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Geralt was livid. Plain and simple. Fuming with agitation—although he'd gotten up even earlier than intended and made it to his spot in record time—this greeted him upon arrival. A simp. Grumpiness is deep in Geralt's bones, probably written into the very fabric of his being. He was in a perpetual state of grumpiness. The appearance of this simp did not bode well for the day.

The man stood there in contemplation for all of thirty seconds before he decided that it was the simp that would have to go. Not him. This was his spot. Everyone else in the park understood this. The simp would have to learn.

It was with this conviction that he took action. With no remorse, he unscrewed the cap to his metal bottle (because he was responsible and plastic was far too loud when it crinkled) he'd brought with him, holding it resolutely over the simp's head, and promptly tilting it. Water doused the simp's head in moments, and the man woke like he was coming out of an exorcism.

Geralt was glad he put ice in the bottle this morning. The metal bottle held a considerable amount, something between 45 and 65 ounces, but Geralt didn't waste too much of it on the idiot that had fallen asleep on his favorite park bench.

"Cockgobbler!" Said the simp. Wiping his face with the back of his sleeve, he squinted toward Geralt, the chestnut fringe sticking to his forehead as his head tilted back. "Oh."

This man was a little young to be sleeping on park benches. But Geralt has seen stranger and more heartbreaking sights.

"Oh." Geralt repeated, devoid of humor.

"There are easier ways to get someone to wake up, you know." The simp was mumbling.

It made him difficult to understand. Why was he speaking quietly? At the same volume a child would use when they're caught in a lie, God, Geralt hated mumbling. Just speak up.

"Move." He said.

To his credit, the simp looked almost as grumpy as Geralt on a good day when he scowled up at him. His clothes were nice—a well-fitted hoodie with the elegant design of a tree splayed on the front of it, pants that looked tight enough to have a vice grip on his balls—this was a spoiled child. All signs pointed to; ignore the kid and go about his day.

Thankfully, the simp doesn't argue. He collected himself, huffing once he stood and puffing out his chest as if that proved something somehow. Then he brushed passed, his breath hitching as his shoulder connected with Geralt's.

He was like an injured bird.

Geralt watched him stomp away with the same fascination that he watched the sun rise.

The simp returned four days later. He met the simp with the same greeting as before. The simp sputtered awake, glared at him, huffed something about rudeness (the nerve) and stomped away. The tailored hoodies came in a variety of colors, and so did the pants, but they were all tight enough to accent the man's lower half to an absurd degree.

Each time, Geralt is equally livid as the first time he'd discovered him in his spot.

Today there is a deep ache in his head, a result of too many drinks the night before, and he doesn't have the patience to deal with this idiot. But something is different this time-the simp is ready for him when he unscrews the cap to his bottle.

He jolted up suddenly, with his elbows bent and his palms flat like he was about to karate chop Geralt into submission. It's such a surprise that Geralt laughs, because what the hell?

"All right, you brute. That's enough of that. Can't you just say 'hey Jaskier, could you move?' It's easy!" He said this with such conviction that Geralt had to roll his eyes.

"Hey Jaskier," Geralt monotones, "Could you move your stupid ass out of my spot?"

Jaskier. What an odd name for a child. Then again, his name was Geralt, so he didn't have room to judge.

Jaskier preened under the victory, regardless of how small it was. "Sure, uh, whatever your name is."

"Great." He said without offering his name.

"You're kind of an asshole, aren't you?"

"There's no 'kind of about it'."

"Ugh. I hate men like you." Jaskier intoned, shuffling to get off the bench. "You're all such a bore."

Perhaps it's the challenge in his voice or the utter certainty in it, Geralt isn't sure. Something about the idiot's tone had stirred something beyond the deep-set grumpiness. Something he'd almost forgotten during his self isolation. It must be the challenge, because he can't think of any other reason to seize Jaskier by the collar and drag him along behind him.

To his credit, Jaskier is quick to get his feet under him, padding along easily. He doesn't shy from Geralt's grip or try to break free; he simply goes along with it.

The submissiveness of it has Geralt growling under his breath. Public restrooms are not Geralt's first choice when he fucks someone, but when the person he was about to fuck lived outside (he wasn't certain but...all signs pointed to a wayward soul), there really weren't many options. He would not bring the man to his home. Partly for his own privacy, but mostly because he couldn't stand to wait that long.


Jaskier groaned in satisfaction as Geralt manhandled him into the first open stall of the restroom, his body relaxed and his pupils blown with arousal. The hand on his hood dragged him in forward, the body attached to it crowding into the narrow stall behind him with urgency. Geralt wasted no time, relinquishing his hold on the hood to run his hand down the other man's spine, fingers dipping under the fabric to find the top of his jeans.

