm, the Witcher biting down on his shoulder to muffle the noise as he spilled everything deep inside.

He pumped into him, again. Again. Growling like a beast as he emptied himself.

When he was done, Jaskier’s belly felt warm. Geralt didn’t pull out. He wrapped his arms around him, kissed his temple, and whispered: “You did it. You took your man. My bard.”

Jaskier smiled through tears, wrecked and filled and completely, utterly, claimed.

Chapter Text

They find him outside a tavern. Sword across his back, boots up on the fence, a smirk already tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s been waiting to see something stupid all day.

“Look what the path dragged in,” Lambert drawls, voice pure cocky amusement. “Witcher and…pet.”

Jaskier’s mouth opens, then closes again. He presses instinctively closer to Geralt’s side, who doesn’t even blink, just rests a heavy hand on his bard’s waist. Possessive. Protective. Not stopping the teasing. Never stopping it.

“He’s housebroken,” Geralt says dryly. “Mostly.”

Jaskier leaks.

Lambert whistles low and lets his eyes rake down the bard, past the collar of his embroidered shirt, down his tiny cinched waist, pausing just long enough at the swell of his tiny cock cage pressing through the fabric of his breeches because Geralt was openly fondling him.

“Fuck,” Lambert mutters, half under his breath. “You really locked him up. Damn, White Wolf.”

“Tell me something,” Lambert says, standing. His eyes never leave Jaskier. “You sing, right?”

“Yes,” Jaskier manages, trying to be brave. “Quite well.”

“And with that thing in your pants?” He laughs, incredulous. “That little acorn’s not weighing down your lute?”

Geralt chuckles. “That’s generous. Acorn’s too big.” Jaskier moans. Actually, out loud. Lambert laughs louder.

“Oh, this is fucking delightful,” he says. “Geralt, you’ve been holding out on me.”

Geralt smirks. “He’s sensitive.” Jaskier turns to him, wide eyed, flushed, mouthing please even though no one’s said anything more.

Lambert looks back and forth between them, then reaches out and without asking hooks a finger under the waistband of Jaskier’s breeches to snap it back with a sharp little twang. Not quite enough to hurt. Just enough to make him jump.

“You're leaking already, cocklet?”

Jaskier nods, humiliated. Soaked.

The tavern’s food is nothing specialstringy meat, flat ale but the tension at the table is rich and heavy, almost too thick to swallow.
Jaskier sits between them, and gods help him, he lives for it.

Geralt’s thigh is pressed to his left, broad and immovable. On his right, Lambert sprawls with all the rude confidence of a man who’s never once been told no, chewing a chicken leg like it insulted him.

Jaskier chews his lip. His cage is tight, he’s just been leaking for hours, wound up by Lambert’s teasing and Geralt’s silence. Geralt, of course, hasn’t said a word about the cage since the moment they sat down. He doesn’t have to. Jaskier can feel how pleased he is, every subtle touch, every smirk when he shifts and leaks again under the table.

“So tell me, bard,” Lambert says, loud enough that half the tavern glances their way. “You really asked to get locked up in that little thing?”

Jaskier doesn’t blush. He beams. “Oh, I begged.”

Lambert snorts into his ale. “What for? So no one else could be disappointed?”

Geralt chokes on his drink, coughs once. “Be nice.”

“No,” Jaskier says brightly, reaching for his glass. “Don’t be. He’s funny when he’s cruel.”

Lambert blinks. “You like it when I laugh at your tiny cock?”

Jaskier leans in conspiratorially. “I love it. Makes me feel even smaller.”

Geralt chuckles, deep and low. “He’s been leaking for hours. Since you snapped his waistband.”

“Seriously?” Lambert leans back. “You’re gonna soak the bench, you freak.”

Jaskier practically preens. “Do you want to see it?”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yes,” Jaskier says instantly.

Lambert shrugs. “Fuck it. I mean, you’re already dressed like a slut.”

Jaskier stands. Right there in the corner booth. He turns, unties his breeches and pulls them down just enough to reveal the gleaming one inch cage practically soaked in orecum. The sight makes Lambert whistle through his teeth.

“Holy fuck,” he says, genuinely stunned. “That’s it?”

“He wanted it smaller,” Geralt adds, smug now, arms crossed. “This is his new one.”

“Shit,” Lambert mutters. “No wonder you’re like this. I’ve pissed harder than that.”

Jaskier moans, staggering just a little as another dribble leaks down his thigh.

“Sit down before you cum in public,” Geralt says, amused, tugging him back into the booth. “And you’re not allowed to cum until I say.”
Jaskier nods fervently, hips already twitching under the table.

Lambert just grins, licking grease from his fingers. “You brought me the best dinner entertainment I’ve had all season.”

They don’t make it far after dinner. The tent isn’t big, not with three grown men, but Geralt sets it up with ruthless efficiency, tossing furs and packs down with practiced movement. Lambert lounges by the fire like he owns the forest. And Jaskier kneels.

Not because Geralt told him to, because he wants to. Because the moment they’re alone again, he sinks onto the soft grass, thighs parted, chest bare, trousers shoved down just enough to reveal the glinting, tiny cage between his legs. His hips already twitch, leaking on instinct.
Lambert saunters over, a fresh drink in hand, and looks down like he’s stumbled across something pathetic. His eyes gleam.

“You really don’t get tired of this, do you?”

Jaskier looks up at him, big blue eyes wide with pleading. “Not even a little.”

Lambert circles him. “You know most people’d be embarrassed to have a cock that small.”

“I don’t,” Jaskier whispers. “It’s not a cock. It’s a clitty. My clitty.”

Geralt snorts from the tent’s edge, settling down on a fur, eyes half lidded but alert. Watching. Approving.

Lambert crouches beside Jaskier, his voice cruel and soft. “You get off on this? On knowing mine, fuck, even Geralt’s, would rip you in half, and you’re stuck leaking around this toy of a cocklet?”

Jaskier moans, back arching. “Yes. Gods, yes, please keep going.”

“Shit.” Lambert laughs, grabs Jaskier by the jaw and tilts his face up. “You’re hard right now, aren’t you? Somehow?”

Jaskier nods rapidly, lips parted. “I don’t get hard anymore. I love it when you laugh at me.”

Lambert smirks. “You are a freak. A needy, cum starved little freak.”

Geralt’s voice is a low growl. “He’s our freak.”

Lambert’s hand slides down, cups the cage. It’s slick. Leaking steadily.

“This thing even functional? Feels more like a wet button.”

Jaskier gasps. “It leaks! That’s what it’s for!”

Geralt shifts forward, eyes dark. “Touch him. Just lightly. Just enough.”

Lambert obeys. One finger, tapping the top of the cage. Then another, dragging down the slit where clear fluid coats the metal.

Jaskier whimpers. The tiniest touch makes him tremble.

“Say it again,” Lambert whispers.

Jaskier moans. “It’s not a cock. It’s my clitty. My useless little clitty…only good for leaking and showing everyone what a man my Witcher is.”

Geralt grunts. “Fuck.”

Lambert gives a sharp laugh. “You hear that, White Wolf? He’s practically begging for more. Should I keep going?”

Geralt leans in, kisses Jaskier’s temple. “Go on. He’s earned it.”

Lambert nods. “You’re a disgrace to men everywhere, bard. It’s a miracle you managed to get anyone’s attention looking like this.”

