#and this is how geralt going off about higher vamps sounded. to me

[not-your-bro]

damien: all vampires are brainless beasts

geralt: ACTUALLY, higher vampires are unique and smart and capable of so much love. you wouldn't understand.

damien:

damien: oh so you're fucking one. ok

[purplesauris]

Desperate Measures

Inspired by a prompt from @writinglizards  "Higher Vamp!Jask feeding on Geralt for like...Important and Unavoidable reasons." I have come back with more vampire!Jaskier (is anyone surprised?)

Read it on AO3 here!

“Surely you aren’t suggesting I stay back at camp?” Jaskier tilts his head to the side, appraising the witcher before him. Said witcher in question pauses in his prepwork, sighing heavily and capping the vial of Swallow he’d just brewed.

“Is that what you interpreted from ‘stay here’?” Geralt’s voice is dry, and he watches, unamused, as Jaskier makes a face at him and crosses his arms.

“Geralt, I am not some human you have to protect.”

“No, you’re an untrained higher vampire who I don’t want to babysit while trying to fight a leshen .” Jaskier gasps, affronted, and presses a hand over his heart as if the witcher has wounded him grievously. He sputters at a reply, irritated, and Geralt’s expression is cool as Jaskier tries to form some kind of argument. Geralt sighs heavily again, rubbing at his forehead and tilting his head back to look at the sun peeking through the trees. “You have to promise not to do anything stupid.”

Soft lips press to his neck then, and Geralt hums as Jaskier nuzzles him, grinning against his skin. “Swear on my life.”

“You’re immortal.”

“Swear on your life?” Jaskier tries again, and Geralt huffs, rolling his eyes and tilting his head down to kiss Jaskier’s forehead.

“It’s better, I guess.” Jaskier grins, and he slips away to get ready. Geralt isn’t sure what Jaskier has to do to get ready for a hunt, but Geralt doesn’t worry about it yet. He worries about his own prepwork- finishing the potions he’ll need, making sure his silver blade is sharp and covered in Relict oil. It’s going to be a hard fight no matter what, but the pay will be well worth it and he might actually have enough to go to the armorer in Velen after this. They’re camped as close to the supposed sighting as Geralt is comfortable with, and when he can’t stall anymore he stands, sliding his sword back into its sheath on his back. He smothers the fire, breathing in the scent of woodsmoke to ground him before he turns toward the forest.

There’s a soft noise from beside him, and he glances over just in time to see Jaskier hop down from a tree, clad in leather armor. The sight stops Geralt short, and his brows furrow in confusion. The leather hugs Jaskier’s form tight, bulked up around the most vital parts of him and thin at the joints to allow for movement. Jaskier catches him looking and spins in place, grinning.

“You like it?”

“When did you get it?” Geralt doesn’t want to admit just how much he likes Jaskier in armor, and he turns to begin walking again.

“Oh, maybe a decade ago? I figured that once I finally told you what I was you would be more agreeable to letting me tag along.”

“I’m not.” His reply is automatic, but Jaskier only chuckles, easily keeping pace as Geralt slinks further into the forest. Geralt listens to the soft creak of leather, but Jaskier’s armor appears to have been meticulously cared for and makes minimal sound. That’s good. “Tell me what you know of Leshens.”

“They don’t taste good.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s tone is sharp, and Jaskier huffs beside him, keeping his voice low as Geralt’s eyes track every broken leaf or odd footstep.

“They’re particularly formidable forest spirits who’s only objective in life is to kill, and kill quickly. They are capable of using roots, minor teleportation and control of wolves and crows to take down prey.”

Geralt hums in surprise, and Jaskier bumps their shoulders together. He sounds as if he were reading from a bestiary, and Geralt knows that’s because of Jaskier’s memory. Geralt can smell the pride radiating off of him, and he secretly nurtures the kernel of it in his chest. Jaskier has been studying- particularly the more dangerous foes, it seems. “What would I use against them?”

“Beside silver? Relict oil, Igni, and Yrden if desperate.”