A sweet, needy little noise escaped Jaskier as Geralt reached around him, pulling the zipper of his pants down and slipping a hand down his pants in record time. There was very little communication during this process, but once Geralt got a hand on Jaskier's already hard cock, they both exhaled harshly.

Jaskier didn't need to be prompted to widen his stance after Geralt yanked his pants down and over his ass. His feet shuffled and his legs spread easily-making room for the man behind him. With a grunt, Geralt leaned forward, his mouth falling on Jaskier's neck roughly. The touch of tongue had the other man whimpering into his hands—which were the only things keeping his face from being slammed into the stall wall when Geralt suddenly pulled his hips back.

He felt Geralt shuffling again, the sound of his zipper sent a nervous shudder through him. "Wait! I don't have any lube-"

Geralt silenced him by fisting his hair and pulling his head back far enough to press his lips to the soft spot just in front of Jaskier's ear. It had him reeling.

"Relax." Geralt hissed, the sound of a small click a temporary distraction.

Then he felt teeth raking along the shell of that same ear and could only whimper in response. The day was unravelling at the seams, spiralling out of control like a car hydroplaning on a rainy day.

Jaskier was going to suggest, against his sense of personal hygiene, that Geralt use spit, but before he could even form a coherent thought, the fat head of Geralt's cock was pressing into him.


A hot rush of adrenaline pumped through him. This was impulsive and thoughtless and so against anything like Geralt had done in the past year. But the needy sounds the man in front of him was making made it impossible for rational thought. It was all he could do to keep from groaning too loudly as he pressed forward.

His hips rolled of their own accord, his muscle memory kicking in. Geralt had fucked before. He'd fucked in a variety of places with varying degrees of roughness, but this-this was something heady. Something primal. Something ruled by instinct.

The walls of the stall shook against the strain of two bodies colliding against each other. The sounds of sex, soft moans followed by strained grunts, hips slapping against the supple curve of Jaskier's ass. It was a symphony. Orchestrated by two souls strung together by fate. Or some form of it.

Geralt didn't spend too much time thinking. He couldn't. He was getting lost in the waves of pleasure crashing over him. His knuckles were turning white with the ferocity that he gripped Jaskier's hips. The man was shaking against him, keening into his hands over and over again.

They didn't talk.

But Geralt could feel the way Jaskier's body gripped him, like he was made to take Geralt's cock. It was a dangerous satisfaction that seized him at that thought.

Jaskier twisted toward him, his hips desperately trying to meet each of Geralt's thrusts as he cried out. His eyes locked onto Geralt's and another fissure of heat raced down his spine. He couldn't reach Geralt like this, with the man pounding into him with such force that it literally rocked the walls around them.

The cock inside him rammed into his prostate, and Jaskier nearly sobbed from the burst of pleasure it sent through him. "There. Oh fuck, yes, keep hitting that spot!"

Per Jaskier's request, Geralt continued hammering away, bending his knees slightly to repeat the angle with ease. They went on like this for what felt like hours. Geralt's teeth sink into his neck, his brutal pace unrelenting.

It didn't take long for a heat to coil in his belly. He was getting hot under the strain of fucking someone so furiously, but Geralt didn't adjust his pace. He couldn't. The speed and roughness of it was part of the thrill of spontaneously fucking someone in a public reached around Jaskier, fisting his cock and pumping him with the same hurried pace as his thrusts.

Jaskier was an absolute wreck.

"If you don't shut up, someone will walk in here and see how pretty you look on my cock." Geralt said into his ear.

It was sinful and Jaskier felt like he was getting bullied, but he loved the implication all the same. To keep from crying out, he pressed his mouth into the crook of his elbow; the fabric bunched up there, helping to muffle the new string of moans.

When Geralt came, it was sudden and left his hips stuttering. He emptied himself, and honestly, it was pretty inconsiderate. He hadn't used a condom. This was impulsive and beyond stupid. So unlike him. Perhaps that's why he pulled the packet of pocket Kleenex from his jacket and pressed it into the large pocket in the front of Jaskier's hoodie.

"Next time I catch you in my spot I won't be so gentle." He teased.

Jaskier shuddered, because the hand on his cock hadn't stopped moving. Geralt stroked him until he felt the man whimpering out his release. With a hand full of cum, he bit into the soft neck in front of him again, hard enough to bruise. He didn't let up until the cum in his hand cooled, and he was certain that the mark he left would last for at least a few days.

Jaskier didn't seem to mind.

"Now clean yourself up and go home."

It wasn't a suggestion.

"Yes, sir. Right away."

"Don't let me catch you again." He repeated, for emphasis, as he tucked himself back into his pants.

Jaskier grinned at him devilishly. "Or what?"

"I'll punish you."