“I didn’t!” Jaskier moans. “That’s why it’s so perfect. Only Geralt would want something this pathetic.”

The cage glistens in the moonlight, soaked. His thighs are trembling.

Geralt murmurs, low and dangerous. “Cum.”

Jaskier explodes. Not in volume, his clit doesn’t let him, but in sensation. He writhes, mouth open in a silent scream, leaking furiously through the bars, painting Lambert’s hand and his own thighs with sweet, desperate shame.

Lambert just laughs. “Fucking hell. That’s the weakest orgasm I’ve ever seen.”

“Best one I’ve ever had,” Jaskier pants, collapsing into Geralt’s lap as he kisses his forehead. “Good boy.” Jaskier barely catches his breath before shifting up and turning those flushed cheeks toward Lambert.

“Please,” he whispers, voice hoarse, lips trembling but wet with need. “Let me...I want to show you what else this freak mouth can do.” Lambert raises a brow. “You offering, clitty boy?”

Jaskier nods so fast his curls bounce. “Yes. Please…want to taste it…want to take it deep.”

Geralt murmurs, voice thick with arousal, “Go on, Lambert. He’s been practicing.”

“Practicing, huh?” Lambert undoes his trousers with a single flick of his wrist, revealing a thick, heavy cock, shorter than Geralt’s monster but thick, veiny, and mean looking. “Let’s see if all that gagging paid off.”

Jaskier leans forward eagerly, lips parting even before the cock touches them.

Lambert doesn’t go easy. He grabs the bard’s curls and feeds the length in like he’s trying to measure his limit in one go. Jaskier chokes immediately, eyes watering, nose pressing into thick pubic hair but he doesn’t pull back.

“Shit,” Lambert hisses. “You like this, don’t you?”

Jaskier moans around his cock.

“Freak’s got tears running down his cheeks and he’s still humping the air. Look at your clitty, so fucking useless, and you’re gagging on real cock like it’s your job.” His grip tightens.

Geralt chuckles, leaning back against a tree, watching it all unfold like a man who knows exactly what he’s built. “That throat’s come a long way.”

Jaskier forces himself to go deeper again, relaxing just as Geralt taught him, his fingers digging into Lambert’s thighs as his lips stretch wide, spit and precum smearing across his face.

Lambert groans. “Shit. Shit, he’s gonna make me…”

Jaskier kept bobbing his head, swallowing with everything he’s got.

Lambert cums, rough and sudden, jerking his hips forward as he paints Jaskier’s throat with thick, hot release. Jaskier chokes again but swallows. Every drop.

When Lambert pulls back, Jaskier gasps for air, drool and cum slicking his chin, his throat working around the last of it like he doesn’t want to let it go.

“You’re disgusting,” Lambert pants.

Jaskier smiles. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“Go on,” Lambert says, voice cool and edged with cruelty. “Show me what that throat’s good for, cocklet.”

Jaskier moans and immediately shuffles forward again. “Get to it,” Lambert growls. “Mouth open, freak.”

He presses forward without mercy.

Jaskier gags on the first thrust, the thick head pushing past his lips before he’s ready, but Geralt’s hand is there, on his jaw, firm and steady, tilting his face up just right.

“That’s it,” Geralt murmurs, kneeling beside them. “Open wide for Lambert. I’ll hold you still.”

Jaskier moans around the girth in his throat, the vibration making Lambert groan in turn as he starts thrusting hard and fast.

“You’re shaking,” Lambert mutters. “From getting your throat stuffed, or from not being touched?”

Geralt chuckles. “Does it matter? He’s leaking either way.”

And Jaskier is, clear, pathetic slick dribbling from his little one inch cage down his thighs, his whole body trembling from the effort of staying still, of taking it. Lambert starts to fuck his face properly now, hips snapping ruthlesly, pressing him all the way down till the bard gets drunk on his musk. Geralt strokes Jaskier’s throat as it bulges.

“You’re doing so well,” Geralt says softly. “My good little clit caged thing. So pretty with a real cock in your throat.” Pulling him all the way out for a breath before he pushes him down on Lambert's cock again.

Lambert laughs. “Pretty and pointless. You gonna cry from getting throat fucked? Or are you gonna take all of me like the Witcher trained cocksleeve you’re pretending to be?”

Jaskier whimpers but doesn’t back away. He keeps pushing forward, eyes fluttering shut, tears streaming as he drools around the thick cock wrecking his throat. Geralt wipes his chin between thrusts, his other hand gently holding the back of Jaskier’s head.

“Deeper,” Geralt murmurs. “You can take more. You’re not my pathetic little bard anymore. You’re a trained thing now.”

Lambert snarls as Jaskier’s nose presses to his base. “Fuck,” he pants. “Didn’t think you’d manage this so well. Maybe you do deserve to get marked.” setting a cruel pace now.

“Not yet,” Geralt says quietly. “Make him earn it.”

And earn it he does, minutes of unrelenting throat use, of choking and gasping and returning to suck Lambert back down with more eagerness each time. Every insult, every cocklet and clitty and useless fuckpet only makes Jaskier moan harder.

By the time Lambert finally growls, “I’m gonna fucking paint you,” Jaskier is drooling, slicked with spit and precum, his cage shining from his own leak.

Lambert doesn’t just cum, he holds Jaskier all the way down wrapping his thighs around his face as he unloads down his throat. One, two, three thick pulses. Jaskier swallows desperately, throat convulsing around him. It spills from his lips anyway, down his chin and Geralt’s fingers.

When Lambert finally pulls back, Jaskier gasps, tongue out, grinning.

Geralt wipes him clean like he’s polishing silver. “Good boy,” he whispers. “That’s my good little throat.”

Jaskier’s throat is red, raw, and gleaming with spit and pride. He’s panting on his knees, tongue still out, face utterly ruined and beaming. Geralt’s hands are steady on his shoulders, holding him up like a prizefighter who just went ten rounds with something bigger than he ever trained for.

Lambert’s tucking himself back into his trousers, cock finally softening, breath still a little fast. He glances down at Jaskier, snorts, and shakes his head.

“You’re fucking unhinged,” he mutters. “That was impressive.”

Jaskier giggles, voice hoarse. “Thank you.”

Lambert crouches down, grumbling under his breath, and wipes a thumb through the mess on Jaskier’s cheek.

“Not what I meant, bardling,” he says. But his hand lingers.

Geralt hums behind them, gently stroking the bard's hair. “Say what you mean, then.”

Lambert rolls his eyes. “Fine. You did well. Real well. Didn’t expect you to take all that.” He glances down at Jaskier’s leaking cage and back up again. “Didn’t expect you to like it so much, either.”

“I love it,” Jaskier whispers. His voice cracks. “Love…both of you.”

Lambert clicks his tongue. “Sappy little clit. Come here.”

He pulls Jaskier up into his arms like it’s nothing, one hand braced on the bard’s waist, the other cupping the back of his neck. Jaskier melts into it, legs wobbly and caged cock smearing wetness across Lambert’s rough leathers.

“You're gonna need tea for that throat,” Lambert says, gruff.

“I’ll make it,” Geralt offers, already rising.

Jaskier blinks, dazed. “You…make tea?”

“Not well,” Geralt admits. “But you’ve earned it.”

Lambert chuckles, ruffling Jaskier’s hair. “Earned something, that’s for damn sure. Come on. Sit with me. Rest those pretty lips.”