“Good. Now hush. Hear them?” Geralt stops then, lingering a bit as Jaskier tilts his head and closes his eyes. He’s still for a moment before his head turns northeast, and Geralt’s lips twitch into a smile.

“Crows.”

“Where there’s crows, there’s an idol.”

“Lead on, love.” Jaskier’s footsteps are silent, and he hardly seems to be touching the ground as they move closer to the sound of wings and cawing. The first group of crows fly away in a flurry of wings, and Geralt hunts around a bit before shaking his head. Nothing. They sneak to two more flocks before Jaskier tilts his head, jerking his chin toward a thick tree.

There at the base of the tree is an assembly of branches, a staff almost, with a deer's skull firmly mounted atop it. Leaves have been carefully arranged around it, as if it were a mane, and Jaskier hmms quietly. He seems to admire the craftsmanship, and he takes a step closer to look. He doesn’t touch, thankfully, but the closer Jaskier leans to look the more Geralt’s skin crawls. He keeps careful watch of their surroundings, but the forest is eerily silent, as if holding its breath. “We have to destroy it to lure the leshen out.”

“Allow me, love.” Geralt draws his sword and downs Thunderbolt, rolling his wrist out and watching as Jaskier reaches forward. He crushes the skull between his hands with a dull crunch and rips the branches apart, tossing them wide. A low, mournful bellow shakes the branches around them, and Geralt’s nose is filled with the scent of blood and decaying leaves. He watches with bated breath as the leshen walks from behind a tree, then another, and then another, teleporting in a slow circle around the two of them. They watch each other, no one moving until the leshen raises a long, clawed finger and points straight at Jaskier. Geralt swears, but Jaskier laughs, the sound of wings rapidly blocking out the sound. Crows pour from the treetops, talons outstretched, but Jaskier is in front of him before he can breathe, arms outstretched.

“ GO .” The word vibrates with ancient, shimmering power, and the birds veer off in every direction around them, screeching. Jaskier glances back at him, nodding once sharply before taking off like a bullet through the trees. The leshen’s attention remains firmly on Jaskier’s fleeing form, crows batting between the two of them in a test of ancient wills. Geralt slips into the fray, slashing at the leshen with practiced, smooth strikes. He rolls away from a wide swing, rolling again when the ground shakes, roots unearthed and stretching toward him. The leshen seems to switch focus to an active participant, and the crows switch as well. Geralt can hear Jaskier call out to them, keeping their attention mostly diverted so that Geralt can prioritize the leshen.

The leshen battles with deadly efficiency, swiping with long claws and shaking the ground under Geralt’s feet. Geralt adjusts as best he can, but he hangs back when howls resound in the air. Having tired of Jaskier’s intervention with the crows the beast has called wolves, and Geralt spins and twirls out of the way of snapping jaws, dispatching each wolf that gets too close. The wolves do their job though, and Geralt snarls when jaws eventually latch onto his calf, tearing at the muscle. Geralt moves with the wolf, keeping his muscle mostly intact, and he swings his blade down blindly. The wolf lets go of him and Geralt downs a Swallow, ignoring the dampness that spreads through his pant leg.

Jaskier materializes from the treeline, breathing hard at the tang of Geralt’s blood in the air, and Geralt watches as Jaskier’s fingers curve into claws. They bite deep into the wood of the leshen’s body, tearing gouges from the bark and sending leaves flying. There isn’t blood really so much as sap, but the leshen dissolves into smoke, Jaskier chasing instinctively. Geralt’s calf has healed enough that he can limp after, favoring the one side. Jaskier circles the smoke the way a wolf circles a wounded deer, and Geralt yells a warning. A leshen injured enough is like cornered prey- viable to do anything to survive. Geralt leaps forward when he senses the leshen finally appear, sword plunging upward as the ground quakes under foot. He feels his blade scrape against the wooden core of the monster, scoring the heart, and he sends a wave of heat through his blade.