Jaskier, glowing, nods and lets Lambert guide him to the campfire. The two Witchers flank him like twin wolves, one dark, smirking, and foul mouthed; the other broad, quiet, and devoted. Jaskier nestles between them, sore and sated and loved in his own ruinous way.

“I think,” Jaskier murmurs as the mug of tea is pressed into his hands, “I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

Geralt just kisses his temple.

Lambert mutters, “Freak,” under his breath, but squeezes his knee gently.

Chapter Text

Geralt doesn’t look up. “You know what comes next, don’t you.”

Jaskier lifts his head, blinking. His thighs are already glistening. “The keep?” he breathes, hopeful. “Are we…”

He stops himself. Then nods, softly. “It’s time.” Geralt grunts. A slow nod. “Winter’s nearly here. The others will be on their way.” He sets the blade down. “I’ve been thinking.”

Jaskier crawls closer, his cage catching the firelight. Geralt’s eyes flick down, narrow with hunger. But his tone stays level. Firm.

“I’ve trained you. Ruined you. Owned you.” He pauses. “And it’s made you better. You know that.”

Jaskier nods. He’s kneeling, breath caught.

“But if we go to Kaer Morhen,” Geralt says, low and rough, “I won’t be the only one touching you anymore.”

A beat.

“You’ll be offered to them. Used by them. You won’t get to pick who. Or how.”

Jaskier’s breath shudders. His whole body jolts forward like a man starving. He’s leaking down his thighs now, unashamed.

“Yes,” he whispers, already lost in the idea. “Yes, gods, please. Please.”

Geralt’s jaw twitches. He reaches out, yanks Jaskier forward by the cage, his voice a growl.

“You need to understand, bard. This isn’t a reward. It’s not a game. You’ll be used. Hard. Over and over. They’ll laugh. They’ll fill you. They’ll keep going when your little clit’s too sore to leak anymore. And you’ll thank them for it.”

Jaskier moans, nearly folds in on himself. “I will. I’ll thank every one of them. Please, Geralt, I want this. I want to show them how good you’ve made me.”

Geralt studies him. Then, almost too softly. “You’re mine, Jaskier.”

The bard smiles wide, true, perfect. “Always. But I’m yours to share.”

The snow comes early that year, a steady drift, not enough to slow them yet, but enough that Geralt tightens his cloak and adjusts the hood over Jaskier’s delicate curls. They’ve barely left the valley and already the bard’s nose is pink, thighs trembling with cold.

Lambert notices first. “You’re leaking again, Princess.”

Jaskier just grins, breath puffing in little clouds. “Can’t help it. It’s the altitude. Or the company.”

Lambert snorts, but it’s affectionate. He steps in without being asked and lifts the bard bodily over a patch of uneven rock. “You’ll twist your dainty ankle.”

Jaskier makes an outrageous moan. “Two strong Witchers carrying me up a mountain…you’re going to spoil me.”

“You’re already spoiled,” Geralt mutters, but he doesn’t make him walk either. Between the two of them, Jaskier spends more time hoisted than hiking, wrapped in warm furs, legs dangling, the plug in his ass making him shift with every step. His cage presses snugly beneath the fabric, dripping like a leaky jewel between his thighs. Both Witchers can smell him.

By the time they pause at a halfway shelter, an old hunter’s hut deep in the pines, Jaskier’s flushed, giggling, buried in Geralt’s chest while Lambert builds a fire.

“Y’know,” Lambert says dryly, eyeing the bard as he spreads his thighs shamelessly by the flames, “I think the keeps in more danger from him than the other way around.”

Jaskier bats his lashes. “You think Vesemir will like me?”

Geralt’s voice is firm. “You’re not there to be liked.”

But the way he wraps an arm around his bard and lets him nuzzle against his neck makes the truth obvious, he’s proud. Possessive. And maybe, just maybe, a little smug.

The fire crackles. Snow hisses as it melts on the stones outside. Jaskier is curled up with both Witchers, wrapped in fur but still trembling not from cold, not exactly. Geralt can smell it. So can Lambert. "You're leaking again," Lambert mutters for the fifth time that day, glancing down at the pathetic metal bulge beneath the bard’s trousers. “Don’t you ever stop?”

But this time Geralt frowns. Really frowns. He reaches between Jaskier’s legs with practiced ease and the bard gasps, wriggling like it’s a reward, but the cage is cold. Too cold. Metal doesn’t belong on a body this small, this soft, not in mountain snow. Not tonight.

He mutters a soft spell under his breath, and with a faint clink, the cage unlocks and falls into his palm.

Jaskier whines as if something sacred has been taken from him. “But…but my clitty…”

"Enough." Geralt snaps, voice sharp. "Not everything is a game. You want to freeze your cocklet off?”

Jaskier huffs, but quiets. His cock, tiny, pink, and wet, bounces limply against his thigh with the sudden freedom.

Geralt sighs and leans in. He gives it the gentlest kiss. Barely a brush of lips. Reverent, almost apologetic. His breath warms it, his voice even softer. “There. Safe now.”

Lambert chokes. “Did…did you just kiss his cocklet?” He’s wheezing. “Fuck me, you’re more whipped than I thought.”

Geralt shrugs and tucks Jaskier in tighter. “Better than being frostbitten.”

Jaskier’s curled up like a kitten, glowing like a furnace.

Lambert grins wickedly. “That might be the funniest fucking thing I’ve seen in months.”

“Then you haven’t been watching him ride,” Geralt mutters without looking up.

Lambert wheezes.

Later that night, Jaskier rolls into Geralt’s lap, eyes wide and glassy, thighs already spread. He nuzzles into his Witcher’s chest, rutting against the thick thigh he loves so much. His cock is still tiny, soft, pathetically trying to twitch.

He looks down at himself and moans. “I’m not even hard,” he whispers, awestruck. “You took it off and I’m still just…” he wriggles against Geralt’s thigh, “...like this.”

Geralt looks down at him, hand sliding between the bard’s legs. Fingers ghost over his slick, limp cocklet. It twitches once. Once. “You’ve been broken in perfectly,” he says, voice thick with pride.

Jaskier whimpers. “Please,” he breathes. “Please, I know it’s still soft, I know it’s useless, but please use me…fuck me like you own me, like I’m still yours…”

“You are mine,” Geralt growls. And then he’s flipping the bard over, spreading him wide, and sliding in slowly, too slowly, the bard’s loose and slick and leaking and begging. His cocklet stays soft the whole time. He whimpers with every thrust, mumbling praise between cries of “thank you” and “please” and “I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours.”

By the end, there’s cum on his hole, his thighs, his back, his belly and his cocklet. It leaks the whole time, soft and wet and useless.

He’s glowing.

Chapter Text

Snow falls soft as silk, but it’s biting cold, and Geralt has already wrapped Jaskier in enough layers to render him immobile. Which is why the bard is currently being carried, bridal style, up the winding mountain path by two Witchers, much to his vocal protest.

“I have legs, you know,” Jaskier muttered from the nest of wool and fur he was wrapped in. “Strong ones! Toned! Muscular, even!”

Geralt grunted. Lambert didn’t even dignify the complaint with a response, though the vein in his forehead twitched with effort as he trudged on.

“You’re shivering, bard,” Geralt said simply, snow clinging to his shoulders like ash. “I warned you. Kaer Morhen is cruel this early in the season.”

“I’m shivering because you and Lambert sandwiched me like I’m made of glass,” Jaskier huffed. “Honestly. You’ll bruise my pride, carrying me up the mountain like I’m some wilting princess.”

“Please,” Lambert cut in, “you love being pampered. I saw that blissed out face when Geralt tucked that fur around your neck.”

“That was involuntary! A perfectly reasonable reaction to warmth, not…oh, fuck off.”

Eskel was waiting at the keep’s entrance, arms crossed and amused.

“Thought I heard a whiny little bird chirping down the mountain,” he said, stepping aside. “You two really carried him the entire way?”

“He’s fragile,” Geralt deadpanned.

“He’s dramatic,” Lambert said.

“I’m right here!” Jaskier muttered as they crossed the threshold into the stone halls of Kaer Morhen.

It was warmer inside, barely, but the fire had already been lit. Jaskier was deposited onto the furs beside the hearth, and immediately fussed over like a prince by all three Witchers, cloak unwrapped, gloves removed one finger at a time.

“You’re acting like I was on death’s door!” he laughed, pink in the cheeks now for an entirely different reason.

Geralt crouched down beside him, eyes scanning over every inch like he might will warmth into him by sheer force of presence.

“You’re ours now,” Geralt muttered, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s icy knuckles. “We take care of what’s ours.”

Eskel handed Jaskier a mug of something steaming. “You’ll get used to it. Eventually you’ll miss it when they’re not fawning over you.”

Jaskier wrapped his fingers around the mug. Smiled. “I already would.”

It was late by the time the keep had quieted. A fresh snowfall blanketed the world beyond its walls, but in the deepest wing of Kaer Morhen, behind thick stone and heavier secrets, it was only firelight and the sound of heavy boots echoing on stone.

“Strip,” Geralt said, voice low.

Jaskier obeyed instantly, hands trembling slightly, not from cold, but from how intoxicating it all was. The firelight made his flushed skin glow, made the faint sheen of sweat along his inner thighs glisten like dew. His cock, small and broken, lay between his legs. Limp. Dripping pre-cum.

He wasn’t even hard. Couldn’t get hard anymore. And it made him moan with joy.

“Look at it,” Lambert muttered, crouching down, amusement painting every word. “It’s not even trying.”

“It’s perfect,” Eskel said behind him, his voice calm and rich. “So used, so tamed. You really fucked the cock right out of him.”

“He did that to himself,” Geralt murmured, tugging off his gloves as he approached. “Our little bootslut. Still leaking, aren’t you?”

Jaskier was already on his knees, naked before them all, flushed and panting. His thighs trembled. His cocklet twitched, barely more than a pulse, but it never even began to rise. His body had forgotten how.

Geralt stepped forward, towering above him, and raised one boot. “You know what to do.”

And he did. Jaskier whined as he leaned in, grinding his soft, leaking, useless cocklet against Geralt’s boot. His hips moved in desperate little stutters, pathetic, frenzied, his whole body straining for something, for the permission to come.

“Fucking hell,” Lambert muttered, adjusting himself. “He’s not even hard. That’s gotta be the most fucked thing I’ve seen all year.”

“It’s beautiful,” Geralt said, gaze locked on his bard. “You’re beautiful like this. Leaking like a good little thing. Ruined.”

Jaskier whimpered. His mouth opened like he was going to beg, but he didn’t need to.

Geralt leaned down. Lifted the boot away just slightly. “Cum.”

The bard collapsed, his whole body seizing up as he pressed his flushed cheek against the stone. He spurted weakly, more dribble than climax, as if his cocklet had forgotten how to come with strength. But he sobbed with joy anyway, face twisted in rapture.

“Oh gods,” Jaskier gasped. “Oh fuck…thank you, thank you…thank you…”

The Witchers watched, each of them silent, reverent. And then Geralt stepped back and lifted a second boot.

“One each.”

Jaskier shuddered. Crawled forward.

Lambert. Eskel. Vesemir.

The air was thick with smoke and sweat and the quiet clink of armor being shed. Jaskier was already breathless, skin flushed from Geralt’s boot, his thighs slick with streaks of what barely passed for orgasm anymore. But he wasn’t done. Not yet.

“Next,” Geralt murmured, voice deep with pride, not command.

Jaskier turned to Lambert. Fell to hands and knees and crawled with a sway in his hips like a heatdrunk thing.

“Yes…yes, please…your boot,” he gasped. “I…I wanna show you…show you what you did…”

“Tch,” Lambert chuckled, raising one foot. “Get on with it, little freak.”

Jaskier whined in delight at the insult. He pressed his limp, drooling cocklet to Lambert’s boot leather and rutted like a man possessed, humping with all the devotion of a dog in heat.

“Fuck…look at you,” Lambert muttered. “It’s not even trying to get hard. That’s not a cock…it’s a joke.”

“It’s broken!” Jaskier cried out, not with shame, but glee. “You broke it…all of you…I can’t get hard, I can’t even feel it anymore…just leaks like a good little clitty…”

“Gods,” Eskel exhaled, visibly flushed. “That’s...beautiful.”

Jaskier moaned louder, lifting his hips with a frantic grind. “It’s broken and I love it…I’m a bootfucker now…your ruined little thing, I’m perfect now, aren’t I?”

“Cum,” Geralt said.

And Jaskier shuddered, whole body shaking in joy and releasing another pathetic dribble out as Lambert pushed his boot down hard on the bard’s broken cocklet.

He turned next to Eskel, who said nothing at first. Just lifted his boot silently, eyes smoldering.

“Please,” Jaskier begged. “Please…let me…make it worse, break it more…”

He humped again, faster this time, the sound of his bare skin slapping against worn leather vulgar and wet.

“You love this, don’t you,” Eskel finally said, low and amused. “So ruined you’re proud of it.”

“Yes! Yes, I am!” he sobbed. “It doesn’t even move anymore…I can’t fuck, I can’t cum right, I just rut like the good little bitch I am…cum, please, let me…”

“Cum.”

It was softer this time, and Jaskier’s body melted, cocklet spurting weakly as Eskel removed any attempt at stimulation along with his boot, Jaksier’s eyes rolling back.

Finally, he turned to Vesemir. The old Witcher simply looked down at him, unreadable.

Jaskier didn’t wait, couldn’t wait. He pressed his ruined, leaking clitty to Vesemir’s worn boots, whispering nonsense between desperate moans.

“Thank you for training them…training me…I was made for this, born for this…”

“And what are you now?” Vesemir asked, one brow raised.

“Broken,” Jaskier whispered reverently, “yours.”

“Cum.”

He did. Again. And again. As Geralt made him twitch and spasm on the floor before them all.

By the time Geralt lifted him into his arms, Jaskier was soaked in spit and sweat, thighs shiny, cocklet twitching and utterly soft.
“You did good,” Geralt murmured, kissing his temple. “One more thing, my love.”

His legs were parted, trembling slightly, and his tiny broken cocklet rests against his thigh, flushed and leaking. It just pulses there, soft and small and perfect, like it knows its place now.

One by one, Geralt, Eskel, Lambert, and finally Vesemir, stand over their bard, their treasure, their good little thing who asked and begged and earned this moment with every ruined orgasm and whimpering plea.

Vesemir holds it in his hands, a new cage, small and gleaming, forged from an old, discarded Witcher medallion, melted down and reshaped for something holy. “It’s fitting,” Vesemir says quietly as he looks up at Jaskier. “You’re one of us now.”