It’s a trick that Eskel had taught him- a way to push his signs into the runes inscribed down the length of his silver, and the leshen bursts in flames immediately. It brays and swings wildly, but Geralt pulls back and ducks, slashing at leg and watching as the spirit goes down, writhing in a ball of flame. Geralt doesn’t wait for the leshen to stop moving, severing the head with one mighty swing and watching as it rolls halfway over and settles, horns digging into the earth. He hears a pained wheeze to his left, and he looks over to see Jaskier in an odd position, half standing, half crouched, impaled on at least six different roots. They twist and burrow into his skin, punching right through the leather armor, and Geralt sheaths his sword without bothering to wipe it off.

“ Fuck . Don’t move.” Geralt circles Jaskier slowly, trying to find where to begin, but Jaskier is making these odd hiccupy gasps and Geralt’s heart leaps into his throat. “I have to cut them away.”

“No, just leave me-”

“Jaskier, shut the fuck up.” Jaskier’s jaw snaps shut and he glares at Geralt, bearing his teeth when the man gets close. Geralt does it back, hissing low in his throat and pressing his lips together when Jaskier falls into sullen silence. Jaskier squints at him, growling when Geralt begins cutting away at the roots. He focuses mostly on the ones that have looped back into Jaskier’s body, pulling each one away with a wet noise. Jaskier jerks and groans with each one that comes free, and Geralt tries to ignore the small chunks of Jaskier that come with some of the deeper roots.

“Geralt, either yank me off these right now or get the fuck out of the way-” Jaskier’s voice wheezes out of him, devoid of it’s usual musicality. Geralt can hear the same odd fluttering in Jaskier's voice, and he realizes Jaskier has at least one punctured lung. Geralt does as Jaskier asks, tucking his knife away and grabbing onto Jaskier with firm hands. He begins to mutter a count, Jaskier bracing for it, but Geralt hardly says two before yanking Jaskier up and off the roots. His body comes away with a wet squelch and Jaskier howls in pain, writhing in Geralt's grasp. Jaskier's hands come up to shove Geralt away on instinct, and he goes stumbling back at the force of it. Jaskier tumbles into the dirt, wheezing and snarling and back arching up off the ground.

Geralt approaches slowly, hands up and shoulders slumped to make himself seem smaller. Jaskier tracks him, pupils constricted to pinpoints, and Geralt goes down on his knees beside Jaskier. The ground around him is slick with blood, and Geralt has never seen Jaskier bleed so much. Holes riddle his abdomen and chest, and Geralt tries not to stare through Jaskier to the forest floor beneath him.

"What can I do?"

"Leave me." Jaskier's chest rises and falls in uneven, stuttered breaths, and Geralt shakes his head immediately.

"There has to be something -"

"Geralt, the only thing I am liable to do right now is rip your throat out and drink like a glutton to dull my pain. I will heal in a couple of hours, now leave ."

Geralt goes still at that and Jaskier thinks perhaps he's been a little too beastly, but Geralt sizes him up, eyes glowing in the light of the forest. Geralt fishes a vial from the small pack at his hip, downs it in one go, and begins to remove his armor. Jaskier watches in pained confusion, head swimming, as Geralt rolls his sleeves up and leans down over Jaskier.

"Will it help your healing?"

"Think seconds instead of hours. But I'll- I won't be able to stop."

"You will." Geralt smiles at Jaskier then, trusting and warm, and Jaskier feels supremely unworthy.

"Geralt-"

"You will. And I have ways to stop you if you don't." Geralt sits patiently as Jaskier thinks it over, eyes wary and afraid, but Geralt takes the bard's hand and squeezes lightly. Jaskier reaches up with a shaking hand, cupping the back of Geralt's neck and drawing him down. His touch is gentle, light, but Geralt moves with him without any resistance and Jaskier kisses him once.