Jaskier swallows hard. He’s flushed all the way to his ears, lips parted, legs quivering. “Please,” he whispers, eyes wide, pupils blown. “Please put it on. I want to be perfect for you.”

Geralt kneeling down, strong hands impossibly gentle as he cups his bard’s soft, leaking clitty. He kisses the tip before guiding it into the new cage, only half an inch of length, the rest swallowed up by the cool, snug metal.

A perfect fit.

It clicks closed.

There’s a silence. A moment suspended in time.

And then Geralt presses forward, growling low, stands tall, towering over him as he strokes himself once, twice, and comes, thick and hot, all over the cage. It spatters Jaskier’s belly and thighs and runs between his legs.

Eskel is next, biting his lip with a dark chuckle. “Fuck, look at him,” he mutters. “So happy to be ruined.” He joins Geralt without hesitation, groaning low as he spills over the cage and the cocklet it holds. “One of us, huh?”

“Better than most,” Lambert says with a wicked grin, stroking himself harder. “You fucking earned this, pretty boy.” He thrusts forward, his release painting across the medallion like a second coat of varnish, thick and dripping.

And finally, Vesemir, he doesn’t speak. Just comes, eyes locked with Jaskier’s, one hand steady on his thigh as he finishes the ritual with a final claiming stripe.

Four Witchers. One tiny cage. A cocklet barely visible beneath the weight of their come.

Jaskier was glowing, whispering thank you, thank you, thank you, again and again.

Geralt is already wiping him down gently, kissing his temple, his shoulders, his thighs. But he leaves the cage messy, wet with their shared ownership.

It glints in the firelight, holy and filthy all at once.

“It’s yours now,” Vesemir says quietly, standing again. “He’s ours now.” And Jaskier smiles.

Chapter Text

Kaer Morhen has never felt so alive.

Not with just the sound of swordplay or the crackling hearth but with soft moans echoing down the corridor, the familiar slick of skin on skin, and the gentle rhythm of a bard’s breathless begging echoing from deep within the old stone walls.

Jaskier isn’t caged for pleasure anymore, he’s kept there. Cherished. And he loves it.

This morning, he woke with Geralt wrapped around him, nose tucked into his curls, arm slung heavy across his chest. The cage was warm against his skin, nestled under the weight of the blankets and Geralt’s bare thigh. He hadn’t even realized he was grinding until Geralt gave a sleepy grunt and pushed him down into the mattress, muttering, “You’ll wake the others.”

Jaskier giggled. “Is that…a bad thing?”

It was Eskel who’d stirred next, stepping out of his room shirtless, blinking at the light, only to find Jaskier naked and on his knees beside the fire, begging for something, anything. Geralt had already slicked his fingers, casually fingering him open while sipping tea.

“I swear,” Eskel muttered, smirking, “this place gets filthier every day.”

“Join in,” Geralt said. “Or don’t. He’s not stopping either way.”

And so Eskel did. Slow, gentle, giving. Letting Jaskier press kisses along the shaft before sliding him deep. Jaskier took him beautifully, down to the base. Not a gag in sight. Just that soft gulp and then hums of bliss, like the world made sense around a Witcher’s cock.

He came down Jaskier’s throat while Geralt rubbed a hand over his back, watching with quiet pride.

Later, Jaskier sat in Geralt’s lap while Vesemir combed through some old records, just idly holding the bard, petting his hair. No rutting, no fucking. Just warmth. Lambert passed through once, rolled his eyes, and tossed a rag at Geralt. “He’s leaking.”

“He’s always leaking,” Geralt said without even blinking.

That was true.

But today, it’s just begun. He hasn’t even begged properly yet. He’s content for now, nestled between them, dripping slowly into his own thighs. But there’s a glint in his eye. That familiar ache.

It was supposed to be a simple walk. A breath of cold mountain air, a moment to stretch his legs. But the second Jaskier stepped into the courtyard and saw them, his Witchers, three of them shirtless despite the snow, sweat glistening on muscle as they sparred in sync, something short circuited in his mind.

Steel met steel in a flurry of movement, breath clouding in the air, grunts echoing against the high stone walls. Eskel’s thick back flexed as he dodged a blow. Lambert’s wild hair whipped with each swing. Geralt…gods, Geralt, was a wall of controlled power, his chest rising, scarred arms gleaming, legs planted like a monument to strength itself.

Jaskier didn’t mean to whimper. Truly, he didn’t but he did. Loudly. And then he presented. On his hands and knees, panting. “Oh…fuck…I’m…sorry, I just…look at you!”

Lambert was the first to notice. He blinked, lowered his sword, and burst into a laugh. “What, did the wind blow up your skirt, bard?” Geralt turned next, expression darkening with hunger the second he saw the flush on Jaskier’s cheeks, the tremble in his thighs. “Get inside.”

“But…”

“Now.”

Jaskier darted like a scolded puppy, leaking all the way. And within moments, the three Witchers were storming in after him, snow melting off their boots as heat overtook the keep once more.

Inside, clothes flew. Eskel pressed Jaskier to the table. Geralt gathered the oil. Lambert, predictably, mocked him into a moan within seconds.

“Fucking hell,” he said, eyeing the mess in Jaskier’s cage. “You’re like a dripping candle, what even is this now, pre-cum or personality?”

“It’s yours,” Jaskier gasped, writhing, “all yours.”

They didn’t even argue. They didn’t need to. Geralt sank into his mouth while Lambert fingered him open. Eskel stood behind, letting the bard press back against his stomach like a heat seeking creature. Jaskier had gone cock dumb again. Melting, panting, aching for more.
The keep shook with the force of it. Moans, growls, and soft spoken encouragement filled every stone crevice.

They thought it was a fluke. An overexcited bard high on winter and Witchers but then it kept happening.

Every day.

Morning, noon, and night, Jaskier begged for them. Hands roaming, lips parted, cocklet pulsing behind the cage, his whole body language screaming use me. He was still caged. Still untouched. Still insatiable.

Geralt came down to breakfast bleary eyed and stretch marked with claw scrapes across his back. Lambert walked like he'd pulled a muscle in his hips. Eskel’s shoulders visibly sagged any time Jaskier sauntered into the room all bright eyed and glowing and leaking.

“You’re sure he’s not enchanted?” Eskel asked, somewhere between impressed and exhausted.

“He is enchanted,” Vesemir muttered behind his tea. “By the three of you. And himself.”

It was Vesemir who found Jaskier first that evening, curled up near the fire, humming to himself, rubbing slow circles on his belly. His skin was flushed, still glistening slightly, and the cage gleamed gold against the firelight. There was so much Witcher seed dripping out of him he looked practically glazed.

“You need sleep,” Vesemir said gently, approaching.

Jaskier turned, dreamy. “No, I need you.”

The old Witcher chuckled, crouching beside him. “Do you even know what you’re asking?”

“Yes.” His voice was soft but sure. “I need all of you. Not just for fucking, though gods, that part is delicious, but all of you. Even the gruff, terrifying, unfairly dignified one who looks at me like I’m a curious little creature.”

Vesemir’s face softened. He reached out, brushing a hand down Jaskier’s flushed cheek, then paused, looking him over.

“You’ve been taking all of this. Every day. And still singing?”

“And dancing,” Jaskier grinned, rocking a little. “I think it’s the cage, and the love.”

Vesemir gave a rare, small smile. “Foolish boy. You’re ours now, aren’t you?”

Jaskier beamed. “Yes, sir.”

Later, when the others returned, it was to find Jaskier on Vesemir’s lap, curled up like a spoiled kitten, being slowly, carefully fucked while the older Witcher fed him honeyed bread and stroked his curls. It was less a fuck and more a lesson in being cherished, and the others watched quietly for a while, letting the moment unfold.

None of them said it aloud, but it settled between them. They belonged to him now as much as he belonged to them.

Half of winter had passed, and still Jaskier’s appetite hadn’t dulled. They had tried everything, changing positions, rotating who had him, doubling up, stretching him wide, filling him until he moaned just from the pressure. They tried withholding. That only made him needier, more eager. Tried spoiling him. That made him purr and present. Nothing slowed him down.

He woke that morning already leaking through his cage, stretching luxuriously under the furs with a whimper and a soft, “Please?” He was always polite about it, sweet even in his desperation.

And they loved him for it.

That day, he spent hours in bed, shifting from lap to lap, cocklet twitching helplessly behind the medallion cage, his hole red and glistening and dripping. Geralt came first then twice, gripping Jaskier’s hips and gritting out a growl as his cum filled him again. Eskel took him in his arms like a dance partner, murmuring praises as he spilled deep inside. Lambert barely said a word but fucked like a man possessed, balls slapping, voice gone rough as he emptied himself inside with a grunt.

By the time Vesemir climbed into bed, Jaskier’s belly was visibly swollen, stretched tight and full, and still he rocked his hips back with a little smile and a needy, “Please...” Vesemir didn’t rush. He held Jaskier as if he might come undone, guided him slowly down until the last Witcher was buried deep, and whispered in his ear, “Greedy little thing. You’re glowing.”

“I like how it feels,” Jaskier breathed. “Like I’m filled with love.”

They should have been tired. They were tired. But every time Jaskier kissed one of them, praised them, begged for more, they softened again. Melted again. And filled him, again.

By evening, he was limp in Geralt’s arms, covered in kisses and warmth, cage still firmly in place. His belly was round, visibly sloshing when he moved, and he moaned softly with every shift but his smile never faded.

“I love you all so much,” he murmured as they settled in around him, one Witcher at each side, forming a fortress of muscle and love. “I love being yours.”

“You always were,” Geralt whispered, pulling him tighter. And in the soft dark of Kaer Morhen, with his body full and his heart fuller, Jaskier slept.

And it continued.

Day after day, week after week, the rhythm of their winter changed. The snow thickened, the winds howled, and still Jaskier asked, sweetly, hungrily, lovingly. And the Witchers gave. Again and again and again.

But even they had limits.

By the fifth week, even Lambert, insatiable, relentless Lambert, had to take breaks, leaning against stone walls panting, cheeks flushed as he muttered, “He’s gonna kill us, that bard.”

Eskel had started bringing water to bed just to keep from passing out. Geralt needed to sit down after round six, which was unheard of.

And Vesemir, stoic, steady Vesemir, was beginning to say “maybe later,” though he never meant it for long.

Through it all, Jaskier only smiled. Wide, blissful, glowing. He woke each morning with his belly round, sloshing faintly when he moved, hips wiggling under furs as he murmured, “I’m ready.”

His cocklet, tiny, trembling behind the silver medallion cage, never stirred anymore. It couldn’t. But his body was alive with pleasure. He didn’t need to be touched to leak. He didn’t need to be stroked to want. Just being near them, wrapped in their scent, between their thighs, filled over and over and over, that was enough.

His clit was useless. His hole was holy.

And he was happier than he had ever been in his life.

Chapter Text

Snow howled around the stone walls of Kaer Morhen, but inside the fire roared and Jaskier glowed, literally and figuratively.

He was curled in Geralt’s lap like some spoiled thing, all flushed skin, messy hair, and that permanent dazed smile that had been on his face for the past week. His belly was full again, warm and heavy with Witcher cum, and yet still he wriggled softly against Geralt’s chest like he wanted more.

“I don’t know how he’s still walking,” Eskel murmured, arms crossed as he leaned against the hearth.

“I don’t know how I’m still walking,” Lambert muttered beside him, scowling. “He came nine times yesterday,” Geralt said quietly, one hand stroking through Jaskier’s sweat-damp curls. “And not once from touching his cock.”

“He can’t touch his cock,” Lambert reminded, grinning now. “It’s half a fucking inch. You’d need tweezers and a prayer.”

That got a soft breathy laugh from Jaskier, who wasn’t asleep after all. “It’s not for touching,” he mumbled, eyes still closed. “It’s for looking at. Admiring. Worshipping.”

The Witchers all groaned and chuckled.

“Still,” Eskel said, voice more serious now, “he hasn’t eaten properly in days, barely sleeps. Not even sore.”

“Not even sore,” Geralt echoed. His hand tightened ever so slightly on Jaskier’s waist. The bard was always warm now. Always glowing. It didn’t feel wrong exactly, it felt perfect. But maybe too perfect.

Vesemir finally looked up from where he was oiling a blade in the corner. “You’re right to be cautious.”

Jaskier sighed happily against Geralt’s chest. “If you’re all talking about me, I vote we solve it the normal way,” he murmured. “Call Yennefer.”

“Of course you want to bring her here,” Lambert muttered.

“She’s smarter than all of you combined,” Jaskier said dreamily. “And maybe she can make me leak more.”

Geralt pressed a kiss to his temple but didn’t argue. He looked at Vesemir. “Will you call her?”

Vesemir nodded slowly. “I will.”

And for the first time since winter fell, something quiet and heavy settled between the four Witchers. Their bard was glowing, beautiful, and blissed out beyond anything human. But now they needed to know why.

Yennefer arrived by portal as the wind howled just before dawn.

Wrapped in violet furs, hair twisted up like a crown, she stepped through the swirling portal with a raised brow and absolutely no surprise at the sight before her, four battle hardened Witchers and one blissed out bard curled up between them with a belly full of cum.

“Well,” she said, adjusting a glove. “You weren’t exaggerating.”

“Yen!” Jaskier chirped, too perky for the hour, too flushed to be cold, and absolutely glowing. “You came!”

“I always do,” she said with a smirk. “Apparently so do you. Repeatedly. Daily. By the bucketload, according to Eskel’s letter.”

“I did not say bucketload.”

“You implied it,” Vesemir offered from behind a mug of tea.

Yennefer crossed to the fireplace and held her gloved hands to the flames. Her eyes never left Jaskier.

“Tell me, bard,” she said at last, “what do you feel?”

Jaskier looked up from Geralt’s lap, hair mussed, chest heaving with every excited breath. “Hungry,” he said honestly. “Not for food. For them.”

Yennefer’s gaze flicked between them, Lambert’s slight flush, Eskel’s averted eyes, Vesemir’s contemplative expression. And Geralt, of course, with his arm possessively wrapped around his bard.

She stepped closer and reached a hand toward Jaskier. “May I?”

Jaskier nodded at once. “Yes. Please.”

Her hand hovered briefly over his chest and her brows arched. “Well well.”

“What?” Geralt’s tone was wary.

“His aura’s shifting,” she murmured. “It’s not just sexual. It’s magical. He’s absorbing something from you.”

“Not a curse?” Vesemir asked.

“No. It’s not corruption.” She looked between them again. “It’s inheritance.”

“Inheritance?” Eskel echoed.