"Thank you." Jaskier breathes, and Geralt opens his mouth to say something, but the only sound that comes out is a strangled moan as Jaskier sinks his teeth into his neck. Geralt can feel his pulse slamming through him, and he hopes that the white honey has had enough time to work or Jaskier is going to be in for a rough time. The first initial flash of pain melts away from him quickly, and Jaskier drinks greedily, shaking underneath him and hands gripping Geralt's ribs tight enough that he can feel them creak in protest. Geralt sags into Jaskier as he feeds, and maybe this wasn't the best thing to do in the middle of the forest, but he couldn't bear the thought of just leaving him here.

Geralt, despite the circumstances and rather shitty surroundings, is embarrassed to find himself rather aroused. He hadn't thought about it when he'd asked Jaskier to take from him, but Jaskier's fingers have slipped up and are tight in his hair and he keeps making these soft little sounds that goes straight to his groin. It doesn't help that Jaskier seems very, very skilled at what he does, and Geralt groans quietly. The noise seems to shake Jaskier, because he pulls back with a gasp, lips bloody and pupils blown wide. Geralt wants to say something about knowing that Jaskier could control himself, but he's being tossed onto his back like a sack of potatoes and Geralt's head spins at the sudden movement.

Geralt hears the buckles of armor coming undone, and he turns his head to watch as Jaskier rips off his ruined chestpiece. He leaves it in a heap by the leshen and moves with one fluid movement, swinging a leg over Geralt's hips and grinding against him. Geralt gasps at the sudden sensation, and his hands fly up to grab at Jaskier's hips as the man leans down, lapping at the blood on his neck and sealing the puncture wounds shut. Jaskier's hands are propped on either side of Geralt's head, and he rolls his hips in quick, fluid movements, panting and whining. Geralt presses his hips up, trying to give more friction, and he moans when Jaskier's hips bear down, pinning him into the dirt and grinding particularly hard. Geralt tries to catch Jaskier in a kiss, wrapping an arm around Jaskier's shoulders and pulling him in.

Their teeth clack together uncomfortably for a second and Geralt can feel his lip slice open on one of Jaskier's teeth, but it only serves to goad Jaskier on. The fresh taste makes Jaskier's hips jerk against Geralt, and he groans happily when Jaskier kisses him rather thoroughly. Geralt's heart races in his chest as he pulls Jaskier more flush against him, and Jaskier whines against his lips, hips stuttering and losing their easy rhythm. Geralt's other hand applies steady pressure to Jaskier's hip, helping smooth out Jaskier's desperate rhythm and guiding him when he gets close.

"So good, Jask- you close?" The words feel silly in his mouth, and he isn't usually one to say much, but Jaskier whimpers at the praise, nodding and babbling.

"Don't know what you do to me- please, I can't- please, Geralt, please-" Geralt shushes Jaskier softly, kissing him again and rolling his hips up to meet Jaskier halfway. Jaskier shudders, gasping in short stunted breaths, and Geralt's hand slips to Jaskier's ass, grabbing and shoving their hips together. Jaskier's hips jerk in Geralt's grip, and he ruts messily against Geralt as he comes, whining low in his throat and twitching when Geralt grinds up against him to work him through it. Geralt doesn't stop the easy roll of his hips until Jaskier goes boneless against his chest, shivering and twitching with overstimulation. Geralt presses kisses into Jaskier's sweaty hair, humming when Jaskier stirs and groans.

"Feeling better?" Geralt's voice is a whisper when he talks, and Jaskier's hands slip from the dirt to rest on Geralt's shoulders, fingers drawing idle patterns.

"I've healed, and more embarrassingly, made a mess of my pants like a teenager. I would say I'm feeling much better." Geralt chuckles quietly, pressing another kiss to Jaskier's temple just because he can and hissing when Jaskier shifts in his lap. Jaskier huffs out a hot breath, rolling his hips, but Geralt grabs at him to keep him still and grunts.

"I'm fine. I don't have enough blood in me to stay conscious and be hard."

"Pity. It'd be less embarrassing if you made a mess too." Geralt laughs at that and Jaskier gives a pleased hum, smiling against Geralt's skin from where he's tucked his face into Geralt's neck.