Yennefer crouched before Jaskier, tilting his chin up gently. “You’re becoming something between what you were and what they are. A kind of second generation Witcher. Not in strength, not in mutation, but in longevity, connection. Magic.”
Jaskier blinked at her. “So…I’ll live as long as they do?”

“If this continues, yes. You’ve bonded so deeply, and frequently, that your body is adapting. Evolving.”

“Wait…” Lambert looked half shocked, half smug. “You mean our cocks broke him into a Witcher?”

Yennefer sighed. “That is not how I would phrase it.”

But Jaskier was already moaning softly, burying his face in Geralt’s chest. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.” Geralt’s arms wrapped tighter around him. He looked up at Yennefer. “Will it hurt him?”

Yennefer’s face softened. “No. He’s thriving. Radiating with magic. This isn’t some accident, Geralt. This is love, lust, and life force fusing into something new.” She stood, brushing off her coat. “You should be proud. You’ve made a bard into something none of us have seen before.”

Vesemir gave a low chuckle. “A bard who outlasted four Witchers.”

Yennefer turned, already stepping toward the portal. “Oh, and Jaskier?”

“Yes?” he asked breathlessly. “Try to pace yourself. I won’t always be on call to explain your magical cum addictions.”

The portal closed behind her with a flick of her wrist. And in the stillness of the keep, Jaskier just whispered, “You heard her. I’m thriving.”

The fire crackled quietly in the hearth, and the snow fell soft and steady outside the ancient stones of Kaer Morhen. It had been a day since Yennefer's visit, and nothing had slowed down. If anything, it had gotten worse. Or better, depending on your perspective.

Jaskier was sprawled on the bear rug again, flushed and radiant, his belly visibly distended from the sheer volume of what had been poured into him over the last several days. Yet his eyes were wild with hunger, his voice breathy with need.

Eskel groaned from the edge of the mattress, clearly recovering from his latest attempt. “He’s…how the fuck is he still going?”

“Magic,” Vesemir said dryly, toweling off his chest. “Yennefer said it. He’s absorbing it.”

“I think he’s just horny bastard.” Lambert muttered, rubbing his jaw. “All day. Every day. Cocksleeve with a smile.”

“Cocksleeve you fell in love with.” Geralt grunted as he pulled Jaskier into his arms and cradled him gently, pressing his lips to his sweaty temple. “My bard.”

“I’m everyone’s bard now,” Jaskier giggled, kissing his jaw. Geralt looked down at him. “No. You belong to us. But you’re mine.” Jaskier flushed so brightly it could’ve lit the room. “I…I am. I am yours. Forever. And you…oh gods, Geralt…”

He kissed him then, hard and slow, as Eskel and Lambert lay nearby in various states of awe and affection. Vesemir watched from a chair, a rare, small smile on his face as he looked at the beautiful creature wrapped in their lives.

“I’ve never loved anyone like this.” Jaskier whispered against Geralt’s lips, half broken with truth. “I thought I was just a song and a smile. I didn’t think I could be like this.”

“You’re more.” Geralt murmured, his voice gruff with feeling. “More than I ever hoped for.”

“I want to carry you in me forever,” Jaskier whispered, moving his hips just enough to remind Geralt how full he still was. Geralt groaned softly, forehead to forehead. “You do. You already do.”

Lambert made a half-hearted gagging noise from the bed. “Gods, I hate how sweet you two are when you’re this filthy.”

“Jealous?” Eskel asked with a grin. Jaskier, thoroughly spoiled and absolutely basking in the attention, just turned his head and giggled. “He is. And that’s alright. Because I love you all. So much.” He looked around the room, at each of them in turn. “You’ve changed me. Made me better. Stronger. Yours.”

There were no protests this time. No jokes. Just four Witchers staring down at the bard who had somehow become the heart of their home.

Chapter Text

Kaer Morhen had known battle. Blood. Beasts. Brothers lost and winters long. But it had never known this.

The great hall echoed not with sword strikes, but the deep, wet sound of another orgasm. Somewhere under the furs, a Witcher groaned.

Another collapsed beside him, panting. Jaskier, radiant, flushed with sweat and filled with “Round six,” Lambert muttered, flat on his back.

“Still got more in you?” He asked any Witcher who’d listen.

“He’s glowing,” Eskel said, blinking. “Actually glowing.” Jaskier crawled over to him on shaky limbs, belly rounded with the evidence of their worship. Eske was sprawled on the floor and panting, Jaskier got on top of him and started riding as Eskel whimpered, but didn’t refuse, already out of breath, he’d cum in the bard five times already and it wasn’t even noon yet.

Geralt, the only one still half upright, looked over from where he’d been bracing himself against a table. His chest rose and fell, sweat gleaming on his chest, his cock still half hard despite having spent himself again and again.

“So…full….please…” Jaskier whispered, wringing out another orgasm out of Eskel, he looked like he was seeing stars. If they had to die of exhaustion to keep their bard alive longer they would. Vesemir walked in once, only to turn back out with a low, gruff. “Don’t get up.

Clearly, you’ve got your hands full.”

That night, Jaskier curled up in the tangle of their exhausted limbs. His caged clit pressed gently into a cooling pool of Witcher spend. His belly felt warm, and full. He looked at them. His Witchers. His family. And he smiled like a man who had everything.

The keep was quieter now. The storm outside was a white wall, thick and soft, muffling the world. But inside, it was all heat. Firelight.

Blankets. Low groans. Stifled laughter. And a bard, bare assed, flushed and glowing with something more than just the endless come filling his belly.

“Geralt…Geralt…I can’t…I’m so full…”

“You can” came the growl against his neck. “You’re made for this.”

And he was. Fuck, he was. Ever since Yennefer’s visit, since that quiet pronouncement, he’s one of you now, the Witchers had let themselves go. No more hesitation. No more restraint. Just joy. Joy and body heat and so much come.

Jaskier’s hips were bouncing in Eskel’s lap, Lambert kneeling behind to tug and roll his nipples in those thick, calloused fingers, while Geralt stood before him, hand tangled in his hair as he fed him his cum.

“Look at you,” Vesemir murmured from the chair near the hearth, stroking himself slowly, reverently. “Our little miracle. Stuffed and smiling. Can’t get enough, can you?”

Jaskier let out a whimper, not even bothering to pull off Geralt’s cock to answer. But the way he moaned, the way he ground down on Eskel’s cock like it was the only thing keeping him alive, that was answer enough.

“Greedy thing.” Geralt muttered. “You’ll never be empty again.”
The medallion cage, that half inch gleaming symbol of everything they were, was still locked snug around what was once a cock and now just his adorable, permanently soft clitty. He came untouched when Geralt said his name. He leaked the second Lambert kissed his temple.

Later, when they were sprawled on pelts, tangled and twitching in the afterglow, Lambert actually smiled. Like, really smiled. “So this is what it feels like.”

“What?” Jaskier asked, voice wrecked, lips swollen from sucking cock all night.

“To not be scared. To love someone. And not worry you’ll lose ‘em.”

Geralt just pressed his lips to Jaskier’s cheek. “You’re stuck with us, bard.”

Jaskier yawned and tucked himself between them, cocklet caged, hole leaking, belly rounded, satisfied. “Good. I like it here.”

Vesemir draped a blanket over the pile of limbs and whispered. “Rest now, little thing. Tomorrow we fuck again.”

And the keep, for once, felt like home.

The next day they cleared space on the wide fur rug in front of the hearth. Someone brought water. Someone else laid down cushions to prop him up. Jaskier was stripped down to nothing but his glistening cage, proudly twitching, pathetically tiny and soaked.

Geralt took his spot behind him. Eskel to the side. Lambert cracked his knuckles and muttered something about “real fucking science.”

Vesemir sighed and joined in as well.

Geralt gave the command “Round one. Begin.”

Jaskier spread his legs and moaned, “Yes…oh fuck just..do it.” Jaskier barely made it through the first round without going limp from bliss.

Geralt was the first, of course, he always was, now. Massive, deliberate, endless. He pumped Jaskier full with slow, focused thrusts, one broad hand braced against the bard’s belly, watching it round even further with every rope of seed he poured in.

“One,” he growled, low and warm, before slipping out and giving Jaskier’s cheek a firm slap. “Next.”

Lambert was already behind him before Jaskier could whimper properly. He didn’t need prep anymore, his hole was loose, twitching, greedy. It opened around Lambert’s girth with a slick, wet sound that made Eskel groan behind his teeth.

“Number two, coming up,” Lambert muttered, grabbing the bard’s hips with rough affection. “We should mark this on the wall or something.”

Jaskier whimpered, biting his arm to muffle the scream of delight. “Don’t muffle it,” Lambert hissed, pulling his arm away and pressing a hand to the bard’s throat instead. “Be proud of what that broken clitty’s earned you.”

“Oh fuck.” Jaskier choked, clenching helplessly around him, “I am…I am, gods, I’m yours…”

Lambert spilled with a strangled moan, hips jerking. “That’s two.”

Eskel followed. Then Vessemir. Then Geralt and Lambert took him together, filling his belly more. It was Eskel's turn again. He didn’t say much, just cupped Jaskier’s cheek gently and pushed in so deep that the bard’s entire body arched up. His belly was visibly pulsing by now, sloshing with the pressure. And still, he took every inch.

“You’re doing so well,” Eskel whispered into his ear. “Can you hold more?”

“Nnghh..” Jaskier gasped, dizzy and glowing, “fill me…please…uughh…I…..want…nnnggh”

Eskel came deep and slow, breathing ragged against the bard’s shoulder. “Seven.”

Then Vesemir stood again, Jaskier turned his head, eyes wide, mouth slack and inviting.

“All training is canceled, this winter all we do is fill up our pup,” the old wolf said gruffly. Jaskier nodded like his neck was loose and floppy, blinking hard. “Yes…yes…nggh…please…Vesemir…please…”

Geralt moved beside them, gently stroking Jaskier’s hair back from his damp, flushed face. “We’ll stop when you say so, bard.”

“Don’t…you dare,” Jaskier slurred, so blissed out it was practically a prayer. “Don’t stop till I’m leaking from my ears…”

Vesemir stepped behind him. He was careful. Brutal. Reverent. Every push felt like an offering. Every rut a claim. He filled Jaskier with a low groan that rolled through the room like thunder. “Eight.”

The room went quiet for a moment. Jaskier’s stomach was distended, his entire body slick and flushed and dripping from every hole. He looked absolutely wrecked.

The Witchers groaned in unison. And so began round two, three four.

Day after day, they ate, they fucked, they slept, they fucked. There was a sound Jaskier made when his belly was too full to slosh anymore. Not a moan. Not a gasp. Something higher, tight and wet in the throat, like his whole body was trying to sing through the pressure building inside him.

The day hadn’t started yet and yet Geralt had gotten to work already, rutting into his bard in their bed, into his loose, flushed hole with such force that cum had leaked out past his cock even while he was still inside. He was moaning like a man possessed. “That’s ten,” Geralt growled, kissing his shoulder, pulling out slowly. “Let’s see if anyone tops that before breakfast.”

Lambert had been laughing, grinning when it was his turn. “Still hungry?” he’d said, jerking off furiously next to the bard. “Don’t worry, pretty thing. I’ll top you off.”

“Please…” Jaskier had sobbed, absolutely giddy. “I wanna…be full of you all..all the time…” They pushed their Witcher stamina as far as they could and then went further, even his meals were all cum now.

Lambert had huffed as he came in Jaskier’s porridge yet again as another Witcher lined up to fill the bowl once Jaskier was done with this. “Still begging?” Lambert said smugly as Jaskier stuffed his face full of his cum.

Eskel would bend him over and hold him close, whispering soft praises into his ear as he filled him again, and again and again till he collapsed.

Vesemir…Vesemir didn’t say a word most of the time. Just fucked him until the bard could barely breathe, let alone beg.

“Three.” Eskel moaned as he came into Jaskier’s dinner yet again. But Jaskier only smiled. Big, blissed-out, eyes glassy.

“Uggh..I…” he slurred, hiccuping through his next bite. “I…I love it, I love it…”

His belly was so full now they had to hold it with one hand while fucking him, like it needed support. He jiggled when he moved, dripped when he breathed.

Still, he spread his legs again. Still, he lifted his ass like an offering.

“How full,” Lambert said slowly, stroking his cock as he stared at the mess leaking down Jaskier’s thighs, “is too full?”

Jaskier looked over his shoulder, barely able to form words. “I’ll tell you when I find out.” Geralt barked out, he cracked his neck. “We’d better keep going.” He said, breathing heavy.

Jaskier was on his back now, thighs trembling, belly visibly sloshing with the weight of what had to be dozens of loads packed inside him. His tiny medallion cage was soaked, glistening, forgotten amid the flood dripping from his overstretched hole.

The Witchers were a mess. Hair wild, flushed, panting. Every muscle taut with exertion. But none of them, not one, had pulled away.

Lambert was stumbling over to Jaskier. “Fuck it. Just one more,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow as he lined up again.

Geralt was still breathing hard, standing above them with a hand braced against the wall. “You’ve already said that four times.”

“And I meant it every time,” Lambert growled, thrusting in with a desperate grunt. Jaskier let out a shriek of bliss, head tipping back, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Nngggghh…mine…” He didn’t even have the breath to beg anymore, the Witchers were obsessed with filling him up, all they did was breed their bard now.

Eskel was behind Geralt, putting on a cock ring to get hard again, watching Jaskier’s cum filled belly bounce with every thrust. “You said we were testing his limits, remember?”

Vesemir snorted, his cock already twitching back to life. “I found an old potion that might help us make more fluids for our pup.” He said, handing them out to them all.

The next day, Jaskier was whimpering, arms weakly reaching out to any of them. “Y..you said…wanted to see..how much your bard could take…please…don’t stop…need to be filled…overflowing…I want it to spill out every time I walk…”

“You’re perfect,” Geralt said, voice low and rough. “You’re ours.” Lining himself up again to fill his bard, again.

And the bard cried out, not in pain, but in the kind of overstimulated joy that only came from being so full of love, of cock, of cum, he could barely remember where one ended and the other began.

The keep echoed with the sound of bodies moving, groans rising, slapping skin, choked off moans.

Round after round. Week after week. No longer even an indulgence. Just worship. Devotion. Claim.

By the time the last drops of seed were squeezed into him, Geralt’s, Lambert’s, Eskel’s, Vesemir’s, Jaskier had long since gone limp with pleasure, smiling in his sleep, his cum heavy belly rising and falling slowly with every breath, bulging out obscenely all the time now.

A bard well used. A family completed.